We are currently now not moving.
We got caught up in a summer-long carnival.
We are stable, with an address, holding jobs, re-meeting people over and over and getting to know them on a more deeper level. Organizing gigs, being vendors at art shows, baking, learning how to make many things. We greet people sitting on porches as we cycle down the hot humid streets with a wave of the hand, a greeting jovially ringing across the neighborhood to those we now know and still have yet to know but are learning to recognize.
Savannah has opened its arms and has allowed us to busk, singing and playing our ukuleles to tourists and locals in Forsyth Park, along River Street and with friends. Today we canned collard greens, cabbage and brussel sprouts from the garden where we are living. Tomorrow we will make cheese – starting off with a mozarella and ricotta before graduating to a Havarti with Dill… I witnessed mead being made with the lemon cucumber and mint base harvested directly out of Claire’s backyard. Many friends here have gardens. And know how to can(can), how to pickle, which herbs do what, keep bees, and knowledge goes round and round.
Savannah is sweet, hot, magical, as the body wrestles with the firery feeling from the incessant mosquito bites, and the Spanish moss hangs magnificently low above the cobblestone streets that the bikes rattle over. It is a place where when the lights are low and the fires are glowing, planets are shining brightly in the night, beers, rum and wine are tossed about, you feel a constant embrace. People here hug. For long time.
Hardcore shows, punk gigs, acoustic nights, random acts of jams, singing, dancing blues, voices reaching out of the Baptist Church on a Wednesday night on Price Street, music permeates and seeps into the soul.
Hot, cooked food is being filtered out as hot, humid days become the norm along with daily afternoon thunderstorms. Fresh food from the Forsyth Farmer’s market and Brighter Day Natural Health Food Store (where I now happily work) line the tiny refrigerator in the garage turned living quarters. The tent steadfastly keeps out night-time mozzies while draping off the platform bed in one corner, threatening to one night fall off taking us with it.
It has been hard to be so free for so long, to whip in and out of people’s lives, only ever leaving a fleeting impression, and gaining a fleeting impression of those we met and suddenly now, stopped. Now, people will get to know not the traveling us, the slow movers, but movers nonetheless, the breezer-by’s, but the steadfast us, as we will them. The moods, the ups and downs, the positive and negative sides.
I do miss the freedom, the waking up in the morning and having no clue where on earth we are going to be sleeping that night – though experience tells us, probably no more than 30-50 miles away from where we started that morning. I do miss the fresh experiences, the moving, the slow but steady turn south. But, this is an amazing place to be hunkered down in the meantime. We couldn’t have gotten luckier.