Newspaper Page Text
Page 16
Maypole Magazine
March 18, 1992
Our Special Correspondent For The Flagpole.
William Orten Carlton = ORT.
In theory, I should be asleep now. Tomorrow is Sunday,
though, and I can sleep in... unless Elizabeth rings me up
out of bed at 12:30 on the sunny afternoon that it’s supposed
to be. "Let’s go flea marketing!" I hear her cheery voice
exclaim. “The doldrums have set in; I could use a glimse at
some new territory—and so could you." Well, last year we
did just that, and I'll have to tell you about it.
It was a glorious Sunday: warm and friendly. We left out
just in time to hit Elberton at 2:00 for the opening of the
Granite Museum. The gent there showed us a film about the
Georgia Guidestones, which are worth a trip in and of
themselves. A local businessman donated the perfect
piece of land and they were erected with funds from local
and out of town anonymous donors; they show the equi
noxes and solstices: lots of heavenly things. Rather than
spoil your fun, I'll send those of you who are fascinated
enough to the spot to see it for your
selves. It's about 40 miles: from Ath
ens, go out Ga. 72 east, then turn north
in the middle of Elberton, taking Ga. 77
toward Hartwell about seven miles. Or
ask anyone when you get there.
The guide also told us all about how
Elberton became Granite Capital Of
The World, and informed us about
Elberton granite’s being a part of many
famous buildings all across the country... and even the
world. Then he said “Go ahead and walk into that back
room. The light switch is right there. Then press the button
on the wall for a tape to play." We did as he suggested and
— voila! The statue of Dutchy reclined before us in perfect
stony repose.
Dutchy, as the tape explained, was supposed to be the
embodiment of a returning Elbert County Confederate
Veteran... but when the commissioned work was done,
miffed locals said it looked like a German: short and squat.
The statue, placed in front of the courthouse, was immedi
ately cristened "Dutchy 0 by all sundry. It became an object
viewed with great contempt. Finally, about 1900, poor old
Dutchy was toppled from his base by an angry mob and he
disappeared: it was assumed he was lost forever. Then, in
the 1980's, some work needed to be done on a water line
that ran under a corner of the square. The workmen hit
something huge and solid: whatever it was, they said,
couldn't be worked around but had to be dug up. Turned
out it was our old friend Dutchy. The ninety years' sleep he
enjoyed had turned anger to curiosity; the Granite Museum
adopted the statue and gave it a temporary resting place:
away from the gaze of any still-angry unforgiving locals, out
of harm's way of any potential vandals. Bizabeth and I both
gave Dutchy a good pat and offered to come back and buy
him a beer if he ever decides to come to life and wants one:
squat German that he is, he just might.
The man running the museum was cordial and admitted
we asked some off-the-wall questions, but told us: “Y'all are
nice, though. Curious. Y’all’s are the good kind of questions."
He plied us with a small stack of postcards of various
quarrying operations and the like, and I opined that I wished
there was one of Dutchy. "If enough people ask, we'll prop him
up and shoot him and make one," the guide replied. “And you
aren't the first’ — The Granite Museum is located on Ga. 72
just this side of downtown Bberton: it is open from 2:00 until
5:00 P. M. seven days a we9k, and best of all, it's free.
So are the Guidestones. Leaving Elberton on an old
highway and crossing a marvelous 1924 cement bridge in
the process, we wandered to them. Some people who
could apparently tolerate themselves but not us nor our
presence were already there; they would not speak to us
and left, leaving us to commune with the manmade monu
ment on our own. We did, and a wasp nest greeted us at one
turn. "Let's go on to South Carolina," Elizabeth shivered.
Spiritually sated, we twisted and turned, ending up at
Goodwill Industries in South Anderson. They were open, so
we stopped in. Among other things, a nice purple R. E. M.
t-shirt for $2.49 beckoned Elizabeth; I settled for a stack of
paperback science fiction and several obscure 45 records.
Down front, the cashier informed us: "The other store across
town is open all afternoon, too." It was 5:05 P. M.; we had
55 minutes to snail through 47 blocks of utterly
dissynchronous traffic lights... worse than Athens’ could
ever be... and arrive at the north end of Main Street with
ample time. Another pile of books for me and one little
quidnunc for my friend were all we found, but a trek across
the street to a Bi-Lo Foods netted me a cache of Scott's
Barbecue Sauce from Goldsboro, N. C„ which that particu
lar store was closing out for 59$ a bottle. Rest assured I
scored a near-lifetime supply!
By this time, the sun was getting lower, so we scooted
back through town, taking Murray Street instead of Main
and getting stuck at only half as many errant lights. We
ventured down U. S. 29 back into Georgia and to Hartwell,
where the long-closed Judy Theatre longed for someone’s
attention: for a few moments, it got ours. "If only it were
open," I moaned. "I could make a photograph of it with the
sign turned on and send it to my old friend Judy Nash with
a note saying 'really got your name up in lights, didn’t you?’"
Elizabeth chuckled enthusiastically, aware of how they
reminded me of each other, Judy and she: two truly great
people whose lives have never crossed, and both the
poorer for it.
We side-tracked out Ga. 59, past Radio Station WKLY to
Bowersville, rumbled across the railroad, then turned left at
the only caution light in town: our destination was Canon,
three miles below. The road ambled past a sleeping tavern
(Canon has been wet for both package and poured spirits
at least since the 1940’s), a similarly bedded-down liquor
store, a yawning laundromat, a sizeable cemetery, and
curved past an antique store with an ancient Reo stake
truck for sale in its yard. It opened up on
a main drag with three churches: Bap
tist, Methodist, and — what’s the third
one? We slowed to 10 m.p.h. to read
the gold writing: "Canon Universalist
Church, Est. 1887," were the remark
able words. The Rev. William H. Balkan
has almost singlehandedly kept this
church alive: current membership is
climbing, and several families with
young children are regular attendees. It was the third
Sunday of the month as we crept past: Meeting Day! Cars
were parked everywhere about the sanctuary and an out
building: if we had stopped, we would have been treated to
fellowship and fried chicken the likes of which we’d never
have had before, but that’s to be for a subsequent trip that
we haven’t made yet.
We returned through Royston, picking up U. S. 29, pass
ing through Franklin Springs (which spurred a discussion of
old mineral spas in North Carolina and Georgia) and returned
home, vowing to do it again soon. By the time you read this,
hopefully we will have. It isn’t often that I meet a woman who
appreciates the art of thrift store hunting; who would rather eat
in a good diner than any chain place ("predictable medioc
rity," she terms fast-food eateries); and who can come up with
nearly as many amazing bits of trivia as I can; but she is all that.
Thank you for being my friend, Elizabeth: it’s been ten months
since we took our trip, but it’s still fresh in my mind. And, as
you sleep somewhere, so are you. Now it's my turn to hit the
hay, knowing that tomorrow we might actually get to do a mini
replay of this trip: inspiration for a second column, maybe?—
I'll just have to let y'ail know after the fact, so keep your fingers
crossed, folks.
(30.)
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