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continued from p. 18
I could connect to the building that had stood at South
Milledge and West Broad for 60 years—will no doubt soon
be cleared before my next visit, as plans move ahead for yet
another mixed-use development.
But some things in Athens never seem to change,
including the invisible borders between the Black and white
neighborhoods. 45 years ago, I, along with three room
mates, spent my junior year in a cinder block quadplex
at the corner North Billups and Glenhaven, which is still,
seemingly, a line of demarcation between the two commu
nities. As part of our combined $139 monthly rent, our
landlords, an ancient white couple, graciously allowed us to
use their clay tennis court wedged between the quadplex
and their home on Hill Street. The Black VFW, which was
below my bedroom window on Glenhaven, was available
after-hours for a “look the other
way” purchase of a $2 six-pack of E>
Schlitz late on weekend nights g
when the rest of Athens had shut „
down. The tennis court is gone, g
but the VFW still proudly stands. m
A month ago, I was invited by
Clarke Central High School to
participate in the reunion of the
school’s inaugural 1970 football
team, which was formed when
the legacy Black and white high
schools were—against the wishes
of many in both communities—
forced to merge. An immensely
talented squad—driven by racial
divisions exacerbated by a racist
head coach—fell short of its goals
in its first season.
Fourteen of the estimated 50
players from that team made it
back to the reunion. The attend
ees were split equally between
white and Black former players,
but like all old warriors, they
reconnected with a natural ease that erased the years that
had passed since they last spoke to each other.
The former players were all in their early 70s and in vari
ous forms of health, some limping from injuries suffered on
the gridiron over a half-century ago. So, it was no surprise
when the party broke up before halftime, and the players
left the stadium, but not before walking gingerly up the
concrete steps of the stands, saluted by the marching band
and the cheer— perhaps the final ones that many of these
former teammates would ever hear—from the crowd. In
the parking lot they laughed, shared some final memories,
hugged and wished each other the best before driving off
into the warm October night.
It is memories like this shared sacrifice and brotherhood
that must sustain us as winter approaches and we march
into a future that few of us anticipated and none of us can
predict with any degree of confidence. Hold tight to these
memories, because they reflect the very best in human
nature. But it is also best to take a lesson from nature—
observe, be mindful, and always aware of your surround
ings as an uncertain new year unfolds.
Mark Clegg is the author ot The Crimson and Gold: Football and
Integration in Athens, Georgia.
The Bizarie Fiddler
By Zachary George
Deep in the woods along a stream flowing to the river is
a cottage that the King has never visited because he does
not know it is there. Few places in the kingdom escape the
King’s notice, but this is one such place. Inside the cottage
there is a fire and a stout man seated in front of it. The
stout man plays a fiddle all day and all night to the fire, and
the music is carried away with the smoke through the chim
ney. The music is so bizarre that the smoke turns all matter
of blue, purple and green when it hears the notes.
One day, a hunter tracking a stag through the woods
heard the bizarre sounds and saw the colorful smoke danc
ing through the trees. Frightened, he abandoned his hunt
and rode straight to the castle. He told the King of the
strange sights and sounds that had terrified him. At once,
the King rallied his cavalry and set off to investigate. As
they rode along the stream away from the river deeper into
the woods, the King was appalled at his ignorance about
this part of his realm. In his anger, he was determined to
discover the source of the disturbance—the King and his
men pressed on.
Soon, the riders approached the spot where the strange
smoke was swirling and strange music was sounding. The
cottage appeared through a thicket and the music grew
louder. As the King dismounted, his horse stood up on hind
legs and began dancing wildly. The cavalry’s horses followed
and soon all were jumping and spinning.
The King ordered his soldiers to knock down the cot
tage door and put a stop to the unnatural scene. As they
approached, the purple and green smoke shrouded them
so they could not make sense
of heads or tails. In their dizzi
ness they toppled one on top of
the other into a pile of clanking
armor. Maddened, the King lit a
torch and set the cottage ablaze,
hoping to stop the bizarre music
once and for all. As the cottage
burned the strange music ceased
and the colorful smoke vanished.
Satisfied, the King rode back to
the castle to share his victory
with the Queen.
As the King approached the
castle, he was stunned to once
again hear the bizarre music
and see the oddly colored smoke
coming from his court. He rushed
inside to find a stout man playing
fiddle for the Queen. He drew his
sword intent on cutting down
the bizarre fiddler, but upon
seeing joy on the Queen’s face
he stopped himself. Confused,
he demanded to know how the
Queen came to know the strange fiddler. The Queen told
the King that the fiddler came to the castle seeking help
because his cottage caught fire.
He rode by boat down the stream to the river all the
way to the castle as soon as the flames came to his door. In
waiting for the King to return, the Queen asked the fiddler
to play for her. The music was so enchanting that even the
hearth’s smoke set off dancing. The Queen promised a new
cottage and a large payment for the fiddler in exchange for
more of his music. The fiddler was overjoyed and the King,
although bewildered, honored the Queen’s promise.
Requiem for W.C. Hart
By Laura Johnson
1.
“The black cat is yawning,” she
sang with a lustre from craters,
“walking on the numbers,”
said another, but needn’t we get into what
Eliot ignored, just to see what the bull ate-
nevertheless we did. A great stupefaction
as the names and dates tuck us into
movement and locality
How much time is there left?
I feel warmed by a fallen branch
You were the bearer
of a glow in the
dark stars
that had created themselves.
I remember it was right before Thanksgiving, 2000
The new band played one of their first shows at Flicker
It was just one large piece of music
I remember singing of flight,
I remember the different members getting up
to play when it was their time. We went to
Harris Teeter afterwards. I had a jean jacket on
but still my “uncool” wire rims
Your voice was an exhaling bird and its wingspan all
the same
I didn’t know you as I don’t know many
who dot the hills
Are we still disguised
in the donkey across the desert?
Elephant and Donkey sure have a different meaning here...
2.
came to a hault
like nothing before
plywood on floor
cool surface to wood
the days slid
into place, everything is
calling, what will this shed?
we have arrived,
a lovely universe enclosed
but whispers are re-animated
it’s seeping out
and nothing
told us we needed
to do this, out here
in the rain, the view will forever shift
in its sameness, small apparitions
reveal the greater dna- glory be
3.
There was an unzipped opening
See what it colors it can
project and produce
Stay for the vibrations
But you were a bird, yes your flight
was a ledge on which other
birds could perch. Don’t fear
the elasticity. It’s the brutality that does it,
leaving us birds to scavenge
the crumbs
You connected to a room
It’s ready, it’s fast
The candles of the day
are permanently turned
around, turning inward
as you said, though it’s not
what the public thinks turning inward is
But what is turning outward
I said look at the naughty bird
in my first serious poem
You said “grow sideburns!”
Miles and miles,
out in the gypsum field
a medallion is mounted
A bird, scavenger noir
Something is awry
But the sundial arrives
at the exacted moment
You charter something which both
day and night revealed and that which is beyond
Permanence of movement
4.
The inner revolutions
Highlighted
Never sapped
Renewed- like a brush rubbing up
against a wall
>■ continued on next p. 22
20 FLAGPOLE.COM ■ DECEMBER 25, 2024 & JANUARY 1, 2025
