I turned 66 two days after the election.
In Athens, warm and humid September weather had stretched through the entire month
of October and even extended its reach into the second week of November. Any hint of
autumnal relief in the form of cool breezes or soothing rains has been fleeting to
nonexistent in most of North Georgia during the most anxious fall season that I ever
remember.
On the Friday after the election, the North Oconee River was quiet and undisturbed. Temperatures, once again, broke 80 degrees. I was a bit comforted to learn that I was
walking through an area that, according to the signage, was the “Piedmont Prairie.” I
had never heard of such a land classification but was grateful that, at the age of 66, I
had once again learned something new. There was no “bustle in the hedgerow,” in this
stretch of the Piedmont Prairie, no sense of small creatures, migratory birds or even
insects making final preparations for a winter that seems to have been postponed or
even cancelled. Even the river itself, murky and languid, seemed empty of life. Maybe
the wildlife had picked up on the exhausted and solemn vibes of the humans always on
the periphery of or pushing through their ecosystem. Or perhaps, when sensing a
change in their environment that they don’t yet understand, simply remaining quiet and
paying close attention to what happens next is hard-wired into their DNA. Life is always
dangerous for all sentient beings; it is the new, unforeseen threats though, that frighten
and bewilder us the most. Every trip to Athens is a personal revelation, as I struggle to absorb changes that have occurred since my last visit—many of these changes, I always learn, took place months or even years before I finally notice them.
Driving down Prince Avenue, the church of my childhood, Young Harris Methodist, was
gone—apparently another victim of a Culture War schism that has ripped the mother
church, and this nation, apart. The traffic, even during a non-home football game
weekend, was worrisome, another reminder, in case anyone needed reminding, that the
secrets of Athens’s charms are no longer closely guarded, and the uniquely quirky
qualities of the Classic City are in risk of being buried in an avalanche of development.
I missed the destruction of the sui generis Varsity—an Athens icon if there ever was
one—by just a few days. Apparently the closed restaurant’s date with the wrecking
ball caught even Athenians unawares, and the rubble—a large section of smashed red
awning was the only thing I could connect to the building that had stood at South
Milledge and West Broad for 60 years—will no doubt soon be cleared before my
next visit, as plans move ahead for yet another mixed-use development.
But some things in Athens never seem to change, including the invisible borders
between the Black and white neighborhoods. 45 years ago, I, along with three
roommates, spent my junior year in a cinder block quadplex at the corner North Billups
and Glenhaven, which is still, seemingly, a line of demarcation between the two
communities. As part of our combined $139 monthly rent, our landlords, an ancient white couple, graciously allowed us to use their clay tennis court wedged between the
quadplex and their home on Hill Street. The Black VFW, which was below my bedroom
window on Glenhaven, was available after-hours for a “look the other way” purchase of
a $2 six-pack of Schlitz late on weekend nights when the rest of Athens had shut down. The tennis court is gone, but the VFW still proudly stands.
A month ago, I was invited by Clarke Central High School to participate in the reunion of
the school’s inaugural 1970 football team, which was formed when the legacy Black and
white high schools were—against the wishes of many in both communities—forced to
merge. An immensely talented squad—driven by racial divisions exacerbated by a
racist head coach—fell short of its goals in its first season.
Fourteen of the estimated 50 players from that team made it back to the reunion. The
attendees were split equally between white and Black former players, but like all old
warriors, they reconnected with a natural ease that erased the years that had passed
since they last spoke to each other.
The former players were all in their early 70s and in various forms of health, some
limping from injuries suffered on the gridiron over a half-century ago. So, it was no
surprise when the party broke up before halftime, and the players left the stadium, but
not before walking gingerly up the concrete steps of the stands, saluted by the marching
band and the cheer— perhaps the final ones that many of these former teammates
would ever hear—from the crowd. In the parking lot they laughed, shared some final
memories, hugged and wished each other the best before driving off into the warm
October night.
It is memories like this shared sacrifice and brotherhood that must sustain us as winter
approaches and we march into a future that few of us anticipated and none of us can
predict with any degree of confidence. Hold tight to these memories, because they
reflect the very best in human nature. But it is also best to take a lesson from nature—observe, be mindful, and always aware of your surroundings as an uncertain new year unfolds.
Mark Clegg is the author of The Crimson and Gold: Football and Integration in Athens,
Georgia.
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