I woke up this morning, read a book in bed, made breakfast, and ate while listening to some bluegrass (I usually listen to "back porch music" on Sunday evenings - tradition that I've created for myself in the past few years). Sounds like a pretty good Sunday morning, right? Well, it's been nice, but it's not the same.
Sunday mornings outside of the South just don't seem right. I want to listen to bluegrass in the region where bluegrass is authentic. I want to sit down with the Birmingham News and read about all our corrupt politicians. I want to sit at the kitchen table and just... be there and stare out the window at the bird feeder and our cat lurking nearby. I don't really want to go to church, but I want the option. I want to go to a diner and be surrounded by old people. On Sunday mornings I also want space - parks, roads, and back yards that the South provides in abundance.
Of course, I could recreate most of these things in California. However, the memories of these things are too tightly linked to the feeling of being home - whether in Birmingham, Memphis, Newbern, or Durham. The closest Cracker Barrel is in Arizona. Ahem - this aint right.
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