Finding My Southern Roots
- Aubrey Johnson
- Jan 15, 2024
- 10 min read
Updated: Jan 16, 2024
In 7th grade, one of my teachers asked my classmates and me what age we thought was the ideal age to get married. I, like many in the class, answered 25. Twenty-five was not a marriage year for me. Looking back now, I can see how good that was. While the year did bring changes, growth, and adjustment, it wasn’t how I hoped as a 7th grader.
I was 25 when I moved to South Carolina to teach. And, other than the month between my freshmen and sophomore year of college that I spent in Australia with the International Student Volunteers, I had never lived so far from my family. My move halfway across the country was something I couldn’t have predicted years before. (Instead, a year prior, I thought I’d be going to Alaska to teach. I never used that teaching credential, though.) A silver lining about the move for my parents and me was that I was only a few hours' drive from my dad’s family, who lived near Atlanta. Since he’s an only child, and his parents passed away when I was young, his next closest family were his cousins.
His mom, Joyce, was the youngest of three girls. Her middle sister, Anita, had two children we visited semiregularly while I was growing up. The most recent visit was the year before my move to SC when we came for my second cousin’s wedding. (That was a fun wedding, let me tell you! Imagine My Big, Fat Greek Wedding set in downtown Atlanta. Definitely a cultural fusion.) So at 25, when I chose to move down south and accepted a teaching position in a town I had never heard of before, I was glad to have family within driving distance.
Every time I left a place, I said “goodbye” to people and things that were important to me for a time. Some were harder than others, knowing I would never see them again or that chapter was closed. Others were difficult, even knowing I would see them again because the impact that place or person had on my life was significant. An example of such an instance was when I told my best friend Kaylinn that I would be moving to South Carolina. We grew up together, not at the same school, but both members of a girls’ service organization. We lived about a 5-minute drive away from each other, and when we were home from college, we spent much of our free time together. So when I decided to move halfway across the country, Kaylinn wasn’t happy about it, but she supported me. She was the one who made the drive with me from Oklahoma to South Carolina, stopping for a few days with my Georgia family. (My apartment wasn’t ready when the rental company told me it would be, so we had an intermission in my move.) I was glad she came for multiple reasons. One of those was so she could meet some of my family and see for herself that I had support close by.
A nice part about moving is that when I say “goodbye” to one chapter in my life, I welcome another. I welcomed the chance to explore new places, try new foods, make new friends, teach new students, and experience a new life. Thankfully, not everything was new, and I also welcomed the chance to grow my relationship with family members I had known previously but didn’t see consistently. Developing and maintaining relationships is considerably easier when near one another, and I’m sure I would not feel as connected to my dad’s family had I not moved closer myself.
Growing up, family members always told me I looked like my dad’s mom, Joyce.
Since she passed away when I was a baby, I never knew her except from pictures. I heard a few stories of what she was like, but my dad didn’t talk about her much, so I wasn’t sure how I felt about walking around as a reminder of this person I didn’t know. By spending more time with my dad’s side of the family, I felt like I was able to connect with someone I never knew. It was nice to be with people - my dad’s cousins - who remembered her and could share a bit about her life and those before her.
I learned my height probably could have been inherited from the women in my dad’s family. Great Aunt Sara, Joyce’s oldest sister, was 6 feet tall, Great Aunt Anita was about 5’ 9”, and my grandmother Joyce was somewhere in between. I learned my love of travel and adventure is shared with them as well. My great aunt Sara was in the American Red Cross and served in World War II. During this time, she met her husband, and they were married in a little French church. They settled outside Chicago, but due to their service, they were buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Together they had one daughter. She worked as an archaeologist in Jordan and the surrounding area. At one point, she served as a spokesperson for the US Embassy in Beirut. My grandmother Joyce wanted to meet more people beyond the borders of Atlanta, which was small at the time. She moved to Washington, D.C., where she worked in the Pentagon for a few years. During that time, she met and married my grandfather Bill, whose father served as a U.S. Congressman from California. My dad’s cousin remembered Joyce and Bill being “madly in love,” a nice memory for anyone to have about the adults in her life. Her mother, my aunt Anita, stayed in the Atlanta area, where she met and married my great-uncle. I do have memories of visiting both of them when I was young. Aunt Anita would call my cousins and me “Suga-h,” in her southern accent, which was foreign to me in my pre-nomad, Northern California life. They both liked to reminisce about what it was like to grow up in their little house in the South.
More to the present, my time in South Carolina allowed me to connect with my cousins and their families. My first year (and second and third) of teaching in S.C. was difficult. I was adjusting to new people, places, and jobs, which included new challenges. Not every day was difficult, but when I had the chance to escape occasionally, I took it. Driving 45 minutes to Aiken to go grocery shopping away from my town and the students I could run into, wandering around downtown Charleston, or walking the beach at Sullivan’s Island was nice for a short escape. When I had more time, though, such as Thanksgiving break, Spring Break, Easter weekend, or Memorial Day weekend, I’d make the 3.5 to 5-hour trip to visit my family in Georgia. (It differed based on when I lived in Barnwell or North Charleston and the amount of traffic.) The drive was long, but I loved the tree-lined highways. Leaving coastal South Carolina, the Spanish moss dripping from the branches changed to blankets of kudzu that overtook the brown trunks so everything was a mass of green. Then, moving into Georgia, the pine trees towered overhead, and I knew I was getting closer. My dad’s family lives south of Atlanta in a tree-filled neighborhood. His cousin’s husband, a retired home builder, built their Virginia tidewater-style house from a plan advertised in the newspaper. I love the backyard with a deck overlooking a forested area home to deer and birds that come to their birdfeeders. It is always a battle for him to keep leaves and pine needles off his lush, green grass in the backyard, one I wouldn’t wage myself. I remember running around the backyard or playing croquet with my cousins and brother. (It’s hard to know what time of year it was since it could be warm even around Thanksgiving.) I appreciated the scenery in all areas of the country where I lived, but a change, even a temporary one over a weekend, was always welcome. I am fortunate to have family who welcomed me for a weekend and holiday scenery changes.
I understand that not everyone’s family offers a sense of peace and security, but when I wanted to feel more known and feel the comfort of home, my dad’s family became my safe place when I couldn’t go home to my parents. They still asked me questions about school, and I always had plenty to share, but I would get to hear about their lives, too. My second cousins were both 10-plus years older than me, and from the outside, their lives were what I wanted for myself. They are both beautiful and successful in different ways, married with 2.5 kids in beautiful white-picket-fence homes. I at least had their natural blond hair, something that didn’t match my mom’s family. And for those three years when I visited, I felt like, “So this is what it’s like - having sisters, family close by, in each others’ lives. It’s nice.”
I would shuffle between who I stayed with - most times their parents, other times one of them and their families. I watched them have kids and saw their kids grow up. I heard about their in-laws and friends. I ran errands with them - including making many trips through the Chick-fil-A drive-through (it started in GA, after all). I walked their dogs and pushed their kids in strollers, celebrated holidays and birthdays, cooked, and even went Black Friday shopping for a few years together. I was glad to do life with them over the breaks when I visited. Nothing was monumental, but the time together was meaningful.
One of my favorite holidays to visit was Thanksgiving. I had memories of going to Georgia for Thanksgiving with my parents and brother before I moved closer and went on my own, so, the familiarity of the holiday was comforting. I also liked that I had a few days off work, which meant the longer drive didn’t take as much from me as it did if I only had the weekend or one extra day. My first Thanksgiving living in South Carolina was my first without my parents. Since my dad’s cousin had the flu, it was also my second cousins’ first Thanksgiving without their parents. I stayed with one of my second cousins, and she and her family hosted her sister and her family. Even at 35 and 40, kids still want to spend holidays with their parents. We stayed healthy by just dropping off food for them the next day.
The next year, everyone was well, and my parents came down to visit, too. We spent an afternoon browsing shops in downtown Senoia, where The Walking Dead was filmed. Zombies were scarce, but the town was already decked out for Christmas! My third Thanksgiving when living in South Carolina was smaller since my parents did not make it to GA, and one of my cousins and her family spent the holiday at their condo in FL. Similar to the previous two years, at the end of the weekend, I still packed up the turkey bones after the meat was cut off and drove it in my cooler back to S.C. If they didn’t want to make turkey soup, I was happy to make good use of the leftovers! I visited once again during my nomadic life while living in Connecticut. This time, after being picked up from the airport by my dad’s cousin and her husband and stopping at Chick-fil-A, we drove to FL to spend Thanksgiving on the beach at their daughter’s condo. It was a first for me, but a welcome change after not living close to the beach for three years.
No matter where we celebrated Thanksgiving, one staple on our table was Sweet Potato Souffle. Georgia may be known as the Peach State, but no one would argue sweet potatoes are a major component of Southern cuisine. While my cousin did not develop the recipe herself, she has been making it for decades, and her daughters have added the dish to their tables, too. My cousin found the recipe in A Taste of Georgia, published by the Newnan Junior Service League, Inc., and Mrs. J. E. Rainwater (Culley) from Moreland, GA, developed it. The mashed sweet potatoes combined with lots of butter and evaporated milk (replacing the margarine and plain milk) and baked with a praline pecan topping are a sweet addition to the once-a-year meal.
If you’re like me and want to enjoy sweet potatoes all year, Ken has a few sweet potato recipes you may want to try in The Harvest Baker. For breakfast or with a warm soup, you could make Sweet Potato Buttermilk Biscuits. An anytime quickbread is Spiced Sweet Potato and Chocolate Chip Bread. A hearty side dish to a meat entrée, a topping for a warm bowl of chili, or the base for a fried egg is the Sweet Potato and Corn Spoonbread. A savory pie he includes for breakfast, lunch, or dinner is a Curried Sweet Potato and Spinach Tart. Lastly, a dessert that was the finishing touch to my Thanksgiving this year is a Maple Sweet Potato Pie. I had never had sweet potato pie before making this one. The steps took a little longer since you can’t cheat with canned sweet potato like canned pumpkin, but the taste was worth it! My friend who photographed me wanted the recipe, so it’s one I’ll share with you all, too. Sweet potatoes may not be your thing. But I hope you discover something that drives you to research your family history. You may be surprised by the roots in your family tree you discover.
Maple Sweet Potato Pie
Yield: 8-10 servings
Ingredients:
3 large eggs plus 1 egg yolk, at room temperature
1½ cups sweet potato purée
⅔ cup packed light brown sugar
⅓ cup pure maple syrup
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
½ cup heavy cream
½ cup half-and-half
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon salt
Directions:
Prepare the pie dough, and refrigerate it for at least 1½ to 2 hours before rolling.
On a sheet of lightly floured waxed paper, roll the dough into a 13-inch circle. Invert the pastry over a 9- or 9½-inch deep-dish pie pan, center it, and peel off the paper. Gently tuck the pastry into the pan without stretching it. Sculpt the overhanging dough into an upstanding ridge; flute the edges, if desired. Prick the bottom of the pie shell six or seven times with a fork. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or place in the freezer for 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Tear off a sheet of aluminum foil about 16 inches long. Gently line the pie shell with the foil, pressing it into the creases so it fits like a glove. Add a thick layer of dried beans, banking them up the sides.
Bake the pie shell on the center oven rack for 25 minutes. Slide it out and carefully remove the foil and beans. Repoke the holes if they’ve filled in. Slide the shell back in and bake for another 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer the pie shell to a cooling rack. Once it is cooled, dab a little cream cheese or sour cream into the fork holes to plug them.
Set the oven to 375°F (190°C). Whisk the eggs and yolk in a large bowl just until frothy. Add the sweet potato purée, brown sugar, maple syrup, melted butter, cream, half-and-half, and vanilla. Using an electric mixer, beat on low speed until evenly blended. Mix the flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and salt in a small bowl. Sprinkle over the filling and blend it on low speed. Pour the filling into the pie shell.
Bake for 20 minutes, then reduce the heat to 350°F (180°C) and bake for another 30 to 40 minutes. When done, the pie will be wobbly, with no sign of liquid in the center; give it a little nudge to be sure. Also, the perimeter will be slightly puffy and will have a duller finish than the very center, which will have a bit of a sheen. Transfer to a rack and cool. Refrigerate leftovers.
The Harvest Baker (c) by Ken Haedrich, recipe excerpted with permission from Storey Publishing.
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