Georgia On My Mind

Today a bee stung my toe as I walked down to a crick overflowing with muddy water in Henry County, Georgia. I packed tobacco around the bite and kept strolling with the women, and later on I chased the pain with two different types of moonshine in the garage of car collectors who own no less than fourteen vehicles, none of which gets better than 10 miles per gallon. Patty, the wife of Mike, the auto aficionado, said (after mentioning the recent free vintage truck that wound up in the barn out back), “Some people have foster children. We have foster cars.” I chased the pumpkin mash with a Coors Light while riding around in a titty pink 1958 Thunderbird, followed that up with a Zima, ate some hors d’ouvres with a dirty martini, and am still somehow upright and feeling superfine.

As I posed next to the Comet with the rebel flag draped over the hood, I mentioned, “I’m a hippie liberal formerly from San Francisco. This is going to ruin my political career.”

I love how people can surprise you with the beauty and wonder of their unique lives. On the surface, for example, Winnie’s in-laws are your typical All-American Family – but it’s in the details of their particular passions that you find there’s nothing typical about them. Patty knew we were coming in last night off of Route 23, so she ordered sushi and put out a spread of vegetables from her garden: sliced red and yellow tomatoes on French bread with olive oil and fresh basil; salad topped with beets, pickled eggs, pickled okra and green olives. We were planning to leave for Paris, Mississippi in the morning, but after breakfast of scrambled eggs, raisin toast, grits the perfect, crunchable texture found in a Route 66 diner and coffee brewed in a stovetop percolator, we digressed. With her love of cooking, her particularly artful presentation and decorating style, Pat Curtis ought to be running a high-end B&B. Lucky for us, she isn’t (yet).

First there was the calm, meditative wholeness of the home Mike and Pat and their three kids have created. I spent hours the first morning writing in a spiritual trance. Then there was the washing machine, eager to embrace our exploding backpacks of filthy, campfire-smoke-scented attire. There was the stroll along the crick, the lunch of fettuccine with white beans and clams, broiled, crab-stuffed whitefish and al dente, homegrown green beans with toasted pecans and cashews. And Georgia Sweet Muscadine wine and mint-flavored, unsweet tea. And my first sip of moonshine ever in my life. And a ride in ’58 TITTY PINK (is that the official color?) T-bird. And the opportunity to meet Mary Ellen, my new hero.

Mary Ellen is Pat’s sister and truly deserves the hero label for two reasons. She’s my age (41) and has taught special ed for almost 20 years. For the past two she’s rallied hard on behalf of teenagers with the kinds of behavioral problems that preclude them from any future other than prison. She’s knocked on enough doors and raised enough hell (along with dollars) to procure a fine building in which she’ll open a school this October that’ll customize education for at least 40 and up to 200 otherwise given-up-on kids. We met this afternoon over peach-flavored Zimas and I got inspired. You don’t meet people every day who are really making a difference and This. Woman. Is.

Not only that, Mary Ellen was recently painting her house – her WHOLE house – when she fell off the ladder and broke both her arms. It didn’t even slow her down. When she woke up from the surgery and the nurses asked her what music they could play to soothe her, she yelled, “Lynyrd Skynyrd! Put on some Skynyrd!” Until they finally acquiesced. Can somebody please cue Free Bird on the MP3?

Meanwhile Mike is back there quietly working in his garage, surrounded by vintage Mustangs, a 1955 Crown Victoria, his grandfather’s ‘32 Ford (in which moonshine was hauled across Kansas back in the day), a ‘24 Model-T, a 1950 Farmall tractor, and a 1964 F.E.D. (Front End Dragster for the uninitiated), among other wheels of history. I kept thinking “Man, would my Dad love this.” Mike’s the kind of guy you’d like to sit around the garage and smoke cigars with all afternoon, sipping moonshine out of a Mason jar. He tells good stories and has a tough kindness about him that makes you feel comfortable.

I saw my life flash before my eyes on my first sip of woody, earthy Georgia mash. You just can’t predict what’s gonna move you in life. Pat’s ’58 T-bird, for instance. “Can we please just keep going?” I asked this afternoon as she turned back into her drive.

I practically begged.