How To Make Iced Coffee
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Ooh. I'm good at this cuz I watch Ina Garten The Barefoot Contessa, on the Food Network all the time. Okay, Jeffrey is about to get out of bed and it's hot, right? So Ina decides it's a great morning for iced coffee. She goes out in her stunning garden and picks some peonies that rival any you've seen in any world class gardening and flower exposition. Okay, so she stretches and Michael her fag gardener comes over and she sends him out onto the east veranda where coffee will later be served with a variety of French pastries, home-made fruit tarts, home-made sugar cubes, a few of her own home grown lemons arranged perfectly in a bowl along with her best dishes: white French china from the south of France, circa the early 1800's, demi-tasse cups from Italy, hand painted Italian napkins and the cutest little silver spoons, forks and knives from a silver spoon, fork and knife maker in South Hampton.
Michael will make bouquets of peonies,, daffodils and french lavender and encorporate English roses that are the most-pale pink hybrid known to man, to be strategically placed around her Hampton estate.
Ina jumps in her black mercedes and runs to one of the local shops in the East Hamptons and they do a whole segment on coffee beans, right? So then, she goes back to her kitchen just in time to see Jeffrey tucking his penis into his underpants while scratching his nut sack. As he walks into the kitchen. Ina gives him a short peck on the cheek because he really doesn't like it on the lips, he's so gay.
Then she grinds the coffee in a Sunbeam open-electric 2500 series grinder and puts the grounds into a French press where she adds purified water, a pinch of salt, creme de' cacao, a few tablespoons of brandy because, who doesn't like that,
Right? She espresses the coffee into an 18th century coffee pot made of sterling silver with a black hand-carved onyx handle and then places it on a silver serving tray along with creme' fresh, where she whisks it to the back yard where Jeffrey and Michael have just finished having butt-sex, she sets the tray down and screams: ACK! I forgot the ice! She rushes back in, grabs some cubes from the freezer and voila: Iced coffee.
How To See Savannah On Your Ass
and Riding The Number 14 Abercorn Bus
Savannah, Georgia 2011 - Part I
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I hope that you’re sitting on your ass as you are reading these words, get a snack to munch on and perhaps your favorite beverage. It kind of proves my point. Let me take you on a quick trip around Savannah, it’s no bother at all and I love to talk about it anyway, so let’s go.
Savannah is a great walking city and there is a lot to see and do. Don’t fret about getting around town or taking a walking tour. The best way to see Savannah is just by starting in the center of town, perhaps on the corner of Bull and York Streets, as I did, right there in Wright’s Square.
It’s as good a place to start, as any. Don’t mind the ghosts around town, they’ll hardly bother you at all.
You won’t have to worry about getting tired, lost, or finding a place to eat. There are restaurants, cafes, park benches, stone and concrete walls, horse drawn carriages, bicycle taxis, water taxis (by tug boat down at the river), paddle-wheel boats, and more places to sit and park your ass than a god-damned baseball stadium.
There are ghosts and spooks, historic statues and buildings, a river and marshes, tree lawns and a gazillion trees, cobble-stoned streets and marble headstones and a place to park your ass on every corner.
The cuisine of the south is nothing to chide about, southern cooking is some of the best food you’ll ever put in your mouth.
My partner and I cannot visit quaint areas very easily, because we’re currently traveling in a private bus. Forty feet in length. We generally have to make special arrangements to get into town via another route, and we do. Sometimes it’s not easy. We have small motor-bikes that we tow on the back of our bus, but occasionally we ride public transit: ferry, bus, train or what have you. I have some cool friends who will offer to chauffeur when I‘m in town.
But this is the way I ended up in Savannah, by private bus.
We parked at Skidaway Island, State Park.
From there we rode our motor-bikes to the bus stop and jumped on the Number 28 bus that runs down Water’s Avenue from the Diamond Causeway on the south, right down to Randy’s Ribs on the north.
Ignore every rib-joint in Savannah and check out Randy’s. You’ll miss it really, if you’re not careful. Look for a long line of black folks standing there waiting to get some of Randy’s ribs before he sells out. He always sells out around noon or one, so be sure to get there early, like I do. If you see a long line of black folks standing around, and one white boy standing in the middle, that white boy will most likely be me. Some of the best salmon-colored potato salad you’ll ever put in your pie hole. Sauce something golden and laden with honey on those ribs. Don’t ask for the recipe, they’ll laugh you out into the street.
We rode that damned 28 city bus all the way into town with a new friend as an escort. We were headed for the Historic District. That’s really where it’s at, however you can get around all over Savannah by bus, and I have.
The first time we got on the Water’s Avenue bus, we were the only two white people on the bus. We had never been in Savannah before, not knowing where we were going. Everyone on the bus was black and the bus was full. There was a sea of eyes that glanced our way, pretend not to notice.
dark skin,
various shades
white eyes,
bag
or scarf,
the odd tweed,
cotton
or
polyester
all staring
without much care
or
gazing out of the window,
a peek to the floor,
straight ahead or a glance towards
us,
trying
not
to
make
contact
Okay, so there we are, two gay men that don’t seem to fit, sitting on a bus and not knowing where we’re going, exactly. Dressed like we just got off the plane from Southern California;
Socks
Flip flops
Shorts
A light pull-over sweater
Sunglasses
Slight tan
Carrying what look like two black purses
that contain a Yorshire Terrier in each one.
Five pounds each.
Name Haley & Zoey, with a y.
When the bus stopped again, a pasty-white Queen named Bobby pranced aboard in pink gingham shorts and a confidence about him, grabbed a seat across from us. His skin was ghostly pale, drained of blood. After a minute or two, he looked directly at us and squeaked, ’Hey girls, where are y’all from and where are y’all goin‘?” Of course, we all started laughing and that helped to lightened us up.
If you’re southern you use the phrase: y’all. If you’re really southern and you are addressing more than two people, it’s polite to use the phrase, ‘all y’all’.
Bobby was somewhat known around Savannah for being a bit avant-garde, a bit of a flamer & perhaps a little bit sissy around the edges. He was in his early forties, but with gay men sometimes you cannot tell. But people liked him. He worked at The Men’s Warehouse way out on Abercorn part time, sizing up the male clientele and their inseams, making certain of a proper fit in the crotch while pretending to measure the length. It’s a great job for a single gay man. I’m certain many heterosexual male salesmen have tried it, too. Just to see. Maybe an extra squeeze here and a tug there, a slight adjustment, cup the man if he is particularly handsome. Or maybe just for fun. Bobby was as gay as they come, probably lives with his mother, you know the type.
I know I would cup men the very same way Bobby did. I used to sell Men’s clothes at J. Rigging’s in Chicago many, many years ago at the Fox Valley Mall in Aurora. The malls & men’s clothing stores were somewhat cruise-y back then. I once had four men hit on me at the same time. Thrilling, really. Oh to be young, but where was I?
Oh yeah… The number fourteen Abercorn bus.
You haven't really lived a full and exciting life until you've been forced to ride a city bus. Not a tour bus, a real bus. One that folks use to get around town on, mostly because they have to. Perhaps they have to go grocery shopping. They’re forced to haul their groceries and other crap home on the bus, a bit of nuisance but manageable. Some go to work by riding the bus and some, go to church, out to lunch or just out to a favorite spot for whatever reason.
It’s really a private affair, some are shamed.
And I when I say forced to ride the bus, I mean, forced. I should know, I was forced to ride that Number 14 for four months following a surgery. The historic district is a-buzz with horse and carriage, tour bus and city bus, car and bicycle, pedestrian and hearse. The spooks, ghosts and other haints don’t seem to be a bother. They allow public drinking as long as you don’t advertise and folks will park a car anywhere in Savannah. Maybe they have to stop quickly when entering one of the squares because they missed the sign, yield. Or perhaps they’ve been drinking.
In any event, I missed one of the parked cars in the middle of Bull Street and required the attention of a doctor. There’s to much to see in Savannah and if you don’t keep a steady eye, you might end up on the ground as I did.
Following a surgical procedure, ahem, I rode that damned bus out of the district twelve miles and then walked half a mile to physical therapy and back again.
It’s one thing to ride a bus here and there for shits and giggles, but until you have to ride a bus, for whatever reason, you don’t really get the flavor, feel, color and scent of riding a city bus.
Those buses can be stinky. And you had better pray to sweet Jesus that stink isn’t vomit. People get sick on the bus as they ordinarily do. Unfortunately, the bus is tight of space and scent travels. It can be pungent. Pray the driver has the air on, and the riders - deodorant or that a window or two is perched open. You won‘t want to actually stand up and open a window yourself, because then, all eyes are on you and really, it‘s best to be as inconspicuous as possible. Trouble lurks. You’ll question who you are, and why you are there. No need to call attention to yourself. Stare forward, smile and pretend not to care.
Never ride a city bus after lunch, the farts will kill you and make your eyes pop out of their sockets.
Savannah Georgia has a great bus system and I got to learn a bit about it first hand. I never did actually learn about the busses and all the crazy routes they take. I mean I learned about what it’s like to have to ride the city bus.
You really can get around the entire city by bus, sight seeing in more ways than one. I actually learned about riding on the Number 14 Abercorn Bus in Savannah as a human being, vulnerable to the whim of others, the stare, the carelessness and the crazy people that ride. Not all are crazy, but some are bat-shit crazy and certifiable, like the Bible Lady or the Neurosurgeon.
While the 28 runs Waters, The 14 runs Abercorn, and parallels the 28, sorta. The 14 runs from inside the Historic District from down around Broughton Street, or up, depending on whether your sense of direction in Savannah is any good.
Most folks get turned around.
I know I have.
Before I learned it.
I used to think north was south
…and south was north.
Finding direction can really problematic in Savannah when you’re getting on the roads and you see the sun where it shouldn’t really be, but it’s not the sun’s fault, it’s yours for getting turned around. I’ll never get used to the east coast, after living on the west coast for so many decades. The bus wanders out all over Savannah, here and there. Takes a while to get used to, if you care. The 14 Abercorn goes out & around the Oglethorpe Mall, and then past it to god knows where.
I’ve never been out there, to the far outside of Savannah, I guess names change. I don’t plan on going and neither should you. Try to stay in that district as much as possible and don’t ever go west.
I swear, the more you ride that old 14, the more you hate that damn mall it circles. It’s a waste of time while you sit and the bus circles, picking up all who travel from all four directions. It must be hell if you have to ride the bus all the way out to wherever it goes and back again. Only thing worse are transfers. If you ride you know.
We fell in love with Savannah and so, we are now living part time in the Historic District on Troupe Square. I love it there, Savannah is a great small city. If you haven't been, I highly recommend it. I wouldn’t live anywhere other than inside the Historic District. I feel safe there and the outskirts of town seem daunting, scary and gloomy - the mall is out there. Inside the district, the police station is near. The general air in the district is relaxing, casual but can be slightly formal at times. White linen can be found indoors or out. Jacket and tie are not required but nobody cares if you doll up. Gay people are welcome.
When we first fell in love with the district, we fell in love with a run-down apartment building on West Harris Street on Pulaski Square. Two Ten West Harris was the address. The Green Square. Quiet but really, why nobody has bothered to put a fountain there in that square is beyond me. There certainly are wealthy property owners on that square, across the square is Charlton Street and there are stunning homes all the way around.
I happened to call a local realtor and saw 210 West Harris while sitting on my ass, out of the back window of her black Mercedes as we flew around the square. Our realtor was rattling off who lived where, who did what, what was what and who was who in town as we drove by. She included a bit of history as we went along. She was a real southern belle and one of the top listing agents in town. Smart as a whip, blonde and can either have honey dripping off the tongue or cut to the quick. Don’t let the sparkling blue eyes fool you. She was always dressed fashionably and dripping in diamonds and jewels.
She had a deep voice and sounded somewhat like Tallulah Bankhead when she uttered those famous words,
‘I have three phobias which, could I mute them, would make my life as slick as a sonnet, but as dull as ditch water - I hate to go to bed, I hate to get up, and I hate to be alone.’
One of the other phrases Tallulah used that I just adore is,
‘I'll come and make love to you at five o'clock. If I'm late, start without me.’
The building we bought and renovated was an 1849 brick home that was converted into an apartment building in the fifties, sixties or seventies, I think. I really can’t remember. It was a real shame to break up that original grand old home with its six fireplaces. The largest two on the ground or garden level, as they are called in Savannah. They used to cook down there in those big fireplaces with cast iron. The fireplaces on the ground floor were generally the largest with smaller fireplaces upstairs. Many owned slaves in the district. There was a brick courtyard and carriage house for the horses out back. Perhaps the slaves lived there too, in the carriage house, among the horses. I’ve been in a few that have. The slaves painted the inside of the carriage house ceiling in the Owen-Thomas House a deep haint-blue. Haint is and old colloquial word for ghost, and really, blue is often used to mimic the sky. Perhaps they felt claustrophobic and trapped. That blue was used to keep the spirits out. I know I would. I really should know my history better, but I can’t remember everything. Slaves were common, accepted. I know just enough to be dangerous but you can’t trust a word I say, so don’t.
Oh, and the number 14 does not travel around Pulaski Square so it’s real quiet there, little if any traffic. To see the house we renovated & sold, you’ll have to walk.
That old Owen-Thomas house was started around 1816 and finished in 1819. That old house was originally built for a man named Richardson and was known as his house. There were several changes in owners and it’s now been left to the Telfair, however they don’t take much good care of it inside, if you ask me. They ask for donations, but really, much of the house is still in disrepair even though they charge a fortune to get in and still, they ask for more money but can’t afford a lick of sand paper or paint.
The house was originally designed by an English architect named William Jay of Bath. The house plants were drawn while Willie Jay was still in England. He sent those architectural drawings and elevations to Savannah before he even showed up there. The foundations had already been laid when he arrived. The house was to be as beautiful as those in Bath, England, aesthetically and all.
We converted our building from a dull, dark and dingy apartment building into condominiums, lovingly restored the entire building and carriage house.
The building had crack-heads living on the ground floor and four or five college girls living above. Filthy really. I counted as many as eleven cats living in that building, most on the ground floor with the crack-heads. When I walked through in contemplation of purchase, the fleas ate my legs something bad. There were two dogs left mostly alone on the third floor by the girl who lived there. The dogs had nowhere to go to the bathroom, so they did it inside that stinky apartment.
I have no idea how those people lived like that. The crack-heads had a pizza box on their kitchen table and I said to my contractor: what do you want to bet there is a pizza in there? Lifted up the lid and the pizza had gone fuzzy. We ran out of the apartment and nearly puked our guts out.
The girls upstairs in the second floor apartment had used the entire apartment as a clothes closet, nothing hung or folded. Panties, bras, socks and shoes. Piled up so high, we had to push through them. Kitchens unsightly, bathrooms a pig wouldn’t even enter. A dirty tampon in the toilet, un-flushed, perhaps it was a turd. I didn’t look that closely. Those apartments were 1,100 square feet each, that’s a lot of space to leave filthy. The carriage house was the worst. The young lady, and I use the term loosely, had a collection of rather large snakes and lizards. Some were three and four feet long. She had rats, cigarettes, cats and marijuana. She was an art student attending SCAD. The carpet was littered with all of the above, including rat turds and cat piss. Now you know what I mean about calling her a young lady.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t.
After I kicked her filthy ass out so I could renovate, she came back and laid a snotty hack from her nose and throat on the carriage house door. You could see it running fresh when I turned the corner, ran smack into her and then called her mommy who was a real estate agent in Tennessee paying her tuition at school and told her what a filthy turd her daughter was. Mother shocked, made her apologize and swear to never pass by our place again.
I kept the security deposit from all of them and they couldn’t understand why. Their contract said no painting, but all of them did. Hideous colors, too. It’s hard to hide red.
We hired and worked with a private contractor. When we were finished, the one hundred and sixty two year-old heart of pine floor was aglow, again on every level. Stripped from years of neglect, dirt, stain and Jesus knows what else.
Those floors really did look like they were on fire, when the afternoon sun hit that pine floor again, restored to its original splendor. It was a sight to see. It was the color of burnt sienna if a fire was reflecting in its finish.
High-gloss trim and high doors, painted eggshell and dove white. Bathrooms and kitchens modernized with marble and brushed nickel. Every lock, key and knob, oil-rubbed bronze. Floor to ceiling windows adorned every room and let in the lovely light from the squares. The sun dappled through the live oak and Spanish moss. I love attention to detail, don’t you?
That dirty old carriage house got stripped bare and repaired fresh and sparkling new. It had French windows and doors that looked into the courtyard. In the center of the courtyard I build a raised garden bed built of brick to match the original. I topped that raised bed with a spectacular tiered fountain and let it run slow so that it dripped like rain drops and echoed off of the courtyard walls covered in creeping fig. I finished it off with sago palms, variegated plants and flowers that bloomed white. Hydrangea, orchid, gardenia and impatiens. I added concrete and bronze urns and baskets hanging on the walls filled with white blooms and a staghorn fern as the centerpiece.
We gave the facing street a fresh look with Plantation shutters painted Savannah Green (a city ordinance that is difficult to change if the neighbors scream, and ours did), a freshly painted porch and new, old-world lighting. The neighbor next door, Gary Arthur, screamed because the shade of white I used was a tad too bright, so I had the painter repaint all the trim at my expense. It’s all in the details and the neighbors don’t like someone new coming into their town, telling them what it’s going to be like when they finish.
Gary was the lover of Mills Lane, and Mills was responsible for renovating some 40 to 45 odd houses in-town before he died. He was married at one time and may have had kids, but I honestly do not know which Mills Lane he was. Gary now is part of the Historic Society, guess they think they run everything. But this story isn’t about Gary or Mills, so I think I will pass.
I planted variegated dogwood and a purple-blooming Oklahoma Red Bud. Don’t tell me what I can and cannot plant out in front of my own property, the city encourages that you care for the tree lawn yourself, the neighbors act as if they own the entire district. I told the neighbor off. Well, actually I think Gary was a coward and sent his secretary out to chastise me.
“You can’t plant that tree, it’s not fitting of the district and you haven’t got city approval, blah, blah, blah”. I looked at her and said, your facts are incorrect and the tree stays. Tell Gary I said I’ve done my best. Chop it down, and there will be hell to pay. Besides, the over-grown sycamore in front of your property, and the enormous magnolia in back is a mess and you don’t hear me screaming. Well, do you? I love magnolias but if they’re not managed properly they turn diseased and yellow. I was forever sweeping up my courtyard, glad to have sold the property and rid myself of Gary’s damned trees.
I planted Asiatic Jasmine since it blended in, shy looking, so they should shut up, right? I added the dull and boring gray walking stones that they called blue-slate just to appease them, as if I cared. I paid Gary a fortune for those blue slates and did it just to show him I was willing to conform, somewhat. Still, they were ugly.
The Historic District of Savannah is really fun outside of the protective neighbors. There are many dog walkers. You can see it all from the bus really as it whirls around the parks & squares going slowly, the turns are sharp the streets narrow, bumpy and uneven. They‘re on a committee, self important, the neighbors. I really haven‘t got the time.
The famous squares of Savannah were first laid out in 1733, and by 1851 there were twenty-four squares in the city. In the 20th century three of the squares were demolished or altered beyond recognition which left only twenty-one. In 2010, one of the three "lost" squares, Ellis Square, rebuilt or restored. The city installed some mature live oak trees and added a water feature. Many of the residents hate the new design and claim it as too modern, however I love it. It’s a beautiful open space and once those trees double in size, it will be spectacular. There are benches of every kind in all of the squares unless I am mistaken, either a water feature or perhaps a beautiful sculpture and maybe someone buried there… as I said: the ghosts.
Most of Savannah's squares are named in honor or in memory of a person, persons or historical event, and many contain monuments, markers, memorials, statues, plaques, and other tributes. And that’s what I mean about not having to take a guided tour of the town, the writings in the squares speak for themselves.
The city of Savannah was founded in 1733 by General James Oglethorpe. The squares today are cherished and admired by many, the first squares were originally intended to provide colonists space for military exercises.
“All of the squares measure approximately 200 feet from north to south, but they vary east to west from approximately 100 to 300 feet. Typically, each square is intersected north-south and east-west by wide, two-way streets. They are bounded to the west and east by the south- and north-bound lanes of the intersecting north-south street, and to the north and south by smaller one-way streets running east-to-west and west-to-east, respectively. As a result, traffic flows one way—counterclockwise—around the squares, which thus function much like traffic circles.”
*Source: Wikipedia ‘Savannah Squares’.
The district is a long narrow area that is about half a mile wide by one and a half miles long. Don’t quote me, I seldom get my facts right. There is a beautiful respite on the south end called Forsyth Park near the Victorian District and the lovely mansions on Gaston Street, the central fountain there is stunning and beautiful.
Forsyth Place was the first large park created in Savannah. Stylistically, the park was influenced by the urban renewal of Paris in the nineteenth century, when broad boulevards and parks were created. This greatly influenced city planning throughout the industrial world--every large city in the United States was developing large city parks beginning in the 1850's. Culturally speaking, it is not insignificant that the Forsyth Park fountain was thought to be a copy of the one in the Place de la Concorde, by Hittorff, who completed two monumental fountains in that square only a few short years before Forsyth Place was created. Bull Street was thought of as a boulevard and promenade (both French terms) and the fountain served as a focal point of a long vista, all the way from the Exchange, which was City Hall. In an economic context, the park and the fountain would not have been possible if Savannah were not experiencing economic prosperity. The 1850's were the first consistently prosperous period throughout the South, which admired and emulated the high style of the French Empire.
The Fountain is a large, ornate, two-tiered cast-iron fountain surmounted by a classically robed female figure standing in extreme contrapposto, holding a rod. Water comes from this rod into the top basin. The top basin appears to be made of three successive rows of closely arranged flat leaves, around the base of which are arranged acanthus leaves. The pedestal which supports this top basin is surrounded by grasses, including cattails, and a wading bird with wings outspread. This pedestal and basin stand in another, larger octagonal pedestal and basin, into which the water overflows. It is more geometric and architectural than the top basin and pedestal, but it is also ornamented with leaves, in low relief. *Source: City of Savannah
You can see a few statues there, one is a confederate. There is a new fountain and live theatre, too.
There are over fifty species of trees planted there. There are splendid old live oak trees, magnolia, green ash, Chinese elm and fringe flower that are magnificent and quite a spectacle when in bloom. The azalea begin mid to late February and that is my favorite time in Savannah.
Perhaps there are a few hundred trees there in that one park alone, it would be impossible to count. The park is welcoming and would remind you of a very small version of Central Park, in Manhattan. Shady on hot days, sunny on cold. Most love to sit in that park either on a bench or in the green grass perhaps under the canopy in the shade of a splendid Ginkgo.
The Number 14 Abercorn bus runs along side the rather blah, but still-lovely Daughter’s of the American Revolution Cemetery. Sign reads: DAR. Used to be called The Colonial Cemetery, over 700 residents dead from Yellow Fever.
It dominates a large section between Oglethorpe Avenue on the north and East Perry Street on the south. Abercorn Street to the West and Habersham on the East. The bus runs along-side of it. Sometimes it’s nice to sit on your ass and reflect on the open space and the dead while waiting for the 14, or ride past gazing out from the bus windows, while sitting on your ass. There are many benches inside the cemetery, or perhaps you’ll sit on the lawn while you admire the dead.
The cemetery contains the people of Savannah who were buried between 1750-1853. Many fled the city in panic, but the yellow fever caught many unguarded. It came in stages. Stage One: early symptoms with sudden onset lasting about two to five days with high fever, rapid pulse followed by slow pulse, bloodshot eyes, furry tongue, nausea, vomiting, constipation and headache. There was reduced urination, it was painful. I’m sure mother’s screamed, cried and agonized over their loved ones, once stricken, the end in sight.
Stage Two: a brief remission stage lasting hours or days followed by hope and then dashed by,
Stage Three: The yellow phase which lasted from three to nine days. Symptoms to include; liver inflammation, yellow eyes, yellow skin, red blood and black vomit, high fever, weakness, kidney and renal damage, bleeding from mucous membranes and into the skin. A rotting from within. Some called it the consumption, but I am not a doctor.
There was confusion, delirium, convulsions and coma followed by death.
On the far outskirts of town is the famous and very large, Bonaventure Cemetery with stories, and ghost stories and more stories and more ghosts than you could ever shake a stick at. Savannah claims to be the most-haunted city in America, been on television many times, cited as such. The Bonaventure Cemetery was known in the famous book:
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil a non-fiction work by author John Berendt. Published in 1994, the book was Berendt's first, and became a The New York Times bestseller for two hundred and sixteen weeks following its debut. But don’t quote me, facts elude.
The book was subsequently made into a 1997 movie, directed by Clint Eastwood and based loosely on Berendt's story. If you haven’t read it, you must. You will get the feel, the flavor and the cadence of Savannah by reading John’s words. It’s more beautiful than a painting, if not, disturbing and downright gruesome.
Danny Hansford is buried in section 8 of Greenwich Cemetery, next to the more famous Bonaventure Cemetery. He’s accused of taunting Jim Williams, a famous antiques dealer and local celebrity according to some, used him for his money. Danny stands trial to this day, never to have bee tried, all hearsay, he‘s dead and cannot speak for himself in a court of law. He was shot to death in the study of the famous Mercer House on
Bull street, allegedly by Jim Williams. I say allegedly because Jim was acquitted of the murder. Some will say it’s true, but he was tried four times and released.
The famous Johnny Mercer once lived in the mansion, famous for many songs and lyrics, among my favorites, Moon River, The Shadow Of Your Smile and The Days of Wine and Roses.
Danny was known to have been popular with the ladies as well as the gentlemen, was known for wearing tight jeans and a white t-shirt to show off his muscular build.
Rumor has it, Danny haunts Savannah to this very day. It’s hard to tell the difference between the two cemeteries, they converge upon one another. And, as rumor has it, Danny’s spirit remains restless. He was described as high-maintenance, a hustler, male escort, alleged drug dealer and user. He was perhaps a bit narcissistic and made rather vociferous and threatening demands on Jim Williams.
Williams had bought Danny a car, given him money, and paid him off, but Danny never did really appreciate the opportunities presented to him. Perhaps he was just a dumb male prostitute, a gigolo by trade. Full of life, young in spirit and never to die, if you believe in restless souls, now put down to word and film. But as they say, ‘only the good die young‘. And sometimes, the not so good.
Judge George Oliver from the Williams trial was quoted as saying that he believed Jim Williams had shot Hansford in cold blood. Then he added that Hansford was "trouble with a capital T" and that "sometimes, people just need killing." At least, that was what the rumor was, or was it in the paper? He’s probably not the type of southern judge I would want to decide my fate.
And then there was Minerva, a shadowed and spooky voodoo priestess in Savannah, told them that ‘to understand the living, one must commune with the dead.’ As rumor has it she did, she tried to commune with the dead spirit of Danny and asked him to forgive Jim, but it must not have worked because Jim was found dead not too long after the fourth trial and acquittal. Some say Danny got even, John Berendt’s book may allude as such.
John Berendt covered the parties, the people, researched the murder and put it all down in his book. You can read it there, it’s in black and white, worthy of the effort. I recommend it, highly.
If you’re so inclined, you might even take a ride out to the Bonaventure Cemetery, but don’t go looking for the famous statue of, ‘Bird Girl’. She’s not there, having been moved to the Telfair Museum at Telfair Square, was nearly unnoticed before the book. If you’ve read the book, Midnight, or have seen the film, it’s worth the price of admission at the museum, just to see her standing there, away from prying hands and perhaps the restless. So much attention drawn to her, now seemingly safe. And certainly solemn.
The Bonaventure Cemetery is large and is nearly one hundred and sixty acres. You can enter at 330 Bonaventure Road and see for yourself. The cemetery is filled with history, art and a splendid garden there along the Wilmington River, salt marsh and islands of the river. I don’t know how many people are actually buried in that cemetery, and I was not able to find out, but I will tell you that with a cemetery of that size, including the one adjacent, it’s shit-loads.
Enclosed within those vaults, crypts and pluts are Pulitzer Prize-winning poets, politicians, plantion proprietors, publishers, soldiers and a singer-songwriter who is pretty famous among those of us who are at least in the fifty set.
The cemetery is located on land that originally was a plantation owned by John Mullryne, several hundred years old.
You really can see Savannah on your ass. You can flit between the bus, jump on and off as they offer a transfer. The businesses and residents, shops and restaurants surround the historic squares and myriad of fountains, flowers, Spanish moss & architectural adornments. The homes are old, they’re beautiful by day or by night.
The Savannah Historic District is a National Historic Landmark. It is significant for its 18th and 19th century architecture. Many of the buildings and homes are designed in the Georgian, Greek Revival, and Gothic styles. Notable buildings include the Owens-Thomas House built in 1818 (Oglethorpe square), the Beaux-Arts style Edmund Molyneux Mansion circa 1917 (Bull Street), the Spencer Woodbridge House built in 1795 (Habersham Street), and the 1853 Gothic Revival Greene House (Madison Square). Important sites associated with the African American community in the district include Beach Institute (East Harris St.), constructed in 1865 as the city's first black school, and the King-Tisdell Cottage (East Harris St.), the 1896 home of a working-class African American family.
*Source: http://www.cr.nps.gov/nr/travel/geo-flor/1.htm
Sometimes I like to walk around Savannah in the early evening. You can see inside the homes really well, they appear to be glowing in the evening air. A sneak peak really, and a bit of voyeurism never hurt anyone. You might catch a glimpse of the people inside, and imagine what their life is like. The chandeliers are most likely stunning and you can catch a glimpse or two. The colors of the interior walls ochre, rose, sage, olive, pale blue or gray lit by the chandeliers and candelabra. Gas lamps still flicker in the district and it has an old world feeling. Many porch ceilings are painted various shades of blue from periwinkle to turquoise and perhaps to reflect the sky. Some say the ceilings are painted blue to keep the spirits away and you will see many doors painted red or black for the same reason. The devil lurks as do the various ghosts and haints - ’Haint’ is a Southern colloquialism for ghosts, apparitions, or lost souls. You can sit on the porch steps that lead to the front door and rest a spell, nobody will really care. People wander here and there.
Horse and carriages trot through the squares of Savannah, have done so for hundreds of years. Their shit and piss creates a stench in the summer heat, humidity will kill you. If you’ve never been to Savannah in June, July or August, it’s like walking into a furnace with the dirty feeling of living at the bottom of a wet hamper. I worked on renovating West Harris one summer and I don’t advise it. Take my word and stay away during the fetid months. It’s an offense to the senses and you will leave Savannah cursing as you go.
I always feel sorry for the horses clip clopping around the squares and I let the carriage drivers and tourists know my disdain. How would you like to pull a carriage full of ten to twenty fat people fanning themselves, eating ice cream and ignoring your plight? The poor horses are wet, soaked in sweat. Next time you go to jump a carriage, think about that twice. How would you like it?
You can easily find shrimp and grits, fried green tomatoes and lobster bisque with sherry around town. Food so good that won’t remind you of yo’ own momma’s cookin’. And when those fried green tomatoes meet a spicy remoulade sauce, it’s enough to make a grown man cry.
My mouth is watering just thinking about it.
There are a lot of fat people wandering around Savannah. Many are riding the Number 14 in search of Paula Deen’s Restaurant, The Lady & Sons. But don’t go looking for Paula, chances are she’s not there. I heard the restaurant was very good at one time when Paula was actually in the kitchen and running it herself, but now it doesn’t have a very good reputation among many of the locals that I have talked to. In fact, I walked through the restaurant, twice. The buffet table was small and very ordinary. The chicken looks like it came out of a frozen box before it was fried. I think I saw one that was square, might have imagined. I was told the beans and corn in the warming trays are straight out of a can, fat-back added. But don’t trust me, thousands upon thousands line up to catch the site and perhaps, sit down on their asses to enjoy some of that butter and fat.
Paula, if you’re reading this, please don’t get mad at me sugar, as I am also one of your most-adoring fans and have watched you on television ever since you first began nervously with those first shows that opened with the eggs and all. I love me some Paula. Call me up girl, and we’ll sit a spell and sip a Mint Julep, you can chew my ass out for the bad words.
Everyone says that Mrs. Wilkes’s Dining Room is the place to eat, and I have. And it‘s one of the best. It’s excellent and I highly recommend it if you are ever in the city. Don’t listen to those who talk of Johnny Harris b’cuz it’s old and dirty and dingy inside. The food tastes like it came out of cardboard. Dried up looking. A fried crust that isn’t recognizable as breading. The shrimp are Bay. Hardly worth it. It’s not even in the historic district and you can’t get there easily on the Number 14. Some like it, but not me.
Nope. You’ll simply have to trust me on this one and go to Mrs. Wilkes Dining Room. It’s been in operation since before World War II when Mrs. Wilkes had a boarding house and began feeding folks her special southern dishes. The table is served family style. The well-trained staff efficiently whisk a heap-load of prepared dishes to your table where you will be seated with many other people. You pass the dishes from one end to the other and back again. More food than you could ever eat. The tabletops are crowded with platters of fried chicken and cornbread dressing, sweet potato soufflé, black-eyed peas with ham, okra gumbo, corn muffins and biscuits just to name a few. Really, your eyes will nearly pop out of their sockets when you see the presentation.
Menu changes daily so regulars can have something different
every day.
One man named Craig Claiborne wrote, “The Buttermilk Chicken, Corn Pudding, and the biscuits was one of the greatest things, ever, to happen, in his life.”
It’s not too hard to find the dining room, as long as you’re walking along Jones Street somewhere in the neighborhood of Jones & Whitaker Street. If you’re there between 9 and 1, you’ll find it easily by the crowd and long line down Jones and around the corner on Whitaker. If you’re there before that, or after 2 you would miss it if you blinked. It’s just below street level on Jones. If you go there on the weekends, you’ll be sorry to learn that there’s nobody there, and if you’re lucky enough to spot the place, you wouldn’t know it was so good. No sign until recently, still hard to find. I’ve been there and sometimes I can’t even find the place. Nope, trust me and go on a weekday between nine and one or you’ll be sorry.
Selma Wilkes ran that old boarding house since 1943. Smell of hushpuppies & collards. Food so good it attracted local color, nuts & kooks. One Spanish Civil War veteran used to ride his tricycle to the dining room and ate there every day for three decades. The cook staff prepare the simple meals, comfort food. You’ll be surprised to find that the spices are simple, salt & pepper, really. Food the way your great grandmother prepared it, perhaps. One of the cooks, Mildred Capers, judged the doneness of her fried chicken by the sound of the oil in the fryer. Some say Mrs. Wilkes was in that kitchen at ninety-four years of age, made sure it ran smooth.
I’ll say one thing more about it, and then no more-
Fried chicken, beef stew, sausage and meatloaf. Cabbage, snap peas, macaroni and cheese, butter beans, snap beans, black-eyed peas, and okra. Rutabaga, squash, mashed potatoes, candied yams, pickled beats and red rice. Okra and tomato salad, potato salad, apple salad, brown rice, baked beans, English peas and noodles.
Dessert is soon to come. Perhaps a banana pudding.
You did leave room, didn‘t you?
My other absolutely favorite restaurants are:
1. Soho South Café on Liberty Street, west side. The restaurant is owned by Bill and Bonnie Retsas. The food there is not only a work of art, but you get a large portion and make sure you have your camera with you to take a picture before you take a bite. It’s that beautiful. Many will tell you about the food there and when you walk in, the smell is intoxicating. Unusual. It’s a lunch or late lunch café. They close around 4 in the afternoon, so don’t expect to go for late dinner. The building is an old garage, don’t let the Bohemian décor fool you, sit in the middle of the café if you can and make sure to catch the local color. Bill and Bonnie serve an exquisite Sunday Brunch, but if you get there late, the wait is unbearable, the restaurant will be packed full and you will be sorry once you see those eggs Benedict topped with sauce and crab. I eat there at least once a week. The Seared Ahi Tuna Niçoise salad is simply the best you’ll ever have. Bonnie, if you’re reading this, a big hug for you.
Bonnie’s salads are so beautiful they ought to be professionally photographed, Everything is made from scratch, the freshness of the food is outrageous. The desserts are worth the visit, alone. Bonnie’s attention to detail and generous portions are worth the rather long wait for a perfect meal. It’s Savannah, honey… some call it Slow-vannah, so you just sit down, hush yo’ mouth, wait for Bonnie to serve you. I promise it’s a real treat.
2. Saigon on Broughton street for Thai Vietnamese is simply the best. Ignore others, trust me on this one. I go with my partner and we share dishes. We always get Thai spring rolls with shrimp. They are hand made. We adore the chilled and crispy Som Tom - Papaya Salad with shredded papaya, tomatoes and crushed peanuts with a sweet garlic sauce served on a bed of iceberg lettuce. The Tom Ka - Coconut soup is exquisite. We always share an order of Angel Wings which is chicken stuffed with ground pork, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts, served with sweet chili sauce. Their yellow curry is outrageous and one of my favorite dishes is the Banh Xeo - Vietnamese Pancake. which is a very authentic dish consisting of a thin rice flour pancake (ask for it blackened or a bit crispy) stuffed with shrimp, pork, bean sprouts, and diced, sauteed onions, served with a side of romaine leaves, sliced cucumber, cilantro, and a seafood vinaigrette. What you do is, wrap banh xeo in Romaine leaves with cucumber slices and cilantro, then dip in the dressing. Mouthwatering. The Chef’s recipes are authentic and so is the family.
Other favorite restaurants are: The Shrimp Factory, The Cotton Exchange and Vic’s on the River. If you have a lot of time, you might try the Pink House. I call it the Stink House, food way above average. The building is pink and hard to miss. Formal-ish and pricey.
The Cotton Exchange has the best fried grit-cake smothered in an onion-cream sauce with prawns and Andouille (French pronunciation: [ɑ̃duj]; English: /ɑːnˈdwiː/ ahn-dwee) Sausage. It is a coarse-grained smoked meat made using pork, pepper, onions, wine and seasonings. The word Andouille is French in origin. It was brought to the United States via Louisiana by French immigrants. The sausage is most-often associated with Cajun cooking. It’s very Gullah or Creole.
Just north of Broughton and running parallel are Bay Street & River Street, respectively. River street, of course, runs along the river. The trolley runs there and around town, the streets are so old, cobblestone that anybody could break neck or twist an ankle, easily. The steps and walkways narrow, short steps and tall. There’s one set of steps that lead from the east end of Bay Street down to the river that are so precarious, and so steep, that you could get killed walking down them slowly, while holding the handrail, supported by two others. It’s that dangerous. I’m surprised there isn’t a pile of old ladies and skulls at the bottom laying on those cobblestones.
River Street is bustling on most days with The Savannah Candy stores, and myriad of restaurants and bars. Savannah might be a little bit dangerous at night, so check with your hotel staff before venturing out. I am in at night and out in the day, but that‘s me.
There’s a rather lovely bridge there just east along the river. I rode over it one time on my Yamaha scooter. As I was speeding up onto the bridge, going about fifty, sign says: No motorcycles. By the time I read the sign, I was actually up on the bridge and half way across it. I learned quickly why the sign said not to take motorcycles because I nearly shit my pants and was practically scared to death. The view from up on top of that high-arched bridge is spectacular when coming over it from South Carolina, you get to see the Savannah city skyline. Don’t avert your attention from the road for too long, the drop is far, the suspension is high, the center is arched and the truckers drive like mother fucking assholes over that fucking bridge and could care less if some cute and adorable gay man like me is tootling along on his scooter: beep, beep. I damn near got killed on that thing. They ought to move that damned sign where a person could see before it’s too late.
City planning not so great. City council, questionable. Otis Johnson, Mayor. One time I called the police and they never did respond. Another time, they just knocked on my door to warn me about a neighborhood theft of small scooters, never asked.
So anyway, my partner and I rode the Number 14 Abercorn city bus from time to time when it was raining, mostly for fun. There‘s nothing like grabbing your umbrella in a downpour and running down the block, up and over two, trying to catch the next bus. If you miss it, you have to wait until another one comes along and that can be a long, long, long and boring time. What the schedule says and what actually happens can be two different things.
I can’t tell you the number of times we jumped on the bus and rode out to the outskirts of town, shopped at Publix, Fresh Market, Haverty’s, Best Buy, Pier One Imports or to check on something new. Return trip carrying loads of bags, orchids in our arms from Fresh Market - Phalenopsis Orchid. I have a penchant for orchids, can’t resist them. There is a golden yellow phal’ with a raspberry throat that I cannot pass up. I know I can carry that cotton pickin’ orchid home on that bus because I have been known to schlep a bathrobe from one end of Manhattan to the other and back again, in New York City. I love to shop, if I have to have it, I’ll carry it anywhere and everywhere until I get it home. Don’t try and tell me I can’t, makes me want it more.
Our kitchen table in Savannah is really a display table for books, orchids, candles and French china. Tony uses it as his desk, writes checks, glances over bills and works on his laptop. It’s an enormous round black table with one of those heavy bases and thick tops. It’s gorgeous. I cluster a group of about a dozen orchids just off center and it’s dazzling and colorful. The morning sun streams into the kitchen and it looks alive.
I like to sit in the living room, legs splayed up over my favorite chair, a view of French doors, marble balcony, urns & potted plants with a view of Charlton Street, live oak & magnolia. In the spring there are apple blossoms in bloom in Troup Square and freshly planted flowers. It’s one of the most beautiful squares in Savannah. It’s located on Habersham between Charlton and Harris Street. It was laid out in 1851. It was named after George Michael Troup, Congressional Representative, Governor, and Senator. There was only one other square, Washington Square, named for a person who was alive when so honored. You can sit in that square and wave to me as I wave back at you, there. Call up a yoo-hoo and I might be there.
On the West side of the square there are the high-stoop McDonough Row Houses, built in 1882 that were the object of one of the first historic restoration efforts in the 1960s when federal funds became available for historic preservation activities.
Kennedy Row, low stoop brick houses on the West side of the square, were built in 1872 and also rehabilitated in the Troup Square Renewal Project.
On the West side of the square, there is a dog fountain that was reinstalled in the 1980s.
The Armillary Sphere in the center of the square was created in the 1970s and represents an ancient astronomical device, adorned with signs from the Zodiac.
*Source: City of Savannah
There should be a fountain in that square, but nobody ever asked me. You would think the people that’s lived there for so long would want one, wouldn’t you? Bunch of kooks and eccentrics.
One of the most difficult things I’ve done was to get an orchid home on the Number 14 without knocking off a bud, or breaking stem. One time I carried three tall phalenopsis orchids home, in full bloom.
When I stepped on the bus,
the driver stepped on the gas,
nearly sending the scared
and frightened orchid to the floor,
and me along with it.
If you stare directly into a Phalenopsis, they do appear to be somewhat frightened, anyway. You must be very gentle with them because they scare easily.
Savannah gets tremendous wonderful and blustery
spring thunderstorms & summer down pours.
The thunder, lightening and wind can be spectacular. Tornado warnings, not uncommon.
Savannah's streets in-town are not very-well suited for drainage and the streets are often flooded as high as the side of an average car. A surprise when driving fast.
Many of the streets are cobble-stoned and the curb and drainage is poor at best.
Since we only have our Yamaha Vinos for in-town travel, it makes for some cold, windy and wet bike rides. So, we opt for the bus from time to time. It was Tony's suggestion really, and I have to say it's always an adventure, great fun and a wild jaunt when riding on a city bus.
I am a people watcher. I grew up with parents who made fun of everyone with great ridicule, nobody was safe. Of course, they were just, ‘observing’.
My parents loved sit just and watch the world go by, odd characters did not go unnoticed.
Perhaps I inherited my people watching skills from them, a bit snarky myself. Why lie? I really work on decorum and kindness, but not always. I passed fifty years ago and have found the older I get, the more real I tend to be. I call it like I see it. Some don’t like it, but that’s tough shit.
We usually ride the Number 14 Abercorn on rainy days, orchids love to follow me home and they are generally happy in the rain and cling to me in a mock of epiphytic style.
We started riding the bus to get about on rainy days, and more-frequently on cold days to avoid shopping at the dreadful district Kroger, a grocer and deli that I have likened to a third world market, or worse. It’s secretly laughed at by upscale residents who call it the Monkey Market because at one time, it was known as the M&M Market, owned by someone with the last name beginning with the letter: M. I can’t remember the name for the life of me,
But the name: Monkey Market, sticks.
The uppity white people inside the district snicker because the Monkey Market has entirely black employees.
It’s so bad, the attitude there, that I’ve actually written a letter to the Kroger/Safeway chain, chastising them for shame that they would put anyone through shopping in their dirty and sometimes cockroach infested store. Don’t let them lie and tell you it’s cockroach free, I’ve brought cockroaches home in paper bag or clinging to the inside of cardboard. If you buy a case of water there, you had better check it when you get home, before you bring those hideous cockroaches inside.
I bought a chicken there and when I got it home and went to roast it, cut open the plastic - the smell nearly made me vomit. Lord knows how old that damned smelly chicken was. But I can tell you it’s not worth writing a letter, they don’t seem to pay attention, care or get what I am trying to tell them.
In fact, the Monkey Market is so bad, that I prefer to ride twelve miles out of town to Publix or Fresh Market. The employees at the Monkey Market seem to have a below-below average IQ or dislike customers like me.
Rumor has it, they dislike the white customers. I’ve been treated abhorrently there. Waited for thirty minutes once for half a pound ham and a quarter of a pound of cheese. You can see the staff eye you from the corners of their sockets, rumor has it: reverse discrimination. Whatever it is, it’s bad. So I said to the deli service gal: I’d like half pound of the baked ham please.
Service Girl: We ain’t got none-ah dat.
Me: It’s right there, right in front.
Service Girl: Oh, dats what we’s call boil’d.
Me: Half a pound, please and may I have a quarter of a pound of the Emmental cheese?
Service Girl: We ain’t got none-ah dat.
Me: It’s right here in front, see here? *points
Service Girl: Oh dat, we calls dat impoted.
Me: yes, I can see that it says it’s imported right on the label, thank you.
So, I hate the Monkey Market and prefer to ride the Number 14 Abercorn out the twelve miles to Fresh Market.
I simply adore the fresh market. I smile at the thought of going there. It‘s eye candy, really. If you haven’t been to one, you must. Employees of every ethnicity, kind and friendly they seem to know what they‘re talking about. If not, management makes certain to help. I’m friendly with all of the employees and they love me and call my name when I walk into their department.
Hey Steve, how you doin’? Only they say ‘hey’ in a long, drawn-out southern drawl so it comes out more like: haaaaaaaaaaaaaay.
And I respond in exaggerated slang that makes them giggle: Well, alright Ebony, how you, girl-fren? And Jimmy, sugar, how they treatin’ you around here? Your flowers look fresh & gorgeous and have you been back to the church you quit last couple of months ago? No? They’re really that hypocritical? Well, you know how fake church folks are.
Hey Raspberry, what’s shakin’ babe.
She winks at me, ‘Hey sugar, you sweet thang, where yer little Puppy Zoey?’
And I respond, She’s right here in my little basket, Raspberry. Would you like to say hi to Zoey? And she does and we laugh and giggle and gossip like school girls because, really? I love my little Raspberry. Eyes sparkle like a sly old cat. Her smile is infectious, she’ll glance at you sideways with those eyes of hers, perhaps a flirt, perhaps not. Shy, but with a spark to life. She don’t know where she wants to go in life, too young.
You get that rental car you want for your birthday? No? Awe, why not girl?
And,
How are all y’all?
We doin’ good. But be careful in Savannah, if someone says, ‘well bless your heart’ that means: Go fuck yourself. No two ways about it.
When you walk into a Fresh Market, it looks like a flower stand in Paris. There are orchids piled on tables in every shape, color and size. Oncidium to phalenopsis, cymbidium, dendrobium, epidendrum, and perhaps, even the Dingle bell orchid: Harrisella porrecta.
I absolutely love a nice dingle bell, don’t you?
There are enormous flower buckets filled with colorful and exotic flowers from lilies to allium, gerbera daisy to roses. Oh,
they have a lovely display of stunning roses in every color you can imagine for eight ninety nine. It’s a great price and if you snip the base, change the water daily and add a packet of flower food, (I grab gobs of packets & keep them in my kitchen drawer) you can make a bouquet of really good roses and all types of flowers last, for a week. I have been known to snip them down within a quarter of an inch of their life, and place them bunched up in a small water glass, in and out of the refrigerator for another week. A stunning presentation for afternoon cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. I love flowers.
I have been collecting specimen plants for over 32 years.
Don’t make the mistake most people do in calling a Gerbera daisy, a ‘Gerber’ daisy. People like me will giggle & snicker behind your back and consider you ‘flower ignorant‘. Learning the hybrid names & common names will get you far with flower experts, just don’t call an oncidium an onkadidium or you’ll never ever be expected to remember specimen names like Aeonium of the family Crassulaceae or Tillandsia adpressiflora.
And you certainly don’t want that now, do you?
And then it happened one day that I broke my shoulder and was forced to ride the Number Fourteen Abercorn bus out to see my surgeon for the myriad of procedures, x-rays, prescriptions, follow-up visits and the dreaded five months of physical therapy.
On a fucking bus.
With a broken shoulder.
In agonizing pain and usually hopped up on morphine in the form of Dilaudid.
Damn that shoulder.
But as with anything, you learn a few tricks, have a bit of fun because life is what you make of it, or so they say. I actually learned to whip up a new cocktail since I wasn’t supposed to actually drink wine while I was hopped up on dilaudid. But what the heck does the doctor know? I generally go to doctors for a second opinion after I have already diagnosed myself.
So, I go without wine in the evenings for a week or two, because honestly, I’m in so much pain post surgery that it’s all I can do to keep from crying. But that gets old and tiresome and I invented a great new drink.
You take sparkling water and add fresh grapefruit juice and ice to it, right? Then you add a smidgen of vodka. Ah. It’s very refreshing and you can have one or two of those and not even really get the effects of vodka, mostly because it’s such a tiny amount and you’re already talking to yourself while hopped up on…
Dilaudid.
Next thing you know, I am not drinking sparkling water with grapefruit juice and a splash of vodka, I am now drinking vodka over ice with grapefruit juice and a splash of water. I start adding a lemon twist to fend off scurvy and keep my lips fresh and puckered. After a cocktail with dilaudid I start too look rather handsome in the mirror and begin to forget about my tradgedy.
And I will tell you what, dilaudid is much more enjoyable when you’re in excruciating pain in the late afternoons & evenings when you’re adding a bit of grapefruit juice to your diet, splashed generously with vodka.
Eventually the vodka didn’t thrill me enough, so I switched to gin. At least gin has flavor where vodka, there really isn’t much. I enjoy a nice potato vodka, but beyond that it’s all crap. There’s nothing like Hendrick’s gin and after that, Bombay Sapphire will do nicely. Depends on whether you like juniper or cucumber. I happen to like both.
Gin & oxycodone is a lovely combination when you’re in agony because you can actually talk to yourself out loud and then, answer your own thoughts and questions. I talked to myself out loud for days on end and I’m not positive but I think I even drooled a bit. It’s a great way to spend time recuperating. -End Part 1
How To See Savannah On Your Ass
and Riding The Number 14 Abercorn Bus
Savannah,Georgia, Part II
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It’s not as much fun riding the Number 14 Abercorn when you’re smoked on dope and moving about in agony. The first time I got on the bus with my arm in a sling, the damned driver stepped on the gas as I was depositing my quarters into his thingy and nearly knocked me into the pole thingy and center aisle. I could barely stand up as it was, no need for him to accelerate.
You would think that just about any dumb-ass driving a bus could see when someone gets on wearing a black sling around their shoulder when they‘ve got on a white t-shirt. Wouldn’t you? But as time went on, I notice the bus drivers mostly couldn’t give a shit about anything, knocking old ladies and gentlemen, cane and boot, wheel chair or crutches about with reckless abandon.
Most of the bus drivers drive like idiots. The fat ones eat while they drive, they rush from stop to stop, take a bite of fat and step on the gas agin. They are at a stop sign, right? The light turns green and they speed up to the next intersection like the devil is chasing them, and then stomp holy hell on those brakes knocking the poor and the helpless about without so much as a deep breath or an ‘are you okay, hun?’.
I learned quickly that you had better tell that bus driver that you’re an invalid and you need time to seat yourself, and then you had better make a mad dash to the first available seat and avoid the staring eyes, and plant yourself fast as you can because even after you tell the bus driver of your extraordinary injury, they still cannot comprehend what you have told them.
They must have brain like a sieve, and only process the words like: duh and uh.
And you better pray to sweet Jesus that they don’t talk to you because honestly? You can’t understand a word they say when the bus is still or even over the roar of that engine, slamming door or screeching brakes.
“What’s dat?
You a transfer out?”
Whay you say you’se goin’?
What?
Huh?
So, Y’all had better sit down quick like and shut the fuck up. Bus drivers tend to mumble because they’re thinking about their business and could care less about yours. Sometimes they’re eating a sandwich, who knows what. Must get pretty tiresome dealing with all those people, questions and their desires.
So, I am sitting on the bus, smiling because I’m hopped up on dope when a woman sitting across from me starts up a conversation. She’s a fifty-ish year old black lady with flowers I her hair, dressed modestly and she asks, where am I goin’t and I reply: Broke my shoulder, on my way to physical therapy when she screams: Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey chile, that soun’ awful. Jess awful! And she slaps her black hand down on her knee cap, snaps her neck up with a jerk and says:
I’m on my way to class at da co-mu-niky college, learnin’ me to be a doctor, I is gwoinah be ay …
N E U R O S U R G E O N
‘Yep, that’s what I’ma gwoinah be once I get my de and gree.’
So I relax a bit and I say excitedly: Oh! How wonderful! I just love the fact that older people are still going to college & getting degrees. I think it’s just great.
Her eyes widen at the word: older and she scrunches up her mouth and nose, eyes come together and she stares at me funny.
Then all at once she switches back to me and she says: What did you say happen wiff you? And I tell her about my shoulder surgery and how I now have a titanium humorous, replaced the ball in the socket, bone shattered & broke in half, snapped and exploded riding that damned Yamama scooter, car parked in the middle of the road, I didn’t see it until it was too late.
*curses that euphoric ride.
And she looks at me and she says:
Titain-ur-um?
Tita-lay-bium?
Tit-a-roonium?
What you say dat is?
And then it dawns on me, she isn’t going to be a
N E U R O S U R G E O N
She’s a…fifty one fifty.
A kook.
A nut.
A nut Ball.
A nut job.
A whack head and a bit
light in the brain.
Mental case.
Certifiable.
So I figure who cares anyway, and I chat her up, engage her and we laugh, share some fun and laugh a lot. Only when she laughs, she can’t seem to stop laughing and she hoots and hollers, slaps her knees and stomps her feet like she’s never heard anything funnier in her entire life… even if it’s not really that funny. It doesn’t appear that she can stop laughing once she starts.
And she’s got her school tutor on her lap. And then I glance around the bus and I get a bit paranoid because I am sitting there, hopped up on dope, riding the Number Fourteen and I am the only white boy aboard (slightly tanned) wearing flowered lady’s shorts from Fresh Produce, (straight cut - metro sexual) white socks with flip flops, and a white t-shirt. I’m not really certain where my stop is and I don’t want to miss it and ride that damned bus all the way out, when I start to wonder
just
who
else
on
the
bus
is
a:
Fifty
one
fifty,
…when I catch the attention of another black lady dressed immaculately in traditional cloistered nuns' clothing: tunic, leather belt and cleric‘s collar. She did not wear a scapular or anything like that, however she had a bible in her hand and she held it up and blocked the face of the man to her left with it. She held it there for a long time, switching hands from time to time when the blood flow slowed, and then she pointed the bible at one or two other people on the bus and never removed her gaze, downward up to meet any face, except for a quick glance at where to point that Bible.
Not a wrinkle to her face, hair jet black appeared to be oiled, pulled back tightly in a bun, face a pretty rose, orange, autumn and ochre - clothing starched and ironed, shoes not a scuff. Pressed lips. The Book to match.
Not a stitch out of place, she reeked of perfection. The gold cross around her neck, near-blinding. Settled with The Lord.
The woman next to her looked at me, suppressed a giggle and then shrugged.
I smiled, and then made a face: clueless.
Then all at once the ’nun’ bolted upright with a jolt and held her bible to the ventilation system at the back of the bus, nervously glanced up and around her Word and as I quickly glanced to where she was pointing, saw what she saw.
A
big,
fat,
fucking,
Cock-
roach.
It was running in and out of the ventilation system and Sister was using The good Book as shield, perhaps to ward off the evil, the devil or maybe she just hated cockroaches.
It was difficult to tell.
I saw her on the bus from time to time, and inquired about her. One woman told me she’s seen that cloistered woman walk into White Castle carrying that bible, walk up to the counter and shove a note at the employees that reads:
sm. coke
2 sliders cheese
sm. fries.
And when she wants more of something, perhaps ketchup, she sends a note back their way, never speaking a word. Ketchup’s right there on the counter but she prefers to be served. Or perhaps:
refill
‘Say, weren’t you on this same bus the other day ‘nd day b’fore that?’
One of the ladies inquires.
‘I remember you, the one carrying all them orchid plants, how on earth you got them home in one piece, I’ll never know, but they was real pretty.’
One time I went to sit down quickly before the driver could step on the gas and try to kill me and a lady screamed:
ACK!
No!
Stop!
Don’t sit there!
And just before my ass dusted the seat, I shot up and looked around to where she was pointing. Someone had peed all over the bus seat.
I swear, you really have to be careful when riding those damned busses or you could sit in pee, shit, puke, candy, gum or who knows what.
And so little by little, I acquaint myself with the various characters on the Number Fourteen. I figure them to just be about the same as
me, perhaps wanting the same basic things in life, trying to remain quiet during their ride and get off at the desired stop. They’ll utter a quick hello or ignore you all completely. Some will engage. I like to talk to people that I meet when I am out and about in public, private at home.
I’m fine. Really, I am fine. When all of the sudden the man behind me says,
Hey!
Hey!
Hey, you!
…taps on the back of my seat, kicks it a bit, whistles and blows. I ignore him hoping he’ll go away or disappear at the next stop.
Keeps it up until I can‘t stand it any longer. So I turn around suddenly and say:
WHAT!
But I say WHAT! So abruptly that even he is shocked that he nearly jumps out of his seat and I am embarrassed at my anger.
We’re both surprised and he says,
‘ is you a cop?’
..and I say, NO! I AM NOT A COP!
And he says, ‘is you sho you not wiff da po-lice, da gov-a-ment or da FB&Eye?
And I say again, no, I am not with the government, I‘m not a cop, and I would know if I was. But I’m not.And then I ask him, Why did you think I was a cop?
And he says, because the minute you got on the bus, everybody got quiet. So I said, yes, I seem to have that effect on people wherever I go and promptly got off with relief at the next stop.
Whew lawzy me and praise Jesus, that was close. I must be a magnet for the fifty one fifties.
One time I was waiting for the 14 in a location that had a lot of trees. If the bus driver doesn’t see you, you run the risk of being left for dead on the side of the road, praying another bus will come along but it doesn’t for over an hour. That happened to me once. I waited over and hour and twenty minutes for the bus that runs ever twenty minutes. So, I positioned myself between the trees so I could watch the traffic light change from red to green and back again. The minute it turned red, and the flow of traffic stalled, I would walk out into the middle of Abercorn where the speed limit is forty five, and stand there and see if I could stare down Abercorn and see if that damned bus wasn’t coming. When the light turned green again, I hopped back on the curb and waited for red. All of the sudden, five police squad cars pull up to inquire what I am doing, standing there in the middle of Abercorn in the forty five zone with a broken shoulder, pacing back and forth in the middle of the road like some god damned fifty one fifty.
I told them what I was up to, they chuckled a bit and left me alone. Said the neighbors reported some lunatic out walking around in circles, in the middle of the road.
I love to cook and so, I would often ride out to Fresh Market on the number 14 and return carrying some oddity:
A duck with scallions and plums for Peeking duck.
A turkey in need of corn bread, onions and celery. Maybe a jalapeno.
A goose for Pâté.
Rustic breads.
Enormous artichokes, mostly because I think they‘re pretty.
I started running into people I had met around town. By now we’ve sold our renovated condos and carriage house with the stunning courtyard and moved to a more upscale part of town, The East side. And before I broke my shoulder, I felt that I resembled Eva Gabor in Green Acres when she stood on her balcony and sang, ‘Darlin’ I love you but give me Park Avenue’. Only, I wasn’t wearing a marabou peignoir, I was wearing my underpants and t-shirt and an untied men’s bathrobe, king-size, in light-weight white cotton. A vision of loveliness… if only in my mind. Eva Gabor and I share a love of flowing robes and Yorkshire terriers. I’ve been known to toss our garbage out of our second floor flat, onto the garbage can down below on the street level, much in the way Eva threw her dirty pink dishes out of the window and onto that pitiful farmhouse lawn,
I mean dirt.
Savannah is known as the-most haunted city in America. So, if you’re into that, you would love the district. Story on every corner, haunted houses are common. Oh, and a place to park your you know what.
The corner of York & Bull Streets feature Wright Square. There is a chocolatier there, you have to stop there when you’re in town. The guys that own it are a bit snotty and gay, but the store is cute and the chocolates a bit pricey, but divine. I love gourmet chocolates, don‘t you? The desserts there are lovely, however the salads over-priced and marginal.
Wright Square is known as The Hanging Square. Or, it was. There were permanent gallows there where tourists now tread. Gallows where swift justice was served by those who were condemned. Justice being what it was, fair or naught.
Wright Square is supposedly haunted by the ghost of Alice Riley. She was the first woman hung there in Wright Square, an indentured servant who arrived in America in December 1733. She was sent to work for William Wise, along with her husband, Richard White. Mr. Wise was a horrible man to work for, and each day he ordered the two servants to bathe and groom him. In March 1734 Richard and Alice had all they could take. She was paying back the price of her passage to America, The New World by working for William Wise, the man to whom she was contracted. He was a wealthy but particularly cruel man who beat and bruised Alice daily. One night, while grooming Mr. Wise, Alice and her husband held his head down in a bucket of water until he drowned. I heard they hit him on the skull with a hammer. They fled the house, but were eventually caught while hiding out, on the Isle of Hope. They were sentenced to death. Alice watched her husband drop through the gallows, his neck snapped and his body began twitching and writhing. Alice screamed and began begging for mercy, shouting to all who was watching that she was with child. The local physician verified her claim and Alice was allowed to live, but only for eight more months. She was held in the Savannah City Jail until the time in which she delivered Richard Whites son, or some said it was the son of William Wise. In any event, she gave birth in the jail and then she was dragged back out and up the gallows and was hung there by the neck until she was pronounced dead. Some say she wailed and screamed while hanging from the gallows. Some witnesses have claimed to have seen a woman, to this day, in Wright Square, dressed in rags and wandering about looking for her lost and abandoned baby. But don’t ask me, I haven’t seen her and hope not to.
There now, I’ve told you all the good places to see, plan at least five days to see it all and ignore the rest. If you don’t listen to me, you’ll be sorry because I happen to be in the know.
Copyright: Steven Hough June 2011
How To See Savannah On Your Ass
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I got the idea for, “How to see Savannah on your ass while trying to whisk friends and family around town without a car. Many simply could not keep up with my fast walking pace, and my desire to show them the marvels of the city in three days or less. I simply cannot stand having company for more than three days, plus two travel days for them. I figure that adds up closely to four days of company, five in reality, and its simply enough. Then, get your ass out of my home and go back to yours.
Happy to see you come, sorry to see you leave.
On most days, with company, we would start off walking with my two dogs on a string, and before long, we would have to stop and sit on a bench or front porch, while the weary walkers could catch a breath and enjoy sitting in the many public squares, cemeteries or parks, there. I remember saying to my mother one day, as she sat at every other square, I should write a book called, “How To See Savannah On Your Ass Or By Bus”.
The joy is in the journey, and sometimes it’s best to sit and rest a spell, even if it’s on your ass.
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Local Nuts, Kooks and The Crazy.
A Tale of Love, Lust, Betrayal & Murder in the Historic District of Savannah, Georgia.
Just kidding. The story is about a bunch of kooks & nuts who live in and around the historic district of Savannah. Mind you, this is nothing but pure D-assed gossip, rumor, speculation and what I can remember to the best of my recollection, what I am about to tell you.
Pay close attention, but don’t get too wound up on the details. Alright?
Okay, so here goes…
My partner and I have a flat in Savannah. It's just shy of 1,400 square feet and we own the entire top floor, 2 story building, overlooking one of Savannah's finest and most-prestigious squares. There are eight to ten live oaks that are several hundred years old, dripping with moss along with Dogwood & Apple in our square. Our flat was built in 1873 and has stunning floor to ceiling windows that overlook the square. We also have original hard-wood floors - heart of pine. We restored the floor to its original finish and dolled up the flat with lovely linen-covered furniture, live phalaenopsis orchids, candles and some wooden antiques here and there. We can hear the horse & buggies clip clop around our building on Charlton Street among the Spanish moss-laden trees.
The kitchen gourmet, marble countertops, stainless steel & french china, I love to cook and my idol is Ina Garten. I adore Martha Stewart.
We have French doors with hundred and thirty eight year old, rippled glass. The doors open up to two marble-floored balconies where we can let in the fresh southern air, laced with the scent of magnolia, fragrant horse-pissed streets & Sunday breakfast from the Firefly Cafe, on the corner.
One of our favorite things to do, is to lie in bed on Sunday mornings, playing on the computer & watching TV while eating scrambled eggs with & freshly baked sourdough, perhaps a bit of fried potato, toast, ripened tomato and grapefruit juice while we watch Giada DeLaurentis or Sandra Lee share their grand kitchens and favorite recipes. Dark roast coffee, only. Black.
From our luxurious king bed & balcony, we have a pristine bird's eye view of the Universal Unitarian Church across the Street. Each Sunday, we wake up to Haley & Zoey who jump on our chest for their morning tickle & scratch and I always say to Tony: Guess what we have to do today? The answer is always: Nothing. It's Sunday.
Or...
I say: Oh Shit! Church is starting and we're going to miss it, to which Tony says: Let's say we went & don't go. We never go. We think church groups are silly & ridiculous. A bunch of gossip mongers feigning religion under the eyes of an invisible entity created in the minds of humans.
Absurd.
Instead, we lie in bed laughing at the cacophony of cackles and wails coming from the parishioners of the church, when they're out on the streets, or inside their temple.
Lots of times they look serious, as if engaged in life or death circumstance.
Well, I have to correct myself. One time we did attend the Universal Unitarian Sunday service on Valentine's day, two years ago but only because I was invited by the Reverend Mother, herself. After a rather snippy incident, she wanted us to hear her story on homosexuality as told in that stupid biblical story Sodom & Gomorrah. She embellished on the account, or changed it altogether. Which, I do not know.
Her sermon was titled: Love.
My story goes like this:
The properties we live in are always on the market for sale. We restore old buildings & lovely homes and live in them while they're up for sale. We flit from place to place like a Tsetse fly on a pack of flea-infested camels. One Sunday morning, Tony and I were getting ready for an open house at one o'clock. Our house was in order and ready for show so Tony went to put out our one and only, city-allowed, open house sign. It wasn't much of a sign. In fact, it's still in our closet. It's six inches tall, and twenty-four inches long.
It simply says:
OPEN HOUSE
and has a small black arrow, pointing to the left.
So Tony walked over to the corner between the church & the Firefly Café, plopped the sign at the edge of the street on city property, in which they call an easement, in the oriental jasmine at the side of the church.
Because the flow of traffic around the Historic Squares of Savannah, that’s the best place for a sign to keep people from traveling right, off in another direction. He then started sweeping the sidewalk free of the old fallen live oak leaves on a gorgeous, spring day. Even though it was only the beginning of February, it’s the most beautiful time in Savannah in my opinion.
Not five minutes after he planted our OPEN HOUSE sign with the little black arrow that points to the left, church let out. The parishioners are a mish mosh of typical Universalists, who dress in anything from a pair of shorts without shoes or a shirt, to ladies in fancy high heels, skirts, jackets and a flourish of pinned & piped hats purchased from some fancy place like K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Ross Dress For Less or Lane Bryant. A few of them are well-known local nuts in Savannah.
In fact, there a few who attend church in shorts. One is a guy who attends church in a pair of shorts, barefoot & shirtless- has often been seen riding around the Bonaventure cemetery on his bicycle, naked. Sometimes he swims the intra-coastal, reed and egret-infested waters at the cemetery's edge.
The gossip is that his name is Ted Bryan-Turner which is suspect, since they are relying on that man's word combined with things people know about his family background. He has told people wildly different stories of his times in Savannah and other places. When his family was alive, they kept him on meds and he would still occasionally spend some time "away," but of course his parents are long gone and he doesn't have any sort of supervision.
Some say and according to the church, his address is out on Bonaventure road somewhere, but nobody seems to know for certain. Maybe he lives in the cemetery among the marble and statue. Some say he is the textbook example of homeless schizophrenic. Those jumps into the river might be his only way of getting a bath, since he always seemed unwilling to head to Inner-City Night Shelter. As rumor has it. That mailing address in the church directory was probably a place he lived at "way back when" & he's been known to have hung around that Church and ride that bike since the seventies or maybe sixties and the editors of the church directory probably didn't really know what else to put down on paper.
He is non-sequitur in dialogue and according to hearsay, sometimes downright nuts. His "joys and concerns" announcements in the congregation made a lot of the old & new people uncomfortable; and that, along with some of the others rattling on about relatively unimportant stuff made the Worship committee change the J&C portion of church services into just lighting candles. No talking.
As if all the other people in the church are quite normal and sane and have brilliant things to share with the flock of sheep. I highly doubt it.
Oh yes, and the UU church claims to be non-denominational, but there’s a whole lotta J&C goin’ on inside those doors & under the cathedral ceilings. The church stained glass windows are a hideous harlequin or jester pattern of diagonal diamonds in leprechaun green, royal purple- pumpkin orange. The exterior walls are a gloomy gray. So bright, gaudy are the windows that there is nothing worse than when you’re on the inside of the church and the sun is shining through making those garish colors jump right out of the stain.
I don’t know what Mills Lane was thinking, when he designed that window. Being gay, he should have known better.
I know. I attended the Valentine’s Day sermon on Love that February. I had a curiosity lacking in church attendence nearly my entire life, to see how it would be viewed as an adult and an atheist. The reverend mother insisted atheists loved the Universal Unitarian Church for its lack of pomp and circumstance.
That turned out to be a total lie.
In any event, I had also heard that the naked swimmer, Mister Bryan-Turner, fell off an ambulance as young doctor, and got a head injury. I was told, that his often odd announcement on things in church went something like "on this day in 1625 such and such happened." or "This is my parents (long deceased) wedding anniversary."
I was told that not only does he swim in the St. Augustine creek, naked, he used to work at Dewart’s Framing taking care of the garden.
Also in the nude.
You can go and check with Belinda there (on Lincoln near 37th by the train tracks) for more information, or go interview him yourself...or...God forbid, stop by the Universal Unitarian church for refreshments on Sunday next, about noon...he's usually there.
His bike is old, fendered, it has a rusty basket attached to the front with a 1964 Georgia license plate bent, crumpled & affixed to the front. Basket is usually filled with odds & ends, bits and pieces of scrap metal, aluminum, plastic and paper trash. He looks as if he hasn't bathed in years. Skin the color of worn leather, aged about 70, silver scruffy hair. Perhaps a beard. He looks like he's homeless. I bet he hasn’t cut his toenails in decades which is an oddity among the bonnets, dainty daisy print, nylon and polyester, stockings and high heels.
Tony and I giggle, roll over on our sides and scream in fits of laughter at the gentlemen & ladies clad in wool, polyester, cotton or a mix thereof on the hot and humid days. Ties, Jackets. Long sleeved shirts, socks and loafers are ungodly to me, in seventy five, eighty, ninety or one hundred plus degree heat. How can those sweat soaked, Jesus lovin’ (mostly), delusional people stand wearing clothes in that sweltering southern sun? Oh, I know the Universalist’s say they're a a group that enjoys the company of atheists, Jews, Buddhists and Jesus lovers all seeking inter-relations on their journey through life, but mostly their sermons, singing, pamphlets, web sites, news articles, pot luck, story telling and gossip I hear, portends Jesus.
Don't argue with me.
I've researched it well. Yes, I am afraid the UU's are just like every other church in the world, tithing for salvation, money goes into the pocket of the leaders of the church. If not, explain to me why the church holds vast amounts of property world-wide. Tony sweeps and turns when he hears clip, clap, clip clonk, clip clap, clip clonk and there before him is a woman crossing the street in a polyester blue blazer, ruffled-collar blouse, brown heels and something atop her head that resembles a twig and mud sparrow's nest.
Determination afoot.
She stomps up to Tony, shoves our OPEN HOUSE sign with the little arrow that points to the left, into his hands, dry washes her hands in the air and says: This hideous sign is ugly. It destroys, devalues, demeans, diminishes the elegance and sophistication of The Historic District of Savannah and I am on a committee to rid this town of this unsightliness!
And she is. She’s trying to fight billboards from popping up all over Savannah. That’s fine, but we’re talking about a small open house sign, on a corner, for an hour or two on weekends.
To which Tony stumbles a smidge and haughtily replies: I know, I know, don't put my fucking sign in the front of the fucking church property.
YES. She replies, I THINK YOU HAVE YOU GOT IT.
She turns sharply, a clip clop clump clops back across the street where she disappears beneath the clerestory. Tony decides to stick the sign at the corner of our building there in the oriental jasmine. To bad because the church corner location is better visibility & traffic. Now we’re liable to lose half of the cars to their wanton freedom to sail around the square at leisure and the direction of their choice without the benefit of knowing our gorgeous unit is just perfect for them, had they seen the now missing sign.
Tony yells up to me, Hey Steve, you'll never guess what happened! Some crazy old bitch from the church…
And he turns around to show me where he replaced the sign and guess what?
The sign is gone. Gone as in: GONE. Missing. Not there. Zero. Vanished. Nothing. No sign. Gone.
G O N E.
And then I clip clop across the street in my flip flops & shorts in my finest white t-shirt, march right up to a group of Universalist’s engaged in gossip right there on the corner and say, you religious people are anything but religious. In fact, you're nothing but a bunch of nasty, gossiping, mean and evil people who hate everybody, but think you're holy, righteous and self-important.
Shock.
A gasp.
Horror.
They query me but I am already riled up. So I enlighten them. Our sign is on city property. It’s on the corner.
It’s the most-benign sign in the world, this is how I make a living.
The church doesn’t own the easement from the sidewalk to the street. Furthermore, we placed the sign on the very corner so it would not be an a-front to your eyes when y’all leave your stupid
church to go home. Our open house is at 1, your church dissolves between noon and one, y’all will go home to your homes mostly outside of the historic district and won’t have to worry about us at all.
In fact, if anything, y’all are just standing here loitering on city property after church services. You’re on the city sidewalk yourself. And now our sign is conveniently missing and I thought all of you church types don’t believe in STEALING. Isn’t that one of your TEN COMMANDMENTS? Well, who stole our sign?
At this point, they all start apologizing and pointing fingers and they think they know who the mud, twig and sparrow headed, high-heeled woman was that attacked us: Ardis Wood.
They of course, are so sorry, surprised and upset that someone stole our sign. They of course have no idea who could have done it, but they promise to check about and see if they can get an answer and will, of course, get back to us. None of them would ever do such a thing, but Ardis, Ardis is a little touched in the head, determined, thinks she owns the historic district, doesn’t live here, actually, says a very TALL parishioner named Tom. I think his name was Tom. Or was it Tim? John? Whatever.
Two of the church members were obviously ‘sisters’. One was named Mark and I can’t remember the other, because frankly? Who cares. He was tall though. TALL. Tim, Tom, Jim, John. Whatever.
They acted totally innocent as if the sign just in front of them and the scene that ensued, magically disappeared or vanished into the heavens, never to be resurrected again. It’s not my fault that I can’t remember the tall one’s name… as Mark had lopsided teeth so bad that I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.
When he stopped smiling, his smile disappeared but his teeth didn’t.
Oh well, never mind… storms back across the street.
Ten minutes later, Tony decided to walk down the block to see if he could find our sign.
Threw it in the bushes, perhaps. When low and behold, he glances into the church dumpster and lying there on top of church’s garbage and religious stink, glaring back at Tony was:
OPEN HOUSE.
With a little black arrow that points to the left.
At this point, I’m livid. I stomp back across the street sign in hand, y’all know perfectly well and I was right, y’all are a bunch of liars and self righteous bible thumpers and I give the gossiping gaggle of geese the ‘what for’, something, something, something… y’all are nothing but a bunch of phony bitches and nasty liars. And I tell them how religious people really frost my ass as they try to assure me that they aren’t like most religious people… they’re better.
Then I wrote a scathing letter to the minister of the church: Just what are you teaching your congregation?, clicked ‘send’ where it vanished into cyber space. That afternoon in my inbox was a reply.
Dear Mister Steven Hough,
Blah blah blah, I’d like to take you to lunch at 1 o’clock on Monday. This is an unfortunate incident and not representative of our congregation. Please let me know if this is acceptable to you, I’d like to take you to the Firefly and we can chat then.
Yours Sincerely,
Reverend Joan Schneider
Universal Unitarian Church Of Savannah
On the corner of Harris & Habersham Streets
Savannah, Georgia 31401
What the heck.
Let’s let her take us to lunch.
It might be fun, we’ll meet someone new and hopefully hear some juicy gossip about the other nuts in the church from the Reverend Mother herself.
No sooner than we had decided that, we went out to close up our open house and there among the Spanish moss is Reverend Joan Schneider closing up shop in the late afternoon warmth of early February, turns and starts across the square. Tony called out to her and introduced himself and then upon getting a closer look, said to Reverend Joan P. Schneider: You look
E X A C T L Y
like Dr. Ruth Westheimer!
Only she had a cigarette dangling out of her mouth and large bug-eyed glasses.
Blind as a bat. 86 or 87 years old, hacking and wheezing from lung tar and puss. Body trying to break up the mucous and poison.
She was about to jump into her car, license plate: UUREV. We agree to go to lunch which turned out to be a nice time. We laughed & shared stories and Joan begged us to come and listen to her Valentine, Sunday Service message about LOVE. She promised to address Ardis. Bing, bang, boom… we’re best friends.
Joan loves the Bible and we love Joan. But we don’t love the bible. Okay? In fact, we hate it.
A few mornings later, I am in my usual morning attire: Shit stained underpants & stained t-shirt, (cocktails & hors d'oeuvres the night before & morning coffee) barefoot and fancy free. My hair looks like it’s been cut & fluffed by our lawn mower and I have on my I’m blind as a bat glasses, no contact lenses (yet)… with my second pair of reader glasses askew on the bridge of my nose while writing to all of my adoring fans on Facebook.
DING DONG.
DING DONG.
DING DONG.
KNOCK
KNOCK,
KOCK
KNOCK…
What the hell? I jump out of bed, run my tongue across my un-brushed teeth full of scum from cocktails & hors d’oeuvres the night before. I throw on my bathrobe, skip downstairs and glance out of the front door window, open the door a tiny bit. There is a lady standing there in what feels like freezing air, in formal attire: red pillbox wool hat piped in black, a Little Red Riding Hood red cape, a skirt, black nylons and red spiked high heels as I slowly answer the door, her hand clutches her purse so tight that I can actually see her knuckles turn white.
Well! A bright and lovely good morning to you, I hate t’ bother y’all but I am Ardis, the lady that threw the sign at Tony? His name is Tony, right? Well, I wanted to tell y’all about how sorry ah ay-am and how em-bar-rassed ah-ay-am and I wanted to invite ya both t’ lunch next week so we can chit chat and well, you just hafta or I’ll dah! And she says, ‘DIE’ in a long, southern drawl, honey dripping off the tongue like thick butter and drawn out like:
D-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
I’m sure there was an e or an i in there somewhere, but I don’t think I quite heard one.
And y’all just hafta know how sorry I ay-am, Ah truly ay-am, I sa-way-ah and well, whaddaya say? Will you fellows join me for lunch? Ma treat? I wanna make it up to y’all.
And I am standing there clutching my bathrobe which has no tie, in my shit stained underpants with the t-shirt riding up over my fat belly, two pairs of eye-glasses askew on the bridge of my nose like a Pins Nez, uncombed hair and breath that most likely smells like something that: D‘-aaaaaaaaaaaah’d.
Well, um… uh, yes, I think yeah. Okay, we’ll meet you for lunch. When and where? *I can feel my face flush with embarrassment at the way I look. And I actually say: Would you like to come in? Praying to Jesus that she doesn’t because my bed & body are a personal mess and she says no, I really cain’t as ah’ gotta run ta anoth-uh meetin’ and that’s just reeeeal sweet of you, but I’ll see you at lunch and I promise y’all we’re gonna be the closest and best of friends. Ya’hee-ah?
Was there an ‘R’ in there somewhere? If there was, I didn’t hear it.
And so we meet for lunch, blah blah blah… kiss kiss kiss. Lunch was fabulous and cost a fortune… wine, dinner, dessert and anything else on the menu y’all want, ma treat.
As it turns out, Ardis is an absolute Southern charm, when and if she wants to be. Oh, she’s a snippy bitch alright. She has a superiority complex like many “Southern” women do. Maybe the word is: snippy,
and a bit yappy.
Southern from New York. And if I am not mistaken, Ardis is an old Southern name from the period of the Civil War. Made up? Contrived? Perhaps, but most likely. Although her mother just passed, a southern belle no doubt.
She was dressed in a way that appeared rather elegant, although I had seen her in the same outfit the day before. Smelled of musky arm pit & perfume with a slight stain across the front of her right tit. I wouldn’t quite describe her as having a superiority complex as much as I would say she is rather, uppity.
She’s trim, angular in appearance and well-kept. Face taught, little bit of makeup, bird-like beak for a nose. She pushes her hair up with both hands, “Is ma hay-ah alright? How do I look?”
I don’t know. Sixty Seven?
You look lovely, Ardis. Thank you for inviting us to lunch. And she quips ma-pleas-shuh, now y’all are simply gonna love this rest-ah-rant the food is superb. Y’all are just gonna daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
And we go inside and order. Ardis eats like she hasn’t had a meal in three weeks, yet she is slender and trim. At lunch she had a bowl of soup: exotic mushrooms in a French cream sauce. Assorted rustic breads, a steak sandwich, baked potato, salad, two glasses of wine and dessert with coffee. Plus she ate a few bites of Tony’s dessert. Not that I was paying attention or anything.
At lunch we find out she has a son, forty something or other, atheist. Ardis says she’s agnostic herself and the goal of the church is to help people on their spiritual journey through life.
Spiritual? What the heck does that mean? More gobble-de-goop nonsense that religious and or delusional people make up, I‘m certain.
But what do I know? I’m into reality. What happens day by day, happens day by day. A few of my sources who love to gossip about that church say that they worked on the Property Committee with Ardis, and while they gave her props for taking on a committee she really didn't know a lot about nuts and bolts stuff like a/c, construction estimates, etc. They said she had this unspoken but obvious wish to "make her mark" on the Church via aesthetic stuff. She wanted to have the Church look a certain way and had no problem asking the parishioners to pay for that look, if you catch my drift. She kept going online and finding grandiose features in other Churches that she wanted to add, like changing out those harlequin-pattern windows and making the balcony area fully accessible. It's easy to spend other people's money, I guess, but as you can guess most of the committee members had to talk her down from her caviar dreams on their hamburger budget.
And the odds and ends and drivel I heard from the church members would tell me that they thought most of the church leaders & organizers
are genuinely trying to do the right thing, and in many cases their hearts are in the right places. It's just that some of them have led lives where they were "in charge".
Perhaps they had careers in big business operations, or they worked in careers where the loudest voice got the most reward,. I was told that The Reverend Mother, Joan, struck a very careful, but still forceful, and sometimes manipulative balance between getting people to compromise, but making them think they were getting their way. I was told of the year one particular person was on the Church Board and said it was stormy to say the least, mostly because many of the people accustomed to being "in charge" and getting their way were all on the board at the same time. There were certain people who resented Rev. Joan because she kept trying to get the congregation to become more "professional". That is, programming, hiring, staffing and committees that fit a Church of a small size, rather than continuing to behave like the small Church they had been for years. The demanding ones seemed really good at saying what should be done, but didn't want to follow through (in other words, they didn't want to do the grunt work, or they tried to push the harder stuff off on others, as a boss would do in a company).
One of my sources who left the church told me that, what would often grate on his nerves the most (and what ultimately made him leave the church) was the hypocritical way many of them would behave toward others "outside their circle". Churches like that present themselves as this "accepting, liberal-minded and tolerant place“. He told me he was all for that, of course. The trouble is that they often lapsed into the same sort of subtle shunning and open mocking of groups with whom they didn't agree, or anyone who wasn't as PC as they proclaimed themselves to be.
It was a weird variation on how many perceive hard-core Christian fundamentalists to behave. And he said, maybe I'm making more of it than I should have, but I noticed members practically shunned this one particular family who came to the Church for a while because the father was in the Army. He sometimes came to services in his fatigues, and he could see people giving him dirty looks. The army family quit coming and he said that he was hardly surprised. Conversely, many members would fall all over themselves to welcome African-American visitors because the UU Church is one of the least "black" denominations. It hurts their "PC street creed" to be part of a very "white" Church, so every time black folks drop by, they are treated like royalty and it's hilarious to watch. So it seems that if you fall into the right oppressed minority group, they're all over you.
There were also personal conflicts between individual members just like there would be in any large number of people. Most people were really sorry to see Rev. Joan go because she's a great speaker/minister, but some of us knew she was also a good behind-the-scenes diplomat/mediator between these disputing parties. I knew very well that once she took off for Ohio, a lot of the people who "behaved" out of respect for her had no reason to behave any more. Her replacement, Jeanne, seemed to like the strife and did a lot to throw gas on the fires, probably because she didn't really like being in Savannah and wasn't a very pleasant person in general.
Allegedly.
And so I asked, what would make a church that claims to love and welcome everybody, snub a military man? And my friend said: The UU Church has a large contingent of purportedly anti-war or pacifists and the types who want to know why “we can't all just get along' types“. Their "social justice and action" committee is led by a woman who organized a (small) protest once a month downtown at Johnson Square called "Stand for Peace," and while a lot of people in the Church are able to differentiate between supporting the men and women of the military and not supporting the war(s), there were and probably still are, a lot of members who don't see the difference. They were the ones my friend witnessed showing open disdain for the military guy, his wife
and his kids.
My source said, “I didn't see it personally but I heard that one member even got offended enough to ask the guy how he could possibly work for such an evil enterprise“. I hope he said "because I look really hot in camo fatigues and the short haircut."
And he goes on, “I say "purportedly" mostly because the minute Obama came into office, the "anti-war protests" slowed down considerably. My Hypocrisy Antennae went up even more when Obama continued Bush's policies in Iraq, Guantanamo Bay, and Afghanistan and there was still virtual silence from the "anti-war" Social Justice Committee. Heck, when we went into Libya they probably had to be placed on suicide watch. Like I said earlier, I can't stand to see people be hypocrites, so it's for the best that I left.”
And that’s what I have been saying about church & religious people for a long time. Heck, my mother even told this to me when I was eight: Churches & the members are generally hypocrites.
As I said, gossip & rumor.
And, Ardis is a task person. I saw her clipping the ugly, old, dead church garden one day in a jacket & skirt wearing gloves, sneakers and a large brimmed hat with a pink ribbon on it. When she finished, the garden looked as ugly as it had before.
And, giant pruning shears.
She was a power pruner. I imagined one mis-step and she might prune my peen to the base had I passed her on the corner of the garden. Better be on the watch & careful.
One of the church goers is an overweight Queen who works in the flower department of an elegant and upscale grocery store on the outside of the district, ‘bout twelve miles south on Abercorn. Fresh Market. He reminds me of Ignatious Riley from the book, A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.
John was Born: December 17, 1937 – Died: March 26, 1969)
A brilliant novel it won the Pulitzer,
posthumously. Poor John blew his brains out in car. I think he left the engine running and had a hose hooked up to the exhaust, piped it in threw the rear window, climbed in the back seat with a brief case & gun, dressed in a suit, and blew his brains out.
I think it’s the Southern heat, makes folks crazy down south. John was from New Orleans, and wrote about the French Quarter. The people there as loony as the people in Savannah.
Biloxi, Mississippi, he blew his brains out there. His novels were rejected during his lifetime. I read that after suffering from paranoia and depression due in part to the failures of trying to get his book published, he committed suicide at the age of 31. You can read all about him. But do so after you read, A Confederacy. Then read, Ignatious Rising. Fascinating story.
From Wikipedia: Dunces is a picaresque novel featuring the misadventures of protagonist Ignatius J. Reilly, a lazy, obese, misanthropic, self-styled scholar who lives at home with his mother. It is hailed for its accurate depictions of New Orleans dialects. Toole based Reilly in part on his college professor friend Bob Byrne. Byrne's slovenly, eccentric behavior was anything but professorial, and Reilly mirrored him in these respects. The character was also based on Toole himself, and several personal experiences served as inspiration for passages in the novel. While at Tulane, Toole filled in for a friend at a job as a hot tamale cart vendor, and worked at a family owned and operated clothing factory. Both of these experiences were later adapted into his fiction.
…Which brings me back to this over-weight Queen from Fresh Market, goes by the name of Jimmy. The funniest thing about John Kennedy Toole’s mother, was that she taught elocution lessons during the Great Depression. As if the people who were struggling to survive and feed their impoverished families, also needed to pay to learn the art of speaking clearly and well, with correct enunciation.
“The Ray-in In Spay-in, Falls Mainly on the Play-in”.
Jimmy’s elocution is excellent. Heavy on the southern drawl.
Dress a bit fappy. Looks okay in a long coat, kind of silly in a green apron. He’s about as Southern as you can get, his dialect southern homosexual.
I get a lot of gossip from him.
He is a sweetheart and a blabbermouth.
He describes Ardis as more of a social climber in this tiny Unitarian Church and considers herself a leader in organizing church functions and what not. Jimmy is in on one of the social groups of the church, and Ardis the other. I think they call them cliques. The popular kids on one side of the church, and the rebels on the other. Really dislike each other but portend gracious fakery when face to face.
Except the last time I checked, Ardis’s name was nowhere to be found on the church website. Snubbed?
Well, when it comes to cliques & fake people, one day you’re in, the next day you’re out in these gossip & backstabbing clubs.
Church Website states the results of the past election, week ago, perhaps.
Emeline Piggot
President Judy Dingleberry
President-Elect Suzanna Glitter tits
Treasurer Courtney Suzanna Lipschitz
Secretary Pamela Plumtree
Trustees
Kristen Pasta Eater (second year)
Louise Frenchfry
Ministerial Search Committee
William R. Dingleberry
Marjorie Ball Licker
Patrick Dunglicki
Donald J. Silverman
Martha Sue Weaver Davitt
Lizzy Lester, Alt
Nominating Committee
Chair, Kathleen Fluffy Bunny
Ritchie Carbunkle
Virginia Gibbler
Patsy Sue Floppenknockers, Director of Music That Has Inspired Her
Robert Pickle Poker, Director of Religious Education (translatrion: made up mumbo jumbo)
Dickie Longerboner, Church Administrator
Marcy Magpie, Church President
Judith Pickle
NOTE:
NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT, OBNOXIOUS & RIDICULOUS.
It seems that Ardis relocated to Savannah from New York something, something fourteen or fifteen odd years ago. Fell in love with a big fat man named Ray in Savannah, married him and lives in a smallish ranch home with her husband, in Ardsley Park. She used to have a tour-guide business whereupon she gave southern walking tours of the historic district dressed in period clothing from the Seventeenth or Eighteenth centuries. Parasol in hand. I read a letter she wrote to the editor of the Savannah Morning News where she writes that she likes to bike in Victorian dress.
I’d love to see that.
Bicycling in a floor length dress?
Wouldn’t the ruffles get caught in the spokes?
I used to shake my head from my air conditioned flat as I often saw Ardis in Troupe Square, summer last,
clad from head to toe in musty smelling old garb, giving tours to eight, ten or twelve interested people. And I will tell you what, the temperature outside in the summer is way over one hundred, even in the shade and wisps of Spanish moss. Pray that you’re in one of the squares that has a fountain and if you’re very lucky, a rare breeze. But not likely. It’s not so much the Southern heat that is bothersome, as it is the humidity. Suffocating, it draws the energy right from your soul, drenches the exterior and wilts the interior within minutes. When you walk outside in July, perhaps, it’s like walking into an inferno blast of heat. Sweat starts dripping from every pore in minutes.
Damn chiggers will eat you alive, get all up on your stomach and in your underpants. Itch like hell for weeks, too. Scratch the bites bloody, they swell & itch some more. Agonizing.
In turn, Tony and I took Ardis & The Reverend Mother,
Joan P. Schneider to lunch, together, as it’s only tasteful and the southern thing to do. We took them down to Broughton Street on the corner of Bull and Broughton and had lunch at Saigon. It’s an excellent restaurant if you like Thai and Vietnamese Cuisine. The chef is from Thailand and the food is remarkable. Best Thai or Vietnamese you’ll get in Savannah, leastwise. It’s in the district, north side near Bay & River Streets which run near and along the river. Savannah is a great walking city.
Either Ardis or Joan picks at the spice, I can't remember which. Some folks will refuse Thai based on spice, alone.
There are twenty three parks or squares, as they are known, in the historic district of Savannah. Laid out one on every other block or so it seems. A few cemeteries within, the lovely Forsyth Gardens & Park on the south, the fountain there is stunning and a lovely respite on any day when walking the small historic district. The park and much of Savannah is a garden of exotic and fragrant trees from magnolia to red bud, dogwood, live oak, and specimens from all over the world. Old homes, high porches and entry ways, a bicycle here and there. Perhaps a lovely flower box.
Next, Ardis invited us to her home to meet the TALL guy whose name I cannot remember for the life of me, Tim or Tom? Jim? John? Whatever.
and his cute lover with lopsided teeth, Mark. A get aquainted cock-tail party with token homosexuals, a fag hag & Ray. Well, what the heck, we’re relatively new to the east side of the historic district and we might as well meet our semi-neighbors, church neighbors if only. So what if they’re religious kooks & nuts.
So? I am gracious and charming with people that way. A magnet of kindness to be admired. I might even sit a throne. Sometimes when I am in my bathrobe and shit stained underpants, I feel I should have a septre and maybe even a crown… or a diamond tiara.
Sometimes I feel just like Eva Gabor from Green Acres when she stands on that New York balcony, Yorkshire terrier in hand, maribu penoir blowing in the smoggy city breeze. Penthouse living. That’s the life for me. I get allergic smelling country air. New York is where I’d rather be.
So get this.
We arrive at her home on time, her big fat husband answers the door and in we go toting a bottle of Clos DuBois Chardonnay, Jeckle, or Estancia. I cannot remember, perhaps we brought two bottles, and we’re greeted by Ardis in the kitchen who is drinking something with pineapple,
I think.
Or, was it oranges?
And then she seats us at her formal dining room table where she has prepared an awkward spread:
A chaffing dish lined with:
Cold, miniature Vienna Sausages (pronounced vie-een-ahs in the South) They look like lethargic baby hotdogs suffering from anemia
Cold miniature Gherkin pickles,
Cheetohs or cheese curls
Peanuts
And a
Ketchup dipping sauce.
Charmed, I am sure. I pick up a dead vi-een-ah and slosh it through the sweet sauce or was it ketchup? A lovely accompaniment with a dry and oaky chardonnay.
Gherkin?
No thank you, I’m stuffed on these here duh-licious vi-eeen-ahs and couldn’t possibly eat another bite.
I’m not certain but I think she forgot the graham-cracker hors d’oeuvres and the Kool-aid cocktails.
*sips wine, reluctantly sucks on a Vienna and I think to myself: relax. Who cares.
And then we move outdoors to her patio whereupon the other two queens finally show up late…the TALL one and the one with lopsided teeth. Jim? John? Tom? I still can’t remember even though I am sure he told me four or six times. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug… dainty greetings & good cheer. And then we all choose a seat to sit down where three of us grown & tall men, promptly fall through the rotted fabric of the patio furniture with a
H A R R U M P H
Onto the wooden deck.
And there we were, three grown men in the shape of the letter Z if it were turned on its side, asses through the giant holes we had just created as we imploded into the patio chairs, asses on the wooden deck with our knees wrapped around the aluminum frame of the chair and our legs sticking up and out in the air as if we were on a gynecological table waiting to spread our legs for an examination of our pussies.
No stirrups.
And of course Ardis, is flabbergasted, shocked and horrified. No problem, we re-adjust and re-seat ourselves.
Here now, these seats are a little more sturdy. You can see panic in her eyes, face flush. After the cocktail party I saw the two queens on the street a few times. The TALL one and the one with lopsided teeth and a cute face. Each time I see them, I get the distinct feeling I am being snubbed. I have no idea why. The cocktail party was lovely. Conversation was lively and everyone left with big thank yous and hugs. But I know a snub when I am snubbed, and snubbed I was. Who cares. Lot’s of people in the world. Never hear from them again.
A year or two later, I invited Ardis to my Valentine cocktail party on a Saturday before the Fourteenth in Savannah. Stunning party with champagne, my doctor flew in from Laguna Beach for the party, gin, wine, vodka, tequilla, sparkling waters, juices, liver pate, spinach dip with rustic breads, valentine’s chocolates & cakes we had about fifty people. It was a great evening and after the main crowd left, we settled into the living room where a more intimate cocktail party commenced, this time close to mid-night with a gift from one of the intimates: the strongest and smoothest marijuana I have ever smoked in my life. In fact, it was so good, I hounded the guy for nearly a month to get a personal stash for myself, to no avail. Some potheads are so selfish and really,
who cares if I am so needy and wanting?
As it gets hotter in Savannah, and more humid, the horse piss in the streets becomes perfume. Cruelty to horses, really. Pulling those enormous carriages through the streets with a bunch of screaming kids and ugly tourists on parade. Those people might look a bit better if they walked and got a healthy glow. Poor horses. Sometimes I yell out from my balcony: CRUELTY TO HORSES! Though nobody pays me any attention and one of the Horse & Buggy tour owner/operators assures me her horses are well fed, watered and never walked on hot days. I reply: I’ve seen your horses about on 100 degree days in full sun. She says, oh? Is that hot? I figure if it doesn’t bother me, it doesn’t bother them.
To which I reply: You’re not pulling twelve hundred or two thousand pounds worth of bloated tourists and a carriage with boiled peanuts & lollipops. The water for your horses is filled with slobber, oats and an assortment of leaves. Looks like it hasn’t been changed in a month. Would you drink that? Never mind, it’s too hot, poor horses. My heart aches for them. Probably been pulling carriages around Savannah since Oglethorpe created it.
We ended up going to the Valentine’s Sunday Sermon in shorts, t-shirts with pullover sweaters, socks & flip flops because, if the barefoot and half naked guy can do it, so can we. I tell this to Joan and she laughs and says: Come. I think the sermon was actually on February the Fourteenth, a Sunday a year or two past.
Joan’s sermon and the entire service that Valentine’s Sunday was one of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced. Seated near Ardis and her big fat husband Ray, the congregation fills in the pews, sits in fits & gaggles. Carry on like a bunch of magpies… yip yip yip yip…yap yap yap… blah blah blah blah. And then the service starts and they all stand and sing this ridiculously stupid UU song that they’ve sung for a hundred billion years. Their own website touts an impressive musical choir of almost 20 people. Honestly? I sat and listened to them sing and they can’t sing, they're weak and flat, the piano is out of tune and there are no accoustics in the church. Maybe they’re all tone deaf. The web site boasts a choir and musical group that sounds more like a sales pitch than reality:
“There are few churches of our growing-but-still-diminutive size that have a music program as consistently good, not to mention varied.
The number of people in the choir is growing into the 20s -- it is an enthusiastic and highly bonded group that serves the church not only with musical gifts but also as a wonderful example of people enjoying each other and getting along beautifully together.”
Highly bonded & beautiful? Getting along beautifully? What about all the rumor, gossip, cliques and in-fighting? And they’re not good. I sing better off key than they do. What a load of crap.
And their brochure goes on to say: “We have soloists and instrumental musicians who give their all for us, and really enjoy it. The choir is meeting new challenges as our director gives us music that is more complicated and fun -- with great results. Members are growing and it shows.
Our music director is a treasure -- a person of beauty and remarkable talent.”
Of course, that’s what they say in print and to her face. Behind her back I’ll guess: “she’s a bird nosed freak with bulging eyes and a voice that squawks like a canker sore and plays the piano like my drunken uncle Willy”. Way too skinny, that one there.
Then I read that:
“Her musicality informs every aspect of her life.”
And I wondered what the heck that actually means in English, or French or Swahili for that matter. And they go on to inform that this brilliant musical director who directs almost
T w e n t y
people should probably have her own building named after her, perhaps they can re-name City Hall. Okay. That’s an exaggeration. I tend to do that a bit. But they do go on to say she created a:
“Musical revue that included amazing talent drawn from Kelly's wide range of musical friends and associates. It was a thriller evening -- with a gifted group of instrumentalists accompanying (and starring with) singers of all ages in everything from blues to folk, from Broadway to classical, from rock to pop.
"Savannah Sings the Season" -- was a remarkable and highly original coming-together.
Our Christmas Eve service is a unique blending of the traditional Christmas story with beloved holiday music and UU's ability to create a welcoming space for those of any faith *Christians, who want to celebrate the renewal and hope of the Christmas message.
And so, their Christmas message is traditionally Christian and although they say they are not Christian, the people I talk to say there’s a whole lotta Jesus lovin’ going on inside that church. Must help the tithing process or something.
Perhaps the stained glass has burned membrane inside their head? I have no idea. Rumor & gossip folks. Except, when you look at their very own website, they say this year:
“Our religious education classes are based on four pillars: Unitarian Universalism, World Religions, Judeo-Christian Heritage, and Social Justice and Peacemaking. Each year, we study a different pillar. The pillar that we are studying for the 2010-2011 church year is our Judeo-Christian Heritage.”
And there you have it.
Christians.
I heard they had a whole lot of that same kind of study many many years in a row, now. And that’s the rumor & gossip I hear, until you actually bring that up to one of the members and they hem and haw and glance anywhere but at you when they talk to you as they go on their merry adventure of make believe, prayer and the study of miracles.
None of which are actually a proven science. Fact is, praying is about the same as flipping a coin: 50/50, heads or tails. Things either happen or they don’t happen folks. It’s called reality. Prayer studies have shown to have zero effect on anything, or anyone.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, they sing a few more… and then they march the kids down the aisle in what might have been choir robes, although I could never tell because they put the kids behind the old, dilapidated out of tune baby grand piano at the front of the church. You couldn’t see them little maggots come hell or high water for the adults standing up and blocking my view. Of course, the congregation and the children’s choir is either flat, out of pitch or tone deaf. The kids sang as bad as the adults, or maybe it was the other way around. You really couldn’t tell.
Then they passed the collection thingy. Black velvet sacks hanging from wire hoops. I eye the bags as they go row by row, watching carefully… I see very little going in them, and more passing them by. And I think to myself: Buncha hypocritical cheapskates. And the bag goes by me and I can’t pass it fast enough. Get that thing away from me. Begging money for God? Crazy is as crazy does.
And then the Reverend Joan P. Schneider comes walking down the aisle in what appears to be a sleeping bag, a paper bag or Sheppard’s robes with a stupid piece of rope tied across the front. Face covered, she reads softly as she walks down the aisle and up to the pulpit where she continues on in a drone that was, honestly? So boring I thought I might have more fun plucking my teeth out of my mouth with pliers than listen to her ramble on about some stupid expounded upon and contrived story. In low & monotonous pitch. I swear, I had no idea what she was talking about. It kinda sounded like: blah blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah.
After she finished, I looked at Tony and whispered:
LET’S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE… THIS IS CREEPY CHRISTIAN CRAP…
And I look at Ardis who is sitting next to me and I said:
WE HAVE TO LEAVE NOW, SEE YA.
And we’re skidaddling and sneaking quietly out of the front door trying our hardest not to be noticed and guess who is standing there nearly blocking our exit? Reverend Joan P. Schneider, post sermon.
She asks why we’re leaving and we hastily make an excuse, all the while running for our flat across the street laughing and cackling and trying not to fall down in fits and giggles. Perhaps we are even shaking our heads a bit, we duck into our condo and roll into the living room and throw ourselves onto the chairs, bug-eyed, panting and gasping for breath. Whew. That was a close one.
Are those people fucked, or what? I told you it was going to be like that!
I have told that story repeatedly, and now I have told you. And that is the absolute truth, the way it happened, to the best of my recollection. Give and take, gossip & rumor.
I swear on the bible, it’s true.
-Steve Hough
