Cuthbert, Georgia

Rather than heading west from Tallahassee, the direct route to Don Jaime in Gulf Shores, I went north to Georgia for a set of four Carnegies in the lower left hand corner of the state and then over to Alabama for three more before ducking down to the coast.  It added a hundred or more miles to my travels, but it was impossible to resist.

I set out from Tallahassee in thirty degree temperatures, a good preparation for my return to Chicago in a week or so.  I needed both pairs of my gloves, the light weight pair good to 45 degrees and a pair of wool gloves for wet conditions, to keep my hands warm.  I had five light layers on my torso, all I had in my reserves other than a lightweight down jacket that I have yet to put to use.  A wool hat under my helmet was my final defense against the cold.  

By the time I reached the Georgia border, twenty miles away, I was able to shed the wool gloves and one layer on my chest. Upon crossing into George the road became the Plantation Parkway, though none were evident through the thick forest.  After three miles I turned onto Jackie Robinson Parkway leading to Cairo, where he was born in 1919.  He only lived  there for a year, as his mother moved his family to Pasadena a year later when her husband abandoned them.

The first of my Georgia Carnegies came in Pelham.  It was the only one of the four I’d visit that remained a library, but there was no going inside as it was closed on Saturdays.  It must be a one-person operation as during the week it closes for lunch between 12:30 and 1:30 in this small town of less than 4,000.  It had a small addition to its side to provide a ramp for handicapped access.  That’s where I sat to take advantage of its WiFi.  

In less than five minutes two squad cars pulled up to investigate me, one containing a young black woman and the other an older white guy.  Neither were friendly in the least, though they didn’t run me off. They wanted to make sure though that I didn’t plan to hang around their town for long.  As the woman ran a check on my driver’s license, the guy wanted to know where I was coming from. He’d never heard of Uruguay.  He had no reaction to my story of the officers in Brasil who went and found me a two-pound jar of peanut butter, quite a contrast to the ways of this pair.

There must a strong suspicion of strangers in these parts as the next day I was halted out on the open road by another police officer.  As he checked my driver’s license a second officer arrived on the scene.  Evidently someone had reported a suspicious-looking stranger passing through and they both responded to the call.  They were a little less hostile than the officers of the day before, asking a little about me—my age, my work and if I had any physical ailments.  All I could complain about were chapped lips.

The cops nonwithstanding it was a most pleasant stretch heading west to Alabama through pecan orchards and acres and acres of cotton, though it was clearly Trump country. It had the bonus of two stray license plates, one more than I found in over five hundred miles in Florida.

I had no opportunity to see if librarians were any more friendly to an outsider than the region’s law officers with the libraries in the next three Carnegie towns not open on Sunday.  The Carnegie in Albany, a veritable city of 77,000, was now home to its Arts Council.  It had a large addition to its rear which didn’t distract from the majesty of its front side. 

The Carnegie in the small town of Dawson to the west was now an events facility for the county historical preservation society.  It had a Little Free Library out front.  

The still magnificent building was flanked by the town fire department and an abandoned house, emblematic of the many boarded-up buildings in the town center.

Cuthbert was of the same size as Pelham and Dawson, but had a little more vibrancy, as it was a college town of a sort—Andrew College dating to 1854, so no connection to Carnegie.  It was the lone Carnegie of this Georgia foursome with a plaque out front tracing its history as a library until it became the town’s Chamber of Commerce in 1997.  As with most it was a women’s club that spearheaded its acquisition.  They raised funds with oyster suppers, a woman-less wedding, turkey dinners and ice cream festivals.  Men dressing in drag were once an attraction in these parts. The owner of the motel I ended up at for the Oscars said he remembered such an event at his church when he was a youth forty years ago.

“Parasite” was the story of the night, winning not only best international feature film, but the best overall film as well as best director and best screenplay.  It brought back fond memories of seeing it at its Cannes world premiere in the three thousand-seat Palais and then three months later in the one hundred-seat Mason’s Theater at Telluride at a pre-fest staff screening.  I might just have to watch it again when I return to Chicago if it is still playing at the Landmark, as Janina has yet to see it.

Now it’s on to Alabama.  How will the police respond to me there?