13

Begin rant.

I am proud to be from the South. I don't care what you damn yankees say, the north is not better than the south, no matter how many times you throw your meaningless examples into my face. If it is indeed so much better there, go back. Leave. No one, I assure, is begging you to stay. I love my heritage, my city, my side of the Mason-Dixon Line. I love the Great Smoky Mountains, the accents, the tiny little towns with one street light and old, historic houses lining the road. I love the farms, the rolling land and trees and rivers. I love the dogwoods and magnolias, the way Atlanta looks in the spring, new and full of light and life.

I love Easter Sunday and Christmas, and family, and friends that turn into family, and the way my nanna cooks every Sunday and major holiday, or just in the middle of the week when family come into town or friends come to visit. I love how we can trace my family back to the 1700's, and how we've been in the south since then, and by God, if anyone derogates that my southern accent is coming out and I'm gonna get mean.

I love my southern universities and southern literature, and especailly my southern music. I respect my elders, say yes ma'am and no sir, and I still wear a dress on holidays, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. My momma makes the best fried chicken, my nanna makes the best cornbread anywhere, and I've got bowls in the kitchen passed down from said nanna and recipe cards with my great-great-great grandmothers handwriting, and that is a real thing of value here.

I love my summer nights with crickets and lightning bugs, my hazy afternoons with front porches and cicadas and my early evenings with a book, a hammock, and the smell of honeysuckle floating across the yard. I love roadside vegetable stands, old pickup trucks, air conditioning. I love my spring days when the world is bursting with newness and color; I love my autumnws when I can finally walk outside without breaking a sweat. I love my country roads and my farms, my mountains and wide open fields. I love my southern beaches. I love the smell of charcoal and grilled food on summer nights. And finally, I love my history, my tradition, my stories, my people - I love my South.

12

It has recently come to my attention that everyone around me is making goals. From Weight Watchers meetings (where they encourage it) to senior classrooms across the state (where they encourage it even more), it seems the average Atlantan's life isn't complete or even fully realized until one has some semblance of a goal, or even a farfetched plan or half-baked idea.

And really, what would our lives be without goals? That's what got me through my college days and years, the goal of graduating and being finished with school and having a real life and that illustrious Bachelor of Arts degree. That giant diploma, the ability to jump headlong into any situation and wave people back, proclaiming in a loud voice that yes, I can handle this, I am a college graduate!

That day came and went, and I was left in the middle of the war zone that is the economy. Being an English major, I was never guaranteed a job upon graduation, and I knew and expected this. But being an English major and graduating into one of the worst economies in memory was enough to throw anyone into upheaval. I was lost without my goals. I was wandering, aimlessly, in the wilderness, trying to navigate and not doing a very good job at all.

Eventually, things settled down. My wide and varied list of goals has narrowed to something I believe is achievable. I remind myself of this list daily, and I know that one day, one way or another, I will achieve my goals. I read somewhere, recently, that you should write down a list of things you want to achieve. Read it aloud every morning and every night, and, by the power of positive thinking, at the end of six months you will have what is on your list.

I don't know about that; I'm not really one to buy into all this new age positive thinking stuff. But they're written down. I can see them, both literally and in my mind. The path is getting clearer every day. I finally have something to work toward, and that fact is what helps me rest easy at night.

11

Happy August!

This is one of my favorite times of year. No, not because of the heat and humidity that clouds your glasses every time you walk outside. That's endured, not enjoyed. I love August because of the nifty school supplies that appear at Target. It used to remind me that my sweet summer days were numbered, almost time for early wake up calls and homework. Now, though, it makes me happy I'm a college graduate, and can sleep late pretty much all the time. I could write for pages and pages, go on five different tangents about the end of summer, new beginnings, fresh ideas, and such. However, I'd much rather focus on one particular and very important part.

When I was a young whippersnapper, the one thing I looked forward to more than anything each August were new notebooks. They're still my favorite thing to buy, and in the past years, I've watched manufacturers come up with some pretty nifty new designs. From traditional composition notebooks with fancy new covers to entirely green notebooks printed on recycled paper with soy based ink, the once traditional paper search has become more of a treasure hunt, and if you don't want to leave a carbon footprint, you don't have to, missy.

One of the best things about these new notebooks is the smell. I've always loved it, fresh paper, unwrinkled and blank...leaf through it, and you can almost feel the words waiting to be written. I've heard of the blank page terrifying some people; I just find it freeing. Always have. Because you can write anything, anything at all. There's nothing more freeing than the chance to start over, to leave your past behind you and begin again.

So every Fall, while the green leaves turn brown and the trees do some new beginning of their own, you can find me nestled in some coffeehouse, coffee beside me, new pen in hand, and my fresh notebooks, writing a whole new me.

10

We got lost last night. Horribly, misearbly lost.

The thing is, we were supposed to take the road left when it forked. We forgot about that, because really, the fork wasn't all that clear. And we didn't realize how off-course we were until the concrete under our wheels turned to brick and the road name turned to something we'd never seen before.

I sat there in the passenger seat, trying to be helpful but almost too tired to think. But wasn't that what had gotten us into this in the first place? Driving through on autopilot? Sometimes, it's good to trust your wheels to take you where you need to go. Sometimes they know better than you do.

But not this time. This time we made three more wrong turns and finally got so confused that we had to find an interstate to clear our heads and orientate us. 45 minutes later, we were back where we should have been, grumpy, tired, and cold.

It made me wonder how many other times I'd missed the fork in the road and gone somewhere completely different, because I wasn't paying attention. Sometimes it's good...sometimes, not so much. It's hard work to stay on track, especailly when all you have for landmarks are mistakes behind you and learned lessons in the passenger seat. That's life, though. Make a wrong turn, get lost, find your way back, and do it again. I'll learn, though. Getting lost is what makes you learn. I'll learn to keep better watch on the signs, to keep distractions at bay, and to always have a few select landmarks and a few select friends to keep me straight. As long as you have that, you can never truly lose your way.