It swirls, flies, and blows with every minute wisp of wind. Nothing is untouched, no matter how well guarded. Nothing is safe. It creeps into every crevice imaginable. There is no escaping it. It leaves its inevitably permanent mark on everything it comes in contact with. During the driest of times it is swept up by the wind and transformed into miniature versions of terrifying twisters. Well, maybe not terrifying. Unless you know what it is capable of.
If you live in Georgia, you know what I am talking about. If not, then maybe you have heard of it. Songs have been written about it. Shirts have been sold in a strange sort of remembrance of it. There is nothing to stop it from causing it irreparable damage.
Red Georgia clay.
Unless you have been subjected to the wrath of this southern menace you cannot fathom the destruction that follows it. All of my clothes bares its mark. Shoes? Ha! There are no white shoes in our home. Even our white goats have taken on an unusual reddish hue.
The moving of dirt in preparation for the house made it worse. Now, when it rains, little red rivers come flowing down the hill. I believe that there is nothing more slippery than wet Georgia clay. The dogs have been known to slip and slide through it on a rainy day. Yours truly has toppled, in a most ungraceful manner, to the gooey ground on at least one illfated occasion.
Wet or dry there is nothing endearing to me about Georgia clay. There is nothing fun about red mop water, red bath water, red dog water, red…well, you get the picture. Bleach does virtually nothing to combat it. No amount of soaking rids clothes of its red stamp. If you are outside for more than just a few minutes you can rest assured that you too will be enveloped in red.
Red dust, red goo, red mud, red splatters.
Red, red, red.
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