Facing southward is more than a compass bearing. It’s an ideology, a state of mind, but most importantly, a place of comfort that resides in our hearts. The southern monument of deep fried truth has been blended with stories by such authors as Harper Lee, Mark Twain, and William Faulkner. Each have written words that dance throughout their chapters to celebrate that which we love about the south and scribed words in limp, wilted letters mourning that which we loath. Now, it seems a large slice of our southern apple pie lives as caricatures in northern minds where shrines to hillbillies of the Old South reside while dismissing our modern, citified sophistication. Well, bless their little hearts.

The south is a place where old ladies wear gobs of costume jewelry to church, hushpuppies are a delicacy, and pimento cheese finger sandwiches are a must at any bridge club gathering. Though the sultry days of summer rest like a yoke on my shoulders, my front porch is a refuge from the toils of the day’s labor. While SEC football is a religion in the south, Tobacco Road is the highway to Heaven. It’s a place where even some of our most invasive weeds and parasitic vines bloom like purple royalty along roadsides and amongst corn fields.

“If you cannot eat what you want in the South, life is not worth living here”

Rick Bragg

Our bloodlines course with Dixie Crystal, Duke’s mayonnaise, and deviled eggs. Sweet tea is our beverage of choice, BBQ is the other white meat, and good chicken salad is worth the hunt. Any culinary fare with the forename, “fried”, is considered a staple south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

The south, whether a native or newcomer, is a place where people want to belong. It’s a geographical anomaly most want to move to or say they’re from. It’s rich in history. Some memories should be celebrated, others should not, but never should we forget from that which we hail.

Welcome, y’all! Come on in and sit a spell!