At 18, I wanted to go to California. I dreamed of leaving the hard-packed Alabama clay and sweltering mosquito-riddled summer days for beach breezes and palm trees. The Christmas specials live from Malibu and the televised Rose Parade in sunny Southern California did little to convince me otherwise. I really wanted to go to California. It seemed brighter there, with sunbaked people, and bright lights, and flowered shirts. I believed at least a little of the myth that anywhere was better than here. The fact is, though, that I wasn’t quite as adventurous as I would have liked. I just never could get up the courage to make the leap—I never really took it that seriously, I think—and fortune dictated differently, anyway. Or maybe it goes deeper than that.
This land, this region, this culture is a siren song for those of us who have always called it home. For it is home in more ways than a simple mailing address. It is home in our heart and soul. It is who we are. It is in our bones. It is where we live and thrive and it is where we come from. It is where our people are. It is our past, present, and for most of us, it is our future. And it is good.
That’s not to say it’s all rose colored. Just like every other area, we have our share of hardship, natural disasters, poverty, crime, and unemployment. We have just as much reason to worry about national crises and are just as affected by global decisions, but we also know when to turn off the news and when to visit a neighbor, and who needs a hug or a casserole. We know tomorrow will dawn and we’ll have another chance to get it right. And we support each other along the way.
It is true that we labor under stereotypes that are mostly undeserved and unsupported, but in our grace, we shrug them off and remain thankful that others with that opinion stay in Buffalo or Indianapolis, believing us to be backward and uneducated. Traffic is bad enough as is, so the less the merrier. You know, I’ve never heard of anyone retiring North and try as I may, I can’t recall any phrase including the words “Northern cooking.” Think about that for a minute.
We can’t all claim generations of Southern tenancy, although it’s pretty special if you can, and many of us are quick to do so. Regardless, this land becomes yours when you begin to treasure it, no matter how long you’ve called it home. It inhabits you just as much as you inhabit it. It owns you and it is yours. The landscape, from the bucolic Mississippi Delta to the majestic Tennessee River; from the sandy southern beaches to the rolling Smoky Mountains; from a Savannah square, shaded with massive Live Oaks to the lights of Broadway in Nashville; this land is as graceful and as varied as its inhabitants.
This place we call home, pieced together with people and generations and places, is a work in progress, much like a quilt is pieced together. And I know what I would miss if I ever chose to leave. I’d miss the smell of the buttercups that my grandmother planted one rainy September evening, hopeful that her family would always enjoy them. We do. I’d miss front porches and screen doors and genuine smiles and Ms. Rhona’s jalapeno cornbread. I’d definitely remember how hot Mississippi can get in July and I’d laugh when I thought about those town names like Box Springs, Georgia and Chunky, Mississippi and Corner, Alabama. I’d actually miss the smell of a barn and the late summer sound of tree frogs and the first glimpse of a lightning bug in June. I’d never want to forget any of Mr. Long’s corny jokes, and I would definitely remember church suppers and cemetery decoration days. And much like a quilt, I’d miss the comfort and warmth of home.
So I guess that’s why I’ll never leave. California is a lot of miles away. I don’t know exactly how many, but more than a few is now a few too many. Actually, in terms of how long I’ll stay here, I’m certain of one thing. Forever’s as far as I’ll go.
