People like Faulkner and Caldwell can write about it, but it’s never the same as what you live. The South they wrote about died in the 60’s, when the Depression was a memory and people began to openly resist the efforts of the Klan, the great perpetuators of southern grotesquerie.

What resulted were places like this one, saturated with the sweet smells of tobacco, pine needles and stubborn vulnerability. What resulted was me, a sullen child for whom adulthood happened far too quickly. What resulted was a motionless place like this – stuck forever in time and strangely quiet, except for the warm winds rustling the trees and fields.

Standing over my father’s grave, I made mental apologies for all the disappointments I thought I brought him growing up, none of which he ever saw. Not the least of these was losing my virginity at age 14 to Colleen Powell behind the sanctuary, the Sunday of the Homecoming service. I’m sure the Lord was not pleased with me that day, but thankfully my mother never found out.