Shortly after I began my ill-fated marriage my husband and I decided, at the advice of a couple we had met in the campground where we wild away the summer after our wedding, to head to Sylvania, Georgia to wild away the winter. By �wild away the summer� I mean that we worked the days and spent our evenings and late into the night partying with the folks who were vacationing. Perhaps it was our ability to party that suggested to the older couple that we might find Georgia pleasant. It was almost the end of October (and already freezing) before we finally left WNY for the last time and headed south to Georgia and parts unknown.

Sylvania is a small town northwest of Macon directly off the 301, a highway best known as the drug runner�s highway. Warned before heading south to be careful, since people our age (actually mid-thirties but looking mid-twenties) driving a large motor home was sure to attract the attention of the local and/or state law we were not surprised to be stopped and boarded but after examining the immaculate living space the officer sent us on our way. Having some experience with folks who abuse substances I am aware that cleaning is not usually a priority so cleanliness speaks of, well, cleanliness when it comes to illegal substances.

The town of Sylvania is quite small. It reminded me of the tiny towns surrounding my hometown. The campground we were directed to by our summer friends was, as promised, reasonably priced, but the old woman who managed the place refused to accept credit so I was forced to take my one and only cash advance on my credit card. Little did I know the nature of the �cash advance�. For those of you wise enough to have abstained from the cash advance option let me explain what I learned is the �catch�. Not only do most cards charge a higher interest rate on cash advances they also keep them separate from the �normal� purchases. When payments are applied to your account they are applied to outstanding purchases first and when that is paid (in full) then the cash advance amount is paid. This means that I have not paid a dime towards my original (and single) cash advance (taken almost six years ago) because I am still paying the balance of purchases. My original $300 withdrawal has climbed to over $700 and will likely reach a grand before I am able to pay on it. Quite a little grift they got going don�t you think?

There were, however, two large problems with Sylvania. The first problem was the total lack of employment opportunities and the second (more important) problem was that it was located in a dry county. What this means, for those of you who are not familiar with the term, is that you can not buy liquor anywhere outside a bar all of which are closed on Sundays. Beer was available in the stores but obtaining liquor required a trip over to the neighboring county a significant distance away. Having developed a considerable taste for alcohol by this time and in the habit of consuming up to a liter of 100 proof Southern Comfort or more between the two of us this was not acceptable. Still, with no other prospects and having paid our first months rent we initiated a job search and prepared to make the best of things.

The summer after my wedding I spent working first as a tire and lube tech (hi, welcome to Wal-mart. May I change your oil?), then as an automotive technician (in the same shop as my husband) and since I was now married to an auto mechanic it seemed natural to look for jobs in that field.

There was an ad for a shop outside of town looking for a mechanic. The interview was arranged with the district manager and I went along for the ride (in truth I was never apart from my ex for almost the entire relationship unless I was at work and for much of my marriage I worked side by side with him.) After meeting the two of us he hired us both to work together, him as technician and me as the shop manager. The positions were at the main shop in Savannah however which is how I came to live in a town drenched in history and seemingly tailor made for folks who had developed an appetite for alcohol and socializing.

I was able to sweet talk the old woman into returning the months rent by offering to pay the daily rate for the two days ($20 a day) and appealing to her good side (I suspect she was happy to see us go, my ex�s long hair had that kind of effect on old women). Since I hadn�t enough time to unpack we were on the road southeast in a matter of hours.

We settled in just south of the city at a campground right off the interstate filled with long term campers escaping the cold northern states and contractors from the west working temporary projects. It was the beginning of November and it was starting to get cold at night but compared to the cold we had just left it felt like the very beginning of fall. The campground was located on an old gator farm a fact I was unaware of until I was warned somewhat casually not to take my dog down to the water at night since there had been gator sightings. My husband claimed to have seen one and though I believed him at the time in hindsight I suspect it might have been one of his many stories designed to entertain and pump up his life.

The park road also provided access to high end condo apartments located on the lake front behind the campground and eventually lead to a confrontation between us and one of the condo elite. The speed was set low in the park because of the playground in the center the edges of which were too near the road to allow normal speeds. The folks from the condos felt the limit was unnecessary and so would often speed though the campground on their way too and from their homes. I can not tell a lie, I enjoyed driving the speed limit on my way out of the park with a condoidiote trapped behind me. Sometimes I thought I could actually see the smoke coming out of their ears. Yes I baited them, but in my defense the rule was sensible and for the protection of the few children remaining in the park. It was one of the fuming condoidiots who shook his fist and yelled as we exited one morning who took the time that afternoon to have his girlfriend lean out the window of his red sports penismobile and call me trailer trash. I was so amused I laughed right out loud. I was already looking for a sticker I had seen that showed a trailer with the words �White Trash� and a line through it to place on my RV. I had finally been officially identified as trailer trash (I wonder what she would have thought if she knew that I had two degrees, English and Chemistry, and all my own teeth). I often claimed to my friends how important my dental hygiene was because I was one lost tooth away from being true trailer trash. Yup-Yups are so very high and mighty, I much prefer the company of poor folk. The language of conversation (and topics) is not all that I prefer but the egos are often more realistic.

The auto shop was located on Abercorn. The road that the campground was located on became Abercorn after passing under the interstate so the commute to work was a relatively simple one. Although the shop was officially in Savannah it was still on the outskirts of old Savannah. On our first day as we filled out tax forms and uniform requests we were also informed that we would receive several paid holidays one of which was Saint Patrick�s Day. I had never in my life heard of such a thing. Saint Patrick�s Day was celebrated in my hometown with considerable gusto but a paid holiday, what an idea? The shop itself was fairly new but the folks who ran it were true Savannahians born and raised so they immediately launched into stories of St. Patrick�s Days past and lamenting the changes �civilization� had brought to the celebration. They spoke with unrestrained fondness of the days when they would �dye the river green� and the celebration would consume the city in drunkenness. I so enjoyed listening to the soft round tones of the southern drawl unique to Savannah. The sound is both cultured and common sounding. It is nothing if not cordial though. One of my new employees had a particularly unique style and we hit it off immediately. He had grown up in Savannah and was at the moment �between apartments� and living with his mother. I think he might not have liked her living alone but to protect her pride allowed her to �take care of him� even though I doubt he had any difficulty taking care of himself. He was a hard worker and a kind soul but he also had a stomach for hooch and soon became a drinking companion of ours.

Our new friend also had an interesting hobby. He collected women�s phone numbers. In the top shelf of his toolbox he had dozens of slips of paper with names and numbers scribbled in his or the young ladies hand. I don�t believe he had called even one of them proving to be interminably shy despite his brazenness in obtain the number. He originated the southern sound that will forever accompany �look what I can do�. It is his voice I hear in my head when I think of all the people I solicited to pose with arms in the air and one leg kicked behind whilst saying those famous words so that I could photograph them enshrining them in the album named for him. And it was he who introduced us to River Street.

Across the river from South Carolina the remains of what once was a bustling port has become a site for partying. Actually the drinking establishments have simply moved from their locations near the harbor into the old import/export offices directly overlooking the harbor. Sailors have always patronized such establishments but with the loss of the sailing crowd the alcohol vendors became more creative replacing the beer and whiskey preferred by the sailors with fancy concoctions with even fancier names designed to attract the younger generation of Savannahians. The first establishment we entered, a few doors down from the lot we managed to squeeze our car into, displayed a long row of what appeared to be the machines found in 7-11�s dispensing sugary sweet icy concoctions popular in the hot and sticky months of July and August but left dormant during the northern winters. These were not ordinary Slurpee machines, however, these innocent looking iced drink makers were filled with sweet flavored drinks made effective mood altering substances by the addition of grain alcohol. Bearing names such as �attitude adjustment� and �call a cab� they are the next generation of misbehavior from the town that gave us the mint julep and other such excess.

While I am not attracted to such sweet evils I none the less tried the more palatable sounding �pina colada� which had none of the ingredients I was familiar with but tasted vaguely of the drink I know. Not caring for the music being offered our guide turned on his heel after we received our drinks and proceeded to head for the door.

Now in my hometown we have rules about alcohol outside a bar. You can not leave a bar with a drink in hand; you can not even purchase a six pack of beer to take home with you. People caught drinking beer on the sidewalk would be arrested. This of course is only enforced downtown. The Yup-yups can wander their neighborhoods beer in hand completely unmolested, just another fine example of this world�s double standard. Word to the wise, if you can manage it, be born rich the rules of behavior are so much looser for you.

So as we headed for the door I attempted to guzzle my drink effectively giving myself a heck of a brain freeze. Our host, however, helped himself to a plastic cup located conveniently at the exit, poured his drink into it and left the glass amongst the others stacked on the table set near the door seemingly for that purpose. He then stepped brazenly out into the street. Exchanging incredulous glances my ex and I followed suit and casually strolled along the cobbled street as our friend explained about the history of drink in Savannah and the habit that folks there had long practiced amid the many squares in the center of the neatly lain out old town. Always have a drink to go. This doesn�t just apply to strolling revelers I will have you know. Savannah, what must be the drinking capital of the world, is also a dry county, so one must make a liquor run several times a week (or one really big run) more than a half an hour through winding roads to the next county over. The shop, located on the county line offers a fine selection of alcohol and, if you like, a glass of ice to go, so one does not have to wait till they are all the way home to enjoy their tasty liquid beverages.

I suppose we were destined to crash and burn in Georgia. We were northerners (and my ex was a bit of an ass � more so than I originally thought) and the combination of that and alcohol meant that he would eventually piss off the lead tech and get himself fired (officially he quit but they would have fired him if not for me) effectively getting us booted from Sweet Savannah. Two days later (almost one month exactly from our arrival in Georgia) we left her moss covered trees and spectacular squares and set out for California for the first time. California here I come�.!

I wish you Peace

~alison~

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