New Year

Happy New Year:

All the best to all of you. New Year's Eve has never been one of my favorite holidays. It's really a bureaucrat's holiday, marking nothing but a change in the keeping of records. May as well celebrate the due-date for the year's taxes, seems to me. But whatever; people seem to like it, so good on you.

This has been a most interesting trip down Georgia way. I forget, when I'm elsewhere, how fine a state Georgia is. Nowhere else I've ever been has the same potential for adventure and joy. Partially it's the terrain: the misty mountains in the north, the alligator-haunted swamps in the south, the crisp sea islands with their wild horses, Savannah with her Spanish moss. Partially it's the people, and not just the Southerners. The clash of cultures between transplanted "Sunbelters" and traditional Southerners keeps things interesting.

Of particular moment are the folks from New York. I encountered one of these new transplants and his wife. It was an older fellow with silver white hair, a black leather jacket, a black foreign luxury car, and a New York accent. "Hey, look at this!" he called to his wife, who was warming herself in a fine fur coat. He pointed at me and my hat. "I didn't see anybody who looked like this when I was down in Texas!"

"Mister," I said quietly, for I was walking past him, "I'm from right here." I pointed at the ground.

"Really?" his wife asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Fifteen years ago, where you're standing was a cattle pasture; and this hat belonged to my grandfather."

I tipped it to her, and left the two of them standing quietly in what must have been a complete departure from their normal condition. Honestly: to move down to Roswell, Georgia, twenty-five miles from where I grew up, and make fun of my grandfather's hat.

Well, that fellow got off easy. I'm a nice guy, as you all know. I was talking to a man I admire greatly -- a tall, thin gentleman of eighty years, and a master of the craft of making hats. He learned the craft as a youth from another hatter, who died while this gentleman was in the army overseas. I bought a hat from him, in fact, but we'll get to that.

I told him about my troubles down in Roswell, and he agreed that the whole city has become a wasteland. I relate his comments as I recall them:

"I was down in Roswell recently," he said. "Fellow got behind me, blowing his horn and waving his fist. I pulled over at a gas station and he hopped out, so I got out. He came running up cursing me in his Yankee accent, said I'd cut him off back there. 'Mister,' I said, 'I sure do apologize if I did, but I never saw you.'

"He said, 'I ought to beat you half to death. I just wish I'd brought my gun so I could shoot you.'

"Well," the old gentleman continued, "I said he really should have brought it, as I'd certainly brought mine. I opened my coat. At that, the fellow turned white, ran back to his car, and raced off."

When I was a boy, the road signs on the way into the state read: "Welcome to Georgia -- State of Adventure!" They were only telling the plain truth.