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Savannah side stories --


                  The thing about story-telling is how much of truth to put on the page, how much of imagination?  Do I write about an ignorant tourist and the Spanish moss boa she wore? red bugs, chiggers, and clear nail polish remedies?  Or Cap'n Jack Sparrow as he piloted The Blue Pearl?  Do I write about the upstairs rooms,  the red Asian one hung with gold? or down the hall, the peacock-blue walls and finely quilted spreads on the twin beds of another?  Or do I spend time on the suite below? the sweeping four-poster with its stately canopy? the peace and majesty of the space? the grand comfort of it all?  Or is it the journey I should write of -- the violent U-turns on State Hwy. 95, the merry-go-round of pop-poets on tour, mascara wands rolling the aisles of our 15-seat Enterprise van?  Shall I call it our "Star Ship" and give us a "Star Date" or leave the hard sounds of four-letter outbursts to some other tale?   

                  Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.  Sometimes the thousand words that spring to mind have little to do with "story" -- this story, at any rate.  Take, for instance, the steps and iron railings in the photo on the far right.  What can't be read into that image is the relaxed grace of those stairs as they turn with a southern belle's sway to fan, like the edge of a billowing skirt, an old sidewalk's surface.  What can be read, with a little imagination, is how the curve of the handrail seems like an arm bending around to welcome folks in.

[to be continued]













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