Red Clay Mountain

I skip, he runs, like best friends do, across the crunchy gravel road, no cares to carry taking us to the mountain of red-orange clay to run and wrestle the dirt that stains the white within an inch of it.   I am four, he, five; our friendship igneous by our love of the earth. …

A little excerpt about my grandmother, her friends, and a Georgia train

I loved my grandmother and I have fond memories of staying at her house on Buttermilk road, waking up to the whistle of a train. She taught me how to snap beans and pin curl her short silver hair. Chelsea and I would stay a week with her and on Saturday night, I’d gather up …