I have always considered myself as someone who’s somewhat homegrown: I am a backyard garden tomato, with deep roots in good soil and Farmer’s Market pride
Thirty-Five Years and Counting [street stall]
Vibrant orange and red tomatoes, grown in Soddy Daisy, Tennessee, overflow Tommy Smith’s baskets. South Carolina Peaches, big and round as any I’ve ever seen, sit heavily on the truck’s top rack.
An Airport, Not a Destination [church]
The hope was that the Daniels could engender a church that served as a means of getting people where they wanted to be in life – a spiritual airport rather than faith’s destination.
Wanting [window: Atlanta]
I imagine the sound of cellos enveloping the room. An alluring little blue ring box, tied with a white satin bow, sits, elevated, on a display case.
In the Woods [freestyle: cabin]
Five small rooms compose the cabin’s 900 square feet, a quaint but rustic getaway. It sits in a clearing at the top of a field among a thicket of pines.
My Toddler Tis of Thee [independence]
Like everything else in life, I planned to pull myself up by the bootstraps and figure motherhood out by instinct. And I didn’t want to hear another word about it.
Wholesale [market]
The aisles of Costco are full of anything and everything anyone could want. A small nation – or maybe two – could live here, quite happily, for decades.
Utopia [campus]
It is Monday, in the height of exams at The Westminster Schools, Atlanta’s most academic, and, arguably, its most well-regarded private prep school.
Americana [Fast food: Freestyle]
Inside Chick-fil-a on this April afternoon is a madness known only to parents of multiple children between the ages of three and twelve. In this moment, the energy in the place could generate electricity for the whole of Atlanta, suburbs included.
Trivium [school]
The girls drink hot tea with one or two lumps of sugar and a touch of milk. They are giddy in the morning, screaming through the halls bare foot, or in sock feet, before they settle in the school room.
