Roll Tide, War Eagle, and the Great Fairhope Hat Confusion

Let me just get this out of the way up front: I am a fairweather fan, and I regret nothing.

 

I know, I know. Where I come from, that's practically a punishable offense. In Pennsylvania, loyalty to a team is a birthright, passed down like grandma's china and just as fragile if you drop it. You pick your team in the cradle, and you stick with them through fifty-loss seasons, bad quarterbacks, and owners who clearly hate joy. That's just how it's done.

 

Except I never got that memo. I loved the Eagles right up until Andy Reid left, and then — plot twist — I decided I loved the Chiefs instead, because apparently my loyalty follows coaches, not cities. Then Kansas City started winning every single year, and something in me rebelled. I don't want a team that wins all the time. Where's the fun in that? Give me an underdog. Give me heartbreak I can recover from by Tuesday.

 

So last year, fed up with how political the NFL had gotten — I just want to watch a game, not sit through a lecture — I switched my allegiance to college football. Specifically, the SEC. I started with the Tennessee Volunteers, because, duh, I love Country Music. It seemed fitting.

 

Then I took my Southern road trip this summer.

 

Somewhere between falling in love with Charleston and falling in love with Beaufort, I started daydreaming about a lottery-winning future where I split my time between the two. And then I landed in Fairhope, Alabama, and promptly fell in love all over again, because apparently my heart has no loyalty there either.

 

Naturally, that meant I needed a new team. South Carolina Gamecocks? Alabama Crimson Tide? I didn't even know if the Gamecocks were SEC (they are — I looked it up). But "Roll Tide" is just so much easier to shout than anything Gamecock-related, so Alabama it was.

 

I wandered into the cutest little boutique in Fairhope, the Cat’s Meow,  and found two ballcaps: a red one with a big letter A, and a blue one with the same letter A. Obviously — obviously — these were both Alabama hats. Red, blue, who's counting? I grabbed the blue one, and declared loudly to everyone that I was officially Team Roll Tide!

 

The sweetest, most helpful employee panicked. She looked at my hat. Then she looked at me. Then she asked, very carefully, if I was from Tuscaloosa.

 "No," I said, “I’m from Pennsylvania!"

 “Oh, NO. No…that is not an Alabama hat, honey, that is an Auburn hat!”

She kindly steered me toward the red hat, the actual Roll Tide hat, and saved me from a lifetime of confusing strangers and possibly a stint on Alabama’s most wanted list, as this particular mistake is basically a felony in these parts.

 I told my husband the story later, fully delighted with myself. He said I should be embarrassed.

 I said — why? This is a great story. This is peak me. A Pennsylvania girl, several states from home, accidentally pledging herself to both sides of the Iron Bowl in the same sixty seconds, laughing about it with a stranger in a boutique. That's not embarrassing. That's Southern charm doing exactly what it does best — turning a tourist's mistake into a memory worth keeping.

 So here I am, red hat on, hollering Roll Tide with total confidence now. Underdog status pending. Loyalty subject to change without notice.

That's just my nature.

And y’all know what’s coming next…

Roll Tide!

 

Fairhope is a Pharmaceutical Companies Nightmare!

Good Morning from Fairhope, Alabama!

Well, this is my second to last Sunday here in Fairhope. I'm already sad to be leaving. But, a bit surprisingly, I'll be happy to return home. Not to Pennsylvania, per se, but to see my family. And also to be home, where every object has its designated place, meaning my brain has more space to allow room for writing.

One lesson I've learned on this 7 week journey…my brain still works! Mostly. Traveling days — going to unknown places, unpacking for a week, sightseeing, trying to write, chatting to strangers, parallel parking (of which I'm horrible at, but oddly, have gotten pretty good at down South), having anxiety whenever I have to use a roundabout (also, have gotten pretty good at down here), repacking only to do it all over again…causes my brain to feel like a circuit breaker tripped from overload, leaving me dang well exhausted.

Since landing in town in Fairhope, not a morning walk goes by without meeting people who are only happy to offer advice on things to do, places to eat, and events to attend.

I've met Chad and Amy, Jim Waters and Gus, and Dr. Izzy.

I stopped off at the Tiki Bar at the American Legion so I could watch the sunset from their beach, and I was going to put my Diet Coke on my credit card, when a lady behind me told the bartender to put it on her tab. I believe her name was Courtney, but I may be wrong (like I said, my brain is crowded right now!) but I do know she is a great karaoke singer, as is the bartender at the tiki bar, because they were lauding each other's excellent singing chops.

And then, of course, the awesome women (and men!) from the yoga studio immediately invited me out for coffee and gave me more advice: "Get a massage from Kristen Kelly at the Lotus" (and so I did, and it was the most relaxed I've been since…I can't remember!).

I also think I've lost about 10 pounds with all the walking (and let's be honest, sweating (or, as they call it in the South, glistening!)) and all the clothes I brought with me are baggy and far too roomy.

Oh, I also met Chris. It's his 77th birthday today! I was taking photos of the lovely yellow flowers decorating his mailbox, and he came out to talk to me. Which led to an invite to sit on his porch, where he told me all about the Jubilee here in Fairhope (more on that later!) and how he became a respiratory therapist, and how his company sent him to Fairhope (he had requested Alaska!) but he's so glad it worked out the way it did, since Fairhope is…well, Fairhope!

And that's the thing about Fairhope. I go out for a walk, and it becomes a Dr. Seuss book, "Oh The People You Meet!"

I suppose if more places were like Fairhope, the pharmaceutical companies would be out of business. My sleep is better. My mental health hasn't felt this good since…honestly can't remember! It's community. It's nature. It's exercise. It's the pelicans. It's the flowers. It's the kindness. It's the bay and the beach. It's the jumping fish (mullets).

I'm so sad to be leaving, but I'll be taking the lessons about small town living with me. If I can't be in Fairhope, I can bring the spirit of Fairhope with me wherever I go.

The Truth About Belonging

 

We say we love truth tellers. We don't. Not really.

We love the movie version — the whistleblower who wins in the end, vindicated, applauded, everyone suddenly pretending they were on her side all along. But the real truth tellers? The ones who spoke up and lost friends, lost jobs, lost their place at the table? We look away. Not because we don’t believe them, but because the media or the people who are “in charge” do not want the real truth out there. The truth tellers are painted as difficult. A little crazy. A tinge unhinged.  

I know this story. I've been living it since I was a freshman in a very small Midwestern Catholic school. My best friend was having an affair with a teacher — a married man with children, a family friend of their family. When her parents found the letters, they came to me. They already knew. They just needed me to say it out loud. So I did. They cried. I cried. 

Mr. Zick was made to resign. Quietly. He moved not too far away and became a basketball coach and teacher at another school. No charges. No consequences. Just a fresh start down the road. I told the truth and the whole institution turned on me. Not so much my best friend, because she did not squeal on him, I did. Students were mad at me. The gym teacher/football coach was mad at me, and even called me into his office to tell me that she wasn’t his first affair and named girls I knew who had graduated. 

The lesson was clear: belonging has a price, and the price is silence. 

And here's the thing…I want to belong. Most of us do. Belonging isn't weakness. It's human. It's wired into us from the days when being cast out of the tribe meant you didn't survive. We want to be liked. We want to fit in. We want someone to save us a seat.

But what happens when fitting in means shutting up? When belonging has a price tag and the price is your silence?

I've wrestled with that my whole life. The truth-teller part of me — the part I think I was just born with — keeps opening my mouth. And the belonging part of me tells me to be silent. 

Up North — and I say this having lived in Bucks County, Pennsylvania since the 1900’s (haha, late 1900’s) — people want to figure you out immediately. What's your politics? What's your stance? Which team are you on? They sniff around for your tribal affiliation before they decide whether to let you in. It's exhausting. It's cold. If you don’t check this box, and this box, and the people claiming to be the most tolerant were the least.

Then I came on this seeking Southern Charm book tour. 

Down here, something different happens. People have manners. They take pride in themselves — not in a fussy way, but in a "I'm going to change out of my pajamas into real clothes before I  leave the house" way. They look you in the eye. They smile. They say hello. They ask how you’re day is going, and they wait for an answer. 

And they don't lead with politics. They don't open with ideology. The old adage still holds in the places

I've visited — you don't talk politics, sex, or religion at the dinner table. Not because people don't have opinions. Because hospitality comes first. Because making someone feel welcome matters more than winning an argument.

Sure, they might ask what church you go to. But as it was explained to me by a gentleman in the Book Cellar in Fairhope (which is a little bar attached to the Page and Palette bookstore) it's not about judging you. It's about making you comfortable. It's about saying, "If church is your thing, here's a good one nearby. We want you to feel at home."

And if you say your church is the moon and the stars, the Pelicans and the sea or if you say you're still figuring it out? They don't flinch. They don't recoil. They open their arms anyway.

That's the difference. That's what my life in Pennsylvania didn't give me and one month in visiting the South did. 

On history tours in Charleston and Beaufort, I was reminded of the history I’d learned but have forgotten…especially in the divisiveness of modern day; the Founders who signed the Declaration of Independence— they lost everything. Their wealth. Their friends. Their safety. They weren't celebrated. They were called traitors. And they signed anyway.

Aristotle said virtue isn't a single brave moment. It's a habit. A lifelong practice. It's never easy. No journey worth taking ever is.

But here's what I'm learning, slowly, in the southern heat and humidity and beauty of Fairhope, Alabama; maybe you don't have to choose between telling the truth and belonging. Maybe you just haven't found your people yet. Maybe they're down here, on a porch somewhere, saving you a seat. Not asking you to be quiet. Not demanding you pick a team. Just glad you showed up.

I'm still on the road. Still telling the truth. Still figuring out where I belong. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I have to apologize for either one.

Yours from the front porch,  

Birdie Jane Lane

An Invitation From A Stranger In A Bookstore

I landed in Fairhope on Monday, July 20th. On Tuesday morning, A sweet 94 year old woman invited me to her cottage and insist I put her address in my phone. She watched over my shoulder to make sure I typed in the address correctly. 

We were standing in Page and Palette book store – and this bookstore is what made me travel all the way from the Pennsylvania to this small town called Fairhope. The bookstore is what first interested me, as I planned my Seeking Southern Charm book tour. And is there any place more Southern than Alabama? (I’m asking this as a Midwestern/Yankee – because it just seems like Alabama is as Southern as it gets). Fairhope is somewhat of a creatives haven (I’d read), and Alfred from the bookstore told me that there are more writers in the town of Fairhope than there are books!

Anyway, let me back up a moment. 

When I got to Fairhope, I was really down. I was a bit exhausted. I was doubting the decision to take the trip. And I was so far from home. And Tropical Storm Bertha was headed our way. 

Perhaps I should just leave early, I had thought. I was doing so much sightseeing on this trip that by the time I returned to my various Airbnb’s along the way, I was hot, sweaty, exhausted, and in no mind to write. That made me wonder, also, am I even a writer if I’m literally on this trip to write and my mind puts up detour signs and road blocks and begs me to rest? 

And that was my mind frame that Tuesday morning, July 21. I’d sat on the small beach of the bay and talked to my daughter and questioned everything and she said firmly: give it time! Slow your brain. Just enjoy it! Stop always trying to have the next steps mapped out!

I felt a bit better after our conversation and left the bay to go to Page and Palette bookstore. 

I was so excited. Some people get excited over war monuments, or beach towns (I do love a beach town, not gonna lie) but I get excited over awesome bookstores! This bookstore has a bar, a coffee shop, a stage for music/readings, and…plot twist…a Yoga studio upstairs! I mean, c’mon, amazing! E. Shavers in Savannah (both locations) and Page and Palette are the most interesting bookstores I’ve been in my whole entire life (and y’all, I love a bookstore). 

So I walk into the café section, accidentally cut in line in front of a young gentleman (he was sitting in a chair and I just thought he was waiting for his friend who was ordering). But when he stood up behind me, I realized my error. I apologized profusely (damn Yankee!) but he was gracious and when I stepped behind him, he insisted I go first. Southern Charm, y’all!!!!!  

I take my drink (Diet Coke with lemon, boring yes, but crispy and refreshing!), and as I turn around, I see 2 ladies sitting under a large cut out frame that says “Advice, 5 cents!” 

Remember Charlie Brown? Remember how Lucy used to have an advice booth? It was just like that, only these ladies were much kinder than Lucy ever was. 

I almost didn’t stop. 

But I knew I had to.

After all, they were offering advice and I sure could use some. 

It was like a tarot reading (did one of those in Savannah at the Farmer’s Market!) but instead of using Tarot cards, they were using cards called “The Virtue Project.” Which is incredible because virtue (real virtue, not performative virtue) was a thread throughout Sorry Bob! 

The older woman behind the booth introduced herself as Sonya and the woman sitting next to her, Lila. 

Sonya  asked me to think of a question or problem and pull a card. 

I pulled the Flexibility card. Which advised me to remain open, adapt when needed, find creative ways to solve problems, and accept the things I can’t change. 

It was…kismet, serendipity, a sign from the universe. Breathe. You got this. And one thing I have done really well all my life is to seek creative solutions. I needed this reminder. 

After my reading, the ladies started chatting with me and I told them I was an author. Lila perked up and formerly introduced herself to me as Lila Marie Pennington Ryals. She was 94 and told me she’d written a book about her life called “What Would Mamma Do?” Her mom died when she was 9 and her and her younger brother, Buddy, were left on their own. The people she thought she could trust ended up betraying them and the man that helped them the most, well, he ended up being a German Spy! 

Unfortunately, the bookstore had run out of copies, but she had some at her home and insisted I stop by her cottage where I could buy a book and have a chitchat. Lila had more mental clarity than I had on a good day!

She said, “Put my address in your phone! I’ll watch to make sure you get it right!” And so she watched as I typed in her address. 

“When should I stop by?” 

“Well, I’m on my porch every morning at 5 drinking my coffee,” she said. 

It was only my second day in Alabama, and I had been invited to a sweet strangers house! It felt surreal, as if I was on a tv show and someone was going to jump out and prank me. But it was no prank. It was just Fairhope, Alabama! 

I promised her I would stop by, just not sure when. 

Tropical Storm Bertha was on the way. I’d never been in the South during a Tropical Storm, so I didn’t know what to expect. 

The next morning was gray and the clouds were angry and swollen. I felt time was of the essence. Lila is 94. So I got dressed and made my way into town. What I didn’t expect was that some roads were flooding! Outside of town they were fine. I noticed a few creeks had crested and were now seeping into grassland. I turned around twice. “Turn Around, Don’t Drown!” played over and over in my head. But I also had a voice telling me, “If you don’t do it now, you might never get this opportunity again.”

So, the third and final time, I turned around and headed back to town. 

There was a dump truck in front of me and the going was slow. 

 As I approached the bay beach (there is a name for this and I’ll have to look it up, but for now, it’s the bay beach past the Grand Hotel and before downtown of Historic Fairhope) I noticed big yellow excavators on the sand positioned like soldiers. Then the dump truck turned into the beach and I realized it was loaded with sand! 

Ugh. Maybe this storm was going to be more than what it seemed? Maybe this is normal? It was odd because you could be standing 15 minutes outside of town and the sky was blue with dainty white clouds and then you drive into town – into an ominous sky that’s got its arms crossed and giving everyone the side-eye. 

But still, I kept going. According to google maps, I was only 7 minutes away!

Lila’s house was just as she described and while she wasn’t sipping on coffee on her front porch, she remembered me and welcomed me warmly into her home. 

We talked about her growing up, she told me stories about what happened to her that were  not in the book. She was lovely. Energetic and warm. (94!!!)

I bought her book. She also gave me a small stack of bookmarks to hand out (I have been, Lila!). 

As I left her cottage, I was amazed that she had such trust in a stranger. She obviously did not watch Dateline in her spare-time like I did. Because, I’m ashamed to admit, I have watched so many crime dramas, read so many crime books, I wondered, “What if this is all a set up? What if I end up in pieces in the bay and the excavators cover up any traces of me that might wash ashore?” This is just the way my mind works. Always looking for a story. An imagination that never stops. I could turn the most boring encounter in a store into something wild in my mind. I think that’s the curse of being a writer. At least, I hope it is…

I left her cottage, excited to read her book. Happy I’d forged ahead despite my misgivings about the weather and my possible murder and felt blessed and grateful. It was such a turnaround from my doubt and fear and moments of panic that I’d had the day before. 

I haven't finished her book yet. But I've read enough to know this: when Lila's mother died and the world turned its back on two children, she learned something most of us spend decades avoiding — that trust is a gamble worth taking. She bet on me, a Yankee with a Diet Coke and a head full of crime dramas. The least I can do is tell you about her. So here's the link for What Would Mamma Do. Buy the book! And if you're ever in Fairhope on a Tuesday morning, stop by the Advice Booth at Page and Palette and if you’re lucky, you might get an invitation from a local Legend! 

 

Flourishing in Fairhope, Alabama!

The "Advice" Booth!

It is a humid hot Sunday morning here in Fairhope, Alabama, where I landed last Monday, not even a week and yet it feels like a lifetime.

This morning I woke up with an epiphany. The final piece of information I didn’t know or understand that I needed in order to complete Sorry Bob!

I started the book in 2013-2014 when I thought I was dying and was reflecting on how I just kept screwing up my life, and basically, the screwups happened firstly because I was heavily influenced by the books/movies/tv and the culture I was immersed in at the time. 

Which led to pregnancy and marriage at 18, followed shortly by divorce and custody battles and once I was behind financially, it was always a struggle. So when, in 2013/14 doctors agreed something was wrong (blood work, tests were off) they just didn’t know what. And each doctor had a different medicine which usually sent me to the ER which is what led to my frustration with myself and life itself and I started feeling…hopeless.

How did I end up here, I wondered at the time.  Every road I’d taken seemed a mistake. Even worse,  I had deeply failed to give my children any sort of life I had envisioned when I was young and thought of family: stability, love, a home base they could thrive from.

So I did what I do best: I started researching where I might have went wrong and often, I  thought I’d found the answers, but, it just never felt…complete. Something was always missing.

What was missing was figuring out who I really was, because there was so much noise, so much distraction. Trying to fit in and belong and be loved and accepted. Because, don’t we all want that? Even if we think we don’t want to belong to “the popular group” – we still want to belong somewhere. Even if it’s only a group of five people. Even if it’s only one other person (you and me against the world, kid!).

But when I woke up this morning, 20 days into the day I left Pennsylvania to tour the South, places I’ve

read about and dreamed about for so long…and it’s been everything I hoped it would be and yet, so much more! It has not been an easy journey, but if I could hug each place I landed, I would.

And the past few days I’ve been confused…so many people (especially in Fairhope) have been put in my path on my journey and I’ve wondered, “What does it mean? What is the lesson here? WHY?”

And I put off working on the book. It’s overwhelming. So many different versions, chapters, “best bits” “keep this” “trash this.” It’s never ending and always evolving. 

I started out writing fiction all those years ago (honestly a writer ever since I was about eight simply because I was so bored – we are talking 1970’s – 1980’s – kids who say they are bored now just have NO IDEA!) and my teachers always encouraged that path for me. But, I am adventurous and an extrovert. I fully believe we are born with certain traits. An examination of my life proves that. My children also prove that, they were born with their personalities from day one!

But as important and fulfilling as writing could be, I also needed approval and validation ( ironically, I am also a person who will speak up and say unpopular things and tell the truth…which has also cost me along with the personal mistakes I’ve made).

My fiction always had a thread of personal transformation and what appears to be magic, but the magic was only a talisman, the real magic, in the end, was belief in yourself.

And then, 2013-2014 when my health started to take a nosedive (I’m thinking now, it was perhaps my body reacting to living a life not by my design, struggling to be content and happy and making choices based on security and comfort and conforming when that is the opposite of what my soul and spirit have always been), I realized that my life had never really been my own, because I was so deeply influenced by culture. I wanted to help other people realize and understand these “happiness hijackers” as I called them. My first iteration of the book was titled: “Something That May Change Your Life!”

And agents, well, they were interested, but they told me I had to pick a lane. Fiction or this self help book. I’m thankful now that I couldn’t pick a lane and they ended up not picking me (well, am I thankful? I’d have loved to have made an early career being a writer, it certainly would have helped financially and emotionally, but maybe I never would have landed on the self awareness or the information I discovered that I feel will absolutely resonate and help other people!). Or I might have figured it out sooner too. Let’s be honest. I’m just trying to convince myself the struggles all had meaning. The fact is…who knows? But I am thankful that this morning, I woke up and that final piece I’d been searching for found me before the sun had the coffee brewing.

During this journey, I found myself in the most beautiful church in Charleston that should have been closed but was open. I only knew this because two people slipped in and I followed. It as so stunning with the stained glass and the high ceilings. The reverence. I sobbed. 

Then I was moved to tears by another church in Savannah. I promise you I’m not usually so emotional. I could feel the history in Charleston and Beaufort. A transcendence I can’t even name. It felt like home. So many people and places have been put on my path and I will be writing about them all, they all deserve their own chapters. 

When I arrived in Fairhope, I met Lila, 94 years young who promptly invited me to her cottage to sell
me her book. And then Sandy, as a result of an obstacle (that I’m grateful for because I never would have met Sandy) who is steeped in her faith. I was so moved by her stories, again, I became emotional and tearful. Am I being called to religion? Me? The girl that went to Catholic School and got an F in religion for “asking too many questions.” It’s not so much that I  have resistance to organized religion, it’s more that they have resistance to me. Because it is in my nature to question. 

I’d love, love, to “give it over to God” and many times, I do “give it over to God” but for me, God is in nature, in the universe. Stories are what make religion real. Stories are how we connect. But I also love the philosophy of Aristotle. Virtues. Flourishing. Just as I’m drawn to the South, I am drawn to the philosophy of Aristotle.  

I, like so many of you, want to know the answers to life…or maybe not so much to life, it’s really too big for me to wrap my little brain about, but how do I fit in to this life is more of a question that I might be able to figure out. 

How do I walk thru it in such a way that when the storms happen, I can help myself and those around me to survive? How do I become my best self? And what I landed on this morning, this question haunting me, is that I was moved by the churches because they were so beautiful. A respite. A reminder of the beauty and art that is possible in life. Of people joining together because they want to be better! They want to be the best versions of themselves!  

And it’s about getting thru the suffering in life, the storms that are caused by nature and sadly, by people, because we are flawed. And many of our flaws have taken hold of us because we’ve been influenced and distracted, especially by things, ideas, that seem like they are trying to help, but… It’s also about belonging. 

Belonging…this is the crux of it all. It’s what I deeply long for, but this morning, I woke up and realized no matter how I frame this book, or my work, I’m never going to be loved by everyone. I’m never going to fit in everywhere. I might never find “my tribe” and that’s okay. I like. It’s not okay. It makes me sad, but this is what I have to accept because I have tried my whole life to fit in. With disastrous results! Hopefully someday I  will find a place to land where my optimism and creativity and the kaleidoscope lens I view life in will at least be respected, if not ever embraced.

And the South is funny that way. They are steeped in tradition. But also, the places I’ve travelled  are also steeped in friendliness and manners. They are welcoming. They are story tellers. I am a story teller. No one has time for my stories in Pennsylvania! It is rush rush rush! Stop chitchatting lady, you’re holding up the line! And if you don’t have a masters degree and a drive an Audi with a coexist bumper sticker, well, here’s some crayons for you to doodle with in the corner (okay, not everyone is like that in Pa, but the area I lived in…was not very welcoming to colorful free thinkers). 

Also, Pennsylvania  is cold. I loathe the cold and always have. I left Rapid City SD at age 18, weeks after high school graduation. I hated the small area. I hated the scenery. I left a note for my parents (oh, I was a WILD child and wild because my parents did not give me the tools I needed to understand how culture was influencing and distracting me – because my parents grew up in a different culture, they just didn’t know, I love them and am not blaming them!). I hopped a Greyhound (that’s a bus line for those uppity people in Pa who might not realize it’s a busline, not an animal) and went to my grandmothers apartment (my grandmother, also very entrenched in the Catholic religion) and the plan was live in Pa for a year, gain residency, so I could go to Penn State and be a lawyer (I know, right?!) and pay instate tuition. Then my rotten exboyfriend followed me out there, vowed to change his abusive ways, I got pregnant, he didn’t change, and then, circumstances and security and wanting to be part of my children's life kept me tethered to Pennsylvania. But I always dreamed about the South.

This is not to say I didn’t have a good life. I became a paramedic. I had a very interesting life, but it was never, ever, of my own making. It was more…well, I’m stuck, how do I pivot? I also made really bad choices in men. Some were just horrible, and some were good men, just not my soul mate. In fact, maybe I’m not built for partnership. I enjoy being on my own. Listening to my music. Not being judged or made fun of or tolerated. I am probably hard to love not because I’m mean or unloveable, but because I’m curious and optimistic and also, cynical. I do not follow blindly. Not a sports team, not my family, hell, not even myself.

If you made it this far into my writing of the day,  thank you! I’m excited and grateful that the missing piece arrived. For once, waking up at 3:30 was a blessing, not a curse.   

I’m still going to write about all the wonderful people, the kismet, the serendipity, the experiences, on this trip. But, I’m so grateful, and so thankful, that on this 26th day of July, twenty days into my Southern journey, here in Fairhope, Alabama, the last place I had mapped out, the place everyone on the East coast from PA to GA, asked, “Why are you going to Fairhope?” I had no idea really. I’d read about the Pages and Palette bookstore and it seemed like a very cool place (it is!) and Alabama, well, it is the true South. And Southern Living magazine would mention it’s one of the best small towns in the South. Artistic, bohemian, and full of charm. The wonderful people of Fairhope would like me to remind you, if you do come down/over, you are welcome, but please bring your manners! 

Would I have landed on my last and final puzzle piece somewhere else? Maybe? But I think it’s a collection of people and places I’ve met along the way…and constantly asking, “but what does it mean?” and the universe woke me up this morning and said, “Girl, get your fingers tapping, because this is the answer to the question you’ve been asking.”

In Fairhope!

How fitting.

 

Storms On The Journey - Seeking Southern Charm, Fairhope!

 

Seeking Southern Charm: Landing in Fairhope (Barely)

I made it to Fairhope, Alabama! Barely.

I owe y'all so many stories. Now that I'm settled here for a bit — and Bertha, that tropical storm with a name far scarier than her actual manners, is hanging around like the skeeters hang around the bay — I'm finally ready to take you on some of the wild, wonderful, occasionally white-knuckled journeys that got me from Beaufort to Savannah to Live Oak, Florida, and now here, to sweet Fairhope.

First things first: I'm writing this from Provisions — a coffee-wine-shop-little-bit-of-everything spot that I sat inside of for a full ten minutes before I typed the word and realized what it actually meant. Provisions. Dang. I need to go easier on the blonde highlights.

(If you want to see it all unfold in real time, I'm on Instagram at @BirdieJaneLane — the photos tell half the story.)

The Parts I Don't Always Show You

I've mostly been sharing the best parts of this trip. The peach-ripe, golden-hour parts. But a solo road trip isn't all smooth sailing, and I don't want anyone thinking otherwise.

Breakfast at Provisions

There have been tears. There was a full freakout — alone, driving into a new state, when my phone lost signal right as I needed to exit and couldn't for the life of me remember which one. There have been splinters. And there was the time in Savannah I drove the wrong way down a one-way street with a police car coming straight at me — and the officers just... waited. Patiently. Backed up so I could correct myself, then drove on like it was nothing.

Thank you, boys in blue. I owe you one.

The Pattern I Keep Repeating

Here's something I've noticed about myself on this trip: every time I land somewhere new, my first instinct is that I don't like it. Charleston ruined me for life in the very best way, and I think some part of me keeps measuring every new place against it and finding it wanting — at first.

Then I explore, and everything shifts.

My advice, if you're the directionally challenged sort like me: be an early riser. Walk the town before anything opens. There's something about seeing a place empty and quiet that gives you its real shape — how the streets actually connect, where the shortcuts hide — so that when it wakes up and gets busy, you already know your way around.

I didn't do that in Savannah, and I paid for it. I got good and lost downtown before I'd even reached my Airbnb. Travel days do that to you — the unpacking, the trying to remember which bag has your phone charger, the sheer overwhelm of starting over in a new place. It piles up.

About Those Airbnbs

I wish I could tell you they'd all been wonderful. The truth is they've gotten a little rougher as the trip's gone on — though I think that's partly because Harrisonburg, Mount Pleasant, and Beaufort spoiled me rotten. Beaufort, especially, had the loveliest screened-in porch I've ever sat on — the kind that makes you understand why people fall in love with a place.

I picked this Fairhope rental because it promised a screened front porch and a cute little back porch. What I got was a screened porch full of cobwebs and stained furniture, at a higher price than my gorgeous Beaufort spot. (update: I contacted the host's about the spider webs - they came right out the next morning and it is now sparkling and lovely! I learned a lesson - it's okay to tell your host about an issue! I loathe being a complainer - except when I write, obviously! And had that issue never happened, I would have never met Sandy - who invited me to coffee and then to lunch and then to her home where I met her wonderful husband Tom and Dash, their four legged family member! Story to come on that!)

But that's the deal, isn't it? The journey isn't all sunshine and roses. It's also tropical storms, bugs, wrong turns, and disappointing porches — and rising to meet all of it anyway. My goal from here on: less private freakout, more cool, calm, and collected. 

What Lila Taught Me, Without Even Trying

I'm currently reading a memoir by a local Fairhope writer — What Would Mamma Do — by a woman I met at Pages & Palette, the bookstore here in town. She's ninety-four years old. Her name is Lila Pennington Ryals, and within minutes of meeting me, she was insisting I put her address in my phone so I could come visit her at her cottage.

Ninety-four, and sharper than I am most days.

I started her book yesterday, and it recalibrated something in me fast. Whatever porch I'm complaining about, whatever wrong turn I made — it's nothing next to what she's lived through. Nothing compared to what the generations before all of us survived.

Sometimes it feels like we're living in doomed times. But this trip keeps reminding me: our country has weathered tremendous upheaval before, and we came through it. We always do.

It's not supposed to be an easy life. It's supposed to be a good one. And good doesn't mean easy — it means doing what you can to flourish when the weather's fair and the times are kind, and hunkering down, steady, when they're not — trusting that this too will pass.

I'll be sharing more soon, including the story of driving through Storm Bertha to reach Lila's cottage. It's a good one.

Until then —

Roll Tide!

— Birdie

Seeking Southern Charm: Do It Anyway!

Here's what I've learned so far on this book tour, this life tour, whatever we're calling it these days: if you think you shouldn't do something, do it anyway.

I learned this lesson again yesterday, in Beaufort, South Carolina, wearing the wrong swimsuit. Or rather, wearing no swimsuit at all, which turned out to be the whole point of the story.

They were calling for rain most of the day. Not a maybe-rain, a definitely-rain, the kind of forecast that gives a woman permission to stay in and call it wisdom. I wanted to go to Hunting Island State Park. I hesitated, because of the rain, because forecasts feel like promises even when they're just guesses in a uniform.

And then, because I am trying to be a person who goes anyway, I went.

It wasn't raining.

I should back up, because there was a small automotive subplot happening underneath all of this. My rear window — the one in my trusty old Lexus, the one that has carried me through more of this trip than I like to admit — had stopped working. Again. It had done this before I left home, and I'd had it fixed, both the rear window and the front, thank you very much, paid good money, drove away feeling very responsible. And then somewhere along this southern road it quit on me a second time. I told myself it was the rainstorms. Cars, like people, apparently hold onto old wounds and reopen them when the weather turns.

Anyway. I can already tell this story is going to run long. It's going to be worth it, I promise!

I got up early (well, as we’ve established, early is my natural rhythm) and looked at the brochures again for Hunting Island State Park — which, if you don't know, and I didn't know, is a genuinely beautiful beach, unspoiled by condos or restaurants elbowing each other for the ocean view. There are turtle nests tucked into that sand, and volunteers who love them the way you'd love something you'd sworn to protect, checking on them so gently, so faithfully, that no harm comes to those turtles on their watch. There is something about a place that has resisted being paved and franchised that makes you stand a little straighter.

I decided to go despite the forecast, and because it wasn't a sunny day, I didn't wear a swimsuit. Note this, dear reader, and do not make my mistake: always wear your swimsuit to the beach. Always. Even under the clouds. Especially under the clouds.

The drive out at 7 a.m. was stress-free — no traffic, just me and the road and the particular quiet of a world that hasn't fully woken up yet. I am so glad I went. Yes, it was overcast, but it was mesmerizing watching the sky do its slow, moody work, with storm clouds gathering off in the distance, rain falling on a horizon that was no where near me (or the turtles). 

There was nothing on the beach. Just a few people walking, way down by parking lot 8, and the turtle volunteers doing their quiet rounds. That was it. That was the whole congregation.

And I wished that I'd worn my swimsuit. It was the perfect morning for wave jumping, for just wading in and letting the ocean do what it does. There was no one there to laugh at my mismatched swimsuit, or at the fact that my soft belly is the color of grocery store white eggs while my arms and legs have gone the deep brown of eggs from the farmers market. It would have just been me and the Atlantic, having it out, no audience required.

I didn't get in the water. But I got the lesson anyway, delivered the way the best lessons always are — a little late, a little damp around the edges, and completely worth the drive.

And that, dear reader, was only the morning.

I left the beach craving a burger — a real one, red meat, no apologies — and set my sights on Biddy's, which I had seen was open at nine. What I had not seen was the fine print: nine, on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Not one of those days was today. Boo. I stood there a little bereft, the way you can only be bereft over a burger you never actually had. But it had already been a glorious morning, and we were only a few hours into it, so I let it go and kept driving.

Which is how I ended up in a Verizon store.

My phone had been refusing to hold a charge on this trip and it’s now a couple years old, tired, and done with me. And when you are a woman alone on the road, in towns you've never seen, your phone is not a convenience. It is a lifeline. 

So, in walked me, to a Verizon store I hadn't planned on, with an upgrade offer waiting and a gut feeling that this was going to go well.

It did. Even though it was 9:20 in the morning and they'd only opened twenty minutes before, they were already busy. A gentleman named Ken came over anyway, just to tell me it'd be about ten minutes and to have a seat. And Ken was wonderful. This is what I mean about southern charm, or small-town charm, or whatever the right mixture of the two turns out to be — I genuinely can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Ken was originally from Texas, his whole heart still there, but he'd come out to help his mother. He talked about his life a little, and it was plain as day that he adores his wife. He talked about her the way you talk about someone you still choose, every day, on purpose — she's creative too, he said, with real warmth in it. I don't think I've ever heard a man speak so lovingly about his wife to a total stranger in a phone store. It gave me hope. Maybe there are more Kens out there than I think.

He got me squared away, no upselling, none of the usual "you also need this, and this, and this" that I walk into every store back home in Pennsylvania bracing myself against — and still, somehow, I walk out with gadgets I don’t need or, if I’ve stuck to my guns and not added any extras, I still feel frustrated that I’ve had to say No a thousand times. I'm working on that about myself. But Ken didn't do it. He just helped. And then, hours later, he texted to check that everything was working fine! Come on now. How awesome is that!

And then — dear reader — when I tried to roll my back window down, it worked! 

Feeling like it might be my lucky day, and that taking chances pays off, I went and did something else I'd been putting off: getting the back of my hair trimmed. My hair grows fast, and I have a long history with hairstylists — one who was wonderful and then left, another who was wonderful and then left, a parade of colors and cuts over the years, pink, shaved, long and gorgeous (I still miss that one, if I'm honest), blonde, dark, everything but red. I walked into Hair Play Salon and Color Bar, a block from my Airbnb, and asked Tara if she'd just trim the back, dry, no wash, so I could watch it happen and know exactly what I was getting.

If you ever want to know a town, go get your hair cut there. That's where all the real knowledge lives. And this shop had it — that easy, unforced warmth that doesn't feel like a performance. Back home, conversation can feel like work. Down here, it feels like you've been let into the family. Maybe that's just how they treat the tourists. I've decided to believe it's how they are all the time.

Still craving that burger, I walked to the historic district, sat down at the next place I found, and opened the menu. No burgers there either. I asked, a little sheepishly, and the server pointed me a couple doors down to Luther's or Hemingway's. I know, you would THINK I’d have picked Hemingways, but she had assured me Luther’s had a burger, and it would be a good burger. 

It was, without exaggeration, the best burger I have ever eaten in my life. Amber was behind the bar — sweet tea for me, not a drop of anything stronger, and somewhere on this trip I have quietly become a sweet tea person, which I never saw coming. Amber grew up in Beaufort, lived for a while in New Jersey and New York, and came home anyway. She was wonderful, and she offered to take my picture right there at the bar, no fuss, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then I popped into a few book stores (I’m going to do a separate post on all the bookstores!) and finally made my way back to the Airbnb (I’m also going to list all those in a separate post!). 

So here's where the day landed: a day I had planned to spend indoors, hiding from rain that was supposed to fall from sunup to sundown. It didn't rain a drop until nine o'clock that night.

It's funny — I arrive in every town and immediately think, this is the one. Harrisonburg, maybe. North Carolina I never really got to know; that was just a one-night stop to break up a long drive, nothing against it. Charleston, where I stayed in Mount Pleasant with the beach practically outside my door, is the town I'd move to tomorrow if I won the lottery. And now Beaufort — beautiful, historic, gentle, full of the kind of nature sounds that feel like a good friend sitting quietly beside you. An hour and a half from Charleston, an hour from Savannah, all that charm in one small place, and I haven't even scratched the surface of it yet.

Tomorrow, I'm off to Savannah. Can it top all of this? I honestly don't know, but I’m betting I’ll adore it just as much as all the other places on my journey. 

So here it is again, the lesson I keep learning on repeat this trip: if you think you shouldn't, do it anyway. Bring the swimsuit. Go before the rain. Say yes to the Verizon store and if the trim turns into a haircut – it grows! But what you can't get back is a morning you talked yourself out of. Thank goodness I listened to the “do it anyway” voice!

Sweet things ahead! – Birdie Jane 

Bewfort, Not Beaufort: Finding My Sandy Feet in the Lowcountry

Here is the fastest way I know to explain the difference between Charleston and Beaufort: in Charleston, everyone called me Ma'am, like I was a lady of some consequence passing through. I liked that just fine. But when I landed in Beaufort and sat down at the Magnolia Café for a pecan-crusted chicken salad — strawberries, blueberries, feta, a lemon dressing I would've licked off the plate if there hadn't been witnesses — the waitress called me Honey. "Here you go, Honey." "How you doing, Honey?"

I did not take a photo of that salad, by the way. A woman has to draw the line somewhere, and mine is not looking like the tourist who photographs her lunch in a town of four thousand people who've seen every kind of fool come through.

Now, back home, I know women who'd draw themselves up to their full height if a stranger called them Honey. They'd tell you all about it later, too, at length, with their arms crossed.

Me, I could've wept a little. It's warm. It's unhurried. Nobody in Beaufort is in any rush to prove anything to you, and Lord, isn't that a relief.

My Airbnb has a screened-in porch, which is the entire reason I chose it — I did not come all this way to sit indoors like a woman with something to hide. And it's a good thing I have it, because it's been raining like the sky owes somebody money. My first night here, a thunderstorm came through that shook the windows in their frames, lightning going off like a photographer with no manners, and then — once it passed — the whole animal kingdom seemed to clear its throat at once. Cicadas. Crickets. Frogs holding a committee meeting somewhere in the dark. Some kind of fowl that sounded personally offended. I got it all on video, over on Instagram, @BirdieJaneLane, if you'd like to hear the Lowcountry argue with itself.

The next morning I walked into the historic district — fifteen minutes past white churches with steeples like they're reaching for something, old graveyards being minded, patiently, by live oaks so big and twisted they look like they've been standing guard since the Flood, Spanish moss hanging off every limb like gray lace some grandmother forgot to take off after the funeral. The sun didn't show itself, so I didn't get my good morning from my usual warm friend, but I had the whole town to myself at seven a.m., and there is something to be said for having a place all to yourself before it wakes up and puts its face on.

I found a coffee shop and nearly did a little dance. Then I got close enough to read the sign: Open at 8. Well, all right then. This may be a sleepy town, but I haven't slept until eight in the morning since I was sixteen years old and it was summer and nobody needed me for anything.

But that's the thing about Beaufort. It's slow on purpose. It's gentle on purpose. It's not an accident, and I don't think it's for sale, either — you either fall into that rhythm or you don't belong there, and I fell in without even trying.

On the walk in, I passed the blue bottle trees and porch ceilings painted that same soft blue — a Gullah tradition, meant to keep out the haints, the evil spirits, who are said to mistake the color for sky or water and can't find a way across it. I like a town that paints its ceilings against ghosts and doesn't think twice about it.

Then I went to Publix — everyone in there was so nice, and everything in there cost more than it does back in Montgomery/ Bucks County, which I did not expect from a town this unbothered. Not everything. Most things. I've decided it's a small toll for living somewhere this pretty, and I paid it without complaint.

Even the fast food places here look like seaside restaurants. Pastel colors, striped awnings — like McDonald’s got confused

and thought it was in the Bahamas!

By noon, the church bells were announcing the hour like they had news, so I went back into town and took a historic golfcart tour with four other people and our guide, Chance. I called him Chase twice. He did not seem like a Chance to me — he seemed like a Chase (actually, I’m just at that age I forget things). My apologies to Chance, should he ever read this!

That tour was worth every dollar (it was only 36 bucks, and look, I saved money on not buying coffee from the closed coffee shop!). Two things I have not stopped thinking about since:

The "morality stairs." Some of the old homes split their staircases in two, rising separately before meeting again at the top, so a lady in a hoop skirt could climb one side and a gentleman the other, so the male wouldn’t so much as catch a glimpse of a naked ankle! I don't know who thought up architecture as a chaperone, but I respect the commitment.

The crooked front doors. A handful of the historic doors are set just slightly off — not quite square in their frames. The story goes that spirits can only travel in a straight line, so a door with a little crook in it is a door a haint can't find its way through. I don't know if that's true. I know that someone, generations back, built a small piece of protection into every doorway on purpose, and that's stayed with me longer than most facts do.

It was also on this tour that I learned mispronouncing Beaufort is a quiet sin around here. It is not "Beau" like "Bo" — that's Beaufort, North Carolina, and nobody here is interested in being confused with it. Here, it's Bewfort, South Carolina — second oldest town in the state, with Charleston holding the title of first, and don't let anybody in either town tell you different.

I'm reading Pat Conroy's A Low Country Heart while I'm here, which feels like the only correct choice. He's practically the patron saint of this place. We passed the house where he and his wife lived, and it was every bit as lovely as a house is supposed to be when a man like that loved it.

I keep getting this feeling of déjà vu here — like I've walked these streets before, in another life, or at least another Monday. Then I remember: it's because I've read so many of Conroy's books, and so many others besides, all set in exactly these places. I read about the moss and the live oaks and the humidity and the kind, odd, particular people long before I ever stood among them.

And now here I am, walking around inside somebody else's beautifully written story.

I understand, finally and completely, why the South keeps producing writers the way it produces peaches — like it can't help itself. This place is romantic and brutal in the same breath, kind and a little haunted, and there's something in the salt air I keep trying to name and never quite manage to catch.

It is charming. It really, truly is. And I am not even a little bit sorry to have fallen for it.

Seeking Southern Charm: Why I Left Pennsylvania With No Books, No Plan, and No Winter Left in Me

 For a photo journey: Follow me on Instagram @BirdieJaneLane If you enjoy reading, please consider buying my published books if they appeal to you! And please sign up to be notified for when Sorry Bob! is released. Thank you so much!!!

I left home on Monday, July 6th. No books in my trunk. Just a bumper sticker that says SorryBob.com, a car full of everything I own for the next 7 weeks, and a bet on myself that I'm honestly too scared to say out loud most days. I've been dreaming about the South for so long, and the time was never right. And then when it finally was, my husband was diagnosed with cancer, our dog Rocky passed suddenly (he was 14, still, we were not expecting it) and that was after our wonderful chocolate lab, Jack, passed 8 months prior. It didn't feel right to leave then. Even though my husband said, "Go! I'll be fine!" (and honestly, he probably wanted the silence!). But, still, I stayed. And then my husband got the 'all clear' this Spring, and so, the dream was back on again, with much less savings and more fear. 

I was a military brat and moved around much of my life. Even when my dad left the Air Force, if he had the itch to leave a place, he would. But, in all those moves, I'd never been in the South. 

I watched Steel Magnoli
as in 1989, a new wife, about to be a new mother, and something about those women on that porch felt more like home than home did. I subscribed to Southern Living for years after that and just... dreamed. I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — Berendt's book came out in January 1994 — and something in me went quiet and paid attention. The South is full of fascinating characters. What a rich, unhinged, fascinating story. Of course there was also Pat Conroy, and one of my favorite Southern authors, Michael Lee West. 

These places kept popping up in my daydreams: Beaufort. Charleston. Savannah. Fairhope.

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores. Bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! (It's very dangerous though, all these bookstores because it's so hard to leave without adding more books to my collection! I am on a tight budget that's already dwindling!)

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores — bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! I walk in and I stand there a minute, the way you do in a place you love. I run my fingers along the spines like I'm looking for something specific, though I'm not. And for just a second, I let myself imagine my own name on one of those shelves.  That's reason enough to go, even before anything else gets decided. I'm waiting to hear from an agent, and if that doesn't come through, I don't know what I go home to — except that I already know I can't survive another Pennsylvania winter, so "home" might not even be the word anymore.

I keep waiting for something to go wrong. That's an old habit of mine — when things go right for too long, I brace for the other shoe. Car trouble. Or Worse.

But after spending three morning's on Sullivan's Island watching the sun rise (sorry to my family for all the sunrise videos and photos!) here's what I keep landing on instead: even if the agent never calls, even if I end up figuring out the rest of this from the front seat of my car — this was still worth it. 

More from the road soon — Beaufort's next, then Savannah!

PS: Every Sunday, you'd find me at the Horsham library farmer's market, elbow-deep in the discount book bin like it's a garage sale at The Lilly Pulitzer. That's where I met Caroline- a volunteer at the library.  She took one look at my Spartina 449 bag and recognized it right away. Unheard of in Yankee Pennsylvania!  She too, felt a calling to the South. She too, felt that calling after reading Goodnight in the Garden of Good and Evil! (I did not, however, mention that I was about to pack up my car and go find out if my Southern soul had a return address- I should have and regretted it immediately after leaving).  Caroline, if you're reading this: we are officially Southern Soul Sisters, and this journey is as much for you as it is for me!

Day Four: Seeking Southern Charm — Sullivan’s Island, Sunrise, and a City I Didn’t Want to Disappoint Me

Day four of the book tour started before the sun did.

I made the twelve-minute drive from my adorable little Airbnb in Mount Pleasant out to Sullivan’s Island just as it was getting light, and I caught the sunrise on the beach. Spectacular. Absolutely spectacular. And here’s a confession: I don’t even know why I keep calling this trip “seeking” or “chasing” Southern charm, because I don’t have to seek or chase anything. It’s here. It’s everywhere I turn.

I didn’t think Harrisonburg could be topped. Turns out Charleston does it — not by much, just a little — but it’s bigger, and it comes with more history than I ever knew existed. These people take real pride in being America’s rebels, and you can feel it on every street. The folks here are every bit as kind as they were in Harrisonburg, and don’t even get me started on the fashion. Pastels everywhere. Gingham everywhere. Women who look like they stepped out of a catalog even in shorts — and I don’t mean the LA, Beverly Hills kind of polished. I mean something more relaxed, more artful, more lived in. That’s Charleston to me: colorful, proud of its art and its history and its nature and each other. And I’ve only scratched the surface — I know I haven’t seen everywhere yet.

The Water Taxi Was the Move

Once I’d had my fill of sunrise, I needed to figure out the best way into Charleston proper, so I asked my Airbnb host. She pointed me to the marina and told me to take the water taxi — eighteen dollars for an all-day pass, back and forth, with drops at different spots along the way. Best eighteen dollars I’ve spent. The captain and her assistant were phenomenal, and even though I had no real plan once I landed, I figured it out fast enough.

I walked past Miss Pat’s house from Southern Charm — heads up, don’t bother making a special trip, it’s all walled off — but it was still something to stand there and read the history of Rutledge Street and realize the role that family played in founding this country.

Then I just walked. Real feel of 108 degrees, humidity thick enough to swim through, and I didn’t care one bit. I’d almost hoped Charleston would let me down a little — give me a reason to say I wouldn’t actually want to live here. It did not cooperate. It’s everything I’d dreamed about for years.

Books, a Hat, and

I stopped into Ladybird Books on King Street — newly opened, painfully cute, smaller than I expected — and walked out about $100 poorer and much happier. Felix the bookstore dog was off duty, which was a real disappointment, but I’ll forgive him. At the City Market I bought an actual hat. I don’t wear hats. I am now, apparently, a woman who wears hats, because I’m trying this whole “getting a little more Southern” thing on for size.

The water taxi back gave me three dolphins as a farewell gift. I was home by two in the afternoon and asleep by six — because this, it turns out, has been quite the journey.

Follow me on Instagram for all the pictures and videos of the journey! @BirdieJaneLane 

Harrisonburg VA: A Stars Hollow Glow Up

 Day Two on the road, and I think I've found a little slice of heaven in Virginia.

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The Airbnb & Gwen's Southern Hospitality

Let me back up to where it all started: Gwen.

Gwen was my Airbnb host, and she is the very definition of Southern hospitality. On day one, I landed in a place that felt like exactly what I'd been seeking — and I'm discovering it's more the norm than the exception around here. Southern hospitality is actually a real thing, y'all.

The Airbnb itself was absolutely adorable. If you ever need that recommendation, drop me a line and I'll happily share the info. It was charming, cozy, and perfectly set the tone for everything that followed.

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The Magpie Diner — Hallmark Could Never

This morning I went to the Magpie Diner, and let me tell you: Hallmark couldn't even come close to this place.

All the feels. Beautiful, bright, wide-open space. Extremely nice staff. I sat at the counter and ordered biscuits and gravy, and I think I can never make it again at home — because this was hands-down the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in my life. I'm ruined for all other biscuits and gravy now.

Then I asked the server what she recommended from the bakery. She said everybody — including her — loves the vanilla braid. And the gentleman sitting to my right at the counter nodded his head vigorously. Yes. Get the vanilla braid.

So I got the vanilla braid.

And I am here to tell you: it is magnificent. Vanilla-sweet, yet flaky. It's like a croissant, but not as layered as a croissant — yet it has that crispness of a croissant. Oh my goodness. Just trust me on this one.

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Lost Credit Card, Zero Panic

Here's the thing: I left my credit card at the diner.

I didn't realize it until I was browsing the thrift store across town (found some wonderful treasures, by the way — and the people there were so nice too). When I went to pay, it hit me: Oh no. I think I left my card at Magpie.

But here's the beautiful part — I didn't freak out. You know why? Because I knew it would probably be there when I got back.

I drove the four minutes across town in zero traffic (amazing), walked back into the diner, and sure enough — the lady handed me my card immediately. Her name is Kaitlyn, and I love the name Kaitlyn (because family name!) and its one of the best names out there. She told me she tried to run after me but only made it as far as the stop sign before I was gone.

That's Harrisonburg for you. 

The Morning Walk

After breakfast, I took a walk around the neighborhood. Adorable doesn't even cover it. Harrisonburg reminds me of Stars Hollow — but with a glow up. People were out walking, waving, saying good morning. It was garbage day and even the guys on the truck were wearing nice uniforms and were genuinely friendly, calling out good morning as they passed! 

I love that. I love that.

Final Verdict

If I were an influencer, people would be mad at me for broadcasting how wonderful this town is. But since I'm not an influencer, nobody's gonna listen to me — so for the few people who might:

Harrisonburg is probably one of the best towns I have ever been in.

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Oh wait — I forgot to tell y'all about Buccees too. You know what? I'll save Buccees for tomorrow.

I'm currently in North Carolina at a cute little cabin, and I'll post the rest of Day Two along with Day Three when I get to my next stop. Stay tuned!

For photos and videos check out my Instagram @BirdieJaneLane

Chasing Southern Charm: Day One of Birdie's Southern Book Tour!

 Guys! I did it! I’m currently at my first stop on “Birdie’s Southern Book Tour” (this name may change. If you have any ideas, please email me!” 

I left Bucks County Pa, to start my Southern Spirit (Southern Soul? Southern Romance (like, I’m in love with the Southern culture – I think I’m in love with the culture – the slower way of life, the manners, the food, the stories. But maybe, once I’ve been immersed in it, maybe I will find I fell under the influence of books like “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” and “South of Broad.” And Michael Lee West (wherever you are, I hope you are ok).)

But I feel like I’m going to love it. 

As soon as I left Pennsylvania, the traffic thinned out. There were a few stretches of road where I was the only car! As someone that loathes traffic (I mean, we all do, right?) this was thrilling. Some people might be thrilled going to a Morgan Wallen concert; I’m thrilled when all drivers keep at least three car lengths away from each other!

I almost backed out. Four a.m. this morning, I woke up, the house was still. It was that time of morning when all inside and all outside the house are quiet. It was the hour where questions of sanity push all confidence aside. The mean girl voice: WHAT IF YOU DIE. WHAT IF YOU GET KIDNAPPED? WHAT IF YOU GET LOST AND CANT FIND YOUR WAY BACK. 

I texted my daughter who was working. She texted back: You’re going. And that’s that!

And so I said, “Yes, that’s that. I’m going.” 

Also, I spent two days packing, unpacking (Chanel’s advice – but traveling wise: pack what you think you’ll need, then, subtract a few things.) and the thought of unpacking it all, trying to reschedule this bucket list/life is short/book tour was more dreadful then heading into the bad weather that the radar was taunting me with. 

I’m here in Harrisonburg. It’s just a quick stop. So no bookstores today. 

But I did stop at a Hardees in Virgina! I grew up with Hardees, and there hasn’t been one in our area for at least 15 years. 

I started out around 7:45 – hit some rain, some fog, some traffic, and then the sky turned blue and I had the windows down because the air just feels…more energetic, more…pure? 

As soon as I arrived at the cutest Airbnb- a big clap of thunder shook the sky. 

Which reminds me, the trip started off on a rocky note. My cooler tipped over and leaked all over everything. I had to pull off the road and ended up throwing the whole thing out because the water had collected in the fabric holder of the cooler. Note to self: only hard coolers while traveling! 

The second incident: I got off an exit for gas. Only, the exit I got off at was under construction and I went at least 8 miles in a slow moving narrow cattle shoot. I will admit to not being a Southern Lady at all with the foul language that was captured on my car camera. (Which has since been erased!). 

All the streets were closed off, and Google kept saying “rerouting” “rerouting” “rerouting” and then Apple wanted me to keep driving for 21 miles (21 miles! Are you HIGH right now Apple?)

So, I used common sense (which I doubt all the time when it comes to travel because my sense of direction is like a five year old chasing fireflies) and made the first left I could, then I reckoned I should stop for gas since it was right there, and the kind gray haired man with the racing t-shirt told me how to get back to 81 South. And then, he did the sweetest thing, he waited for me to top of my car, and I followed him out. When the split came to get onto 81 South, he stuck his arm out the window and pointed to the right, to make sure I found my way. I really appreciated this. And, this is exactly what I mean about the South and manners and a kinder way of life!

Anyway, I’m going to be stopping into bookstores and libraries along the way, as well as doing some touristy things! 

Day 1 is in the books. 

See you tomorrow! 

Reality TV, Prozac, and Problems

The Night I Left My Sanity in a Hotel Room Drawer

I became a pill person the way most people become a pill person: slowly, accidentally, and with the enthusiastic assistance of the medical profession!

It started with EMS. Shift work. You haven't known exhaustion until you've run calls all night, watched the sun come up over a hospital parking lot, and then lain in bed at 9 a.m. while your neighbors mow their lawns and your circadian rhythm files a formal complaint with the universe. Sleep wouldn't come. So I went to the doctor.

He gave me Ambien. And it worked!  Which is the thing nobody warns you about when a drug works too well. It's not a blessing, it's a seduction. After that, the floodgates opened. Headache? Pill. Stress? Pill. A twinge in my knee that was probably just the consequence of having knees for fifty years? Pill. Every single one came with a little speech about how safe it was, how well-tolerated, how I just needed to give it time.

What they didn't mention was what happened when you tried to stop.

Then came the Ativan. "Just for sleep," the doctor said. Because you know why? The Ambien was no longer working as well. That's what happens when you take it over a long period. It was meant to be temporary. My doctor didn't tell me, "Your body will eventually file a formal complaint if you try to stop." He did not say, "This is a loan from a bank that charges interest on your central nervous system." He wrote the prescription and with optimism, I thanked him and skipped over to the pharmacy. 

A few years later, came vacation. Nashville!  I packed vitamins, books I wouldn't read, and a bathing suit that had lied to me in the dressing room. Of course, I packed my Ativan. 

I was a wonderful vacation. I love Nashville. The people, the music, the food!

Returned home, but darn, I left my Ativan behind! No worries, only a week left anyway before I can pick up a refill. 3 days after trying to sleep without Ativan, and I felt like I was dying of a flu so aggressive it ought to have its own Netflix documentary. My skin crawled. My brain felt like someone had replaced it with static electricity and old television snow. I was sure there were bugs crawling on my skin. What kind of horrible flu was this? 

I Googled my symptoms.

Readers, it was NOT the flue. It was far worse. Benzodiazepine withdrawal. A thing I didn't know existed. Oh, I knew about withdrawl from booze and drugs...but...a prescribed medication? Does this mean I am an addict? 

I cried for about an hour. Then I got angry. Then I got practical, because that's what women do when the alternative is lying on the floor and the floor needs vacuuming.

It took a year to taper off. A year. I cut those pills into slivers so tiny they looked like dandruff. And then, slowly, it passed. It was difficult. One of the most difficult things I've ever had to overcome in my life. The frustrating part was, I wish I had been told about this being a possibility. But, I DID overcome it. It's amazing how life becomes clear when not depending on a bottle in the nightstand. 

I've been watching these reality stars lately — hair freshly blown out, teeth so white they could signal aircraft — leaning into a microphone to announce, "I've been on Prozac for two years and it's changed my life!" (Amanda Batula energetically announced this on Watch What Happens Live) The audience applauds the courage. Someone in the comments writes thank you for normalizing this!

And I watch their lives unravel in high definition and think: Honey.

Nobody asks the obvious question. If the medication is working, why does your life look like a controlled demolition in slow motion? Because these pills don't just blunt the anxiety. They blunt the instinct that says this person is bad for me. They blunt the gut feeling that says something needs to change. You stop being able to tell which problems are real and which ones you've chemically agreed to tolerate. The numbness starts to feel like wellness. You've confused the absence of sharp pain with the presence of actual health.

I did it too. For years.

The pill wasn't the problem — it was a solution to a problem I wasn't fixing. These medications are meant to be bridges, not permanent addresses. You're supposed to cross them, not build a house in the middle and hang curtains.

I keep my Altoids close now. Ginger candy in the purse. It took a year of tapering and a lifetime of learning to get here, but I can feel again — all of it. The sharp parts and the soft parts and the parts that still wake me up at 3 a.m.

Turns out that's not a medical problem. That's just being alive!

Treating Dog Allergies Can Feel Impossible!

 My Dog Has Allergies and My Bank Account Is Developing Trust Issues

I used to think having a dog would involve scenic walks, tasteful bandanas, and the occasional muddy paw print. I did not anticipate becoming the CEO of an international allergy task force headquartered in my kitchen. My dog isn't even two years old, and somehow he has more specialists than a retired rock star, football player, and retired movie stunt double, combined. I have now reached the stage where he has her own filing system. Not an actual filing cabinet because those are ugly and depressing, but a floral accordion folder bulging with lab reports, prescriptions, ingredient lists, and notes that say things like "Ask about duck?" and "Maybe lamb?" and "Who decided chicken should be in absolutely everything?" I carry it into appointments like a woman presenting classified government documents.

The truly astonishing part is that every veterinarian seems to begin with a dramatic retelling of why the previous veterinarian was wrong. One says it's environmental. Another says it's food. A third gently suggests it's probably both while looking at me in a way that implies I should somehow have solved immunology by now. Meanwhile, my poor Finn is just scratching away, blissfully unaware that he has become the center of a very expensive committee meeting. My bank account, I should mention, has stopped making eye contact with me. Won’t return my calls. And my texts get left on “delivered.”  There are special shampoos, prescription wipes, supplements, tiny treats that cost more per ounce than jewelry, and foods with ingredient panels so mysterious they sound like they were developed for astronauts. Every time I think, "This has to be the answer," another invoice arrives and another patch of itchy skin pops up to remind me that certainty is a luxury item.

But the money isn't the part that breaks me. It's watching someone you love be uncomfortable when they can't explain what's wrong. He looks at me with complete trust, wagging his tail after yet another bath he didn't ask for, another pill hidden in cheese, another trip to another clinic where strangers inspect his ears and paws. He never complains. He just keeps believing that wherever we're going, I'm taking him somewhere fun. Sometimes I catch myself apologizing to him. "I'm trying, sweetheart," I'll whisper while rubbing his ears. "We're going to figure this out." Then he’ll lick my hand as if to reassure me that he's already forgiven every failed food trial and every bottle of shampoo that promised miracles but delivered disappointment with a faint oatmeal scent.

People say money can't buy happiness, but it can certainly buy an impressive collection of unopened allergy remedies that looked promising at 11:30 on a Tuesday night. I make another appointment. I read another article before bed. I compare ingredient labels like they're ancient treasure maps. I celebrate tiny victories with embarrassing enthusiasm. "Look!" I'll announce to the empty kitchen. "He only scratched three times during breakfast!" Somewhere out there I hope there's one missing puzzle piece, whether it's the right food, the right medication, the right specialist, or the right season.

Until then, I'll keep showing up with my floral folder and my increasingly frazzled optimism because he’s worth every frustrating phone call and every penny I don't really have. After all, he's not asking for designer toys or gourmet biscuits or a luxury dog spa. He's asking for the simple privilege of feeling comfortable in his own skin. And if love could cure allergies, he'd have been healed a very long time ago!