Heading into Eutaw we saw more nice old homes lining the road, then the high school, which looked like it had been renovated recently. "What are we looking for here?" I asked Joe.
"I don't know," he said. "Somebody said the Methodist Church has some really great stained glass."
"That sounds good. Where is it?"
"I have no idea." We passed a large white church on the right. First Presbyterian. According to Al Blanton, it was designed by the same architect that did Kirkwood. The structure was old and nice, but more utilitarian-looking than ornamental. "Wanna get out?" Joe asked as he was whizzing by.
"No thanks," I said. We drove on into town, passing this marquee on an old movie theatre, and the abandoned county courthouse. "Let's find that Methodist church."
Joe began to fiddle with his Garmin, after having told it a blatant lie earlier. In order to turn it on whenever he started the car, he had to touch "agree" to a statement on the screen that said the company doesn't want him driving and GPSin' at the same time, and they've told him and told him and told him, and possibly somebody could end up crying, and they're having none of it.
"You just don't care what the Garmin people say, do you?" I asked him, as he expertly dialed up the two Methodist churches in Eutaw.
"No, not really," he said casually. "Which one do you think it is?" There were two: St. Peter's Methodist and something like Scenic Hills Methodist.
"Well, I'd think it was St. Peter's. The other one sounds like a suburb."
"You're probably right." We began to follow the insistent red arrow on the Garmin, until we had completely passed the place where the checkered flag told us it was.
"What the hell?" I asked. "You'd think we'd have seen it. There's the address." We kept on going, since there was nowhere to readily turn around. The GPS was starting to freak out and plan for our correction.
A good spot appeared and Joe turned around, as the little picture of the car on the Garmin did the same, then re-oriented itself. We retraced our route carefully, looking for the church. The checkered flag appeared again, just as we looked to the right and saw what appeared to be a brick nursing home built in the fifties. On second look, a steeple and a couple of dark colored windows became apparent.
"You think that's it?" Joe asked me.
"That's it," I said, reading the small sign in the small yard.
"I mean those windows look nice, but not really worth stopping for. You wanna stop?" he asked.
"Uh, no. That's fine," I said evenly. "I'll bet it was the other one--the Scenic Hills Methodist, or whatever it was. Probably some of the premier stained glass in America."
"Probably," Joe said, as he sped back toward downtown.
"What now?" I asked him.
"I don't know," Joe said laughing, as we reached the city center again. Many stores were closed and few people were stirring. "There are a couple of good antique stores here. . . .Look there's one." The sign on the door said: Open Thursday-Saturday 1:00-5:00. Other times by appointment. "Well, I don't know how they're gonna sell much that way," he said in wonder.
The second antique store we passed had a similar sign and was likewise closed.
The third antique store's hours were Friday from 3:00 to 3:15.
Before we hit the railroad tracks, to which the Garmin was vehemently opposed, a dilapidated Victorian house appeared on the left. "Let's stop," I suggested. Joe was way ahead of me, making a quick right, which caused the little Garmin car to wiggle. That was fun. We hopped out and took some great shots of the house, and then, 180 degrees across, a different view.
We both got back in the car. I immediately touched "agree" on the GPS screen to start it up.
"Well, I'm off the hook now," Joe said. "I can go ahead and wreck the car and the Garmin people can't say a thing."
"You betcha," I answered enthusiastically.
We followed the indecisive icon until it set itself on a steadfast red track toward Gainesville.
"This goes by Everhope," Joe said. "Maybe we can just take some pictures and not meet the owner. I don't think we have time."
"Totally," I said. He got back on Mesopotamia Street and headed in the direction Al had originally told us. We passed back over the interstate, and were immediately struck by the change in the roadside view. Where before there had been signs of civilization, albeit sketchy at times, this section of the highway was a dipping, curvy road with nothing but bare trees, white scrub on undulating ground, and a smattering of abandoned structures. It was gorgeous and depressing at the same time.
Before long, a large two story white house appeared down the road on the right. "I'll bet that's it," I said.
"Yep," Joe said, pulling into the driveway, but hanging back a good bit.
"What about the owner?" I asked. "He's probably been on pins and needles waiting for us."
"I think we'll just shoot some pics and mosey on," Joe said.
We got out of the car and began to take some beautiful shots of this tasteful antebellum plantation. There was an old bare tree by the car that was of particular fascination for me, but Joe wandered nearer the house in good view of the windows. I didn't know whether I was more afraid of the owner coming out with a shotgun or wearing a smoking jacket; I just knew that I had enough pictures to suit me and we probably ought to skedaddle pretty soon. When I saw Joe bounding over a mound of mondo grass heading my way, I figured he had decided the same thing.
We backed out of the driveway, causing the wiggling Garmin effect, then got back on the road to Gainesville.
The Garmin eventually told us to take a left onto the county road that led to Gainesville. The scenery was much of the same, with more fields in evidence, though it wasn't apparent if any of them were being farmed.
We passed an old country store on the right called "[Bill's]" or something like that. Abandoned. Sad. And it made me realize that I was getting ready to have to think about needing to pee.
"Wow," I said, pointing it out. "Who used to patronize this place? How did he make a living?"
"I guess just the people living around here used to go there," Joe said. "But there are so many less living around here now."
"Bummer," I muttered. "But who can blame people for wanting to live in a more populated area?"
"Nobody," Joe said. "I love the country and the solitude, but in doses. I like having my stuff."
"Yeah, I know. It's a real conundrum. Hey look at that shed coming up! Let's stop."
Joe slowed down expertly and pulled off to the right, where we were fortunate to find a sandy patch.
Walking across the road was like crossing a suburban street, only smaller. It was the narrowest road I'd ever seen. And with the dappled shadows from the overhanging foliage, it was downright cozy looking. We never saw a car the whole time we were stopped.
The abandoned shed was neat, and brought to life one of my favorite ruminations: At one time, this decrepit structure was one of the most important things in somebody's life. What occurred during the long passage of time that brought it to this state? I also conjure up these thoughts when I see solitary chimneys, another love.
We took a bunch of pictures, which were more difficult with the 10:30 sun glaring directly at us, severely backlighting the shed. But the detritus, the textures and the ghosts were still there.
And of course both of us got to pee. Never pass up a bathroom or an abandoned shed.
"All righty, ready to go?" I asked nobody, as I turned around. Joe was already in the car.
As we drove along, the Garmin delivered digital bon mots such as "Timbuktu," "Nowheresville" and "Satellite not Responding," but never forgot to tell us to turn left. Well, well, well! At this intersection sat the NEW and IMPROVED "[Bill's]"! I was very happy for him, because he had obviously broadened his customer base. But Bill, I ask you: how different is this, really, than building a Super Wal-Mart a mile or two away from an abandoned Wal-Mart?
We continued on, passing over the Tombigbee Waterway. "Hey, you wanna go see the locks?" Joe asked.
"Well, sure!" I enthused.
We turned left immediately, drove a few hundred yards, and were met first with the sight of American and Alabama flags, followed by a flimsy barricade with "STOP" right in the middle.
"You used to could come to these locks all the time," Joe said. "But now? Nooooo. THANKS, terrorists!"
"Bastards!" I spat. "But I hate to tell them, that little bar and sign ain't gonna stop nobody that wants to get in there. Rocky Grayson used to always say, 'Locks are only for honest people.' He played in Chevy 6 at the very beginning. Now he's the mayor of Demopolis."
"Yeah?" Joe asked. "You know that's on our route today."
"I know," I said. " I love Demopolis. We've played there a million times. It's a very neat place."
We soothed the freaked-out Garmin, turned around and headed back toward Gainesville, passing over the river. Where the Waterway looked artificial and "channely," the Tombigbee was way more beautiful, we agreed. Well, duh.
I was once again amazed that this kind of terrain could be right in my little ole home state. We discussed how Alabama blows both of our minds, being the only state in the union to have such fabulous examples of ALL the terrains AND climates. Would an exploding population discover the place and bring it back to life? Or will wealthy hunters buy up huge parcels and let the local citizens fend for themselves? It was mind boggling.
After we went over the last bridge and hit land again, we were immediately dwarfed on both sides by the high banks. On one was a "Welcome to Gainesville" sign--a really nice one. Part of Joe's schtick is to photograph the city limit signs of these little towns.
"Look! There's their sign!" I said, pointing up. "You oughta stop."
The miniscule shoulder and potential difficulty caused Joe to say, "Naah." But I knew he didn't mean it.
In a matter of seconds, we were in Gainesville. The road had finally reached the level of the banks, and it stopped us from feeling like we were traveling up a gutter. The first thing we saw was a little white antebellum house on the right with some kind of obelisk beside it. There was a historic marker right at the intersection. It was in front of a pavilion of some kind on a triangle of grass. We had hit the jackpot! It was too much for me to take in at once, and I asked Joe, "What IS all this?"
"I don't know," he said, as we stopped the car right in the middle of the intersection.
"I thought you knew all about all of this," I protested. "I thought you were Mr. Black Belt."
"Nope. Don't know a thing," he replied, in his speedy understated delivery.
"Well hell, let's go see that house, okay? What does that sign say?"
"I don't know, I can't read it," Joe said, not even looking as he drove past.
"Well, I sure can't read it," I complained, even though I was on the side next to it.
Despite all the pictures we took, neither one of us would read the sign. I can tell you nothing about any of the stuff that was there. I hate myself.
The little house was neat. A white one-roomer with tasteful front details, it was obviously in the first stages of restoration. The outside had been painted, and it had probably been moved from another location. Here it sat on four short concrete posts. Since the trip, I have found out that it was the old bank in Gainesville. It's the oldest remaining bank building in west Alabama.
We got a bunch of pictures of it, then Joe shot the obelisk, which was a memorial to Nathan Bedford Forrest and the heroes of the Civil War that had lived there. Before I knew it, Joe had disappeared over the hill and was headed for the city limit sign. I watched him run down the grassy slope, thankful it wasn't me. I stayed up top and shot this "end of road" sign. One could easily get a snootful, head up the road and plunge off the hill were it not for this sign. (Well, there was a little fence, too.)
Before long, Joe came chugging up the incline, breathing like a guy who had just come up a hill. I thought he did pretty well, actually, but he said, "Man, I'm out of shape."
"Well that's just ridiculous," I said, pandering my ass off. "We'll get lunch soon. That'll make you feel better."
We both got back in the car, and as he turned around he said, "There's supposed to be a historic district here right on the river."
What we were seeing at the time were a down-home catfish dinner shack, some kind of small engine repair or income tax place, a newish post office and a city hall which was about the size of an Arby's. New curbs had been installed flanking this main block of the two-square-block town. They were nicely curved and packed with red bark and a row of low-growing shrubs. There was an American flag waving from a pole on the one nearest the city hall. We drove through the rest of the town, two of the four blocks containing abandoned buildings. After continuing on down the road, Joe said, "This isn't it. It's going out of town. But I think that cool cemetery is down here."
After a mile or so down the road, we passed another "Welcome to Gainesville" sign on flat ground that made me laugh at the previous efforts required for Joe to take a picture of the same sign at the other end. And then suddenly on the left appeared the Oddfellows Cemetery. The thin metal fence was shaded by low growing pines. The gate had a little hook holding it fast, and said "Come on in!"
Now THIS was an old cemetery. Loaded with spirits and dead silent save for Joe's and my crunching around on the grass and making our usual inane comments interspersed with actual bits of conversation. And the snot rockets.
Even in the daytime, it gave off a delightfully eerie vibe. The river was barely visible from behind the trees, but it was, indeed the river. It seemed odd that it would be coming in a more southerly direction where it had previously been going east to west. Gainesville must sit on a little abutment of land.
What was probably the largest family plot was practically smothered under a giant pine that dripped down over the ironwork and stones like some kind of protective mother.
"Why Oddfellows?" I asked Joe.
"I don't know," he said. "It might have some kind of naval angle to it." There were several stones with nautical references. And consorts aplenty. Joe and I, along with my friend Jim Kennemer, have since ruminated on the term. If the wife died first, the husband wanted to be able to get him another one without spoiling his chances with the big "W" word glaring from her headstone. "Consort" indicated that he was still around. The one who had him when he finally died would get his money and have final say over his burial. There were terms for all of that, too. The same type of shenanigans go on today with old and new wives, only couched in crazy terminology.
After shooting to our hearts' content, we ducked the pines and headed out the gate, not forgetting to latch it back.
"Well, let's see about that historic district," Joe said. We turned around and headed back downtown, driving through the requisite blocks when I spotted a cool old building on the first part of the outskirts of town. It was an old coffin shop! How neat! We parked across the street, on the first abandoned block of town, dashed across the tiny street and shot beaucoups of pictures of the place.
"I wonder what that 66 means," Joe pondered. "It could be a part of some kind of historic tour. It's not a house number." I agreed. But what could that mean? I was envisioning double-digits worth of historic structures!
When we got back in the car, I suggested we try the road by the coffin shop. "The river's over there," I said. "This surely should lead to the home section."
Having no other options at the time, Joe turned right, and we headed into a road that got progressively narrower as it went on. The trees closed in, and on the left and right we saw old houses and shacks. We exchanged waves with a black man and his wife right before we intersected with the road on the river, coming out at its end as well. Right in front of us was a two-story New England style house in terrible disrepair, but with the evidence of a one-man renovation going on. It was very sad, but had this hopeful tinge to it. Who was doing the work? The house was obviously a cherished antique, but was in horrendous shape. Someone would have to really love the project to tackle it alone, as it appeared.
Next to that was a very thin dog lounging outside of a one story home with a broad front porch supported by large flared posts. The place was obviously once-luxurious, but still beautiful in its seedy state. Who lived there? We saw two or three other residences and more decay as we followed the road back out the main intersection where we had come in.
"Well good grief," Joe said. "I wonder where this 'section' is."
"Why don't you ask them at the city hall," I suggested, delivering the line in such a way that indicated that I wasn't doing any such thing.
"All right," Joe said, turning around on one of the abandoned blocks to pull in next to the City Hall.
I sat in the car watching the lack of activity around me. It felt kind of like being in "The Stand."
I looked up to see Joe hustling to the car. When he got in, I asked, "Well?"
"I don't think there's anything here," he replied.
"Whaddya mean? What did they tell you?"
"Well, I went in there and was hit in the face with 95 degree heat. There were 10 or 12 black ladies sitting around eating. It was kind of like a community center."
"I thought it was the city hall."
"It is. I went to the back and there was a younger woman standing at this counter full of food, so I went through the whole spiel about the website and everything, and asked her where the historic district was. She just looked at me for a minute, and finally pointed to somewhere and said something I didn't understand, but I finally saw the door behind her and figured that was it. That's where the city hall offices were. Two of them. The mayor came ambling out when she saw me, so I asked her if she knew anything. I got kind of a blank look, then she finally said, 'Go see Ms. Soandso at the post office. She can tell you how to get in touch with Ms. Blahhblahton an Ms. Yaddayadda. They're the historical society ladies. They can probably help you.' I said thanks, then had to go through that heated room again to get out of there."
"Are you gonna go over to the. . ."
"No," Joe interrupted me. "Let's head to Livingston. There's stuff there to see. We can eat lunch at this Mennonite bakery that's supposed to be unbelievable. If you want to."
"I don't care. Why don't you take that other road out?" We began to see old white houses appearing left and right of the road. This was obviously the "historic" district, as they were more cared for than the other homes in Gainesville, but they were all showing their age and the age of their owners, who were less able to maintain them, especially with no young influx to help.
"You wanna stop?" Joe asked. "I don't see anything particularly remarkable. I mean, these are nice, but. . ."
"Naah. Press on."
"I don't know," he said. "Somebody said the Methodist Church has some really great stained glass."
"That sounds good. Where is it?"
"I have no idea." We passed a large white church on the right. First Presbyterian. According to Al Blanton, it was designed by the same architect that did Kirkwood. The structure was old and nice, but more utilitarian-looking than ornamental. "Wanna get out?" Joe asked as he was whizzing by.
"No thanks," I said. We drove on into town, passing this marquee on an old movie theatre, and the abandoned county courthouse. "Let's find that Methodist church."
Joe began to fiddle with his Garmin, after having told it a blatant lie earlier. In order to turn it on whenever he started the car, he had to touch "agree" to a statement on the screen that said the company doesn't want him driving and GPSin' at the same time, and they've told him and told him and told him, and possibly somebody could end up crying, and they're having none of it."You just don't care what the Garmin people say, do you?" I asked him, as he expertly dialed up the two Methodist churches in Eutaw.
"No, not really," he said casually. "Which one do you think it is?" There were two: St. Peter's Methodist and something like Scenic Hills Methodist.
"Well, I'd think it was St. Peter's. The other one sounds like a suburb."
"You're probably right." We began to follow the insistent red arrow on the Garmin, until we had completely passed the place where the checkered flag told us it was.
"What the hell?" I asked. "You'd think we'd have seen it. There's the address." We kept on going, since there was nowhere to readily turn around. The GPS was starting to freak out and plan for our correction.
A good spot appeared and Joe turned around, as the little picture of the car on the Garmin did the same, then re-oriented itself. We retraced our route carefully, looking for the church. The checkered flag appeared again, just as we looked to the right and saw what appeared to be a brick nursing home built in the fifties. On second look, a steeple and a couple of dark colored windows became apparent.
"You think that's it?" Joe asked me.
"That's it," I said, reading the small sign in the small yard.
"I mean those windows look nice, but not really worth stopping for. You wanna stop?" he asked.
"Uh, no. That's fine," I said evenly. "I'll bet it was the other one--the Scenic Hills Methodist, or whatever it was. Probably some of the premier stained glass in America."
"Probably," Joe said, as he sped back toward downtown.
"What now?" I asked him.
"I don't know," Joe said laughing, as we reached the city center again. Many stores were closed and few people were stirring. "There are a couple of good antique stores here. . . .Look there's one." The sign on the door said: Open Thursday-Saturday 1:00-5:00. Other times by appointment. "Well, I don't know how they're gonna sell much that way," he said in wonder.
The second antique store we passed had a similar sign and was likewise closed.
The third antique store's hours were Friday from 3:00 to 3:15.
Before we hit the railroad tracks, to which the Garmin was vehemently opposed, a dilapidated Victorian house appeared on the left. "Let's stop," I suggested. Joe was way ahead of me, making a quick right, which caused the little Garmin car to wiggle. That was fun. We hopped out and took some great shots of the house, and then, 180 degrees across, a different view.
We both got back in the car. I immediately touched "agree" on the GPS screen to start it up. "Well, I'm off the hook now," Joe said. "I can go ahead and wreck the car and the Garmin people can't say a thing."
"You betcha," I answered enthusiastically.
We followed the indecisive icon until it set itself on a steadfast red track toward Gainesville.
"This goes by Everhope," Joe said. "Maybe we can just take some pictures and not meet the owner. I don't think we have time."
"Totally," I said. He got back on Mesopotamia Street and headed in the direction Al had originally told us. We passed back over the interstate, and were immediately struck by the change in the roadside view. Where before there had been signs of civilization, albeit sketchy at times, this section of the highway was a dipping, curvy road with nothing but bare trees, white scrub on undulating ground, and a smattering of abandoned structures. It was gorgeous and depressing at the same time.
Before long, a large two story white house appeared down the road on the right. "I'll bet that's it," I said.
"Yep," Joe said, pulling into the driveway, but hanging back a good bit."What about the owner?" I asked. "He's probably been on pins and needles waiting for us."
"I think we'll just shoot some pics and mosey on," Joe said.
We got out of the car and began to take some beautiful shots of this tasteful antebellum plantation. There was an old bare tree by the car that was of particular fascination for me, but Joe wandered nearer the house in good view of the windows. I didn't know whether I was more afraid of the owner coming out with a shotgun or wearing a smoking jacket; I just knew that I had enough pictures to suit me and we probably ought to skedaddle pretty soon. When I saw Joe bounding over a mound of mondo grass heading my way, I figured he had decided the same thing.We backed out of the driveway, causing the wiggling Garmin effect, then got back on the road to Gainesville.
The Garmin eventually told us to take a left onto the county road that led to Gainesville. The scenery was much of the same, with more fields in evidence, though it wasn't apparent if any of them were being farmed.
We passed an old country store on the right called "[Bill's]" or something like that. Abandoned. Sad. And it made me realize that I was getting ready to have to think about needing to pee.
"Wow," I said, pointing it out. "Who used to patronize this place? How did he make a living?"
"I guess just the people living around here used to go there," Joe said. "But there are so many less living around here now."
"Bummer," I muttered. "But who can blame people for wanting to live in a more populated area?"
"Nobody," Joe said. "I love the country and the solitude, but in doses. I like having my stuff."
"Yeah, I know. It's a real conundrum. Hey look at that shed coming up! Let's stop."
Joe slowed down expertly and pulled off to the right, where we were fortunate to find a sandy patch.
Walking across the road was like crossing a suburban street, only smaller. It was the narrowest road I'd ever seen. And with the dappled shadows from the overhanging foliage, it was downright cozy looking. We never saw a car the whole time we were stopped.The abandoned shed was neat, and brought to life one of my favorite ruminations: At one time, this decrepit structure was one of the most important things in somebody's life. What occurred during the long passage of time that brought it to this state? I also conjure up these thoughts when I see solitary chimneys, another love.
We took a bunch of pictures, which were more difficult with the 10:30 sun glaring directly at us, severely backlighting the shed. But the detritus, the textures and the ghosts were still there.And of course both of us got to pee. Never pass up a bathroom or an abandoned shed.
"All righty, ready to go?" I asked nobody, as I turned around. Joe was already in the car.
As we drove along, the Garmin delivered digital bon mots such as "Timbuktu," "Nowheresville" and "Satellite not Responding," but never forgot to tell us to turn left. Well, well, well! At this intersection sat the NEW and IMPROVED "[Bill's]"! I was very happy for him, because he had obviously broadened his customer base. But Bill, I ask you: how different is this, really, than building a Super Wal-Mart a mile or two away from an abandoned Wal-Mart?
We continued on, passing over the Tombigbee Waterway. "Hey, you wanna go see the locks?" Joe asked.
"Well, sure!" I enthused.
We turned left immediately, drove a few hundred yards, and were met first with the sight of American and Alabama flags, followed by a flimsy barricade with "STOP" right in the middle.
"You used to could come to these locks all the time," Joe said. "But now? Nooooo. THANKS, terrorists!"
"Bastards!" I spat. "But I hate to tell them, that little bar and sign ain't gonna stop nobody that wants to get in there. Rocky Grayson used to always say, 'Locks are only for honest people.' He played in Chevy 6 at the very beginning. Now he's the mayor of Demopolis."
"Yeah?" Joe asked. "You know that's on our route today."
"I know," I said. " I love Demopolis. We've played there a million times. It's a very neat place."
We soothed the freaked-out Garmin, turned around and headed back toward Gainesville, passing over the river. Where the Waterway looked artificial and "channely," the Tombigbee was way more beautiful, we agreed. Well, duh.
I was once again amazed that this kind of terrain could be right in my little ole home state. We discussed how Alabama blows both of our minds, being the only state in the union to have such fabulous examples of ALL the terrains AND climates. Would an exploding population discover the place and bring it back to life? Or will wealthy hunters buy up huge parcels and let the local citizens fend for themselves? It was mind boggling.
After we went over the last bridge and hit land again, we were immediately dwarfed on both sides by the high banks. On one was a "Welcome to Gainesville" sign--a really nice one. Part of Joe's schtick is to photograph the city limit signs of these little towns.
"Look! There's their sign!" I said, pointing up. "You oughta stop."
The miniscule shoulder and potential difficulty caused Joe to say, "Naah." But I knew he didn't mean it.
In a matter of seconds, we were in Gainesville. The road had finally reached the level of the banks, and it stopped us from feeling like we were traveling up a gutter. The first thing we saw was a little white antebellum house on the right with some kind of obelisk beside it. There was a historic marker right at the intersection. It was in front of a pavilion of some kind on a triangle of grass. We had hit the jackpot! It was too much for me to take in at once, and I asked Joe, "What IS all this?"
"I don't know," he said, as we stopped the car right in the middle of the intersection.
"I thought you knew all about all of this," I protested. "I thought you were Mr. Black Belt."
"Nope. Don't know a thing," he replied, in his speedy understated delivery.
"Well hell, let's go see that house, okay? What does that sign say?"
"I don't know, I can't read it," Joe said, not even looking as he drove past.
"Well, I sure can't read it," I complained, even though I was on the side next to it.
Despite all the pictures we took, neither one of us would read the sign. I can tell you nothing about any of the stuff that was there. I hate myself.
The little house was neat. A white one-roomer with tasteful front details, it was obviously in the first stages of restoration. The outside had been painted, and it had probably been moved from another location. Here it sat on four short concrete posts. Since the trip, I have found out that it was the old bank in Gainesville. It's the oldest remaining bank building in west Alabama.We got a bunch of pictures of it, then Joe shot the obelisk, which was a memorial to Nathan Bedford Forrest and the heroes of the Civil War that had lived there. Before I knew it, Joe had disappeared over the hill and was headed for the city limit sign. I watched him run down the grassy slope, thankful it wasn't me. I stayed up top and shot this "end of road" sign. One could easily get a snootful, head up the road and plunge off the hill were it not for this sign. (Well, there was a little fence, too.)Before long, Joe came chugging up the incline, breathing like a guy who had just come up a hill. I thought he did pretty well, actually, but he said, "Man, I'm out of shape.""Well that's just ridiculous," I said, pandering my ass off. "We'll get lunch soon. That'll make you feel better."
We both got back in the car, and as he turned around he said, "There's supposed to be a historic district here right on the river."
What we were seeing at the time were a down-home catfish dinner shack, some kind of small engine repair or income tax place, a newish post office and a city hall which was about the size of an Arby's. New curbs had been installed flanking this main block of the two-square-block town. They were nicely curved and packed with red bark and a row of low-growing shrubs. There was an American flag waving from a pole on the one nearest the city hall. We drove through the rest of the town, two of the four blocks containing abandoned buildings. After continuing on down the road, Joe said, "This isn't it. It's going out of town. But I think that cool cemetery is down here."
After a mile or so down the road, we passed another "Welcome to Gainesville" sign on flat ground that made me laugh at the previous efforts required for Joe to take a picture of the same sign at the other end. And then suddenly on the left appeared the Oddfellows Cemetery. The thin metal fence was shaded by low growing pines. The gate had a little hook holding it fast, and said "Come on in!"
Now THIS was an old cemetery. Loaded with spirits and dead silent save for Joe's and my crunching around on the grass and making our usual inane comments interspersed with actual bits of conversation. And the snot rockets.
Even in the daytime, it gave off a delightfully eerie vibe. The river was barely visible from behind the trees, but it was, indeed the river. It seemed odd that it would be coming in a more southerly direction where it had previously been going east to west. Gainesville must sit on a little abutment of land.What was probably the largest family plot was practically smothered under a giant pine that dripped down over the ironwork and stones like some kind of protective mother.
"Why Oddfellows?" I asked Joe."I don't know," he said. "It might have some kind of naval angle to it." There were several stones with nautical references. And consorts aplenty. Joe and I, along with my friend Jim Kennemer, have since ruminated on the term. If the wife died first, the husband wanted to be able to get him another one without spoiling his chances with the big "W" word glaring from her headstone. "Consort" indicated that he was still around. The one who had him when he finally died would get his money and have final say over his burial. There were terms for all of that, too. The same type of shenanigans go on today with old and new wives, only couched in crazy terminology.
After shooting to our hearts' content, we ducked the pines and headed out the gate, not forgetting to latch it back."Well, let's see about that historic district," Joe said. We turned around and headed back downtown, driving through the requisite blocks when I spotted a cool old building on the first part of the outskirts of town. It was an old coffin shop! How neat! We parked across the street, on the first abandoned block of town, dashed across the tiny street and shot beaucoups of pictures of the place.
"I wonder what that 66 means," Joe pondered. "It could be a part of some kind of historic tour. It's not a house number." I agreed. But what could that mean? I was envisioning double-digits worth of historic structures!When we got back in the car, I suggested we try the road by the coffin shop. "The river's over there," I said. "This surely should lead to the home section."Having no other options at the time, Joe turned right, and we headed into a road that got progressively narrower as it went on. The trees closed in, and on the left and right we saw old houses and shacks. We exchanged waves with a black man and his wife right before we intersected with the road on the river, coming out at its end as well. Right in front of us was a two-story New England style house in terrible disrepair, but with the evidence of a one-man renovation going on. It was very sad, but had this hopeful tinge to it. Who was doing the work? The house was obviously a cherished antique, but was in horrendous shape. Someone would have to really love the project to tackle it alone, as it appeared.
Next to that was a very thin dog lounging outside of a one story home with a broad front porch supported by large flared posts. The place was obviously once-luxurious, but still beautiful in its seedy state. Who lived there? We saw two or three other residences and more decay as we followed the road back out the main intersection where we had come in.
"Well good grief," Joe said. "I wonder where this 'section' is."
"Why don't you ask them at the city hall," I suggested, delivering the line in such a way that indicated that I wasn't doing any such thing.
"All right," Joe said, turning around on one of the abandoned blocks to pull in next to the City Hall.
I sat in the car watching the lack of activity around me. It felt kind of like being in "The Stand."
I looked up to see Joe hustling to the car. When he got in, I asked, "Well?"
"I don't think there's anything here," he replied.
"Whaddya mean? What did they tell you?"
"Well, I went in there and was hit in the face with 95 degree heat. There were 10 or 12 black ladies sitting around eating. It was kind of like a community center."
"I thought it was the city hall."
"It is. I went to the back and there was a younger woman standing at this counter full of food, so I went through the whole spiel about the website and everything, and asked her where the historic district was. She just looked at me for a minute, and finally pointed to somewhere and said something I didn't understand, but I finally saw the door behind her and figured that was it. That's where the city hall offices were. Two of them. The mayor came ambling out when she saw me, so I asked her if she knew anything. I got kind of a blank look, then she finally said, 'Go see Ms. Soandso at the post office. She can tell you how to get in touch with Ms. Blahhblahton an Ms. Yaddayadda. They're the historical society ladies. They can probably help you.' I said thanks, then had to go through that heated room again to get out of there."
"Are you gonna go over to the. . ."
"No," Joe interrupted me. "Let's head to Livingston. There's stuff there to see. We can eat lunch at this Mennonite bakery that's supposed to be unbelievable. If you want to."
"I don't care. Why don't you take that other road out?" We began to see old white houses appearing left and right of the road. This was obviously the "historic" district, as they were more cared for than the other homes in Gainesville, but they were all showing their age and the age of their owners, who were less able to maintain them, especially with no young influx to help.
"You wanna stop?" Joe asked. "I don't see anything particularly remarkable. I mean, these are nice, but. . ."
"Naah. Press on."
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