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wildest of passions.” The bloody echoes of the Civil War, in particular, left Southern families grievously wounded in both body and spirit, investing future generations with a heightened sensitivity to feelings of wounded pride or humiliation. “War,” the Blue Book observed, “the cruelest of sentiments, has given us every usage of etiquette which implies tender consideration for others, and makes modern social life more charming.”
    My friend Jill Conner Browne, the author of the Sweet Potato Queens books, has a simpler way of putting it: “Manners,” she says, “are just the grease that keeps things running.”
    Even children of my generation were made sharply aware of the importance of manners, of their role as a moral compass to guide you through life. From our earliest years we were half-consciously aware of the discipline grown-ups showed around each other, and we knew we were expected to follow suit. Our parents, and the parents of our friends and neighbors, lived within well-defined boundaries of behavior. And as we grew older, and began holding our own in social settings like school and church, we came to recognize the practical value of manners. If you knew how to be courteous and considerate, it became apparent, you could enter into any social situation with confidence—and you were much more likely to get what you wanted. A charming manner, in other words, could often get you that second helping of pie.
    In the time and place where we grew up—Mama was fortunate in this, I now realize—the wider community shared her demanding standards. It seemed as though everyone had agreed in advance on the basic rules governing children’s behavior, and there was an unstated bond among adults to enforce those rules wherever a child might be. The South was one big in loco parentis zone. You didn’t dare act up around strangers, because you knew a grown-up wouldn’t hesitate to correct you. And you knew that if this stranger happened to tell your mama what you’d been doing, your mama would not only thank the stranger for caring enough to set you right, but see to it that you were punished when you got home.
    I’ve since learned that the South didn’t have a monopoly on this kind of thing. My husband, Howard, who grew up in Los Angeles, remembers in his childhood neighborhood parents calling a community meeting, gathering together to decide what to do about one troublemaking kid who was a bad influence on their children. The parents brought their complaints as one to the bad kid’s parents, who were shamed into taking action to rein in their misfit son.
    Try to imagine that happening today, anywhere. The kid’s parents would hire a lawyer in a heartbeat. I wish the South were all that different, but I’m not sure it is, not anymore. A friend of mine who teaches sixth grade in a small Southern town tells me she pines for the days of our youth, when teachers and other adult authority figures were assumed to be in the right unless proven otherwise. Nowadays, when she calls a student’s parents in to discuss a problem, more often than not they show up indignant, demanding that the teacher prove the case against their innocent angel.
    “You see how this younger generation reacts to everything?” Daddy said the other day. “It’s all about me, me, me. ” And I hate to sound like an old fogy, but I can’t help thinking he’s right. There was more true freedom for kids when authority was respected, and a just order was in place. Manners are all about creating a society in which people can feel safe. If you grew up in it, you never lose your craving for that feeling of security. To some, Southern manners may seem quaint, even archaic. But I wonder if anyone really prefers the selfishness and crudity we see in so much of life today.
     

     
    The geography of my childhood is mapped in the streets and yards of a green little enclave called Lakemont. Carved out of a beautiful old 1920s recreational area called