As the plane took off from Santa Barbara, California, I danced a little jig and mouthed the chorus to the Go-Go's' "Vacation while munching on my pre-packaged breakfast of Kashi Go Lean. Oh, it was going to be fun.
Sure, I was going on a working vacation. But it was Labor Day, a long weekend, and Mark had the kids. Oh, yeah.
And even though my 80s pop song was serving as a sobering reminder of my age and my teenage years -- both of which I sincerely prefer to forget -- I couldn’t help but be excited. I was going to the Decatur Book Festival in Atlanta, Georgia.
I was going home.
Since my oh-so-literary opus, The Southern Girl’s Guide, hit bookstores in early January, I've had the privilege of speaking at several book festivals around the South. With their requisite author hobnobbing, these events are always a blast. Think great minds, great books, great conversation and great food. But this weekend was sure to surpass them all.
It most definitely did. 
Located a few miles from downtown Atlanta, Decatur calls itself "Mayberry with a Kick," and it's one of the best kept secrets in the South. Mother was a majorette at Decatur High, the same class as Roy Blount (1959 -- sorry, Mama), another author at this year's festival (albeit one far more renowned than little old moi). Roy remembers Mother's legs, which were and are still fabulous, as she pranced around the football team. Go, Decatur bulldogs! My uncle Charlie once burned down the woods behind the family home on Inman Drive. Go, Decatur firefighters!
So maybe genetic predisposition had something to do with it, but as soon as Mark and I hit town ten years ago, we fell in love with Decatur's historic architecture, art-infused culture and small-town-inside-the-big-city charm. I'd be there still, in fact, reporting on everything from the county CEO (think Ray Nagin without the hurricane) to the latest band at Eddie's Attic (launching pad of more than a few famous musicians).
If only the Air Force hadn't seen fit to move us to California.
But, as Dottie Benton Frank said, when I complained about the officer housing on base, which boasts mold and walls so thin you can hear the neighbors going potty, "That’s why they call it 'the service,' honey. Nobody said it would be fun."
Ain't that the truth.
After settling into my hotel on the Decatur Square, I donned a pair of shorts and headed for my favorite sushi place. They were, to my horror, completely out of sweet tea. People, people, people! 
Upon hearing my tale of woe, however (stuck in California, no sweet tea to be found, no real tea, even -- except at Taco Bell, so God bless the Mexicans), they made more. I waited. Then I drank the equivalent of a Big Gulp in liquid gold.
Oh, blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
Too bad that in my zeal to embark upon Proustian memories, I completely forgot the effect of imbibing sugar and caffeine at 10 o’clock in the evening. No doubt, I garnered more than a few glances as I worked that hotel treadmill at 1 a.m.
The next day, with 70,000 other attendees, I listened to fabulous lectures and concerts, ran my mouth in the author hospitality suite and generally had a ball, as my grandmother likes to say. It was, to say the least, wonderful to be back -- especially with the kind of talent that festival organizers Daren Wang and Tom Bell had rounded up this year. You can check out the complete list here, but for today, I’ll focus on just one.
His name is Chris Rose, he's a columnist with the "New Orleans Times-Picayune" and his first book, "1 Dead in Attic," received tremendous national coverage after its recent release, which was timed to coincide with the two-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.
Hurricane Katrina. 
New Orleans. The Gulf Coast... Remember?
I met Rose at an outdoor terrace, where I was quietly eating a turkey burger and minding my own business. Okay, so I was talking to everyone in sight. Sue me.
