Paige's Southern Histories and Mysteries

Well, just testing Ping!

I Rescued Plants Last Tuesday

I would dearly love to be as good a gardener as my father or my daughter. I enjoy being out in my carefully tended (by someone else) pocket garden, or looking out from my writing room to the native Georgia plants, and the little elf house, the green hummingbirds darting from feeder to feeder.

 But its just not going to happen. If the poor things were left to me, they would all be dead.  Brown, and not just from the drought.

  So even I was surprised at the internal (okay, and external) outrage I felt when the KA fraternity tore down two more houses in the historically black Hancock Corridor just to add more parking to their already oversized fraternity complex. I know the houses weren't in the best of shape. Okay, they were crumbling dumps. But when I stepped out from working at the Athens Nurses Clinic (in the historic old Athens black high school building, in the historic Hancock Corridor), it brought me to tears to see the bulldozers knocking over fourteen, yes, I counted, old oak trees. Then I saw the roses, and the irises and the lilies and something else I didn't know, but really pretty in purple, lavender and white, all in the path of the Bulldozer.

I've read articles about people who swoop in and save native plants from developers. Kandy, my friend the horticulturist, participates in these raids frequently. I knew I would see Kandy later that afternoon, so I took a few stems from the pretty but unnamed purple, lavender and white blossoms and went for advice.

I know it's sideways. I took this from my phone. Get over it.  So I took some of the blossoms to Pilates class for Kandy to identify. Unfortunately it wasn't a native Georgia plant, but it was old. I've seen it blooming every spring for five years, and the house has been empty for almost twenty. I didn't want the plant to feel unloved anymore so I dug up as much as I could. I was hanging from the tree, slipping on the down-slope, trenching tool in one hand, tree-trunk in the other trying to find the end of the really long roots, entwined with bricks and probably poison ivy.  And because I didn't want the irises and lilies feeling lonely, I dug up a bunch of those, too. Good thing I did-- this was the view Monday morning.
No plants. No trees. No erosion protection. Just dirt. And buried somewhere far below, the rest of the irises, the lilies and the rose plant.

I'll do my best to keep my rescuees alive.  And if you happen to recognize the lavender, purple and white flowers-- please let me know what they are.

Define Home

When someone asks "So, where's home?" how do you answer? What thoughts run through your mind?

Is it an address? A place? A region? Is it the home where you grew up, or where your parents visited family? When you think about home what feeling does it evoke?

For me, home is my self-determined Moss Belt. When I am on Interstate 16, and I turn onto the Old River Road bypass, my heart starts to beat a little bit faster. As I head south, where the Spanish moss hangs languid from the massive Live Oaks, where the hundred shades of marsh grasses rival that of Ireland, where the humid salt air breezes ruffle my hair... then I'm home. My heart is giddy with excitement, yet I am content. Home is the Georgia coast- a very special part of the Georgia coast bordered by Eulonia on the north, I-95 on the west, and the Jekyll Island Causeway on the south.

I know moss grows north of Eulonia; I spend a lot of time in Savannah, and my mother lived on Hilton Head Island. And I know it is east of I-95, because I saw some in Nahunta last weekend on my way to Waycross, but that's another story. However, for the thirty years I lived away from home, my answer was still 'The Georgia Coast.'

Jekyll Island was always the fun place to be. A friend's father owned the Bucaneer and the Wanderer, two of the low-slung beach-front motels. We would spend weeks at a time, mothers and children on the beach- mothers working on their pre-political correctness tans and children gathering seashells, sand dollars and shark's teeth.

St Simons Island was a bit more stodgy those days. Developers hadn't yet discovered the coast. Archeologists were excavating Fort Frederica. The beaches were, in our opinion, clearly inferior to Jekyll, not to mention that the channel between Brunswick, St Simons and Jekyll was prime shark-breeding territory. But my Aunt Sister was the part-time bookkeeper at the King and Prince Hotel. Sometimes we would tag along with her. At low tide, you could walk the beach between the King and Prince and the Village. The Village was home to the Casino, with the roller-skating rink, the pool and the putt-putt course.

Darien, Georgia is home to Fort King George, one of the first official fortements in the colony of South Carolina-- yes, before Georgia was a colony, the rich planters and merchants in Charleston petitioned King George for protection against the Indians and the Spanish. As our parents drank cocktails on the terraces overlooking the Darien River, we would race through the marshes catching fiddler crabs, or go to the old fort grounds and play soldiers. Winifred Stebbins would always announce that she could be a Colonial Dame because her ancestors were part of the first company of Highland Guards sent to protect the Fort. But then, that's the topic of another blog.

And the Ridge. Daddy's farm. where the biggest live oaks, the longest Spanish moss and the biggest alligator all made their home. I remember the tumble-down green single-wide trailor that would make a white-trash mom proud. Daddy used it for our weekend retreat and fish camp. He plowed a five acre garden on Bessie, his old tractor, and kept everyone we knew in Silver Queen White corn and fresh turnips. We would sit in rickety lawn chairs on the original home site, look out over Doboy Sound and eat fresh caught crabs and fried fish. The farm was to be Daddy's retirement home, until a drunk driver took him from us early.

Home. Thought, address, region, place. Where is yours?

Ditch Lilies

 Seen on the Athens Freecycle Webpage:  Wanted Ditch Lilies.  My husband thinks they might be the same thing as daylilies.

Given that I blogged recently about finding neat beds of jonquils at old home sites, and that Osage Orange always indicates previous domestication, I wondered how "Ditch Lilies" got there, in ditches, I mean. And when I thought about it, I remembered seeing orange and yellow lilies on the side of the road. I had seen what I consider "Easter Lilies" in the ditch, by-way, roadside near cemeteries, with no corresponding gravesite- but that is a whole 'nother blog topic.

I started to research "Ditch Lilies." My late father and my daughter, Master Gardeners both, are semi-appalled at my tendency to have a black thumb. Mint is the only plant to grow to humungous sizes, despite my attempts to kill it. And my lilies---my lilies continue to thrive. I discovered why.

There are over 110 species in the Family Liliaceae, the True Lilies. They are herbaceous, grow from bulbs, they flower with six tepals (I didn't know what the heck that was either). True lilies are fragrant and come in a multitude of colors. They are also edible to humans, but nephrotoxic to cats. So keep the cats out of the stir-fry. Truly, there are parts of the world where the roots of the True Lily are ground and used as thickeners in soups, the roots can be shredded and made into pancakes, and yes, chopped and put into stir-fry.

I like the Tiger Lily (the plant, not Peter Pan's Indian Princess)-- until I found that three different species of  true lily are all called Tiger Lily: Lilium Columbianum, Lilium Superbum (which is also called Swamp Lily), and Lilium Lancifolium. So now I'm not sure which Tiger Lily I actually like.

But none of these were the Ditch Lily, also perhaps known as the Day Lily.  Day Lilies have a huge following---with lots of websites to visit for more information. Day lilies aren't true lilies, they are imposters from the genus Hemerocallis. They are considered almost native, having been snuck into the USA back around the Mayflower or more likely (being Southern) on one of the ships that stocked Williamsburg or Charleston. In fact, the Tawny Daylily is indeed considered 'native.' Known not only for their intrusive and invasive tuberous root system, day lilies were also used for medicinal purposes. Potions made from day lilies relieve nasal congestion and the nausea/vomiting of pregnancy.  The large yellow Day Lily Hyperion started making a comeback in the late 1920s and it has been ditch after ditch of golden, orange and yellow ever since.

But, other than the fact they will grow almost everywhere with little or no encouragement, how did they become known as "Ditch Lilies?" In today's internet world of information at my fingertips, I googled. And except for the 642 pages of references to Day Lilies spreading easily and taking over sidewalks, lanes and into the ditches...there was nothing.  Until, 17 pages into comments on a wonderful blog by WhiteTrashMom, a poster said...Well, I guess you all know how the day lily got into all the ditches. My grandmother said they were planted by the WPA workers when they built bridges and roads and sidewalks.

Cool. No where else on the Internet did I find reference to this bit of arcane history. I did learn that the 1939 Works Progress Administration took over from the 1935 Works Projects Administration, which was a continuation of the 1932 Reconstruction Finance Corporation---all efforts to give people work. They built roads, bridges, sidewalks, created artwork still seen in Southern Post Offices and CourtHouses. And the timing of the regrowth of the Ditch Lily is close enough for government work.

So is it true? Did WPA/WPA/RFC workers spread the glory of thes lovely flowers around the USA? Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it!

Laid to Rest- Southern Cemeteries

What happens when a cemetery is no longer a cemetery? What happens when there is no longer family to grieve, mourn and take care of the resting place of the deceased?

I have several family cemeteries--I don't know where they are, but I know I have several of them. As children, my cousin Patty and I would go with my grandmother {my mother's mother}( who was Patty's aunt, making Patty and I second cousins, or first cousins once removed depending on who's definition you use) to tend the graves. I can find the Butler City Cemetery, and the Butler Methodist Church Cemetery. But the Wesley Cemetery? The Hays Camp Meeting Ground Cemetery? The other small family plots? My mother and her sister have both passed. My cousins have no better idea than I have. I have to hope that other, more distant relatives are still connected to these sites.

With that on my mind, I began to notice even more the small burial sites, some ajoining old churches, some alongside old houses and some, well, just there.

Driving along Highway 15 in Johnson County, I saw this and screeched for my dear husband to stop the car. I climbed out, fought three hundred hordes of grasshoppers and hiked about 200 yards back off the highway to investigate this cemetery. (Note- I don't hike.)

There is no church anywhere in the immediate vicinity. There is a house about three hundred yards off to the left, but it looked more like a 1960's ranch than an 1860's farm. There are perhaps 40 grave markers. The most recent burial seems to be 1931. The search of last names indicates that this wasn't a private family cemetery. But someone takes care of it. The (dead, dried) grass is neatly mowed. There aren't weeds sprouting between the plots. There doesn't seem to be any vandalism of the headstones. Someone cares.

Little private cemeteries such as these are a genealogist's dream. In fact, GENWEB has sponsored, asked, begged individuals to survey cemeteries such as this and post as much identifying data on the deceased as possible. I look at each headstone and imagine the story that person could tell.

I wonder about Ida Maud, who was only 18 when she died,  3 days after her infant son was born and died. In all my troubles sharp and strong,My soul to Jesus flies, My anchor hope is firm in him, When swelling billows rise.

And Sarah Loyd, born 1860, died 1891. Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe in His gentle breast, There by His Love Overshaded, Sweetly My Soul Shall Rest.

My father's mother was a Loyd from Johnson County. She died when my father was twelve. Now I need to start researching that side of the family. Was this a coincidence? I'll find out soon, I hope.

In the meantime- more cemeteries to find and research. More stories to imagine.

Getting Off the Main Highway

    My husband, Mike and I just returned from a weekend in my designated hometown, Darien, Georgia.  While Brunswick, Georgia (twenty miles south of Darien) is my true hometown, I spent a lot of Wednesdays and weekends in Darien with my father. Darien-- step out of your car onto the oyster shell lanes, see the dance of the Spanish moss as it catches the breeze coming off the river--Daddy said it would never change, and I hope it doesn't- but that's for another blog.

   Mike and I were on Highway 15 in Greenboro, Georgia, when the car ahead of us stalled at a stoplight. And restalled. And restalled. It was clear that the elderly man behind the wheel wasn't able to get his car moving, so Mike jumped out of our car to try and help push the old guy out of the intersection. After a deputy sheriff appeared with one of those pusher-thingies on his bumper, we made a right turn to get out of the intersection and continued on that road, fairly confident that eventually it would end up in Athens.  It didn't. But we were able to see so many wonderful Georgia sites (and sights) once we left the main road.  Azaleas, deep scarlet, light pink, white, so tall they reached the eaves of a house. Bright yellow jonquils lining flower beds of houses no longer standing. Fields of black cattle, with the occasional calf napping in the sun. Small family cemeteries surrounded by tall rusted wrought-iron fences, monuments tilting, the carved inscriptions buffed almost flat by age and the elements.

     After about thirty minutes, it became apparent that we were not heading in the direction of Athens. I pulled the car over into the shade of an old service station. You know the kind. A weather-beaten little store, long since abandoned. Two faded red pumps with the round glass tops on a small cement island. As my husband rummaged though the back seat for our Garmin, I looked at the big red brick building set back off the street opposite us. A little further back was a large four-square house, two or three stories tall, white siding.  The street sign on the main road was bent slightly. From my angle, all I could see was 'cer Road.' In my heart, I knew immediately where I was.

My maiden name is Mercer. I have to do more research with my older cousins to confirm we are connected to these Mercers. Never-the-less, it was such a thrill to happen upon the site of the original Mercer University, build in 1837. Had we not turned off the highway, we would never have seen it. I walked through the tiny over-grown cemetery that held the remains of Jesse Mercer and other university notables; I strolled around the old building that is now part of the public school system. I wondered what contributed to the decision to build the college here. Was there a growing community? Was it on a main road (in those days)? Why did Mercer University move?

     Our goal is to get off the highway at least once a month. To just wander the backroads of Georgia and see what we can find-- more of the vanishing Georgia of my childhood.

G-Game Day at the University of Georgia

It's another great day between the hedges in Athens, Georgia. Perhaps not as big at the seven wonderful Saturdays each fall, but still a great day. Georgia played Georgia in front of 10,000 cheering fans.

On those wonderful Saturdays in the fall, my husband and I  are seated in Section 135, Row 40, Seats 1 and 2, as we have been for the last ten years of Georgia football. Ocasionally my husband would look up behind us at the Skyboxes- his stepson's wife coordinated the leases- and would point to a box and say "Now that one leases for $60,000 a year, the one next to it seats 30 and costs $75,000."

I would say something about people who cared more about their image than the Bulldogs. The thought of being closed up behind the big glass windows, unable to hear the RedCoat Band or answer the cry for "Bull" "Dawgs."  I was content for my CoCola to remain unadulterated except for the bourbon breath of the man behind me. I thought having  gourmet appetizers served in a stadium to be just a bit hoity-toity.

Today, I got to breathe the rarified air in the Skyboxes. I watched Georgia play Georgia on the field as well as on the three televisions strategically hung from the ceilings in the Skybox. There were bottles of imported beer iced down in a large cooler, and an assortment of liquor and mixers on the bar. The seats were comfortable and the air-conditioner controllable.  I'm hooked.  I want to be one of the hoity-toity.

What does this have to do with writing?  Well, it is part of life, or at least my life. As my cousin Fred likes to tell me (and I like to hear,) my father attended UGA on a football scholarship, as did his father and several of my assorted cousins. I've been coming to Georgia football games since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. When I was off in the Navy, my mother would send me the alumni news. I use bits and pieces of the things Cousin Fred has told me to help remember my father, and to help Brittan Lee's father  come to life. And, as Brittan Lee said, "That helps keep him close."

The Georgia Writers Association has listed the nominees in each category for the 2008 Georgia Author of the Year Awards.  Hopefully within the next week the website will have the link for comments. I'll post that link as soon as it is available. I do know that among the other "Best First Book" authors are a Nobel Prize winner, a surgeon, an attorney and a sports columnist!

Dac & Paige's Southern Caribbean Book Tour

•   I've just returned with 18 dear family members from a 7 day cruise of the Southern Caribbean.  Despite some concerns, it did go quite well.  We all met up at the Atlanta Airport, flew to Ft Lauderdale, had a private limobus take us to the Port of Miami---then cruised for 7 lovely days. The youngest in attendance was 3, the oldest was 65, and there was something to do for everyone.  From a family genealogy perspective, my brother's children and grandchildren to spend time with me and my children---so they could hear more stories about my mother and father.  My husband's daughter has a daughter only a year apart from my brother's daughter's daughter. So they had a lot to share.  We met at dinner each night.  Everyone was on their best behavior; the little boys were adorable in their suits.  During the day, it was every man for himself.  If you wanted to join up for a shore excursion, fine.  If you wanted to sleep on the beach, that was fine. The rest of the fun came at dinner, sharing the stories of what each contingent had accomplished.  For my part, my devoted husband, Mike, followed me around with a camera as I visited the BookNook in Georgetown, Grand Caymans to discuss representing Under The Liberty Oak and Guns Across the Rio, and then I posed with the books at the Monkey, Pirate, Parrot Preserve in Isla de Roatan---the monkies and birds were quite taken by their literary opportunities   Belize was a most interesting stop.  Lynette, our tour guide told us that Belize is a third world country, and in place that shows.  We took an open river boat tour down the Wallace River to the Black Orchid Resort.  Incidentially, they had a cold front move in--we cruised 41 miles in an open boat with sleet and rain pelting us.  The wind stripped our $5.00 plastic ponchos right off our backs, but heck, it was still an adventure. At the Black Orchid Resort, we ate the native stewed chicken and the beans/rice cook with coconut milk,  Delicious!! Then on to Altan Ha which literally translated is Place of Stone Water.  At one point in time (about 400AD) there were over 500 mounds of Mayan Culture here.  Only 11 mounds located within two plazas have been excavated. UTLO and GATR  both made it to the top of the highest mound. 
• Our final stop was Cozamel--a beautiful island, designed for shopping, beaching, diving and eating. 
• And then, we had one last day on the ship. GATR and UTLO were both handcarried by me as I did my 1 mile circuit on the deck for the Walk for the Cure for the Susan J. Komen Walk.  I did selective drops of GATR and UTLO in select places with bookmarks identifying how to order books.  So, dear friends, that is how I turned my multigenerational family cruise into a business opportunity.

Daffodils and Historical Research

     Daffodils are blooming in Athens.  I have three bright yellow flowers in my side yard, or I did before the heavy thunderstorms struck earlier today. I knew they were going to come up, because I planted or transplanted all 45 clumps of bulbs, along with the eighteen deep blue Iris bulbs that had come with me from my grandmother's garden.  Before that, ancestors of my bulbs had been in my great-grandmother's flower beds, and her mother's before that. I carry that bit of family genealogy with me whenever and wherever I happen to move.

     My next-door neighbor had a lovely bed of flowers next to my fence--all bulbed flowers (I know my horticulture friends will tell me the correct name) but there were Irises and daffodils and spider mums and lilies and tulips in almost every color imaginable.  She told me that the flowers had been there when she rented the house.  And it tore my heart out when she moved and the new owners dug up the bed and threw everything out.  It was even harder to bear three years later when we had the property resurveyed and discovered that the old flower bed, and all the beautiful blooms were actually part our property. That the old woman who had built our house had planted each of those bulbs.

  So where am I going with all this?  Historical research...

  I was driving down an old country two-laner several years ago and I saw a line of daffodils blooming.  An almost perfect rectangular outline made of daffodils in the middle of a field. It was about thirty feet deep and twenty feet across. I turned my car into the old rutted track that lead to the flowers, got out and walked the perimeter of the blooms.

  I heard a tractor approaching. An old man climbed off and walked over to me. He told me that the daffodils has been planted by his great-grandmother.  That the blooms were in the old flowerbeds that surrounded his family homestead.  The house was long-gone, but the flowers remained, blooming every spring, reminding him of his great-grandparents.

  Since then, as I drive I look for things like the line of daffodils, or a clump of Irises or an Osage Orange Tree. Plants that don't just "happen," that aren't spread by birds or squirrels, but that must be planted by humans.  People who came before us and settled in an area.  Perhaps an old homestead or even a long-abandoned family cemetery.  But they all tell a story if I'm willing to listen

Genealogy, Cookbooks and History

The holidays are upon us and I am doing something I love- baking. When I was teeny-tiny, I learned to make fruitcake with my grandmother, Laura Wynelle Pope Amos (Grandmother was very proud of the Pope part).  People really did eat fruitcake way back then. My job was to take the candied fruit and toss it with flour so it wouldn't all settle to the bottom of the cake.  Believe me, she had enough fruit that there was barely any cake.  My great-grandmother, Mintie Lewise Adams Pope, would chop the fruit and pass it on to me to flour.  I would send clouds of flour all over the kitchen, and whenever my grandmother would set her hands on her hips and look at me, Great-Grandmother could quell her with one glance.

I thought of them today as I gathered the materials for Italian Fruit Bread- a concoction with pecans, candied fruit and chocolate chips in the batter.  Never had anything quite like it when I lived in Italy, but the name keeps people from thinking of it as "Another brick fruitcake."

When I opened the cookbook (The Ranch House Cook Book, Officer's Wives' Club, Camp Pendleton, California), an old photograph fell out.  From what I can remember of family lore, the photograph is one of my great-grandmother. It was taken at the Georgia Teachers College in Milledgeville, Georgia, and Great-Grandmother was wearing her graduation clothes- a dark skirt nipped to a tiny wasp waist with a large oval belt buckle, a white blouse( it might have stripes or they might be tiny pin-tucks, a dark cutaway jacket with huge sleeves, a black bow-tie, and the mortar-board hat.  Her left hand is balled up on her hip and there is a grim set to her mouth.  Perhaps that was what the photographer wanted, because her friend has almost the same expression. I do know that shortly after that photograph was taken, Great-Grandmother married Herbert Jackson Pope (the sheriff in Taylor County, Georgia), and kept his house, cooked dinner for the prisoners in the jail and boarded the lawyers who came to defend or prosecute the prisoners. I do know that when my Grandmother was away at her turn at the Georgia Teachers College, her father passed away as the result of a bullet wound to the lungs that never healed properly.  My Great-grandmother was left with her 18 year-old daughter, her 17 year-old son, and in a surprise turn of events- she was three months pregnant with twins.

What does this have to do with history or genealogy?  Well, I have a wall of cookbooks full of history.  I have Mrs. Dill's Southern Cooking which was a wedding gift to my mother in 1949.  I have cookbooks collected from all over the world- many of them like the Ranch House Cook Book- a collection of favorite recipes gathered by women and compiled into a cookbook as a fundraiser.  I like to read the little stories attached to the recipes- who first named broccali, raisen and bacon salad as "Church Supper Salad?" Which cookies in Sand Country Cooking were sturdy enough to be mailed to a young soldier in Germany during World War II? What two sisters married to two brothers created a cookbook to display the family business? Crab Chatter has over 150 recipes for fixing crab. And as a child, I got to try many of those recipes.

My Italian Fruit Bread is browning and the oven timer is beeping. 

My cookbooks have a world of stories in them. And as my friend Dac reminds me, so do I, and I better start writing them.  In the meantime, Under the Liberty Oak, is still available at www.Amazon.com. I have created a lovely bookplate to go in the front cover, so if you can't get your copy of the book for me to sign, just email and I'll sign a bookplate and get it to you in time for Christmas.

In the meantime- do you have a favorite holiday treat?  Share with us.