Everyone knows of Atlanta, perhaps even the smaller city of Macon, Georgia. And Athens, too, thanks to college football. But those skyscrapers and football fields have stripped the land of its southern enigma; to find the secrets of Georgia that have long been buried, but not forgotten, one must discover its small towns first. I began with the city of Moultrie.
The noon sun rested beside feathery white clouds as I made my way down the long sweep of US 319. A railroad track stretched alongside me, visible behind the roadside brush only by the X-shaped caution markers where the highway forked into small, disappearing roads. To my right lolled groves of hickory, where sunlight splotches painted green grass gold. To my left were staggered fields, farm lands empty but of sticks poking out of the ground as the spiny remains of cotton in the cool November dirt.
I took the exit to Moultrie and circled around to Main Street. I drove a short route through a residential area speckled with convenience stores and small casual dining restaurants and into downtown. The town square was just that – square. Four long, two-story strips of colorful, store-front facades faced each other as if at any moment music would start and a quadrille would ensue. In the center, like a treasured mantelpiece stood the mother of all town-square courthouses - the Moultrie Courthouse, a large magnolia tree hugging her hip.
From what I could tell, parked on the southern side of the square, was that the residents took care of their downtown area, preserving it like a blackberry jam in a foggy-glassed mason jar.
(taken with a piece of history - my 1974 Pentax with the original 50mm lens. Sorry for the blurred or under-exposed images following)
And in that weekend in November, the town was festively dressed. A canopy of Christmas lights hovered over the streets, hanging from the courthouse to the tops of store-fronts on all four sides of the square. The lights weren’t to be lit until after Thanksgiving, when the Christmas celebrations were to slowly begin. Not knowing where to start exploring, I picked a strand of lights and followed it to a southbound corner. I ended up at a tall brick building, the only one downtown that was more than two stories. An old hotel, the lobby had been converted into a bakery called Three Crazy Bakers.
The large lobby contained no tables or chairs the same, the coffee was self-serve, calling to me with a rich aroma from a distressed white side table against the far wall. The kitchen was separated from the lobby by glass display cases, a register, and a temporary wall with a curtained kitchen entrance. The smell of coffee and something sweet – peaches, perhaps – immediately made me hungry. I sat at a green table and when the waitress, a girl of about sixteen approached, I ordered a chicken salad on a croissant. It comes to no surprised that I was impressed. The details really made the meal - grapes were firm, the almonds crunch and the poppy-seed sauce a tangy delicacy. I left full, and ready to work it off by walking around the downtown area.
I passed a bookstore with a fake Santa reclined in a rocking chair with a children’s book in the corner; a woman’s boutique where I stopped and bought a red purse made by a Moultrie local; an ice cream shop that smelled so much like candied pecans it made my stomach flip a little. Christmas wreaths hung on the doors, garland lined the doorways.
I reached the adjacent corner from the bakery and joined a crowd of gathered people buying fresh produce from the outdoor market. Mister Earl sold peanuts on a table covered with a checkered vinyl blanket. “Thems magic peas,”he confessed when I approached the table. “What makes them magic?” I asked, while I picked up a pre-measured bushel and blew off the ants. “Georgia makes ‘em magic,” he answered with a wink. “Got me a green thumb from my daddy, can grow pretty much anything, anytime.” I thanked him and handed him cash. Whether they produced miracles or immediate growth spurts I wasn’t sure, but they sure tasted magical as I munched them throughout my walk.
I passed an old theater converted into a Senior Center,
a historic building that had become a bank, and a opera house that now sold used books and magazines, as well as some crafts and hobby-items. I made my way around the square and had returned to the bakery where I crossed the street to a chic antique store. It was located in an old Gayfers building, the name still etched on the stucco side and faded. Inside, antiques sat on the floor, clung to the walls, hung from the ceilings, all tastefully displayed. I circled the store and reached a section dedicated to all things ‘wedding.’ A long rack of white and ivory gowns lined the back wall. I sifted through each of them, stroked the beads and ran my hand along the lace intricacies. The smell of champagne, vanilla icing, perfume, and honeysuckle vines over wooden arches still lingered on the dresses, or at least, my imagination put them there.
I bumped into an antique dresser and a necklace of pearls rolled, catching my eye with their gleam. I picked them up and checked the price. A lady came out of nowhere and in a thrilled voice said, “Oh you found Ms. Johnson’s beads! She’d be so happy to see a young baby take ‘em. Ya like ‘em?” Nothing like Tiffany’s, but they were still in good shape. “Her husband died the day after he gave ‘em to her, heart attack, you know. She never wore ‘em, couldn’t hardly look at ‘em, but she figured they’d make someone else happy. They’s been here since good Lord knows when.” Satisfied, I purchased them and made my way out.
The sun was low then, the buildings casted shadows on the west part of the square, while the colors on the other sides were bright and glowing. That day, I had supported a boutique, a man named Earl with his magic legumes, a local bakery, an antique store and a woman named Ms. Johnson. My day was complete.
That is, until I got lost making my back to the highway entrance, and found a sign leading to a large arts and crafts festival.
How could I resist? I found the large field – an old airport facility that housed the old-fashioned bi-winged crop-dusters still in use. I paid the entrance fee and walked through the airplane hangars. Arts and crafts were displayed and sold in sections, divided by lattice wood walls and, sometimes quilts. Everything from wine-bottle lanterns (I purchased a green one) to homemade marmalade (I was still full so I skipped it) was being held and scoped and examined by customers. The Calico Arts and Crafts festival, as I learned, was the biggest craft show in southern Georgia and comes only twice a year. I just happened to get lucky. Dancers paraded on stage, corn roasted over a fire pit and barbecue smoked to tender perfection behind a portable trailer with a big picture of a pink pig on front. A small stand sold ice cream and sweet tea, funnel cakes and French fries. Over the music, an endless chatter could be heard from the locals and travelers alike, a friendly symphony of laughter, gossip and the sweet crunch of magical Georgia legumes.
The ride home felt a little longer than the ride to town. The sun melted behind the flat horizon, the hickory groves grew dark in their shadows. The sprinklers in the cotton fields had retired, sleeping over large bales of the white crop that lined the land. Tarps covered the tall white stacks for protection from rain. In the distance, where the farmers had yet to drive the plow, was the unpicked cotton. A sea of white flowed along the brim, circling patches of oak trees and woodland. The swirling hues of the November sunset reflected off the white ocean, and from the road the heavens seemed in that moment to never cease over the Georgia land.
