The South is Burning...

Really.

I know that I'm making it sound like the Union troops are coming through and burning like they did on Sherman's March during the "War Between the States" or the "War of Northern Aggression," depending what side you were on. That's not what I mean.

But, everything is burning here. I'm writing this sitting on the upper porch, right outside my office, and I can smell the smoke in the air. Sometimes the smoke is so thick that the air looks cloudy or foggy or misty and it's really acrid to breathe. ACK!

I've been told that you burn the fields before you get ready to plant. I guess that makes sense, but to this silly Northerner, it seems strange, if not illegal. See, I came from a town that would fine you, send the police to issue a warrant, if anything smelled remotely smoky. Why, you can't even burn your leaves that you rake up after the leave come down in the fall. It's illegal. Bad for your neighbors health.

When I'm driving to town, along the marsh, I see smoke billowing up in the air and wonder what country I'm in. It is so alien to my sensibilities. Up north, in my hometown, if I saw such a fire or that much smoke, I would call the authorities, the Police and Fire Departments, for them to check out the situation. In the city, a fire meant disaster. Now, I just kind of keep driving, realize that it's a part of the rhythm of the land, and if the smoke gets real bad, I plug my nose and press the pedal to the metal to go faster and faster and faster until I can break through the greyish cloud to the fresh marsh air beyond.