Booktopia 2012 in Oxford, Mississippi

That's a mint julep on Faulkner's lawn. Yes, THAT FAULKNER. Did you know he was once fired from the post office? FOR SO MANY REASONS, some of which being: he would close up shop early to play golf, go fishing, or have a round of poker in the back room. But my favorite: He would throw the mail away of the people he wasn't keen on. If he would have been around on that balmy Friday night in Oxford, the bourbon would have been on me.

The balcony of City Grocery in downtown Oxford. This place has superb Southern food, but the most exciting thing to me is that John Currence, a contributing editor of Garden & Gun is the chef. I really (uber)wanted to meet him on this trip, but I never mustered the courage to ask between ordering his fried chicken and paying the bill. Because what would I even say that wouldn't make me sound like a food/ G&G/ All Things Southern GROUPIE--and that's what I am right? :)

This is one of my favorite Southern authors, Susan Gregg Gilmore, walking up the path toward Rowan Oak. She admitted on this trip that she has to work as a bartender at a barbecue place in Chattanooga in addition to writing her books. Does that make me like her even more  and respect her as a writer? You bet it does. (Click to enlarge. That's her in the pink mini-skirt.)

We all brought a wrapped book for an exchange--I wonder what book Faulkner would have given. And I wonder what he would have wrapped it in.

Southern catering and pink hydrangeas...sigh.

Square Books, the second floor. I wish I could just live up there. Be an alive-ghost, haunting the book store and re-shelving mislaid volumes. Or I could just work there like a normal person. Either way.

Sunset on Faulkner's front porch. Do I need to say anything other than that?

Just down the block from our hotel was this little place where we could get a decent cup of coffee.

Downtown Oxford.

Big Bad Breakfast--an Oxford Landmark. Our last stop on our last day.

Derby Day

Twain's in Decatur, GA -- The Dainty Saint

The Dainty Saint: an iced, summery concoction of imported St. Germain and vodka.

I spent my birthday alone under Twain's wisteria arbor while the boys played pool inside.

Not that I'm complaining.

There's a thin line between alone and lonely, and it's hard to feel the latter when you're sipping French liqueur {made of fresh elderflowers picked in the Alps} on a balmy evening, watching Decatur, Georgia, start to come to life.

My precocious little son suggests Twain's whenever we venture out of the suburbs and head south toward the city, and usually, if time permits, we oblige him. I'm never without a book or some nice stationery and fountain pens, so I just while away the time and let them do their boy stuff.

Bubbly