Heading south on I-95 we sped under a tornadic cloud of starlings moving in a horizontal, undulating twist across the interstate, our destination was Alabama and the Deep South. Our first stop was Savannah, Georgia, were we spent Christmas with my wife’s sister’s family of eight (six kids, three of which are triplets), in addition to three dogs, several cats, my mother-in-law, and a man who claimed to be the real George W. Bush. At dinner, when someone asked for the mashed potatoes, he would stop their progress and say, “I’m the decider!” If at that moment you were in his favor, you got the spuds. If not, you got green beans, and a lecture on how global warming affects the flow of gravy on “them po-TAY-toes,” you did not get.
The historic district of Savannah is everything one would expect from an old, established Southern city--it is beautiful! Old Savannah was laid out in a tight grid and every few blocks has its own quaint little central park ringed by impressive mansions. The righteous old oaks that line the parks stretch out their massive limbs for seemingly no other purpose than to provide a roost for the Resurrection Fern, and a place to drape Spanish moss. The moss dawdling in the light breeze gave one the feeling that time had slowed down, and gave rise to an urgent incentive for immediate rest. There is no shortage of park benches in old Savannah.
Savannah’s historic houses that line these parks (some of which predate the Revolutionary War) stand as one grand edifice after another. Towering columns were, and still are, a major factor in local architecture, and thankfully--unlike Atlanta--Savannah was spared the burning of its stately old homes during Sherman’s “March to the Sea.” The citizens, in a bid to save their city, welcomed the Yankees with open arms, and fingers crossed.
Savannah is a city supposedly the haunt of many ghostly traditions. Some houses and buildings are painted an odd green, haint green it is called; which, according to locals is a color that ain’t blue and it ain’t green, but purportedly resembles the color of the sea. Haints (the restless spirits of the deceased who tarry upon this Earth) cannot trespass water or so it is believed. Thus, haint green is a practical barrier to ward them off and certainly it was far more sensible of a barrier than digging a moat.
The day after Christmas we made our way to Titus, Alabama and 60 acres of undeveloped woodland that Ceilon and her sister are to inherit. This patch of rural Alabama will be our final resting place or as my wife likes to say, “Our last address.” With a chainsaw in hand we cut a system of trails to navigate the woods and briars so that we could mark the place of our future residence. This heavily wooded ridge has a grand view of trees, and beyond that are more trees, or so I presume. It is here that you truly cannot see the forest through the trees. Our few days in the quiet woods of Alabama was worth a month of Sundays, and although it is absolutely miserable there in the summer, the winters are quite pleasant. Besides, when it gets so damn hot and humid that your brains begin to soften, and shade offers no relief, there are always fish to be caught in the pond down the hill. It is loaded with bass and bluegill.
In the South, for reasons I have yet to fully understand, a popular burger joint is Krystal’s. You can buy a dozen of these mushy, meat delights for a song and every time we go to Alabama we buy a bag load. The burger consists of a spongy bun with a dill pickle slice (two if they are generous), a swipe of diced onions, mustard--which gives it its taste--and a small, square pad of gray colored, steam cooked meat--I assume that it is beef. And although I complain bitterly every time we stop to eat there, I have to admit they are mighty tasty, pasty little burgers.
On our way down to Alabama we passed through Richmond, Virginia; it was near there we came upon a parkway named Powhite. I am just going to leave that one alone. Farther down the road we entered again into the Dichotomy Zone where billboards tout waffles at $2.95 and below the price they noted that “Jesus is Lord.” Lord of the Waffles--hhhhmmm--that give me an idea for a movie! We also came upon billboards for the Café Risqué, “TOPLESS, TOPLESS.” My wife has a theory about the sex billboards along the interstates in the South. She believes that the strict, JESUS in your FACE, Bible Belt, finger thumping, “is you SAVED?” prevalent preaching that has soaked the South, is the reason for all the boobie bar billboards that litter the roadway—as Newton so astutely observed, every action has an opposite and equal reaction.
I also observed that the South is still divided by the railroad tracks. We passed through a town in Georgia that exemplified the segregation that is still alive and well in Dixie. Although restaurants and other public places are open for all to discover and partake (by law), living quarters are divided to a great extent. There is a black section of town and a white; it is only in your major cities that integration is more prevalent. But that is generally due to varying degrees of wealth. I did experience some passive aggressive behavior from blacks, but overall everyone was quite courteous.
During our stay I was wandering the aisles at K-mart, while my wife bought games for her nieces and nephews, and one of the hirelings came up and said, “May I he’p you find something?” “No, I’m just killing time,” said I. “That’s my favorite misdemeanor too,” she replied. I laughed.
Another observation of mine is the names of grocery stores in the South. Now Piggly Wiggly (as far as I can tell has no subliminal message, nor does A&P, but Winn-Dixie just might. I guess Winn-Dixie is commercially more palatable to outsiders (Northerns) than the alternative; which would be, Lost-Dixie-To-Them-GAWDDAMN-Yankees.
Two more observance of the South: 1.) I am of the opinion that nearly every young man working in the Wetumpka lumber yard chews tobacco. When I went to pick up a board I bought the young man that served me walked over and spit a bomb of juice that my eyes followed to the floor. I walked behind him and noticed on the floor tracks of spit that went from stack to bin. We walked back to the area that had a power saw so that he could cut it to the size that was ordered. Standing there I happened to gaze downward and to my utter disgust I found myself standing in a wide accretion of thick spit. I stepped back, took my board and thanked him. I then purposely shuffled my shoes back to the car hoping to clean them of the slimy spatter that spurt with his spit as it splattered. Secondly, the naming of towns is a point of interest. Now I know that in the mid-West as well as the Western States this is common, but in the South, it appears to me, to be more obvious. In the mid-West we have Ogallala, Nebraska; in the inner-Rockies there is Cheyenne, Wyoming; but in the South you have names such as: Kowaliga, Loachapoka, and Opelika. All are names of Creek, Alabamu, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee villages that whites commandeered by order of such Presidents as Andrew Jackson. What a snot he was!
One day perhaps the Chinese may have the opportunity to rename the United States of its vanquished people. How does Americaville Province sound?
Old Savannah
The astute observer will have taken note that there are but two doors on this ivy clad home. The reason? At the time it was built the city taxed a home owner on the number of exterior door they had. So, doors were limited to that which was necessary: the first floor servant's quarters (with all the dust of the street), and the elevated entrance for the gentry.
Incidentally, access to the porches were had by exiting a window.
This is the church that introduces us to the feather in the movie, Forrest Gump. No, the park bench he sat on is not there...it was a prop.
And if my memory serves me well, this fountain was also pictured in the movie.
"HEY KID! GET OUT OF THE PICTURE!" He is my nephew and he was as eager to have his picture taken--in EVERY shot--as a fly is to land on ssshhh--ugar.
The pavement is comprised of setts (paving stones), and cobblestones once used as ballast f0r sailing ships.
Savannah's Historic District did not completely escape the architectual purging of the 1960's and 1970's. This parking garage is a beautiful example of some drooling moron's idea of what the area needed to pep up its musty old finery.
I spent a considerable amount of energy studying this wall and trying to figure out why the brick inlay was necessary. My conclusion was that some mysteries are best left unsolved.
The astute observer will have taken note that there are but two doors on this ivy clad home. The reason? At the time it was built the city taxed a home owner on the number of exterior door they had. So, doors were limited to that which was necessary: the first floor servant's quarters (with all the dust of the street), and the elevated entrance for the gentry.
Incidentally, access to the porches were had by exiting a window.
This is the church that introduces us to the feather in the movie, Forrest Gump. No, the park bench he sat on is not there...it was a prop.
And if my memory serves me well, this fountain was also pictured in the movie."HEY KID! GET OUT OF THE PICTURE!" He is my nephew and he was as eager to have his picture taken--in EVERY shot--as a fly is to land on ssshhh--ugar.
The pavement is comprised of setts (paving stones), and cobblestones once used as ballast f0r sailing ships.
Savannah's Historic District did not completely escape the architectual purging of the 1960's and 1970's. This parking garage is a beautiful example of some drooling moron's idea of what the area needed to pep up its musty old finery.
I spent a considerable amount of energy studying this wall and trying to figure out why the brick inlay was necessary. My conclusion was that some mysteries are best left unsolved. Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.
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