21 is not just the legal drinking age – it’s a curse to a North Carolina pioneer community in this evil tale written by Allan Kopp Jr.
We took a lot of baths together in the weeks after Hannah was born—she, her dad David, and I—all jammed into the tub together, stewing in a sort of family soup. Neither one of us wanted to be farther than a few feet from her or from each other
by Noelle A. Granger The South seemed like a nice place to put down roots, and those travel magazines can be pretty convincing. My husband and I first thought about moving to North Carolina thirty years ago after looking at pictures of the eye-popping fall colors in the mountains and the crystalline sandy beaches and cerulean blue waters off the Outer Banks, plus we were told that the weather was nice, but mostly we came because we both found jobs here. During my first week in North Carolina, temperatures hovered around 100 degrees, with humidity that made it feel like a blast furnace, and I dreaded going outside. But gradually over the years, and with the help of whole house air-conditioning, I’ve come to welcome the heat and found it’s the perfect topic to open a conversation. “It’s a scorcher outside today.” “Yep, even the flies aren’t buzzin’.” Shortly after learning to begin conversations this way, I became aware there is a distinctive way of speaking in the South. Part of my transition as a North Carolinian was a gradual discovery that the Southern lilt is soothing to my ears, and some of the more unique terms are downright enjoyable. I’ve even found myself using