You're covered in mud. I looked at myself. He was right. I felt like I was in prison. Yeah, we'll let ya.
Southern folks have a way of recognizing the potential for a good story while it's still happening.
I discovered this when I walked into the tractor company lunchroom. My name was Mud and you could hear the whoops and hollers all the way to downtown Monroe. My dad, to his credit, took pity on me. After work and a cool shower, I came out to the kitchen of his old Southern cottage. His house always smelled like someone was roasting garlic somewhere, and the double-hung windows were open to let in the dusky air, tinged with Confederate jasmine.