Out in the Country

Good news. I have pictures. I'm going to share them momentarily, but I thought I should let you know of this fortuitous event, as it's not one that seems to come by so often.

Many of my friends are taking a class that has a midterm on Monday. I am not taking this class. They are studying, even as we speak. I am not. These circumstances led to a Saturday with all kinds of free time for me and very little for my beleaguered friends. Not content to take my recently-returned freedom lying down, I decided to venture out into the Georgia countryside for some culture-absorption. The decision came down to heading north/northwest up to Franklin Springs/Royston for the Ty Cobb museum or east/southeast to Washington to see the Robert Toombs house. Interestingly, Cobb was born in a place the Narrows, Georgia, which apparently doesn't exist. That is, there's no place officially called the Narrows. That's just what people knew it as. So, we don't know exactly where Ty Cobb was born. I don't know this from going to the museum though -- I know it from Wikipedia (which we all know is a trustworthy source of information). I chose to head to Washington.

Robert Toombs was, among other distinguishing facts, the Secretary of State for the Confederate States of America (at least initially -- he gave up the post to become a brigadier general for the CSA, fighting at Antietam, which was awesome if only because he got shot in the hand and I got to see the bullet today), mayor of the town of Washington, Georgia, and a proudly "unreconstructed rebel" (refusing to sign the papers for reinstatement of his citizenship status from President Johnson). He also owned what is now a fully restored house, built in 1790 by Dr. Joel Abbott of Connecticut. It's quite a sight, though many of the houses and other buildings in Washington are equally impressive, aged, etc. Maybe that's what's so compelling -- so strange and beautiful -- about Washington. Everything is old. Not like so many towns who have that one historic building. The whole town is historic. So, Mr. Toombs' house is quite impressive. Certainly large, but actually not that big once you're inside. It felt very comfortable. There was an extremely deep "basement" dug near the warming kitchen where baskets of perishables would be lowered to keep them cool -- they say that is stays between 52 and 56 degrees there all year long. All kinds of porches to be admired, and very nice set of grounds, though those weren't so overwhelmingly large either. That's the thing -- this wasn't like plantation-land or anything. Perhaps I'll make it to a real plantation -- the kind with the big manor house and slave quarters and what not -- at some point before I leave this region. But this house had a very nice yard, with a very nice ivy-covered wall, and I was fond of the the entire property.

Washington, the town, is just as picturesque. The architecture marks all the times past -- from late 1700s/early 1800s columns to late 1800s/early 1900s brick. I cannot imagine what it would be like to grow up in a town such as this. And I don't mean that it would be terrible. Quite on the contrary, I think there are probably some things that would be quite wonderful -- things that I may never get to experience should I remain a city-dweller for all my days. A sense of connection to the land; to each street; to each crumbling brick that you pass by every day. It's so easy for us to come into slow country towns and wonder how everything can be so "behind". But I am more and more able to understand why people might be unconcerned with "catching up". We post-modern consumers can get awfully stuck in the rut of progress, as we define it. I'm just saying that maybe we sell the idea short.

They were strange feelings I encountered in Washington. As though all afternoon I took turns swallowing sips of pain and fear, or bewilderment and awe, or contentment and ease, or the burgeoning sense of a world so much smaller than everything I've ever known. I think I could easily get to believing in ghosts in a place like that. There's too much opportunity -- too many creaky floorboards, too many overgrown oaks, too many cracked sidewalks mirroring storefront windows frosted with age. The question, then, is whether or not you could learn to live with the ghosts? Probably, with enough time. And then maybe the place becomes less strange -- less paradoxical and emotionally demanding. Until then, I walk around confused, without peace.

It was the monument in the town square. First and foremost, you really can't ignore the presence of the War. It's just everywhere, inescapable and palpable, equal parts shame and pride. I don't know how people here don't have more identity crises. Saber-wielding, caped hero Generals and the man with the turned-in mouth, worn hat, and dusty skin sitting all Deliverance-like as I drove into and out of town. They're all statues.

So, it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. Distressing. Fascinating.

On the way home, I stopped at a roadside stand and tried boiled peanuts for the first time. It seems that you take a over-sized pot of water, dump a few kilos of salt into it, and then boil the living daylights out of peanuts. Despite this rather condescending description, they're kind of good. Much better when they're fresh out of the pot, nearly too hot to eat. At the same stand, I also had my first experience with scuppernongs. The scuppernong is like a large, thick-skinned grape (a muscadine to be exact), with strikingly sweet juice and a few large seeds that you can eat or spit out -- the farmer spit his out, as did I. Between the tough skin and excessively sweet innards, I wasn't much a fan and opted for the homegrown/homemade pear jam. Though were I stuck in the country for some reason, I'd gladly down a few scuppernongs. Besides, try to tell me that's not a cool word.

And thus ends the trip to the country. I would like more time next time around, and perhaps a traveling companion or two. And a hammock and a pair of large, shady trees to it between. And a field to walk through. There's lots of those to go around 'round here. And dirt. The red kind. The clay kind. We'll talk about that at another time, but I think my feet were made for that red clay.