Before the dejection set in.
By Tom Poland, A Southern Writer
TomPoland.net
May 2011. Jennifer’s email cut to the chase “We want you to write a play for Georgia’s Official Folk Life Play, Swamp Gravy.”
“Me, write a play,” I replied. “I don’t even go to plays.”
“That’s okay. We love how you write about the rural South.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“We’ll walk you through the steps.”
Being a novice playwright wasn’t in the cards, but I changed my mind because the folks in Colquitt, Georgia, do something special. When an elder dies, it’s as if a library burns down. So each year the Colquitt Miller Arts Council records older folks’ memories. Recordings turn into transcripts and a writer turns them into a play.
And swamp gravy? That colorful designation comes from mixing this and that from the pantry and refrigerator to create a meal. Think making do.
I spent the summer of 2011 making do, trying to learn to write a play. The compensation was good, but the money didn’t matter. I wanted to be part of preserving the older set’s memories.
The transcripts arrived.
I went to work.
To see my play I drove to Bainbridge, Georgia, to my hotel. From there it a short drive up Highway 27 to Cotton Hall Theater. The drive from Irmo to Bainbridge, however, stretched 335 miles and six hours. Along the way windshield time took me back years.
Spanish moss drapes pecan trees in South Georgia. It made me think of the pecan orchard across the road from my sister’s, Mom’s pecan pies, and a crepe myrtle that we hung Spanish moss on in youth. The moss promptly vanished.
Pines and signs. Saw plenty of those too. Hazlehurst, Baxley, Cochran, Eastman, and McRae. They brought Dad’s old chainsaw sales territory to mind.
Cotton fields aplenty. First among my memories are the stories Mom told of picking cotton. Her dad held her and her siblings out of school to pick cotton. She said picking made her hands hurt. A tinge of resentment colored her words, and I picked something myself. Mom felt cotton hurt her education. She never got over it best I could tell, though I know, too, that she and others played in big piles of cotton as kids. Some put rocks in their cotton sacks … to make more money but it wrecked the gin.
Among my cotton memories, moonlight . . . I was traveling a back road one night. Moonlight bathed a cotton field in liquid silver and thousands of cotton puffs glowed with unworldly brilliance. That led to another memory of Mom’s, a more joyous recall. They’d pick cotton on full moon nights and make a party of it with cookies, “pulled candy” (taffy), popcorn, and peanuts.
The play began. I sat in the audience, a complete unknown. My play, Solid Ground, told the story of Lee, who lost his only son early in life. Embittered, he remained the only child of Miss Laura, his mother, to never accept the Lord. Later, Lee raises Milton, the young son of a friend who dies in a barn fire. He sends Milton to college as if he were his own. The boy grows up to become a success and realizes his “adoptive’ dad never accepted the Lord. He owes Lee much and has a heart-to-heart talk with him. Lee finds solid ground during a sermon and is baptized before his mother dies. That lifted a burden off Milton and Miss Laura. At the play’s conclusion the emcee asked me to come to the stage where I got a round of applause.
I began my long drive back. Near Climax, Georgia, a diamondback over 8 feet long lay across my half of the road. Ahead a red pick-up backed my way. The driver had run over the snake and was coming to claim it. I remember that rattler more than anything.
I made it home elated over my playwright debut. It wouldn’t last. Several seasons passed. No encore. All this time Dejection was waiting to pounce on me. At long last Dejection pounced. Fifteen year gone by I’m still not over it, but Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry said something that’s true. “A man’s got to know his limitations.” I know one limitation, at least. Others to come I’m sure.