Due South

Rivers of yellow wind their way down the street as the ran washes the pollen from the air. The trees remind us that another Southern Springtime is upon us. The brown and gray landscape erupts in various shades of green. Blossoms that survived last week’s hard freeze are exploding in beauty. Rebirth. Renewal. Rejoice.
There are so many reasons for love living in the South. The food. The people. The history. The stories. The kindness that is exhibited when disaster strikes. It’s the whole chainsaws and casseroles phenomena that I like to talk about. When your house is hit by a tornado, before you can get out of the rubble, there will be a church van full of people with chainsaws and casseroles. They’ll cut the tree off your house and then feed you.
Maybe we’re so good at it because we have so much experience. But it is that moment when we don’t look at our differences, but we realize we are in the same boat. It’s when what we learn on Sunday mornings comes to life.
The South is not perfect. We have major problems to solve. Hate and fear are like rabid locusts trying to destroy crops of good will. But that very irritant is what creates the art that we celebrate. Like an oyster covering a grain of sand and making a pearl, our stories and music have been a balm for pain and changed a nation. For example, without the thorns of hatred, we would not have the rose called the Blues.
This is a place where we love our mamas, cherish our friends, tell our stories, cheer our favorite sports teams, worship on a Sunday and gather around a table to celebrate our blessings with food. We drop our g’s and sometimes chase shiny objects. We sweat profusely in the Summer and dodge tornadoes in the Spring. But there are good people here. Their caring and goodwill help choke out hatred’s weeds.
As I listen to the rain come down and watch the pollen wash away, I think of this truth: If you had a compass that pointed to home, it wouldn’t point North. It would point South.