Large scale national homebuilders do not like trees. This is one of those things we know subconsciously, but when I run across scenes such as this, it brings that sad fact to mind.

Several years ago while in the process of listing an old house, I had opportunity to interact with the homebuilder whose company was creating a community of 400 rooftops surrounding my listing. That community was being built on the land that formerly belonged to the house I had listed for sale.

Day after day, I watched as large earth movers scraped the land clean of trees more than a century old. This happened over the space of 200 acres of old growth hardwoods. Having never had occasion to witness the process up close, I was both fascinated and heartbroken to watch one piece of equipment - have no idea what it was called - that was nothing more than an enormous pair of hydraulic scissors. Within the space of five minutes, the operator would approach an old tree, extend the giant pruning shears to surround a tree trunk, flip a switch, and snap the thing completely in two as if removing a giant stalk of broccoli. Following up the next day, a bulldozer would come in, pull the remaining stump and its roots, and sweep up.

One day while on site, I was chatting with the site foreman. “Do y’all just hate trees?”, I asked. “Do they ALL have to go?”. He was a nice guy, just doing a job, and he shook his head. “I know”, he said. “I love trees, too. You would think we could leave more than we do. Truthfully, it isn’t the trees that cause us trouble, though. It’s their roots. With as many footers and foundations as we have to install, we can’t deal with the roots.” I reluctantly understood his point.

This scene in the small community of Pantego, NC, however, also raises a point. The house here was built in a day when lumber was real lumber, and nails were not flimsy things shot from a gun. But because we have allowed ourselves to look at these old places as money pits - past the point - too many problems to fool with - we let them die, soon to be replaced with 400 rooftops where trees once lived.

Populations increase. I get that. And we need more rooftops. But I have to believe that if we had a better understanding of and more willingness to save the rooftops we already have, we could stay a little further out ahead of those giant scissors. In a society that cares as much about recycling as we claim to, maybe we should start looking at these old places in a different light. In so doing, we might just save a lot more than an old house.

Butter, bacon, bourbon, and brown sugar may not be the four cornerstones of Southern cooking, but they aren’t far off.

Butter, of course, leads the way. We are not unlike the French in that regard, but we do put our own spin on things. The recipes of ours that do not start with a stick of butter are few and far between. Our mothers briefly flirted with margarine in the mid-20th century until word got out that margarine was truly unhealthy, at which point we all returned to our first love. And that isn’t to say that butter is healthy, exactly, but at least it’s a natural substance. See how that works?

Bacon, on the other hand, is an even more versatile ingredient. Sugar cured (another love of ours) to the heavens, we pair it with everything. Around here, it isn’t just for breakfast with our eggs.

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We wrap it around shrimp and steak, crumble it in our salads, add it to macaroni and cheese (which is considered a vegetable down here), and even turn it into candy. If you have never enjoyed what our mama’s called sugar bacon (or pig candy), you might want to give that a shot. And did I mention we save every drop of the grease from frying it? Well, we do - usually in a covered mason jar or old coffee can - because we could not make a proper pan of gravy or cook a pot of fresh green beans without it.

Bourbon shows up in a lot of unexpected places as well. We throw it in pecan pies, barbecue sauce, sweet potato casseroles, homemade vanilla extract, Christmas sweets, apple cobblers, and sauces for everything from fried chicken to fresh strawberries to ice cream.

Brown sugar, of course, improves everything, and now that I think about it, wherever you see bourbon in a dish, you are likely to see brown sugar as well. Then again, brown sugar and butter do make a sweet pair, not to mention brown sugar and bacon (see pig candy, above). I guess you might call it the ultimate bff of the Southern kitchen, always ready to lend a hand when butter, bacon, and bourbon are involved.

I didn’t mention barbecue sauce in this post because it is a dish and not an ingredient, but to be honest, if we can’t butter it or baste it in bacon fat or bourbon or brown sugar, we usually end up slathering whatever we’re cooking in a good homemade barbecue sauce. Although, to confuse you even further, those sauces often contain bourbon and brown sugar, and bacon is of course pork, as in “pulled pork barbecue”, which is served with deep fried hush puppies dipped in honey butter, and that brings us back to square one at the top of the page.

I am fully aware that if you are a seed-sprout-eating, kale-smoothie-drinking stickler for healthy eating, this post has probably induced some sort of a mad search for the nearest exit door, and that’s fine. But if you ever decide to lose your mind, then come join us down here in the land of buttery, bacon-basted, bourbon-soaked, brown-sugary heaven. The door is always open.

Photo of butter via Britannica. Photo of bacon via Epicurious. Photo of bourbon via Instacart. Photo of brown sugar via Beth Yarbrough.

A Southern heart never leaves home, no matter where it lives. This is one of those truths that rests just out of reach for most of us until someone pulls the chain and turns on the light. Not long ago, I posted a simple question on Facebook. Paraphrased, it went something like this: “What do you love about the South?” As a result, Southerners began weighing in from the far corners, many of them having left home decades ago.

As we spoke of manners and mayonnaise, peanuts and porches, standard procedures for funeral food, middle names, and watermelons, the floodgates opened. We ran toward our thoughts like children toward the ocean on a warm summer morning. Pure joy was the result.

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For your pleasure, here is a sampling, in random and beautiful order.

Susan: “My grandmother had a farm, and she would take a knife and shaker of salt and cut a watermelon right in the field. Best watermelon I have ever had!”

Rhonda: “My grandaddy Pa-Paw hated for my grandmother Me-Maw to pick vegetables, because she ate more than she picked. It was like she went out there to graze!”

Kathy: “I was a grown woman before I realized that white potatoes mispronounced by my dad as “arsh” potatoes were really Irish potatoes!”

Brenda: “I am reminded of James Taylor’s “Carolina in My Mind”.

Marilyn: “I love that song….I like to close my eyes when I hear it and imagine myself back in NC and VA…..the mountains, the scents of nature, the sweet sound of southern drawls, the simplicity and goodness of the food, family and friends…..and usually end up with a few tears in my eyes.”

Wanda: “Another thing us southerners say is “yonder” and “over yonder”. I was asked recently by a Northerner “how far is yonder?”. My answer was “Yonder is as far as you can see, but over yonder can be anywhere you can not see”. Came off the top of my head, but is basically what we Southerners mean.”

Karen: “Well this completely unfair since I’m not a Southerner but can I say 2 things?—-hush puppies are one of my favorite, best yummy foods and “Steel Magnolias” is 1 of my favorite movies!!”

Beth: “Anyone who loves Steel Magnolias is an Honorary Southerner, Karen, so no worries!”

Candy: “Manners!!!!! I cringe when I hear “yea”…..and when I DON’T hear a “thankyou”!”

Cheryl: “Manners count! I’ve been out of the south more years than I lived there But I managed to raise 2 children with manners. They say yes Ma’am and No Sir. Politeness goes a long way if you ask me…”

Tracy: “The infinite meanings of “Bless your heart” depending on tone, situation and who you are speaking to.”

Mona: “Years ago, when I was still in the trucking industry, I traveled back and forth from here to NYC to make sales calls in the Garment District. A few of my customers had spent time in the south and had grown to love Krispy Kreme doughnuts. At that time the delicious fried dough was not available in NYC so my customers would talk lovingly about them. On the way to Charlotte airport one morning to catch a flight I decided to give a go at finding the Hot & Now sign on at the Gastonia Krispy Kreme and what do you know it was!!! So I purchased about 7 dozen of the hot doughnuts and headed for the airport boarding with the smell of hot doughnuts filling the passenger cabin. To say the least my customers were happier than my fellow passengers who had to “endure” the mouth watering aroma throughout the entire flight.”

Donna and Karla: “Petit Jean ham…”

Nonah: “Breakfast for supper. Grits and eggs with bacon or sausage all mixed together with a little cheese thrown in. Yum!”

And we were just getting warmed up, but you get the drift.

If you’ve never had occasion to visit our fair land, I hope that you will. But be prepared. If you’re here for longer than 10 minutes (and if you know your manners), sooner or later the South will enfold you in a nice warm hug, and somebody will invite you home for supper.

Fishing piers in the South are old and dear friends. When hurricanes come along and erase them from the landscape (which happens to every one of them sooner or later), we mourn as if a treasured family pet has just gone away, or a best friend has suddenly and unceremoniously left town without saying goodbye.

Barely has the eye of a storm passed before we're making plans to rebuild - knowing that we're only staking a claim until the next big blow - and not even giving that a second thought.

We love them in part because these sturdy wooden structures bear memories, conjuring up stories of lazy family strolls, big catches, first kisses, and last looks at a setting sun.

Underneath their pilings, cool sands and seafoam nurture generations of little ones getting their first taste of a day at the beach, and on the nights of the full moon, we walk the planks out to the end, find a perch and drink the light.

Sometimes the simplest pleasures are the very best. We should savor them more often.

Steve Robinson is a Georgia photographer whose work I have enjoyed ever since I founded Southern Voice in 2013. His photo of this old barn in Worth County, Georgia is a great example.

In a day when AI has pushed its way to the head of the line, producing fake "photos of nothing, residing nowhere" in about ten seconds and getting all sorts of undeserved attention on social media, I have the double honor of shining a bright light on photographers like Steve, who have traveled the roads and done the work.

Most all of us who do this on a daily basis learned very quickly how to spot an AI-generated "photo of nothing, residing nowhere", but it's understandable that the general public isn't quite there yet. My hope is that more and more people will get there soon.

The images of our beloved South should not be relegated to a back burner at the hands of an AI spam artist halfway around the world. We're dealing with enough of that already.

Have a great day, y'all. Sun is up and coffee is hot in my neck of the woods.

I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t done some of this preservation damage to ourselves. By “damage”, I mean the negative attitude toward saving old houses that frequently surfaces when the subject is broached. What if the comedy hit movie, “The Money Pit”, played a subtle part in changing the narrative?

I loved that movie. Fell out of my chair laughing at poor Tom Hanks and Shelly Long and that awful house with the exploding kitchen walls and the bathtub that fell through the ceiling. It was pure comedy - big hit - and deservedly so.

Now, however, and maybe thanks in no small part to that movie, the term “money pit” has nudged its way into our collective consciousness, and requires no further explanation.

A money pit is an old house that lures you in and then ruins you financially.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I think it’s possible that we have allowed ourselves to automatically assign the title to any old house built before the 1950’s - just because - whether we know a single thing about it.

“One that age is bound to be a money pit…”

“Stay away from that one. It’s old. Nothing but a money pit.”

We allow ourselves these conclusions without ever darkening the door.

I speak from experience. Posting multiple times per day on social media, it never fails that when I advocate for saving old houses, historic preservation, adaptive reuse, and the environmental benefits of saving an old place as the ultimate form of recycling, I get a few money pit prophets arguing that these old places are not worth it.

They say you need an unlimited bank account, millions in grant money, years worth of stamina, your own personal closet full of hazmat suits, and the patience to wait for that one guy who is the only plaster craftsman within a five hundred mile radius to put you on his seventeen-year waiting list. And then, if all of those stars align, you might be able to get started. But don’t hold out any hope of finishing because by that time your sanity will be gone, your money will be gone, and so will anything you had put back for your childrens’ inheritance.

I will admit that I fell into that line of thinking myself, but that was before I actually took on a restoration project. We had estimates in hand that had been rendered in prior years. They were scary. So was the availability of qualified workers. A lot of phone calls went unanswered. But something kept us going - and in the end, we were pleasantly surprised. A project whose scary projections were flirting with the $750,000 mark ended up coming in for much less than half that amount.

And that is when I began to realize that a lot of the negative press regarding saving an old house was quite possibly just an attitude baked into our thinking - a general assumption up front that had little basis in fact.

Don’t get me wrong. Unless someone has come in ahead of you and accomplished the updates, most old houses are not move-in-ready, and they require money in order to be brought up to speed.

But are they traps designed to lure you in, drain your finances, and ruin your life?

No. The majority of them are well-built structures designed to last far longer than the newer structures being built today. And saving them leaves their debris out of our landfills, which are already full.

So now - forty years after its release - maybe it’s time to put that old movie to bed and start viewing these old houses in a different light. If you believe, as I do, that many of them are hidden treasures waiting to be discovered, then maybe it’s time to go panning for gold.

Years ago, one of my all-time favorite Southern belles (who shall remain nameless) was chatting about a trip across Georgia. “Dahlin’, we had to stop and pick up some of those good Valdosta onions.” She was on top of her game, even at her advanced age, so we forgave her. At least she knew the name of the town started with a V. For frame of reference, she was also fond of quoting scripture from “The Book Of Paul”, and we simply agreed with her and got on with our day.

Of course, the proper name of the onion is Vidalia, derived not from the variety (which is technically a Granex) but by the location where it is grown. They began cultivating onions in Toombs County, Georgia in the area around the town of Vidalia in the 1930’s, and while a Granex is known to be naturally sweeter than some other varieties, a curious thing happened. Folks began noticing that the ones from Vidalia were sweeter by far.

A bit of detective work soon determined that the soil was the gift that produced all that extra onion sugar. Vidalia’s farmland was noticeably devoid of sulfur, which, apparently, is a sugar-thief of some sort.

That, as it turns out, was the start of something big. Today, there is a multi-county area in Georgia that is officially designated by law as a “Vidalia Onion” production area. The name is also trademarked by the Georgia Department of Agriculture. That happened in 1986. And four years later in 1990, the Vidalia also became the state vegetable.

This is onion season across the South, by the way, and while you can pick up Vidalias these days in any good grocery store, you might want to try one of the many farm stands at the edges of the fields near Vidalia itself.

Just pay attention. You don’t want to end up in Valdosta by mistake, asking around for onions.

John McGee Parkman may not have been the best businessman in Selma, Alabama, but never let it be said that he didn’t have “staying power”. We’ll get to that in a moment.

In the meantime, let’s talk about his house. Sturdivant Hall was built between 1852 and 1856 for Edward Watts and designed by a very talented architect named Thomas Helm Lee. His resulting design is today considered one of the finest Greek Revival antebellum mansions in the South. One look at this masterpiece explains why.

A victim of monumentally poor timing, however, Mr. Watts found himself right up against the Civil War, and ended up selling Sturdivant Hall to our Mr. Parkman in the year 1864.

Following the war, Parkman dove into the local economy with a fervor as president of First National Bank of Selma - quickly succeeding in squandering a lot of the bank’s money on ill-advised cotton speculation.

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Adding insult to grave injury, the governor came along and had him thrown in jail for his transgressions. Furious at having been publicly humiliated, Parkman enlisted a few friends to help with a “great escape” - only to be shot and killed during the attempt.

One would think that to be a sad end of the story - but no. Fast-forward to real time. Sturdivant Hall (looking mighty fine for her age as you see her in this modern photo) is now a house museum, owned and operated by the City of Selma, Dallas County, and the Sturdivant Museum Association - and open to the public.

Volunteers and staff will all tell you, however, that Mr. John Parkman may have left this earth shortly after the Civil War, but a piece of him simply refuses to leave home. He makes his presence known - emphatically - via locked doors that pop open for no reason, stiffly made beds that suddenly show indentions in the coverlets where “someone” has obviously decided to catch a few quick winks - and the list goes on.

They say he vowed never to leave Selma until his name was cleared. Guess that means he is here to stay.

Photo via Rural SW Alabama.

If ever there was a month with nothing to prove, it would be the month of August. Spring has come and gone with its wild burstings, and the urgency of early summer gardens, fields and orchards has now turned into pride of accomplishment.

Meanwhile, August has been sitting in the porch swing watching the show, and now asks if we’d like to come sit a while and sip a glass of tea. “There’s still plenty of summer left, you know - warm weather, long sunsets. Fall won’t be here for a while. Relax. Enjoy.”

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I see it in the skies when I’m traveling. They are laid back, their big pillowy clouds floating across the blue sky like a fleet of schooners on a calm sea. More so even than June and July, August seems to me to be the essence of summer.

I thought about it yesterday at the produce stand. Pumpkins and mums will be here soon enough, but for now, I’m savoring August. A small plane flies overhead and the morning sun promises another warm day. No rush, no fuss - just a fine day in a lovely month, sitting on a porch swing with nothing to prove.

I’m on the road this week, and the skies have been entertaining. They have a way to go, however, to top the skies that showed themselves a few years ago on a North Carolina beach.

It was billed as the Great 4th of July Weekend Surprise. At 3AM on the morning of Saturday, July 2, 2022, the National Weather Service was showing a little blip off the Carolina coast, nothing to worry about, 10% chance of forming into something official. Three hours later at 6AM, Mr. 10% had a name - Tropical Storm Colin.

I was only up at 6AM because a morning beach ritual for me is sunrise photography while the rest of the household snores, but who saw this coming? And what to do now? I decided to proceed on with my sunrise ritual. If it included a stormy party crasher, then so be it.

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By tropical storm standards, however, Colin was nothing much to write home about. There was no wind (not even a brisk breeze), and it sprinkled rain one time on Saturday for five minutes. Coastal flooding? Pfffftttttt. And this in spite of the fact that it spent the day passing straight over my head.

By other standards, however, Colin will go down in my personal history book for his beauty. Brilliant sunshine shared the sky with a dramatic chorus line of clouds. There were the giants - stark white, billowing, glorious, accompanied by little wispy gray ghosts scudding over, around and above them - back lit by bright clear blue sky. Underneath it all a deep saturated blue-black hung low, threatening, as if to imply. The delivery, though, never materialized.

Late on Saturday afternoon, it finally occurred to me to take a couple of pictures, which turned out to be a good thing. I could have written a sequel to War and Peace and still not have conveyed this scene in any meaningful way.

So here’s to you, Colin, the Storm That Never Was. Thanks for the memories.

Used to be that displaced North Carolinians, returning to their exiled homes from Thanksgiving and Christmas visits to our state, would do so with every spare nook and cranny of the car loaded down with Cheerwine. That was because you just couldn’t get it anywhere else, and only after they left home and tried did they discover how much they couldn’t live without it.

Those days have changed. On a visit to LA a few years ago, my friend Bronson and I were on a business errand and dipped into a trendy little hole in the wall for lunch. Nestled there among such things as bean sprouts and organic-goat-cheese-everything stood a selection of specialty soft drinks from all regions of the globe. While BP ordered lunch, I grabbed two Cheerwines - chilled - in vintage glass bottles with the pop tops. He was an immediate convert - the only comment being something sounding like “um” while he chugged the entire thing and went back for another.

In other words, Oh Happy Day. We North Carolinians need no longer fear a world without Cheerwine. Which brings us to the subject of the rest of you. If you have yet to discover this marvelous elixir of the Carolinas, you should get in the car right now and go buy some. In addition to the original, during the holiday season you can also buy Cheerwine Punch.

And we wouldn’t be Southerners if there didn’t exist a spiked version of Cheerwine Punch as well, with dozens of different recipes available online, so hit Google and help yourself.

Suffice it to say, whether you’re riding down a country road on a summer night with the windows down and a good Doobie Brothers soundtrack riding shotgun (here’s looking at you, Joe) - or grabbing a quick bite in LA - or hosting a high-dollar reception complete with a silver punchbowl - Cheerwine is the perfect “little black dress” of a drink - it goes with everything.

This house in Port Royal, Va, one of my favorite villages in that state, has since been restored and is in good hands from what I can tell, but I still fondly recall my visit.

The interiors sat waiting for Prince Charming. And as I said a silent prayer that he or she would be one with deep pockets and a strong back and lots of patience, I was nonetheless thrilled to be in these rooms in their raw state.

Much like well-earned laugh lines on an old face, they speak of life lived, and there is always a piece of me that hopes for less shiny new paint and more respect for what has aged gracefully.

From the fireplace surround in the very first room, which is the primary photo at the top of this post, all the way through the rest of the house, I was absolutely stunned at the variety and quality of workmanship that went into each individual mantel in the successive rooms.

I am happy and grateful to know that this house was brought back to life - even if it turns out that the new owners chose shiny new paint for some of these interiors. Saving what matters is the most important thing.

They may rule the roost elsewhere, but on the island of Key West, Florida, they rule, period.

Outdoor dining includes them. They scurry underfoot, roost on tree limbs just above your head, and sometimes land tabletop, just to make sure you know whose table it is that you have just misappropriated.

Also, when the day begins, you need to wake up. They insist - loudly.

And while island traffic may be of concern to you, they are above it all. You are only required to yield appropriately whenever one of them takes a notion to cross, or dart out from between two parked cars, or simply saunter out into the middle of the street and stop. It’s the rule.

They are the island residents with the longest pedigree. Their ancestors came here from Cuba in the 1860’s and have never left. So important are they that when hurricanes force evacuation orders, the humans who live here make sure to evacuate THEM.

There is also a bona fide historical marker telling their story. As well, there is an adoption program in place. Would you like an authentic rooster for your own home in, say, Oklahoma City? No problem. One can be captured, safely caged, put on a plane, and delivered to your doorstep. If I was a Key West rooster, however, I would think twice about allowing myself to be captured and flown anywhere. It’s a pretty great place to live, after all.

And if you are planning a trip to the island, I wasn’t kidding about those wake-up calls. No need to set the alarm on your phone. They will make sure you are awake. That’s the good news. They do not, however, feature a snooze button, which is the bad news. As I said at the beginning of this post - in Key West, they don’t just rule the roost - they rule, period.

There is a historical marker in front of this house, but there should probably also be a small plaque that reads “Love Conquers All”.

Charles Crisp and Clara Bell Burton were in love, but that seemed only a minor detail to Clara’s parents. They felt that the young attorney, Crisp, would never amount to much. Even though he properly asked for Clara’s hand in marriage, the answer was no.

Not to be deterred, he asked a second time, and was turned down yet again. The third try, utilizing a trusted family friend as a go-between, proved no more successful. Finally, however (I couldn’t find the exact reason why), Charles and Clara were married in Ellaville, Georgia, and the young attorney who didn’t show much promise showed them all.

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He got himself elected as a judge. And that was only for starters. The next step was election to the Georgia State Assembly, which was only a stepping stone to the Congress of the United States. And even then, he wasn’t finished. After being elected to the United States House of Representatives, Charles Crisp was eventually elected Speaker of the House.

Charles and Clara built this house in Americus, Georgia, which bears a historical marker telling of his extraordinary accomplishments.

And, fittingly, at the end of her life, Clara Bell Burton Crisp had this to say about the young attorney who would not take no for an answer: “My life would have been marred. As old as I am I cannot think what my life would have been without him. The moon and stars revolve around him to me. My father and mother came to love him very much. He has been the dearest, sweetest husband to me, and I have loved him better than anything else on earth.” (Ida Hinman, 1895 – The Washington Sketch Book)

Some would say of the South that there is a church or a barbecue joint on every corner. Maybe so, and if so, then amen and pass the hush puppies.

Barbecue aside, I’ll offer just a word about the churches. The rural ones are my favorites, and among those, the little Gothic Revivals seem to shine the brightest.

Their builders were simple men whose aim was high. Echoing what seemed to them the highest form of architetcural praise - the Gothic cathedrals and abbeys of Europe - they used their skills as carpenters and built houses of worship from what was readily at hand - wood, handmade bricks, and local stone.

The congregations they housed were not large, but to my mind, all the better. I have said this before, and it holds true still: I somehow think that God would much rather have a tiny chapel filled with sincere hearts than a soaring cathedral filled with indifference.

Bat Cave Baptist Church stands high on the side of a mountain in Henderson County, NC with a view straight down the Broad River toward the towns of Chimney Rock and Lake Lure. It pains me to imagine what that view must have been on the morning of September 27. 2024 when Hurricane Helene tore through these mountains with enough rain to literally melt a few of them - sending not just their mud and trees and chunks of granite downriver toward the tiny towns - but, tragically and horiffically - sending houses, cars, and people downriver as well.

The storm ended up erasing the town of Chimney Rock as we knew it, depositing it and everything else that washed down Hickory Nut Gorge that morning into Lake Lure, which was the next stop downstream, creating what surely should have been an insurmountable mountain of debris that no human should ever have to confront.

In the process, Highway 64 was erased, and the Broad River itself carved a new path through the gorge, leaving the region with the added burden of rebuilding a major highway along a river bed that had drastically shifted into new territory.

I passed through both places yesterday on my way to see my friend, Chris, at his antique store, Slick Rock Salvage, which sits just up Highway 64 a few miles past this church. And what I found both stunned me and gave me great hope.

The mountains are green again. The waters of Lake Lure are rising over a clean lake bed. There is a new stretch of Highway 64 that runs in some places through the former river bed itself. And the town of Chimney Rock is miraculously coming back to life.

That being said, I’m showing you the pretty parts. The scars of that storm are still here, brutally in your face, and will be for years to come.

These people still need our help. We can supply that help in any number of ways, and I encourage you to continue to give. I can also do my part by recommending that you follow my friend Chris at Slick Rock Salvage on Facebook. He can use the exposure. And if you are in the Henderson, Rutherford, and Buncombe County area, go see him. He is right on Highway 64 between Edneyville and Bat Cave.

The road South pulls me home through countless summers past. I can still taste the blackberries.

Growing up, wild blackberries used to grow along the pasture fence of my neighbor, Mr. Buff. We had to brave chiggers in order to get to those berries, and we did it gladly. Funny how an image can take you right back to a place you had long forgotten. When I look at this scene from rural Georgia, my feet are suddenly bare under an August sun, and I’m eleven years old again.

Many of my generation had freedom to roam, and summertime was an open door to the magic kingdom. It still is for me. That piece of my pre-teen self took root and never left. These days it pulls me out the door and down the nearest backroad, hoping to find adventure.

This is the time of year when I am most joyful. I’ll be hitting the road at the end of this week. The fields are flush, the sun takes its sweet time leaving at the end of the day, and somewhere out there, wild blackberries and summer memories await.

The kitchen was silent in June while we were away, and because I had hauled most of my pantry down the road and used it, this past weekend was spent restocking everything - pantry, fridge, and freezer. That not only meant marathon grocery shopping. It also entailed an afternoon spent nursing a slow simmering pot of bolognese. A double batch will feed us for four or five meals if I let it cool, spoon it into freezer bags in one cup increments and freeze it for later use.

However, the real fun with bolognese, aside from eating it, is the anticipation. Maybe it’s just me, but I relish the process - prepping the carrot/onion/celery mirepoix - adding the other ingredients into the stockpot in slow layers - each one given its own time to blend - and enjoying the aroma along the way as the mixture somehow transforms into a deeply aromatic pot of pure magic.

My recipe was inspired by one of the best. It comes from Marcella Hazan’s classic rendition - described by one reader of the New York Times as “the gold standard”. But my personal preference adjustments, which relate more to texture than taste, stray just far enough from Marcella’s version that I feel more comfortable using the term “inspired by”.

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I mention Cento brand tomato products below, because they are made from authentic San Marzano tomatoes from Italy. No matter which brand you choose (there are other brands offering San Marzano as well), do be sure to go with the authentic Italian products. They make a big difference. I also never substitute anything for imported Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. Red or white wine will work with this - Marcella called for white, but I have used both with delicious success. And use very lean ground beef - otherwise the sauce will be greasy. This sauce is good over tagliatelle or papperdelle, and also works well with rigatoni and penne rigate, but it will work with most any pasta you have on hand - spaghetti, fettuccine, rotini. Above all, enjoy the journey. There is a little plate of heaven waiting for you at the end.

Photo of Marcella Hazan’s bolognese via the New York Times.

I can laugh about it now, but it took a few years. In the spirit of sharing the giggle, however, I’ll pass this along.

The occasion was dinner with a dear friend who happened to be our houseguest for the week. The three of us had discussed what sounded good for supper, and the verdict from our guest was “I’m not hungry - lunch was huge - y’all go ahead and forage for something. I’ll be fine until breakfast tomorrow morning.” So Joe and I had a grilled cheese and some soup and all was well, until about 8PM.

“Is there an Olive Garden nearby?” came the texted question from the guest room.

Joe laughed and shook his head. “I’m in for the night, but you’re welcome to take him.” And that is how the two of us ended up at the Olive Garden, with me sipping on an ice water and munching on extra breadsticks while my friend ran through a huge plate of food.

We talked our way through dinner and were still talking as we got up to leave, which was the real culprit of what unfolded next. That aside, I would also like to point out that Olive Garden, for no apparent good reason, elevates the booths around the edges of their dining rooms, and had that fact not been in place, I don’t believe it would have mattered all that much that we were talking and I wasn’t paying attention as I slid across the booth toward the open end of the table.

It was a large booth - seating three on each side - and there were several pulls/slides necessary on my part before I reached the edge to step out. The last pull/slide, however, was one too many. Instead of my hand landing firmly on the booth seat for one last push, it landed on thin air, because I was already out of the booth and didn’t realize it.

Furthermore, because I had really good momentum, I didn’t just fall out onto the floor - I launched - and then rolled for what seemed like an eternity before finally coming to a stop at the feet of a startled diner at a table several feet across the room.

It was one of those moments when the room goes silent, and you realize that you are the unintended reason. Now flat on my back with my friend standing over me, I was just about to collect myself and try to rise gracefully, royally humiliated but otherwise unharmed, when he decided to make an announcement to the entire room.

“I TOLD HER not to drink that second bottle of wine!”

As mentioned when I opened this little story - I can laugh about it now. And in hindsight, I will also offer this: Things could have been a lot worse. I could have been wearing a skirt.

George Gershwin wrote a song about it, but trying to produce a picture of summertime can be difficult to capture in a single frame.

The first inclination is an image of a beach, umbrella planted, sand bucket and shovel somewhere nearby, a couple of gulls hanging out overhead. And that isn’t incorrect - but isn’t that only a small slice of summer confined to a week or two on the coast?

What about the rest of it? What does the full-blown essence of summer mean to you? I was struck by that question when I ran across my photo of this old farmhouse in Eastern North Carolina’s Washington County.

Maybe it was the porch, which looked like Memaw had just stepped inside to check on the last batch of string beans in the canner, or the flag, a quiet nod to Independence Day.

I really can’t say for sure, but it speaks love to me, and long days, and lightning bugs, and peaches, and thunder in the distance.