What Is The South?

What is the South?

When I moved to North Carolina I felt I knew the answer to that question. I would have described the South as any state that took sides with the Confederacy during the Civil War. Given that I’m from the North, and therefore immune to the subtleties of Southern culture, I like putting such matters into simple categories.

However, I’ve learned that most things in the South are not that simple.

Not long after I came here I established a group of friends who were born and bred in the South, and my closeness to them belied my lack of tenure. One fair summer afternoon a few of those friends and I set out for a meeting in Greensboro. We arrived with time to spare, and it seemed that the best thing to do with an empty hour was find a place to fill our stomachs.

We located a restaurant set back on a tributary road. The place spoke eloquently of what a small café in the South should be. There was a long counter with red padded circular seats on columns of chrome. A mirror extending along one wall reflected the four of us hunching over our plates.

One of us picked up a copy of the local newspaper and read aloud the lead from a story. There had been a racially oriented dustup in South Carolina. “Isn’t that terrible,” my friend said, “you’d think those people would learn.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you know, down here I haven’t found race relations to be all that bad. Up in Chicago we had far less reason to be proud. Blacks and whites seem to get along pretty well in this part of the world.”

He looked at me as if I were hopelessly ignorant, “Well friend, Moore County isn’t really the South. Too many golf courses, potters selling high priced bowls and Yankees like you.”

I reflected on that for a moment, but knowing I’d traveled further a field than just Moore County I asked, “The rest of North Carolina, that would be considered the South, wouldn’t it?”

“Sort of,” he said in a patronizing tone, “but North Carolina isn’t the 'real' South. Here you have the research triangle, world class schools like Duke and UNC. You’d have to go a lot further south from here.”

“Further south, like Texas or Florida?”

“No,” he objected, “Texas isn’t the South. Texas is the West. And as for Florida, that really isn’t the South either.”

He paused for a long moment and then reconsidered, “Well, that’s not entirely true. Florida’s Southern if you’re in northern Florida. ”

Now I was hopelessly confused, but being among friends I wanted to get it straight, “So in Florida you have to go north to be in the South? And if you go west, even if you’re in the south, then you’re not in the South anymore?”

“Yes,” he said, “That’s pretty much it.”

It was tough going, but I felt I was making progress. “So South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana – states like that would be the 'real' South.”

“Mostly,” he said, “but Atlanta’s getting less and less Southern. Way too many people in Fulton County vote like Democrats.”

Just then his voice lifted in a quizzical way, “As for Louisiana and Mobile? Well, the jury’s still out if you can be a Catholic and Southern at the same time.”

He knew I was Catholic, and I knew he was pulling my chain, but I rose to the bait. “How about Scarlett O’Hara?” I protested, “She was Catholic.”

“Yeah, right” he replied, “and Mickey Mouse is a Baptist.”

We left the subject there. I had learned a little, and what I didn’t comprehend would have to remain a mystery. The important point was that North Carolina is in the South, but it isn’t all together southern either.

The vagaries of that concept were too subtle for someone from Chicago. Like a lovely woman friend is so fond of saying, “George, dear, you just aren’t southern enough to understand.”

I didn’t expect that the fine points of that discussion would ever come in handy, and for a long while they didn’t. Then, a few weeks ago, I visited Raleigh. That day the weather was unusually cold and a persistent wind sliced though clothing that was insufficiently heavy.

As I turned the corner on Salisbury Street I fell in step with an older woman. She greeted me using those long liquid vowels that are so pleasant to hear. My hands were stuffed in my pockets and my shoulders were arched to cover my ears. “A cold one today, isn’t it?” I replied.

“Yes,” she said, bending low against the wind, “All my life I wanted to live in the South, but somehow I wound up in Raleigh.”

Assuming the air of someone who shared with her a secret understanding I said, “Yes ma’am, I know exactly what you mean.”

Giving Care

Last night I downloaded a new photo organizer called "Picasa." It's a great program and it's free, so I recommend it.

However, that plug is not the reason for this post. While installing "Picasa" it went through my computer and found every picture that I'd ever saved and then neatly organized them for my review. Occassionally I've accidently saved pictures to a folder that had nothing to do with my photo archives. When that happened the picture became utterly lost, and so it was with this picture that I've entitled "Giving Care."

My stories are passed around and that's just wonderful by me. They float out like a bottle on the ocean and only rarely do they come back with a note stuffed inside. When they do it's a treat, and this picture was attached to one of those notes.

Some years ago a woman, whose name I now forget, sent a comment and identified herself as a care giver for an elderly woman. She included this photograph and said it was the only recent picture she had of herself.

I remember being taken by it. I've never seen a photograph that told a more touching and affectionate story than this snapshot. It distills the grace and the glory of love between two people in a way that makes even well chosen words seem clumsy and insufficent.

It was a gift to have this picture returned to me from right under my nose. If the woman who sent it finds her way to this web site, I'd love to hear from her once again.

Jackson Hamlet

Last Saturday I was asked to attend a meeting in Jackson Hamlet. That's a small community, really little more than a large neighborhood populated primarily by low income black folk. It is surrounded on three sides by the far more affluant community of Pinehurst. We all met in a small Baptist church and I listened to stories being told of how lives are lived in the shadow of a wealthy community which influences their lives without including them in any meaningful way.

Pinehurst has annexed land all around this small enclave and law allows Pinehurst to govern codes a mile beyond its borders. So there is this small community with only those services which are provided by the county. Population density is at a municipal level, but police protection is minimal. There are no sewers, and there are few street lights or paved roads. When they ask for inclusion in the town that surrounds them they are given a cold shoulder.

I sat there in a church with windows painted purple to achieve the effect of stained glass. The ceiling was dropped and the panels were old and uneven. The place was filled with black folk dressed in clothing that was "Sunday best." They talked about having streets that are ink black at night, and having septic systems that no longer work. I learned that water from washing machines and bath tubs is called "gray water," and that the people of Jackson Hamlet save the declining effectiveness of old septic tanks by piping "gray water" directly onto their property. Meanwhile, the Pinehurst sewer system runs but a few hundred feet away.

If they subscribe to a garbage pick-up service, they must do so individually and it's expensive since they have no municipality to negotiate for competitive rates. They exist like a hole in a block of Swiss cheese, surrounded by a town that can tell them what to do, but which refuses to help, and would never take them in as their own. Empty land is what Pinehurst is eager to acquire, but when it comes to including people, at least people like those who live in Jackson Hamlet, then that's another matter entirely.

Notes From The March

The march for Martin Luther King was a mile and a half long. The day was cold, the wind biting, and everyone was wrapped in jackets and sweaters. Those who marched filled the street for three city blocks. Behind the marchers were the elderly and the infirm who traveled in buses with the headlights turned on. Along Broad Street everyone sang "We Shall Overcome," and people walked out of the stores to watch. Virtually all of them waved and applauded.

Caught up in the enthusiasm a few bystanders left the curb and joined the march. Those who were black, and caught unaware, felt obliged to explain. They’d see someone they knew and call out, “My kids are at home”… “I have to work”… “Next year, I promise.”

Everywhere were hand lettered signs that read, “Live the Dream”... “The Dream is You”... “The Dream is Alive.”

Clumps of marchers walked behind the banners of fraternal groups, political parties and civic clubs. Passing cars would honk in support. The pace was quick, and everyone was excited.

But not everyone was pleased. A black leader was marching with her five year old grandson when a man in a pickup truck veered in their direction. The driver rolled down his window, extended his arm, held up his middle finger and began to curse. The child started to cry.

That woman is a veteran of the cause who marched in Washington when King delivered his "Dream Speech." She was grown when segregation was still alive and well in Moore County. She remembers far worse than an isolated bigot in a pickup truck. Bending over her grandson she said, “Hush. Before Dr. King that was what our world was like."

That bigot wasn’t me, but for a second I took ownership of him. I felt whiter than tissue paper, and a foot shorter than that five year old child.

The march ended at Southern Pines Primary School and the auditorium filled beyond capacity. Folding chairs were passed out to handle the overflow. There were choirs, speakers, a free lunch, stepping squads and a movie. The indoor celebration started at 12:00 and lasted until 4:00.

The speaker was a pastor with thunder for a voice. Like King, he is well known for his powerful sermons, and yes, King was special, but this speaker reminded everyone that great oratory is common in black churches. The preacher urged his audience, "Don't Give Up…Don’t Give In… Don’t Give Out." He spoke for half an hour and conducted the crowd like an orchestra. The crowd swelled to its feet, and when he finished the cheering was loud and sustained.

Outside the auditorium was a long table filled with Martin Luther King souvenirs. There were LP’s of recorded speeches, portraits, interviews in “Ebony” and “Jet,” several biographies, and even board games. At the far end was a copy of “Life” magazine covered with the picture of a widow grieving in a black veil.

That evening I told my friends about that bigot in the pickup truck. A few of them said marching was misguided, even risky. Actually the risk was zero, but their concern was real. To some, marching for King is still provocative, not entirely wise, and flat stupid for a white person.

Decades have come and gone, but King still remains controversial. He is a Rorschach test for those who remember him. Some see great reason to hope, but others see only fear. The fact is, I marched behind a squad car, was welcomed by singers, and then treated to lunch. No heroism was required.

But imagine marching with King in the hot of Alabama. Marchers heading out on “Bloody Sunday” for the Edmund Pettus Bridge were taunted by crowds. The hatred was electric and guns were everywhere. No festival waited for them at the bridge - only police, water hoses, and attack dogs.

A car backfire would be reason for a heart attack

I don’t have that kind of courage. I am not a brave man. The real heroes were people like King, Abernathy and Evers, who didn’t know the meaning of quit and lived without guarantees. Back then demonstrators suffered. Some were shot, some were hung and others just disappeared. Yet all of them made a difference. March today and crowds applaud, local business pays for your lunch, and the violent bigots are few.

The struggle still isn’t over, and probably never will be, for injustice is eternal. However, we live in a place where most people are good, and anything is possible.

Honoring that is reason enough to march.

Sunset on Thagard Lake

Thagard Lake - Whipering Pines, NC

I spend much of my time in a room with one wall of windows that look over Thagard Lake. It's true that weather, season and the time of day variegate the appearance of any landscape. However, a body of water seems to magnify that variability, and makes those changes appear with a suddenness and an intensity that can't be found in any other vista.

Yesterday my attention was riveted to a computer monitor when a sound distracted me and I looked over my right shoulder. The sun had just started to set. Colors that were vibrant shades of violet, blue and purple flooded through the windows. I picked up my camera, pulled open the sliding glass door and walked down to the dock - a distance of perhaps one hundred feet. It was from that dock that this picture was taken. I'm posting that picture one day later and now the sky is a nondescript gray. The light is blue, cold and hard, and the lake is entirely different.

Drain Pipe

Drain Pipe - Whispering Pines, NC

Today in Whispering Pines it is drizzley. Part way around the lake there is a fingerlike inlet that curves back around a peninsula of land. That inlet receives water from the golf course through a concrete pipe. The lake water is always brown from the tanic acid that comes from decaying pine needles. Where ever the water is agitated it creates a froth and the effect is something like a pint of Guinness. Unfortunately, the similarity is entirely visual.

Wheelbarrow of Flowers - Whispering Pines, NC

I had just about completed my walk around Lake Thagard today, and as usual I had my camera in hand. However, nothing had presented itself as worth having its picture taken. Winter often remains warm in our part of North Carolina, but like everywhere in the northern latitudes the light is oblique and the colors monochrome. That's what made this old wheelbarrow full of pansies so extraordinary. Caught in a ray of sunlight they seemed to radiate, as if they were illuninated from within. This picture catches the explosion of color against a background of muted tones, but it can't duplicate the brightness. The camera failed to capture how pyrotechnic those flowers appeared.

What's Remembered

Luning, Nevada - (restaurant far left)

Grand dad’s family blew around like a scrap of paper in a dust devil. Between 1931 and 1943 they moved fifteen times on a random course that started in Oshalata, Oklahoma and ended in Luning, Nevada. Looking for a job that could sustain a large family, grand dad took jobs selling magazines, tires, paint and insurance. Those jobs paid on commission and made the promise of a decent living, but they delivered little more than frustration and failure.

For my grandfather being a salesman was something of a stretch. He was physically slight, frail in appearance, and he was quiet… almost painfully shy. Even as a young man his hair was thin and as he aged only a few wisps remained to arc across his head. He wore rimless spectacles and had one glass eye that settled deep in its socket.

There’s an old family photograph of him sitting next to my grandmother. Grand dad is wearing a vested suit and he has the mirthless expression of a cautious banker. Originally that’s exactly what he was, a cautious banker, but during the Depression it was impossible to be cautious enough. In both Oshalata and Bartlesville he managed small banks that financed farmers who were caught up in the disaster of the dust bowl. Hard times ended grand dad’s career and he wound up impersonating a salesman with only slight success.

In 1943 his unhappy adventure in sales came to an end. With the war on and manpower in short supply the Southern Pacific Railroad was forced to hire someone with a checkered job record who was deep into middle age. That’s how grand dad became a freight agent. He was well suited for that kind of work - always careful, analytical and exacting. Grand dad must have hoped that the worst was now behind him, and his luck was finally changing.

His job with the railroad began in Luning, Nevada; a spec of habitation in a bare desert colored only by white alkali and red ferris dirt. The wind blew for a thousand miles with nothing to stop it, and the thin air shifted between oven hot and sudden cold. It took months before grand dad’s family was able to join him, and what his life was like during that enforced loneliness is hard to know. He never said much, and when he did talk he said nothing about himself.

From that period of being alone in the desert only one fact survives. He struck an unusual bargain with the owner of the town’s only restaurant.

One of Grand dad's few remarkable talents was exquisite penmanship. His hand produced the sort of calligraphy found on a diploma or a wedding license. Put a fountain pen in his hand and what flowed from his fingers made a grocery list look like The Declaration of Independence. In the midst of persistent failure and a thousand reasons to think little of himself, that one special aptitude became his only conceit.

When he first arrived in Luning, broke and with a month to go before his first paycheck, he sat down at the only place in town with a meal to offer. No one knows exactly what happened next, but the bargain is still remembered. Grand dad traded the cost of his food for writing out the menus in a careful long hand. Using a looping script, replete with curlieques and various decorative devices, he wrote “Milk 10¢”or “Substitutions 5¢ extra.”

This odd arrangement might have gone unremembered, like any of a thousand other artifacts buried in the desert. However, when grandmother arrived she noticed that the menus of the local café were written in a hand that was both extravagant and familiar.

She asked grand dad about it, but his expression remained blank. In the short hand of their relationship that look was neither an admission nor a denial. It was simply an invitation for grandmother to believe her own assumptions. The full story would have to be leaned elsewhere.

That single detail is the only marker left from six months of my grandfather’s life. Whatever else he might have done or thought is now swallowed up by time.

A year and a half later grand dad used his slight seniority to bump another agent and move his family to the more pleasant venue of Susanville, California. Grand dad passed away in 1958, and now Luning is only a ghost town. The tracks still pass by an abandoned restaurant with broken windows and boards worn raw from weather and the absence of paint. The train quit running decades ago, and the Southern Pacific Railroad no longer exists. A place that once looked like a fresh start is now almost entirely erased. What persists is a scrap of memory, and a wind that blows for a thousand miles with nothing to stop it.