Red Georgia clay.  It’s how I know I’m home.

Red like my daddy’s (and son’s) hair.

Red that seeps into well water, and stains light clothing.

Red clay that’s so hard to dig into.

Red clay that won’t grow a whole lot of things, except lots of pine trees.

Red that’s strong and deep and tracks across clean floors.

Red that pebbles up and sticks to the bottom of your sneakers; it’s a moist clay, not to be confused with dirt.

Red clay that rolls in waves in the middle of a rural highway.

It used to be that I couldn’t bear all the stubbornness of this thick, rusty stuff.

Now I take pictures of it, because I love it.

Home, Childhood, Roots.  



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