Your post reminds me of something that happened recently.
I was asked by a chick who lived in chicago why I liked the south, or even the country so much. My answer?
I can remember being a very small child, walking barefoot to get fresh yard eggs from the pens, walking through the rows of peppers and watermelons, picking a pepper and praying it wasn't hot and chewing on it until getting inside with the eggs.
I remember being greeted with the bacon laying in thick layers in the bottom of the deep freezer, maw maw slicing it pretty nicely, and frying it up, with a large pan of fresh catheads cooling on the counter, a pitcher of fresh milk with cream on top sitting in the middle of the table, handing the eggs of to be cooked sunny side up.
I remember running off after breakfast down to handlebar creek and swinging into the cold waters from those old rusty handlebars hanging form a rope, being sure to shuffle on the water's bottom as to know what was down there, and avoid getting bitten.
I remember walking back to the house, cutting through the thick woods and waters, with the spanish moss, cypress and spindly oak trees marking my way.
I remember momma and maw maw sitting on the porch, with the front door open, so they could hear days of our lives (before hope was buried alive the first time), momma snapping fresh peas, maw maw chopping fresh okra. Every time I saw momma with those beans I thought about paw paw making my daddy pick a sack (that maw maw had sewn) as long as he was tall (he is 6'4) of peas, and if he didn't finish by night fall, momma had to go to bed anyway.
I remember picking those peas, my back wanting to break and paw paw giving me a damned quarter for those peas (remember the time we put our quarter together and bought nothing?!). I remember smelling gumbo cooking from down the road, I remember daddy blasting skynyrd outta the radio, and paw paw spittin' his chew.
My kids will have these same memories.
This is way off topic of seasteading, but, Intuition, I felt you would like it.
