Newspaper Page Text
(7TT f flrl Houston Bnnir f
Qltje
Rp iS
_
Ronda Rich
Columnist
Knowing better and
doing better are two
■lMlwo—t BLim —ot
different things
I know better than to crit
icize myself when my moth
er is around. She always
agrees.
“My hair looks awful,” I
said more to myself than to
her as we passed a depart
ment store mirror and I
stopped to take a look.
She nodded. “I know.”
She ignored the look I
threw her, which was, in
reality, uglier than my hair.
“I was just thinking a little
while ago that you looked
like a little orphan girl.”
She paused for a second and
frowned. “That’s not really
fair to say.” I couldn’t
believe my ears. She was
going to retract a criticism.
Then, she continued. “Little
Orphan Annie never looked
bad like that.”
I have learned not to
retort with her. My words
are too sharp and, besides, I
can’t win. So, I said noth
ing. I just tried to smooth
down the disheveled mess.
But she can’t stop. She’ll
always offer analysis.
“I think you’re ruining
your hair with all the stuff
you put on it. It’s probably
just dry and brittle.”
I decided to retort. “My
hair is in perfect condition.
It is not dry and brittle.”
“Did you use hairspray?”
“Yes.”
“Because it doesn’t look
like you used hairspray. If
you sprayed it real good, it
wouldn’t look like that. Are
you sure you used hair
spray?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well, what kind did you
use?”
“An expensive kind.”
“Then you should change
brands. It doesn’t look like
to me that the one you’re
using is worth a dime.”
I resisted the urge to
retort further. I decided to
wait and even the score. I
knew my time would come.
It did a couple of weeks
later when we arrived
together for a family get
together. Mama worries
about her looks more than I
do, especially when she’s
going to be anywhere near
someone who might brag on
her. She was walking a few
steps ahead of me when,
suddenly, she stopped and
turned to ask, “Do I look
okay?” Before I could
answer, she continued. “I
shouldn’t have worn this.
I’ll probably have on the
worse looking outfit here.”
My chance had arrived. I
nodded, being sure that I
gave her a serious once over
like she would give me.
“Why on earth did you wear
that anyway? You have
much prettier clothes.”
That did it.
Mama, though, doesn’t
handle me as well as I han
dle her. I ignore her but she
takes my words seriously.
“I’m going home.” She
turned back toward the car.
“I’m not going in, looking
like something the cat
dragged in.”
Of course, that’s not what
I had in mind. I only wanted
to aggravate her but it
ended up being an aggrava
tion to me. Because I then
had to spend the next sever
al minutes, coddling and
reassuring her that she
looked beautiful and that I
was only teasing. Finally,
grudgingly, she went in.
See RICH, page 11A
SUNDAY,
JUNE 11,2005
k. ,-;«•#&* *** iiTf ill, s*«Bi-£*y.>v - Asi■>■
The roads less traveled
Staying off the interstate and seeing Georgia
By CHARLOTTE PERKINS
HHJ Lifestyle Editor
I put my road map on the
seat beside me, stopped on
Sam Nunn Boulevard to get
a full tank of gas, and took
off.
Destination: Cloudland
Canyon State Park for a
family cabin party.
Anybody looking at a map
of the state could tell you
that it’s a four-hour
straight shot on 1-75,
almost the whole way. You
just have to get off the
interstate a little south of
Chattanooga and head
west.
It was a beautiful day,
though, and I wasn’t in a
hurry. Also I was alone in
my car, with nobody to
object if I made little side
trips or dawdled along the
way, no kids to ask, “Are we
there yet?”
I headed for Fort Valley
and points north and west.
I never even turned the
radio on. I never set the trip
meter.
The late Charles Kuralt
pointed out once that with
the advent of expressways
/ f
I teste*- .. ••
Turin Baptist Church holds its own peaceful place out
of sight from the highway.
Lifestyle
and interstate highways, it
had become possible “to
travel from coast to coast
without seeing a thing.”
I was in a mood to see my
home state, and I saw a lot
of it.
Starting out on that
stretch of road that runs
through Houston, Peach
and Crawford County farm
land, I was looking at
scenery the Florida-bound
tourist seldom sees - the
Middle Georgia landscape
of farm fields, peach
orchards and pecan groves.
The magnolias were bloom
ing all along the way, and in
fact would become one of
the constants on a changing
terrain for the whole trip.
The magnolia trees and the
little signs.
The interstate has signs
telling us the numbers of
exits, the names of inter
secting roads, the proximity
of fuel, food and lodging.
The real Georgia roads
have signs announcing
counties, creeks, rivers,
towns, unincorporated com
munities (some of them no
more than a house or two),
signs telling you where to
buy peaches or bait or
“antiques,’ and, more than
anything else, signs direct
ing you to the nearest
Baptist Church. First
Baptist. Primitive Baptist.
Missionary Baptist.
Friendship Baptist. They’re
everywhere.
However it was a
Methodist church that
turned out to be the main
point of interest when I
made my first detour - into
the small town of Culloden.
Culloden is a picture book
place with big old houses
and big shade trees lining
the main street. I pulled up
in the tiny parking lot of
the smallest city hall I’ve
ever seen. It turned out to
be locked up tight, and as I
was peeking through the
window, a lady pulled up in
a van. I asked, “Are you the
mayor?” and she laughed
and said no, but her hus
band was a former mayor
and current councilman.
Her name was Janelle
Norris, and she was there
looking for the city mainte
nance man. She told me
about the annual Culloden
Highland Games, about the
“Ham Slam,” and the wild
game cookoff, and also
about the historic
Methodist church I had
passed on the way in. It’s
believed to be the first brick
Methodist Church built in
Georgia, and local lore is
that the bricks came from
England by ship. It was
built in 1809 and still has
services - every fifth
Sunday.
Streak-o-lean lon lunch
Pondering the idea of
services every fifth Sunday,
I headed north again.
It was lunch time, which
on any interstate would
mean keeping an eye out for
exits leading to familiar
chain restaurants.
Instead, just outside
Barnesville I discovered
The Garden Patch
Restaurant.
It didn’t look all that spe
cial from the outside. In
fact, it’s a big prefab build
ing that also includes a car
wash and a laundromat. I
just saw how many cars
■
EBBS I
-
I.* g j
j'USk Vnk
1 m
4k. ■ H
i &S/r*MqrW'-
BWi TMWb '*oNPl H
&JA
ABOVE: Ross and Linda Reeves welcome diners to the
Garden Patch Restaurant in Barnesville.
LEFT: This home may explain why Newnan calls itself
“The City of Homes.”
" ■ '
:, '■ ■
* S - i"" &u,45,” '. • '
i. ■••■-■ •■•• « • >
This church in Culloden was built in 1809 and is believed
to be the oldest brick Methodist church in Georgia.
were pulling into the park
ing lot and how many peo
ple were hurrying in.
Would you believe the
buffet included streak o’
lean, cooked to crisp, dry
perfection? Would you
believe there were fried
green tomatoes? I had the
fried chicken with but
terpeas and creamed corn,
too.
I talked to Ross Reeves,
the owner, who retired a
few years ago from Ford
Motor Company and decid
ed to open a restaurant.
His wife, Linda, and son,
David, work there, too. He
said that the restaurant can
seat over 300, and on
Sundays there’s a wait of
about 10 minutes.
And no wonder. There’s a
culinary genius in the
kitchen.
Lost in Newnan
In the parking lot again I
consulted my map and
PAGE 9A
headed for Coweta County,
and for Newnan. The coun
tryside was changing, with
more rolling hills, more
horses and fences, more
dairy farms. Big tangled
piles of wild roses started
showing up in the embank
ments along the road. I
passed over the Flint River
at a point that it was barely
wider than a creek.
I took a side trip through
the tiny town of Turin,
which is one of those old
towns with a true “Railroad
Street” running parallel to
the railroad tracks. I
checked out some dreamy
old houses and then
turned a corner and got a
look at an architectural
gem: a little white frame
church you’d never see
from the highway.
Coming into Newnan a
little later, I spotted anoth
er treasure, an extraordi
nary Victorian home, and
found a way to turn around,
but had to drive up on the
See PATHS, page 11A