Through the years, I’ve watched friends step back and allow their children to grow into adults. There has been very little meddling, and without exception, those children have turned into fine people.
What I didn’t realize at the time was how brave my mama was to turn me loose and let me fly into the world. Never once did she try to stop me. When I was a sportswriter, she read every word I wrote. When I became a publicist with a NASCAR team, I 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 its 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.
Keep in mind, I was going from Rural Route One in the rural South to our nation’s capital, hundreds of miles away.
Of course, Mama was only practicing what she had been taught. At 18, she made the brave decision to break off an engagement and leave the mountains where there was neither electricity nor running water. She caught a ride to a more civilized world 40 miles away, and her parents, though saddened, supported her.
Before leaving—with three homemade dresses in a sack (called a “poke” by mountain folks) and wearing the only shoes she owned—she went to the barn to tell her daddy goodbye. He fumbled 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 slid down his weathered cheek. He had only one piece of advice.
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 have failed at 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. Throughout my publishing career, I’ve been known for nonfiction. My first book, What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should), is now 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 set on my beloved St. Simons Island, off Georgia’s coast.
Within 24 hours, Mercer bought the book, sending us on a whirlwind journey. When it was published, readers quickly embraced it. As I paused to catch my breath, they began asking for more of the characters. The response surprised all of us.
Weary but happy, I returned to my laptop and sent those beloved characters on another adventure—this time to Sapelo Island.
Stella Bankwell, based on another mountain-raised gal (me), marries above her station into old Atlanta money and eventually finds herself in an embarrassing situation. She retreats to St. Simons Island to recover, where she meets a handsome U.S. Marshal who helps her solve a mystery that clears her name. Her best friend, Chatham Balsom Colquitt IV—Chatty—faithfully tags along, delivering one-liners that keep readers in stitches. The characters have taken on lives of their own.
By the third book, Chatty—so adored—received one of his own: A Merry Chatty Christmas. With butler and fine silver in tow, he follows Stella to her rustic family farm for the holidays.
But Chatty is not prepared for what awaits him in the stable. It’s certain to set him back a few years.
Creating characters more beloved than I am proved Daddy right once again: anyone can be replaced.
I certainly have been.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of the Stella Bankwell series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.