You Have Arrived....

Your eyes are closed tightly, and you hear the jangling of harness and gear on horses. They knicker and whiney to each other as they plod along. In the distance, the hollow thumping of the wagon wheels, as it lumbers heavily over the Georgia clay roads. The twitter of the birds awake before daylight. You open your eyes, and feel the chill of the early morning on your face, combined with the hot steam from your tin coffee mug wrapped snuggly in a scrap of wool as not to burn your hands. The sunlight filters through the thick overhang of tree branches woven together like an amazing tapestry worked by unseen hands. The blacksmith has just begun to heat his metal, and in a moment his hammer will ring with a clear resonance, like the bells of the town church. A young lad from the carpenter’s shop is sweeping out the last nights shavings, and carefully eyeing wooden blocks to be used for the day’s projects. The gunsmith’s shop is open and ready for business, the Mercantile already bustling with ladies looking for goods, and gentlemen sending letters, and discussing politics in hushed tones. The time would come….

Walk down the sandy lane towards the Farmhouse, and sneak around back to the porch. There are yellow grits, plain and unseasoned, in a large bowl. Mounds of white-shelled hard boiled eggs heaped nearby. Salt-cured ham sliced thickly, jams, jellies, fresh bread, creamy butter, and more hot coffee. Help yourself… we don’t mind!

After you’ve eaten, and jaw-jacked a bit with the locals, head up towards the impressive courthouse square. Although the local sheriff may or may not be around, chances are, he and his Deputy will take care of whatever comes up. Across the way, the schoolmaster, looking stern and knowledgeable, waits for the children to come slowly to their lessons. The young lads and lasses, some being bribed by a sweetmeat, reach the Door of Learning, and enter therein. All around, the town comes to life, bustling swiftly by, hither and yon, as quickly as a Southern town can care to mosey.

And the tavern? Over yonder, just on the edge of town, life stirs inside. One might not be so sure of that fact. Considering the doors closed at eleven last evening, it is a wonder that someone is up by mid-morning!

I come back around to my porch, in the clean swept yard, under the sparse trees. Just a few short steps from the porch, 2 heavy iron pots, filled with lye soap, and bees-candle wax are warming from the cedar wood fires underneath. The washtubs are brimming with cold fresh water, and a chunk of soft lye soap waits on the board nearby. That’s when the Sheriff arrives, and serves me with a summons to appear in Court in just a few short moments. Apparently, he’s been hunting me, while I’ve been hunting him to collect the prisoner’s laundry.

Welcome to Westville ----