Today I drive south with Patrick, his mother, and his brother to Panama City, Florida, the furthest south I have ever been.
Patrick's grandfather, who lives down on the Florida panhandle, is fond of saying that anyone who lives north of Dothan, Alabama is a Yankee. If you follow that hyperlink, you'll see why I'm telling you this.
The other day, Patrick's parents informed me that a tropical storm is brewing in the Gulf, set to reach both the Florida coast and hurricane status about the time we arrive on Sunday. Now, Patrick tries to tell me that earthquakes and volcanoes on the west coast are scary, but I question the sanity of a region of people that lives with hurricanes, and tornadoes, and chiggers and considers this par for the course.
I'm comforted by the fact that I am assured Gulf oysters are the best in the world, at the very least.