She's Gone Country Dispatches from a Lost Soul in the Heart of Dixie

From Chapter 1: Who doesn't know what I'm talking about Who's never left home, who's never struck out To find a dream and a life of their own A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone? --DIXIE CHICKS I'll have you know that I don't usually drink in semiprofessional situations. But seeing as this pig pickin' is being held in my honor, and a handsome man in a seersucker suit is eyeing me intently as he pours me a tasty mint julep from an icy pitcher, I've decided to leave my newspaper ethics at home. I notice how pleasing his muscles look in his suit. And I'm sure he notices how stunning I look in my buttercup brown cowboy boots and my powder pink hatthe size of a Frisbeewhich hangs over my head in a slightly funky, slightly elegant way. I'm feeling rather relaxed as I gaze up from my cushioned lawn chair at this giant Italianate mansion in front of me. Green sheets of Japanese kudzu are dripping down the walls by the columned front steps, and two hundred purple rhododendrons line the brick walkway. I'm nibbling delicately on a heaping plate of food: crackling, crisp pieces of pig, baked beans dripping with molasses, and pieces of fried okra that are soft in the middle and crunchy on the outside. Meanwhile, all around me on the lawn, violas and snapdragons reach up out of the earth, and the fragrance of the hickory wood coals from the pig pit mixes with the minty smell of late afternoon. The scents wrap around me like a summer shawl, and a few feet away from me my new editor is telling everyone I'm the most exciting thing that has arrived in North Carolina since General Sherman. Fortunately, I've been too busy to pay attention to this cornucopia of complimentswhich I find rather embarrassing, considering that I'm really quite new at this. For a while, I was playing putt-putt with Michael Jordanon the tarmac by the garage. He flew in last night to welcome me to his hometown state. Then I was chatting with the North Carolina Young Heifer Star of the Year. A few minutes ago, she ceremoniously threw off her jean jacket and tossed it my wayin case I got chilly. I blew her a few kisses and agreed to add the jacketwhich happens to have a wonderful sequence of rhinestone inlayto my collection of preferred outerwear. I'm delighted to be here, but I must confess I have a bit of a hangover. The truth is, I haven't stopped partying since I crossed the state line. First, there was a cocktail party with Jesse and Dot Helmswho have put aside their general ire at the North to welcome me. Then last night, the raucous race car wanna-be Buckshot Jones dropped by my hotel room for a nightcap. We had a few whiskeys, then slid into his $200,000 Dodge and whizzed over to a racetrack in Durham to do some laps. My limbs would be aching a lot less if we hadn't stopped at the Have a Nice Day Cafe to gulp down these fruity alcoholic beverages from plastic cups in the shape of the state of North Carolina. I guess my insistence that Buckshot teach me the shag may also have something to do with it. At one point, I seem to remember I was air-bound on the dance floor. Anyhow, I think Buckshot has a thing for me. But I told him that he didn't have a chance, seeing as I just moved to North Carolina and wanted to launch any new romantic liaisons slowly. He said he understood and gave me his red Winston Cup baseball cap as a welcoming gifteven though I refused to let him slip his hand down my blouse on the ride home. Anyway, this is all to explain why I'm resting on this lawn chair rather than getting down with the bluegrass band by the pool. Oh, look. There's Tammy Faye. You knowthe former wife of that mischievous Charlotte preacher Jim Bakker. Tammy's famed for her mascara-drenched eyelashesbut that's old news. It's a littSpencer, Kyle is the author of 'She's Gone Country Dispatches from a Lost Soul in the Heart of Dixie' with ISBN 9780375709043 and ISBN 0375709045.