Savannah by Sunset

The little watermelon dropped to the asphalt and didn't burst. Surprising, since the truck it had been riding on was heading swiftly toward us. Even more alarming, was that the little booger obviously decided to go out with a bang. When it dropped into our lane, it picked up speed, headed right for us, and then passed its host truck with determination and absolute reckless abandon, ready to annihilate anything in its path. Poor little guy obviously didn't know he was a fragile watermelon without a chance.

And so, with a thud and juicy smash, I was unceremoniously initiated into a fantastically messy twist of the game of chicken that residents around the South Georgia town of Cordele, self proclaimed Watermelon Capitol of the World, must play with great regularity.

The evidence of melons that dared buck the system and go down fighting was everywhere. Juicy little morsels and cracked rinds lay as evidence of the futility of escape-an unheeded warning to other potential nonconformists in overflowing trailers. The shoulder of Highway 280 was littered with melons from Cordele and other sleepy towns with names like Abbeville, Rhine and McRae. Towns like many that can be found off the beaten path; crumbling reminders of what Eisenhower's Interstate system forgot. Places trying to remain relevant and alive.

When I found a place to pull over and opened the door to check that my wife's vehicle had not been damaged by the little kamikaze, the smell that poured in through the open door was a reminder of so many summer Sunday's at my Mamaw's house. Part of me immediately thought back to the often heard phrase, 'pass the salt, please.'

Just a few hours earlier, we had left Dothan, Alabama following a recent trek to help Flora artist Lea Barton kick-off a month long solo show at the Wiregrass Museum of Art. We began by purchasing a batch of the cities local fare and claim to fame; peanuts. Dothan apparently is to peanuts what the City of Cordele is to watermelons. The only difference being that if a peanut slides off a truck traveling 60 MPH it won't do nearly as much damage.

Following a wonderful night there with friends, my wife and I did what we often do when faced with the opportunity of a couple of extra days before we have to be home. We found a place within a day's drive that we could visit. So, when we left the surprisingly artsy Dothan our goal was Savannah by sunset.

It would be easy to accomplish the drive across South Georgia and into Savannah by taking those interstates, but, that's where the trip would become just another boring drive. These excursions are all about finding our way off the beaten path, and such attempts never cease to disappoint. I would add that it is especially exciting when faced with the prospect of playing chicken with watermelons.

One thing that seemed to jump out by the time we had made it about 4 hours into the trip was how many of these towns along the way seemed to be desperately attempting to hold on to some history and sense of place. Dothan has peanuts, Cordele is laying claim to watermelons, but there are others; Rhine is "pond town", Abbeville has the Annual Ocmulgee Wild Hog Festival, and Claxton's water tower claims the town as "the fruitcake capital of the world."

I was a bit confused following a stop off for gas and water as to whether the Claxton tower was referring to the little Christmas cakes that are passed around every year, or whether it was referring to the extremely drunk guys standing outside the convenience store. But no; turns out Claxton bakeries have been turning out the little cakes for close to 100 years.

It's kind of sad actually. The quaint downtowns are full of crumbling buildings. Like so many small towns, they are losing sons and daughters-and the tax base that goes along with them-to what is being defined as progress. The problem is that the progress is apparently occurring elsewhere. Maybe, if they're lucky the money is being diverted to a new Wal-Mart somewhere close by, which is to say the real beneficiary is the producers of cheap Chinese goods. And, what place these days can't live without a McRestaurant out on the McHighway at the McExit-oh, joy!

Not long after our wonderfully funny exchange with what had to be two of Claxton's 'fruitier cakes' at the local gas station, we turned off of 280 and on to Intestate 16 headed in to Savannah. We made it just in time to claim the last room in the beautiful old downtown Marshall Hotel. Just by the skin of our teeth we kept from having to sleep in the car or head back out to the interstate to find a room. But, as we staked our flag by watching the sunset over the Savannah River, I couldn't help but wonder what the future held for the people we had met throughout the day . . . even the fruitcakes.