People ask me sometimes why I write all this down. Why stir up the past? Why bother telling stories from a county most folks can’t point to on a map? Truth is, I grew up in a place where the stories were louder than the people. Nahunta wasn’t just a dot between Waycross and Brunswick. It was its own world—a crossroads of old ways, family codes, and traditions held together by grandmother hands and gossip strong enough to travel through walls. My childhood wasn’t perfect. Lord, no. But it was full—full of characters, full of lessons, full of women who didn’t give a damn if the modern world approved of their methods. They were the guardians of the old rules. The enforcers of truth. Daddy was the cornerstone. Mawmaw was the steel beam. Granny was the one who could comfort and correct in the same sentence. This blog is my love letter to them. My apology for the times I didn’t listen. My gratitude for the times they didn’t give up on me.