My Own Margaritaville

Today in Nashville it’s 76 degrees. We’ve not really had any cold weather yet, save for a few nights right around freezing. For years now as I’ve lived away from the ever present home of my heart on Florida’s Gulf Coast, I’ve played beach playlists on the stereo and pulled books off the shelf that would magically transport me back home.

Home to lazy, sunny, salty air days, with the clanking of the mainsails in the distance. Home to longboards, shrimp boats and street names that are as much a part of my memories as my family. Names like Cervantes, DeSoto, Innerarity Point. Places like Wolf Bay, Perdido Key and the Sugar Bowl. Places to grab a grouper sandwich by the Gulf, drink a cold beer and watch life pass by from the eagle eye view of paradise.

A place where some can’t wait to leave and can’t explain why they long to return. A place where some never leave and very few feel trapped. A little strip of earth, of sugar white sands, tanned laughing children, and the presence of God drifting and dipping with the effortless sea gull. To America’s first settlement. To the land of the Muscogee Creeks and Panzacola Indians. To my forefathers and a place my children are spiritually tied to with the loose moorings of love.

Here I am in Nashville. a wonderful city, but it just ain’t home. It will be a long winter, if those Buffett playlists are already gracing the sounds of my house. Hopefully I can hold off the lure of home, until my usual winter migration to touch the sand and take deep breaths of heaven.


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