July in Georgia
The billowing, high-rise clouds in today's sky look like a clothesline filled with white sheets in an Oxydol or Tide commercial. Atypically there is also a bit of a breeze that even makes billowing of "the sheets" a possibility. I've been told by more than one person visiting Savannah that the clouds here are awesome and I suppose they are. We take them for granted. The painter in me is particularly appreciative of our phenomenal clouds. Sometimes I think of them as Savannah's mountains... like our own Rockies. Because of our flat terrain the horizon is infinite in almost every direction. Makes for a wonderful canvas to display an impressive assortment of clouds, often more than one variety at the same time. Today they also remind me a bit of the primitive sky and clouds that children do. The sky is too blue to be real, sort of like in child drawings. The clouds are lined up and all puffy, typical of such art also.
My son and grandson returned from their trip to Africa. Have yet to catch a glimpse of their thousands of pictures. No one was mauled by wild animals and neither was the victim of anti American enthusiasm or a spur of the moment civil war. So far neither has come down with Malaria or the myriad other diseases we associate with that continent. We're saving the pictures for the annual family beach week. Hope the current idyllic weather keeps through that occasion as well.

Grandson Brad only allowed me to paint this portrait of him because I painted his first puppy, Rachel, whom he lost shortly after he received her for his birthday.

Witcher Coming Soon

I have way too much energy. At least mentally and perhaps even physically. I just finished RE-painting my grandson's portrait. I had completed it once but when he saw it he was unhappy with the outfit I had dressed him in (his Oshkosh overalls and brogan shoes). His mother had him photographed in them and he was adorable but he didn't want that look for his portrait. I had to cut the pants off and give him long socks for a more classical attire. It was a lot of work. Probably the same as if I'd done it with sewing rather than paints but I like to think not. I had to match it to one I had done of his older brother but no ready-stretched canvases were available so I got one larger and figured the framer could cut it down. Not so! Once I had invested all the time and work in the painting I could find no art store owner who would consider cutting it down. They all feared ruining it and getting sued (It's a US sporting pastime). So then I had to go to Home Depot, find the proper tools, buy them and do it myself. My hands should be wound-free in a week or so. I taped the raw edges of the cut canvas with cloth first-aid adhesive tape and used the rest for the blisters on my hands.
My third and final book of the American War for Independence is being edited after I've been through it with a fine tooth comb. I did that and the picture at the same time. Single tasking is drudgery but dual tasking makes both works seem like a break from drudgery. Not sure why that works but for me it does.
As I was winding down from those tasks the boredom of having nothing to do but my real job loomed threateningly ahead. We have a tiny piece of land that's been in the family since plantation days. It was used by my forefathers to float the products of labor down river to Savannah for marketing. Since the invention of the railroad it has been lying idle. Got a call from a distant cousin saying they were putting in an airfield and he feared they might be encroaching on my land. Several trips up river and I found they indeed had put in an airstrip. It wasn't encroaching but it was at my front door if I'd had a front door there. It's a lovely spot though as remote as possible in the nineteenth century let alone the twenty first. A perfectly beautiful spot. Just the place for a writer and artist to live. So I'm building a house there. Made progress on that today. Called for a building permit and was told I first needed an address for 911 responses. They explained to baffled me that in case of emergency (how did they know I was that old) they needed a place, ie an address to respond for emergency calls. They require it before issuing a building permit. So today after much back and forth this remote, isolated place now has a proper address for the first time since forever...Oglethorpe nor the Indians required one. So now I can get a soil perk test to make sure I can have a septic system. The next step is sinking a well which is equally needed for plumbing. My builder told me that's still done by diviners (witchers) in spite of civilization's progress (I want to be there for that and have a go at holding the divining rod myself). Those two items will take two months. If all goes well then I'll build a new house. That should keep me off the street for awhile.
I've drawn the plans for the new house. Anyone know how to legally print money? I have very expensive ideas but a very small purse.

I was stopped by the police the other day. I was walking. They were driving. They stopped me between my parked car and my front door. They wanted me to explain (brace yourself) where my purse was.
I didn't know which point to rant about first so I merely explained that I don't carry a purse. Haven't carried one for five years. Not since it was stolen out of my car while I stepped inside a doorway for less than a minute. It was such a hassle filling out police reports; calling my bank and companies to cancel credit card; getting a new driver's license et cetera that the other paraphernalia I carried in a purse wasn't worth the bother of hauling one around. I have a leather snap case the size of a business card attached to my key ring. In it is my driver's license, credit card (no s), insurance card...period.
The dubious looking policeman apparently wasn't impressed. I got the lecture of leaving my purse in the car anyway. He ran through the fact that doing so would cause someone to break my car windows to get my purse when they saw me leaving my car without one. I wasn't impressed. Instead I was thinking of mentioning the thousands of people walking into our country everyday without any lawman stopping them. I was thinking of reminding him of Savannah's staggering crime rate with murder and drive-by shootings along with the regular garden-variety kind every day on our streets. I was considering pointing out that this was 2006 and when did he think he could get past such a sexist attitude as to assume all women are expected to carry a purse. I mentioned none of these facts to that man. I'm not stupid. Just angry. In short I was livid on all of the above accounts but kept my cool.
When he finished his lecture and I was only aware that he had when engulfed by silence, I smiled and repeated the same thing I had just told him. Obviously he hadn't heard me or he wouldn't have said all that he had. To which he replied, "Well, they'll break your car window if you're seen without one."
I interpret that to mean I must either carry a purse (empty) or leave my car unlocked with a note on the windshield saying so. Otherwise I'm inviting crime.
As someone else said: "You can't make stuff up better than the comedy you run into just living in this messed up world."

Curiouser and curiouser!

Curiouser and curiouser! I believe Lewis Carroll's Alice said that and I couldn't put it better myself. Recently I found myself reporting for my dental appointment a few minutes ahead of schedule. I realize that makes this account suspicious because who in their right mind shows up early for the dentist. Nevertheless, forging ahead. The office was locked since the staff hadn't returned from their lunch hour yet. I retired to my car parked under a nice, cool, shady oak tree rather than wait in the hot sun on the porch. I relaxed which I seldom have time to do, content to wait in comfort. I heard a metallic click and looked around for the source. My driver-side door had locked. Strange I thought but didn't get upset. Perhaps I had inadvertently pressed on the lock button of the automatic devise attached to my key. I unlocked it with that same automatic devise and sat back again to rest and relax being careful of the placement of the automatic devise so that couldn't happen again. It did happen again almost immediately. This time I knew I hadn't pressed the lock button. I unlocked it again. I have a passion about not being controlled by machines. It happened again. Repetition with timing showed within less than a minute of my unlocking it would automatically relock. Panic time? Moi? No, no. Definitely nyet. I pondered this phenomenon. Was this some sort of safety feature in my automobile that I was unaware of? Perhaps a built-in system to automatically lock an idle car for safety. I was skeptical. I could think of situations where that could be disastrous and quite unsafe. Children in the back seat's car seat while the adult got out and went around to see about them. My mind was full of reasons this wouldn't be a good idea. I planned to sit down with my owner's manual and find out if there were such a stupid devise. But then the dentist's office opened and I went in for my appointment. The whole incident was forgotten. That's how paranoid I am. Just remembered it days later when I discovered my spare car key set missing. Hmmmmm. I'll worry about it sometime when I'm less harassed.

Road Runner

Road Runner
Beep! beep! Like that coyote rascal I'm off up the road again tomorrow. To Atlanta. About 250 miles. I drove there on the Sunday of the Master's Golf finish (in Augusta). Atlanta has such traffic problems that cars can't easily get there anymore. Not surprisingly interstate traffic came to a dead halt about 65 miles out of the city. At about 3 MPH I crept, often on the shoulder to the next exit and took back roads. It was farther and slower but the countryside was beautiful. If you were watching the end of the golf tournament that day I drove about 55 miles through azaleas and dogwood in full bloom under the towering Georgia pines. My own private Amen Corner as the CBS golf sport casters would say. Passed a magical spot called Indian Springs where the white water of a rushing stream fanned out over lichen encrusted boulders. Went through a small town with numerous southern homes that made Tara look like an outhouse.
Returned to Savannah eight days later and took a similar but different route anticipating the interstate stagnation. Blew through an isolated community (unincorporated) called Hillsborough where gas was $2.44 a gallon. Slowed and was tempted to turn around but figured there'd be another. There wasn't. Next station I came to was almost Macon and it was $2.81. Today it's about that same price and I'm headed on the road again tomorrow. Shouldn't. Wouldn't except my son needs me to help him set up a new household. He sold his house and is moving so I'm to do an instant decorating job for him. I like to do that sort of thing. Haven't seen the new house yet but it'll be fun.

Oh, yeah. And it turns out he left the automatic electronic garage door opener in the last car he traded a few years ago. The people who bought his old house would like to have it. He lives in Atlanta where they don't even close the door, let alone lock it. I lived there 15 years and left my keys in the ignition if at home or at the mall (never had a problem. Locked the doors once when I left it at the airport while taking a plane to Durham. Locked the keys and the suitcase inside and had to pop the lock with a coat hanger. Took me a while after moving from Atlanta to adjust to keys and locks. In Savannah such would be irresponsible behavior and punishable by prison while the violator, thief, walks) Back to the subject: Sounds like I need to make a trip to Electronics R Us or Home Depot while I'm there as well.

Maybe I'll come upon Hillsborough again. This time I'll be prepared to stop. I doubt I can find it though. That's the problem with being a happy vagabond. You travel by directions, east or north or whatever. No maps to keep up with where you've been, are or going. Fun.
When I get back home here I'm not budging again until gas returns to 21 cents (is it a sign of the times that there's no cents mark on the keyboard) a gallon as it was when I was in college.

Jokers Left, Clowns Right

Wow! As the Hippie era song goes: "Jokers to the left of me, clowns to the right, here I sit in the middle with you." On the left of my desk is my US 2005 IRS tax form to be completed. On the right, summons for US court jury duty this month. What better time to escape all that and write a blog. So much is happening lately my material is endless. Savannah is a busy place this time of year.
International seems to be the theme of events flooding over me. Savannah's annual Tour of Homes just occurred and was a smashing success. All the money goes to fund grants for the needy of the city and we have a plethora of those. Residents in grand and historic homes open them to the public for the price of a ticket. As a result I STOOD Saturday from 9:30 a.m. until 5 p.m. in a home as head host, greeting 1500 of my closest brand new best friends and explaining the virtues of the house they were seeing. As usual I was amazed at the number of people from California, Europe and all parts of the nation and world who make the annual pilgrimage to visit our city for this event. Each year a different selection of homes is on the tour for that reason and it's when our gardens are in full bloom.
Heard from a friend I haven't seen since 1980 today. He's like family (have actual relatives I see about that often) so it was good to know he's well. We began our association in about 1964 as Graduate School classmates. We became closer when he and his wife became my next door neighbor. When my family left Durham for Atlanta, my friend and his followed by coincidence a few years later. After I became a divorcee I changed jobs from one department to another and ended up with my old classmate as my boss. We worked together for the 80s. I often feel like a vagabond but was really impressed to learn he's refined it to an art form. He closed his research lab a year ago now at a mid-western American med school and only teaches. He's bought a place near a sailing mecca and plans to move there soon. He's always struck me as a born lifetime bachelor which he reverted to after taking cues from another old song, "Fifty Ways to Leave a Lover". He left Atlanta for the north which he prefers. I knew his reputation as a world class sailor but wasn't prepared to learn that he's sailed yachts ( for other people who were rich enough to afford the grandest but needed someone to "reposition them" globally) from Iceland to the Caribbean and Atlantic to the Mediterranean in his spare time. Nice gigs.
Got it together for a passport with the thought I'd take a nice relaxing international fling in April. Bad time for taxes but usually a good time for travel. Climate is at its best and rates are good then. The day I went to the Post Office to renew my well-expired passport the line was out the front door. It made me ask of those around me if there was something happening that I should know about that was causing the obvious mass migration. They smiled but shrugged. I mentioned to the lady taking application and she admitted she'd never seen the line so long. I still don't understand it. I planned to leave for my trip as soon after tax deadline on the 15th as possible but didn't actually part with money as I awaited arrival of my passport. Had my eye on a jaunt that took off on the 27th. Then the mail came. I report for jury duty April 18th with a reminder that if I serve long enough to earn $600.00, they'll be forced to report it to the IRS. At the rate they pay jurors that would take long enough for my heirs, not ME, to be concerned. I figure roughly mid May will be my first chance to hop the next freighter!!!!

In all three shots of the new addition you can see the beauty of the city reflected on the glass wall. An added, serendipity effect. Upper left is Telfair Square in front of the new addition.

When not sneaking about gardens taking pictures of and writing about blooms, I've had several other interesting days lately. Most recently the opening of the new addition to Savannah's Telfair Art Museum. The architect and the other man it was named "for" were in town for the much hyped event. The architecture was controversial from the beginning as it was conceived as and is an ultra modern structure in the midst of our Historic District. The architect was Moshe Safdie whom we were assured we were fortunate to have stoop to do anything for our undeserving city. And so the design made it by a hair's breadth through the various committees that exist to keep us Historic. The building is quite beautiful and impressive but two comparisons came immediately to mind: Margaret Mitchell and Guilford Dudley (...not THAT Guilford Dudley).
The Mitchell influence was obvious in the overall image of a gigantic white staircase that the building mimics, intentionally or not. It was not unlike the grandeur of the fine stairway in Scarlet O'Hara's new, Atlanta, post-war mansion that Rhet Butler built for her in Gone With the Wind. Safdie's rendering though, of course, is ultra modern. The second reference mentioned was that often said by male Vanderbilt University students about the president of Life and Casualty regarding Nashville's L & C tower in the mid 50s. It was his greatest erection (as a "mature southern lady" now I keep the same stoic expression that indicates I couldn't possibly understand what they mean just as I did as a coed then.) Aside from those observations I found the Museum to be the neutral, non-intrusive building that should display works of Art. The show featured many electronic screens interactive with the viewer yielding interesting time and movement concepts. Nationally and internationally known, more traditional art was also on display. My use of the word traditional should not be interpreted as pre 1990, however.
The centerpiece of sculpture that the visitor ascending the grand stairway is greeted with is a large mother and son. (I almost never read titles or artists when in a Museum unless I come upon one I really like but am not familiar with. It's more serendipitous that way. Sometimes I'll know the work or artist just by sight, however.) The nude pair were somewhat heavy, weighted, dark but with rapt affection. They were not unlike Rodin in their coloring and media but more primitive in style. The mother's foot tucked under her buttock I found particularly Picasso like. Overall it had a Gauguin primitive sophistication. In retrospect I would have titled it Native Nativity. As a woman I found the piece offensive since the prime attraction, in spite of (or because) the son being front and center to the mother, was an unattractive crotch the visitor was forced to face for half the distance of the stairs. It was obviously disproportionate with an illusion of suction within. The boy was too large signifying this to be more than a mere mother-son moment. Any "such ases" escape me. No doubt an analyst (or gynecologist) could propose numerous possibilities but the message, if one other than a suitably shocking piece for a grand opening meant to cause chatter, was lost on me. The thought that it might be an excellent birth control device for viewers did occur to me.
The collection of Savannah Art was disappointing. The Ray Ellis piece was typical and impressive. The works of an unfamiliar artist, Clark, I found warm and commendable. Since Ann Osteen, the city's most talented artist, had nothing on exhibit I was disappointed and afterwards to the present, puzzled.
Descending the stairs I came face to face through the all-glass front with the beauty of Savannah bursting with all the signs of Spring, flora and fauna included. Telfair Square with its flowers and trees was displayed beautifully…more so than the new edifice or anything in it.

...And did I mention the vulgar

...beauty and variety of our camellias?

A nameless bush appearing all over town. Property owners planted but had no idea it would be such a show stopper

Japanes magnolia or tulip tree is one of Savannah's first blooms of Spring. This one, having been exposed to March winds is past prime

A few ahead-of-time azaleas saying, "It's my turn."

Our Valentine's Day Camellia bush in bloom


Savannah Spring

Savannah’s Winter show flower is the Camellia, of which there must be a couple of hundred varieties. One, the susanqua, begins blooming in late October and the last to bloom have names like pink perfection, debutante, white empress, methonianna rubra, pirates gold and on and on ad infinitum. They continue blooming until Spring. We have one that is usually in full bloom on Valentine’s Day but this year it was a bit late. I snapped a photo for your enjoyment. It was late this year waiting, I guess, on the cooler weather which never fully arrived. Spring blooming here begins with the Japanese magnolias/ tulip trees followed quickly by azaleas and wisteria. All very beautiful from beginning to end. Our azaleas are impatient, trying to bloom ahead of their Easter season peak. I snapped a picture of one of ours that seems to be saying, “It’s my turn! It’s my turn.”

I had an interesting experience this week that points out that flowers aren’t the only things that bloom in the Spring in Savannah. If you read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil you know we’re well known for our eccentrics as well. As a business woman I had the duty of meeting clients at a Condo development. Since they were arriving from Florida, I arrived early to accommodate their uncertain arrival time. I had met with some of their associates earlier so I’d been to this spot on several occasions. As I waited in the sunshine of a beautiful sunny day with perfect temperature, a woman from the next door approached my car. I rolled down the window and smiled as she approached.

“What are you doing here. Dr. Spienchgdvfichenclast?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” I responded reaching for my business card.

“I know who you are and I want this to stop,” she declared angrily.

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” I tried to explain and continued to reassure her why I was waiting there. I pushed up my sunglasses so she could get a thorough look at my face. She did not change her mind or tone. “As you see from my card I’m Nan Peacocke. May I ask who you are?” (Business people must be SO polite that it’s disgusting and hard to explain why I didn’t reach for my cell phone and dial 911. Later I noted my cellular wasn’t even working so it would have done no good.)

She rattled off a first name that had no vowels but all sorts of extraneous consonants (not that it matters but it is disconcerting to be accosted by a thickly accented foreigner on your own turf. Not that that mattered either. Americans are used to freaky encounters with oddballs ranting). The last name was Villk. She spelled both for me as if I were an imbecile but I didn’t bother to try to remember the first. “What are you doing here?” I asked, meaning at my car window.

“I have been with the International United States-Polish …”blah, blah, blah she continued with some official sounding alliance except for the ridiculously long, involved name of the affiliation. “And I know you. The last time I saw you, you were the doctor. And I know you when I see you,” she continued.

Certain she was a nut tree in full bloom but unsure of her variety, I tried several humoring tacks. From “I come from a large family and we are often mistaken for each other” to “You need help, my dear,” but nothing seemed to convince her. She returned to her Condo but left the door open to monitor me, I guess.

Well, at least all the nuts in Savannah aren’t home grown.

Have I told you how lovely our forsythia has been?

Back in the days when sexual discrimination was not only tolerated but encouraged, there existed a quaint phenomenon in American education. For lack of a better term "finishing schools", usually women's boarding schools and/ or two-year women's colleges. Ashley Hall in Charleston, attended by mother Mrs. Bush is an example. Virginia and South Carolina were full of them, some survive. "The Belle's of St. Trinian's" a British film I've not seen unfortunately, I'm told did a good job of displaying the humorous aspect of the British equivalent. I went to a couple of such schools. The second, closer to my Georgia home, was over in South Carolina. The student body was composed of about one to two hundred girls. This abnormal microsociety was memorable in many ways. Academically it was probably better than average but no one really cares about that. It's the non-academic that would fill volumes.
Picture a cloistered proper school just prior to the sexual revolution where no males intrude. Dress was the first item that was drastically different. Any place else, meaning where males made up a portion of the population, the females here would be dressed to the nines in the avant garde of haute coutiere fashion, elegantly coifed and made-up as if they starred on Broadway. Pants weren't yet an accepted form for women. Instead it was a time of skirts and sweaters. Here the skirts were of straight, usually black, and woolen topped with a formless sweatshirt, usually gray. Our feet sported tennis sneakers, never seen now, having been replaced by a totally different footwear, athletic shoes. The difference in those two varieties are comparable to an MG-TD versus a Cadillac respectively. Socks... white socks were worn and not turned down. They were shorter than a "Bermuda " sock but longer than anklets. Topping this charming attire was a US Navy regulation sailor cap turned down all 'round. The hair underneath could be anything because it was never seen: dirty, pin curls, bleached badly, etc. No make-up. If one overslept in the morning the dress was even more bazaare. Rolled up pajamas legs covered by a raincoat got you to class and/ or breakfast on time. One lived in fear of things like demerits and restriction of privileges as a result of tardiness.
There was a social life. In fact it was required. Wednesdays we dined formally in evening gowns. Sundays and concerts required hose and heels. Even those events could be lowered to the level of slobdom. Often our monetary allowances might be used for things other than hose and runs in your stocking were clearly no-no. I quickly found liquid brown leather shoe polish when it dried on the skin passed for hose. An eyebrow pencil drawn up the back and you had a seam. We resisted formal events even though they were usually attended by males of our age. Formal gowns, to us, seemed a bit much. I was short and so enjoyed the elevation in statue of heels. My taller friends could get by without them and still look elegant. If you raised the hem of their ball gowns though you'd see...you guessed it, rolled up pajama legs and though not bare feet as close as possible. They could get by with this because there was no dancing allowed at this school. Usually the more fashionable and elegant the ball gown the more deplorable the understructure. The social almost always included tea and crumpets, receiving line and cultural exposure. You can imagine Wednesday evenings how ridiculous we looked in ball gowns at dining table sans any males.

A strange experience. No wonder the 60s and 70s were unleashed.

Savannah Cold
Interesting variation on my morning…to me. My awakening came at 6:30 a couple of hours ahead of schedule because the thermostat kept cutting the heat on and waking me. Usually we sleep in a heatless house, preferring the warmth of bedcovers to that of fossil fuel. Apparently we didn’t cut the heat off, merely pushed the thermostat down so it was able announce the approaching cold front. Clever how thermostats work…even in Savannah.
I begin my days with a walk in Savannah. Usually I chose the Ardsley Park mall (with a small m meaning not a commercial Mall but a tree lined walkway) in Savannah’s mid-town Ardsley Park neighborhood. Ardsley Park is the antithesis of Levittown’s cracker box development. It’s a 1920s vintage neighborhood. Today that area was being cleansed of downed palm fronds, Spanish moss clumps, sycamore (more accurately sweet gum) balls and varied leaves still falling from Savannah’s gentle climate. The city workers were armed with leaf blowers to add to nature’s breeze.
I went to bed with a scratchy throat so the threat of their loud noise and stirred pollen was unappealing to me. Instead I sought another spot. Unpleasant weather usually drives me to the shopping Mall named for our founder, Oglethorpe (who never knew the concept of a cluster of indoor stores). Since I wasn’t sure my scratchy throat wasn’t the result of shopping where a store clerk was repeatedly demonstrating the symptoms for which Whooping Cough derived it’s name, I opted for an outdoor walk. I’ve begun weaving an oriental style rug so my nose constantly in the dyed wool may have played some role in the condition of my throat. I thought these mental cautions a sign of my age and pictured Howard Hughes beginning his decline this way.
In the early hour the Mall’s parking lot was still abandoned and its expanse of asphalt looked alluringly pollen free and preferable to crowded indoor stale air (Our Malls open their doors earlier than their stores to accommodate walkers). I withdrew my gloveless hands into the cuffs of my ski jacket, turned up its collar and circled the perimeter twice. Here the unobstructed breeze became a stiff wind and the predicted cold front it ushered in gave me my first feeling of bitter cold this winter. Savannah’s had two killing frosts this winter but they didn’t really seem as cold as this one.
Not very picturesque but invigorating and it woke me up all over again.