Sweet Peach

Pamela over at Sweet Peach Blog wrote up a nice piece on us a few weeks back. She swung by the party in Atlanta and said hi and it was so pleasant of a meeting, even if it was a real short one. But it's those little introductions that turn out to be the ones that are the best.

Go give her some eyes. She's got some really great content, and the look of her site is just about as great as they come.


Flying at Night.

Flying at Night

By Ted Kooser 

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like this.



Poking around on the internet I found this nice writeup from a Southerner now in Amsterdam by way of London.

See? Southerners get around.

And here's a snap of it there. All the way over seas. 


Southern Weddings.

We were hit up a little while ago by Southern Weddings Magazine. They have a feature every now and then where guest editors put together a tote bag of essentials for Southern destination weddings. Then they get designers to design the front of that bag.

Well, we were so lucky as to be asked to design the bag that the very talented Meredith Perdue (currently of Maine, but Carolina in her mind) put together.

Go see the post and tote right over here. Thanks to the kind folks at Southern Weddings for reaching out and to Meredith for rocking it.


Man, kids are brilliant.


Writing for The Trot Line.

March post is up over at The Trot Line.

Once again it's got a shot from Miss Charlotte Strode and some words about family and life from me.

Give it a read if you've got 3 minutes or a hankering for 512 words.


Zavvi Rodaine

Really sweet writeup a few weeks back from Yolanda, a kind Mississippi soul over at Zavvi Rodaine.

Give it a read on your lunch break. And then click all over her site. Some nice bits of original content over there.


Red Truck Bakery.

Got home the other day and had an amazing care package sent up to us from the sweet folks at Red Truck Bakery in Warrenton, Virginia.

They wanted to let us know they were big fans and to welcome us to the neighborhood, as it were. And to have fans who themselves have been written about in The New York Times, Esquire, Oprah, Southern Living and Garden & Gun is high praise indeed.


The Meaning.

Hi there,
  My dear pal from South Kakalakey (SC) sent me a lovely print from your wonderful print shop for my birthday.  I can't express to you how much I love the print and I truly love the story that you posted about your inspiration.  I'm actually writing because I noticed the handwritten number for the printing.  I had such a good laugh yesterday as I noticed that I had the 42nd printing.  I'm not sure if you're familiar with the book “The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy”, but in the book “the answer to life, the universe and everything” was determined to be “42”.
  I think this picture may express what I saw yesterday and the reason I'm so humored.  Thank you for being God's little blessing to me. 

Take care,


At Home in Birmingham.

A rather nice frame & setup from a Birmingham based photographer. One with some taste.

And evidently, with a penchant for penning letters in an old style. Good on him.

At Home in Mountain Brook.

Mr. Davis over at Tracery was so kind as to send over a picture of his home entryway with this amazing note:
My grandfather Lloyd Davis had a 3' x 4' oil painting of Ronald Reagan in a cowboy hat, hanging in his office for all of his life that I can remember.  This is my attempt to similarly acknowledge my political leanings. I do wish I knew where that painting has gone to though.
Here's to sticking with family.


Back Down South.

Met up with Caroline of Back Down South while I was in Atlanta. She's a blogger and photographer and has, in just a few short months, really carved out a nice niche for herself amongst style bloggers. She's always finding folks and shooting them and making all kinds of people look really famous (some of which certainly are).

Swing by and give her looks a look. Take a page of style advice from it. It'll be worth it. Or if you just want to overview, check out the Tumble Down South.

She even makes guy like myself look kind of important.

My favorite comment on this snap I saw over on The Well-Pressed Gamer's tumblr page: "I generally don’t like vests when they’re paired with shirts that are unbuttoned or worn without a tie, but this guy kills it. Two-tone saddle shoes are fly as shit, especially with those blue soles."



An amazing song by the very talented Sanders Bohlke that I am really digging on today.

You should check it.


Dinner in Providence.

We skipped down to America's smallest state with the biggest heart for a bit of a dinner party. And a bit of a regular party.

Our friends Gerald and Melanie, who let us shoot our first prints for Old Try, lent us their space again so we could shoot some new ones. They moved from South Boston down to Providence, Rhode Island so they could live in a proper downtown and pay something the resembles a stomach-able rent.


Morning buzz from Florida.

“I will never forget my first cup of coffee. I was 13 years old and I spent the coldest morning I can ever remember hunting with my father and his friends in Red Hills of North Florida. Once we returned to the camp, I found a fresh pot of hot coffee steaming on the stove. I poured a cup and loaded it up with sugar and powdered creamer hoping it would be tolerable. I can distinctly remember what that warming cup of coffee meant to me on that cold morning. It was more than a life saver... it was a right of passage.”- William Lamb


At Home in NYC.

What's that? You found an old frame and gave it new life?

That's what this sharp grad student from the South who lives in the North did.  He took a forgotten thing and brought them back, this time as a better version of its old self.


Hallmark of the South.

hallmark of the south

Found this a few issues ago in Our State Magazine and wanted to share. - Micah
I used to laugh at people who collect dirt, but that was the old me. I used to laugh at a lot of things I don’t laugh at anymore. I no longer laugh at three-legged dogs, old people, sinkholes, a guy who forgets to zip his fly, two-legged dogs, people who don’t like mustard, neckties, coconuts, whistlers, tap dancers, high heels, Lawrence Welk. OK, I still laugh at Lawrence Welk but not at any of those other things, at least not as much. Especially people who collect dirt. I don’t laugh at them at all.
You may not be familiar with dirt collectors. These people take a small amount of dirt from the yard of the place where they live, put it in a box, and take it with them to the next place when they move. Usually these people put the dirt in a shoe box because people in general have a lot of empty shoe boxes with no purpose, so they fill them with dirt, or sometimes with old love letters. It doesn’t have to be a shoe box, but for the sake of argument, let’s say it is.
Dirt collectors remove the dirt with a garden spade, put it in the shoe box, and mark the box with the address: 123 Main Street. Then they store it in a shed or a closet, and when, many years later, they move — even if it’s just down the road to 456 Main Street — they do it again. Depending on how many times they move, they may have as many as 10 boxes of dirt.
Why did I laugh at dirt collectors? Because they collect dirt, and for a long time — ah, my callow youth! — I saw no value in dirt, especially old dirt one keeps in a shoe box. But now I do.
Because it’s not really about dirt, is it? It’s about place. This is the South, after all, and a hallmark of the South is its attachment to space, its devotion to memory, its veneration of the past and where it happened — what William Faulkner called your “postage stamp of native soil.” Faulkner wrote about 20 novels about his postage stamp of soil.
Note: Soil is just another word for dirt. It’s a better word, in some cases, especially this one, because it wouldn’t have sounded right for him to say “postage stamp of native dirt.” Faulkner was a great writer; I use the word “dirt” because I’m only pretty good. I’ve yet to achieve that heralded status that allows me to use the word “soil” without getting on that laughable list. Believe me, if I wrote the word “soil,” I’d never stop hearing about it: Who does he think he is, Faulkner? Ha ha ha ha!
Dirt functions as a repository of memory. You can’t touch a memory, but you can touch dirt. Memory fades; dirt is dirt forever. And it’s in dirt that you remember that starter home on Green Street in Charlotte, where your first child was born; and the next house in Statesville, where you were transferred when you got that promotion; and that lousy apartment on U.S. Highway 15-501 between Chapel Hill and Pittsboro.
Imagine how lucky is the person who has dirt from his childhood. If I had a box of dirt from every house I ever lived in, I would have a lot of dirt. I would have approximately 15 boxes of dirt. The first box would read 1906 Mayfair Drive, Homewood, Alabama, and the last — the last place I no longer live — 315 Granville Road, Chapel Hill, North Carolina. That Alabama dirt would be black, and the Chapel Hill dirt, at least from that side of Chapel Hill, would be pure clay, really not dirt at all. But it would do.
So put some old dirt in a shoe box. It’s never too late. Run your fingers through it. Feel how it’s warm on top, cool at the bottom. And that stuff beneath your fingernails? That’s who you used to be.


If You See This Man.


By Thomas Lux

Notify someone of authority
if you see this man:

He has a fish hook
in his upper lip.
He usually carries a bleeding starfish
in a Dixie cup.
He is an excellent fork-lift
operator and is known
to play dice with nuns.
He is big.
He claims to detest golf coaches.

We want him for the robbery
of the first kiss ever given
to a bus driver’s sickly daughter.

And remember he is ruthless.
If he knew you had read this
he would murder you.


Shipped with care.

I get a text from a friend.

Hey, you get a package? I sent you one. They said it was delivered but not delivered.

I go to the porch. Find damaged goods. Snap a picture and text it back. Should I open it?

Silence, then the phone vibrates:



At Home in Cartersville.

The Line just sitting, waiting on wall space at the home of Gentleman South in Georgia. 

In less, of course, the Line isn't waiting on wall space and decided to buck the trends and instead kick it right there. In which case we could all take a lesson from his playbook. 


And that just happened...

Just got back from Atlanta and one heck of a weekend. The Grand Old Party was one, indeed.

Want to give a big thanks to Fallen Arrows for putting it all together. And for Muleskinner McQueen, Damon Moon and the Whispering Drifters and Little Horn for hooking up the guitars and adding some sounds to the night.




By Wislawa Szymborska

I’ll never find out now

What A. thought of me.

If B. ever forgave me in the end.

Why C. pretended everything was fine.

What part D. played in E.’s silence.

What F. had been expecting, if anything.

Why G. forgot when she knew perfectly well.

What H. had to hide.

What I. wanted to add.

If my being around
meant anything
to J. and K. and the rest of the alphabet.


Headed to Atlanta.

Let's make memories, shall we? Come visit if you're in the A tomorrow night.


Apartment Therapy.

We've been trying to make sure we have a date night once a week since we got married. It's not that tough when things are slow, but as life gets more hectic, that's when you really have to take time to connect and make time for one another. On Date Night, we try not to check our smart phones, our emails.

So after driving up to Burlington in the snow (first of the season, really) and having a drink and a burger, I took a peek at my email. I know I shouldn't have, but I did. I'm a weak, weak man.

And there was an email from a fellow who said he'd seen us on Apartment Therapy. Wait, wait. Not THE Apartment Therapy, the go to for smart city readers who make the most of their anemic square footage? That just couldn't be...


At Home in DC.

This piece has made it on the the nation's capital. And it's hanging in there with that wine in the foreground called The Show. Not surprisingly, it's one of our favorites if not for the taste (which ain't bad) but the letter-pressed label.

We'll drink to that. Three Cheers!


Gentleman South

The incomparable Mr. Harper over at Gentleman South just wrote up a little ditty on us.

In his words:
Gentleman South was formed to purvey quality, unique Southern finds. While all of the items we promote may not be made south of the Mason Dixon line, we feel certain that you will enjoy them as much as we do. We invite you to share your thoughts, products and ideas as well.

Started by Hil Harper of Cartersville, Georgia, Gentleman South strives to capture the many talents that once were merely a vision. Our goal is to convey the commitment and hardwork that these individuals put forth to provide quality unique goods to their customers. As a bimonthly blog, we hope to capture as many of these successes and pass them on to you, our reader.

Head over and give it a read, should you like. And find some other treasures you might not've known about til now. He continues to surprise me with the bits he finds.



By Joseph Stroud

Everywhere, everywhere, snow drifting down,
a world becoming white, no more sounds,
no longer possible to find the heart of the day,
the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, and of all
I wanted in life—so be it—whatever it is
that brought me here, chance, fortune, whatever
blessing each flake of snow is a hint of, I am
grateful, I bear witness, I hold out my arms,
palms up, I know it is impossible to hold
for long what we love of the world, but look
at me, is it foolish, shameful, arrogant to say this,
see how the snow drifts down, look how happy
I am.


Awwww Snap.

The other day, I was just minding my business on the internet. Doing things. Shuffling pixels. Things a web designer by-day is want to do daily.

And I got an email from Art In the Age. Said they'd seen our stuff, and they liked it, and they were coming to town, and would I want to swing by and say hi, as they were hosting a tasting the night after.

Why yes, yes I would.