South of Here

I spent some time in and around Columbus, Georgia late last week and this past weekend attending the AIA GA Conference.  A few days out of town + banging out some continuing ed. credits = win / win.  I don’t venture much farther south of here than the airport typically, so I was excited to see a part of the state I never see. 

Columbus, and this is based solely on my own limited sample, seems to be a study of contrasts.  On the one hand there are oak-shaded streets lined with immaculate Victorian or Greek Revival homes, with perfectly manicured lawns – American flags and gas-light lanterns, mint juleps on porch swings; cobblestone and public fountains.  This is an affluent neighborhood but it doesn’t appear to be pretentious. It’s idyllic.  It’s what we all want to believe small town USA is or is supposed to be.  This is the historic district and it stretches north from 4^th Street to 13^th, from the Chattahoochee east to Veterans Parkway.  Inside of these boundaries, they have cornered the market on all things good.  They haven’t bulldozed their historic mill buildings – they’ve re-purposed them to be convention centers and live-work lofts.  They’ve clearly emphasized commerce and have made their downtown a destination, not an afterthought.  It seems to work, really well actually.  It’s as put together a small town as I’ve seen. 

This island of vibrant but tranquil Southern charm however, is surrounded on all sides by abject poverty.  Crossing Veterans, I quickly realized that things were not what I first thought.  On one side of the street; perfectly restored historic homes and buildings – on the other side; burned out warehouses and neon liquor stores.  On one side; microbreweries – on the other; windowless dive bars. On one side; Eagle and Phenix Lofts – on the other; Booker T. Washington Homes.  One side is white – one side is black.  One side is the New South – the other side is the Old.  Visually, I find them both compelling – philosophically, I don't fit into either.  

I of course could be wrong about all of the above but such was my perception wandering around between and after sessions.    Do with that what you will, not making a statement or whatever: I just wanted to share some photographs.

The conference came and went just in time Saturday for me to watch my Bulldogs narrowly avoid yet another public bedwetting.  Sunday morning I woke up early, rolled up the tents and headed south, intent on hiking Providence Canyon.  Taking its name from nearby Providence Methodist Church, it is billed as one of the greatest geographic wonders of the Eastern United States.  The hell of it is that the whole expanse is a result of early farmers' heavy hand upon the face of the earth.  Twenty years of plowing downhill resulted in this big damn hole – fascinating.  The canyon walls are as high as 150 feet and growing – an estimated 18 inches of canyon wall is lost every year.  It was an easy, beautiful hike and a nearly perfect morning. 

After a quick stop in Cusseta for epic barbecue I drove north toward Franklin D. Roosevelt State Park – I had heard there was a helluva view from the top of Pine Mountain.  Several miles of smooth asphalt under a flawless blue sky and multiple Metallica sing-alongs later, I started up the squiggle of pavement that leads toward Dowdell Knob.  FD and Eleanor reportedly picnicked here on Sunday afternoons during their long weekends at the Little White House in Warm Springs back in the day.  There’s a statue of FDR sitting on a stone bench admiring the view in the little park that was built there.  I sat down next to him and admired right along with him for a bit; told him what a mess we’d made of the place since he passed and whatnot.  Good moment right there.

With unfinished work looming, I rushed back to Atlanta to get to it.  I was greeted on my stoop with the unwelcome realization that some asshole had tried to kick my door down and steal all my cool stuff while I was away.  Luckily, they failed to make entry thanks to my neighbor’s barking dog but that did little to dissolve the wave of violation and anger that swept almost immediately over me.  If there is anything I hate more than a thief, I’m not sure what it is: maybe power lines or people who start sentences with the word well.  Regardless, I admittedly let this, what amounts to a (somewhat costly) inconvenience, ruin what was other wise one of the most complete days I’ve had in recent memory.  Maybe that’s what pissed me off the most.  The roller coaster has to go to the bottom to get back to the top of the ride though, I suppose.

I spent the better part of today talking to detectives and making various arrangements to secure more solidly my house.  Late this afternoon, tasks completed I allowed myself to reflect on the last few days and resolved to not let three guys in a silver Impala (thanks neighbor) take that good away from me.  The good?  Architecture, critical thought, trains, driving, music, nature, history.  That’s effectively a list of my seven favorite things and I packed them all into a span of just a few days, again and again and again. 

What happened here wasn’t cool this weekend. What happened south of here was badass though, so south of here wins this one.  Meantime, I need Trent Richardson to have a career game so I can beat my boss at fantasy football tonight.

As an aside (and just for the record) I still love my neighborhood.