Gonna rise up

Find my direction magnetically

Gonna rise up

Throw down my ace in the hole



I live on this farm in these mountains, but once in a while a get-a-way is necessary. Then the trek to the rents and back again, just a little away, not too far away, comes to be. After a bit of time in the more southern part of the state yet not considered south because it is not as far as Macon; after a little bit of love from Mom, fetching with the Patches and singing from Dad, I start on the back again part of the trek. As I ride to music (eddie vedder preferably), I find myself moved in different directions. It is traveling music that allows me to appreciate my drive and its surroundings.


As I came around that curve, you know, the curve where the ATL skyline bursts through for the first time and no matter how much traffic you are surrounded by, it just strikes you. It strikes you every time. Stunning. To me, if feels like I am seeing home again. It makes my heart gasp. Coincidentally, traffic slows right at that point as well, which is good so I can soak it all in. The architecture of the buildings, the crazy billboards, the signs marking familiar places I know so well. The cityscape weaves through overpasses and sudden shifts in the traffic that makes me pay attention to the road. Then as I move over left to go northeast instead of west and then back to the right again allowing me access to the road that stops short getting me home, I pay a toll of fifty cents only to find my company includes vehicles that live in this nostalgic place: mercedes, lexus, bmw...beautiful cars for a beautiful city.

As I wait in line to pay my $.50, I wonder, what would it be like to live here again? Would I be employed instead of in school? Would I be successful? Would I have dogs? Who would my friends be? Would I be married? Would I be sober? It's my turn to pay: "thank you."

The farther north I ride, the less expensive the cars are: they go from sports cars to mom busses to work trucks to farm trucks. The farther north I ride, the smaller the buildings get. The building of last resort is where the road says that it is ending and on the other side of the stop light it gets a new name which makes it local instead of stately; is a home depot that built its self into the side of a mountain and fought long and hard for a too tall sign and lost. Then the buildings are but farm houses and barns. The pastures stretch and the architect of this landscape is not human. There are trees taller and older than most anyone who lives in the farm houses. There are tucked away bbq smoke houses. There are fruit stands with fresh produces parked at the main road that carries me to my farm, there at the last stop light.

The next twenty miles are all God's country. There are stopsigns instead of stoplights. The "traffic" consists of a man on his tractor carrying a round bale to another part of his farm and had to surface on the two lane road to get there. Despite the double yellow line, there is time and ability to pass him, but not without a wave and a smile. The roads begin to curve. They go up and down and all around. Soon, there is no way to go over 20 miles an hour to get through the dead man's curve and I am almost home. Turning right at the winery, I can see the workers tending to the vines. Last turn...

My whole body begins to relax, knowing it is within walking distance to the farm. But as a reminder as to why I call my farm home, coming around a curve, the sky opens up to a magnificent mountain picturesque scene and I know. I know that I would never be the person I am today. I know that no matter how enticing the city can be, I would never have met the man of my dreams; I would never have these dogs; I would never be in school; I would never have my best friend I have; I would never have stayed sober but rather fought a losing fight.

I would never be me in that city. I know, that I am, I am right where I am supposed to be. I am finished with the trek back again. I am home.