We’re in Savannah, the Missus and I, the midway point in our journey home from Destin.
Before you object, telling me that Savannah is nowhere near the midpoint of the Destin-Atlanta circuit, I will pre-empt your objection by agreeing with it. Of course not. It is, in fact, several hundred miles out of the way...but no matter, since our objective was to deliver the Mistress of Sarcasm back to her home turf.
The trip took us through Waycross, Georgia, and the Okefenokee Swamp. I thought of Jimbo, and how much he would enjoy being in the home of Albert the Alligator.
The water tower in Waycross, Georgia, featuring local resident Pogo Possum.
We’re back at our lodgings now, resting up after the long drive from Destin. Tomorrow morning we’ll log another four hours on the final portion of our journey...but for now, it’s time to relax and digest the fine Cuban dinner we just gulped down at Rancho Alegre with the Mistress and her friend Corinne.
Eating there brought back a lot of memories. It was there, three years ago, that we celebrated the Mistress’s graduation from the Savannah College of Art and Design. It was there, two years and two months ago, that the Missus, the Mistress, and I joined Rob Smith for dinner, for what would turn out to be the last meal I would have with the Original Jawja Blown-Eyed Blodger. Only two months later I would be back, along with a small mob of Blown-Eyes - Rob’s blogchildren, all - to bid him farewell at his funeral. And we would be staying in the very place where the Missus and I find ourselves tonight: the (in)famous LaQuinta Inn on Abercorn. Adjacent to Denny’s, as mandated by Law and Custom.
Savannah has its share of ghosts. Hell, you can pay any number of guides to give you a Ghost Tour, exploring the Haunts of the Haints in the Historic District. Are they real? I have no idea...but I thought I could detect ol’ Rob’s presence as we gnawed on our churrazco steaks at Rancho Alegre. Maybe it was just my imagination. Or the potent, garlic-laden chimichurri sauce.
The Mistress of Sarcasm is out at Pinky Masters, hanging with her buddies as we try to catch some well-deserved Z’s. She won’t be here in Savannah much longer. She’s preparing to relocate to Tennessee, there to begin a new chapter in her Life Saga. Which means that Savannah - the Beautiful Lady with the Dirty Face, as my friend Ivan is wont to call it - will become a less-frequent stopover in our routine travels.
But we have a lot of memories here. And you can be sure, we will be back.
For we will have to visit the ghosts, you know. They’ll be here waiting for us.
Before you object, telling me that Savannah is nowhere near the midpoint of the Destin-Atlanta circuit, I will pre-empt your objection by agreeing with it. Of course not. It is, in fact, several hundred miles out of the way...but no matter, since our objective was to deliver the Mistress of Sarcasm back to her home turf.
The trip took us through Waycross, Georgia, and the Okefenokee Swamp. I thought of Jimbo, and how much he would enjoy being in the home of Albert the Alligator.
The water tower in Waycross, Georgia, featuring local resident Pogo Possum.
We’re back at our lodgings now, resting up after the long drive from Destin. Tomorrow morning we’ll log another four hours on the final portion of our journey...but for now, it’s time to relax and digest the fine Cuban dinner we just gulped down at Rancho Alegre with the Mistress and her friend Corinne.
Eating there brought back a lot of memories. It was there, three years ago, that we celebrated the Mistress’s graduation from the Savannah College of Art and Design. It was there, two years and two months ago, that the Missus, the Mistress, and I joined Rob Smith for dinner, for what would turn out to be the last meal I would have with the Original Jawja Blown-Eyed Blodger. Only two months later I would be back, along with a small mob of Blown-Eyes - Rob’s blogchildren, all - to bid him farewell at his funeral. And we would be staying in the very place where the Missus and I find ourselves tonight: the (in)famous LaQuinta Inn on Abercorn. Adjacent to Denny’s, as mandated by Law and Custom.
Savannah has its share of ghosts. Hell, you can pay any number of guides to give you a Ghost Tour, exploring the Haunts of the Haints in the Historic District. Are they real? I have no idea...but I thought I could detect ol’ Rob’s presence as we gnawed on our churrazco steaks at Rancho Alegre. Maybe it was just my imagination. Or the potent, garlic-laden chimichurri sauce.
The Mistress of Sarcasm is out at Pinky Masters, hanging with her buddies as we try to catch some well-deserved Z’s. She won’t be here in Savannah much longer. She’s preparing to relocate to Tennessee, there to begin a new chapter in her Life Saga. Which means that Savannah - the Beautiful Lady with the Dirty Face, as my friend Ivan is wont to call it - will become a less-frequent stopover in our routine travels.
But we have a lot of memories here. And you can be sure, we will be back.
For we will have to visit the ghosts, you know. They’ll be here waiting for us.
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