Coming Home to Dixie

My youngest looked up at me, eyes wide and uncertainty heavy in her voice.
“Are they… actually fingers?” she whispered.

We were staring at the takeout menu, and one of the kids’ meal options included “chicken fingers.” Her confusion made sense—after all, in some places, people really do eat chicken feet. But here in the South, “chicken fingers” simply meant what she had always known as “chicken strips.”

Her puzzlement didn’t end there. When it came time to choose her side, the lady at the counter asked, “Turnip greens or fried okra, honey?”

My daughter froze, looking at me for translation.
“Mom, I don’t understand what she’s saying.”

Between the thick Southern drawl and the complete unfamiliarity with the vegetables, she was lost. So, we asked for a little sample of each. She wrinkled her nose at the okra but surprised herself by loving the turnip greens. She eagerly chose them for her side and later polished them off at home.

It’s funny how something so small—like ordering dinner—can make you realize just how much there is to adjust to in a new place. Food, accents, customs… it’s a whole new rhythm.

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Humidity, Ant Hills, and Sheep Troubles

The weather has been another adjustment altogether. The combination of Mississippi heat and humidity can feel suffocating, like storm clouds pressing down on you even when the sun is out. Jim, who used to work outside in jeans and t-shirts without a second thought, has had to completely overhaul his wardrobe. Now it’s all lightweight, moisture-wicking button-downs—his new armor against the Southern air.

Meanwhile, on the farm, we’ve been battling a different kind of invasion: ants. Jim likes to say we’re basically living on one giant ant hill, and honestly, it feels true. Big ant mounds, tiny ant trails—everywhere. The worst has been keeping them out of Dale and Ernie’s food. After several failed attempts and a handful of creative remedies, I think we’ve finally figured out a system that works. For now, anyway.

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Small Comforts and Magnolia Plates

Amid the adjustments, we’ve had some sweet victories too—like finally getting a couch. After three weeks of perching on camping chairs, our aching backs practically sighed with relief as we settled into the cushions for the first time. It’s amazing how much comfort can be found in something so simple.

Another little milestone: I finally swapped out my California license plate for a Mississippi one. The new plate has a beautiful magnolia blossom right in the center, a small but meaningful symbol of this new chapter. Next up will be transferring our driver’s licenses—one step at a time as we plant our roots here.

Finding Our Southern Rhythm

We’ve been here for four weeks now. As I look back at the last month – our 1st month here – I’ve been reflecting on how quickly a place can start to change you—not just where you live, but how you live. Every day here brings something new to adjust to, something unexpected to learn, something different to embrace. Some lessons are small—like discovering that “chicken fingers” aren’t actually fingers, or that turnip greens are far tastier than they sound. Others are bigger, the kind that leave quiet imprints on your soul.

Life in Mississippi moves slower, but somehow it feels fuller. Deals are made with handshakes instead of emails, kindness lingers longer in conversations, and neighbors wave when they pass by—even if they don’t know your name yet.

We’re learning, little by little, to lean into this slower pace. We’re letting the cicadas sing us into the evenings, letting the big skies stretch out over us, breathing in this new life we’ve chosen.

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Roots, Adjustments, and Unexpected Joys

Of course, change isn’t seamless. We’ve wrestled with endless “firsts”—from battling armies of ants around the sheep pen to deciphering accents at the drive-thru. The heat and humidity still sneak up on us, leaving us sticky and searching for shade, and the sudden summer storms are unlike anything we’ve known. The other night, lightning split the sky wide open, and the thunder rolled so hard it shook the walls.

But with each challenge comes something steadying, something grounding. Dale and Ernie—the newest members of our little farm family—have been that for me. Sitting quietly with them, earning their trust, scratching under their chins as they grow brave enough to inch closer…it feels like a quiet promise. A reminder that we’re building something lasting here, even if we’re learning as we go.

And in the midst of all the chaos, there are tiny victories. A working couch after three weeks of camping chairs. A Mississippi license plate replacing my California one, the magnolia in the center a small but beautiful symbol of home. Our pantry slowly filling again after losing everything on the road. Little moments, each one a thread in this new fabric we’re weaving.

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Becoming Southern

I’ve realized that “becoming Southern” isn’t just about where we live—it’s about softening into a new way of life. It’s about listening to the crickets hum, slowing down enough to savor a meal instead of rushing through it, and learning to measure time not by deadlines but by sunsets. It’s about neighbors stopping to chat in the grocery store, and taking the time to visit, really visit, with people—something I’d almost forgotten the art of.

I don’t know when it will feel like we’ve fully arrived, when this life will feel natural instead of new. But I do know this: each day we’re carving out our place here, one laugh, one storm, one home-cooked meal at a time.

Mississippi isn’t just where we live now—it’s where we’re learning how to live.