I've read Flannery O'Connor short stories for decades because a few of my college professors knew her and maintained correspondence with her.
Last Sunday, while visiting the University of Georgia, I wondered if I were in proximity to Flannery O'Connor's Georgia. It wasn't terribly far so I drove to the small town of Milledgeville, to the farm she lived on until her death at age 39. She wrote her published works, on a typewriter, on a small table, in her bedroom.
The visit was an ah-hah experience for me, like a pilgrimage. It tied many loose ends together. It also led me to think about how a few acres were fertile ground for so many deeply insightful and complex stories.
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