When I was 12 years old we moved from the big city of Atlanta to the tiny town of The Rock, Georgia. Tiny may even be an understatement.  There were only 89 people there, so I’m truly not exaggerating.  Because it was so small we lived most of our lives in Thomaston, about seven miles away, a quiet mill town, complete with a town square and the Ritz theater.  A place where you really didn’t have to lock your doors, where Friday night high school football was a ritual, where children call women by their first name, preceeded by “Miss.”  I loved it immediately.

Throughout our young lives Thomaston supported me and my sister and brother. When I won the local Jr. Miss pageant, the convenience store put “Congratulations, Kim” on the marquee out front, right above the price of gas.  When my sister became Peach Bowl Queen there was a tiny brigade of people waiting in the freezing cold outside the local bank to welcome her home.  When we played tennis and won there were articles in the paper.

So, naturally, when it was time to promote my book about being left at the altar  Thomaston also showed up, even though I have long moved away.  Trisha, who owns  The Prescription Shop (bookstore in the back) called and invited me to come for a book signing.  I couldn’t wait.

There have been lots of such events in the month and a half since my book’s release.  All with wonderful people, all supportive and encouraging, but there really is nothing like going home.  Those were the people who knew you when you were an awkward teenager, an aspiring tennis player or writer or young person trying to find her place in the world, all while navigating the sometimes choppy waters of life.  They were the ones who may just have recognized something in you before you did.  Coming home to them, with my book in hand, was a proud moment, indeed.

They all showed up, my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Birdsong, my ninth grade science teacher, Mrs. Worsham, my mom’s old friends, Peggy and Sheila, who (naturally) brought homemade brownies and punch, and, of course, my childhood friends, like Sherry and Merry and Robin—women who were just as they were all those years ago, still warm and wonderful, funny and fun, and full of love.  After the signing we drove out to Piggy Park, the car hop barbecue joint that’s been there for more than half a century, the same place we went as teenagers when we first could drive.  Conversation happend like it had never ended. Picked up right where we left off twenty five years ago.  No trivial, casual banter—but talk about the heavy, the hard, the life-changing things that have made these women even more special, more amazing than they already were.

I took my twelve year old niece, Reed, to Thomaston that day. I wanted her to see, up close and personal, the people, the place, that made me and her mother who we are today.  I wanted this child of the city to see what small town America is and how it feels to be loved and nurtured and supported and encouraged by people who aren’t related to you and nothing to gain.  I think she saw it loud and clear.

As we hugged my friends goodby and drove out of Piggy Park on the road out of rural Georgia and back to the city we were both pretty quiet.  Finally she said, “Kiki, I wish our whole family could move to Thomaston. I like it there.”  My heart was so full and so happy that this child had “gotten it.”  So happy that she wasn’t so hardened by the big city, where life is frenetic and relationships disjointed, that even at twelve years old she could appreciate a place where kids still say ‘Yes ma’am,” and “No Sir.” 

I wish she could know a place like that in her own life.  But maybe I can do the next best thing…take her back there as often as possible, let her be with these people, and show her that our country still has quiet, still places.

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