I married relatively later in life, and so being unfamiliar with some of its rituals, had asked my friend Pam about a rather important one in particular.
In the South, you don’t go grocery shopping; you go “tradin’.”
And those four-wheeled caged contraptions you push up and down the aisles to transport your goods out to the car are not shopping carts, they’re called “buggies.”
I decided to thin out my filing cabinet this weekend and came across my husband’s passport.
It was a wrench, I’m not gonna lie. Continue reading “Passed port”