A Dystopian Tour and a Vicarious Excursion
Marietta, GA
April 9, 2020
A couple times this week, Alexander and I ignored the wardens, avoided the searchlights, and scaled the wall. We decided to leave the house, and take a drive. We did so to exercise not only his skills, but his car. And to change our scenery.
Our elder son will soon be regularly traveling the trail between Atlanta and Nashville, so he needs to stay sharp. And his buggy needs to exercise. After idling its horses most of the last month, we resolved this week to put them under the whip.
With traffic presumably light, we decided this was a good time to practice shifting lanes and keeping our distance among attention-deprived idiots moving at high-speed.
Plus, we were anxious to get out of the house, and curious to see the city as empty and eerie as it has been since Sherman’s army set off for Savannah. Or the morning after the Falcons decided to social distance themselves from a locked-down Super Bowl victory.
Nearby roads were less crowded than normal, but by no means empty. Local streets on that weekday afternoon resembled those of a typical Sunday morning. But the Interstates were more popular than we’d anticipated.
Merging onto the highway, we realized that many Atlantans instinctively interpreted “shelter-in-place” as “remain-in-traffic.” And there they were, safely ensconced in their multi-lane natural habitats. But, unlike most Mondays, they were moving.
Electric signs spanned the highway, nannying us to drive safe and wash our hands. With reduced traffic, driving safe was easier than usual. But Alexander’s car has no sink, so we were unable to obey the second command.
We drove toward the center of the city. Vacant venues, empty buildings, and abandoned streets were striking, particularly as we recalled that they were supposed to have been packed that day for the Final Four. Georgia Tech looked like the dance floor at an eighth grade prom. A few joggers and some stray derelicts were the only signs of life in the otherwise deserted dystopia of downtown Atlanta.
The next day we drove north, away from the city and toward Kennesaw Mountain. That direction, the highway was more full, mostly with 18-wheelers hauling supplies to refill supermarket shelves or replenish front door stoops.
Off the Interstate, we passed the “mountain”, with its historic battlefields and abundant parks. We were tempted to enjoy the pleasant paths thru open fields, or the more taxing trails up the crest of the ridge. Unfortunately, they were closed, in the spirit of Mencken’s Puritans…afraid that someone, somewhere might have a good time.
Before skirting the mountain and its monuments, Alexander drove us to the house we last owned, and in which he first lived. Like many places to which we return after almost two decades, this one seemed to have shrunk. That is no doubt because our current house is larger. And despite our previous residence being in San Francisco, where everything is smaller…except expenses and homeless populations.
That drive was as far north as I’ve been since February, when I was last in Ohio. I did, however, return vicariously this week to the Buckeye state, by a book my brother sent for Christmas.
Among the prominent emigrants and early settlers David McCollough chronicles in The Pioneers were several engaged in exploits depicted by Rick Atkinson in The British are Coming, which my mother gave for Christmas. The log cabins, makeshift wharfs, and nascent villages these travelers carved in and from the woods were more active than most large cities this month.
Ohio and Georgia have much in common. One state raised the abominable general who razed the other. Population sizes are similar, tho’ trending in opposite directions. One has the North Georgia Mountains, the other the Southeast Ohio Hills. Each are nicknamed for fruits bearing nut-like pits. Both have historically despised states to their north.
They share so many cities of the same name that if not for the weather, accents, attitudes, politics, topography, economy, demography, and sports allegiance, a distracted driver might wonder which state he is in.
Athens hosts the flagship (tho’ not necessarily the best) university of each. Like people who reference Portland, those who mention Columbus must often clarify the state. The Pro Football Hall of Fame makes Canton better known in Ohio than in Georgia. But both were named for Canton, China, which is better known than either. As is Dublin, Ireland, for which towns in both states are named, including the city where my employer is based.
Of particular note is Marietta, dateline of today’s drivel, but also the Plymouth Rock of Ohio’s proudly Puritan pioneers. Ours, named for Mary Cobb, was settled in the 1820s and established ten years later. The Yankee version, planted in 1788 at the confluence of the Muskingum and the Ohio, was named for Marie Antoinette, and is the initial American foothold in the new Northwest territory.
I enjoy McCollough’s books, but (as we’d hope with any author) take issue with some of his perspectives. The Pioneers was entertaining and informative, delving into grisly Indian wars, the early struggle to survive weather and wilderness, and the character of the men who ensured they did.
The Cutlers, Putnams, and Hildraths predominate locally, with interesting excursions into the Burr Conspiracy, the Industrial Revolution, and John Quincy Adam’s late-life efforts to establish an Observatory in Cincinnati.
The contrast in morals, manners, and industry from one side of the Ohio to the other was instructive in those antebellum years. But, as in most accounts by modern authors, anachronistic motives of morality supplant contemporary politics of power.
Columbus and Dublin make cameo appearances in the book. Athens, Chillicothe, and Cincinnati play supporting rôles. But Marietta is the star. Whenever curfew is lifted and I am allowed a return to Ohio, I’ll plan an excursion to the northern sister of our southern home.
Maybe I’ll bring Alexander so he can drive…from Columbus thru Athens to Marietta.
He should know the way.
JD
