A Southern Experience
Down there. Another world from what I was used to.
I went to help her put her life back together.
A divorce. A house to be cleaned up and reorganized.
I life to be revitalized. Made happier. Healthier.
She was a handful.
But I was in love.
So there you go.
It was my south of the Mason-Dixon Line experience.
Bible belt. Greens, ham hocks, corn bread and other delicacies
served with that famous southern hospitality smile.
I was a California boy at the time.
Getting my baptism to another way of life.
Those Georgia sidewalks, I called them.
They would appear at the roadside and go for a block or two then stop.
I don't think anyone ever walked on them.
They were a kind of decoration.
And those only one entrance and exit parking lots.
Took some getting used to. Everyone drove everywhere.
You didn't see a bicyclist or a pedestrian on the main road.
It just wasn't done. I tried and believe me, with no proper road shoulders, or sidewalks
or bike lanes—it was dangerous.
People would stare at me “What the devil does that man think he's doing?!”
The southern drivers were another breed.
I never got over they way they would turn around on a freeway entrance ramp if the freeway
was too congested and just drive back out the entrance ramp in the opposite direction.
Years later, I made a trip back there, long after we broke up.
Things had started to change.
I saw the occasional bike lane, or sidewalk for actual walking on.
But some things hadn't changed: the gentle rolling hills, the pines, friendly people,
the Cracker Barrel and Waffle House restaurants.
They were still there.
So was the neighborhood I stayed in.
So was her house. Her lovely big house. Her pride and joy.
And so were memories: good and bad.
It was a trying time.
I was extremely vulnerable: little money or marketable skills.
I had to take what my limited reach could grasp.
I made out.
And I helped her as much as I could.
Each night I would talk her in to going down to the basement
and start to get all of her stuff organized for a big garage sale.
She always protested: too much to do. I don't want to go down there.
But gently, steadily, I would lead her down the stairs so she
could begin again: sorting, finding, and reliving so many things
from her past. It was always emotional and revealing.
Like I said she was a handful.
There were many of her in one body.
They used to call it multiple personality disorder.
Now it's called DID: disassociative identity disorder.
Whatever you call it, it's a maze of personalities.
And I was trying to navigate through them.
She was aware sometimes she'd switched from one to the other.
Most of the time she became my adversary.
I should have recognized it.
But invariably I would start beating myself.
As though I'd done something wrong. Something she didn't approve of.
Then she'd switch again.
And I'd realize she'd been away, an alternate persona.
I'd kick myself “Why didn't you spot that?!”
As I said it was a trying time.
The California boy in the south.
With the girl of his dreams.
Until those dreams became a strange recurring nightmare.
Until she pulled out of it and I with her.
I used to ride those trips right next to her.
Not knowing what was going on.
Until it was over.
As I mentioned, we broke up, after 8 years together.
She decided I wasn't going to commit to her and she found another and moved away.
Now I'm glad.
Glad that I loved her and glad she found a better life for herself.
And I'm glad about my southern experience too.
To this day I have a fondness for the south.
It's gently beauty. So different from the west.
I often think of Georgia, every time I hear Mr. Taylor singing “Country Road”.
I'm there again.
Standing underneath those pines and the blue, blue sky in the bright sunshine.
Looking a short distance across the road I see her house.
She has the front door open.
It's a sign she's expecting me.
Longing for me.
As I once did for her.
