Dreams, Moments, Travels
It had to happen! And it was such a convenient way to force myself to drive on a freeway. Unfortunately (!), my favorite second-hand clothing store – Buffalo Exchange, did not have as many tempting choices for me as usual, so I left with two shirts, total damage under $20.
In the morning, as the sun rises into blue skies, the red door of my room blazes a fiery red, reminding me that we stayed the night in Redwater, Mississippi. Just a few minutes further, and we are on the Natchez Trace Parkway. I cannot help but travel north a short way to maximize our time on this historic road that slices a path through the forest. The National Park administers the more than 440 miles of the Trace and does so admirably. Caroline and I drove the length of the Trace in the year 2000, starting in Nashville, Tennessee, its terminus, and for the next two days, we crawled slowly south to Natchez, Mississippi.
Leaving the Trace, back then, was tragic as we had wound down and decompressed. Rejoining the speed of life highway-style was a rude transition back to modernity. Joining the Trace today, I’m filled with fond memories and the thrill of excitement. Back when Caroline and I were here, we had rain and gray, but still, it is one of the top scenic drives we have taken.
Although I could easily keep on with my travel north, I turned around after 11 miles to keep us close to our loosely defined schedule. It is a beautiful sunny day to take in the details, shadows, waters, life, and sense of history along this great American scenic byway.
The Trace commemorates an ancient trail originally established by Native American tribes, the Choctaw, Chickasaw, and others. From 1785 to 1820, it found its heaviest use as the Kaintuck boatmen (rough guys who plied the waters of the Mississippi) who had gone downriver on the Mississippi and the Ohio Rivers to markets in Natchez and New Orleans made their way north again to Nashville on this path. Walking the length of the trail the men who were flush with money from selling their boat and goods dealt with swamps, thickets, forests, wild animals, bandits, and little in the way of accommodations.
Today, the swamps reflect old cypress, moss, and an often wild landscape adjoining freshly manicured grasses straddling one of America’s best-kept roads. There are interpretive trails taking visitors on educationally informative walks. Wild animals of the predatory type are long gone, a few turkeys, deer, vultures, armadillos, raccoons, and squirrels can be seen by sharp eyes. Bandits and accommodations are kept well away from the Trace, as is commercial traffic.
The Trace has a top speed of 50 miles per hour. I find it difficult today to drive much above 30mph and wish that once in my lifetime, I could walk the length of this road. There are not a lot of cars here, and only a limited number of locations for them to join the Trace. You won’t find a restaurant here or a billboard. For 444 miles, you will find the natural side of America much the way it has looked since the Trace saw its first travelers back around 8000 B.C.
Historic sites are well-marked with large signs explaining what event or reason this particular area is being recognized. We stop at a few taking the time to familiarize ourselves with some of the roadside lore.
Trees tower over us, casting shadows from the east side of the road to the west. Some trees are bright green, while others have no fresh growth yet; we are still coming out of winter. Flowers dot the grasses and spread to the edge of the forests. Bright yellows, delicate whites, and tiny purple flowers are all making an early spring appearance.
The Pearl River makes a curve along a bend of the Trace, and we are pulled towards its shore. A lonesome boat floats quietly as its sole occupant fishes on calm waters. The tranquility of the river set in this Mississippi forest acts as a great host to us travelers. Our only wish is to linger a little longer than we do.
Nothing lends itself better to feeling like you are in a primitive landscape than when coming across a flooded cypress grove. Ancient trees send roots out of the brackish water while moss creeps up the trunk towards the tops of trees, reflecting their blue sky frames in the dark mirrored surface. The scene offers the senses a jolt that keeps our minds and imaginations busy. The water-swollen bases of the trees look more like elephant feet than tree trunks, lending to the curiosity stirred up while staring into these primordial forests.
More historic signs, more trees, and more blacktop, but the road is never dull. We cross small creeks, minor roads pass over the Trace, and the noonday sun illuminates the forest floor when trees aren’t busy blocking its light. A stop to look at wildflowers offers bees and bugs sharing flowers. Near the Choctaw boundary, another stop to inspect details, I look at fresh green leaves, old brown leaves, moss, bark, and a creek with two folks wandering its waters on their own exploration.
Soon after seeing our first example of a rustic split rail fence we encounter one of the few remaining original sections of the Sunken Trace. More than eight feet deep in places from the hundreds of thousands of shoes that tamped down this trail, we move towards its edge for Auntie and Grandpa to have a view. Trees grow precariously close to the rim near the steep drop-off to the trail below. Back on the pavement, we inch closer to the end of the road.
Mount Locust was, for many a traveler the first stop on their long walk north. A primitive stand, once one of many along the Trace, is now the lone survivor. Originally built in 1780, this oldest home in Mississippi changed owners until William Ferguson took over and added a small two-story inn, allowing travelers to grab a bunk for the night. Today the old house acts as an interpretive center telling the story of the Kaintuck’s journeys.
From Mount Locust, we took an unmarked road. Down this dirt path, I drive as I’m curious to see what might be at the end of the way. A good part of the road is an original section of the Trace. Not knowing where we were going was at first ok as the trail was yet again more rustic than the paved road we had been on. After a few turns, we seemed to be crawling deeper into a thicker and thicker forest.
I am asked if I know where I am going; nope, no idea, but I am following this road we are on. The road forks, and we stay to the left. A home on the left, a home on the right, more homes, and I start to wonder just where we are. Two nervous passengers keep me alert, and I start to contemplate the idea of turning around. Having what I think is a good sense of where the paved road must be, I continue on.
Not long and we are on one of the tiny dirt road intersections that occasionally cross the Trace, now I know where those roads go. In just a few minutes, we are at the end of the Trace. It has taken us six hours to drive about 130 miles; someday, I will take twice as long.
Minutes later a historic marker brings our attention to the Jefferson Military College. A quick stop and we find out that this was Mississippi’s first educational institution of higher learning, which opened its doors on January 7, 1811. In 1818, a young ten-year-old Jefferson Davis attended the school, but in 1863, it closed its doors due to the Civil War. The college reopened in 1866 as a preparatory school until the time it permanently closed in 1964.
The entrance to the well-maintained grounds is free. Self-guided tours of the restored West Wing, the kitchen, and Prospere Hall, where interpretive exhibitions, a gift shop, and restrooms are all found. The T.J. Foster Nature Trail takes visitors through a wooded ravine, past St. Catherine’s Creek, over bridges, past Ellicott Springs, and a historic cemetery. Nice place.
Natchez, Mississippi, is one of America’s oldest cities. Founded before New Orleans, it was once the home of more millionaires than any other place on earth outside of New York City. The city is internationally known as being the home to some of the best examples of surviving antebellum homes. These are not them.
A visitor’s reception center sitting high above the banks of the Mississippi next to the bridge that takes people to and from Louisiana is a great first stop to learn about the local sights. Not only are maps available for self-guided tours to see these old historic homes but tours inside many of them are available.
If only this were a tailgate road trip with a portable cooking setup where we could have made our own boiled peanuts and cooked up some crawfish, we bought along the side of the road, this could have been so much more.
There will be no roadside cookouts doing it cajun style, but there will be dinner and a proper motel to take a rest from a busy day that, at times, I feel is more about me and my desires than the guests I’m ferrying across America’s southern states.
I hate driving home at that stretch of time when the sun is so low that flipping that vizor thing down doesn’t help. There is not much else to say about this day other than that I worked a lot…
Friday starts with biscuits and gravy. The continental breakfast at this Best Western easily wins the best breakfast award of our trip. Not only are the biscuits and gravy just great, the menu includes grits, oatmeal, dry cereal, a large mixed fruit bowl, pastries, bagels, coffee, and orange juice. The staples are just that, but the biscuits and gravy will live on at some mythical level of a quality unseen from a franchise hotel.
Based on the roads taken Thursday, I altered our itinerary to take in some smaller roads, which I hope will be more rural and a lot slower than the main artery I had originally chosen. Before our deviation, we passed cotton, the crop that, along with tobacco, defined the South for many troubled years. Cotton shouldn’t be dismissed as some pretty fluffy-looking fibers that somehow become a large part of our clothes. Back in 1840, cotton exports represented 67% of our export economy, and the British were the largest buyers of our slave-produced product, which was making slave owners rich. Wealth and the desire for what it buys have always been a powerful factor in how one person exploits another, with only the obvious negative nature of this ugly transaction being camouflaged in order to keep it alive right up to today.
The lady at the desk of our hotel, on hearing about my plans to take us through Enterprise and then Opp, before pointing the car north for the drive to Montgomery, recommended we take the Montgomery highway, which would be much faster. I explained we were intentionally looking for slower scenic roads. She insisted that the roads we will be driving are not scenic as she has driven them many a time and are not what she would call scenic rural roads.
They are the roads of rural poverty where lack of education and inequality regarding resources are measured out in such ways to ensure those caught in the trap of being born to the wrong geography and race will continue maintaining their position in society. Far too many people in this region of our country are trapped, which is right where those who despise them would like to keep them short of deporting them to Africa.
Boy, was she wrong? Leaving the 84, where we spotted the cotton, and getting on the 92 East, we are traveling the nondescript little two-lane side roads I live for. More abandoned homes, a house with a boat docked in the front yard ready to be dragged over to the Choctawhatchee River for some fishing. Farms are interspersed between patches of forest and rolling hills. The red clay soil of Alabama is churned over in a number of fields by local farmers prepping their land for spring planting; maybe it’s already been seeded.
My feelings for Alabama are warming as I witness the intrinsic beauty the state embodies and what must have been the draw for early settlers. Plenty of water graces Alabama, and the rich red earth must deliver an adequate abundance based on the number of working farms I see around here. At the same time, there is also great poverty and much neglect, so any assumptions on my part will require further scrutiny.
The 167 bypasses Enterprise and delivers us to the 134 East towards Opp. The characteristic wetlands of the region are a romantic attraction, at least during springtime. I get lost in their reflections. Looking into their dark waters with trees ringing the water’s edge and, at times, growing from the middle of the depths of the waters has me on the constant lookout for places to pull over in case I spot a particularly spectacular example.
All the while, I have to remain vigilant in the memories of what has occurred on these lands and the horror of those dragged out of a continent a world away to be thrown into a kind of labor that would have been as alien to them as any modern-day person being sucked up off the earth and brought to a planet light-years away and forced to clean the anuses of Martians.
Crushed dreams and broken families litter the history here and cannot and should never be overlooked. Not until white America reconciles its still remaining racist tendencies and begins the work of true integration should we be let off the hook for our ancestors’ injustices.
Lonely and near-empty houses, once homes to people who don’t leave photos of better times behind, are scattered along the highway. Some appear to be older dwellings, discarded from use after the current property owner built newer digs. Along the way, we left the 134 to take the 189 North until we branched off to the 141 and finally onto the 9/29/331 – yes, all three roads on the same stretch of highway.
Are we lucky to be here in springtime instead of the summer and fall when the mosquitos may have negatively impacted my perceptions? Right now, though, I am taken in. No matter if the waters are brown, black, or have a green surface, are large, small, running, or standing still, they all are delights to my eyes.
Windows to the past are discarded as inconvenient reminders that what was happening here at one time should not be seen again. I can’t help but filter this part of our journey with eyes that try to peer deeper into what is just below the surface and wonder if it might be kindling yet to catch fire.
On one side of the road, a small rural grocery appears to be thriving, while just down the street is a nothingness intersection where the local gas station/convenience store has recently closed. The store appears to have shut abruptly. Maybe a death or serious injury in the family forced the owner’s hand, or maybe poor management brought foreclosure? We casual travelers will likely never know.
The town of Brantley pops up out of nowhere and is a small gift to travelers. Two old washing machines from my aunt’s youth first caught our attention. Rusting, inoperative, and growing plants from their tubs, the nostalgia they imbue has Aunty fawning over her memories of having used washers just like them years ago.
At first glance, the town seems to have dried up with its dust being sent by the wind, but that is only at first sight. While a lot of the shops are in need of either tenants or paint, just north of downtown are some wonderful, well-kept old homes. A large school is still open, and my curiosity to know more about Brantley will only be satisfied on a future visit.
Between these small towns are more farms and more wetlands. Old relics of business, now shells, dot the crumbling sidewalks, and we sit back and watch farms and forests pass by our windows. The weather earlier had given me some concern that we were in for nastiness, but after about 25 miles of driving north, the storm broke up, and we were under sunny skies as we approached Montgomery.
I expected more on the way to Montgomery. I am not sure what it was I thought I’d find. Maybe I was looking for abject poverty or old homes with folks sitting out front on the patio watching life go by. I could also have been thinking there had been a renaissance around this celebrated area and that, along with monuments, would stand new homes and businesses that would demonstrate the vibrancy of the black and the white populations seeking better lives.
Instead, things seem to look much the way they likely always have. I am curious to see downtown Montgomery, but time constraints are playing a role. I’ll have to wait for a return in the future, but for now, I’ll take Highway 80 to Selma as a compromise. We are about to follow the path of the civil rights march that occurred along this route back in the 1960s.
We are greeted by a commemorative sign identifying the events which took place here. The road itself is now a four-lane highway that is rather nondescript. To me, it appears that this area has been sterilized. Maybe there were old homes or shops, gas stations, or signs of the camps along the way; today, there is asphalt.
A sign here or there identifies where the encampments were. Promises of future memorials on long-forgotten placards fade sun-baked from the years of neglect. Coming into Selma from the east, we get our first taste of the type of poverty that has been ever-present for too many people of African-American descent. This is indicative of not just the population here but can be found across the country.
Selma is just another microcosm of life in the U.S. for black Americans. One side or the other, south or west, on the outside of town, or hidden away off a secondary road, a community of ramshackle dwellings identifies the have-nots where education and opportunity have played secondary roles to the need for survival.
On the way to Selma, I take inventory of what I have watched and listened to over the course of my life so far, trying to see how things have changed for the black population in America. I knew most of the answer, but this trip across the U.S., my third in the past four years, confirms my first-hand experience that not much if anything, has improved; on the contrary, things seem tenser.
Our first stop is at the Downtowner Restaurant which Caroline found us moments before, while she sits patiently in Phoenix trying to help with my incessant phone calls for her to be my connection to the internet. She found us a winner today. Lunch for the three of us was some fantastic catfish served with three sides and a hushpuppy. Just like other home-style cooking places I’ve been to, certain items run out, and you have to choose from what’s left. In this case, Auntie had the last portion of catfish, and the next customer was forced to order something other than his first wish.
The layout of downtown Selma is classic Americana. The main buildings are old, well-maintained, and beautiful to look at, requiring a return visit so that Caroline and I can casually visit and view these historic structures and facades in greater detail. Ornate churches ring the city. Large homes stand gracefully as their present owners take great pride in preserving their heritage. These elegant timepieces have become showpieces, law offices, bed and breakfasts, and private homes.
The Live Oak Cemetery is a pre-civil war treasure that Auntie could have stayed at for the rest of the day. We read some birth and death dates, admire the ornate grave markers, and read a few of the historic postings before moving on.
Leaving Selma, the road returns to what came before on our journey. Pockets of decay between scenes of splendor. It is impossible for trees, lakes, creeks, and meadows to look broken down and sloppy, but quite easy for neglected man-made artifices that lie rotting. These time capsules dot the entire country, though, in some places, they are more common than others.
On the one hand, some buildings are simply eyesores, while others lend an aesthetic to the rustic look and feel of the environment. Some gas stations age gracefully and harken to a moment in history that feels romantic, while another more modern closed station portrays urban blight. Homes that may have been savable a few years before quickly succumb to the forces of nature once a chink in the armor can be exploited.
Once a roof starts to collapse, it won’t be long before the floors rot. An open door or broken window invites animals to take refuge. If the opening is small, first, the insects and birds make the old home their new home. When the house has been sealed up well, it is likely a transient made the place their own for a while. A lone mattress, a few scattered clothes, and empty liquor bottles are usually good indicators that after the owners left, a squatter took over.
We leave the “Welcome to Alabama” sign behind and must be crossing into Mississippi, but the welcome sign is nowhere to be found; not even a little placard at this crossing is seen. The sun is going down in this corner of a Mississippi forest, and another crossroads brings us to more forgotten and neglected buildings. Night approaches, and for a short while, we drive in the dark on our way to Carthage, Mississippi.
Our motel is the Economy Inn on the north end of town, off Red Water Road if I am not mistaken, this should be the town of Red Water, but the listing for the motel online said the place was in Carthage. This was found in my bathroom; just kidding.
Closing thoughts on racism. I have seen this cancer that plagues our country firsthand. Not necessarily as it happens to a recipient of its vitriol but from other Caucasians who believe I’m part of their club of hate. This has happened on dozens of occasions over the past 30 years of my life. What was new about this trip was how much more open and angry it has become over the past four years. People talking within earshot use racial terms of hatred without concern about who might be hearing them.
A young black woman in Louisiana related how children 3 and 4 years old talk about “them niggers over there” when in stores and parks. An older black gentleman told me of the black side and the white side of town. I’ve had a hotel receptionist offer me a room up front away from the “woolly boogers.”
In Mississippi, off a side road is what appears to be a small town with two churches and small houses packed tightly next to one another. The only problem is that this place had no sign identifying this as a township, village, or small town, and nothing on the map either. There were no street signs or mailboxes. All of the residents as far as I could see, were black. This got me wondering if this was more common than I might imagine. Are there pockets of impoverished African Americans who have clumped together in unincorporated areas, staying off the radar screen and not part of any community?
Civil rights have surely improved things since those fateful days along these roads of racism years ago, but in reality, the white population has sold themselves a new and improved brand of Caucasians that is bigger and better than ever since we removed those harmful overt signs of racism and intolerance from the recipe that creates ugly souls. The truth is we just rebranded the same old product and called it new; it’s still what it is, full of hate and bigotry but with a much nicer face that appears too thin to hide the truth.
It’s not just the south either; it’s there in Montana as big as the sky. Idaho’s potato crop pales in comparison to the size of its prejudice. New York doesn’t escape either; just check out upstate. Chicago? Don’t be caught on the wrong side of town. Iowa? I don’t believe there are but 3 African Americans in the entire state.
Selma was a truly beautiful city in spite of the poverty on its edges, but still, I could easily imagine there is more than a handful of people there who feel that a new walk to Montgomery is in order.
Today’s the day (or, rather, night) to savor last night’s work. I joined friends for pani puri night at Rinku’s house. You can see the dish with the green pani in the foreground. I bet John is a bit jealous that he couldn’t join us.
Thursday brings new life and new fun. The sun is shining after some lingering clouds gave way during the early morning. Our first stop is to catch a long-distance glimpse of the Space Shuttle Hangar out on Cape Canaveral and the Kennedy Space Center. Nobody other than myself has any real interest in walking around this corner of history and so we continue our drive north.
Merritt National Wildlife Refuge is the next place of interest, so we stop. This is home to a diverse collection of plants, birds, alligators, and insects, populating the many waterways and probably a lot of other stuff we can’t see. Blue herons and egrets are the most abundant birds we readily see. A couple of cormorants sun themselves while other smaller birds flitter by.
Over in the grass, a small alligator, or maybe it’s a big lizard, a very large lizard. The gator is about 4 or 5 feet long and poses while we gawk. This gator will be the only one we see today, which is unfortunate as Auntie was hoping to see a capital specimen.
Crawling along at five mph, we see more birds, admire the thistles, and get lost in the ripples of water scattering sunlight across its surface. The road through the refuge is a short one with just a few interpretive signs along the way.
We passed a manatee viewing area, but from previous experience, I have learned that these sea cows need more heat than the frigid winter waters can deliver. The manatees go inland to find those warmer waters. What we don’t pass is a gas station for replenishing our water supply and Grandpa relieving his own. Time to go find some of the essentials for continued comfortable travels.
On the main road again we pass a few boat launch areas and quickly are at the end of this road and joining another where we find a gas station.
Leaving the gas station, a guy on a bicycle sits waiting for us to pass. A Vietnam Veteran with strong feelings for Jesus, he is Mr. Tougher T. Woodpeckerlips, T stands for Than. Not being able to pass this sight up, I ask to take a photo, which he obliges.
He asks where we are from; we ask him the same. He offers up some excellent information about the forest here with panthers and other wildlife that can be seen in the wild. Sadly, we are short on time and have to leave, but not before he tells us how he rows, standing up on his 16-foot flat-bottom fishing boat, rides his bike everywhere, and was recently hit by a car from which he is still recovering. It was after the list of battles that he adopted the description of being “tougher than woodpecker lips.”
That’s it, we are as northeast as this trip takes us. I point the car west, and we are now truly on our way home. Luck shines like the sun today. Not far down the road, we spot a man selling boiled peanuts. I have been looking for fresh boiled peanuts for more than a thousand miles now and need to stop.
I wanted the real thing and not some plastic-wrapped, made yesterday, boiled peanuts that are some garden variety, boring kind. I had to have the cooking-on-the-side-of-the-road, out-of-a-pickup-truck-trailer variety. Better yet, they need to be served up by someone out of Dukes of Hazard, and that’s what I got. Cajun-flavored boiled peanuts served up by the bearded old man sitting with his dog on the roadside, waiting for probably anyone but us Yankees.
The back roads of Florida and America, in general, are only back roads to us city dwellers. These roads are not freeways; hence, they must be back roads, is what one would say. In reality, though, they are major thoroughfares connecting small towns to larger ones. Even smaller than these are the roads that cross communities, and then you finally reach the real back roads. These back roads are typically dirt, though quite often, you’ll find them paved. However, it can happen that these roads were last paved 50 or more years ago, and much of their edges are crumbling into the dirt.
So, although I call this trip a back road tour of the South, it is much more accurately described as getting as far off the freeway as possible while still maintaining all the creature comforts that support my traveling companions.
We are out far enough, though, that the character of the land comes shining through. On the freeways, much of America looks the same. The trees may be different, the hills might roll higher or lower, and fields of various crops can line the road, but the generic franchised icons of civilization repeat over and over again as though America’s four million miles of roads were one long homogeneous continuity of the same gas stations, fast food restaurants, hotels, and various other services.
Out on the back roads you have the chance to randomly stop here or there. You can look at the things that lend character to a place. Check out a dilapidated cabin that might be the fifth one of these you have seen, but each will have an absolute uniqueness to it. Rail bridges, small streams, and driving along tree-lined roads all share a beauty and intimacy out here that it doesn’t matter if you have seen one or a hundred; their shape, color, height, smell, and other characteristics are all different.
It is the back roads where you find great boiled peanuts and rusting relics of an age that has been left behind. Generally, the pace is slower out here, but you still will find the impatient fool on your bumper as you move like a sloth crawling along particularly scenic stretches of road. The longer I am out here, the more enamored I find myself with the characters, landscape, and ruin.
Give me a broken-down hotel sign that hasn’t attracted a patron in decades to a McDonald’s any day of the week. There are still waters reflecting trees, flowers, sky, and grasses. Roadside attractions don’t have to be the world’s largest ball of twine; I find the chipped paint next to a rusting door handle to hold stories of the last occupants, while even a burned roadside tells you of those less careless and appreciative of what the world around them is to those like me.
I drive these American roads in search of our country. I look for markers from our past so I might glimpse our future, which is very much like the cycle of life: a place is born, and it dies, either from neglect, abandonment, or decrepitude. Our natural world and its biotas recede from the weight of man’s heavy hand; my journey into its domain allows me to witness what increasingly feels to be a rare sight.
Through it all, I love our country even more. The more you can appreciate all the elements, from the anthills, moss, broken windows, fences needing mending, lonely farm animals in the rain, to thistles, thorns, bugs, roadkill skunks, early closing hours, toothless merchants, and even a policeman hiding around the corner, the more you arrive at a near-constant state of wonderment.
Florida gives way to Georgia late in the afternoon. Our trek across Georgia will be a short one, with our destination being Alabama. The first town we pass through is Valdosta, as opposed to the three small communities we passed on road number 41. Places with a few homes, a lot of farms, and maybe an equipment shop are hard to call towns; they are more like communities in my eyes.
Valdosta is one of those small towns you wished someone had told you about earlier in life. It is one of the places you add to your list of returns, such as North Hero, Vermont, Apalachicola, Florida, Monterey, California, Ruidoso, or New Mexico. All too frequently, cities across America have given away any hope for maintaining their historical integrity. The old is bulldozed for the new, and soon, a clone city with Circuit City, Office Max, Red Lobster, Walmart, and Dollar Stores has taken over.
In Valdosta, at least from the view offered to these travelers entering the city from the south, this place packs in the small-town charm. Main Street is vibrant, with as much traffic as there are stores open, and it appears that all the shops have tenants. Awnings hang over sidewalks that have park benches for resting your feet before making your way through this shopping district. The alleys are as clean as the sidewalks; this place couldn’t be more inviting.
We are just passing through. Auntie and Grandpa are sightseeing; I’m scouting a future road trip for Caroline and me. On the way out of town, we pass a Carnegie Library, the first I have consciously seen, although I’m certain I must have passed hundreds over the years. Not much further down the road, and we enter Quitman.
This is becoming a trend, Georgia is a downright all-around beautiful state with gorgeous cities. Brunswick, in the southeast, was the first city in Georgia that Caroline and I visited a couple of years ago, quickly followed by Savannah, both of which we were enamored with, while today it is Valdosta and Quitman.
Again, Main Street sets the tempo with two-story brick-built structures lining a divided road marking the downtown area. On either end of the main street are the churches; Baptist, Methodist, and Episcopal are the dominant beliefs. Branching off of downtown are southern-style and Victorian-style homes that these small communities have so far been able to maintain.
Well-kept yards, multi-colored azaleas, Spanish-moss-draped trees lining small streets, a gazebo, and a local cemetery give the eyes and senses plenty to take in as you begin to realize you are falling in love and start to wonder how you could move into a town like this?
Whigham down the road, on the other hand, shows you firsthand how most of these small towns cannot hold on. The shops are closed, boarded up, broken into, falling apart, and falling down. The homes are no longer well kept, and age will take its toll to ensure that without revitalization, the town will someday become but a memory.
Before crossing into Alabama, we pass through Donalsonville. This town is in the middle of becoming a has-been and reflects what Quitman worked to save. The shops, for the most part, are still open. They are rough around the edges, wear and tear, and the passing of years are hurting the charm they once held. The main road skirts the old town so many a visitor will never see this little corner, further depressing its chances of rediscovering its glory days. Tourism amongst these types of small towns would be a lifesaver, but little to no money exists to help rescue them. So, these towns will gradually disappear, and we all lose a great part of America because of it.
It’s near dark crossing the border, and not a long drive to the hotel. It is apparent that Dothan is a larger city than the three of us had imagined. Caroline helped guide us to our lodging via long-distance help.
Seeing the hotel, I spot a billboard for Pofolk’s, which, while still active here in the south, has disappeared out west. Grandpa and I make the short drive around the corner to sit down for some dinner and pick up Auntie something to go as she stayed in the room.