Damn you, folk music and your rhythmic banjos

Sometimes the South, it just gets in your veins. It sneaks in like a virus that slowly infects your blood, your thoughts, your memories.  It calls to you in a scratchy voice and with a guitar and a banjo, it sings you a song of a home you never knew you missed. You begin to crave the smell—the distinct scent of pine and tobacco and wet air, somewhere between sand and mountains. It sings to you a song of family and familiarity, of comfort and pain, of hard work and friendship. When you were there, you wondered how you could stay and when you leave, even if you fight it, it draws you back, whispering promises with a twang that makes you smile. The sound of it pumps through your body and you tap your foot despite yourself. You share in the sorrow and the hope that comes with it, never separate.