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Love is a strong word. A word of luxury. Truly a luxurious word tossed around by those with enough money in the bank and enough time to sit and ponder such notions. It gets batted around rather easily these days. I mean, sure, we liked it good enough. Standing on the shoulders of the ancients we liked it as they liked it and those before them the same. Children of the dirty south. Spawned from the bosom of the Dynamic Dekalb movement. Back when Mathis Dairy would deliver fresh milk to your doorstep. Back when we all drank milk. But hey what did we know, anyways. Maybe we were too strong for love. Too young. Too brash. Maybe a little reckless, a little dangerous. Back in those days you had to be. Anyone who’d give Strokers less than 5 stars would be taken to Arabia on a moonless night and thrown to the Waterheads. The bubblegum posse would sniff out love from a mile away and leave it in a shivering heap outside of Wax N Facts as you lay barefoot and beaten, stripped of your Air Jordans, the whole of Moreland weighed upon your brow. No sir, we didn’t have time for love. It was the golden age of the automobile and the marijuana cigar and the maltiest of malted liquors. Our 40 oz bottles stacked on the steps of the old Bass High School like the great pyramids of Egypt. Lowriders. ‘77 Sevilles. El Dorados. As the Roman’s raced chariots of fire, we cruised our parks and boulevards. Stone Mountain. Candler Road. Maddox. Our currency was Turtle’s coins and nickel bags of funk. After all was it not us whomst learned how to toke up with 55,000 of our closest friends in Piedmont Park in 1992. We yearned for freedom. But love? Who had the inclination to reflect upon such things. That was a word reserved for royalty of the highest order. A word reserved for the king of the public swimming pool who could bust the sickest gainer anyone ever saw still to this day. The mayor pro tem of Medlock. The de facto king of Decatur. The man named after the prophet Rodney with the homemade tattoo of a lightning bolt above the words Hot Rod, barely legible on his tan and sinewy bicep in the sweltering Atlanta sun, his silhouette almost angelic, engulfed in a haze of Newport smoke. Surely the book of love was written with the sweet smell of burning tobacco in mind. Love was a biscuit from Mamie’s. Love was confined to the sprawling parking lot at Mama’s on Covington Hwy on any given Friday night as the stars were barely glimpsed in the smog saturated sky through fogged up windows in a neon Geo Tracker whilst Kilo played on the disc changer and the alpine boomed and if only for a fleeting moment you held it all in the palm of your hand. Love was Brunswick stew with cracklin’ corn bread at Harold’s down near the penitentiary. Lost and found. And then lost again. That was our story. To the honeysuckle blue. On Macdougal. Lost in underground and found at Walter’s. Lost in the sauce. Found in the rooms. Like badges of honor we turned our 96Rock license plates upside down like albatross in a bizarre mating ritual. Our world was simple. And we liked it okay I guess. Citius. Altius. Fortius. Loving something which has grown into beauty is no feat. Love is the flower but like is the seed. Love itself does not sprout before like. Pledged in like. Redeemable in like only. Shout it from Redan to the West End. From Avondale Mall to the Prado. You might love ATL but we had the Omni and you’ll never even get anywhere close to that level. Heretofore she blossoms and is adored and loved, a flower born on the branch which was planted with like and humble toleration and tended with calloused hands and good intentions and plucky spirit. May she ever prosper. Yeah i’ll admit we liked it good enough. — Brandon Chonko.
Collaboration with Brandon Chonko of Grassroots Farms.
• 100% jersey knit cotton
• Fabric weight: 6 oz
• Long sleeve, ribbed cuffs
• White with green print on front