Transition to Georgia

Life on Southside after 1975 grew routine. What to do? I went back to school. I tried to find something that interested me. It seemed as though nothing was happening. When I looked around the room at night it was full of friends but there was no conversation. Blah. I grew restless. One day I thought up the idea of a beach vacation with my friend Phil who was a quadriplegic. We came up with a plan to go to Panama City for a week. I had a friend with a house for rent, and he had two friends who agreed to drive him and stay there with us. I talked another friend into driving me to Auburn where we met up.

We did have a blast. We went to St Joe and stayed all day on the deserted seashore. We caught crabs and drank beer after beer. I was out on break so I had no other thoughts or worries. At the end of the week, Phil talked me into going to Macon to see it before going back to Birmingham. When I did I fell in love at first site.

The first night there we stayed on Orange Street in a house that was built in the early to mid 1800's. The ceilings were very high, and it had huge white columns on the front porch. It was much older and more elegant than anything I had seen in Birmingham. And there was a whole town full of places just like it.

Macon was truly magical and romantic. I felt something there that I had never felt. I felt the life of the city, the soul of the city, and the rhythm of the city. This new rhythm was very different from Birmingham. You can imagine the feel of Birmingham, with its history of firehoses and marches, the letter from the Birmingham jail, the bombings and intimidation. Macon was much more relaxed and very pretty in a European sort of way. It rose up on the bluff above the river, with little cobblestone side streets and carriage houses. Very quaint. The next night I rode out to Fort Valley in the countryside with one of Phil's friends named Lauren. The moon was full and we drove past the pecan tree orchards to her little house. I became enamored of everyone I met there. Somehow, I thought, I must live here.

Because Phil was a quad, he was getting money from Vocational Rehabilitation to go to law school at Mercer University. Since I had experience as a rehabilitation nurse, I qualified to be his attendant. He worked out an agreement with his Voc Rehab counselor to pay me a salary to take care of him. I worked out a transfer to Mercer to finish my bachelor's degree in my self designed major. At that point I had already been going to college for about 5 years, and had my RN plus the time I spent at Auburn and at UAB. I ended up having to go another 2 years to finish, but it was worth it. I was so poor I qualified for a Basic Educational Opportunity Grant. That's right kids, back then they gave you the money to go to school.

So I went back to Birmingham and finished the fall quarter, got everything in place, and moved to Macon in 1977 I think. At that point I had no income and no vehicle (having sold my truck to use the money to live on).

Phil and I rented a Victorian gingerbread house on Arlington Avenue. The house was next door to Paragon- the booking agency that booked all the Capricorn recording artists. Down the street was the house that Wet Willie lived in previously. The Allman Brothers Big House was a few blocks away on Vineville Avenue.

We used to go the the H and H to eat soul food. The H and H is home to owner Mama Louise who used to cook for the Allman Brothers. The H and H is still there, and you can see the painting of Dwayne Allman playing his guitar in heaven on the wall. The H and H is on Cotton Avenue where the Capricorn Recording studio was located. I was sorry to have missed all the action. Everybody had some connection to the Brothers and Sisters.

Phil did go to law school, and I went to Mercer. I loved Mercer. The faculty was liberal even though the student body was not, but I was a little older, and so had a different group of friends through Phil and through some of the faculty.

There was so much going on there, and I was introduced to all the things that have made a big difference in my life and how I live my life. With that, I will close for now, savoring the lovely memories of sweet Macon life.

Beyond- The Journey Continues

I know I've been gone a while. It has been a year of hard work, which is paying off now! My original intention was to write about and explore the 70's in Birmingham. I have done so, and enjoyed every minute of the reminiscing. My children loved the stories and have encouraged me to continue the saga, even though my travels took me to Georgia and back. So I am going to pick up the thread and move on through the wastelands of the late 70s, and into the 80's in Macon, Georgia. The music was getting harder to come by, although there were some bright spots. More to follow...

The Wooden Nickel

I would like to tell some stories about the Wooden Nickel, just because there is a reunion next weekend. I am going, and hope that I recognize someone. I used to go there almost every day during the mid 70s. I can't remember going there to hear bands, but at some point I think that bands started playing there. I usually went there in the afternoons and early evenings. It was a great place to drink a beer. I think my best story is about the day they cut down the trees and I went off the deep end. I remember very clearly sitting at the bar and drinking myself into oblivion. The rest is a blur.


Otherwise, I was pretty well behaved and unbesotted for most of my visits there. Maybe after the reunion I will recollect something more memorable and interesting.


The Wooden Nickel (which was very laid back and earthy) morphed into The Nick (edgey and grungy) at some point while I was living in Macon. The building is still there but the vibe is no longer the same. I am glad it wasn't just abandoned or torn down. It has resiliance just like some of its patrons, those of us that survived.

Red Volkswagon Bus and Adventures on the Gulf Coast

The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is just another reminder that we had paradise just a few hours away from the Southside of Birmingham, a paradise that has been slipping away for the last 30 years.

I recall: In very early childhood, my mother would pack me into the back seat of the car, and my parents would drive down to Ft. Walton late at night to a house on the bay. We went often so they could deep sea fish and relax. The beach getaway was a natural counterpart to the stiff, churchy, regular life-style in Alabama. Happy times those! The house was a free perk that came along with my father's job, so when he changed jobs, we had to go elsewhere. We started going to Destin.

My most favorite childhood memories are of the pure white beaches at Destin. Destin was completely undeveloped back in the early and mid 60s. There were only two motels that I remember, the Cornado and the Silver Sands. We always stayed at the Silver Sands.

I can recall in detail ocean swims in pure azure waters, softly lapping waves and purest white- crunchy sand that squeaked when you walked on it; the wondrous swimming pool that felt especially good at night- the lights in the pool, and the feeling of being suspended in that heavenly place or practicing dives over and over and trying the most daredevilish back dives, somersaults and even backwards somersaults! The shuffleboard court and the horseshoes court, the fresh seafood for dinner and the strange, strange music that I found on the radio- must have been New York cosmopolitan. Sometimes we drove over to Panama City and went to the amusement park or to play Goofy Golf.

I could go on, but I was going to write about the last road trip in the VW bus.

The VW bus was purchased in 1976 after I sold my camper truck, before I moved to Macon. I made some custom curtains for the bus and we were ready to roll! It was a perky red and white minibus camper- a little late on the curve but still a sought after sign of a bohemian lifestylye nonetheless. It had all the amenities- a little stove, a sink, a refrigerator, beds, and a port-0-potty.

We had a friend who owned a piece of property at Laguna Beach in Panama City and we were going to park the bus there and camp out. Panama City Beaches were gorgeous, but the area was more redneck than Riviera. There were lots of homes on the beach, along with small motels, assorted restaurants and bars, and lots of trashy touristy attractions.

I had been going to the gym for a while at that point, and I was at my most buff. I was hanging out in my bikini, just enjoying the atmosphere and setting up camp when we were ousted from the property. Evidently the rules are that you only stay inside a place, not out in the yard (the trailer was rented to someone else who did not want us to stay- imagine)

Ok, ok, so we moved on. It turned out to be even better though. We drove down to a park at St. Joe where there was no one in sight. The beach went on forever, and we found ourselves in perfect solitude amongst the dunes and sea oats. Thousands of sea shells washed up on the beach. The only drawback was the no-see-ums (tiny biting bugs that would eat you alive). We had to get inside the bus as soon as the sun started to go down to escape them. I felt so very much alive and in perfect peace there at St. Joe in the outdoors.

I must point out that we were in a 60s VW bus. You practically had to drive it like the Flintstones with your feet, using every muscle in your body to strain it forward. Happily we did not have to climb hills, so it ran along smoothly in its VW puddling way. It had a huge steering wheel and a long handled gear shift that was impossible to manage. It was always a roll of the dice everytime you shifted- kind of like a key that has to be tilted or jiggled in a certain way to get the door open. Riding or driving in one can't be described- it is a matter of feeling (and smelling). Ah, such sublime joy.

It is hard to recognize the areas that we used to visit on the Gulf now. I still am shocked when I see huge high rise condos and million dollar houses on the beach. There are a lot of pretty places like Seaside that want to look like they are not bespoiling the landscape. At least up until now the beaches have remained beautiful, in spite of erosion and construction.

I hope that the Gulf is not destroyed. It is still a bit of paradise just a few hours away from Birmingham.

Allman Brothers (and Sisters)

I was priviledged to go to the homecoming show at the Macon Auditorium to see the Allman Brothers perform for the extended family last Friday night. It was also the grand opening of the Allman Brothers museum- The Big House- in Macon, Georgia.

What does this have to do with Southside? Well, after my Southside days began to wither and wane, I met up with someone who asked me to come to Macon to visit. When I saw Macon- especially the area around Orange Street where I spent the first night in an antebellum mansion with 18 foot ceilings- I knew I had to move there, so I did. I arrived just past the peak of the brothers, and that is a whole 'nother story.

I was a fan of the Allman Brothers when I lived on the Southside. As I may have said before, the first time I heard them, I didn't know who they were but I knew they were fabulous. The music was instantly captivating. I never lost interest in them, and with the relatively recent addition of Derek Trucks to the band, they are still compelling.

Needless to say, the concert was great, the museum a must see for all Allman Brothers fans. The Big House has been restored, and the displays are lovely. In addition to being a musical hub, the museum will partner with local schools and other community folks to provide musical instruments, musical education, etc. to those who may not otherwise have the means to explore the arts.

I think that the lingering essence of what was happening in Macon in the early 70's was part of the attraction for me, albeit not on a conscious level. You can still feel the magic there. Really.

The Last Rafting Trip

I mentioned before that whitewater rafting was one of my activites in the mid-seventies. We knew no one doing this kind of thing, and had to search out everything we needed to do it- without the internet, of course! The raft had to be ordered from out West- from Montana I think. The huge gray rubber raft was like a creature from another time and place, far, far away.


In addition to the raft itself we had to find life jackets- they were beautiful, lightweight and bright yellow. They were nothing like the heavy orange canvas lifejackets I wore as a child on the lake. This was a new exciting time for outdoor gear. I used to ponder and ponder the REA catalogue as if I were studying a sacred text. The oars were also lightweight and nothing like the heavy wooden oars used for canoeing. At the time, plastic river sandals were hard to find, but we finally scored some. They were just right for protecting your feet, and the rubbery texture was essential for jamming your feet under the sides of the raft to help anchor you and keep you inside and seated. Then you could wedge yourself and use the leverage to increase the power of your stroke with the oar. I learned a most valuable lesson on life on that raft: "Keep your oars in the water". Think about it.

So off we went to try it out. We never attempted the Locust Fork of the river nearest to us in Birmingham, since it was only navigable after heavy spring rains. We went off to North Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee to raft. I think we did Section 4 of the Chatooga River first. It was challenging- it took all day, and there were Class III and IV rapids. We had no guide, and no real idea of what was around each bend so to speak, but we were foolhardy and adventurous enough to go for it. The river in that section alternates between rapids and calmer stretches. Some areas have to be walked around. There was also a deadly rapid that had claimed many lives- sucking people down in a hole that held them until they drowned. It was off limits, and we abided by the rule. We made it down the Chatooga just fine, and at the end of the day paddled blissfully across the placid lake back to my truck/camper. Ah, what a feeling!

The Nantahala River is nice and easy compared to the Chatooga, so after getting that one under our belts we tried out the Ocoee. The Ocoee doesn't mess around. You get on the section of the river with the Class III's and IV's and you don't stop or even know what has hit you until you come out the other end. It was killer, and also didn't take as much time as the Chatooga. The Chatooga is nicer in that the scenery is gorgeous, and you are rafting through a wilderness area. The Ocoee runs next to the road a lot of the way, so it is different- but the ride is so wild you don't know or care if you are in the wilderness or in the middle of Manhattan- there's no time to think about it.

So we went back to the Ocoee a lot and took along unsuspecting friends to enjoy the experience with us. We needed a 4 person crew for each trip. We also camped out, enjoyed the outdoors and explored the areas nearby. We spent every available minute outdoors in those days.

The last trip was like any other. We brought along our Ananda Marga friend and crashed and plummeted down the river as usual. By this time we knew the river and where the big hidden rocks were and knew how to avoid them and also get the best ride. As we were nearing the Class III rapid near the bridge, we were coming up on a big hidden rock and for some reason we hit it too dead on. The front of the raft rose straight up and I remember thinking "this is gonna hurt". It threw all of us out backwards into the rapids, then hurled us down an 8 foot drop.

Oh yeah, another good thing about the Ocoee is that there were usually other people around- sometimes watching from the road, and sometimes fellow travelers who were also rafting, canoeing or kayaking.

I distinctly remember going under for the third time, thinking "this is it", when a kayaker yanked me up to the surface. I was happy to be alive, and then I looked back at the bridge and saw where my raft was- wrapped around the pylon with tons of water rushing at it, pinning it to the pylon. It was hopeless to try to get it, and we all knew right then and there that that was the end of the rafting trips.

We had done it, had mastered it, and the river had reclaimed the vessel for itself and we respected that.

Worbs just worbs

I started thinking about the expressions we used back in the 70's. They were far out man. It's a gas!


There were many ways to try to get across what was going on- like the term mind expansion! or that we were blown away, ripped, tripped out, tripping, freaking, freaked out, gorked, zonked, blasted, high, gassed, juiced, bombed, righteous, flying, turned on, rushing, out of sight, groovin, in the groove, digging it (can you dig it?), mellowed out, stoned, stoned out of your/my/our gourd(s), smashed, flipped out. You were either tuned in or tuned out, turned on or square, on the bus or off the bus. You made the scene, and were part of the happening, the teach-in, the love-in, the be-in, or the sit-in. You were blown away or maybe you just split. You might be ragged on or hassled by the unhip or by anyone or anything's bad vibes. Good vibrations, however, were a magnet. You could grok the vibes, man and just groove with it. The hipsters became hippies. The beatniks became beatles.

We snorted, toked, bogarted and stepped on various substances. It was cool to drop. It was also ok to drop out. It was a bad scene when someone got busted. Uncool to get caught holding. Some people were narcs!



The term psychedelic was invented to describe the effect of mind expanding drugs. It was easy to go over the edge- spaced out, freaked out,uptight, bummed or bummer, bad trip, rip off, and downer described the trip or tripper when it was not going so well.

We were in a new game with new bags to get into or out of. Hang ups were to be avoided, hanging out was what you did. You did your THING.



Words that referenced women were also curious. Old lady is my favorite- at once hip and quaintly precious. We were chics and birds, too. Not very liberating. Women were also heads, but that term was reserved as a reference to men only. Hmm. We wore granny dresses, Native American beads and love beads, macrame vests and bags, bell bottoms, India cloth shirts, embroidered clothes galore, and costumes of all imaginable types.



Things were hip, cool, rich, far out, freaky, kinky, geaky, weird, strange and free. Our minds were to be open- thus the term head. We tried to set our souls free. We let our hair grow and refused to wear bras or make up (didn't need it back then anyway). We raised our consciousness. We protested and marched. We took to the streets. Theatre and politics were one. Guerilla theatre! Bring it back!

We had the Gong Show- have you ever seen it? Compare to Idol. Says it all.

We had black lights and strobe lights. We painted everything Day-glo colors. We flashed the peace sign and posted the peace sign.

You know what is striking about the birth of all these new ways of expression? The only way to say love is still love. All you need, after all, is love.