Like Moonlight through the Pines

Georgia. She’s been the love of my life for all my years. She was born in my bones and captured me, all in, when I was knee high to a duck. I guess the red clay stuck to my knees, the pine sap to my hands, the blackberry stains to my tee-shirt. She goes with me everywhere.

Might’ve been that lovely BBQ down off 29. That and some homemade sweet tea, hushpuppies, real butter. Or catching lightnin’ bugs in a mayo jar, Mama Whit’s fried chicken, or mayflies buzzin’ on a string. More’n likely it was that hot summer night. She, with that Vidalia sweet Jawjuh drawl — could melt the chains of any and all southern baptist virtue.

Well, that, and those damn Dawgs. Saturdays in Athens and hard-fought rivalries, Sundays on hard pews, afternoon naps, back porches and water-skiing on long shadowed days.

Surely, it was all those stories I heard from Uncle Ralph and Aunt Elsie at romping reunions where we’d gather to laugh and eat. “You get off that plastic-covered sofa, Darlene!”

Most likely it’s the love of one beautiful family, still anchored there, that keeps me grounded, tethered.

To Georgia.

It’s the way of Life, the unpredictable ebbs and flows, that takes us away from what we cherish. So often, for whatever grown-up reasons, we have to pack up our Love — or what of it we can keep and hold and port with us — and leave. We have to re-pot ourselves and our sweetest recollections in new environs and hope and pray we’ll flower, something like we once did, when we thrived, didn’t yearn.

I’ve had a long and satisfying relationship with North Carolina. Over thirty years, I’ve lived here. The Ol’ North State has been nothing but good to me and mine. She’s given me a cozy dwelling, two beautiful children, a career, mountains, piedmont, and beach. Experiences I couldn’t have dreamt of, deep and abiding friendships I don’t deserve, sunsets and laughter brimming. We’ve shared really long walks, loss, darkness, and renewal. North Carolina is my trusted friend, my confidant, my rock.

Oh, I’ve flirted with others. Paris. San Francisco. Chicago. London. Hilton Head. Portland. Crested Butte. Milan. Kauai. I’ve slept in forty-four states, I’ve skied the Alps, and I’ve crawled through Austria’s salt mines. I’ve sailed around Cape Horn, hiked Glacier’s Highline, and enjoyed a cold one in the BVI’s.

But, She was always on my mind.

Georgia.

Take me there, when I am old and confused. Put me down and cover me in that sweet red clay. Let the Southern sky wrap me in her light and warmth. Hold my hand, sweet Deba — my own Georgia peach — until I’ve breathed my last.

But bury me, girl, in Georgia.