"The South we belong to is a good country, a valiant country; it always has had valor, and it has had industry and thrift. Our house is painted, our grass is green. For those of us who bend our backs and put our shoulders to the wheel, the South is still Canaan land; it is milk and honey......" -Ben Robertson,
Red Hills and Cotton
Over the past four months I've spent a lot of time journeying down country roads. I never would have imagined how much I craved to be on them, or how much of a part of me they could become. This didn't used to be the case. I used to dream about the magic of big city lights, the promise of fame and fortune, living in famous bohemian neighborhoods where I could practice my craft. The city, I thought would provide me with significance, purpose and professional success.
These days, my older, city self seeks out quiet people and plain houses. More and more I need to bathe in softly filtered sunshine and undisturbed moonbeams that cast a blue glow on the earth beneath.
A charitable, unreserved Southern hospitality lives deep in this beautiful countryside where people who just happen to moseying along the same road at the same time greet on another with the forefinger of their steering-wheel hands. You find no strangers here. No horns honk. Nobody whizzes past you. You drift with the road. You are one with the rhythm of the curves. My city self lived years just feet from neighbors and only knew their names from their mailboxes. I was surrounded by people, but completely alone.
While winding with the road up and down gently rolling pastures, I want to stop, to snap a mental picture of the weathered barns and black timber fences to dream about all night. It is the esssence of enchantment.
