A Genteel Southern Lady Contemplates Suicide

Razors pain you
Rivers are damp
Acids stain you
And drugs cause cramp

Guns aren't lawful
Nooses give
Gas smells awful
You may as well live
---Dorothy Parker

At the heart of a Southern woman's upbringing, is the devotion to the idea of class, civility and service to others. Thank you notes, cloth napkins, and a generous hearth; these are the mere trappings, the outward sign of a manner of behavior that is engraved on the heart. Good manners require no more than petty sacrifices.

Despair, however, can creep into the cracks of the mind and heart, gather and overrun like crepe myrtle, and bloom not half so beautifully.

However, a life predicated on good manners and concern for others can not be ended so easily.

The matter of when to go must be taken up. The holiday season, that interminable trudge-run from Halloween to New Year is when most attempt to shrug off that mortal coil. But good grief, when would I find the time! It's the holidays; there are responsibilities to be met. First, it's hanging straw witches, vacuuming up pumpkin seeds, three trips to Target to make sure there's enough candy for all the trick-or-treaters. Then, I am laying in a regiment's worth of supplies, so there can be turkey and trimmings for 22 people. I see so much of the grocery bag boy, people start to gossip. And in addition to tree trimming and wrapping duty, I'll still have to bake 14 dozen pecan tassies for the Ladies' Auxiliary cookie swap. I know Karen Kane would happily take over the pecan tassies, believe you me; she has been jealous for seven years because I have the best recipe. But the tassies are mine!

Writing the thank-you notes always takes weeks after the new year. After that might be the ideal time, except that's when the college letters of recommendation have to be in. Old sorority sisters flock around looking for letters for their daughters and sons of promise. I have on my escritoire at this very moment no less than 24 notes requesting glowing letters of praise, for high school seniors whom I have not laid eyes on since before they were toilet trained. I know, I know...but, I would hate to be the difference between Tracy-Grace Boudreaux going to Harvard or the state college of agriculture.

I suppose there is always the spring. Those of us who took the belle's old traditional college route, studying literature and poetry, might find this especially evocative: new life blooming all around as we are lowered, cold and stony into our graves. But here, too, are problems to be met. All that old foliage languishing the gutters is not going to clean itself up, and the last legacy one wants to leave behind is a sagging, damp ceiling and mold in the drapes. Then, as sure as the sun rises in the east, somebody will want me to organize the Easter pageant. What can you say to six chubby cheek cherubs from Girl Scout Troop 806, who earned their sewing badges making 14 pink azalea costumes out of pipe cleaners and felt?

And the summer? Forget it. With highs in the late 90's and 100 percent humidity, it is too hot to do anything from June to September but puddle on the porch with a glass of sweet tea. Arsenic, I suppose one might suggest, but sweet tea is so refreshing, I'd hate to have anything spoil the taste.

Well, I suppose Mrs. Parker had it right all along. What is one to do?

You might as well live.