The Dog Days Are Over.


  • Listening to: Fleet Foxes, Beirut, Florence & the Machine–the usual assortment of tunes that keep me going, miles 1-488.
  • Wearing: Homemade bike shorts (aka cut-off leggings) & asymmetrical racerback–finally an outfit to go with  the neon hair clip I recently couldn’t stop myself from purchasing (it’s a small, mostly hot pink fabric flower that always makes me think of Full House, in a surprisingly good way).
  • Eating: Out of Grandma’s kitchen. Just one of the many perks of being home.

It’s official, cheri. My days spent in South Georgia have finally run out, & I’m posting from home once more. It’s good to be back, but I’m not saying good riddance.

My small town summer residence has managed to reserve a small corner of my heart–& I think I’ll allow it to linger. It’s an odd sort of fondness–familiarity, I suppose. A small piece of my heart set aside for the little pink house called Joy & the well-beaten streets that encircle it–the paths I traveled every day, that when pictured in my mind still trigger an emotional response of coming home.

I knew I’d feel a pang for the sweeping green on the outskirts of town, picturesque in the uniformity of so many lines of soy, & all the same in the randomness of a landscape dotted with perfect cylinders of hay or scattered with cattle. And of course, there are the pecan orchards to be missed. A South Georgia specialty, I’d never before witnessed the absolute majesty of the trees, larger-than-life & oh-so leafy. I fell in love with them instantly.

That is, until I crossed the state line & passed my first palmetto. Followed by a magnolia. Then passed under a tunnel of Spanish moss & old oaks. And that’s when it hit me: pecan trees are fantastic, but that just ain’t my style.

{Photo taken at Koinonia Farms, June 2010}