Author’s Note: I spent a lot of time at Honey Hill over the last four years. It was a home away from this rusted city where I could eat well, drink better and feel the earth under my feet. It’s where I learned the pleasures of Busch Light, the fragile kindness of a blind dog and the soft touch of Civil War ghosts, cold and curious in the night. I loved it there and will always hold a place in my heart for the rolling hills and down-road alcoholics, the carpenter bees and black snake whispers, the big red barn and the Captain’s cigar.
But in September we visited for the last time.
I took photos while we there as I have on every one of our trips but I hadn’t given them a look until recently, after a long, strange day with Mount Eerie’s dark continent. Presented herein are the pieces that fit.