–Savannah River from the Bridge, Augusta, Georgia, June 8th, 2007, photo © 2007 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
“It seems I have always lived near rivers and trains.”
The day we went to Eve Street, I remembered I hadn’t taken any photographs of the Savannah. I had zipped off a couple of shots of the 5th Street Bridge, a landmark in disrepair. My grandfather helped build that bridge. It was strange to go back to a place where my family had so much history. I’m used to living in towns and cities where I have no immediate blood kin.
It stands to follow that in those places, I have to forge my own bits of history. But spending time in a city where family members are woven through architecture, church, field, and stream, made me feel connected. Close. The water there plays a big part in my childhood.
The Savannah River is about 350 miles long and its source is in eastern Georgia at a confluence of the Seneca and Tugaloo Rivers. The headwaters originate in North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia near Ellicott Rock, the point where the borders of those three states meet. The river flows from a cool, clear stream in the Blue Ridge Mountains and empties through tidal plains into the Atlantic.
Savannah and Augusta are the largest cities on the Savannah River and most of their history evolved from commerce and trade on her waters. Savannah is on the Atlantic, Augusta on the fall line.
Lake Hartwell is a 56,000 acre manmade lake built in 1963 by the Army Corp of Engineers on the headwaters of the Savannah. The 71,535 acre Clarks Hill Reservoir was built by the Corp in 1954 and is 22 miles north of Augusta. Clarks Hill is where my mother wants her ashes to be scattered. She says she spent some of the happiest times of her life waterskiing and swimming in Clarks Hill.
The Savannah River’s history goes back some 12,000 years to the Ice Age. That makes my 400-year-old family history look paltry. Human history along her banks includes Hernando de Soto, James Edward Oglethorpe, the Westo Indians, and a wandering tribe called the Savannah Indians, armed by a group of Carolinians, who drove out the Westos in the Westo War of 1680 and gave their name to the river.
Part of my ancestry can be traced back to Oglethorpe. But the memories I have are of Grandmama Elise picking me up from Belvedere Circle in her black, 40’s Pontiac and singing The Good Ship Lollipop to me as we crossed the 5th Street Bridge. (My great grandfather told them they would run into quicksand when they built it, but they didn’t listen.) When we drove across the river border between South Carolina and Georgia, the wind from the rolled down passenger window roared through my hair; the smell of the paper mill on the river is something a child never forgets.
The memories I have are of rolling over the river to Reynolds Street and my Granddaddy’s shop where my step-dad worked part-time as a mechanic (in addition to his full-time job). I remember the girly calendar on the wall, the smell of grease and Gojo, and pulling an ice cold Coke out of a shiny, red vending machine that gripped the blue-glass bottles like a vice. Then we’d drop salted peanuts from a bag of Planter’s into the lip and alternate swigs of Coke with the soggy crunch of peanuts between our teeth.
My memories are from four years ago, scooting along the Riverwalk in Augusta with my sister and her family when we drove down to visit relatives. We were fresh and tan after body surfing in the Atlantic at Ocean City, Maryland, and spent the day ambling around the Riverwalk museum where we stuffed ourselves into a photo booth for a couple of crazy, animated snapshots.
My memories are from a week ago, driving back and forth across the Savannah River, photographing landmarks, recording conversations, creating new memories with my step-dad and mother, laughing and conjuring up times long past. My memories are of breaking and mending, of leaving and of coming home.
Here they are, details on the page, the beginning of something much bigger, a creative force spawned from the bowels of rivers and oceans and mountains and trees. Bones. Here are the memories of last week’s water wings, and the flowing, dry humidity of the Savannah.
But I sit on a gray deck near the banks of the wide and rambling Mississippi whose mouth bubbles out not far from the Canadian border in a lake called Itasca.
Sunday, June 17th, 2007
-from Topic post, Water Wings
QuoinMonkey: I really like the clear detail in your memories like this one:
“pulling an ice cold Coke out of a shiny, red vending machine that gripped the blue-glass bottles like a vice.”
This is one of those universal memories for a lot of us, but you have put words to it, which reminds me of it, too, except that I remember green glass bottles.
I also like this line:
“My memories are of breaking and mending, of leaving and of coming home.”
It says it all about growing-up and leaving home and it happens for both the parents and the children.
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Yes, green glass to me at times looks blue. Sometimes I think I might have a touch of color blindness. There have been a few things lately where I will say something’s blue and Liz will say, “Are you sure that’s blue?” And I’ll say, “Yeah, what color is it to you?”
Wouldn’t it be strange if I only discovered it now, after all these years.
On the breaking and mending, I realized when I was sitting on the deck today writing that there was so much that came up for me when I was in Georgia. Not all the memories are positive. But the great thing was that I was aware. And I had come to a point where I could integrate and let go. It allowed me to feel mostly the love when I was there. And that’s the part I want to hang on to.
I’ll probably end up writing a little about both – shadow and light. But there will be some kind of integration. And transformation of me as a character in my own life. Because that’s what happened to me. And this is the time I am writing memoir. If I had written it when I was 20 or 30 (as many writers are now doing) it would have been a whole different story.
Does this make any sense?
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QM,
I was going to post earlier, but I hesitated.
I liked this piece. Again your descriptions of your grandfather’s shop is very vivid. I like how you describe the smells; grease and gojo. Your grandfather’s garage was a hub in your life…like my dad’s drugstore in mine.
Also the smell of the papermill. I remember this smell too from the South when driving through Louisiana and Arkansas.
Good piece on water. Excellent!
MM
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It totally makes sense to me. When I was younger, it was easier for me to blame. Now I see more clearly, that at any given time, most of us are doing the best we can. It has become much easier (and a relief) not to blame myself or others for the way things are.
I think of one of Katagiri Roshi’s teachings: “Make positive effort for good” (or something near to that.) I focus more now, not on what is wrong, but on how I might improve the situation or relationship. Sometimes that might mean becoming more involved and other times it might be stepping away.
It is a discernment process and I think that is what you are also referring to by saying:
“But the great thing was that I was aware. And I had come to a point where I could integrate and let go. It allowed me to feel mostly the love when I was there. And that’s the part I want to hang on to.”
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mm, that’s a good insight for me – that my grandfather’s shop was a hub for me the way your dad’s drugstore was for you. I write about it a lot but it’s often the same memory. I need to explore other memories that I have there in that space.
It’s odd, but the smell of garages like that comfort me. Maybe I can do more writing practice on the smells and memories there and why it feels like a hub.
And what is it that makes a memory place a hub?
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breathepeace, I had a whole year long process about going on this trip to Georgia that I haven’t shared. It started the first Intensive workshop in Taos last year. I had a lot of fear come up in the silence about going back Down South to do this kind of digging. Natalie was a big help with helping me ground the fear.
Over the course of sitting last year, I kept holding the fear. And by the time I planned the trip, I felt I was ready to go. But part of me was still scared. A week before I left, I did some shamanic work with a teacher and it was her that talked to me about focusing on the love. She said it was my 12-year-old inside that was scared, that I held those memories in my body. But if I focused on the love and healing, I’d be fine.
She also said that there were many ancestors that were going to be with me on this trip and that I would have a lot of support. She was right.
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Mmmm — This rings like a good teaching for all of us:
“But if I focused on the love and healing, I’d be fine.”
Thanks for that and more.
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Nice post QM. The whole going home thing is intense. I have done it many times and each is different. A while back, my angst turned into peace and now to pride. Maybe I have just grown as I see you have. Good job, Anita
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Thanks, Anita. Yes, thank goodness for growth. And the ability to look at things anew. You put it nicely, angst to peace to pride. I thought of a couple of your posts on Starting Over when I was there. I feel a new sense of connection to my family and a sense of pride. I am a part of them. And they are a part of me. And in-between, there are all those years.
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