Staring out the balcony at the Frederica River

The elegant curve of the car bridge in the distance

The water quiet and peaceful

I want to stay out here and write but the humidity

Is seeping through my skin into my bones

There are marshlands all around this island

St. Simon’s

That island that inspired Eugenia Price

To live and write here

There have been poems and books and stories

Written about this place

With its stately plantations, ancient oaks, and Spanish moss

The graveyard we visited today

Right outside Christ Church

Where John Wesley once preached

And presidents have attended

Was far prettier than any graveyard I have ever seen

The rich history of beloved names

Carved into stone of every size and shape

The tiny gravestones the saddest ones

A three-year old killed by a runaway wagon

The kinds of real-life stories that made Eugenia Price’s historical fiction so sad

She, too, is here. Or her body is. She died a year before I married

Before I had ever imagined living in the south

With its lilting accents, its rich food, its warm and often humid summers

I reflect for a bit on what it has been like living as a Yankee in the south

The places where I was warmly welcomed and the places I was not

The history I have tried so hard to understand

The obsession with place

The setting here is its own character in the story

But I have lived here now for what is soon to be thirty years

More of my life lived here than lived anywhere else

I lived the life of a nomad for much of my life

Moving every three years

Never very strongly attached to any one place

But I think perhaps I am attached now

Somehow the south has gotten a hold of me

Like the vines that twist around the trunks of the old oak trees

And the vast beauty of this place

The hospitality of its people

Is just as much a part of my story as the firths of Scotland

The cherry blossoms of Japan

The hibiscus flowers of Guam

The Amish wagons of Pennsylvania, swan boats of Boston

Or crab cakes of Baltimore

I climbed a lighthouse today

It was a lot of steps

I wondered how the keepers did it all day long

Keeping the light going

Before everything became automated

The importance of something as simple as a light

Pointing the way for boats to come to shore

How the confederate soldiers blew up the original lighthouse

So the Yankee soldiers wouldn’t be able to use it

And I realized I was imagining being a southerner then

Fleeing the island

Burying the silver in hopes the soldiers wouldn’t find it

But they almost always did

Somehow I’ve been here long enough

To imagine myself a native in this land

Even though I’m quite sure I am still solidly considered a Yankee

By many of my friends

Too honest for my own good

Still too quick to get to the point

Not always enjoying gentle conversation about our families

Sitting out on porches drinking sweet tea

Always wanting to be doing something

Accomplishing something

Always moving

Almost never still

In that, I think, the south has been good for me

I wonder if I would have burned out in the north

Where everyone was always busy

Southern is still a second language to me

This slow and easy hospitality

It is a language that has made me appreciate

The people and the culture here

Much more than I ever thought I would

Somehow God knew

That after a lifetime of constant moving

I would need a place where I could learn to be still

Where I could put down roots

Where I could learn to speak a little more slowly

Where I could learn the importance of place

The cottage is still my favorite place on earth

I still put sugar in my grits

And I still dislike gravy on biscuits

But I love sweet tea and corn bread

And I love so much about this place

This people

The south is not just a place where I live

It has become my home