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I stumbled onto Jekyll Island’s Driftwood Beach for the first time nearly a decade ago. This was, not coincidentally, the same week that a spider wrote me a note.
"On that night, under that starlit sky, the sound of the water lapping against the dock, I felt a prescient sense of peace."
I was nineteen the first time I ever drove over the drawbridge into Beaufort, North Carolina. Good Southern girl that I was, I had arrived for a debutante party. One look, and I was absolutely smitten.
Not long after I was born, my grandfather bought a farm near La Grange, Tennessee.