If anyone is going to spin a southern tale, they ought to be a southerner. A real one. Born, bred and raised, with the rights to a family grave. It’s the only way to get to the bottom of it and get it right. Such a tale should be sweet as tea, funny as hell, dirty as dog-shit on a flip-flop, and above all else; full of heart and the Gospel Truth. I am the south. I am a storyteller.

I am…

Black and white, sugar and spice; Heaven and Hell. “I’ll be damned,” and “Bless your heart!” Magnolia streets& cheap perfume, Azalea festivals and Daffodil Queens. Funeral homes with drive up windows and rumor mills….spinning. I am Good Ole Boys and Soul Brothers. Christians. Fine folks, hippies and hypocrites! Church affairs that stink to high Heaven; an odd mix of politics and the Gospel. I am the Light of the Almighty streaming through stained glass windows spreading a little sunshine on centuries of guilt. I am the cross, the blood of Christ and shadows of shame casting doubt and insecurity across innocent children’s minds and small southern towns. I am that slow, slow search for grace.

Both myth and reality, “Southology,” I am saved and backslidden’. The Boogeyman, and Wampus Cats, haints, hussies& headless horsemen. Both Mayberry and Selma. I am that swift sword of sarcasm sent to cut you to your knees lest you forget, there’s only so much shit I’ll take but an endless supply I can dish out. A tranquil farm pond, a bucket of whitetail shot through the gut; a mother’s screams, a father’s insecurities. Divorce and denial, the pain and struggle of irony. I’m a good ole fashioned, “Go to Hell” and “Fine, and You?” The tip of a fine hat, a nod of approval, the wave of my hand across a steering wheel to a complete stranger, the silence of a good friend’s ear. I am Spanish moss, repentance, a grove of live oak trees; the sunrise of a swamp. I am the power of a simple faith in a simple people.

A Sunday homecoming with deviled eggs, I am full of gossip and the Holy Spirit. I am the old Sout