***Written originally in Atlanta and then revised while still living by the marsh, this is about a place near and dear to me, close in mind and heart, but far away from the ravages of a brazen and soulless Thief called Time...
Today began
as any other day, only I found
myself thinking of that time, that place, when
my only cares were when I could play and for
how long. I can see the faces, all so kind and
gentle…a colorful array of wonderful characters
each more interesting than the next.
I can only be
thankful for exposure to such beautiful
people: Granddaddy, Little Mama, Big Mama, Aunt Joyce,
Candace, Mary, Rufus…they were all so wonderful, and I
yearn for those days, I wish to be transported back in time…
I would arise
and go into the kitchen on 210 E. Baldwin Street, to see
sweet Candace, so beautiful, so special, so kind,
so dear to me. She was a very special person who impacted
me and inspired me throughout my life, even to this day.
Her kindness, spirit, guidance, and stern hand when necessary,
molded my mother Joyce, her brother Sonny, and even me of
the next generation during those wonderful summers.
I want to throw
baseball again with Granddaddy in the side yard next to
Miss Annie Clyde’s house. Of course baseball was
his best sport you know, working on the farm they
would play every now and then, and he could hit the
ball a country mile. Scouts even came trying to recruit
him to come play for them, but he would just say his
duty was on the farm and with family. Even so, he
still found time to go to school when he could and even
though his attendance was significantly less than the
average Joe due to working on the farm, his grades
were in the top of the class! As an adult he taught
himself many things, was an avid reader, and wrote
some very wonderful limerick style poetry as well,
some of which Ogden Nash would have been proud of.
He also liked to get a tan,
and we would lay out together an hour a day during the
summer. He used to say that “old men like your Granddaddy
need some color so they don’t look so old”…shoot, I
couldn’t imagine a man 20 years old having the energy he
had at that time, and heck, he was nigh going on 80 years
old. I certainly couldn’t envision him as old, he
was the youngest, most entertaining, funniest, most
“alive” person I had ever known. Then of course while
we were laying there, while my eyes were closed soaking up
the sun, he inevitably, sneakily reached his leg over and used
his big toe and the toe beside it to pinch my leg and say
“alligator coming to getcha”…I treasured those times,
and now, when I am at the neighborhood pool with my
kids, playing with them, and enjoying the sun, I
succumb to my primordial, reptilian nature as well, and
yes, I have to get them like an alligator too.
Granddaddy was self-taught
typically as it went with many folks back then, and his musical ability
was no exception. He could play organ and the piano like a
pro, and could actually play them both at the same time, with
his left hand playing the organ and the right hand playing the
piano. He had his organ and piano set up like an L-shape in
the music room, which had a couch, and I remember many
afternoons and evenings in which he played many a tune, some
quick and lively, others more melancholy…much church music as
well as he played for the Methodist men’s Sunday school class.
I remember lying on the couch, the fan blowing peacefully
in the air of the music room, while Granddaddy played many
a beautiful piece. I can see him now, his arms moving, head
and shoulders swaying as he summoned the sound forth via
the keys. Whatever the song, it was always filled with
emotion and feeling. I drifted somewhere very nice on
those occasions.
Always the picture
of order and organization, Granddaddy was up early and
working before the rest of us. The beds had to be made,
we must get breakfast started, and he did all of
the work most days, inside and out! He had the energy
of a man decades his junior. He loved cartoons, especially
Looney Tunes, and had the best sense of humor. He would
stop long enough on Saturdays to watch a cartoon or two
with me before heading back outside to work in the yard.
He would laugh and laugh at Bugs Bunny or Yosemite
Sam or Wile E. Coyote. I am glad we had those times,
for later years in his life weren’t as accommodating. His
was a sense of humor that stays with me today, reminding me
that nothing is ever as bad as it seems, life is to enjoy,
regardless of the circumstances, for all will be OK in the end.
Also we had a running gag together,
as a South Carolinian (in a sense as I lived there, was born in Savannah though),
every summer he would playfully tell me how he would have to teach me again
“how to speak Georgian.” Somehow I always fell short of mastering that brogue,
that dialect, that beautiful accent I had to hear every summer.
Granddaddy liked cars,
and he had some great ones, a white Pontiac Bonneville
(with red interior), a Corvair (black with red interior), and
an orange Fiat convertible. He always took care of his cars, and
rued the multiple litters of feline furriness that walked all
over them at times. “Those darn varmints!” he would say.
But of course, you know in his heart he wouldn’t hurt them
under any circumstance, and I would venture to say that he
probably petted them once or twice when no one was looking.
Many times he would take me for rides
in the convertible Fiat with the top down. Oh so free those
times were. We would ride out to Central State hospital,
and out by Carl Vinson’s house at the top of the hill on the
right past the hospital grounds. We would tool around some
of the country roads in that area and turn around and come
back to the house. I still have not gotten a convertible as
an adult, but those days have made me adopt a distinct
hankerin’ for such a vehicle one day. I can see him now,
wearing one of his trademark hats, a straw hat fedora,
colorful, an orangish/beige.
Little Mama, my Grandmother, read
to me and taught me many things that started my love
affair with reading, and inspired me to be “learned.”
As a retired teacher she always had cool stuff she had
used in her classes that I perused, such as Scholastic
Magazine, which was quite stimulating. I also remember
her sitting in the rocking chair in the den, watching her
soap operas. And at times she could be an insomniac
of sorts, and I would catch her head nodding, late at
night, seated at the kitchen table doing what else, reading…
I remember she had various games as well,
like Hi-Ho Cherry O, LIFE, and others…I always enjoyed
going through those, playing them, even if I was by myself.
We also enjoyed going for picnics,
to roadside spots on our journeys throughout the state. These
were times of soda, sandwiches, and desserts. Then afterwards
Granddaddy would pull out a canister from the glovebox, in
this case of his vintage Pontiac Bonneville, and say:
“Do you want a piece of peppermint stick candy?” Of
course I would take him up on this kind offer every time,
with each piece looking like a thick, miniature barber shop pole,
but only red and white…
Granddaddy and Little Mama
also liked for us to go see her sister, my Great-Aunt Bebe in Macon
while I was visiting. We really enjoyed that as
well, a 45 minute to an hour long ride that was.
Many times we would stop
at Fincher’s drive-in for some barbecue on the way home
from Bebe and Ditty’s. Granddaddy would pull up and the
gentleman would come up to the window of the car, curb
hop style. That was the best barbecue I had ever had, and
STILL to this day it is the best I have ever had. Even as a
youngster I would eat two whole barbecue sandwiches every
time, and that was a lot for a small kid like me. Delicious
it was, and now whenever we go visit Bebe and Ditty I
have to do the same with my family, we stop by and make
sure we get some sandwiches for the road.
Aunt Joyce was a special person, so kind, so patient.
She lived out at Mother-out-at-Papa’s house (my Grandfather’s Stepmother)
and was Grandaddy’s sister. Just like him, she possessed an inherent
goodness that was undeniably apparent. She never got married,
rather she sacrificed to take care of my Great-Grandmother. She had been
a Nurse in the military, rising as high as Major. She had been to Turkey
and several other exotic places, but was as down-to-earth and accommodating
as they come. I remember going out there, going down the long dirt driveway,
they had a handful of acres out of town on the way to Macon, and seeing
rabbits cross in front of us, and ever so rarely, the occasional fox. These creatures
reminded me of the Joel Chandler Harris stories my Grandmother would read to me
and all those animals and their colorful adventures. I remember trying to utilize the old “carrot, stick, and box” trick to try and catch a rabbit as a youngster…it never worked, but it was a lot of fun trying…They had an old barn on the property as well, and I would go in there
periodically and tool around. I was always warned to “watch out for snakes”
in the summer so I always treaded lightly and vigilantly…the air always felt
so clean, so crisp,so unmolested out there. The skies were larger, grander,
and more blue. I was calm, and things moved more slowly. We would
sit out on the front porch and drink a Coke, or sweet tea and just talk.
Now that was very nice. Everything was right with the world at those
times.
I also got into assorted memorabilia
of times gone by at the house, like my Mother’s diaries, or
old pictures. I could just take those things and smell them,
read them, and drink them in sensually, a veritable feast for
the senses. From time-to-time I would look in the closets as
well, and see some of the things my Mother wore when she
was a teenager and in college. At times it was really like
opening a time capsule digging around at the house at 210
East Baldwin Street. The funny thing is, it never got old,
there was always something else one could learn about the
family, the relatives, or life in that place. It seemed those
were better times, simpler…
And now,
in Richmond Hill, Georgia, at the Buttermilk Sound,
By the Belfast River, these summer days in some ways aren’t
as genuine, almost as hot, but not Milledgeville-esque,
and I find myself wanting, searching, but I can’t go
there. At least I can dream, and cascade slowly into
a subtle, but enriching journey, seeing all of my
people, like it was yesterday. I close my eyes, swinging
slowly in the tree swing, under a moss draped oak by the
marsh, a glass of tea in hand, and recapture, if only for a
fleeting moment, the middle Georgia warmth of years
gone by, the same warmth that molded me, and made me
who I am today. I am awakened from my revelry by
the cry of a marsh hen, and I wonder, now without my
most excellent teacher J.C. Godard Sr., will I ever truly be able to
speak proper Georgian?
Steffan Oxenrider
Revised Oct 2021
