Newspaper Page Text
Page 14
Flagpole Magazine
December 4,1991
William Orten Carlton = ORT.
Special Correspondent For The Flagpole.
Seeing new pine trees is therapy to me. Whether the
usual ones are longleaf or shortleaf, loblolly or white, that’s
of no importance... they are the same old same old, and that
means that they get to chafing me after some finite period
of time; and having to satisfy my own demons before I try
for anyone else’s, it becomes imperative for me to hit the
highway when this time comes to find some pine trees that
have thusfar in life (this life, anyway) escaped my gaze. So
I did just that: me, my toothbrush, a change of clothes, and
five boxes of books to get rid of that nobody in Athens could
use.
Ruby's snout was pointed down towards Riverdale first
(Ruby is the car ). My friends Ron & Jan were expecting
me. I spent a couple of semi-idyllic days there, then Jan’s
test loomed, so I hit the highway a notch further so she
could manage to study...four catfolks and an Ort. are
overkill, and the cats are family, so I went (voluntarily).
Through Fayette County (with one book stop, where I
unloaded more than I picked up: a good omen) and on into
Senoia \ ventured. (I'll tell y’all about Senoia another time.)
The road twined through Alvaton, Haralson, and Gay, and
then I turned through Greenville (passing the wonderful
Meriwether County Courthouse) towards LaGrange. Pass
ing by on Ga. 109, I was moved to turn around when I
noticed a flag flying in front of Wright’s Super Market. Upon
the re-run-by, I noticed an auxiliary sign: "U. S. Post Office/
Mountville, GA. 30261," it mumbled, half-hidden under the
carpenterial kudzu of the eave of the store. The post office
was in a corner of the store, and a pile of mail exited from
there the next day courtesy of me. I did not rent a box, but
the temptation was there: I thought of my friend Sylvia up in
Charlotte and how much she’s going to love the
place.. .whatever I have to do to get her there eventually will
be worth it. Wright’s is about five miles east of I-85 and
stocks virtually everything, by the way... it is worth a sidetrip.
West Point loomed up next, but in the interest of time and
space, I’ll omit it for this week. There was no flood there, as
often used to occur: I thanked God for small favors as I
remembered twists and turns first seen years ago. From
West Point, Georgia into Lanett, Alabama is an often-
unrealized transition, as the stateline remains unfortified.
The guardhouse was empty, the road beckoned on; I hit l -
85, bound for War Eagle Country: Auburn.
I first found Giendean Corner (not to be confused with
Toomer’s Corner: that’s downtown). The Kroger store
refused to disgorge any beer more interesting than Guin
ness or Killian’s Red in bottles. I yawned. No Dixie yet. I
would be hung with a wet noodle if I felt like driving 340 more
miles to get to New Orleans to have a cold Dixie on draft at
some nameless fern bar that would charge me $2.95 for an
overflowing thimblefull of it just because they could get it
from me, whom they would take to be a damned tourist. I
came up with a quarter and called Steve, my friend who
teaches at Auburn. He was home. In two minutes, we were
face to face, discussing lost time, his grandmother, The
Limbo District, and Libertarian philosophy in one breath
apiece. He enthusiastically escorted me to his humble
abode, offered me his too-short couch, and made me
welcome. I shook paws with his cat. "It's great to have
friends," I thought. "Some have two feet and wear glasses;
some are small and grey and purrsome." I relished the
company of both.
Tuesday, I went off to Opeiika. Later for that story:
Wednesday, I visited a used-and-new bookstore in
Auburn, walking out with four boxes of goodies for $35.00.
It was another good haul, and I was thrilled with my
progress. Little did I realize that the best was yet to come,
even though I didn’t find any copies of “Burnt Toast* by
Peter Gould. Nor visit ?urnt Corn, Alabama, either.
The Kroger
store refused
to disgorge
any beer...
I yawned.
Somewhere along the way, U. S. 29 joins up with U. S.
80 to pass a series of twelve-dollar motels and proceed to
Tuskegee, where 80 moseys on west to Montgomery and
29 bears south at the square to visit Fort Davis on the way
to Union Springs. Poor 29 doesn’t realize, being the
inanimate highway it is. that it never gets to pass 111, West
M L. King Highway: you guessed it: Goodwill Industries of
Tuskegee. Being animate and literate, I had gleaned that
much. My life changed abruptly. I walked out two hours
later into a timidly pouring rain (one minute yes, the next no)
carrying three banana boxes full of books that had set me
back $25.00. The lady that ran the store could not believe
I had heard of Zora Neale Hurston, who must be the
Jeannette Rankin of Black Literature of the 20th Century.
Zora Neale Hurston, a great American writer, was born
and raised in Eatonville, Florida, near Orlando. Eatonville
has the distinction of being the oldest black-incorporated
city in the entire United States: with no reference book, l
believe the date is 1884. That beats Hobson City, Alabama
out by 15 years and f^found Bayou, Mississippi by a good
thirty. She published quite a few of her books in the 1930's
and 1940's, then languished, forgotten. She was a motel
maid for most of the rest of her life. Since her death, her
works have been rediscovered. She is a treasure to Black
Literature, to Women’s Literature, and to ALL American
Literature. You should go to the library and check her out
sometime.
You should do the same with the works of Ftaymond
Andrews. He is in good company here with Ms. Hurston all
the way around. We lost Ray since we last published, and
it saddens me deeply. Rumor has it that he was going to be
sick and wanted to end it all before he became a burden
somehow I cannot imagine such a kind and gentle man
EVER being a burden on anyone. He had all the time in the
world for other writers, and was always supportive of their
good points and gently constructive of their shortcomings
He was a devoted reader of my column, and if for no other
reason than that, I shall miss him immensely. But more
importantly, regardless of all else he is responsible for
creating, he will create an huge void, because he alone
often took so much time with other, younger writers and
even would-be writers. Where he hid much of the age of his
57 years is beyond me, especially considering how young
his spirit was. For once, a toast should be raised for him:
a solid "hip-hip-hooray!" to celebrate the life, the existence
of a man who gave us several volumes of richness on
paper, but so much more in person that, although the books
will endure a long time, in a just world the energy of the
memories of such a human should last forever. Just like
people still tell fourth-hand and fifth-hand stories about the
good Rossini did, and he died in the likes of 1892, Ray
Andrews was unique; he was way wise beyond even 57
years; Athens will be far emptier a place without him. This
column is partly for you, Ray, and I hope you catch onto the
energy here and get as big a kick out of it as I have out of
whatofyours I’ve read. I’m really gonna miss you. You were
kind to me; I shall not forget you. You enriched me greatly
in a short time, and-I am grateful.
There should be another tribute to Raymond Andrews
herein. This is mine, just like the trip thusfar has been mine
Next week, I’ll continue on from Tuskegee and back to
30601-land, a few mmor detours accepted. Until then,
sometimes I sleep. Good luck with your finals. Write if you
find work; left if you don't.
(30.)
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