Ronda Rich
Syndicated Columnist
Through the years, I’ve watched as friends stepped back and allowed their children to grow into adults. There has been very little meddling and, without exception, the children have turned into fine people.
What I didn’t know when I was reaching that point was how brave my mama was to turn me loose and let me fly off, into the world. Never once did she try to stop me. When I was a sports writer, she read every word I wrote. When I became a publicist with a NASCAR team, she could tell anyone on Sunday morning who had won the pole. If I was in it, she was in it.
When USA Today in Washington summoned me to their blossoming sports department, I closed the door on my little duplex apartment and drove to my parents’ house to tell them in person.
“I’m going to Washington,” I announced. “To work at USA Today.”
Daddy nodded quietly. Mama raised her hand and pointed her crooked forefinger.
“Good for you,” she said. Now, keep in mind that I was going from Rural Route One in the Rural South to our nation’s capitol city, hundreds of miles away.
Of course, Mama was only practicing as she’d been taught. When she made the brave decision, at age 18, to break off an engagement and leave the mountains that had neither electricity or water, she caught a ride to a civilized world 40 miles away. Her parents, sadly, supported her.
Before leaving, toting three homemade dresses in a sack (called a “poke” by mountain folks) and wearing the only shoes she possessed, she went to the barn to tell her daddy goodbye. He fiddled around in the top pocket of his overalls, pulled out a few coins, and placed them in her hand.
“For stamps. Send us a postcard, lettin’ us know how you’s makin’it.” A tear dropped down his weathered cheek. He had only one piece of advice for her.
When I left home, Mama said, “I know you’ll do good. I have only one thing to say and it’s the same thing my daddy told me: Forget not to assemble thyself in the house of the Lord.”
Something I’ve failed that far too many times.
I’ve never had children. As Dolly Parton says, “My songs are my children. I’m expectin’ them to take care of me in my old age.”
The 12 books I have written are my children. In my publishing career, I have been known for writing nonfiction. My first book, “What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should,” is in at least its 45th printing.
Two years ago, a wonderful man named Allen Wallace of Mercer University Press, discovered that I had a half-written novel taking place on my beloved St. Simons Island, off Georgia’s coast. Within 24 hours, Mercer bought the book, sending us on a crazy, head-spinning journey as the book, when published, snatched up readers. Then, as I was taking a breath from writing the book, readers begged for more of the characters. The sales surprised us all.
Weary but happy, I went back to my laptop and sent the beloved characters on an adventure to another Georgia island, Sapelo.
Stella Bankwell, based on another mountain-raised gal (me), marries over her head, into old Atlanta money, and eventually finds herself in an embarrassing situation. She retreats to St. Simons Island to recover - discovering a handsome U.S. Marshal who helps her solve a mystery that vindicates her recent disgrace. Her best friend, Chatham Balsom Colquitt IV (Chatty), faithfully tags along, throwing out one-liners that keep readers in stitches. The characters have outgrown me.
By the third book, Chatty, ultra-adored as he is, receives his own book: A Merry Chatty Christmas. With butler and fine silver in tow, he follows Stella to her rustic family farm for the holiday celebration.
Oh, but Chatty is not ready for what he is about to witness in the stable. It’s certain to set him back a few years.
Creating characters more beloved than I am, proved daddy right again: Anyone can be replaced.
I certainly have been. Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell series. Please visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.