Hope for the Uprooted

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I love hearing all about local history, especially in this big Southern family I find myself a part of by marriage. When you meet people who've been in the same place since the Revolutionary War, you just have to ask for stories, and they'll offer them up like sweet garden pickles from the jar.You'll hear about times before running water and flush toilets, about tobacco fields and what used to be right there in that field that's now something else. A golden thread the color of sweet tea connects everyone to everyone else in little towns where people remember when the bank started (great, great granddaddy) or when the railroad tracks were placed (right up near the house) or when a certain road came into being that's the last name of your family on your grandmother's side.It's so rooted, so tightly stitched together like the quilts on the bed grandma made herself, that I wonder what that must feel like for my daughters. . . .

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