I spent a month in Athens Georgia one weekend.
A buddy I wrote a medical discharge for to get him out of the Navy back
in 1974 while we were in the Big Blue Boat Club together, and whom I hadn’t
heard from since pints were cheap, contacted me out of the blue with an invite
up to his place for Thanksgiving.
The balmy, sometimes scorching heat, mosquitoes and geriatric-filled
streets of Jacksonville, Florida where I was stationed was not the ambiance I
remembered suitable for the Autumn and Winter holidays so, not realizing
Georgia was but a suburb of Florida and the weather wasn’t much more amenable,
I accepted and we firmed up plans.
Having never seen or been exposed to the stereotypical ‘Southern Fried
Rock’, hillbilly, trailer, shot gun rack in the back of the pick-up truck,
cousin marrying culture I welcomed the opportunity to expand my cultural
horizons. Even if only by a couple of inches.
That Wednesday I grabbed a Greyhound north, scribbled a few lines
enroute and a short time later found myself along with two elderly blacks, a
guy who looked as if he had to borrow the money for the fare and a young couple
who didn’t look much older than the new born they were carting around, crossed
the state line into the great land of Ray Charles and peaches.
Show me the peaches!
The driver called out the stops as we cruised our way across the scenic,
rolling country side.
“Aiken!”
“Augusta!”
“Anderson!”
“Alpharetta!”
“Atlanta!”
“Auburn!”
I was beginning to notice a pattern.
Finally he yelled out “Athens, last stop!” and, as I was the last one on
the bus, I figured it was my stop.
I grabbed my bag, stepped off the coach out onto the rural, three-way
intersection and into the smell of diesel fuel exhaust punctuated by the sound
of a pneumatic wrench screaming away in bay number one of the two bay garage
at Bo’s Gas Station and General Post
Office right behind me.
Gravel crunched as the Greyhound, along with my only lifeline to
civilization, made its getaway and vanished down the two lane blacktop.
I briefly toyed with the idea of poking my head into the garage but
instead took a seat on the wooden slat bench out next to the road.
Bo apparently finished removing the tractor tire he wrestling with as
silence once again prevailed in the garage leaving the gently blowing breeze to
tickle the tree tops which danced over the rolling hills in the distance.
Overwhelmed by the beauty of the changing foliage blanketing the long,
rolling hills, despite the chill of the mountain air and with the urban chaos
of Jacksonville behind me, a warm familiar feeling crept over me. The impact of
serenity on my creative consciousness was refreshed and I started to relax.
Right on time my friend, Terry alias Ridgerunner,
a fifth generation Georgian, pulled up in his, you guessed it, fire engine red,
Ford pick-em-up truck complete with gun rack.
Some stereotypes never die.
A minute later we were tooling down the road.
“This here’s the Old Hull Road!” He proudly declared while lighting a
hefty spliff, as if he had a hand in building the two lane hard top himself. I
was further informed it ran right next to the ‘soon-to-be-built’ New Hull Road.
An assortment of rusted and abandoned, vintage road machinery scattered along
the roadside attested to his idea of ‘soon’.
We drove on for a bit before we pulled off onto a single lane macadam
road which ran for a couple of miles more before turning into a dirt road which
gave way to the woods where there was a dirt trail.
“We still got a ways to go but we got’sta walk
from here.” He cheerfully explained. I grabbed my pack and we took to the
trail.
I took comfort in knowing that if the Russkies
picked that day to nuke the country, we’d have months before the fallout
reached us. If ever.
I looked around at the isolation sequestered in the middle of the
solitude and knew we were truly alone in this sector of God’s little acre.
As we walked down the ever narrowing game trail old military habits
kicked in as I scanned for trip wires. I began to orient myself by memorizing
available landmarks.
To the left, trees. Straight
ahead, forest. Behind and to the right, woods. Great! Got it.
As dusk began to set in and we pushed up the trail to the foot of a
mountain my mind wondered.
Here comes the part where three guys jump me, tie me up and say, ‘Squeal
like a piggy, boy!’
Hopefully Burt Reynolds was in the neighborhood.
Finally we came upon a trailer in search of a park. Or one big
god-damned park with only one trailer in it.
I often wondered if there’s not a couple of hermit crabs on a beach near
a trailer park somewhere who peek their heads out of their shells every once in a while.
“See Herb, I told you we’re not the only ones that carried our homes
around!”
“Thanks Doris!”
Inside the surprisingly not so spacious mobile home that never went
anywhere, (no wheels; chasse was up on blocks), I found the velvet paintings
were a nice touch. Dogs playing poker? Now that’s just stupid! Dogs can’t read
cards much less say ‘fullhouse!’
But the six Elvis statues in various theatrical poses scattered around
the room didn’t clash as much as I thought they would.
As it was a special occasion I was informed the Mrs. was putting out the
Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash dinner plates. However, the poster of Dolly
Parton overlooking the table about to bust out of the frame was a bit imposing.
One man’s opinion.
The overtly pregnant Mrs. Ridgerunner had
cordially fixed supper, a local favorite, chitlins,
fried chicken and grits. Remembering that chitlins were some
kind of pig’s innards, the chitlins and I quickly made friends with the
pony-sized hound dog curled up under the table.
It was then after dinner, sitting at the table, that I learned a lot
about this area of the country, sometimes derogatorily called ‘The Deep South’.
The more we talked, the more I realized the rest of America had this
part of the country all wrong.
Southerners didn’t want to stay drunk on moonshine, start fights, shoot everybody and hate blacks because they were prejudice. And
they weren’t bitter about losing what they themselves refer to as ‘the War of Northern
Aggression resulting in the longest cease fire in history’ or whether it was
fought over the right to cessation or slavery.
They only fired on Fort Sumter that April back in 1861 because they were
pissed off at the food they had to eat.
Any food that is indistinguishable from when it goes in to when it comes
out is not on my ‘To Do’
list.
I made a mental note to recommend a friend up in Manhattan to maybe come
down there and open a couple of Italian restaurants to help these folks learn
about cuisine.
Hmm . . . chitlins pizza? Maybe not.
A long two hours later I was warmly tucked in under a pair of battleship
grey, U.S. Naval hospital blankets on an Army cot stretched out in the back
room. Apparently I was lucky it wasn’t hunting season. That was the room they
normally used to dry the deer carcasses.
And here I thought the dark red floor boards were just a decorative
choice.
§§§§
It was just past zero dark thirty Thursday morning when I heard the
unmistakable drawl of Ridgerunner in my left ear as I
felt him shaking me awake.
This was back in my early whiskey days and I was just getting used to
clawing my way out of unconsciousness, so coming around in strange and foreign
environs wasn’t exactly a new experience but the sound of pigs rutting, a cow
mooing along with chickens clucking was.
“Time to go huntin’!” He gleefully informed,
thrusting a rifle at me.
“Hunting?! Hunting for what, V.C.?! The war’s over!”
“Squirrel! How else my wife gonna fix
dinner?!”
“Squirrel! For what!?”
“For Thanksgivin’ dinner! What else?! We’s having squirrel stew! Ya’ll’s
lucky, she only makes it couple’a times a year!”
“So she does love you!” I mumbled.
What was I thinking? It’s Thanksgiving. We’re in Georgia, why would we
have turkey or ham for the most celebrated feast day in the United States?
Hunting squirrel was to me a bit like going out into the alley, putting
down a bowl of milk and when the first stray alley cat that came along you’d
shoot him and yell, “I got one!”
Seriously, squirrel hunting?! I had to say something.
“As far as I know the American tradition is turkey! You guys need a few
bucks I’ll pitch in! Come on boy! Let’s get us on down to the general store and
buy us a turkey!” I foolishly suggested.
“Turkey?! That’s Yankee food! We don’t eat nunn’a
that down here! Down these parts we only eats what’s we kills!” Plurals are
popular in the south.
After climbing out of my cot, cleaning up and grabbing my rifle, I
resigned myself to the fact that we were going squirrel hunting. How could I
have left that off my bucket list all these years? Another first in my recently
accumulating, long line of events assuring me a win the next time I played the
drinking game, Have You Never Ever?
We set out in our cleverly camouflaged jackets and trousers. Apparently
people were smarter in those days. Either that or not enough hunters had killed
each other yet, but orange hadn’t come into fashion when setting out to blow
away little innocent, woodland creatures.
Ridgerunner knew the woods well and so knew exactly where to go to track our prey.
So we headed out and walked for the better part of an hour before he declared
we were in enemy territory.
As the daylight crept over the horizon and we pushed forward through the
brush I looked around to stay oriented.
Trees to the left. Straight
ahead, forest. Behind and to the right of us woods. Aha! Familiar territory!
I must admit I learned some valuable lessons about hunting the fearsome
and wily American Grey Squirrel, known to naturalists and zoologists alike as Squirrelius Greyus Americanus.
Lessons like paying close attention to your surroundings and making a
special effort when you’re in a known squirrel area where there’s a good supply
of squirrel food such as berry bushes. I also learned what to do if found
face-to-face with one of the deadly creatures.
Here’s some helpful hints I found to ensure your survival of what could
be a potentially fatal encounter;
- Identify yourself by talking calmly so the
squirrel knows you are a human and not a prey animal.
- Stand still and slowly flap your arms to make
yourself appear bigger than you are. This will help intimidate the
squirrel.
- Make no sudden movements. This is critical as
they are known to leap literally dozens of inches and a foot or more into
the air on the slightest provocation.
- Also, be especially cautious if you come
across a female with cubs and never get between the mother and her
offspring. She will attack!
Additionally, if an attack is imminent, drop your pack, lie down and
play dead. DO NOT attempt to fight the squirrel they have sharp teeth, claws
and can pee a steady stream for up to a foot and a half. Also avoid eye contact
as they consider it a challenge and may charge blindly.
If approached by an angry male in the wild avert your eyes, lower your
head, turn and offer your hind side as a sign of
non-aggressive intent.
DO NOT RUN! If the squirrel charges you, hold your ground. Squirrels can
run as fast as a race horse. DO NOT climb a tree! Squirrels can climb trees!
I once heard of a guy who while on a stroll through Central Park one
balmy evening was subjected to a wild squirrel attack. Even after a year and a
half of psychotherapy he was never the same. To this day he can’t eat nuts or
even look at the color grey without experiencing
violent flashbacks. He once s a squirrel hair paintbrush and fainted.
Squirrel attacks are rare, most of them are just curious or want to
protect their food, lairs or cubs.
That morning the hunting gods were with us for we suffered no such
violent attacks.
By the time we headed on back to the cave the next Disney picture would
be minus a half a dozen of them thar little grey varmints which were stuffed in
our trusty wicker, squirrel storage basket, both of which had the suspicious
smell of fish.
That afternoon as she waddled around the cramped galley styled kitchen,
more accurately waddled one step to the right then one step to the left, the
incredibly pregnant Mrs. Ridgerunner seemed as happy
as most people in their lives would never be. At least most people I’ve run
across. Her happiness seemed to infect Ridgerunner
who in turn beamed with overt contentment. All criticism aside, there’s no
arguing with results!
First thing I did a week later when I got home to New York was head for
Katz’s Deli and order a double decker turkey sandwich with extra relish. Hold
the squirrel. As I was laying into the three inch thick sambo I overheard the
couple in the next booth.
“I’d really like to try something different next year for Thanksgiving.”
She said to the guy with her.
Should I tell her?
§§§§
THE
END