Trips to Carrollton are always bittersweet for me. There is never enough time to see all my family and friends, and I'm always sort of sad to leave. Luckily I'm usually armed with at least one grandmother's homemade goodies, which never make it past Macon. Usually I perk up when we cross the bridge over the marsh, and I breathe in the scent of salt air instead of cow patties. Nevertheless, I probably would have been a lifelong Carrolltonian like my parents and grandparents before me had God not had a better idea.
Instead I'm in Savannah blogging when I should be sleeping, and Jason is snoozing on the couch with a Jimmy Carter documentary playing in the background (snore....I can't imagine why he fell asleep). Tomorrow I will start working off the three straight days of biscuits and bacon my mother-in-law spoiled me with and totally disregard the high bar she set by serving Pop Tarts and frozen waffles for breakfast (hey, you can't beat Leggo my Eggo). Our season of birthdays in now on hiatus till September, and for that, I am extremely thankful.