The South is a Neolithic Fort

It was in a Steak ‘n Shake in Georgia, standing in a swirl of moderns, with their faux tribal tattoos and piercings, that a small girl protectively held the weathered fingers of her grandfather. He stood erect in his worn overalls, both hands slightly curled, as if gripping the wooden handles of a plow, looking out of place.

The image struck me that all of the people, the building, and the parking lot were intruders and interlopers, a mirage. That the old man was standing in the same pose, in the same place in a tobacco plot, hands gripped just so around the plow handles, two mules out front and a granddaughter by his side.Plow handles 001

The South is like this. Sometimes it is a Neolithic fort in the landscape. A slight rise in the ground indicating the presence of a past for those who can read it. A place full of relics and behaviors that are deemed out of place in a culture easily bored and distracted. It is not a landscape easily read by the digital world or understood by soundbite.

It has a people, black and white, who are looked down on and discarded because they have not adapted quickly enough. Modest people who don’t know that a paved parking lot has more value than a small field of their own. It has an agrarian soul and a heart that still beats.

This South is a run-down home, chickens scratching around the yard. Its roosters crow at all hours, riling the neighbor from up north who built a McMansion next door, an outsider who did not know pigs can stink. It is a make-do world where fences get built out of scaffolding discarded by a now defunct warehouse, a world often stubbornly ignorant of the rewards of nine to five and cultures bought and traded on Netflix.

It is a world that doesn’t easily discard anything, even the burdens of the past. A world easily mocked with sitcom humor, by a world in which advanced degrees in identity politics measure a culture to the failed standard of a “New Man” emerging.

Drive down the backroads of our valley and find gatherings of men sitting on shaded porches in the midday heat. Surrounded by well-tended gardens, with chickens scratching and kids in the dirt, they talk sedition and plot the downfall of the moderns. An elaborate plan called Waiting Them Out. Meanwhile, they buy nothing new, grow their own food, slaughter their own chickens, hunt their own game, and grip the handles of the plow.

Join them if you wish … or not, they don’t care.

 

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9 thoughts on “The South is a Neolithic Fort

  1. Wow, Cousin! I’ve been listening to an audio version of “The Autobiography of Mark Twain” Vol 1 & 2. You remind me so much of Him!

      • The first two hundred pages of the first volume are a technical relating of research credits and methods of how they verified and organized the huge mass of his works, notes, dictation and supporting articles, letters, news clippings,etc he had accumulated.
        Once you get into his actual stuff it really gets amazing.
        🙂

  2. Have to second Cindy’s assessment. You weave the piece in a nice circle. Reading the residual signs of vanishing past landscapes is a disappearing art.

    The quibbler on my shoulder wants to offer one amendment – in the forth paragraph you list only two shades of melanin. But I believe if you want to truly honor the past of place you may want to include some shades of red. If anything the predecessors to black and white had an even more intimate relation with the land. And they too shared a fate of being looked down upon and discarded. If they successfully play a hand of ‘Waiting Them Out’ then you and I lose as well.

    Here’s wishing for a place for all.

  3. Pingback: Telling new stories: from eco-modernism to eco-populism | Small Farm Future

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