Editor’s Note: There is a lot flying around this morning. It used to be Tax Day, but not now under emergency rule. The Supreme Court is the next issue in the reform of America into something the Editorial Board does not quite recognize. The timing of it all is curious, perhaps because we were used to the slow but effective subordination of our institutions to something that seems to be a little nuts. Maybe it is living in the country, away from the epicenter of the emergencies.
The lurch forward in the speed of change is also something new. Perhaps because the series of “emergencies” requiring dramatic action are both so numerous and ephemeral. Count ’em yourself: COVID, Racism, guns, weather, sex and gender. COVID is passing, regardless of how many new deadly variants are being waved around. It is very strange, and the timing is just one of the oddest parts about it. Maybe it is generational change in the revolutionary leadership. Some interns point at Chairman Socotra and laugh. Maybe the activists want to see the New Age arrive while they can still see it. Marlow has some commentary on that, part of his new book on adventures in new lands.
– Vic
Author’s Note: Citizens, Today’s offering is an initial follow-on piece to the earlier Going Native story. I’m unsure at present if, how or where it fits into the flow. All ideas are welcome. Later, I’ll unearth several older pieces that might fit in.
I remain your humble scribe and doting dotard.
-Marlow
Then and Now
Savannah, it’s beautiful . . . it’s beautiful that way . . . my favorite walks . . . through the parks, squares, cemetery and along the river . . . the drive over the river . . . an
then the woods and up country.
Sometimes driving north in the marshes across the river I hear the cathedral’s distant bell clock tolling the hour. Along those empty endless green grassed and muddy marshes, you might catch the twisted silhouette shadows of flying demons when the light is just right . . . hurrying south back home over the causeway after a day of cards and cocktails with friends the sky is full of a peculiar moonlight that reveals eerie brief snatches of the monsters doing their endless job of moving boxes on and off the visiting leviathans interspersed with glimpses of the bridge and finally as the parkway rises to the bridge does beautiful Savannah with its moss draped oaks gently swaying in the breezes show herself as if she’s lying in bed with her eyes open, counting the hours as the clock strikes. Something in the sound of it makes her wince with pain as she barely breathes, like the wind itself, over strange, scratchy noises, we hear the voices of men prattling . . .
Yet those who came before us paid our bills in full or so they thought. We live on their diminishing tab. Gleefully. Unknowingly.
In its old cemeteries we see countless markers that endlessly list Savannah’s valiant departed —
“__________________
1842-1863
Died for his country”
“__________________
1720-1782
Died for his country”
“__________________
1898-1918
Died for his country”
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Beyond these resting places’ well-tended grass lawns and black, spear-tipped, cast-iron fences loom churches, row houses and ghosts. We, the living, stroll, drink, rock, roll, twist, shout, and move effortlessly about. Not even for a moment do we hesitate to pay these occupants notice, unless we find ourselves on some entertaining ghost tour walk about before continuing our prowl in search of late-night satisfaction.
We’re too blind to consider the ominous half-tones cast by the moonlight diffused through the stained-glass windows of decaying sepulchers and roofless burial vaults — many made so by occupying Union troops long, long ago. Hell, those occupiers even burned the departed’s caskets for warming and cooking fires.
These are the true pews and side aisles of this worshipful town. Its false vestibule is its riverside froufrou. Its belfry ladder is creaky and missing a number of its rungs. Should we bravely climb it, we’d be treated to see this town’s people gathering under the moonlight — men, boys and even women, carrying guns, rakes, poles — any kind of hastily gathered weapon. Some are in various stages of hasty dressing. All are moving toward the town’s mustering places. Something bad this way comes. They gather in defense of each other, converging on the squares from all directions.
Returning to our present and from another angle and place, we first hear a piercing scream. This scream is so high that it is impossible to tell whether it was uttered by a man or woman. Dimly on the edge an alley-lane entrance we see the reason — another drug or gang shooting victim bleeding out. In the distance at the other end of the lane, we hear voices cursing as scuffling sounds become apparent over who was the wronged party in this most recent episode in our town’s eternal vengeance killing cycle scenery. Someone else out there is likely to die soon at the hands of the other.
Below the belfry we see two grey figures apparently locked in struggle on a Savannah square. It’s hard to see much in the shadows but it looks as though these figures are older and part of the respected class. One is a male and the other female. We gasp when the woman shouts her combatant is a traitorous “redcoat spy.” The crowd exhales a gasp as the two figures teeter and fall toward the darkness as the man shrieks then drops lifeless.
What we hear next are thick English, Irish, and Scottish accented colonial voices excitedly arguing over the fight and its results. Someone shouts in anger “Think we’ll ever hear the real truth?” Another responds with equal vehemence, “He was a cur . . .” as a moonlight cast shadow of some sleepless, storm-cast monstrous-sized sea bird rolls over the crowd.
This quiets the crowd as they gather themselves and commence the mustering process.
As police squads flood our current time’s alley death scene, people disperse back to their night’s intended goals of dance, drink, and music. Someone is heard to say as the gapers head north, “Let’s check out the Baobab Lounge in the Plant District. Yelp says they don’t serve pre-mixed cocktails.”
The town’s ancient times real demons were made of iron, while today’s are mostly puff pastry, coiffed, digitally enhanced, powdered-face poohbahs. The good guys during the days of old were gilded iron angels. Today’s good ones are scripted automatons at best.
In both eras, heavy chimes stridently mark the hour of midnight. The ancients heard them, knew what they meant and came running to their call. Today we hear nothing and know even less.
Let me say it again in a different way – answering the bell was a responsibility of the first magnitude then. Absent today are voices sharp with suddenly released rage . . . “What good are words?” . . . back then we’d see wild gesturing with smoking pipes, “I’m sick of words. Hang the repercussions and the responsibility. If I fail, I’ll be responsible. You can threaten me with the bottom pits of hell. This obscenity must be destroyed. Destroyed!”
Nowadays, modern voices smoothly jump-cut to a gluten-free, sustainable dog food commercial with the speakers’ eyes as dead as a four-day old fish on the butcher’s disappearing-ice tray.
Still there are those who, while tragic, rise to the levels of yesteryears’ giants. Somewhere in my files and memories there are stories of them. Please bear with me as I search them out.
Copyright © 2021 From My Isle Seat
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