Every family has a place where stories are told. My front porch has become a symbol for days gone by. Sometimes it was my mother’s couch with a martini in her hand and a glass of Chardonnay in mine. Sometimes it was Aunt Loretta’s kitchen with candy hidden in the crisper drawer. Sometimes it was a piece of clove gum from the gas station that had a dinosaur logo. Sometimes it was a faded census page from 1880. This book begins in all of those places.
The first porch I remeber was in Dublin, Georgia.
I am currently in the incubation stage of writing, researching, all in the name of my mama. This book will be for you, Rosalyn. Your front porch was filled with love.
