“It's a road trip! It's about adventure! . . . It's not like we have somewhere to go.” ― John Green, An Abundance of Katherines
After a successful return hike from the bottom of High Shoals Falls, we let gravity escort us back down the washboard goat trail until Hank rested on a much more amiable asphalt road. We still had a lot of daylight left, so we decided to perform a windshield survey of the surrounding area. We headed south on Hwy 75/Hwy 17, not really sure where it went…but not really caring either. As the roadway serpentined through the mountain range, we came across another specimen of “odd signage” that warranted a photograph.
Sitting inconspicuously next to a meandering creek that is shaded by towering hardwoods was a peculiar mercantile that seemed to advertise an unconventional usage for man’s best friend. I was raised in a rural setting where free-range beagles were common-place around the homestead. I’ve heard a multitude of descriptors associated with these happy hunting hounds; such as: friendly, loyal, family-orientated, a nose with a dog attached to it, tenacious, fearless, tracker, briar-patch proof, annoying yelper, and elastic-like ears. Not once in my days have I ever heard this tri-colored canine described as tasty; which is why this particular culinary offering seemed so grossly unappealing. Come to find out, they’re pretty good smoked (but still a bit elastically).
A few miles beyond Beagle’s Smoked & Boiled Peanut Shack lies the small, seemingly out-of-place town of Helen, Georgia. A drive through this town doesn’t take you back in time, but rather it takes you about 5,000 miles to the east. The entire town is comprised of Alpine-styled buildings, capped exclusively with rusty crimson rooftops. If there were one phrase to describe the history of Helen, it would be “pillage & change.” Prior to 1800, this area was the center of Cherokee Indian culture; but this era ended during the “Trail of Tears,” and all the Native American influence was replaced by newly arriving settlers. In 1828, thousands of prospectors flooded the area during the Great Georgia Gold Rush; bringing short-lived riches to this boom-town until the extensive mining operations left nothing to extract. The mining boom was followed by the extensive timbering operations of old-growth forests that drape the mountainsides. This North Georgia version of The Lorax continued until all the timber was cut, and there was nothing left of this town except a row of concrete structures. In 1968, local businessmen gathered to discuss what they could do to salvage a community that had been ravaged by drive-by industrialization. A local resident who had been stationed in Germany during his military service came up with composite drawings of how to transform this ravaged Georgia mountain town into a pseudo-Alpine village—complete with cobblestone streets and murals painted on buildings depicting the historic timeline of this community. Over the span of a few years, this town--void of industry or natural resources — transformed into an Alpine-themed vacation destination. Ausgesprochen schön!
Yearning to continue our exploration of the local area (but not wanting to relive the twisting and winding Hwy 75/Hwy 17 a second time), we decide to head back to camp via Blairsville (Hwy 129). In retrospect, our return route made little difference, as either would require us to traverse steep, narrow, and twisting passages. This return route took us across the Appalachian Trail—a single-wide dirt path that Kristy and I had spend many days traveling; and the sixth tallest mountain in Georgia (elevation: 4,468’), Blood Mountain. Not being privy to the origin of the name of this mountain, we discussed the possible historic or geographic characteristics that may have led to this sanguine sobriquet.
As we continued our contemplation concerning this conspicuously calloused claret-colored cognomen, a contiguous coincidence commenced which culminated in complete closure of our curiosity cogitation. Without notice, we came upon a succession of cars parked on both shoulders; with occupants standing atop the adjacent perilous precipice. I stopped to see if there was need for any additional assistance, and looked down the steep ridge at the object of everyone’s attention. An individual—who either over-estimated his driving prowess; or under-estimated the erratic concave/convex rhythm of the mountain road—had launched his low-carbon-footprint sub-compact off the edge of a cliff and into a high-carbon-density stand of trees (which actually prevented him from tumbling down the sixth highest mountain in Georgia). A local was clawing his way uphill to the roadside area where the spectators were gathered. After helping him up the last couple of feet, he relayed that the driver was OK, but had a bloody face after the air-bag deployed. As he walked back to his car, he said, “Yea…this happens all the time.” Realizing that my limited services were not needed, I returned to the truck and continued onward. As we drove down the mountain, I turned to Kristy and said, “I just found out why they call this Blood Mountain.”
It was getting really late and we had not yet had dinner (nor did we feel like cooking). When this perfect storm of hunger and laziness merges, we typically find a local grocery store to resolve the issue. We always try to take time to make small-talk with the town-folk who we encounter. This is not only serves as an act of politeness, but also offers the opportunity to get the feel for what topics are of local importance. During our late-night visit to the local grocery store, we ran across two late-teen ladies who were engaged in a conversational filibuster while manning the check-out register. Being close to The Witching Hour, I asked one of the clerks if she had a long drive back home after work. She replied, “Not really…I live about 15-minutes from here and the other night I was going home and it was late and dark and I thought I saw something in the road and then I hit it, and I didn’t know what it was and hoped it wasn’t a person ‘cause…but didn’t think a person would be on the road at this time of night, so I stopped and went back to check and found out it was a ‘possum and it was “Graveyard Dead.”
"'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!” ~ Month Python; Dead Parrot Sketch
I’ve lived in The South for over four-decades and I’ve never heard of — nor have I entertained the need for — a modifier for the word “dead.” So when this young cashier espoused an attributive descriptor of “death" as if this were the fundament of common phraseology, it drove me to immediate pontification. After deep, thoughtful consideration, I came to the belief that this was a rarely used type of vernacular theatrics. It had to be! There is no reasonable explanation otherwise. Why would someone attempt to quantify that which is unquantifiable? "Dead" is not measurable, as there are no real “levels” of death. You’ll never hear someone say, “Your Uncle Bob died? On a scale of 0-to-10, how dead would you say Uncle Bob is right now?” There is no “5” or “7” with regards to "dead."
Perhaps within the first few moments of death—while the body is still warm—you’re not as dead as those who have cooled to cellar temperature. You're certainly not as dead as those Mesopotamian gods who have been touring American cities longer than the Canadian rock-n-roll gods of RUSH. But this was not the case with this nocturnal jaywalker, as he was labeled "Graveyard Dead" within moments of joining the Rolls of the Roadkill. Even then...what about the poster-child of “Graveyard Dead”—Lazarus? He was not only dead, but he had actually established citizenship in a graveyard for four days—complete with the obligatory stench. If anybody could be labeled “Graveyard Dead”it was him; and that still didn’t seem to be too much of a death modifier for him to overcome!
As interesting as I find this phrase, I don't think it's any different than trying to give greater elaborance (which is not a word...but should be) to a word whose definition is normally dichotomous. Take the word "pregnant" as an example. You either are or you are not. Yes…I’ve heard guys say, “She’s REALLY pregnant!” but this is a reference to how far-along or in their pregnancy; or a tactful way of NOT saying what they’re REALLY thinking... which is how “ENORMOUS" the pregnant woman appears. This is nothing more than a low-risk, smoke and mirrors comment that men utilize if they find themselves conversing within slapping-distance of those who are "exceedingly gravid."
Since I believe this is merely an after-market descriptor to an already existing and competent force of nature, my take is "why stop there?" If this is being used to heighten the listeners imagination as to the severity of ones passing, why not take an even more elucidative route? Why not go all out and say, "...an I looked at that 'possum and it was 'gone to th pearly gates' dead?" Or perhaps a more descriptively gory approach with a hint of Heywood Banks; "...an I looked at that 'possum and it was 'corned beef hash with a tail' dead."
Regardless of the origin or intended usage, I found this bit of local locution to be quite interesting. So interesting that from this day forward, I will purposefully place a unique modifier when using the word "dead." You may take this as simple rhetoric, but I am Graveyard Dead serious.
wWw
No comments:
Post a Comment