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.

A Hen Game

A Hen Game
In my family we're usually sick of turkey (best part is the cold sandwich, post feast, slathered with mayo and mustard) after Thanksgiving dinner. By Christmas we're ready for game hen which is kinda the antithesis of a turkey in size and station. Traditionally we have game hens, wild rice, almond and oyster dressing for Christmas instead of turkey, stuffing, etc. of Thanksgiving.
I spent Christmas with my son and his family in Atlanta (hustle and bustle) instead of Savannah (crystal bell at the hostess' elbow summons servants to the requiems of a leisurely, elegant, slow-paced dinner). On Christmas Eve I went shopping at Publix for Christmas dinner (fresher food and leisurely diversion intended).I went to the usual obscure spot occupied by excessive mounds of brick-bat-frozen game hens. There were only five left. When did the rest of the US discover the delicate delight of Christmas game hens??? I looked at them and from the distorted forms of their frozen carcasses I wasn't sure they hadn't died natural deaths (which isn't usually what one likes to think of in any game but particularly game birds...I mean, what with the West Nile virus and Bird flu rumors!) I thought to myself, suck it up, this is tradition...make do. I carted all five of them without firing a shot.
Moved to the seafood section and all the Daufuski oysters were sold. A black man next to me sounding very coastal ,Charleston or Savannah, in accent said. "Awdun unde shuckeduns?" The butcher looked at me and like a fool I translated: All done (gone) are the shucked (shelled) ones?" The butcher nodded and said, "All we have are in the shell."
"How muchfu'em?"
"$2.99."
"Each?"
The bargaining went a bit fast so that not even I understood how it was arrived at that he could have six for $8. Suddenly in the heat of bargaining they didn't need an interpreter. They both miraculously spoke the same language. Money sometimes does that to people.
I looked at the oysters. Both men seemed quite happy with the results of their bargained oyster price. "You ever shucked an oyster?" I asked and walked away. I didn't tell them but shucking is more difficult than getting jelled cranberry out of a can without a hole in both ends so I rolled my grocery cart on. Crabapples. I became obsessed with crabapples...whole ones. Weren't with fruit. None with produce. Employee with obvious malaise said he'd let me know if and when he found out where they were. He directed me. I stepped away from my cart to look thoroughly, stooping and stretching...none. Back to my cart. MY FIVE GAME HENS BECAME THREE IN THAT SHORT SPACE OF TIME!!! I was furious! Some slime bucket had stolen two of my game hens, albeit they weren't paid for yet. But they were the last in the store. (I checked with the butcher and of course told him my sad tale...he shrugged) I went up and down the check-out lines eyeballing for them. Then I calmed myself. It's Christmas Eve, get over it. About that instant a cart rolled by with two frozen legs sticking out from a jacket obviously thrown over it to try to disguise the "hot" frozen birds. I looked as closely as possible and truly they were mine. I could tell by the distorted position they were frozen in and the jacket over them was a bit obvious. I went up and down the grocery aisle in the opposite direction of the culprit so I could look the thief in the eye each time. She looked a bit sheepish and once when her cart was forced to barely touch mine due to the crowd she too quickly said, "scuse me." (Polite thieves are the WORST kind) All very unChristmasy. I decided I'd not let that scum ruin my Christmas. Finished my shopping and went up the road to a Kroger who had the usual mound of brick-bat frozen game hens. They were as good as I remembered from the Christmas before.
The Oysters? Not this year. Anyway my sons and grandsons would rather sandpaper a gorilla's chest than have an oyster cooked in the same house where they are. So I just looked at them and remembered how much better the wild rice, almonds, mushrooms and giblets would have been with them but kept the cart rolling. Christmas was one of the merriest.

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas, Y’all
Let me get this straight. The politically correct among us wish to fuse Christmas with Chanukah and Kwanzaa? Except for the time of year in which they occur and the fact that each holiday represents a celebration of three cultures represented in our society, do they have anything else in common? Because of my religion I’m well versed that Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ in a manger. I’m equally ignorant about the origins of Chanukah and Kwanzaa but the dictionary indicates that the former is a festival to celebrate the victory over Syria by the Jewish people and a rededication of the temple in Jerusalem. The latter means first in Swahili and runs from December 26th through January 1st and is a cultural harvest celebration. I see no harm in wishing my African American sisters and brothers a Happy Kwanzaa and my Jewish brothers and sisters Happy Chanukah. I see no harm in their wishing me a Merry Christmas or as the English say, Happy Christmas. If I know them I know if they do or do not celebrate those holidays and appropriately give my wishes. So what is the great hoopla about? Perhaps it is only the merchants who find it cheaper to just say Happy Holidays…and that’s OK by me. I doubt if they have enough crossovers to pay for a big advertising campaign for each of the three…and that’s OK by me.
Would we really care if they commercialized Christmas less? I can’t speak for the others’ holidays but please, Mr/Ms. Merchants, don’t waste your money on advertising trying to make another dime from Christmas on my account. So let’s keep this hoopla in perspective. Wish your friends whatever is appropriate and don’t let the commercials stir up animosity between us at a time of the year when we, each group for their own reason(s), should be in a happy mood. How did we manage to get in a squabble over happy.
Now, beyond that silliness let me ask the politically correct to join me in another cause. Brace yourselves. If I understand this fusing of holidays may I suggest we begin on January 19th. We could lead the state and the nation for a change instead of being followers. If we had the daring and the foresight that is, and if our hearts were as pure as many profess theirs to be. Instead of celebrating Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday we could change it from Happy Holiday to Happy Southern Leaders Day. Since Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert E. Lee were both southerners and have the same birthday why not fuse them? …And that’s OK by me. What happened? Where did everyone else go? That would be a sign that we really understand where America needs to be headed. That’s my kind of America. What’s your kind?

• 
  
  

SAVANNAH: The word itself is a musical sound that rolls off the tongue like a song of the south. Though it is a common noun meaning tropical or subtropical grassland with trees in Georgia of the southeastern US it has been translated to a proper noun. There Savannah is a special place. Oglethorpe, the general from Godalming in England who founded and designed the city, preserved those trees as the centerpiece of his design. He set up thirteen squares, small circular parks, with the delicate moss draped evergreen and majestic oaks as a refuge for the town's dwellers.
Any time of the year you see the small city it has become... those squares, often referred to as Savannah's jewels, make you appreciate his foresight. The passage of years since, has seen an overlay to that reverence for green spaces like the transparency of mica flakes, tightly adhering but separate and distinct. Grander avenues, like the one bearing his name, with those same moss draped oaks in their median, were added. A larger acre was added to become Colonial park, now completely a cemetery, but at one time also a park in the growing settlement. There active youngsters played alongside the resting remains of the founders' graves. The ultimate city park came a century later but continued the theme of graceful greenery, architectural embellishments and serenity. It is named Forsyth and covers acres to mark what was at a later time the city's center.
Its complex culture is also made up of tightly adhering, separate yet distinctly layered transparent flakes. It bears the marks of its once British origins tempered with incoming Africans, Southerners, Sharecroppers, Irish and other Immigrants, Carpetbaggers, Industrialists, Tourists and Retirees searching for unity... Americans. Such diversity has yielded equally complex forms of music, literature, dance and other arts that give it a distinctly recognizable flavor.
Lady Astor described Savannah as a beautiful lady with a dirty face. More recently magazines have described her as the most beautiful city.
Savannah Spell and it's sequel(s) showcase the earliest of Savannah's diverse moodiness. Moodiness variously and selectively described as seductive, sweltering, serene, stormy, saccharine, sluttish, sophisticated, strange, stoic, stylish, stifling, stigmatized, stagnant, squalid, spoilt, spiteful, spirited, spiritual, spellbinding, slovenly, snobbish, slanderous, shocking, sheepish, sensitive, selfish, seething, secretive, seedy, screwy, scary, scheming, sanguine, sardonic, scornful, salacious, sadistic, sacrilegious and sacrosanct, depending on the time and person asked.

Savannah Spell

Two volumes of this trilogy have now been completed, and are available from any reputable bookstore. This historical novel includes adventure and a romantic triangle involving Kathryn, a wealthy planter's daughter, and two suitors, Martin Caldwell, a Patriot, and Brent Robertson, a Loyalist.

Other characters include Sky, a young multiracial girl, so poor she has no last name. Sky is orphaned when a group of drunken seamen slaughter her father, liquor still owner and pimp for his wife, and mother. Sky escapes from the seamen with only the rags on her back and the black voodoo learned from her grandmother. She survives by murder, selling herself into slavery and buying herself back with profits from her magic.

Two white characters sell themselves into an equivalent slavery of loveless relationships. Mary, a minister's daughter, escapes her parents' strictness by seducing a local militiaman. She realizes she is pregnant by him but he dies in battle never knowing that fact. She moves on to another loveless affair and then a loveless marriage. Brent, a Loyalist soldier, makes a Native American style marriage to a Mico's daughter to gain Indian braves to aid the British in the Revolution.

There is a similarity between the colonies gnawing the umbilical cord that binds them to the mother country and the characters in this story.

Mirror My Soul, the second book, brings other characters to the center stage, and has a love triangle with a Loyalist and a Patriot vying for the love of one lady. In Charleston Lincoln;s army surrenders, the lowest point in the Patriots campaign.

American history brought to life - enjoy, and learn a little along the way.