(I visited Mose Tolliver at his home in 2005.)

I'm heading to Tallahassee, FL, this week to interview an artist for an upcoming feature on the great Southern folk artists you need to buy now.

(I would tell ya more about it, but I don't want to scoop the story.  Keep your eye on the mag...) 

I'm a folk art enthusiast, investing any extra cash into pieces I admire and the artists who create them. The trip reminds me of my first folk art encounter: A trip to see Mose Tolliver, one of the most noted artists of the contemporary folk art genre... 

Buddy Grimm stepped off his long, flat stone crab boat just as the sun began its last half-hour in the south Florida sky. He looked beat: reddened on his forearms and ears, his loose and tatteredoxford shirt stained by tobacco and sea salt. His three crabbers lifted the day's catch in large rectangle boxes filled to the top with pink-and-black stone crab claws. Looking at the catch, I thought of two things: 1) Would the poised and frightening claws come back to life if I touched one; and 2) Were a bunch of crabs swimming in circles out beyond Chokoluskee Bay?

Everybody fears #17.  The island hole at TPC Sawgrass haunts all of professional golf's big boys (Tiger, Phil, and the rest of the pack) who are swinging away at THE PLAYERS tournament kicking off today in Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. 

I understand.  I played the course last Spring with my father (see my story on the TPC Sawgrass Experience in SL's April '09 issue).  #17 beat me.  Dad smote it, however, and I even shot a video of his tee shot. 

Last week I traveled to North Carolina. It was my first trip to NC in the two years I've been on staff at Southern Living. After tens of thousands of miles logged in the far reaches of Texas and in Louisiana's  bayou backwater, seeing the rolling, tree-wealthy range of central North Carolina was the freshest breath of air I've had in a long while. At times, I felt like I was in another country, maybe Scotland.

Hikers, spelunkers, and other outdoors lovers often advise "take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints." As a photographer, I've always tried to adhere to that. Yesterday morning at the beach in Camp Helen State Park in Florida's beautiful panhandle, I found a lot of different footprints to photograph.