Rusted cars in over grown fields, and abandoned cotton mills. Creeks that run cold and deep under old rustic bridges. Dirt roads and open fields that seem to run forever and go no where. Cottonwood trees and Magnolias, that fill the air with fragrance and dampness after the rain. Children chasing each other in a game of tag beneath a Willow tree. The smell of fried chicken and fresh bread at Sunday supper. Time moving slow as the sun sets over history. A land not in a hurry to change. This is the place of my birth, this is my Southern legacy.