I grew up in rural Screven County, Georgia. Our world was a section on Hwy 20 which ran from Sylvania to Millen. My father was the pastor of the Bay Branch Baptist Church and our home, the pastorium, was in the side yard. Life was good. A rich red clay bank to slide down and sandy patches behind the church and in the cemetery in which to play. The gnats were bothersome, but we had Blue jays and Georgia thumpers (black grasshoppers) and May-pops. I was happy and ignorant that there could be a better life outside of the CSRA (Central Savannah River Area). The area was considered middle GA to some and south GA to most. My parents were from northeast GA and we escaped to Franklin and Hart Counties whenever school vacations allowed. Hart County was a mixed blessing. My mother's rural family enjoyed true rustic country living, no bathroom in the house, no TV, and no telephone. Every summer was filled with armloads of books and almost daily hikes in the woods with my sister, me and our rat terrier, Vicky. The woods was filled with tall trees that shed a carpet of leaves and dead tree trunks on the dirt floor. The terrain was rolling and we would strike out just to see where we would return upon our approach to the farm house. To us these were the hills of the Piedmont and we loved it.
At the time I didn't always enjoy the rustic living. Trips to the outhouse or behind the chicken house and freezing cold in the winters were not always so thrilling. However, they were not enough to dampen memories of sitting on the front porch on a summer's day watching the kudzu vine creep along the roof line. Of leaning back in the ladder back chairs and watching the chickens peck their way through the front yard. Often the sounds of vehicles would echo through the dips of the terrain. We would sit and wait for the vehicle to make an appearance or, as was more often the case, farm equipment would turn and weave in an audible, but unseen field. In the distance, through the summer haze, the shadowy form of the mountain ridges could be recognized. I always thrilled to see them and though we traveled toward them we never seemed to arrive. This terrain of mica saturated red clay was so vastly different from the surroundings of our home in south Georgia and later the low country of South Carolina.
Irregular trips to the beach were made during my teen years. I genuinely enjoyed the beach, despite my frequent sunburns. I remember thinking that I didn't really prefer the beach or the mountains over the other. I don't know when the situation changed, but it did. My soul seemed to develop a longing to be in a mountainous presence. Later trips to the Smokies filled me with an indescribable bliss. The trips always ended too soon and were marked with an embarrassing and unexplainable show of tears. I feel fated to the mountains. Physical problems keep me from scrambling over the steep terrains, but I do enjoy walking the slopes. Now that I am retired I am at last at freedom to pursue a home in the GA mountains. Now if the economy would just cooperate so that I could sale my current home and my family and friends would stop fighting my efforts for happiness, but those are other postings.
