Paint Your Past

Write Memoir with Descriptive Words

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Welcome to My South – Jacki Kellum Memoir


If you look at my contact information, you will discover that I currently live in the Southern part of New Jersey, but that is not My South. I moved to New Jersey after having lived in Mississippi for 35 years, and I lived the 18 years before that–the first 18 years of my life–in the Southeast part of Missouri–in what is called the Bootheel of Missouri. Although I do live in New Jersey now, my home will always be the South. You see, you can take a Southerner out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of a Southerner–and for that, I am thankful. Today, I want to take a few minutes to sing the praises of what I know to be My South.


As though I needed another Free MOOC to participate in, I have begun taking  the class The American South: Its Stories, Music, and Art which is being taught by William Ferrell who is currently teaching at the University of North Carolina. Bill Ferrell is originally from Mississippi, and he lived about 45 minutes away from where I spent the bulk of my life. Because there are different parts of the South, it is nice to hear someone from Mississippi talk about being Southern.


image credit Bill Ferrell

Mississippi is part of the Deep South or what Bill Ferrell calls the Lowland South.


image credit: Bill Ferrell

The Bootheel of Southeast Missouri, where I grew up, is part of the Upland South. North Carolina is also part of the Upland South. For that matter, North Carolina and the Bootheel of Missouri are also vastly different, but neither the Missouri Bootheel nor North Carolina is The Deep South. Again, I am glad that I have lived in both the Upland and Lowland South.


When most people think about the Deep South, they begin to imagine the antebellum homes there and the old plantations. I love those places. For many years, I lived near Natchez, Mississippi, which is in the heart of the Southern Plantation Country.

William Faulkner’s Home – Rowan Oak

When I was in college at Ole Miss, I was a curator at William Faulkner’s home Rowan Oak, and I had the opportunity to sit inside his old house on rainy days when no one else was around. More than once, I sat at Faulkner’s typing table and ran my fingers across the outline of his Pulitzer prize-winning book A Fable, which he scrawled on his office walls. As I remember, the last chapter was outlined behind the door. There is something poetic about that to me. For that matter, there is something poetic about My South.

Because I worked in Faulkner’s home Rowan Oak, I was allowed to brush my lips across a tiny tip of Faulkner’s existence and to drink from the wellsprings of the place where he lived. I would not trade anything for the quiet hours that I basked in the glory of Rowan Oak and on the lawn there. That experience was instrumental in making me who I am. [Thank you, my deceased friend, Jack Lacy, who provided me with that experience].


As I said before, I love the antebellum plantation homes, and many of them still exist, but I love the rural homes of the impoverished, too. The story of the South cannot be told by merely peeking through the rose-colored windows into its extravagant past. Gone with the Wind and Tara are not all that there is to know about the South. Much that is wonderful about the region sprang from homes that looked like the one above.

BB King and Lucille were from Mississippi.

As a child, Elvis Presley lived in Mississippi. His final home was in Memphis Tennessee, which is just across the Mississippi state line.

Elvis Presley’s birthplace was Tupelo, Mississippi. As you see in the above photo, Elvis Presley had very humble roots. I lived in Tupelo seven years.

The Mississippi Blues was traditionally an African American music, and Country music was traditionally more that of the white people–the music that you heard in the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou, which was filmed about 10 miles from my last Mississippi home.

The lines that were once etched between African American Blues and the White Man’s Country music have been blurred now, and in my opinion, they began to blur with Elvis Presley.

I hope that you took the time to watch the entire video that I have embedded above. Toward the middle of the video, you will take a ride around the cotton fields and past some Southern sharecropper homes. Although I did not live in one of those little shacks, I did essentially grow up in a cotton field and when I was a child, I picked cotton. That is one distinction between the Missouri Bootheel and Mississippi. In Mississippi, very few white girls picked cotton, but Mississippi was not my birthpalce. Southeast Missouri was.

When you listen to the blues beat, you can begin to hear what became the beat of the first generation of Rock & Roll. As I said before, music is a way that the African American and the white cultures gradually began to blend. Another place that the racial lines have blurred is through the South’s religious roots.

River Baptisms are part of both the South’s African-American and its Caucasian past.

The South is often called The Bible Belt, and there is no doubt that most people there have a different kind of religion. This is especially true of the Protestants. But in my opinion, the religion of the South is not a mere thumping of the Bible. Unlike what many might think, Southern religion is more than the belchings of fire and brimstone. The religion of the South is a reflection of a people who were groomed to live a slower and more earthy existence than most people live elsewhere. When you talk about the South’s religious heritage, understand that it is a fundamental part of the way that Southerners live their lives. The South’s Old Time Religion is wrapped in the lore of the South.

I cannot watch the above scene from the movie Places in the Heart without crying. I grew up passing around the cheap aluminum tins filled with little round cups of Welch’s Grape Juice during the Lord’s Supper, which  was a time that I was reanointed by my Faith: “Do this, in remembrance of Me,” and although I rarely go to church today, I will always be a Southern Baptist. Being a Southern Baptist is as much a part of me as is my Southern drawl.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t praise my Savior all the day long. I don’t live the religion of My South, but still, I have been allowed the Blessed Assurance that is part of being Southern. It is an almost inexpressible and ethereal something–the Something of the South. But in order to begin to grasp what it is to be Southern, it is important to see it through a Southerner’s eyes.


In the very deepest South, the massive and heavy branches of the live oak trees spread and sweep toward the ground. Like the South itself, there is something mythical about the oldest of the live oaks, and Spanish moss hangs from the trees all around the area. It even dangled from the arms of my trees in Mississippi.


The above photo shows the Pearl River which is in Mississippi not far from my home there.

A grove of moss-covered oaks has an almost Gothic feeling about it. Spanish moss tells part of the Southern story–one that was repeated by Eudora Welty, who was also from Mississippi

 Mildred Taylor, who wrote Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry is also a Mississippi writer.

Alice Walker, who wrote The Color Purple, is from Georgia.

Tennessee Williams was born in Mississippi, but he lived in the New Orleans French Quarter. There is nothing more poetically Southern than The Glass Menagerie, which Williams wrote.

But nothing is more brutally honest than The Help, which was written by Kathryn Stockett, who is also from Mississippi

The list of great books that were birthed in the South is miles long. Southerners are storytellers, and that is probably the greatest gift that I brought with me when I moved to the North.

I am a Southern Romantic. I love the Southern myth, and I am in praise of the fact that I was able to live it most of my life. Like Fried Catfish & Hushpuppies and Iced, Sweet Tea, the South never leaves the people who learned to love it or those who have lived to learn it–to learn it, as it truly is–which is a mythical a part of what it always has been.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to live and love My South.

©Jacki Kellum


Paint Your Past With Words – Jacki Kellum Memoir

The above is William Faulkner’s home Rowan Oak. While I was in college at Ole Miss, I worked as a curator in Faulkner’s home.

I often write about the fact that before I moved to the southern part of New Jersey, I had lived 53 years in the South. One might say that I used to be a Southerner, but that is not actually the case. I am still a Southerner. I am simply a Southerner who is living in the North.

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Before I began writing [about 10 months ago], I expressed myself as a painter. Since October 1, 2015 [when I began to write], I have not painted another thing. One might also say that I used to be a painter, but that is not true either. I still see the world visually, and I am still a painter. On the best of my writing days, I paint pictures with words, and I believe that my years as a visual artist help me to do that.

When I write descriptively, I literally close my eyes and see something inside my mind, and while my eyes are still closed, I type the words that describe what I see in my head. I recently encountered a challenge to capture 10 seconds of time in words, but the difficulty of the challenge was that the piece of writing had to be at least a page in length or about 400 words. While the piece could be longer than that, it could not be much shorter. No thinking or thoughts could be expressed in the writing about a period of 10 seconds. The piece was to be limited only to what was actually happening. No judgments were allowed. I wrote the following:

The Lamp in the Foyer

A spindly and too-thin five-year-old tiptoed across the floor, and the wide, wooden planks creaked and groaned. As Dood walked, she released the smell of old and oily wood from the floorboards. The little girl had spied Grandma’s glass lamp across the foyer, and she had headed toward it. Dood loved to trace her fingers around the red roses that were painted on each of the lamp’s orbs, and that was how the moment began.

Even though it was mid-day and the lamp was not lit, the scent of kerosene and charred wick was still heavy from the night before. A fringe of  diamond-like pendants hung from around the lamp’s upper globe. Dood reached outward and pulled one of the crystals back and let it go, and the dangling shards bounced into each other. One after another, the pieces of glass clinked and jingled. The mirror, that was behind the rosy lamp, caught the rippling reflection and flung it back into the room. Like fireflies, the light flickered from wall to wall.

A stained glass window was mounted in the heavy oak frame that was perched at the top of the front door. A wave of bright sunlight streamed through the multi-colored panels and at the same time, a gust of wind blew through the hallway, causing the colorful light from the stained glass window to skip across the floor and into the mirror. A kaleidoscope of color bounced across the crystal fringe, and like a circus carousel,the pendants of glass rattled and danced more wildly. Tiny, little rainbows rollicked around and around and around.

©Jacki Kellum August 5, 2016

Most people would probably agree that when we write about what we know, we ae able to write more vividly. I believe that much of this is linked to the fact that when we are in the Writing Zone, our intuitions take over and begin to write for us. In order for this to happen, we must have a reservoir of images within ourselves, and when the intuition begins to describe, it  dives deep within and paints pictures of what it sees inside.

Although the above passage is ostensibly about my mother when she was a child and living in her grandmother’s home, it is actually a description of my own memories. I don’t have a copy of my mother’s memories within myself, and my intuition cannot depict what my mother saw and heard. My intuition was not around when my mother was a child. The glass lamp that I described was my mother’s lamp, and as a little girl, I loved to trace my fingers around the roses that were painted on the orbs.

I believe that it is not uncommon for people to describe their own experiences within their writings of historical fiction or biography. When a person strives to write about someone else’s past, it becomes historical fiction to one extent or another. We can never fully know the experiences of another person.

James Fennimore Cooper wrote The Last of the Mohicans and several other books that were set in the area around his home in upstate New York. In one of the books, he wrote about how the Native Americans would canoe to a big boulder to meet. This big boulder is Council Rock, which is an actual rock that is very near Cooper’s childhood home. The description of the rock in Cooper’s writing of historical fiction is beautiful and when we know that Cooper had first-hand experiences with the rock, we have little doubt that in writing what is supposedly fiction, Cooper was describing from his own memories.

For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known…
I am a part of all that I have met…Alred Lord Tennyson – Ulysses
Allow me to return to my opening paragraph. For 53 years, I lived and loved in the South and because “I am a part of all that I have met,” I am still a Southerner. But now, I am also a person from the Shore of South Jersey. I am both the South and the North and the cotton patches where I grew up, too. Likewise, because I have actually painted for many years, I am still a painter, but now, I am not only a visual artist, I am also a painter of words.
At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I cannot refrain from saying again and again, that our most penetrating and our most exquisite writing lies within our own pasts. In examining our pasts, we reclaim our authentic voices. Too often painters go to Italy and paint the orange homes that hang from the cliffs there or they go to the Alps or to Paris to paint. When we paint best, however, we paint what we live daily; and the same thing is true in writing. We need to write what you know. But the first part of that equation is to know the person who writes.
©Jacki Kellum August 7, 2016


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