In the land of the greenhouse, where there’s a weave lying in the parking lot and frogs at night sound like horror movie monsters.
Where people are so nice, or so grumpy and there is nothing in between.
In the place where Bonanza plays on the ancient TV of a barber shop, and people get hugged before they get their hair cut.
Where we walk out back of the BBQ joint kitchen and talk to the cook sweating over his smoker.
Where old ladies drive huge white cars. Where everyone’s children are ‘baby’.
The place where peaches are poems, and sweat is a way of life, and you watch where you step and nobody is hurrying anywhere.