Columbus, Georgia - The Chattahoochee River Walk

Headed to Atlanta from Alabama, I chose to ignore my  navigator and made a right turn for a midday stroll.  Within five minutes, I had landed in Uptown Columbus at 13th Street and Broadway, a lovely area, with the usual monuments and fountains artfully decorating the median.

As I gleefully sprang from my vehicle, I heard music--live music--live, rock  music--coming from an establishment across the street.  It seemed odd; the streets were fairly deserted on this Saturday at 1:30 PM, but hey, live music is live music, and I can never pass it up.  But first I must walk, exercise, expend energy, and see the town.

Within no time, I was at the Chattahoochee River Walk, complete with landmarks, statues, and white-water rafting.  I paused to take it all in, snapped a few pictures, and then began a rather brisk pace along the river, stopping occasionally to take in the scenery.

White Water Rafting:

Looking South:

I want to attend a concert at this venue:

 A gift from Japan:

 I think they hid from me when they saw my camera, but a family was fishing together; they said they were fishing for catfish:

Eventually, I was covered in moisture, so I turned around and hurried back to Broadway to reward myself. I was revved to hear the music and entered Chaos on the Rocks, a dark establishment, sheltered from the light of day.  

One beer and several songs later, I was cooled down and musically refreshed. The band took a break, and I was able to meet the bartender, an intelligent young woman whose life was happily consumed by work--three completely different jobs, all tied to the music industry.

Check out the bar on FaceBook, and if you are ever tripping through Columbus, stop by.  Tell 'em Tripping Julie sent ya.  They won't know what you are talking about, but tell them anyway, 'cuz I'm tripping...

julie

Baker Hill, Alabama - The West Heritage

My daddy was born and raised in Baker Hill, Alabama, a place I had visited two or three times as a child (usually for funerals).  Whenever we made that solemn journey, we stayed with my daddy's cousin, Emogene. I loved it there, because I was actually allowed to leave the house unsupervised with Emogene's daughter, who had about four or five years on me.  

I recall skipping up and down the winding roads--both paved and dirt--exploring dilapidated homes that bore the menacing "No Trespassing" sign.  We ran through the fields; we taunted the cows.  We climbed and dug and "stole" mementos from our adventures.  And I never got a spanking for it.  Oh, how I loved going to Alabama!

But now, most of daddy's generation has passed on, and it seems that very few of their children have remained in the area.  (The 2010 census shows a population of 269 in Baker Hill.) I felt an urgency to get there soon, so I drove from Bainbridge to see Aunt Emogene. 

Soon after I arrived, Aunt Emogene drove me to the Methodist cemetery.  The Wests were Methodists (Emogene never understood how my daddy became a Baptist), so all the Wests were buried in this cemetery for free; in fact, if I so choose, I can be buried there, too. 

My Great-Grandfather's Grave

My grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great grandparents--they are all there--along with all kinds of aunts and uncles and cousins.  Standing in the midst of it, feeling the impact of this graveyard filled with Wests at every turn really brought me home, reminding me how briefly we exist, and why we must always "get on with it."  

One by one, I snapped pictures of the tombstones, calling out the names to Emogene, who would straightaway tell me a story connecting the dead to my daddy.  Seemingly oblivious to the blistering sun, she spoke with the charming drawl of the Alabama South--presenting every anecdote in a "matter-of-fact, just happened yesterday," tone--from the delight of school plays to the horror of domestic murder. 

The interior of the school auditorium, where my daddy and Emogene performed plays together.
Emogene said that a restoration project brought it back to its original beauty.

As we ventured from cemetery to landmark, I learned of my daddy's childhood. No, he wasn't lying when he said he "walked miles in the snow, uphill both ways" to get to school.  The vast fields and hills of green are beautiful to behold, but traversing this land twice a day as a child seems brutal.  

I found out that my daddy could be a pretty ornery child; however, Emogene explained that it was expected and accepted.  You see, genetically, according to Emogene, we all have the same tendency to be a bit westy (pronounced wessy)--a predisposition for meanness.  Yay!  It's not my fault.  

My day with Emogene was fascinating.  I learned about hog farming, slaughtering, and making sausage; why one needs to always pack a gun (she asked me, "Are you carrying?"); how and why churches were formed in the area (not what you think); but mostly, I learned that my Aunt Emogene is a kind and loving, strong and determined woman--she does what she knows is right, and she takes no guff from anyone.  She makes me proud to be a part of the Baker Hill, Alabama West family.

Hell, maybe I'll let my sons bury my ashes there…or maybe I'm just tripping…

julie

Aunt Emogene treated me to a lovely dinner at River City Grill in downtown Eufaula, where she regaled me with tales of westiness.  

Oh, yeah...as soon as I crawled through the gate to the old school grounds, I heard the whoot-whoot of a police siren.  Rather than arrest me, he took me on a tour of the grounds.  (Damn! I still have never been arrested.)

Bainbridge, GA

Whew…hard to leave my son's house.  I had to just buckle down, kiss them all, kiss them all again, get in the car, and drive away.  Brusque and brutal (remember, I don't do goodbyes well).  But as I drove away, I felt I should stop by Mom's house one last time to let her know that my trip was continuing.

It was difficult for her to see me go.  Like many parents, she takes it personally when I choose to do something of which she doesn't approve.  I could not ease her discomfort, so I gave her an "appropriate" goodbye (hugs, kisses, smiles, lingering moments…) before racing away to process the disapproval.  

Nomadic Matt has written a great blog about unsupportive friends and family, but I have to say that nearly everyone I know does not fall into that category.  Thank you for that.

So…after missing a turn or two (my brain was dysfunctional for a little while), I got on Interstate 10 and headed for Bainbridge, GA., where I would be staying with the president and founder of Secular Woman. 

Now, Georgia, for me, is a great deal like Florida.  I married a Georgia boy (back in the day), and I have lived in Jesup, Alma, Albany, and Tifton.  I got my teaching degree in Valdosta; my favorite hangout town was Savannah, and I have been through and into many towns because of high school football.  I have been to Atlanta on many occasions, of course, and I spent a day touring Macon with an Allman Brothers Band aficionado.  So, Georgia isn't a new adventure for me; it is another tour of nostalgia…if I chose to make it so.  I didn't. 

Bainbridge isn't far from Tallahassee, Florida, and my host delighted me by accompanying me to the Trayvon protest there.  We stayed for a little while, listening to the protesters practice their interviewing skills.  We were impressed by the willingness of so many individuals to put themselves up for critique.  (We went the day before the celebrities started showing up--I was glad of that.)

The following morning, I took a walk into downtown Bainbridge where I discovered Willis Park, a charming garden style park complete with a Victorian gazebo and fountain where the community gathers for entertainment and relaxation throughout the year.  What is not mentioned is the array of war memorials there--from the Civil War through Iraq and Afghanistan.  

I spent a great deal of time pondering these memorials and the dead men they honor.  I hate war.  I suppose it may be necessary…?  Fighting for power, for land, for resources….or maybe morality…perhaps revenge…or sometimes just because people couldn't compromise--at least one side was determined to have its own way.  To see the names of these men is troublesome to me, bringing only sadness.  

So I went to the local coffee shop and heard a joke:

"I told my husband that he has to start making me my coffee.  Yeah, it's in the Bible:  Hebrews."

I must be tripping…

julie

And for my grandchildren in Jacksonville:

While at MOSH, my grandchildren and I were walking through the history of Jacksonville exhibit.  They spotted a barber's pole.  "What is that?" they asked.  And I explained.  So, hear you are, kids, a real barbershop with a barber's pole.

Florida

Five weeks.  My first stop lasted five weeks.  Don't worry, my dear future hosts; I will not abuse your hospitality in such a way.  Florida is different, because I was born and raised in Jacksonville, the location of my first stop, my son's house. 

I am a grandmother, and for you grandmas out there, you know how inspiring it is to look into your little ones' eyes while they share their thoughts and feelings--gesturing and explaining, struggling to find the right words, and beaming when they have truly been heard.  It's hard to leave that, especially when you know you will be gone for awhile.

The moments I spent with my son and his wife will stay with me as I continue the journey--so much conversation and laughter to replay over and over again in my mind.

And then those occasional moments, when the parents had time off together and the other grandmother and I would dash away, escaping the grandma label to become grown women again--I laugh at the remembrance of our escapades.

I visited family--the living and the dead.  And I soon found myself visiting old landmarks, pausing at each one, remembering its impact on who I am today.  Later, as I scrolled through the pictures, I laughed out loud.  I had taken a picture of a driveway, the one where I learned the wrong lesson:

I suppose I was about four years old and my brother was five.  We were riding our tricycles up and down the drive and he decided it would be fun to turn suddenly and crash into me.  It hurt and I cried.  When asked, I told my mama what had happened and she said, "Don't be a tattletale."  My brother smiled smugly.  My memory tells me that she gave me a spanking; all I know is that I was not to tattle on my brother.  This lesson is the one I call "aiding and abetting the bully."  (I love you big brother.)

I felt a little funny about spending five weeks at a single stop on my road trip.  What was I waiting for?  Was I afraid?  Was I having second thoughts?

No.  I just needed to remember from where I come, so I can focus on where I am going…tripping…

julie

A visit to Friendship Fountain.  I took my grandkids, but spent a moment alone thinking about my pappy; he was proud of this fountain, and took me there often.

How Does Moving Away From Friends Work?

The whole idea of saying farewell to my past has plagued me since the moment I said "Bye, y'all!" to the last of my moving crew and maneuvered my Prius out of Flagler Pointe and onto the highway.  I have never cared for goodbyes; in fact, I suck at them.  

For six months I talked of virtually nothing except that I was leaving South Florida.  I planned and talked and planned and shared and planned until I decided I didn't really want much of a plan.  Everyone knew that I was leaving and they knew when I was leaving, and yet when it came time to leave each of my friends, I was stunned beyond words.  "Ummm…this is it…ummm….see ya soon?  Uh, I guess, um….I love ya….it's been great….uh….." and I would get in my car, blinded by tears, and drive into the blur. 

Will I see you again?  (Sounds like an episode title of one of my favorite podcasts:  Stuff You Should Know from HowStuffWorks.com--"How Does Moving Away From Friends Work?").  

Over these past few weeks, my memory software in my brain got a reboot, and I have been inundated with thoughts of the life-changing moves I have made over the years. I discovered a saddening reality about my goodbyes:  The past seems to stay there.  I realized that my best friends, my confidantes, my family--we all fell out of touch.  We moved, changed phone numbers, and then…nothing.

Today, however, I have hope.  I am hopeful that social media will maintain those friendships, and I have confidence that my presence on FaceBook will lend itself to truly lasting bonds.  

But what about you, my dear friends, who have chosen to keep your lives private, shying away from exposing yourself to the world?  We will have to work harder to remain in touch, but I am hopeful that this blog will provide an easy way for us to continue our relationships.  Please email me, call me, keep me in your hearts; you are in mine--even while I'm tripping…

julie