Sweet home Alabama

“Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you”
Lynyrd Skynyrd, 1974


We expected the gulf shores of Alabama to be much the same as those in Mississippi. Not so! The town of Gulf Shores is a family tourist destination, a tacky seaside resort, with the mini golf, the bungee jump, the roller coaster, the tshirt & beach shops, tattoo & piercing parlours and mile upon mile of rental condos and multi-coloured homes on stilts. There's no easy access to the beach unless you're in one of the rental accomodations – one spot tried to charge us $6 to park. Not our bag at all. However, if you drive further west down the peninsula past the lagoon, away from this tawdry area, there are beautiful and peaceful properties.

This hydrant reminded me of R2D2

There are wetlands weaving throughout the built up areas and alligators are everywhere. We started some geocaching but when I saw that we were encroaching on their territory, uh-uh, we'll leave it for them.


We did have a fantastic oyster po' boy at the Shrimp Basket restaurant though. There I am telling you about food again. I know our gourmand friends, the B's will appreciate all the food references. I picked up a pamphlet '100 dishes to eat in Alabama before you die' and I thought 'if the B's were with us, we'd be trying all 100'.

Back when I was but a lil' child, in 1965, black folks in Alabama didn't have the right to vote. How shocking it is now to recall that this was in my lifetime. Martin Luther King led a peaceful march of about 300 of the poor blacks from Selma on a 54 mile marathon to the capitol, Montgomery. But it started earlier with a band 600 strong slowly marching in pairs.


They crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge over the Alabama River singing

"Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me 'Round
Ain't gonna let nobody, Lordy, turn me round,
Turn me round, turn me round,
Ain't gonna let nobody, Lordy, turn me round,
I'm gonna keep on a-walkin', Lord, keep on a-talkin', Lord,
Marching up to freedom land."


But as they reached the middle of the bridge they saw below a sea of blue-uniformed Alabama state troopers blocking the highway ahead. Behind the troopers were a sheriff's posse on horseback. They gave the marchers a two minute warning to turn around and then proceeded to bludgeon them with nightsticks and kickedg them when they were down. The posse rode into the crowd and released suffocating teargas and when the marchers flailed, blinded and gagging, the posse continued to beat them with nightsticks, whips and rubber tubes. There were more attempts but eventually on March 21, 1965, 300 protesters marched all the way to Montgomery, camping along the way at sympathetic farms. 25,000 joined them at the capitol and history was made.


Fernie and I made the pilgrimage – on foot in Selma but by car along highway 80, stopping at all the salient points along the way trying to empathize with those downtrodden black folk from 44 years ago. The town of Selma is a decaying relic; buildings vacant & falling down, hardly a car driving down the roads of a once vibrant society. Depressing projects of poor African Americans made me think that after all that happened in 1965, what's wrong that they haven't progressed beyond the doldrums of poverty. Who's to blame? If a town could cry, Selma would be sobbing. A sad shell of what it once was, now vacant and rotting.


I haven't much to say about Montgomery except I think it has the smallest Capitol Building I've ever seen. The city center is so small, that we couldn't find it. Another has been of a city. Life these days is on the perimeter in the big box stores and the suburbs.



I know I mentioned that there are as many Sonic Burgers as there are MacDonalds, perhaps even more. Well the same goes for the Waffle Houses and so Fernie demanded we have breakfast at one. Prattville, just outside Montgomery had been our home for the night so that's where we tried the Waffle House. It harks back to old times, a short order cook who all by himself prepares everything by memory; he was like a juggler – flip a couple of eggs on the grill, over to the half a dozen waffle irons, check to see if they're done and pour more batter, stick a couple of rashers of bacon on the grill, turn the eggs, put on some sausage patties, slap some bread down into the toaster, check the waffles, heat the biscuits.......phew! He wore me out. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him spin a few plates on his nose. I asked our waitress who covers for him on a break and she said “Breaks? We don't get no breaks – we just wait for a quiet time”. I doubt whether they ever get a quiet time. Bathroom breaks could be tricky. There was a huge Wurlitzer jukebox over in the corner and a half dozen hefty and cheerful black waitresses served from behind the counter. I just wish I didn't enjoy food so darn much....but the waffles were 'to die for'. Skinny Fernie of course ordered not only the waffle but eggs, hashbrowns and toast. It just ain't fair.

Dothan, Alabama – I'll bet not many people have ever heard of it We made it our home for the night at Sam's Club in a quiet and private little corner behind the store. We toured by geocaching and found the same applied here as in Montgomery and Selma. The city core is a has-been and life revolves on the outskirts where big box stores reign supreme.

A tickle in my throat one day turned to a sore and painful to swallow one the next. I thought it must be allergies with all the pollens in the air, but day by day it worsened; I started to cough – according to Fernie, like an old gal who'd been smoking for 50 years. Then the worst thing possible – I lost my voice. That's right; total laryngitis. When I managed to squeak out a few words, I sounded like a teenage boy with his voice breaking. I was feeling so smug that being away from Vancouver I wouldn't pick up a virus.....as I seem prone to catch every one that's going around. Fernie on the other hand never seems to catch a cold.....could it be that his moustache filters out the germs?

"Georgia, Georgia,
The whole day through
Just an old sweet song
Keeps Georgia on my mind"
Official State Song of Georgia
Hoagy Carmichael & Stuart Gorell, 1930
Recorded by Ray Charles 1960


Fernie had a whim. A doting Grandpa, he had to visit the town of Cairo (pronounced Kayro) in Georgia in honour of his first grandchild, Cairo (pronounced Kiro). A lovely litle agricultural town full of large treed properties, gracious houses tucked into shady copses. This is peanut country and the seeds had just been sewn as we went through. It's also famous for peaches....Georgia peaches and pecans and of course cotton. There was not a souvenir to be found with the name Cairo in Cairo except for the 'Syrup-makers' ball team gear; not a pin, nor a tshirt, nor a tacky mug to be had. It broke Fernie's heart; he had tried 14 years ago to buy name souvenirs in the original Cairo, Egypt to no avail.
As I pass from one state into another, and see the 'Welcome to ........' sign, all the songs I've ever heard about that state come to mind and I'm humming and singing them constantly until we hit the next state. I suppose along the way I'll find states lacking in music but until that time, please bear with me.

"He's leaving, on that midnight train to Georgia,
And he's goin' back to a simpler place and time.
And I'll be with him on that midnight train to Georgia,
I'd rather live in his world than live without him in mine."
Jim Weatherly; Recorded by Gladys Knight & the Pips 1973



Highway 84 snaked through southern Georgia - Cairo, Thomasville, Valdosta, Waycross all the way over to Interstate 95 near the coast. A four lane boulevard, it was probably one of the most relaxing and pleasant drives of our journey. Plantation houses, with magnificent white pillars were set back hundreds of feet from the road (Frankly Scarlett, I don't give a damn country), pioneer shacks with their bentwood rockers on the porch just waiting for someone to sit a while, oak trees of such magnificent size, you'd wonder how they lasted so long and just a smattering of traffic. We revelled in the towns which were picture book perfect; the gracious homes, their well maintained town centers, and trees, trees, trees. If it wasn't for the hideous humidity, I think I'd move here. Can't imagine what it will be like in summer if it's so hideous in April......not every day but about every third day. When the clouds roll in, it's not good news because it gets hotter and so yucky and even when it rains, it doesn't get any cooler. Just the reverse of what we're used to.

While geocaching in Valdosta, we came across the most unusual tree. It was an evergreen, so tall that we wondered what it was doing in Georgia. It stood well above all the other trees around it. When we got close, we discovered it wasn't a tree at all but a tower built to look like a tree. It's at the edge of the city cemetery where a couple of worker dudes said “come on in an visit – dere's miles a' roads to walk and it's open to de public”.
“So, tell me about that tree” I asked.
They looked at each other and almost split a gut. “Dat tree ain't no tree” one said stifling his laughter “it's a cellphone tower”.
How extremely creative.

We had an appointment with the Ford dealer in Valdosta to check our rear brakes which were about due for replacement or so we thought – they checked them and we have almost 50% left on them. So that should get us home for sure. “No charge” my favourite phrase.

The landscape changed as we drove east in Georgia. Just before Waycross, the trees were mostly pine and the ground was swampy. We were approaching the Okefenokee Swamp. All I could think as I mopped my sweaty brow was 'there must be a trillion mosquitoes around here'. I'm looking forward to not feeling damp all the time; to getting back to a dry climate.


Skidaway Island State Park is just fifteen miles southeast of Savannah on an inland waterway not too far from the Atlantic Ocean and was a lovely respite from the bustle of the city. The campsites are densely treed ... palms and cottonwoods with drooping mosses; squirrels scampered rampantly while bird calls echoed through the forested jungle. The silence reigned supreme after sundown when the little creatures disappeared for the night and the darkness was total. We spent three days there.




Savannah is the epitome of gracious living. Lush greenery, upscale housing developments often surrounding emerald golf courses, meandering waterways – murky home to the slick & stealthy alligators that glide silently through. Even the Walmart entrance looks like a country club.

Paula Deen is a Savannah institution. Her culinary prowess is renowned country-wide with her southern home-style cooking. A brassy blonde with a few extra pounds on her frame (hmmmm, sounds like someone we all know) and a sassy charm, Paula has a following almost like Barry Manilow with his Maniloonies. Her restaurant, The Lady & Sons sits slap dab in the middle of old town Savannah. When we told our friends, 'The B's' that we were going to visit Savannah, they insisted that we must have a meal at Paula Deen's. It is so popular that in order to obtain a reservation, one has to appear on the same day at the podium on the sidewalk outside the restaurant starting at 9:30am – which we did and got our reservation for 2:30 that afternoon. Now another friend (J) had told me the night before that she'd been there and was very unimpressed. We should have listened to her.

There's a choice of the country buffet for $13.29 or ordering a la carte which costs more. There was no seafood on the buffet, just greasy looking fried chicken, lasagne, and accroutements so I ordered crab cakes and Fernie oysters and we shared to get a taste of both. The restaurant is a hectic and noisy place, not somewhere you'd go for a peaceful lunch.



As soon as we were seated, a server came by with a big tray of two types of breads and put one of each on our plates. The first was a fried cornbread and when you bit into it, the fat oozed leaving your fingers greasy and your tongue oily. The second was a buttery garlic & cheese bun – again, the fat was the obvious main ingredient.


Our 'Luzianne' ice teas with mint (the best part of the lunch) appeared – made me think of that old southern 'mint julep' that they'd sip on their porches whilst trying to beat the summer heat. I'm not sure what a mint julep is – must check that out ...... which is what I just did and it's bourbon and sugar and mint over crushed ice. But I digress. I don't want to go into too much detail about our lunches except to say that they were the worst meals we've had since we've been on our travels. Everything was dripping fat; they even deep-fried the greens. We enjoyed the Waffle House more and even Shoney's and that's a low blow. We resented the high prices for such low quality and our tummies paid the price later.



Fernie grumbles everytime I veer a block off our planned path, to grab a geocache but he would detour a half mile when he hears of a new place offering 'home-made' ice-cream; I'm sure he'd even crawl over broken glass. Now, how can they call it 'home-made' when you sure as shootin' know it wasn't made in anyone's home. Anywayz, what's so darn good about 'home-made'? Leopold's 'home-made' ice cream is Savannah's claim to being the best; they're so sure it is the very best that they trademarked the name Veribest. The Leopold's ad jumped out from the page at Fernie, so of course it was put on our itinerary. I hate ice cream but I follow along uncomplainingly. Pretty expensive stuff, I'd say but Fernie said it was worth it and gave it a rating of #2 on his all time best list. He always orders plain vanilla so his comparisons are fair.


While Fernie was ordering, Taralynn and her Dad were choosing too. Well, Taralynn was too mesmerized with me to care about ice cream. The darling little fuzzy headed 15 month old, sidled over and offered me her fingers and stared into my eyes endlessly.....it was like falling in love. According to her Dad, Taralynn never wanted to be carried and walked everywhere and as they left the shop with their ice cream, he said 'She'll be tired when we get home and she'll have a nap and I can start making dinner.'
I responded with “Wow, you do it all, don't you? A 21st century man”
He came back with something I don't quite understand “Well, if I don't do it, somebody else will”.
Hmmmm!


We sat at the outside tables while Fernie savoured his ice cream and right beside us was Smokey the one year old Golden Doodle, a huge galumphing, good-natured and floppy pooch.


He licked my toes under the table and offered his huge paws to me in a greeting. His fur was a lucious dark red instead of the usual golden hue, cut short and as soft as velvet. The two matrons with him, obviously actresses in the community theater by their conversation about roles, apologized for his over zealous friendliness but we assured them we loved it. Since Caesar has gone, we just can't get enough of dogs – everybody's dogs.


Tybee Island just 30 minutes from downtown Savannah accessed by a causeway that slices through miles of salt marshes, has endless beaches on the Atlantic ocean which are protected by sandy spits laying just offshore. There were so many people frolicking in the water that I assumed would be freezing cold but when I dipped my toes in it was tepid. Dogs chased balls into the waves, children dug deep moats around their sand castles, kites soared & plunged, prone golden bodies soaked up the rays, bikers glided along the water's edge, picnics were consumed, frisbees were sailed and Fernie & I strolled hand-in-hand soaking up the atmosphere, so pleased to be back by the ocean.


While geocaching on Tybee we happened across an establishment called The Crab Shack.


“What is it ?” I asked rhetorically.
Fernie, who reads signs, ads and billboards voraciously answered “It's a restaurant – a casual style place. It's a place where the elite eat in bare feet” he even remembered the buzz words. “And........it's rated as one of the best places to dine in Savannah” he continued.


After the fiasco at Paula Deen's, we were hesitant to trust such promises but it was so attractive in a rustic way. Its patio hung over the salt marsh, shrimp and crab boats slowly cruised by, alligators snaked by in the moat, smoky wood fires in kettle drums held the insects at bay and the sun shone with perfect warmth. And it was absolutely wonderful. Bowls of crab chowder and Brunswick stew with crab cakes for me and pulled pork for Fernie. Mmmmmmm! And the bill came to $14.27 total. So stick it in your ear Paula Deen!



Savannah is one of those places where you know you'll come back again one day unlike so many spots where we look at each other and say “We'll probably never set foot here again”. But we just weren't finished with it and needed another day to stroll and enjoy. So we set off for what we call the Country Club Walmart where we parked in a small private treed enclave. It's there that we met Hilda.


As we walked across the parking lot with our groceries, we noticed that a petite Class C motorhome had moved in across from us. It caught our eye because it was bouncing and as we got closer we could see through the window bodies moving madly inside rocking the motorhome. It made us laugh wondering what was transpiring. It was about an hour later when Fernie was outside that I noticed him talking to a very attractive woman about our age and she was tossing her head with laughter..........(no, that's not jealousy you hear). After a while, he called me out asking me to explain to Hilda how to get to the State Park dump station because apparently Hilda's holding tanks were almost boiling over.


Hilda who hails from a little town just outside Portland, Oregon has been travelling in her tiny motorhome since November last year with just her two dogs for company – a tiny shih-tzu and a huge rottweiler who had obviously been the one rocking the RV. “We all three sleep in that bunk over the cab” she chuckled “and there's not much room left over”. Hilda's husband died a few years back and she didn't want to hang around being a responsibility to her children so she locked up her condo and hit the road.
“The boys” she said talking about her sons “worry about me but they equipped my little RV with everything I need to stay warm and safe.”
She was a very trim and athletically built woman, with short cropped hair and her scoop-necked sweater showed a large colourful tattoo snaking up her back into her neck. Her gregarious manner made it easy for her to make new friends on the road but she said she never worried about things going wrong.
“I was the oldest of eleven children, so I can make anything work” she crowed.
What a courageous woman; I admire her spirit but don't think I'd be capable of doing it alone – I'd get far too lonely. Hilda obviously marched to her own drummer.


So that's it for Georgia....but we'll be back!