in this issue
looking forward
It was early April when we shipped the issue you’re holding to the printer, and the G&G team was a month in to working remotely—and to understanding the new normal and what readers would want to see in the pages. While we’re used to looking three months into the future, our editorial crystal ball was of little help given the pandemic sweeping the world. Personally, my backyard became my salve. In between Zoom meetings with the team, news of rising coronavirus infection rates, and the shuttering of our favorite restaurants, bars, and beaches, I snuck back there to take a deep breath of nature. The Carolina chickadee in the birdhouse had laid five eggs, and every day I’d peek inside to get a glimpse at the impossibly tiny chicks still yet…
contributors
Julia Reed WRITER “Turns out in a global crisis, I’m the only one buying tropical plants”—Charlotte Autry, on gathering props during quarantine for the photograph of Planter’s Punch on page 97 “It feels a lot like a menagerie,” Julia Reed says of the cozy residence she recently finished building near her childhood home in Greenville, Mississippi, detailed in “Writer’s Retreat” (p. 110). “In addition to my very-much-alive beagle, Henry, I have bird taxidermy and tortoise shells, Audubons of hares and a fox, bird prints I’ve amassed over decades and loads of feathers stuck here and there, a gorgeous photo of elk by Jack Spencer and one of a gator by Jessica Lange, a framed eighteenth-century needlework tiger, and on and on.” A Garden & Gun contributing editor, Reed has authored eight books, including…
“this issue hits the nail on the head for everyone who calls him- or herself a southerner”
RIGHT ON TIME Thank you for lifting my drooping spirits. With endless squabbles on Capitol Hill, a menacing pandemic, and a skittish stock market, I’ve been in the weeds of late. Your engaging coverage of Southern heroes (April/May 2020) carried me to a happier place inhabited by my fellow talented, kindhearted Southern folk. Hunter V. Moss Staunton, Virginia As I was reading Latria Graham’s article “A Dream Uprooted” (Traditions, April/May 2020), tears were streaming down my face. Jon Meacham’s “Southern Stand” was so beautiful I know I’ll read it again and again. This may be my favorite issue so far. Janet Petorock Beaufort, South Carolina This issue warrants rereading because of the beauty of the writing. From Jon Meacham to Jell-O molds, it hits the nail on the head for everyone who calls him- or…
social chatter
WE ASKED... What’s the best part of summer in your state? On Facebook and Instagram, readers told us what makes the season so special. Jubilees on Mobile Bay. Martha Elizabeth Durant Fresh produce and local farmers’ markets in North Georgia. There’s nothing like a fresh-from-the-garden tomato sandwich. Carol Wilson Beautiful North Carolina beaches and cool Appalachian trails. @williamspence Atlanta Braves baseball. @dirtroadrevolution Summer in Maryland means crabs, boating, and late-afternoon thunderstorms. @chris_janos Boating on the Tennessee River. Sandy Fowler Barrera In Mississippi, the smell of honeysuckle by the pond where I fish with my husband. @taylorlhacker In Virginia: peaches and wine. @ridingmom South Carolina state parks. Samantha Peirson Nifong…
coal country ballads
Lying next to the banks of the Big Coal River in Whites-ville, West Virginia, sits a giant slab of black granite forty-eight feet long. Etched into the stone are the silhouettes of twenty-nine miners who perished in a 2010 explosion at the nearby Upper Big Branch mine, the country’s deadliest mining disaster since 1972. At the monument’s base are the words “Come to me, all you who labor, and I will give you rest.” It’s a stark reminder of the backbreaking, gritty determination of the West Virginia workers who toiled in a perilous environment. Steve Earle has been to the monument, moved by its majesty as well as deep empathy for the families who lost fathers, sons, uncles, and friends, despite warnings of unsafe conditions. (The disaster led to a settlement…
drawn home
Inside the Gentilly studio of the artist and designer Annie Moran, okra flowers twine up a clear blue sky. Nearby, lotus leaves unfurl, damp against dark water, while roseate spoonbills fluff their pencil-sketched feathers. A Zulu masker blows his whistle under a crown of plumes. New Orleans is as lush and alive on the wallpapers, textiles, prints, and murals Moran creates as it is on the streets and bayous beyond her doors. “When I was little, I wanted to have an insect collection,” Moran says, handling a glass case full of iridescent feathers. “I was really into dragonflies. I’d find dead things and save them, wrapped up with cotton balls.” She shrugs. “I never really lost that obsession—I guess I just draw them now.” Though she still keeps some dead things—pinned butterflies…
