I was pleased when the editor of the local weekly newspaper asked me to start writing for him. It's been many years since I've been paid to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoy writing them.
Don't hesitate to check out The Oglethorpe Echo's web site as well! Echo columnist Thomas Callaway also has a web site at http://www.negia.net/~topcat/.
The darnedest thing happened to me recently and I have just now sat down to make sense of it all. We moved. OK, now I have done this before—over 30 times in fact as an adult. This time, though, is different. After 4 years in Crawford we sold and then bought a house in Stephens. Actually, not in Stephens, but 2 miles out a dirt road between Maxeys and Stephens!
This city girl is now on a well, septic tank, no governmental trash pickup and no visible close neighbors. My husband thinks he’s in heaven with 2 acres in this quiet spot. I was just glad to start my next remodeling project in this 100-year-old folk Victorian farm house.
He made me promise that, barring some dramatic change in our lives, we would stay here. ACK! Our last two homes, one for 5 years and one for 4 years, were both aberrations for me--the former military dependent, the world traveler. And now we are going to stay here?
We started moving on Saturday--you know, the day before the ice storm. We moved on Saturday with the sleet, Sunday in the ice and Monday during the snow, and it went downhill from there. No power on Sunday, no candles or flashlights (packed somewhere), no heat, no water (oh, for city life!).
In my distress and discomfort, I insisted on a motel for Sunday night. Well, we and the three dogs stayed in a fine establishment in Athens that accepts pets (no, I didn’t volunteer how many pets we had). I could overlook the cigarette burns on the tub, the worn carpet and threadbare sheets, and even no towels (the motel hadn’t washed due to no power that day). It was warm!
The next day we met the Rayle Electric crews on our way home and made sure they knew where we lived. Everyone else had power back that we could see but not us. By 2 p.m. we had power. That night I sat in my recliner underneath the afghan trying to stay warm (the heat doesn’t work right). I was reading a bit when suddenly I heard a noise. I looked up to see sparks arcing from the water heater. I duly noted its death.
During the 2 weeks that followed we continued this streak of bad luck through various mishaps and problems. Now my shoulder is inflamed and I can’t do any of the work I moved here to do. By last Thursday I was depressed and frustrated and regretting ever moving.
And then it happened. That darnedest thing. I suddenly had a feeling that I had come home. Not only did I not have to go anywhere, but, yes, we are here to stay! I don’t know exactly when it happened. I just realized it today—following a Saturday morning at the Commercial Bank. I talked with the president, Bill Cabiniss, (my friend!—I remember telling him 4 years ago that I wanted a personal relationship with my bank.) I spoke to Gradine and other bank employees; I was hailed by a coworker from Greater Georgia Printers; I ran into Donna Meyer Disque who bought my house in Crawford; and as Bill suggested, spoke with the ladies from the women’s club as I was leaving.
After I got home, I began thinking about Ralph Maxwell’s invitation to write for the paper, about how folks were getting to know me and about how they would be getting to know me as a writer. I began thinking about Rachel’s column and what I would like to write about…and here it is.
I’m home, Oglethorpe County.
Once years ago I was walking through the mall in North Charleston, SC, and spoke to someone I knew in passing. A few feet down the corridor I realized I hadn’t seen him since Okinawa, Japan! I chuckled and thought, "yes, the Air Force really is a small community!"
In light of that, why do I find it hard sometimes to adjust to small town life in this area? Eleven years ago when I met my husband, Tommy, we both marveled at the synchronicity of our lives. We had had the same dentist for nearly 20 years; we had mutual friends in common; we bought new vehicles at the same dealership 2 weeks apart only a few months before; our first marriages took place only 2 weeks apart here in the Athens area in 1970; and yet we had never crossed paths before a singles ad, of all things, brought us together. We decided this match just had to be!
Then why did it feel so strange when my electrician, Billy Gabriel, and his grandson mention we had the same chiropractor? And why did it seem so amazing that the chimney sweep’s recommended brick mason turned out to be a relative of Tommy’s by marriage?
I’ve lived in the Athens area continuously since 1983 and I have finally gotten used to the fact that it is common that Tommy and I run across someone one of us knows whenever we go to the grocery store or Home Depot or a restaurant. I had lived in Athens for over 5 years before I ever ran into anyone I knew, even though I actually graduated from Athens High School, and my parents lived here for over 20 years.
Now I’ve moved into an isolated spot in the country with not a neighbor in sight. But I was lonelier in Athens, more cut off from people in the "city". Here, I mention a name, such as Donna Disque, in a column. She reported to me that everyone reads the Echo—she knows because they all told her they saw her name!
There’s a vast community out here in Oglethorpe County that I had heard about. My husband even has history here—he was the county ranger back in the late 1960’s/early 1970’s. But as I finally meet that community, I’m still constantly surprised how connected we all are, and, that for the first time as an adult, I am becoming part of an established community. I have so long accepted my presence as an outsider, that discovering what it’s like on the inside is truly one surprise after another. What is truly amazing is my husband’s reaction to this, which is probably your reaction: "But, Delia, this is normal! Boy, are you weird!"
I’ve had to accustom myself to many things since my move to Oglethorpe County, but one of the newest learning experiences has been the deer. Now deer is something that I have history with—starting early in Gainesville with my dad. He used to go on "hunting trips" to the mountains with friends. Since he never bagged anything besides a hangover, I decided as a child that deer hunting was just a way for the guys to have a weekend for fun.
My only other deer encounter had been my first movie, Bambi. Mother said I cried so much that she had to take me out of the theater. As I got older, like many city-raised young women, I decided I didn’t like the idea of hunters killing any of those Bambi's out there.
I did spot a few deer while living in Carlton and then some while tooling around on early morning paper routes back in the 80’s; but after Tommy and I married, deer became a part of life—our inexhaustible freezer meat. I had no desire to go hunting myself, but he seemed to get such joy out of it that I couldn’t complain too much about the time involved.
Then something happened that changed my "deer views" forever. Early one morning as I came up to the beginning of the four lane right before the new Wal-Mart, I became intimately involved with a deer--so intimately that it took $4500 to put the front of the pickup truck back together.
The deer? Well, he got up and ran away. Deer – 1, truck – 0.
I became deer paranoid.
I knew that Tommy could spot a deer any time day or night while in the car, so I started listening to him. I learned that deer are more likely to travel in a group than singly, so I should never assume I’m safe when only one crosses in front of me. I learned that I should always drive with my high beams on—something I didn’t usually do on roads that I knew well. I learned to spot deer and I learned that alertness and knowledge is enough. Paranoia isn’t necessary.
And now, now that we are off the traveled roads, this has become more important than ever. I’m learning the usual deer routes out here; I drive slower than I used to on the dirt roads; I’ve met the same confused deer in the same place several times…I’m getting accustomed to my deer neighbors.
Now when I drive up to my house, I keep an eye out for "my" deer that graze in my front yard after dark. And, while I’m at it, I also enjoy the sights of the raccoons, possums and rabbits that dash out of the glare of my headlights near my front door. Once again, I am surprised and delighted to find that it’s really hard to get lonely out here in the "isolated" countryside!
It truly is amazing what one can accumulate over the years. Before and since our move we have been sifting through our belongings in an effort to reduce the bulk and fit into our new home. This exercise has turned up some interesting, some ridiculous, some wonderful and some odd things.
One of my first goals was to get my husband to toss out some of his magazines. We have been toting these boxes of ancient Outdoor Sports, Guns and Ammo and Black Belt magazines around for years. We just keep putting the boxes up and he never ever reads those magazines again. So, when he agreed to sift through these boxes, I thought, "Hallelujah!"
In the weeks since, I have observed him doing just that. Well, I thought so anyway. He definitely has gone through each box. He definitely has been rereading articles because he keeps reading bits and pieces out loud to me. I have the sneaking suspicion, however, that not one magazine has hit the trash.
I, on the other hand, no longer keep magazines. I’ve been taking Better Homes and Gardens for thirty years. Back in the mid-eighties I finally went through them and clipped articles. They are filed in one of my filing cabinets by improvement area—garden, storage, decorating, windows, kitchens, etc. I’ve been patting myself on the back for that accomplishment for many years.
I only have 2 filing cabinets, but as we moved, I realized that there were all sorts of cardboard file boxes in the attic. I have dutifully checked all those boxes as well and can report that the three boxes of stationery (printed but never sold) will be donated to the Maxeys Woman’s Club for a fund raising effort. (Maybe someone will buy them for a good cause: I certainly couldn’t make a profit on them!)
I tossed out tax paperwork from 1992 to 1994 from two businesses and got rid of two more boxes. I finally burned that box of English 101 student essays that I have been carrying around for twenty years (I did use my students’ paragraphs at one time in a grammar book I wrote—about twenty years ago!)
I culled specific files of out-of-date materials from the career counseling box and from the writer’s box (a list of writers’ agents from 1982 really isn’t very helpful nowadays). I finally threw away my set of Décor picture framing magazines (guilty as charged—those I didn’t clip but, alas, kept whole).
I’ve definitely attempted to reduce our book collection. I gave an encyclopedia-type set to my granddaughter that dated from the ‘70s. I gave a full box to the Potter’s House. And then last weekend while unpacking some boxes, I was able to toss out 3 more books, including a second edition copy of Sound and Sense, a standard English text used in Georgia back in the 60’s and 70’s, because I had a third edition, also. Later I found that same text in Tommy’s room—he claims there’s an important poem in that book and he "might" check my third edition for it. Foiled again.
I’m going to break down that 386 and the old 486 computers for parts. I needed to use one of the 14" monitors I had stuck away and found that both weren’t working any longer. More trash.
We’re still trying to sell that exercise bike I committed to five or six years ago. And now... now, we have extra things to sell as well that came with this house.
Of course, I still have pieces of lumber, tin, and plastic pipe, not to mention all the odd bits and pieces I inherited from Daddy’s workshop when he died. For some reason, his pack rat tendencies might have been passed on to me in that area.
Late Sunday I was sifting through paperwork in my office, working hard at organizing and cleaning up, when I found our greeting card stash. I’ve always kept the greeting cards Tommy and I exchange, but I hadn’t really looked at them like this before. Much to my delighted surprise, I discovered three-not two-three anniversary cards from Tommy—all identical, saying he would marry me again. He must have meant it! As I was chuckling over his self-claimed poor memory, I found 2 identical Valentine cards from me two years in a row. Oh, dear.
In our invitations for our frog/prince/princess theme wedding I wrote "Please, we are the prince and princess of pack rats: no gifts—we’ve got no space." Was I right or what?
Let me see, I think this weekend I’m going to trash those extra picture frame pieces I hauled off when Danny Fullerton moved his shop down to Greensboro. I think.
I remember in my youth when after a move I could put the house together within 48 hours. Of course, I owned less and was more practiced at moving. Yeah, well, those days long gone.
Nowadays, I find myself staring at walls and boxes. I’m still trying to unpack those boxes, 6 weeks or so after the move. Why you ask? Well, because. Because this wall has to be painted before the bookcase can rest there. Because the books that belong on this other bookcase are down at the bottom of a stack of boxes. Because this bookshelf has to be put together before I can start unpacking the 1000 or so science fiction books that have to be alphabetized on the shelf. Because if I paint this floor before I paint the ceiling, I will regret it….
Today I’ve been working on this hall where so many of the books will reside. But unpacking boxes of books that are presently sitting in the same 8-foot wide hall while trying to paint that hall…
So I move on to the bedroom. Well, I can’t hang those large pictures in the corner yet because the living room isn’t fully painted, so I can’t paint the bedroom. I can’t paint the living room because I don’t want to finish the walls and floor in there before I finish making messes in the hall that might get tracked onto the hardwood in the living room.
So what do I do? I am trying to finish each room before moving on to the next. My office has reached a certain level of completion. Now I just have to figure out where everything goes in here. Nope, I can’t cope with that, so I move back into the hall again and find myself looking out the storm door at the lovely weather.
So I take out the boxes that I have unpacked. I relish the budding trees and the warmth of the sun. Then I sniffle and remember my allergies and slowly return to the house. The house isn’t good for my allergies either, for it has enough dirt, sheet rock dust and dog hair to justify a haz mat team intervention, but I can’t clean very well until I finish unpacking those boxes and painting those walls…
Even sitting down at my computer is fraught with logistical problems. Yes, this one works, but the pieces to the new computer are lying about underfoot waiting for my decisions. (I dream of the day this new faster machine will allow me to surf and design my way to heaven!) See it’s even intruding on my work—I’m writing about all this!
Someone recently told me that she had tried to do this, too. She finally moved back out and paid a contractor to finish it up. Let’s see, now who do I know who would let me move in with 3 dogs, husband, both computer systems, etc?
The better solution today—on to my part-time work at Greater Georgia Printers and then the Maxeys City Council meeting. Maybe I’ll come home again after that. Maybe.
Now I’m warning you up front. I’m writing about computers this week, but I’m going to try to make this understandable for those of you, like my husband, who aren’t very knowledgeable. (He’s computer illiterate and proud of it!)
My odyssey started with the very difficult decision to purchase a new computer and network it with my old computer (tie them together). I reasoned that if I go ahead and commit myself to such an expense that I would be sure to get off my duff and start marketing my services and therefore make money at home.
OK, that works in theory. Now for the reality.
I checked out prices at several locations around Athens first. I discussed possible computer components with friends, store clerks and computer professionals. I did some deep soul searching and finally decided to let my friends at Cuby Systems put some components together and I would use parts of the 3 extra outdated computers I already own to complete the setup.
I figured that I could get a faster, larger machine this way for less money than an already assembled computer. Well, I was right on that, but the problems brought me to tears and in the end cost me a lot more money than I expected.
I picked up the computer on a Thursday. It started up so quickly! I installed an old 3 ½" floppy drive (that opening where you put in the little square things) and an old CD-ROM (the opening for the round things). I started the computer. Nope. I restarted the computer. Nope. I checked the connections. Nope. I changed the connections. Nope. I disconnected the connections. It started.
I took it back to Cuby Systems. Tony reports the CD-ROM won’t work without the sound card that came with it (the thing that allows music and sound to be played on a computer). I already knew that sound card wouldn’t fit in the slots provided for it.
I went to Best Buy and chuckled, resignedly, as I bought a brand-new CD-ROM Writer. "Oh, woe is me! I have to buy that great component I really wanted in the first place!) A writer lets you make the disks as well as play them.
I went home and installed the CD-ROM Writer. Oh, rephrase that. I tried to install the thing. I discovered that this particular writer couldn’t be installed unless Windows (that basic operating systems so cleverly marketed by Bill Gates) was already installed. Well, you have to have a CD-ROM to install Windows. I had no CD-ROM installed. I had no Windows installed.
I took it back to Cuby Systems. I purchased a new Windows upgrade and paid Tony and John to "get it running" on the express orders of my husband who didn’t really want me buying this thing in the first place.
I went home and installed the network card on my old computer (this will allow the 2 computers to "talk" to each other). I connected the cable. No network. I spent hours last Saturday trying to get it to work.
Sunday I called Kirk Thomas of Wilderness Kennels in Paoli and a present computer employee of my last employer. He says, "Get a hub. I know it’s supposed to work without one but get a hub." (hub, a small box to make a computer network work)
I bought a hub. I installed it and turned on the computer. The network worked. But now odd things were happening—something about hardware conflicts, which I knew about but had never experienced. And then all of sudden-ERROR! ERROR! ERROR!
I shut down the computer and started it in "safe mode" which is supposed to let you troubleshoot problems. It wouldn’t start.
First thing Monday morning I called Tony at Cuby Systems to let him know I was coming in again. I told him that I wished I had bought a ready-made system. He tells me that I would still have these problems.
I called another computer-savvy friend to set up lunch. He tells me to bring the computer by his house first and let him look at it.
I go to Athens, computer and all pieces in tow. He reformats the computer (wiped it clean inside). He reinstalls the basic software. He decides that my graphics card is the problem (graphics card does something to make the pretty pictures appear faster and prettier). He installs one of his collection of graphics cards (a much better-and expensive-card). Voila! It works!!!!!!
I go home. It’s now Tuesday and everything is set up and working fine. I’ve installed most of the necessary software. I’ve proven that I can reproduce the work at home that I’ve been traveling to do. I’m marveling at how fast this machine is. I feel professional.
But am I finished? Nope. I have to change out the floppy drive for the square disks and put in a better one. I have to install the new sound card so I can hear my machine talking to me and so that I will soon be able to talk to it instead of typing (anything to cut down on my legendary tendonitis of the wrists and arms). I need to delve into the old computer to adjust some hardware oops that I created but aren’t very important. I have to disconnect stuff and install stuff.
And I am terrified! I must jeopardize the working computer. Do I risk it? Do I let it ride for a while? Tune in next week for the next installment of "Days of Our Lives, Computer-Style".
Having been shed of normal, full-time, one-employer type of employment since December, I find that I’ve had time to look at the scales of my life: how balanced am I?
I’ve spent so much of my life as so many have, working whatever jobs and whatever hours seem necessary at the time to make ends meet.
Last year while working for a post-secondary school, I found myself teaching and counseling on topics that I hadn’t looked at very closely in many a year. One of those topics was balance. As I stood in front of a class of students who most likely would never make much money even after their "education", I realized that they may have to work unbalanced for most of, if not all of, their lives.
I frequently use myself as an example of what not to do and I told them my life wasn’t balanced. That I spent way more time devoting myself to paid employment and remodeling houses and too little time relaxing and socializing with family and friends. My daily "routine" was dictated by employers, financial goals and inner pressures. I was stressed, lonely, regretful and longing for things seemingly not possible.
Two layoffs and a lifestyle change later, I find myself trying to slide back into those habits. When we moved out here to the "boonies" even further away from Athens, I told Tommy, "No more commuting. If I have to live out a dirt road in the midst of such idyllic splendor, I won’t commute any longer." Or words to that effect.
Problem number 1, how do I make money? I have proved that money making isn’t necessarily what I do when left to my own devices. Aha, I’ll turn my interest in web design into a concerted effort to obtain contract employment that way.
Problem number 2, how do I live in the meantime? Aha, I’ll use the money from the sale of the house to finance a trial period of at least a year.
Problem number 3, how do I keep from going crazy not ever seeing people? Aha, I’ll get a part-time job at Greater Georgia Printers to provide a little income and a little people contact.
Problem number 4, how do I keep from spending all my savings before I get established in self-employment? Aha, pick up a second part-time job with the Echo as a reporter.
Problem number 5, how do I make enough money to make me less uneasy and allow me to do what I want and need to do with this house? Aha, work more hours at both jobs.
Problem number 6, how in the world do I find time to work on learning and marketing the web design if I am working 2 jobs, remodeling a house, joining the Maxeys Woman’s Club, socializing with friends, spending time with son and family, my siblings, etc? Aha, let’s regroup.
Let’s see, I spent over 7 hours yesterday on the computer for Greater Georgia. This morning I am writing a column. I plan on painting the living room for a while today before I go back in the Greater Georgia. I’ll go by the library again (I usually read a book every day or every other day). I’ve talked with my daughter-in-law this morning and caught up on the news. I still have a small computer problem remaining that needs fixing and somewhere I have to find the time to work on my web site at deliasdesign.com.
Hey, you know what? That’s pretty balanced, very full, of course, but it’s definitely less stressful. Am I making enough money to ease my fears? Nope. Am I enjoying myself? Oh, yes. My blood pressure is lower; I’m slowly getting into shape; my weight is staying down; I see my husband on a regular basis for the first time in years; I read when I feel like it; I’m started to get into a routine that allows me to get the most important things done. Am I satisfied? Nope, never. If I could make more money, if I could finish unpacking, if I get another bookshelf built, if I could get the house cleaned, if I could just slow down a tad...
After I returned from Japan, I kept threatening to write a book entitled "How to be tall at 5’2". I wrote for a weekly entertainment magazine while in Okinawa and was always on the lookout for the zany, the odd, and/or the different to use in my humor column there. (I was going to compile those witty pieces into one volume with that title.)
The most obvious difference for me in Japan was the fact that at 5’ 2 ¾" I was tall!! Okay, let me rephrase that. I was taller than a large portion of the native population, men and women. All the cars were made for midgets over there, just as the roads were smaller, the furniture was smaller and even the trash trucks were smaller. I reveled in the feeling of being taller than someone (anyone).
Interestingly enough, the off-base housing we rented at first had been built post-WWII by the Japanese for the Americans and my kitchen cabinets were so high I had to use a stepstool to reach anything. The Japanese tend to assume all Americans all tall. HA!
I must admit, however, there really hasn’t been too many times when I wished I was taller. I’ve been fond of saying for many years now that the only time I wish I was taller was in the movie theater. I’ve been known to move three times to get a seat with no one in front of me so I can see the movie!
But now, among all the other changes I’ve undergone, I must tell you that I am getting tired of this tall world. Now I wouldn’t mind being taller. In my zeal to fit as much "stuff" in this new house, I have taken full advantage of the 10 ft. ceilings. I built bookcases and storage shelving from floor and desktop to ceiling in both my office and the hallway. (No, I still don’t have enough bookshelves.)
My new physical limitations have proven this to be, although an efficient use of space, a real problem for me. I can no longer look up. No, I don’t know what the problem is, but physical therapy didn’t fix it. I’m not talking a major problem here. If I was taller, it wouldn’t even be so evident (because I wouldn’t have to look up all the dang time).
Of course, I can’t paint ceilings and even have some difficulty getting to the top of the 10 ft. walls. I spent quite some time recently arranging books by author on some of the freestanding bookcases in the hall. Boy, was that a pain (literally) in the neck!
I’ve always found there are many things I can’t do, not because of a lack of strength, but a lack of a leverage. Sure I can pick it up, but lifting it (whatever "it" is) up to where it needs to be becomes a life-threatening situation (especially since I tend to spend inordinate amounts of time teetering on top of a ladder, a stool, a counter top, etc.). When one is short and not incredibly strong, one simply can’t easily do everything a tall person does.
Working on a computer has also been uncomfortable for years due to my short legs and increasing reliance on bifocals. At work I always feel like shrimp number one since adjustable chairs can’t be adjusted high enough for me. Here at the house I built a desktop 4" lower than normal and so have found comfort for the first time ever at a computer.
But I can’t adjust the rest of the world so easily. I am always having difficulty reaching products on the higher shelves in stores. I frequently can’t see over the steering wheel and dash when cresting a hill in the car. (That was sheer terror while living in Tacoma, WA, years ago with those San Francisco-like hills). There’s even 2 spots on my dirt road out here where I simply can’t see!!
I have to fight the feelings of inferiority that occasionally come over me while standing and talking with tall people. I’m the shortest of all the 10 first cousins in my generation. Even my sister is taller than me!
And what is the point to this cataloging of "short" problems? (As usual, actually just to let me vent) No, no, really, this is all about aging. I’m not even 50, yet the physical limitations of aging are becoming evident to me. I’ve always been short and, no, it hasn’t mattered before.
I’ve decided that one’s life is defined by those words ‘can’ and ‘can’t’. Can’t is a four-letter word in my dictionary. I’ve spent years denying there wasn’t anything I can’t do. Now I have to look at my life as defined by can and can’t.
As a child and teenager, ‘can I’ was the key phrase. We are learning what is permissible and isn’t permissible in this big scary world. As parents, our job is to teach our children that they can. They can do whatever it takes to become happy, productive adults. Mama always told me I was just as good as any man—this was before feminism, remember—that I could....
As an adult, I learned over time that never saying ‘can’t’ was an important tool in getting along in this world. One can overcome almost anything as long as one says, "I can..."
In middle age we start running into limitations. All of sudden a 45-year-old man finds playing a casual game of football is not as easy as it used to be. A 42-year-old mother of 3 finds her attention to family and home has left her out of shape and dumpy. My husband has found that rotator cuff repairs remove most of the pain but limit activities. I find I’m no longer able to whip a house into shape like I used to before.
But, instead of just saying I can’t, perhaps it’s time to say "Can you help me with this? Can you fix this? Can you do this so I don’t have to?"
For it’s also time for another useful set of words, "Can I help you?" It’s time to use what I know for others.
‘Can I’, ‘I can’, ‘can you’, and back to ‘can I’. Funny how much life can be stuffed into those few words...
Everyone talks about the peace and quiet of the country. All of our visitors have commented on the serenity of our "estate"; both my husband and I fell in love with this place simply because of the quiet.
How quiet is it? Well, quiet enough to discover a few new things about our world. It’s so quiet that I am able to hear all that air traffic.--all that air traffic that one does not normally notice amidst the noise of city life. I am truly amazed at how much noise comes from the sky.
Now, I have it on good authority that the helicopters are there for one thing and one thing only, to search out all those nefarious marijuana plots nestled in our back country. We must not have any of those type plots anymore because the helicopter traffic is constant. Prevention or discovery? I would like to know.
There’s a lot of small aircraft as well as jets up there and they’re pretty noisy since they are so low flying. I can, however, hear those jets even when I can’t see them and I’m not even used to hearing them. I figure that the air traffic controllers must send ‘em out here so that a crash will not hit largely populated areas—just my house instead.
Another modern intrusion has become apparent recently. I knew parts of this area were being logged, but it was only this week that I’ve been hearing big trucks and machinery in the distance. I had been more concerned about the traffic from the loggers but the passing trucks don’t bother me. I don’t really like meeting one of them on the road, but we’ve already discovered an advantage.
Last Saturday during all that wind a pine tree fell across the road up a ways. Tommy said he had to go into the ditch to keep traveling. We were about to gear up and get it moved when a visitor arrived and told us it had been cut already. I had noticed a lot of logging traffic in the meantime, so I guess the guys just took care of it for us. Thank you, sirs! (I’ll try harder to ignore all that machinery noise.)
Another heretofore unnoticed noise is the wind. One day last week I thought I heard a train approaching and was amused to realize it was only the wind. When the wind is blowing, it gets incredibly noisy around here. I can also swear the wind is fiercer out here as well with no buildings to block or divert it. I feel buffeted by both the movement and the noise. (I’ve never had the opportunity to use that word, ‘buffeted’, before; I just couldn’t resist!) Ain’t nature grand!
I heard our resident turkey this morning—the first time I have ever heard and identified a turkey gobble! (Tommy is planning to go turkey hunting this year.) I hear even more bird calls than ever before, even more than my husband. Tommy’s slight hearing loss makes him think this place is quieter than it really is. He’s no help in identifying some of those birds since he can’t hear what I’m asking about. Oh, well!
My first warm Saturday after we moved here was also an eye opener. I was working on something outside and enjoying my first really peaceful day when suddenly I didn’t feel so isolated anymore. I heard dogs and hunters and firearms on the land behind us: obviously, the hunting club was out in full force that day. I just had to laugh at my preconceptions of how quiet the country is.
How quiet it is? Oh, my heavens, not quiet enough! I felt so crowded while on Okinawa, Japan, and was so glad to get back to less populated area here in north Georgia. Now I understand what Tommy means by "away from people". Do you believe that? Delia, the city girl, is starting to complain about crowding! I must be getting used to living out in the "boonies".
I can’t believe I got lost! I have one handy talent that my husband doesn’t have. I always know where I am in relation to the world. This came in real handy during all my travels and during those years of newspaper delivery. Poor old Tommy is "spatially challenged"—he gets lost inside buildings just by turning a corner.
So he’s delighted that I have missed our street three times recently in the darkness. Now this kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me so I have had to dig deep into memory and knowledge base to figure out why in the world do I frequently have flashes of "where am I?" while driving home.
This is my third residence outside of Athens: commuting isn’t anything new to me. I well remember the long drive to Carlton—so well, in fact, that I could (and probably have) driven it in my sleep. I certainly had no trouble getting home while I lived in Crawford.
Out here we even have a security light marking the location of the Alltel substation shortly before our road. Tommy says he has no trouble finding our road because of that and what’s wrong with me.
I guess my zoned-out auto pilot is at fault. I’ve spent enough hours on the road that I automatically fall into a suspension trance—"I’ll be home soon, soon, soon...". Leaving Athens I don’t have to be aware of where I am at all times—a quick glance can establish my location without any problem. I traveled the roads to Carlton and Crawford daily for years, but I haven’t done as much traveling out here.
The first time I missed my turn out here, I felt dumb. It was so unlike me that I figured it would never happen again. I did, however, find myself emerging from my trance abruptly during my ride home and anxiously reading the street signs. All of these intersections look the same in the dark; the only distinguishing trait is the street sign. I decided I just needed to be more vigilant for a while and it would fall into place. I would soon be automatically be turning into our lane, sleep-driving as usual.
Soon after that some inept or hostile driver knocked our street sign askew and a few days later an unknown party lifted the street sign. There was no reflective marker there and no lights at all. I missed the turn again.
I decided I needed assistance just like on a paper route. I would purchase some type of reflective marker and stick it on the side of the stop sign. I bought 2 rectangular markers placing them in the shape of an ‘L’ (get it? Lunsford, Lower Wirebridge Rd). This worked ok until last week someone ripped them off the sign. I missed my turn again.
Now I don’t know who took them off. Why, I can even suspect my gloating husband or a vicious vandal who hates me, but I realize the truth may be that county employees may have removed the unauthorized additions to the stop sign.
It was at this point that I decided I had to know the dynamics of this "lost" phenomenon. It just isn’t something I’m accustomed to though Tommy has described his thoughts and actions to me many times. After much reflection, I finally decided my new country lifestyle had struck again. For the first time in my life I no longer live just in the city limits of a town. There is no sign, no stores, no obvious residences, no street lights, no city out here. There’s just land, trees and an occasional Alltel substation...and me, lost in the countryside.
I decided to bring in the big guns: I placed a call to Robert Johnson at the commissioners’ office this morning. I don’t know if he or the roads department is even aware our street sign is gone. (I mean, after all, we are the last ones to get our electricity restored—we now make sure we touch base with Rayle EMC whenever the power goes out.) I expect it will probably take a certain space of time to get a replacement sign.
I guess I need to quit teasing my husband so unmercifully about his "disability". I guess sleep driving isn’t such a good idea. Maybe I’ll get used to this type of home drive and then maybe not. Maybe I’ll buy some more reflectors like those stick-in-the-ground things. Maybe not.
Oh, dear, I guess I’ve just given my new (and old) friends another reason to tease me! Please, folks, take pity on me. I have been humbled. Be kind.
I’m a pretty typical transplant to Oglethorpe County; in fact, I thought at the time nearly five years ago that I was part of a coming thing out here. Now I’m sure I’m right about that. We didn’t just choose Oglethorpe County as our dream home; we were driven out of Clarke County and ended up here. Oglethorpe County is starting to grow—due to people like my husband and myself who are seeking more favorable habitation.
We came here to get away from the communication towers and crime in our Athens neighborhood. My biggest worry then and now was the lack of definitive zoning out here. I was terrified someone was going to build a convenience store across the street from us in Crawford or put up one of those towers I had escaped from.
Now my most immediate worry is my dirt road.
We moved out of Crawford to this quiet spot in the countryside to get away from the noise of the "city". I knew that someone would come along eventually and decide to pave our road and I was afraid it would be sooner than later. Three months later representatives of the Oconee Baptist Church are requesting "improvements" to our road.
Our first couple of weeks out here post ice storm were treacherous. The continual freezing and thawing kept the road in a nasty condition. Since then we have been amazed at how well the road has been maintained. We also have had three tires repairs in these three months.
BUT...we don’t want the road paved. I’ve spoken with a few other neighbors near me and further out the road and not one has said they want the road paved now. I’m sorry that the church goers feel this road presents them with a "hardship". This road is well maintained (even better than we expected) and is rarely a problem. I live here. I know.
This lesser problem of road paving is a symptom, however, of what is already happening here. Growth. Oconee County is no longer the idyllic, close to the city, almost rural haven it was ten years ago when we actually considered moving there. Now it’s getting crowded; land prices and taxes are rising; schools are bursting at the scenes. This growth has reached a stage that presents their residents with new problems that sound like the old ones they moved away from before. Now they are leaving Oconee and heading here.
Jackson County and Barrow County are seeing the same thing with the sprawling Atlanta growth. Folks have only one way to go and, friends, it is our direction.
Barbara Cabiniss recently told me that the school system has 30 new students monthly. The traffic in Crawford has reached difficult proportions. A bypass is being planned that may change the face of Oglethorpe County forever.
I originally moved to Athens in 1968. I have had the opportunity to watch the growth over the last 30 years. I have had the opportunity to personally experience the problems that growth and the lack of planning for that growth have brought. In the end, that is exactly why I live in Oglethorpe County. That is exactly why Oglethorpe County is growing.
You can’t stop the growth; you can’t stop "progress". I am strongly aware that someday someone will pave my dirt road.
BUT...hear me—it’s now time to lay plans, study what has been done wrong in other places, make decisions about how this growth is going to be managed.
I know that zoning is being worked on here. This is a crucial step to controlling our lifestyle. Fortunately, we don’t have to do this from scratch. For example, Gwen O’Looney told me after the tower fiasco in Athens that they would be glad to share their rewritten tower ordinance. If you haven’t lived in the shadow of one or two or, in our case, three of those towers, you cannot imagine what it’s like. Let’s be sure to look at this carefully.
Growth brings solutions to problems as well as problems. Let’s concentrate on improving services such as our fire departments. This affects everyone’s pocketbook as well as safety. Please lower my insurance costs and help me to feel safer in my 100 year old home.
Let’s upgrade our sheriff’s department. Increase my taxes and pay the officers better and hire more officers. Go ahead, Crawford, start a city police department. If it can pay for itself and make the streets safer up there, I’m all for it.
We have to build more schools. Let’s lay good plans for that now. Let’s start building before our kids are attending schools in those trailer classrooms. Let’s not wait ‘til the buildings are busting out at the seams.
Let’s start planning for growth in our city water systems, our city roads, city water treatment systems. These will cost money.
All this growth will cost money. We have to make financial decisions about the future and paving roads is part of that. Robert Johnson says we got less LARP (Local Assess Road Program) funds this years. We can’t pave as much in the county as before.
Let’s look at priorities. On my want list, paving roads is at the bottom and then paving county roads outside city limits is lower than that. The county has to decide where to rank the roads. At $200,000 per mile, paving dirt roads just doesn’t seem important.
Please let’s not let the coming growth ruin the very reasons for that growth. Please, let me and many of our new neighbors stay here for a long time and enjoy what Oglethorpe County offers now. That happens to include our dirt road.
Every time I don’t write a column, somebody is sure to complain about it that next week. I really appreciate such a reaction because it is so flattering, but I resolved recently to avoid such complaints which are at times delivered in a scolding tone. Thank you, my fans (!), I’m really trying but some weeks I have no thoughts besides the usual drudgery of housework, computer work, miscellaneous physical complaints and other run-of-the-mill stuff.
When I was writing on Okinawa, I discovered quickly that keen observation and a sense of humor was enough to get me by every week. And there was so much new to see there! A never-ending source of fun, amazement and great topics. Here everything is becoming old hat, 7 months after my move to the country.
When I first starting writing this column, someone suggested that I write on a custom that she, a big city girl, was still getting used to out here: the greetings from other drivers. This phenomenon is not new to me; I was first introduced to it back in the early ‘80’s while living in another small town. Every since Susan mentioned it, that seed of an idea has been rolling around in my brain and it finally did some growing last week.
I’ll never forget the first time someone raised their index finger off the steering wheel as an acknowledgement, a greeting. I was 30 and had lived overseas and was raised in north Georgia. To discover such a custom was truly a revelation. I had just spent 3 years in Japan and was glad to get home to Georgia, yet I was immediately faced with a “foreign” custom. I didn’t know what to make of it.
In the years since it has become familiar to me, but I have been reintroduced to it local-style. I have observed some interesting things out here in my quiet “neighborhood”. Of course, there are some folks who simply lift that finger while staring straight ahead. It is an acknowledgement, nothing more, that says “Yup, I see you.”
Others lift all 4 fingers which is a friendlier, more personal greeting. Others still actually lift the hand Indian-style (how, kemo sabe!). It looks like a “Howdy!”, not a hello.
These gestures can be delivered with no eye contact, no smiles, and very little personal interest, almost in a big city way. I thought for years that was the way it was supposed to be done. You know, to avoid seeming personally interested in someone who you really didn’t know. When Susan suggested this topic, she also mentioned how such activity could be construed by one’s husband as personal knowledge. “Like, who was that man you waved to?” Jealousy had never entered my mind.
In the months since though, I have tried to adopt a new way of looking at life out here, working on becoming more observant, and I am now more experienced in the ways of country greetings. So, now, some new thoughts! (mom would be so proud of me! I sure am!)
One of the more interesting things I’ve noticed recently has been the messages also being delivered by these country drivers around here. No longer do I see just an impersonal finger lift. There’s more and it’s infecting me, too, since I’m now comfortably settled into my country home.
Now I see folks waving and craning their necks. I now see the curiosity in their eyes: they’re wondering who I am. I recognize that now. Why? Well, because I am wondering, too! There’s simply not much traffic back here, though lots of folks use my road as a cut through to neighboring counties. This I didn’t realize until recently when someone told me you can get there from here without going south down the highway.
Up until I found that out, I wanted to know who those folks were that traveled my road. On Sundays, the church folk are obvious—they jaunt along in their finery with a sense of purpose about them. The loggers are identifiable as well in their big trucks and pickups, bristling with implements and official airs.
I now wonder who the others are. I’ve talked to some of my neighbors on the phone, but I’ve not met them in person. So I wonder, “Is that Mrs. So and so? Is that car full of a neighboring family of 5 kids or a carpool?”
So now I know, curiosity has a lot to do with those country greetings. But that’s only what it looks like to me.
I asked my husband, who is simply naturally at home out here, how did this custom of automobile greetings get started? He wasn’t sure of the origin but he did have another thought. It’s not just about wondering who someone is. It’s about a different mind set as well.
He says that folks simply expect to know who you are. “If you’re here on this road, you must be somebody I know or know of. But, wait, I don’t recognize you. But I must know you! I’ve lived here for 30 years. I know everybody. I must know you, too.” Assumptions that I am now tapping into. Assumptions that are really starting to make sense to me here in my country home.
