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hugging necks

2/26/2016

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Five years ago, I hugged my daughter and said good-bye in the middle of Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta and truly believed that would be the last time I would see her; that is, until I grabbed her in the darkness in the parking area in Donegal Town, Ireland, on a cold and windy night in February.
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Years and distance make a difference; they toughen the heart. Never would I recommend it to anyone, but as the young ones tell you, "the world has changed" and living next door to granny just isn't the norm. I think about all the moments she took away from me; not intentionally I'm sure, but simply to follow her dreams and her life's road. That is what me as a mama should want, but that's so damn hard to accept. Mamas and daddy's should want that butterfly effect; grow up, spread your wings, fly away.
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Be careful what you wish for. For when they do exactly what you have preached for them to do during those years of childhood and adolescence, don't whimper about the outcome (my loud whimper). Accept that those wings are carrying them exactly where they should be and trust they will carry them back home.
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It's easy to say now; a few months ago, not at all. I credit my change of heart to one thing: proximity. I get it why mama and daddy insisted on family reunions, getting together with aunts and uncles Sunday's after church, making a visit during Christmas, even popping up at Uncle Ivet's for no reason at all. Southern family's understand that if you can see faces, hear jokes, eat food, hug necks, distance just evaporates. I got to squeeze cheeks and hug necks; I am renewed and that has made all the difference. All that complaining I did as a child, well, mama, I'm sorry.
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After our visit with Mary, Phelim and our grandchildren, we hope for more visits. We pray for more visits. After all, Caitlin needs a gramps and granny around when mama and daddy just won't give in. Next time, I - or you for that matter - whimper about visiting family, going to that annual family reunion, gathering at the lake in the summer, remember that that family, that reunion, that lake might not always be there. That absence will change you the course of your life. You will miss it.
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word factory

8/14/2015

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In the living room at the Gatlinburg Inn
It's that time of year again. If you squeeze your brain hard enough, you'll be able to smell a wood fire, taste fresh apples, feel the steam of a mug of hot chocolate. Oh, but unfortunately, there's more living (and southern sweating) to be done before we get to indulge in these beauties that fall offers.

Len and I are gearing up for another season at Blue Ridge Country Magazine. You didn't know? Well, you should and you have to come along. Not only does Blue Ridge Country provide amazing photography and stories about this mountain stretch, but our bi-monthly column has become a travel go-to for many who are traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway (hence our many trips north to, ourselves, discover gems in the woods). Just click this BUTTON and you'll see where we've been.  More importantly, you'll know where we going and how to find us come September.

This photo was taken when an adventure took us to Gatlinburg - not for the snow, not for the mountains but for the history. Gatlinburg Inn is now in the hands of family, and they plan on keeping it that way. You'll hear all about the grandparents and their legacy within this mountain city. We'll also carry you to the Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee;  meet Nik Wallenda in Clayon, Georgia; and even uncover all that feuding of the Hatfields and McCoys in the Tug River Valley in West Virginia. Plus, we're planning a very personal love letter to Carlos Lovell as a "thank you" for allowing me to tell his story in North Georgia Moonshine.

So, needless to say, I'm a word factory, pumping out words and phrases of detail and description - working at full speed, brewing numerous daily pots of coffee, researching on travel sites, editing photographs and weaving stories. I'm exhausted! Exhausted, but so enriched and blessed to have met such wonderful people along the way and have the opportunity to be their storyteller.

We all need a storyteller. Someone who looks into our life with an unfiltered lens and shares authentically, the life we have lived. No judgement; just a clear picture (much like that of my camera) of who we are, where we came from and what we will leave behind.

Gotta go. . . .the factory (and another story) calls.



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pickin' up chicks

1/24/2014

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when len bought his trans am back in the stone ages of 2004, the salesman told him an added bonus of the car - in addition to its speed - was that it was a chick magnet. finally, after 10 years, the car cashed-in on its promise.

i preface my chick story with this: i've always told len that when he his beard gets scruffy on vacation (i encourage this behavior and he gives in only when we're away), that's he's a doll. women love it. add that salt and pepper hair, and well, that's one of those george clooney traits that send women over the edge.

departing key west, we made a last minute run to glazed donuts (amazing, but that's another story) for a necessary sugar blast for the 13 hour drive. i had run into the store, a mere two doors down from where len waited in the parked car. i exited in less than 5 minutes with a box stocked with glazed delights. i rounded the corner and i saw a couple eagerly snapping pictures of len. was something wrong? or had that scruffiness finally caught someone's eye, and the paparazzi was going wild. wild, i tell you. knowing that attention is not len's friend, i feared the weird. i creeped closer and the couple continued snapping, and then, i saw her. mounted on the top of the hood, majestically controlling the trans am as if it were her rooster, a hen with as vibrant an attitude as her red feathers. i learned that in escaping a querulous rooster, she flew towards the trans am for a safe haven. taking no notice of len, she strolled on the hood, then coasted downward,  finally landing on the ground, ambling away in-between shrubs and bushes.

you see, chickens/roosters/hens/pests - whatever you might call them - are protected by law in key west. they are in the trees, restaurants, in the alleys, scooting down duval, challenging red lights and traffic. if you don't see them, you hear them. when cock-fighting became illegal in the 70s, the chickens lost their job but not their home. consider them a symbol of this southernmost city - irreverent, untamed, spirited, wild, and free.

len's key west chick left her mark on his hood. now, he will always have proof that, if only for a mere moment, he (and his car) was cock of this roost.


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from sicily to the south

12/23/2013

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when i first married len, he told me amazing stories of his mother's immigrant family, grandfather salvatore and grandmother angelina lentine. how they arrived from sicily traveling through ellis island, speaking no english and carrying few belongings and many dreams hoping that these would be enough in a new country. how they carved out a home for their growing family in new jersey where their descendents still remain.

how angelina raised her seven children alone once her young husband died, laboring and resolving to make it a happy and productive home. how she raised chickens and would gather the fullness of her apron at her waist, filling it with the day's supply of eggs. how she spent many years in mourning and dressed in black because of the loss of her husband and many children. how she would sit at the phone, dressed in black, calling on children and neighbors daily just to see how everyone was doing. how she would tell her girls to "make dinner and don't ask me what to make" because she had worked hard enough during the day to think any more.

how she would work in the kitchen with eager children watching, making gnocchi so fast that her fingers were blurred by speed. how she was ask len in her blend of italian and broken english to "fikisit lenny" (fix it) and when he would, she would praise him with "looka lika brand new".

i didn't know angelina but i know her kind. the kind who would cling to the words of her mother, remembering what she had been taught as a child and knowing that if she followed those rules, she would make it. a woman who despite the loss of her husband would forge through giving little thought (in public) to the fact that she was alone. it was only in her private moments that the tears would come, if they came at all. a woman who had the respect and love of her children and even though she was as tough as nails, they loved her and somewhere in the back of their mind, wanted to be just like her. a woman whose grandchildren marveled at the table before them, the italian delicacies of lasagna and meatballs and manocotti, all homemade with, well, secrets she never disclosed. a woman with such strength and resolve that it made your head spin. 

i hope len never forgets angelina and the way she called him 'lenny' when no one else in the world dare would. i hope he doesn't forget her misshapen fingers working at the speed of sound assembling traditional feasts for her family. i hope i never forget the power of a woman to hold a family together despite death and struggle.

so each time i make and enjoy cucidati, i think of angelina, her family and her beginnings. i hope that she'll have this inkling of a southern lady trying to be just a little sicilian and a whole lotta strong.
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Cucidati (Italian fig cookies)

i searched high and low for the recipe and it was tough to find. the one that is by far the best, in my humble opinion, is by brown eyed baker. she is the mastermind behind this recipe and i believe managed to merge tradition and flavor in one recipe.
dough
4 cups all-purpose flour
1½ tablespoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup sugar
1 cup vegetable shortening
1 egg
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
½ cup milk

sift flour, baking powder, and salt in a large mixing bowl. whixk in sugar and combine well. cut in the shortening with a fork or pastry blender and work the mixture until it looks like cornmeal. in a separate bowl whisk together the egg, vanilla and milk. add the egg mixture to the flour mixture and mix with an electric mixer for a full 3 minutes. dough will be soft. remove from bowl and knead by hand for 5 minutes. divide the dough into 4 equal pieces, wrap each with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 45 minutes.
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filling
1 cup dried figs
1 cup dried dates, pitted
¾ cup raisins
½ cup walnuts, chopped or ground in food processor
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ cup honey
¼ cup orange marmalade
grind figs, dates, and raisins in a food processor until coarse. add the remaining ingredients.
(i mix these a day before i assemble. i leave them in the frig overnight which seems to make the gooey goodness so much richer. use sourwood honey for a touch of southern sweetness.)
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work with one piece of dough at a time. on a floured surface, roll the dough into squares - about 3" by 3". use an ice cream scoop and gather filling and place in the middle of each square. pull the edges over top, and pinch to seal.
(my cookies never look the same. the more filling i can get inside, the better. don't worry about looks; once you drizzle sugar and sprinkles on top, you'll forget about how 'creative' you have been.)
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icing
2 cups powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons milk (approximately)
colored sprinkles (optional)
mix together, adding only enough milk to achieve desired consistency. make sure it is still thick, not runny. drizzle on the tops of the cookies, then sprinkle with color. let them set before storing in airtight container.

(it takes about 2 days for these to completely disappear. as good as they are, they are still all about family and tradition. enjoy!)

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Angelina in her garden
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lessons from the attic

10/6/2013

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the attic is a scary place where boxes turn in to headless monsters devouring unoccupied spaces. inside those monsters, well, that can be equally daunting. once you move past the gray smell of something that has been sealed for far too long and the massive amount of black (and white I have discovered) mouse droppings, it's all downhill.

there's endless quantities of outdated clothes, unused kitchen utensils, unopened (regrettable) gifts, worn-out shoes, discarded computer equipment, lifeless TVs, packaged christmas decorations, busted lamps, unnecessary nick-knacks, and more and more of the same. most you fly right by, but there are some objects that require a closer look.

i can't begin to explain how many hallmark cards can fit into a box about waist high. i believe veta (len's mom) kept them in business. whether it was the sending or the receiving, she did her part in establishing hallmark as a billion dollar enterprise. it may appear to be just paper, but you must attach humans to these mailings. consider those who sent the cards - how they perused the aisle in the grocery store, reading card after card until the right one made them smile. jackpot! and then, days later, veta, sitting in her green lazy boy, going through the mail, finding a colored envelope and realizing it wasn't a bill. with her shinny letter opener, she slit open the envelope and then magic, a smile from ear to ear. thoughts from far away! no matter if the occasion was a birthday, a holiday or even a death, a smile was there because someone cared enough to send a card. not an email, a hand-written card.

and in my mama's old steam truck, one single greeting card that stood out from all the others: the first valentine from what would turn out to be one of many during a very long, love affair. he only signed his name, kimsey, and added no thoughts or phrases. his name was enough. i wonder how many times she read the card while tracing the imprint of his name with the tips of her fingers.

when you least expect it, you will find treasures wrapped securely in 1980s newspaper pages. there's the drag-ula car made by my husband for his pine-wood derby years ago. wrapped securely in browned paper, hours and hours of work lay in my palm. before I even knew he existed, he carved it with his hands and crafted it with his heart. then, there's the sosewsoldier sewing kit that belonged to neil, len's father. he carried this government-issued necessity to france, through belgium and then home again during wwii. both will have a new home, free from stale air.

finally, as i ramble through heaping box of towels, dishcloths and crocheted throws, i stumble upon a beautiful blush linen tablecloth, complete with eight matching napkins - still in its original box, unused with creases still crisp. as with all things cotton packed away, a wash is required. as i toss the tablecloth in the washer, i read the tag: made right in america. not simply made in america like we occasionally see today, but made right in america. pride jumped off the tag and smacked me in the face. i don't recall seeing that wording ever. i'm sure that in 2013, those  words aren't added to tags on linens or toys or computers or anything else for that matter.

there are lessons to be learned from the attic. mice can get into any box, i don't care how secure you think it is. most of us have way too much stuff. those clothes you wouldn't wear in the 70s will NOT come back in style and even if they did, you wouldn't or couldn't wear them then so you won't wear them now, so get rid of them. dead tvs and computers are just that, dead. and, when you dig through the clutter, there are gems of lasting worth that must be saved. there are stories of accomplishments and failure, of loneliness and hope, of holidays and dreams - magical seconds of a lifetime made concrete by materials stored in an attic.


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better. me. much better.

10/1/2013

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i have this - better. me. much better. - on a post-it above my desk - followed by a list of choices that, if handled correctly, will, in fact, make me a much better person. of course, following those is the key.

the list is short but its voice is demonstrative. one connecting idea:  don't stop dreaming. 

i was once criticized by someone that that was my downfall; i dreamed too much. i dreamed of moments, events, things that would never possible come true, and i spent so much time dwelling on what might possibly happen that i forgot to live in the present. i guess you could say that was true. maybe i didn't want to live in the that present.

time has elapsed and that present is no longer present, and I'm in a much better place, but i still dream. i dream every single day. even though, economically, things are strapped, i still linger over travel sites, search through airline flights, and pray for availability at my favorite little bungalow. i get excited when i get sale emails and i hurriedly go to the website, pick out a few favorites and then, click the 'x' in the top right hand corner. i am satisfied. although I don't go through the official 'check out', i'm happy to have lingered awhile.

i've always said, if i didn't have the capacity to dream, i would have called it quits long ago. i believe it's an innate power given to us  mortals [and i believe, especially to women] to reach for those desires that are a tad beyond our reach.  henry david thoreau said it best: go confidently in the direction of your dreams. live the life you have imagined. the simplicity of his experiences at walden pond instilled a power within him that he never knew existed. i believe in that key -  simplicity.

i like this much better version of myself.  it includes peace, happiness, contentment, satisfaction, hard work, busy days, and a dash of pride in the me that i have become. making the right choices, sticking steadfast to a goal, searching and researching a better way, and putting all the knowledge i have to work for the good. i have a focal point, and it's very clear.

i am a better person because i've been to the valley. i now assemble dreams that take me to a higher place.

finishing my novel, organizing and scheduling my life, following my doctor's orders, being beside my children when they need me, offering to help others in any way i can, and remembering how blessed I am to have found my first love in the middle of my life  - these dreams, these desires, these goals will help me live the life I have imagined.


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a barber shop and an air compressor

9/13/2013

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once every four or five weeks, my jersey-born husband drives his juiced up trans am into town and pulls over to the only barber shop within miles of our home. right smack dab downtown, on the corner of school and main. he walks in fuzzy and walks out coiffed to perfection. and that procedure includes an air compressor.

after hearty conversation of summer heat and the neighbors found on the police blotter, the cut is done and it all comes down to the 'blow'. she grabs the long blue hose and lets him have it, blowing microscopic pieces of hair from one end of the parlor to the other. people sit and read their papers, unshaken by the blast of air that inevitably whisks right by their ears. they pay it no never mind and wait for their turn in the chair.

the south is an amazing place. i forget that it runs through my veins, sometimes right up until the moment an air compressor becomes part of an unconventional salon experience. we're weird, i get it, and we're solid, too. we carry our traditions out the door and hope no one flinches when we shout our 'y'all' and 'ya hear' on a daily basis. come to think of it, those words warm my heart, just like remembering the aroma of country ham frying in an iron skillet and fluffy cat-head biscuits baking in my mama's kitchen.

i try to convince my husband that he is truly a southerner now. after almost 20 years of being in the thick of our drawl, you can't help but become one of 'us'. every now and then, he'll say my version of  'why' - always a multi-syllable word - and that confirms my suspicions. he'll try to deny it, but i know better.

another reason I know for sure? i'll bet my life that his hair cuts will always include an air compressor.


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because of you

8/29/2013

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august 29, 2011 | it's an amazing august morning. the sun is shining and although it would be great to have some rain on my crunchy grass, i'll take the sunshine. a slight breeze blows through me as a sweep the front porch (so like my mother). there's even a stray dog there looking terribly hungry and lost; I quickly grab some bread from the kitchen and hope he takes the bait. he hides in the corner and an hour later, the bread is gone and so is he.

today is one of those milestones for my husband that is calendared later in life. it was two years ago today that his mom, veta, went home to neil; and automatically, i think of my mom, three years ago december, who journeyed home. days like today become a benchmark for children. a day that for some reason we judge all other days upon. a day when a part of one's heart that has always been within a stone's throw, leaves. that seems so odd, something so stable, someone so important is suddenly gone and life must continue.

iI remember when daddy died almost 25 years now, i watched as they closed the top of the casket, a movement very much like one of those slow-motion moments in a horror film - a sign that something ominous was behind the door or on the phone. one inch, then two. as the slick-haired, funeral type physically lowered the top, i felt my body following his direction.  i remember thinking how can life ever be the same. it did. the next day the sun rose and cars were actually seen on the highways, and life went on without daddy.

the cycle of life continues, and it's okay. i will be okay. i have to keep telling myself that, that this is the way the good lord intended it to be. what remains will be a testament to the life lived. but no matter the common sense thought, tears still fall and chairs remain empty.  

that's when we gather up all the moments over the past fifty-or-so-years, hold them close and never forget. these will carry us through each day, beyond the shadows and away from the fears. thank you mama, veta and all the others that have left.  i will be okay because of you.




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    Whether it is exploring this amazing world or being content on my own piece of real estate near Athens, Georgia, I'm spinning stories and fashioning tales from a Southern perspective. As an editor and writer, I get to meet incredible people and share their stories. As a photographer, I get to cement these moments in time. As a wife and mother, I'm always excited to see what's around the next corner, For it's anything but ordinary.
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©2013-2022 Seeing Southern, L.L.C. All images and text appearing on this website are the exclusive property of Judy and Len Garrison d.b.a. Seeing Southern, L.L.C. unless otherwise stated. Two Coots Travel, Judy Garrison Writer, Groceries and Grit, Seeing Southern Photography, and Full Circle Fotography are part of Seeing Southern, L.L.C.
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P.O. Box 277, Farmington, Georgia  30638 | SeeingSouthern@gmail.com | SeeingSouthernPhotography@gmail.com
  • Seeing Southern
  • Seeing Southern People
    • Easy Like Sunday Morning | Jimmy Carter
    • Easy Like Sunday Morning | Jimmy Carter | Part 2
    • The Last Backyard Juke Joint in America
    • The Causeway Storyteller
    • A Love Letter to a Moonshiner
    • Her Story | Dolly Parton
    • An Author | A Dream Comes True
    • His Story | Andrew McCarthy
    • His Major League Story | Clint Frazier
    • Ann Chapin | Holy Inspiration
    • Her Story | Juette Logan Hill
    • His Musical Story | Brent Cobb
    • Her Story | Julia Elizabeth Synder Nobles
    • Florida Georgia Line | Georgia Theatre
    • His Story | Private First Class Lloyd Carter
  • Two Coots Travel
    • Seeing Southern | Where Can We Go Next?
    • Seeing Southern | Why We Travel
    • Seeing Southern | What's in Our Bag
    • With Gratitude | Top Travels >
      • With Gratitude | Our Top 5 Moments of 2019
      • With Gratitude + Our Top 5 Moments of 2018
      • With Gratitude + Our Top 5 Moments of 2017
      • With Gratitude + Our Top 5 Moments of 2016
      • With Gratitude + Our Top 5 Moments of 2015
      • With Gratitude + Our Top 5 Moments of 2014
      • With Gratitude + Our Top Moments of 2013
    • Seeing Alabama >
      • Make It Mobile, Mardi Gras
    • Seeing Arizona >
      • 6 Hours in Flagstaff
      • Postcards from Route 66
      • The Legacy of Route 66
      • Planes, Trains, Automobiles
    • Seeing Arkansas >
      • The Clinton Library
      • Rock Town Distillery
      • Moss Mountain
      • Tales from the South
    • Seeing Florida >
      • St. Augustine | What's Old is New Again
      • St. Augustine | Eat To Your Hearts Content
      • Happy New Year Road Trip
      • Heading West, Key West
      • People and Places of Key West
    • Seeing Georgia >
      • Hot Blues on a Humid Georgia Day | Blind Willie McTell
      • Thomasville Rose Festival + Due South
      • It's Who We Are: Storytellers
      • Telling Stories in Young Harris
      • A Colonel and a Governor
      • It's All About the Blues
      • Time for 'Shine in Dawsonville
      • Climbing Higher at Aska >
        • Favorite Aska Recipes
      • It's All About the Animals | Georgia Wildlife Center
      • A Walk to Remember
      • Boys and Their Toys | Tank Town USA
      • Apple Pickin'' at Mercier Orchards
      • A Family Affair | Georgia Mountain Fair
      • All Aboard | Blue Ridge Scenic Railroad
      • Shrimp (and Grits)
      • The Blues of Blind Willie | 2014
      • A Fresh Look at the Prince
      • Taking Home the Golden Onion
      • The Farmhouse Inn | Hundred Acre Farm
      • Tally Ho! | Belle Mead Hunt Club
      • An Inspirational Childhood | Gena Knox
      • Top Southern Chefs Dish Tailgating
      • Pure Southern Sweetness | Sorghum
      • Celebrating Gone with the Wind
      • When in (Georgia's) ROME
      • A Slice of Buttermilk Pie | Yesterdays
      • Mud, Sweat and a Few Tears
      • Georgia's Sunflower Festival
      • St. Mary's | Georgia's Pathway
      • Get Fired Up In Macon
      • A Splash in the Historic Heartland
      • Cakes & Ale
      • A Sweet Onion of a Time
      • The Old Sautee Store
      • Cumberland Island
      • Fun Behind the Lens | GAC
      • Monroe Girls Corps
      • The Destruction of Tara
      • Dawsonville Moonshine Festival
      • Oktoberfest in Helen
      • Blairsville Sorghum Festival
      • The Battle of Chickamauga
      • One Ball | Two Weddings
      • The Battle of Tunnel Hill
      • The Battle of Resaca
      • Happy Plus 2 | Father Luke
      • Jason Aldean | Night Train | Sanford Stadium
      • The Makin' of Round Here
    • Seeing Louisiana >
      • Here's What Hope Looks Like
    • Seeing Maine >
      • Come for the Lobster Roll
      • The Soul of the Coast
      • Hugging the Coastline of Maine
    • Seeing MIssissippi >
      • Mississippi Sings the Blues
    • Seeing New York >
      • 24 Hours in New York City
    • Seeing North Carolina >
      • Tasting Sylva: Come for the Beer
      • The Super Bowl . . . of Sorts
      • A Total Eclipse of the Sun
      • The Great Smoky Mountain Railroad
      • Getaway to Bryson City
      • Running For The Pot Of Gold
      • Mama to Son | Harris Leatherworks
      • The Earthy Balance of the Yadkin Valley
    • Seeing South Carolina >
      • Old 96 District
      • The Lowcountry of South Carolina
      • A Taste of Gullah
      • Left Hand, Right Hand | Zipline Hilton Head
      • Siesta at Sonesta
      • A State of Euphoia 2013 >
        • Taste of the South | Euphoria
        • Find Euphoria in Greenville
    • Seeing Tennessee >
      • Watching Paint Dry | See Rock City
      • Soggy Bottom Boys Reunited
      • Graceland
      • The Magic in the Holler | Gatlinburg
      • Working Class Art | Robert Alewine
      • What Would Wilma Maples Think?
      • Storytelling Festival
      • Smoky Mountain Fireflies
      • Robert Tino's Appalachian View
      • Love's Farewell Tour | International Storytelling Festival
    • Seeing Virginia >
      • National DDay Memorial
      • For the Love of the Train
      • A Night with the Salem Red Sox
    • Seeing West Virginia >
      • Mountains Set to Music
      • Travel South in Charleston
      • Hitting the Trails in Logan
      • West Virginia in Black and White
    • Seeing the World >
      • Seeing Belize
      • Seeing Bermuda | Bermudiful Bermuda >
        • 10 Days | 2 Coots | 1 Paradise
      • Seeing Canada >
        • The Rising of Noelle-Ange
      • Seeing Costa Rica >
        • Pack Lighter, Travel Better
        • Outside the Box | Medical Tourism
        • Only on Osa
        • Eating My Way Down Calle 33
      • Seeing Europe | Viking River Cruises 2019 >
        • Amsterdam Ramblings
        • Travel Like a Viking | Rhine River
        • Travel Like A Vking | The Alruna's Allure
      • Seeing Greece 2018 >
        • Two Coots Go Greek
        • The Poet Sandlemaker
        • Heaven's New Address is Halkidiki, Greece
        • His Passion for Wine | Danai Resort
      • Seeing Grenada 2016 >
        • Aboard the S/V Mandalay | Windjammer
      • Seeing Ireland 2016 >
        • A Wee Little Travel for Two Coots
        • Day 1 | Dublin > Kilkenny
        • Day 2 | Kilkenny > Kenmare
        • Day 3 | Kenmare > Dingle
        • Day 4 | Dingle > Doolin
        • Day 5 | Doolin > Westport
        • Day 6 | Westport > Donegal
      • Seeing Ireland >
        • Five Star Luxury in Dublin
        • Belfast North
        • County Antrim & Giants Causeway
        • Walking Westeros with Hodor
      • Seeing Italy 2017 >
        • Salerno and the Amalfi Coast
        • Sicily
        • Castellemmare del golfo
        • Over my Shoulder | Suzanne's Journey
      • Seeing Mexico | 2015 Viceroy Rivera Maya
      • Seeing Spain 2019 >
        • Sagrada Familia in Barcelona
        • Pamplona and San Fermin
  • Southern Diary
  • Len + Judy
    • Seeing Southern Photography >
      • 2021 | Behind the Lens
      • 2020 | Behind the Lens
      • 2019 | Behind the Lens
      • 2018 | Behind the Lens
      • 2017 | Behind the Lens
      • 2016 | Behind the Lens
    • North Georgia Moonshine
    • 100 Things To Do In Athens
    • Portfolio | Editorial & Photography
    • Media Kit
    • Words of Praise | Seeing Southern
  • Contact