Sunday - Riding with Wade

GEORGIA FOLK AND FARM LIFE - Sunday supper is always better with friends—and this Sunday, I had the honor of tagging along with “The Oracle of the South” himself, Wade Peebles. Now, like any good oracle, Wade doesn’t sit high on a throne or descend from some mountain top. No, sir. He rides around in a 1989 Ford pickup with the perfect blend of red clay, dust, and grit—inside and out. It doesn’t scream of money or man-bun yuppy trends. It just whispers “real truck.” The kind where you’re liable to find a toothpick wedged down in the door trim, a pistol tucked handy, and if it still had an eight-track, you can bet George Jones would be crooning nearby. Somehow Wade’s got a modern radio jammed in the dash, just above that stick shift, but I’ll forgive him. Even prophets need a weather report now and then.

Before we set off, I had to make peace with the demon dog—“da baby.” Conway the Chihuahua isn’t overweight; he’s just swollen with pure spite. I’m convinced he was weaned on the meanest chickens in Georgia. He’ll bark himself hoarse, and then, once you think you’re safe, he’ll size you up again like he’s calculating how to gnaw your face clean off. Now, don’t get me wrong—Wade loves him, and I’d never question a man’s bond with his dog. But don’t show up expecting cherub kisses and wagging tails. Over at Wade’s place it’s always “We Boys Three”—him, Merle, and Conway—like it or not.

Once the demon curled up and pretended to nap, Wade and I climbed in the Ford and headed out. We didn’t really have a destination, just a general direction—preferably along dirt roads, red clay only. Wade doesn’t much believe in pavement unless it’s absolutely required. We rattled along the washboards, swapping stories until we ran out of breath, laughing at funny business signs, and marveling at the good names folks come up with for their stores.

Eventually, we landed at what could only be described as the world’s largest buffet of fried delights. If it had a vegetable, I didn’t see it. Fried was the only flavor on the menu, and I say that with joy in my heart. This was no place that changed out fryer oil—or entertained notions of tofu. No, sir. This was heaven on earth, and we stayed till our belts begged mercy.

Back on the road, bellies full, we made a couple of farm stops, swapping handshakes and porch talk like trading cards. Then, just when I thought the day couldn’t get better, we pulled in for gas and stumbled onto an impromptu prayer service right there at the pumps. Folks bowed their heads, hands folded, and for a few minutes the roar of Sunday faded into something eternal.

That’s a Sunday if I’ve ever lived one. Time with Wade isn’t just a ride in a truck. It’s stepping into a living library, shelves packed with stories most folks have forgotten, old ways nearly lost. Sitting in his passenger seat, I’m reminded of just how rich and deep this southern soil runs—not just with cotton and cattle, but with memory, grit, and grace.

As we keep rocking on with this “virtual front porch” of ours, I hope you’ll stop by often, share a story or two, and sign up for our email list so you don’t miss a thing.

Here’s to Sunday suppers, y’all—just mind the dog.

~Matt