Intimate Savannah

By Ted Eldridge

A collection of stories of the unique and colorful people and ways of Savannah, Georgia. Shared through the experiences of a Yankee who ventured South to live, each delves below the surface of what a visitor sees to the very heart and soul of  this "Hostess City of the South." What is usually discovered only behind closed parlor doors is revealed with warmth and care as captured below the spreading live oak trees in this little corner of paradise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ted Eldridge
• Release date: Jul 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393610472

Ted Eldridge

Ted Eldridge is a career-long educator, having served as a 6th grade teacher for twelve years, elementary principal for seventeen, university instructor for six, and volunteer teacher in Quito, Ecuador, for two school years. He resides in his home, the Eagle's Nest, high among the live oaks on a little island in Savannah, Georgia.

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Author’s Note:

Names of people and specific locations have been changed, in some instances, to respect anonymity . Conversations have been recreated to reflect the nature of the dialogue, as recalled by the author.

Cover Photograph:

The gate was part of the original Forsyth Park fence. When removed, it was purchased by J.A.P. Crisfield, grandfather of  Spencer, Josie, Pearce and Laura Connerat, and placed at the entrance to the family property, Avon Hall, where it remains today. Photo was taken by Ted Eldridge

Dedicated to my daughters,

Amanda and Kate,

who have brought joy to my life for over 35 years

and continue to be the inspiration

for whatever successes I might have had along the way.

In their triumphs and happiness are mine.

Forward

Each time I have reason to leave Savannah, I feel a resistance. As I make my way out of town, I have this overwhelming desire to turn around and drive again through the oak tunnel of Abercorn Street through Ardsley Park, pass through the buzz of revitalization in the area known as Midtown, and walk through the squares to the River.

I begin to mentally map out a long walk through the Historic District, pick a cobblestone ramp to take me down to River Street and a slow meander through City Market.

The route I will take back to my little carriage house follows White Bluff Road past Windsor Forest Drive, through the two yellow blinking traffic lights. I turn left just past the pecan grove, roll down the tree-shaded lane and onto the gravel road leading to the Green Heron Lodge. I’m back at my little refuge deep in the woods above the Vernon River, in Savannah.

This collection completes a trilogy I hope can offer passage through hidden gates into a more intimate understanding of Savannah and her people.

Through these three books, Dispatches From the Deep South, Savannah Style, and this volume, I hope you, the vacation visitor, the armchair traveler, or the life-long Savannahian will find clear, insightful images of what is different and special about this place, this culture, these people.

TED ELDRIDGE

Old Savannah Style

The low country slides gradually to the ocean along the Georgia coast. The rivers passing through descend only a few feet as they meander for miles on their way to the Atlantic. In wide stretches and on broad bends they are so tranquil they more resemble lakes. The grasses of the marshes that line this maze of waterways serve as indicators of the change in water level. The tide nearly covers their thin tips and then, just six hours later, exposes massive fields of them to their roots in the thick, rich mud and oyster beds.

It is along these rivers, deeply behind the marsh fringe and under the canopy of densely standing pine and live oak, Southern magnolia and sweet gum, amidst the tangle of  wisteria vines and prehistoric ferns, surrounded by old azalea and camellia bushes and thick stands of bamboo, that some of Savannah’s oldest and most elegant homes –and families - quietly reside.

These are not the showy, Disney-esque replicas of what used to be. These are what remain of the real thing – colonial and Greek revival plantation houses with wide center halls from front to back inviting even the softest of breezes. Their comfortably deep wrap-around piazzas once doubled as dining and sleeping porches. Such rambling country places and simple cottages served as summer refuges from the musty, dusty, hot town houses of Savannah. Former slave cabins and carriage houses modified only enough to make them comfortable for living

in the 21st century share land with these homes. They are to be found in such places on old Savannah maps as Vernonburg, Montgomery, Turner’s Rock, Rose Dhu, Vernon View, Isle of Hope... and Beaulieu.

To find these places often requires leaving paved roads for gravel, some no more than sand packed and covered with fallen leaves. Often they are visible from neither the water nor the road.

They are at the heart of Old Savannah. Few outside of a dwindling circle of resident families see them.

The annual Christ Church Parish Choir Christmas party was to be held at the home of James and Martha Rollins. Theirs was one of these treasures in one of these settings, inhabited by one of these families.

A dinner was to begin at six o’clock, after sunset in Savannah in December.

It was dusk when I began to follow the written directions to the Rollins’ home by the Toyota’s map light. I knew the area; but, I did not know which drive would lead back to their home. I assumed at least some of the fifty-or-so choir members’ cars would have to be parked where I could see a few scattered near the road.

The heavy dark created by the high cover of centuries-old forest and the dense undergrowth crowding the road pulled me deeper down this old, ragged road to river level.

I negotiated a sharp curve and saw two breaks in the stretch of an old, Savannah grey brick wall that meandered as far as my headlights could see.

I kept going when I saw neither light nor parked cars down the first lane and turned in at the second drive, between the gates set back from the road’s edge.

This must be it, I thought. A single light was visible way in the distance. As I passed through this entrance and followed the arc of the pebbled drive to the right, dense woods suddenly gave way to broad, manicured lawns on both sides, dressed with occasional prize specimens of live oaks so old and gnarled their gargantuan branches fanned out, reached to the ground, and rose up again. It was a scene found in films set in the Old Deep South. It was breathtaking to see the magnitude of these individual dinosaurs dotting the expanse of these open acres.

Distracted by them as I drove around and near these ancient giants, I suddenly noticed the narrow lane had broadened and presented a circle before a wide stairway leading to the long porch of a mansion. The light I had spotted dimly illuminated the vestibule in the otherwise dark home. There were no parked cars anywhere in view.

Hmmm, I thought. I’m already halfway around the circle – almost to the porch of the house. The noise of my car on the stones of the drive has alerted anyone who might be home that I’m here. If I leave now, the residents could assume there was a prowler on their estate with intentions of breaking in...  or worse.

I turned off the ignition, got out of the car and started up the worn, stone steps.  The broad, expanse of cut glass in the front door was flanked by two narrow, full length windows of the same pattern. Within I could see by the light of the solitary lamp that the center hall was as wide as a full parlor. It was divided into two comfortably large areas by white columns. They continued the architectural element of those lining the piazza outside of the entrance. The room was furnished with groupings of antique chairs and settees, dark tables and amber-shaded lamps, all situated on oriental rugs. A gallery of oil portraits, which I assumed to be generations of family members, lined the walls.

There was no indication that anyone was home. There certainly was no Christmas party getting under way here. I was in the wrong place.

Before I could turn around and – as gracefully as possible - make a speedy departure, out of nowhere appeared a slender woman in a deep blue dress, complementing her short, pure white hair . Without hesitation, even though she couldn’t have known who was on her property, she confidently walked through the center hall to the front door.

It was dark outside. I was a stranger – in jacket and tie, to be sure; but, a stranger – a bearded stranger. And, I was certain she was alone in her home.

She graciously opened the wide door with a grand smile as she stepped back and gestured me in. There was not a hint of concern in her stance or voice. Fear had not crossed her mind. Generations of good manners had.

Hello. Won’t you please come in? she asked in a soft drawl that could have welcomed royalty.

I kept my distance – two steps back from the open door. I was intruding.

Ma’am, I am sorry to have bothered you. I’m a member of the Christ Church Parish Choir. My name is Ted Eldridge. We are having a Christmas party at the home of the Rollinses. I’m afraid I’ve come to the wrong address.

Please come in, she insisted. James and Martha are my neighbors.

There was nothing else to do. I stepped inside and stood with this woman who calmly continued the conversation, clearly wording her directions to make me feel at ease. Yes, the Rollinses live next door. Now, if you drive out the same direction you’ve come in, you can turn in at the next drive to the right – same side of the road.

She continued talking and asking questions about me until I felt like a neighbor visiting her home.

I profusely thanked this remarkably composed and courteous Lady of Savannah as I