I sat outside at dusk, the air hot and heavy with a storm rolling in, sipping whiskey and watching two mockingbird parents oversee their young make their way from the nest in my magnolia tree.
I don’t think I’ve ever written a more quintessentially Southern sentence.
Yet I don’t feel that I am quite quintessentially Southern myself. After all, I’m not the cornbread and pearls type. I’m not the Sundays and pressed dresses type. I’m not even the football and Daisy Dukes type. I’m not sure what I am, but sometimes I think about it while I sit on the front porch growing sticky from the humidity, sipping Side Cars with fresh basil cut from the side yard.
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