I'll never get used to it.
The cotton fields of south Georgia at harvest time.
Simplistic grandeur on display.
Fall melting into winter with acre after acre, mile after mile putting on an eye-stopping show.
Every year our family (like half of Georgia) barrel south on 1-75 heading to Florida for Thanksgiving break. Disney, beaches, grandma, etc...
But somewhere north of Valdosta, we always get off the highway. Give the pavement a break; drive a stretch down the back roads.
See what we can see.
This year we exited the highway at Ashburn. And were highly reward.
Both sides of the main street running into town littered with lite banks of cotton.
Thousands of puff balls blown off the tops of work trucks making tracks to the local cotton gin.
"Mommy," asked five year old Gibson, "Is that snow?"
I answered, "No honey, that's cotton. It's what you're wearing." Pointing to his t-shirt.
Proof positive any old road trip can be turned into a teaching moment at the drop of a hat.
South of Ashburn we came to a tucked-away rural community called Sycamore.
An old railroad line ran to the right of the road. Homesteads, turn-of-the century farms and barns rolling by languidly. Surrounded on all sides by a dreamy landscape of creamy-white puffy cotton. Snow on a stick. But millions of them. One field was particularly gorgeous.
We had to stop.
Us parents, instructed they the children, to take care.
After all, this is not our property. Just a few pictures.
The sun was going down, and the lighting pure heaven. The entire field was bathed in an other-worldly golden glow. I didn't want to leave. But now came an old, beat-up truck, rolling off the gravel, who might be telling us to do just that.
Ah, yes. The farmer.
We greeted him warmly, hoping he wouldn't mind or shoot us. Explaining that we were just taking pictures. Hoped it was okay.
"Ah well," he drawled. "I jest come down to see if y'all were broke down or something, needin' help."
Clearly, our Forsyth county licence plates (a.k.a. big city suburbia) a dead give away. Plus the fact, we gawked and played on the front lines of his field like we'd never seen the stuff before.
Not to mention the big old camera round my neck.
Definitely not locals.
On top of being uber friendly, the farmer had brought a bag.
"Pick all yer like," he said, handing the plastic Wal-Mart baggie out his rolled down window to our waiting hands. "Too much of it anyway."
Bam. Instant show-and-tell for all three kids. 
Though I'm much more familiar with North Georgia and her mountains, it's little side trips like this which remind me of all the varietal beauty residing here.
North. South. East. West.
Next year we'll get off the beaten path again on our annual trip down to the sunshine state.
I look forward to being rewarded with more fantastical views of a culturally rich land where cotton is king.
And hopefully, forever will be.
