During 2024, I have been inspired by Janisse Ray’s Trackless Wild Journey. Below is an excerpt of my writing from Exploration 33  describing where I am from.

I am from the land of Anderson, South Carolina, where time itself seems to shiver with the ancient echoes of creation when the earth’s primordial upheavals wrought a canvas of granite and sediment, the rough-hewn sculpting the high shoal rivers and their relentless cascades. This land, birthed from the wild genesis of the world, stood as a testament to nature’s untamed ferocity, which, in the dawning of South Carolina’s history, set bounds upon the river’s reach, leaving a realm the early explorers dubbed the Dark Corner. Here, in the dense, bewitched air, there was a whisper of nature’s fierce and unyielding spirit, a whisper that still clings to those who dare to wrestle with its wild forces for the sake of human ambition.

My parents, as was the lot of many souls in this rugged expanse, emerged from the lineage of lintheads toiling amidst the ceaseless clamor of textile mills. They referred to it as “Public Work,” a new cadence traded for the old rhythm of the plow, an exchange of sun-bound time for the relentless ticking of the clock, heralded by the steam whistle’s shriek atop the mill’s spire. These white, fallen farmers, in their desperate clinging to existence, endured the stagnant purgatory of circulating cotton dust, that choking air which rendered them wretched, day in and day out.

The very marrow of my heritage is steeped in the life of the linthead. It is an inheritance of ancestral conviction and pride that runs through the veins of my kin. My grandparents, and their forebears before them, lived and died within the confines of Appleton Mill village, nestled amidst the textile mills of upstate South Carolina. Here, the red hills of clay greet the towering majesty of the Appalachian Mountains, and the clear, mountain-fed streams of the French Broad River whisper tales of moonshine and smoky blue horizons draped in tenuous mist, fostering ghostly legends.

Though I have departed from Anderson, my vow to return remains steadfast. Interstate 85 shall be my guide, a lengthy journey from Florida that will see me crossing the Vandiver Bridge spanning the Savannah River, and then exiting onto a highway mere miles from the South Carolina border by Lake Hartwell. I yearn for the cool, crisp air of the upstate that kisses the distinctive red hills of the Piedmont. Those very hills remind me of boyhood days spent digging and collecting mica, returning home with socks and shoes encrusted in red mud—a stain my mother would ruefully declare would never wash out, and indeed, the next week’s trash can bore testament to her truth.

Moments after leaving the highway, I shall come upon the old pond of my childhood neighborhood, Huntington Hills. Each summer’s drought unveils its muddy red banks, yet the water remains a still, smooth mirror.

Crossing the small bridge, I still anticipate the sight of the male belted kingfisher, perched with deliberate conspicuousness upon a branch overhanging the pond. His steely blue-grey crest will flash as he surveys the water below, poised to dive with his spear-shaped bill, evoking the ancient Cherokee healing rites. Along the banks, Canada geese will rest before ascending to the skies, journeying north to their summer haven.

This is the geography of my formation, etched into the depths of my being. It is a landscape of deep-seated memory, a part of me that defines me in its essence.

Thank you to Mandy Haynes and everyone at Well Read Magazine. for publishing my latest short story, Pop’s Boat. I appreciate the opportunity to share a few images and a story from fishing journeys long ago.