The South. And Alabama in particular.

This place I grew up in, this place I have lived in my whole life long.

Can't say that "The South" and I have ever been too cozy. Our relationship has been one of discontentment mostly.

There were various reasons. I loved the West, the mountains and wide open spaces, and I always felt out of place as a person.

Not many I knew loved to roam the woods, to bike or run or camp. I was silly. I didn't like dressing up. I stubbornly hated the status quo and buried myself in books instead of trying to conform. None of these things make for instant popularity in the city of Montgomery.

I would think... one day when I get to live in the mountains, then things will be perfect.

That's just discontentment talking though, I've learned. Things will never be perfect, and God planted me where He wanted me. Through this place, I've slowly been taught: people are more important than place and have been given the lesson that life is not about fulfilling my desires or chasing my dreams.

And as I look back (and ahead), I have come to a begrudging love for my roots. I do not absolve The South of all its problems, like a poisonous cultural Christianity and a tendency to judgment and gossip and so on. Like the old bullfrogs that reside in our ponds, it's got plenty of warts.

But I do love its essence, its people, and its strange, lilting beauty.

The swamps and the songs.

The pine trees and the red clay, mudding my boots and staining my hands. The climbing kudzu, the wide porches, the haunting stories, the corn and cotton fields spreading across the land. The big family gatherings and after church meals, people lined up to scoop casseroles from ornate dishes. That southern accent. Man. I avoided catching it with all my might.

The rough dirt roads, the big trucks, even the ones with the obnoxious tires and flags. The blue jeans. The cow pastures and the hawks on the power lines. Catching fireflies and slathering on sunscreen. The yearly journey to the beach, where buggy boarding made my day and the Oyster Bar expanded my stomach. The four-wheelers and the pumpkin carving. The RV's packing Cheaha's campground out on a November weekend to catch a glimpse of fall. The ever-present background of football announcers shouting through radio speakers on a Saturday.

Oh, and the country music blaring with the windows down, driving breakneck through the middle of "nowhere." The spreading live oaks. Selling pine straw to the neighbors in a wheelbarrow. Never wearing shoes and crying when Mom forced me to wear them to Walmart. Bonfires at friends' houses. The endless "How are you? I'm good. How are you?"'s. A dollar general on every corner. And I don't know why other places don't have grits. A shame. Bundling up in hunting clothes. A rifle in half the houses on the block. All the T-shirts and Chacos. The American flags.

The South is the South, and it's stubborn in its ways. And that is comforting to me as this spinning world goes crazy, to know that there will still be a granny and her granddaughter sitting in rocking chairs and playing a mean game of checkers outside of a Cracker Barrel in Montgomery.

The South has made me who I am, in being shaped by it and rebelling against it. I've decided to end the rivalry and be thankful for this place. We've shook hands.

We've made our peace, the South and me.

Wherever where I go on this planet, this is home, and here there'll always be lamplight glowing through a screen door and a big table full of family and friends, ready to give me hug and a meal.

Once or twice, I fervently wished I had grown up elsewhere and considered chopping my roots off, but it just didn't take. The south is like that friend that you can't help but love, no matter the damage they do you. My friends and family are priceless.

And there are too many good things, like mashed potatoes.