Before starting let me get the disclosure stuff out of the way. I was in no way compensated for this post. However, Tide Loads of Hope is a client of mine. Everything I said in this post is my own opinions.

Does that do it?

I grew up in the south. Yep, a true southern bell up until the age of nine when we decided to move back up on North. I wasn’t just from the south I was from the deep south.

We moved around a lot making our home in Georgia, Alabama, and even at one point Leesville, Louisiana. (Say it with me now leeeeeeesveeele leeesiana)

I still remember the first time someone called me a Georgia peach. I remember eating Moon Pies out on the front porch. I remember the smell of summer and my blonde hair sweating to my neck. I could have ran a mile barefoot without blinking an eye. I mean it took running around barefoot for three years to build calluses that strong but it was worth it. Not even the Georgia pavement could burn my little feet.

After my parents divorced and my mom got a little bored in the south she brought us back up north. To live in her hometown square in the middle of the mid-west. I spent the next ten years trying to convince the entire Mid-West that the south was the place to be. They couldn’t  understand how sweet tea could be a necessity. They weren’t impressed that I could run around town barefoot and half dressed without so much as blinking an eye. They just didn’t get it.  They were much too busy trying to stop me from saying “geeeese” (Guess) and asking “What kind of coke do you have?” when what I really meant was Pop.

I always planned on moving back to the south. Buying a little southern home and rasing babies. We would drink sweet tea and watch the sun go down. They would learn how to run around barefoot and answer to nearly anything including sweet pea, girlfriend, honey child, and precious. Because in the south? That is how we roll.

I remember counting down the years. Considering if I spent ten years in the south and ten years in the north could I still consider myself southern? I really wanted to consider myself southern. As of now I spent ten years in the south and thirteen years in the north and I consider myself southern at heart. And too a true southern bell? That means a whole lotta somethin.

I was working at a truck stop  soon afer I had graduated high school. (insert any country song of your choosing here) I was waiting on an old man from the deep south who had spent the last twenty years of his life trucking. I told him how I was planning on moving back someday. I told him how I wanted to raise my babies in the south. He laughed and said “we gotta get you back down where you belong!” in his deep worn in accent and I nodded. Secretly knowing that I might be expecting a baby sooner than later, and that baby would not be raised in the south.

I like to think I understand. The people who risk their homes and lively hood to live in such a hurricane threatened place. I understand the desire to be in a place regardless of situation and fear. Because in south? There isn’t a whole lot of fear. If things fall apart, the south comes together.

Living on the coast is driven by more than just logic. It runs deepers than that. Deep within the soul where the moon pies sit and the warm bare feet. Where the coyotes howl and the sweat drips off your neck. It isn’t a house. It isn’t a choice. This is their life.

And hope remains.

There is amazing blog carnival going on thanks to Velveteen Mind and Tide Loads of Hope. (a client) Please check out the other stories here.