I was born with a borrowed homesickness for Tennessee bottomland where my daddy grew up. We never stopped piling into a station wagon and winding the long way there from Alabama for weekends of lap-sitting, early biscuits, percolated coffee, and that iron-rich dirt dotted with arrowheads. It was home to my daddy, where he had been a little boy and where he had known his daddy, and it was comforting to me to see him fit so well.
So is it any wonder, then, that I constantly battle a fit problem myself, always longing for the comfort of home? I moved from Alabama to Arkansas, and I do love it here, but it doesn’t fit, and then, always, the chilly edge of autumn undoes me.
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