Children of the Red Clay

We are children of the red clay…

… born under blood moons , cornbread fed, & creek baptized/ where the men who wore white hoods and rode white horses are not a urban myth/ where the sun shines bright on our sun down towns / Where the pine oozes with turpentine / where grandma birthed generations of babies and had her hand in helping others birth theirs / where dinner & supper are two different meals/ where your auntie was the neighborhood candy lady and your pop pop , selling his moonshine … was the bootleg man / where everybody waved at you even if they don’t know you & where the front porch is a place of communion / where “who is ya people?” is a proper greeting/ where a mess o greens, field peas and hot water corn bread is a full meal and the sweet tea is referred to as Sugar Water /  Where the churren can be caught outside drinking outta water hoses or running around right at dusk catching fireflies in mason jars / Where the best fried chicken and okra can be found in a gas station & where your folks didn’t have much but made sure you didn’t go without . 

I am a descendant of these folks , Blood running red as Georgia clay at noon hour. The clay that has kept the score, heard stories and told even better ones. The clay that has sustained & assisted my family in growing food, going back 7 generations. The clay that brought my momma nutrients she needed when she was sick while pregnant with me.  This clay has served as a portal and the vessel. We owe it all to this soil... to this blood red dirt. We are children of the Red Clay.