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Here We Are As in Golden Days
On Friday we went down [further] south for a weekend trip.
We went to Reidsville [which I always thought was "Reedsville"]. We went by grandpa's old house. The people that bought it cleaned it up really well. It looks a lot better than it did when dad saw what grandpa's sons had done to the thing. I loved grandpa, but his family I don't care if I ever see again.
But we also drove by the state prison. Mom wanted to take a picture of it for some reason. We also went down to the pauper's cemetary. It was something over 570 gravestones, which are basically concrete crosses that don't rise more than a foot off the ground, painted white with a number in black stenciled over it.
I couldn't help but wonder why they wouldn't just paint the names on the graves? Or paint the names on the front and put the number on the back? It was a hillside of over 570 [marked] graves, and not a single name amongst them. It was really sad, especially when you consider that at least a few of them were probably just old black men [or young, executed black men] that were wrongly imprisoned.
After we left Reidsville we went to Claxton, and I got the song "We're going to Jackson" stuck in my head. We went to the fruit cake factory since my mom insisted that they were so much better fresh. Verdict: fruit cake is slightly better fresh. Slightly.
Then a chicken truck went past us as we walked out of the store. Holy crap, chickens smell.
Then we went to Statesboro and staid the night there. We went to Snooky's in the morning and I got to listen to the head coach of GSU's football team recruit this kid. The guy was tiny- he has to be a receiver, because there's no way he was built for anything other than speed.
Then we went to Savannah and ate at Spanky's. I know: Snooky's and Spanky's in one weekend. I'm just lucky that way.
Oh, and St. Mary's sucks this time of year, and if you ever go there DO NOT eat at St. Pauly's. It's crap, and it's not the only thing that's open, not matter what the lady at the saloon tells you.
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