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By Kirsten Barr:
I did not personally know the beautiful souls who were massacred while gathered in prayer with a stranger at Mother Emanuel on June 17, 2015, but I can’t stop weeping. In part, my tears are the product of troubled introspection. I am a proud southerner with deep roots. My father has always been puzzled by my “ancestor worship.” My husband and children mock my addiction to ancestry.com with quips like, “did you know Mom is 99.9% Anglo-Saxon and cousin of the Queen?” But I can’t help but feel pride when I find another link on my family tree confirming my forefathers’ presence south of the Mason-Dixon line before secession.
We’re not “social people” and with our peculiar politics (we supported Ron Paul, but were thrilled to have an intellectual for president) and hectic schedule (two law practices, two children, no maid) we are unlikely proponents of a weekly supper club. But ours happened organically last spring and we’d never give it up. We all know lots of people who have supper clubs; though the typical members are balding fraternity brothers and their gracefully-aging sorority sister wives, whose longing for evenings at the KA house and weekends at Tri-Delt dances have morphed into a monthly covered-dish supper replete with heavy cocktails, charades, and good gossip. My business partner and his wife have participated in such a club for nearly two decades, supporting one another through illness and divorce, baby showers and high school graduations, prosperity and pain. My brother and sister-in-law are in a similar supper club, but they use […]
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