There is the saying down here in the south that we don'€™t hide the crazy people in our family; we set them out on the front porch and give them a cocktail.

I think that is why I love it here so much. Normal isn'€™t a state of being; no, along with permanent press and delicate, it'€™s just a setting on the dryer; and eccentricities, the art of conversation, and cocktailing reign supreme.

By Margaret Evans, Editor

I was out walking in my neighborhood last week, fuming about something I'€™d just seen on the news or the Internet or Facebook or who even knows where anymore.

I was walking and fuming, fuming and walking -€“ my hands balled in tight little fists of frustration - probably conjuring a counter-argument to some absurd, dishonest claim I€'d just heard or read -€“ who even knows which one anymore? -€“ when I came upon a big patch of kudzu.

I do not know where I came from . . . For I do not remember. - Augustine of Hippo, Confessions

It is raining in Nova Scotia. I am in Havre Boucher, a small fishing village in Antigonish County, camping at Hyclass Campground, site B13. There is a bathhouse and laundry, a playground, a couple of outhouses and a rocky point of land jutting into St. Georges Bay. I am warm, dry, writing. Hyclass. High class. It is all about perspective.