Midnight with the Blog of Good and Evil

It is in my opinion that there comes a time in every young adult's life when they should create a blog to rant or 'list' or ramble on about one thing or another, whether or not blogs border on extreme narcissism.   I myself have chosen to build mine around and ramble on about my time spent in the Deep South. 

I’d like to say that my decision to head south for a few winters wasn’t impulsive.  That there was at one point a logical conversation I had with myself weighing the pros and cons of such a decision.  To drop everything I knew and start anew in a land relating to the West as much as forks are to spoons, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that somewhere within my subconscious self is a voice who is quite outraged at their being completely ignored and  shut out of the happenings in my life.

I had two months to pack.  Two months to tie off loose ends and set fire to bridges.  To embrace loved ones and throw together a year’s worth of doctors visits and checkups.  Two months to get my fill of Whataburger, Gold Peak Tea and Deja Blue bottled water.  Two months to brace myself for phase two of my adult life.

 Georgia.

Land of peaches, swarms of lightning bugs, rolling thunder, and a people ready and willing to warmly embrace any stranger they brush shoulders with.  Where it’s almost a crime to refuse a free refill of sweet iced tea before heading out of the local barbecue joint.  Where pickles and onions are served with just about anything that can be spooned onto a plate.  Where country gravy is a major food group.  Where history is found in more than just reading material.  And where neighbor isn’t just a word describing the persons living on either side of you.

These next six months I shall reside at my parents’ house, hidden within a cul-de-sac, which is itself hidden behind a historical, nineteenth century school building.  It is a modest house, whose porch swing points west towards the Chattahoochee River.  One wrong step and one could find themselves rolling down hill and splashing into the waters below where history and modern times meet.  The house rests high enough to challenge the summer’s lightning bugs to a slow climb but close enough to the river bank to catch the bull frogs' song in the evening breeze. 

I think I’m in puppy love.

I’m committing to making this a three year move.  Three years to finish with the majority of my schooling, to rinse out the bad taste the West has left in my mouth, to embrace the change, to line up a few more ducks to help me better march towards my ever drifting goals, and to allow the puppy love to fade.  And then?  Who knows.  Perhaps this is permanent, the South and I.  Only Father Time can tell, for Father always knows best…