There is a seaside village on the coast of Georgia that my heart, in fact my entire being, is summoned to at fairly regular intervals. It is as much home to me as the red clay hills of North Georgia.
I understand why it is so about the mountains. My family, at least nine generations of them, has been embedded in those hills so deeply that it’s hard, impossible really, to separate the land from our souls. There is no dividing line where the land ends and our flesh begins. And St. Simons? Why does it has such a mystical draw over me? That, too, is easy to explain. Read More»