It’s raining. Afternoon storms are such a welcome respite from the humid oven of the summer. Just when you think you simply cannot take another minute of the heat, or at the very least you absolutely cannot step out of the conditioned air, the sky grows dark and in the distance you hear a clap of thunder. Next thing you know the skies open and every living thing around you breathes the tiniest sigh of relief. Without admitting to any sort of hallucinations, I will tell you that sometimes I do think the rocks and roads sigh their appreciation, too.

The magnolia leaves outside my window are quaking and I hear the rain being driven forward in sheets by the wind. It’s not the sound of  wind blowing, but rain blowing. A hiss more than a whisper, then a pounding against the window pane.  I open the window to hear the thunder and of course the window sticks when I try to shut it again. As per usual in my 100 year old house the power is flickering on and off.  Southern decrepitude is charming only when you aren’t in danger of wetting your pile of clean laundry or suffocating without AC.

I’ve never been to the Pacific Northwest. I imagine it’s a wonderful place and whenever I meet someone who lives there, I listen rapt as they stand before me in their polar-tec fleece and hipster knit hats talking about curbside recycling or bike lanes as if they are the most common things in the world! I’ve seen pictures…it is green and lush and beautiful and the weather sounds about perfect when I am staring down at least 3 more months of oppressive humidity here in the deep. I don’t know if I will ever visit the mythical cities of Seattle or Portland. I’m afraid if I do I won’t come back. And if all the progressives run away to Oregon, who will be left to demand bike lanes below the Mason Dixon?

I’ve stopped using this line now because it’s grown tired over the past 9 or so years, but when people ask me how I can bear living in this sea of red states, I tell them the South is like algae and I am like a rock. My rough edges stick out and someone with harsh angles like me doesn’t belong in a world where everything is smooth and slow like a Southern accent or river. But as the years wore on, as I stayed put and hunkered down, the South grew on me like algae covers and smooths the edges of rocks. One day I looked down and I was just covered in it. And there was no going back. I’ve grown into this place and I want to stay here and fight for it, even at the same time I rail against it.

I’m not sure at this point where I am going with this blog. I know I need to write the stories of a place that makes me happy and crazy, the place I call home. I’m not sure if this is a love letter or a condemnation. Maybe it’s both. I guess I’ll worry about that tomorrow.