Where the Dogwood Blooms

I was twenty-five when Mamaw told me it was time to start using cold cream.

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I grew up with those words. Not the Kingston Trio version most people know. The one I learned was Grayson and Whitter's — older, darker, the kind of song that doesn't try to make itself pretty. It sits with you like a stone.

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A few weeks ago, the mimosas started blooming along the North Carolina roadsides — those impossible puffs of pink floating above the tree line like something straight out of Dr. Seuss.

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Back in March, the NC Libertarian Party invited me to cover their state convention as a content creator — and I turned it into a mother-daughter adventure.

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I come from a long line of rednecks.

Around here, that's not an insult. It's just a fact.

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