At the beginning of this year, as I drove down the dark, winding country roads of rural South Carolina, I began to listen to Marvin Gaye’s classic “Ain’t No Mountain High.” My eyes passed an empty cotton field and an old, worn, red barn.
At the beginning of this year, as I drove down the dark, winding country roads of rural South Carolina, I began to listen to Marvin Gaye’s classic “Ain’t No Mountain High.” My eyes passed an empty cotton field and an old, worn, red barn.