I lived most of my life in NY, but for the past year I’ve resided in Savannah, GA. Relocating here had been an adjustment until I discovered the quirky pleasure of walking along the Savannah River with my dog, Noah. I stare in wonder at the mammoth container ships gliding past me, enjoy the appearance of a cresting dolphin, and grin when a lone trombone player, acknowledging me and Noah, belts out: “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window.” What follows is my homage.
River Street
Whether you want to engage or not, in Savannah, on River Street, people talk to you. “Lady, can I pet your dawg?” is a frequent request. It doesn’t end there as folks in the South are verbose and inclined to linger in conversation. Like traveling in a foreign country I assimilate by observing and listening. People smoke, drink liquor in clear plastic cups and wear whatever suits them, and in the summer it’s not much. Originating from the northeast, summers are hot, but not as steamy as Savannah. Here, hunkier men walk shirtless, others accessorize with an all day neck towel while young women sometimes wear the interesting combination of tiny cut-offs and cowboy boots. Out and about most days, I’ve come to recognize the regulars.There’s the prolific Haitian-American artist, Martin, who markets his primitive oil paintings seven days a week. Never at a loss for inspiration he paints under a canopy of shade trees while talking on his cell phone. Noah and I have regular visits with Cooper, a hound dog who sleeps behind the counter of one of our favorite gift shops where they both enjoy some crunchy treats, then snort and sniff each other as dogs do.
A tall, silent man of indeterminate age with long locks of hair and a matching steel wool beard, layers of clothes, a scruffy wide brimmed hat carrying a worn backpack pops up in different locations on the street. I nicknamed him the Cigar Store Indian because sometimes he stands smoking outside the Tobacco and Vape Shop. His solemn demeanor and tanned skin smooth as wood, channels the symbol of tobacco dealers of long ago. By chance, I learned his name. On a preternaturally raw day last January, the owner of the Tobacco Shop bellowed to him as he stood in the street disoriented and shivering, “Get on in here, William.” Other times I’ve been jarred to see William sitting on a park bench further west down River Street, where the beauty of the Talmadge Memorial Bridge is in full view. Once I turned around and William was walking right behind me. I’ve wanted to ask him if I can take his picture, but I doubt if I’ll muster up the nerve.
People do as they like in Savannah and what they do is mostly legal, except for the girl I once saw dancing in a fountain, singing quietly to herself. Let me tell you about Gabby. She’s a street artisan I’m acquainted with who designs palmetto rose bouquets. She beckoned to me one day to pet my dog and tell me her life story. Gabby recounted how she lost all her money in the financial collapse of 2008. She lived in a tent in the Savannah woods for seven years, met a man named Jerry the Leprechaun who taught her how to work palmetto stalks into bouquets and wreaths, then found Jesus. As she constructed an intricate wreath for me, sweat poured down her weathered, wrinkled face, she assured me she has a vendor’s license, is fifty nine years old and now lives in a little apartment near the Dollar Tree. She charged me twenty dollars which I was happy to give up.
I suspect the diminutive Gabby is a heartier version of Blanche Dubois, challenged by life she is dependent on the kindness of strangers. She gets rides to and from River Street each day from fellow street vendors or shop workers. The river framed behind her, Gabby recounts Savannah’s history to passersby as she weaves her creations toiling until she earns just enough money to pay the rent.The last time I spoke to Gabby, she told me she was once hit by a car and her sister stole her insurance money. At a loss for words by this latest revelation, I offered to buy her an ice cream cone from the Candy Kitchen. She declined and gave me a gift of a single palmetto rose and tossed some of her leftover hamburger lunch to Noah.
Last Saturday, I saw a police presence on the riverwalk. It was a sultry early morning, there’s an inherent laziness in Savannah, so there weren’t many people watching as a body was pulled from the river. A nervous flight of dragonflies hovered above the scene. “Another jumper, from the Talmadge Bridge,” an unphased authority told us. The body had made its way down the river to the Eastern Wharf and was now ensconced in a red blanket atop a stretcher to be whisked away in a police ambulance. The collective Savannahian temperament trends toward eccentricity and drama. Jumping from a bridge is a grand gesture, singular in intent, informing the world of your determination to leave the known universe. Later that morning Noah and I returned to River Street, already too hot- I bought a sweet tea and noticed my Trombone player delighting a crowd waiting to board the Georgia Queen with a mournful rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
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I don’t know about ya’ll but this might be one of the best descriptions of Savannah, GA I’ve heard in a long time. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, ya’ll, such a sublime city with so many characters. –Valerie M.
