My wife and I weren’t here on pleasant business. Just when I thought I’d gotten all the sand gnats shook out of my underwear, here we were again in the land of kudzu, boiled peanuts, and polite folk who give directions like self-anointed human Mapquests (“Whatchure gonna do is go down this here road a piece until you come to a fork, take a left, then the road’ll kinda go dipsy-do a coupla times, then you’ll pass the Baptist Church on the left and a Kum-n-Go on the right, and you’re gonna wanna bear left,” etc.). I’d lived in the Coastal Empire while I was stationed with the Army at nearby Fort Stewart, but this was my first time back in more than three years. My wife and I had driven 2,000 miles from Butte, Montana and we were flooring the accelerator on our way to Savannah. Shortly after I started reading Brad Gooch’s biography of Flannery O’Connor, I crossed the border into Georgia.
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