We drove through the southern part of Georgia this morning on our way to St. Augustine. I had been looking forward to the miles of tall pine trees that line the freeway. They remind me of other pine forests in my life: the pines of northern Quebec and Minnesota's Northwest Angle, those of John Island where I went to camp on Lake Huron near Spanish, Ontario, and François Mauriac's "pins d'Argelouse" in his novel, Thérèse Desqueyroux.
Maybe it was a road sign to Augusta that triggered the memories: my own sure sign of spring is the Masters at the beginning of April. It certainly felt like spring today when I got a whiff of those famous Georgia Pines. Something like heaven.
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