Ghost Town

About a month ago, I traveled back down to my Southern roots that hold down ancient oak trees covered in Spanish moss on the Florida/Georgia border. A second cousin was getting married. The preacher was wearing a skin tight pink ensemble and lots of bottle blonde. There was already a child out of wedlock, lots of country karaoke, and the only nonalcoholic beverage offered was sweet tea. My mom almost made me miss my flight back, but she made up for it beforehand by line dancing in cowboy boots and exclaiming, "I put my britches on backwards!"

While I was there, my brother and I walked around the tiny town and snapped a few pictures. It literally has one gas station, one corner store, two restaurants, two churches, and the tiniest fire station and library I've ever seen. All within one mile of each other. There are pictures of me by the train tracks, but don't let that fool you. The train hasn't stopped there for years.

Johnny is my deceased great grandfather I never met. Dorothy is my still kicking sassy great grandmother. Bobo is what they named every one of their four children. Or their dog. I can't remember.

 My great grandmother's ancient wrap-around front porch with original 80 year old seating.

 The original bridezillas, from left to right: Belinda, Great Aunt Once Removed; Brenda Breeze, Great Aunt; Barbara Anne, Grandmother; Linda, Great Aunt.

This was my favorite photo in the house. It's of my grandmother, my aunt [the little one], and my mother in the 70s. I love what they are wearing, especially my mother's outfit.

And then there's this.

Leave it to your great grandmother's house

to remind you what you looked like with hair a decade ago.