I love grit. Grit, dust, dirt, and rust. Grey skies even when there isn't a cloud in sight. Bare branches mixed with bursting blooms. Abandoned farmhouses and gas stations as far as the eye can see. Small towns once bustling with life from the railroad days -- before interstates and travel plazas -- now relics from another time. I try not to idealize too much. I understand that modern life in an aging small town probably isn't full of whimsy and romance - unless of course we're talking about Doc Hollywood (ok, but Micanopy is kind of wonderful).
We spent the weekend driving the old highways through Georgia into South Carolina, where I visited my sister as she interned at Bio-Way Farm. All the way up and back down passing giant pecan trees, southern pine forests, blossoming pink peach orchards and crumbling buildings. Once at the farm, we were greeted with a dinner of kale (picked by my sister that day!), sweet potatoes, biscuits and gravy, pickled beets and chicken fried steak. It was by far the best meal on our trip, made even better knowing that so much of it was grown right there. By people who worked by hand.