The South welcomed this Expatriate with produce stands overflowing with boiled peanuts, sweet potatoes, and muscadine grapes; Chik-fil-As on every other interstate exit; and temps in the low 80s with only the barest trace of that ubiquitous Southern humidity.

And somehow, despite the summery weather, the Blue Ridge mountains of my childhood got the message that fall and I had arrived, and put on their colors.

As ever, the chance to breathe in air steeped in the red clay of Dixie renews me. Good to be home.

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