Blame it on Skynyrd
by Jamie Berube It’s 10 a.m., and I haven’t showered. A lazy Sunday ponytail and my blue and orange Florida football shirt make me dreamy with thoughts of home. I think back to a moment two years ago in which I sat in my mother’s kitchen with a bowl of cheerios before church, prayin’ to Jesus for no rain. “You’re a California girl now, cut it out.” The newly–made, sun-kissed Southern California girl mindset of mine fights against those memories. As I cruise a familiar, sleepy street in the urban sprawl of Orange County, I flip on the radio. Then it happens. I hear “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynryd Skynyrd, and it doesn’t matter that my hair’s a mess; and I haven’t showered today. The rugged 1970’s guitar riffs, and the image of the band in their black cowboy hats and bell bottoms awaken the Southern twang in my soul; and all I want is to be eating BBQ by the river where my roots lie. I should not admit this publicly. The refined So Cal elites and West Coast bros may never forgive me for what I’m about to confess. I miss the South. I let my car windows down and take my foot off the gas a bit.