If Profound Lite were a literary category, Covington's collection of essays would be a standard-bearer. In an era in which women—clearly her intended readers—barely have time for bathroom breaks, there's a place for two- to three-page thought-provoking pieces by a sentimental Southern novelist (The Last Hotel for Women, etc.) who can find deep meaning in everything from grits (her visiting New York editors inevitably request the breakfast specialty, then promptly phone co-workers up North to inform them, because "[i]t makes them feel like they've seen the world"), to being glued to her manicurist ("Are Betty and I less liberated, less enlightened because we are bound... with nail glue rather than feminist ideology?"). Most of these essays originally appeared in the Birmingham
(Ala.) News,
and Yankee readers may grow impatient with Covington's frequent evocations of her Southern roots as both springboard and rationale for what might otherwise be considered universal realities—the need to please and the loss of rural life. But those who enjoy pondering the small things in life, who long for simpler days and are caught between mourning their parents and wondering what sort of future lies ahead for their children, will find a kindred spirit here. (Dec.)
