| 08 September 2006 Segue I was lost in ‘Lanta to start. I thought it was too easy getting to the great skyline, and how hard could it be to find the Peachtree hotel on Peachtree Street? Fools and their appointment s are soon parted, and I was from mine after I left the interstate for downtown Atlanta. It was much bigger and certainly taller than I remembered it. Previous business in this friendly town had been north of the real city, in suburban Buckhead, adjacent to the pleasant campus of Emory University's medical school, and the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. And a strange little campus further out in the country that we were examining for some other purpose, and had some eerie parts that were associated with some other war and some other time. Actually, more than one war. The one that is always with you is General Sherman's war, the one in which he set up his HQ in the Neal House and then lit the town bright with flames, burning it to the ground. His men ripped up the still-hot rails and twisting them like pretzels. Atlanta was the hub of the south, and it had to die for the war to be won. It still has a bit of a chip on its lovely shoulder, despite its friendly manner. Richmond does to this day, the old Rebel capital. Atlanta got on with life and rebuilt, though. In fact, the rebuilding has become a habit in Atlanta. It was apparent with all the new buildings I drove past in the downtown. I had thought it might be easier to find Peachtree Center than it was. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of potential Peachtrees that were located between the old downtown, and the developments across the freeway and spilling out to the east. My great-great uncle was present at the battle north of Peachtree Street, on the staff of General John Bell Hood, who was charged with the defense of the city. I could see no evidence of it, though 5,000 rebels died in the fight. The earthworks were built over long ago. If I was late to the appointments, then it was worth the windshield tour of the city. When I got to it, the conference had its moments. I had a chance to work the booth to attract government interest to our products, and I felt the company got its money's worth. Late on the second day, full up with glad-handing, I made my break. The President was in town for a major adress to a favorable audience about the war, and I wondered if he was stalking me from Washington. I wanted to avoid the entourage if I could. I would hate to have been in this town without paying my respects. Not to the President, of course. We are always stumbling over him back home. I skipped the afternoon break-out session and took a cab to the Ebenezer Baptist Church. It is eight dollars on the fare to take you from the world of the Hyatt to the Church where Doctor King and his father thundered from the podium. I wanted to tell him I was sorry things had worked out the way they had. It was a quiet afternoon, after the kids were back in school. The blind Park Ranger was alone in the lobby of the church, and he told me to go upstairs, the tour was self-guided. The smell was old varnish and wax, and a little mold. The church was declared a historic site in the 1970s, and the congregation moved to the modern new structure across Auburn Avenue. There was a family down in the front row, and I waited quietly until they left and I was alone in the sanctuary. I walked down front, right to the velvet rope that encloses the pulpit, and the organ that Doctor King's mother was gunned down in 1974. I turned around to imagine what this space would have been like, alive and full, with the music swelling around. In the passage on the way out there was a gigantic photo blow-up of the funeral procession when they brought Dr. King's coffin back home. The casket was placed in honor on a farm wagon pulled by two mules. I looked hard to count the white faces in that crowd long ago, and remembered the days that followed his murder all across the nation. His death brought a moment of change as profound as anything in that century. Then I walked down the stairs to the street, and up the street, past the once-segregated Fire Station #6 and the Birth Home across the street from the shotgun row houses. I took some pictures of the neighborhood before I went to see Doctor King. He is on an island in a cascading reflecting pool that angles away from the new Atlanta skyline, and his marble vault is parallel to Peachtree Street. It is solemn and majestic, and a Park Service Ranger and I were the only ones there on the plaza. Doctor King's wife Coretta, a woman of immense dignity, rests in a less grand but equally solemn white tomb across the brick walkway, adjacent to the church outbuildings. Her resting place is surrounded by green growing things, and is as tranquil as Doctor King's is stark. I had to get back to the conference, and I realized that it was easy to get a cab from the high rise downtown to Sweet Auburn street, but it was difficult to get back. I waited for a while, suit-coat over my arm, sweat starting to trickle down between my shoulder-blades. No cabs cruised the area looking for business. It was very quiet. In the end, I returned to the cool dark vestibule of the Ebenezer Church, and asked how one might secure transportation from this national monument. The Ranger looked into space with his sightless eyes and deftly hit a speed-dial number on his cell phone. He spoke into after a moment, saying “I have one from here. Going back downtown.” I thanked him, and stood pensively outside the church. I was panhandled politely by a man who was taking contributions to purchase a fried chicken special. The wait was long enough for a contemplation of the nature of time, but eventually a Checker Cab arrived, piloted by a man from a Caribbean island nation that he said was getting too crowded. He was turning the car around when I looked back at the church. Five tourists in crash-helmets mounted on the curious Segue two-wheel personal transportation devices were rolling across Auburn Street, and congregating at the entrance to the church, under the neon sign. The sign in front of the church clearly said “No Parking,” and as we rolled away toward the downtown, I wondered what Doctor King might have thought about that, and I asked the driver. He laughed when he saw them, perched on their wheels, backs straight to avoid falling. They looked like curious birds. “I don't know," he said. "I think he might have thought we would be flying by now.” Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |