We criticize the South a lot, and with good reason. The history is complicated, the politics frustrating, and the culture can feel stubbornly stuck. But today, I want to pause and look at something sweeter: the way Southern homes are put together. The decorating. The details. The hospitality.
Because as much as the South is steeped in contradiction, it’s also a place that understands the performance of home. The gestures, tiny or extravagant, that say you are welcome here. The vintage glassware. The tea towels chosen with care. The way people hang onto furniture not because it’s trendy, but because it’s meaningful.
My mother spent much of her childhood at her grandmother’s house, and I’ve heard stories about that home more times than I can count. I never knew my great-grandmother, but I’ve heard about the colors she chose, the rituals she kept, and the way her home seemed to blur the line between formal and lived-in.
She didn’t use traditional colors when decorating. Her bathroom was painted aqua and lavender. The kitchen had green cabinets (which, in a very full-circle moment, have been back on trend for the past decade), a brick-patterned linoleum floor, and brown-toned appliances. The butler’s pantry had a copper sink and an air of formality that existed right alongside coziness.
The breakfast table was set every morning as if company were expected. My great-grandfather’s best friend would actually let himself in early each day to start the coffee and enjoy the spread.
My favorite detail, though, is this: she kept polished silver spoons in a pretty jar on the kitchen counter, for convenient, easy access when she was ready to stir sugar or lemon into tea or to be set out if someone popped by unexpectedly. When my mom told me that story recently, she pulled out her own silver, polished it up, and placed a handful of teaspoons into a goblet on her counter. I think I’ll do the same.
And while my great grandparents were certainly in a higher socioeconomic bracket, these little rituals and ways of life were not about wealth or class, they’re about making the ordinary feel worth noticing.
And I think that lingers in the South still. It’s part of the reason so many of us love old things. Why we treasure antiques. Why our homes feel layered and collected over time, filled with stories and details that matter simply because we’ve decided they do.
Today my musings are a little lighter, in the middle of what feels like a heavy and chaotic political shitstorm. But I think the fact that we can hold both, caring deeply about equity and justice and loving beautiful interiors and thoughtful design, is what makes this community what it is and what has drawn so many of us together.
In our Unruly Ladies League Slack group (which you can join as a paid subscriber), we shift easily between political analysis and sharing estate sale finds.
So in that spirit, I’d love to hear from y’all in the comments here or over on Slack if you’re a member:
What decorating traditions or details did you pick up from your Southern kinfolk or any loved ones that you now associate with warmth or comfort?
Maybe it’s something a grandparent did, or something you’ve carried into your own space. Whether it’s Southern or not, I’m curious—what’s stuck with you? How do you practice the art of decorating for connection in your own home?
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