I 🤎 Georgia, because down here the heart isn't red, it's the exact shade of the clay that permanently stained every pair of white sneakers you've ever owned. That dirt gets on your shoes, in your truck bed, under your fingernails, and eventually in your soul. You stop fighting it around year two.
Brown is the state's real color palette anyway: pecan pie, barbecue bark, the sweet tea that's basically syrup with a hydration rumor, biscuits drowning in gravy, and the peach cobbler your aunt refuses to share the recipe for. Add humidity thick enough to chew, college football Saturdays that double as religious holidays, and a traffic situation that turns a four mile trip into a spiritual journey, and yeah, that's love. Complicated, muddy, deep fried love.
Made from a soft, broken in blend that holds its shape through brutal summers and those three cold days we call winter. Tough stitching, colors that don't quit, and a fit comfortable enough to wear from the tailgate to the couch.
