A Snapshot of Dixie

1: Welcome to Society, Dixie Mae

DIXIE

Why is country music so swoonworthy? Is it because of that country twang in their voice or how the words feel like they're explicitly written to reach every crevice of your heart, body, mind and soul?

Growing up in Birmingham, Alabama, I suppose it's logical for me to feel that country beat course through my veins, or maybe it's because of the boy who made me fall in love with country music in the first place...

"I haven't quite figured out the chords yet, but this is what I have so far."

Smiling, I take my usual seat in our fortress of solitude, as Tucker likes to call it. My dad built me this amazing treehouse for my sixth birthday, eight years ago. I've always been a stargazer, so he made it extra special and installed a retractable roof, giving me the best view of the twinkly lit sky.

Tucker strums a few chords on his guitar and starts to sing. Watching him in his element, I feel my pulse race as his voice soothes me. Like it always does.

Tucker's been my best friend since kindergarten. He sat next to me on his first day of school and offered me half of his PB&J sandwich. Right then and there, I knew we would be friends forever.

"I'm still trying to work on some of the lyrics, but what do you think, Dixie Cup?"

"I wish you would stop calling me Dixie Cup. I'm a girl, not a paper product you drink from," I respond, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes.

"I'm older than you, Dixie, so that entitles me to call you whatever I want."

"You're only older by two months, Tuck."

"Minor details. Now, what do you think of the song?"

"It's okay. Not your best work, but you'll get there," I respond, shrugging my shoulders. It's so fun watching him get all worked up from not hearing good praises about his music. Tucker James is most definitely a star in the making, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Well, shoot me for thinking I just wrote a number one hit in a matter of three days. You know Momma just bought me this guitar a few days ago. I'm going to make millions with it some day. You watch, Dixie Cup..."

"Dixie, it's time to go to the ball!" Hearing my Momma yell from downstairs snaps me out of my stroll down memory lane. Turning off my radio, I stand up from the chair and step into my bathroom. Closing the door, I pat my rosy pink dress and gaze at myself in the door mirror.

Looking myself over, making sure every spiraled curl is strategically placed in my half updo, I reach for my makeup bag and add a light shade of dusty pink lipstick to my lips. Feeling satisfied, I take a deep breath and try to coax myself into doing this. "Welcome to society, Dixie Mae."

Walking down the stairs, I feel everyone's eyes on me as I struggle to breathe in this tight gown. The bodice is suctioned to my stomach whereas the Cinderella vibe gives life to the bottom half. But thankfully, it's one thing my mother let me pick out myself. She was Miss Alabama for three years straight back in her young adulthood and is convinced that I'm meant to follow in her footsteps.

"You look as lovely as a Georgia peach, Dixie Mae." My aunt Betsy squeaks. Every time the woman says anything, you have to shake your ear from the pop that goes off inside.

"Thanks, Betsy."

"Mhmm, thank you, Betsy." Momma corrects my lazy grammar. "If you're going to be Alabama's newest debutante, you need to speak more formally, Dixie Mae." Momma scolds me, reminding me how much I regret agreeing to attend the Ball of Roses.