I am drawn to country places.Few things invigorate me anymore as an afternoon drive through the South, perusing the fading, roadside structures that cling mightily to life. It is a windows-down, radio-off-type love affair, and from time to time I find myself drifting off to some other place and some distant time. I long for these drives, though I know I will be eternally haunted by their images, as one by one, the misfit structures tumble and are lost to our memories.I always arrive as a voyeur to this sacrosanct place, and through the twisting blacktop, I see them. I behold an old peeling shed, a crumbling barn whose corroded tin roof has buckled to age, a lone chimney waving hello in a prairie, or the ruins of an old brownstone that once held its luster. I drive by the shotgun houses with their array of pastels, their shot-out windows and boarded up doors. I see the old dogs parading the streets, the old men relaxing in folding chairs, and through the windows the old women preparing pots of supper. I smell the barbeque from smoky pits, see the caterwauling truck the family just won’t give up on, hear the faint sounds of children playing in the backyard.And the cute little towns. Their sun-scorched American flags gusting in the wind, their myriad signs. Purina. Pepsi. RC Cola. Wrigley’s. Advertisements splashed on the sides of weathered brick buildings. Old 76 gas stations showing their rust and slowly dying of natural causes. Barber shops with a twisting pole and ashtrays in the armrests.And the houses. Their creaking green porches with rocking chairs, their rickety swings, their high-columned façades. Yes, I am drawn to these laggard, protective little towns, where the South lies.But the South is dying.We do not have much more time until the city chokes it out. And unless we preserve it, it will succumb.These old vestiges, the way the South looks at us with its desultory glances, reminds us of who we once were, who our mamas and daddies are. It howls at us with its kinsman song and retells a time that was both idyllic and cruel.By nature, I am a city boy, or at least as much city as a small town can give. I grew up in town called Jasper in the foothills of the Appalachians. Back then, I did not appreciate the South and its customs, as I ran freely, happily through its streets and fields. I was distracted from its gentle thrums, its cadences, its molasses beat. It was not until I became a man that I began to understand what being a Southerner meant.Being a Southerner is not a conciliatory gesture or honor to take lightly. It is a thing to wear badge-proud. It is a decent thing. Its mannerisms. Its hospitality. Its neighborly affection. It’s people.The South. It’s where I learned to bait a hook, throw a punch, and kiss a girl. The South made a man out of me. And I will forever be a debtor to Southern life.But the South can be damn hard. Its poverty can numb you. For much of its history, the South has served as a battleground. And I believe it is because of these heavy trials that the South is stronger. That its people are strong. That the South is a lovely, pyrrhic place. That it survives.People often make fun of my home for many reasons. Here, we move slower, we talk slower, we are churchgoing people. We believe in God. We believe Jesus died for our sins. We hold on to homespun values; values like hard work, integrity, and faith. We believe in handshake deals and doing right to one another. We may not always use proper English, and we may take pleasure in the simple life.But I am a proud to call myself a Southerner. I have grown to know its people. I have seen its roots. I have gazed out into its fields. I have felt the coarse hands of work. I have been blistered by its sun. I have climbed its hills. I have heard its music. I have witnessed its colors, watched in wonder as the sky spreads its pink, dusk-time yoke.While the world is moving fast, the South reminds us to slow down. The South reminds us to take our time and do it right.Sadly, we have become infatuated with new, and old is like an unwelcome guest. But I believe the South will always be old. And I believe its death is the saddest thing.The saddest thing. 78 Please like our Facebook page at www.facebook.com/78mag and subscribe to our email updates below.Photo by Al Blanton