Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Several years ago, I was returning from a speaking engagement at the historic Greenbrier Hotel, flying from Roanoke on a small Delta jet into the Atlanta airport.

The jet stopped on the tarmac, requiring that we deplane down the steps, walk under tenting, and into the gate where we climbed about 12 steps into the airport.

I had a small, wheeled carry-on and a glass vase of fresh flowers I was toting — which was not one of my brighter ideas. But the group that hired me sent these gorgeous flowers to my room and, coming from poor Appalachian people, I never turn down anything that’s free.

In a dress and high heels, I huffed up the steps. An energetic man, taking two steps at a time, came running past me. Two steps in front of me, he stopped and turned.

“Do you need help with that?” he asked. He had a drawl that told me that he was a courtly, Southern gentleman.

I smiled, shaking my head. “No, thank you,” I replied. In truth, I did need help, but I turned down his offer, not because I’m a feminist but because, again, my roots are Appalachian and I am fiercely independent. Also, I didn’t want to be an inconvenience.

He gave me a comical, wary look. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, though.”

“OK. Have a good day.” He continued his dash through the airport while I continued to huff and puff with the enormous bouquet in my arms. In three-and-a-half-inch heels.

Finally, exhausted, I reached the parking lot tram. The door opened and there sat the kind man.

He grinned. “Need help with that bag?”

I nodded. “Please.”

He jumped up, hopped down the steps, picked up my bag, and put it up. He then turned to offer his hand to assist me up the steps.

With the huge bouquet of flowers.

I sat down beside him, wiping the Georgia humidity from beneath my eyes.

“You should have let me help you back at the tarmac,” a twinkle played in his eyes. I nodded then a conversation pursued. He was, he said, an executive with a well-known, international accounting corporation.

“What do you do?” he asked.

I sighed and shook my head comically. “I write books that tell women they should allow men to carry their luggage for them.”

He tossed back his head and gave an amused laugh. After he finished chuckling, he looked over and said, “You should take your own advice.”

I nodded. “From now on, I will.” And, I have.

As I noted in my first book, I still dress up to fly, for church, and funeral home visits. In over 2,000 speaking engagements, I have worn slacks only once: to a teenagers’ summer camp. And I still wear three-inch heels when fancied up.

“If I ever lose the ability to wear high heels,” I have told both my husband and niece, “Just shoot me and put me down like a horse.”

To be clear, I, on many occasions, wear flat boots or loafers. But if I’m going somewhere like a speaking engagement, a business meeting and, yes, a flight, I wear heels.

Lately, I’ve noticed that people go many places where they wear beach attire as I do when I work in the yard (this is not a “purdy” sight). I’ve always been of the opinion that how I dress might lead to a personal or professional advantage. One time it did.

At a New York writer’s conference, a literary agent picked me out of a crowd of jeans and sweatshirts. He still talks about that houndstooth dress jacket and skirt that I sewed myself.

“I knew that you were telegenic and what the publishing industry wanted,” he said recently.

One television appearance later, immediately made my first book a best-seller.

I rest my dress. But never my high heels.

Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of “Sapelo Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.”