Flannery O’Connor, for those who don’t know, was one of the great Southern Gothic writers and lived at Andalusia, a plantation outside of Milledgeville, Georgia. She and her mother also owned a house in the town- the plantation and town home are only about 5 miles apart. When she died (1964) the plantation was totally in the country, but as the city has grown it’s advanced steadily in the direction of Andalusia.
A recurring theme in some of her stories and even moreso in her letters has to do with the homogenization of the south by chain stores/strip malls/television/etc… She both applauded and hated it: applauded it because while she loved the south she also recognized its horrors and the fact that much of its distinctive style needed to die, and hated it because while the horrors died so did much of the charm and distinctive style.
I was at her home, Andalusia, sitting on the back porch eating watermelon and drinking wine on an evening a few years ago with friends who worked in its restoration. We were all looking at the anti-aircraft lights shining and moving across the sky just over the hedge from the plantation where, within earshot (and if you aren’t afraid of snakes or coyotes, easy walking distance) from the brand new Super WalMart shopping center that opened on what had once been part of Andalusia land. (Her mother had sold the land to a family that sold it for development.) It was Southern Gothically surreal meets “mundane as watermelon and Wal-Mart”.
I had dinner with a serial killer, about two weeks before the bodies of 30-some young men were excavated from his basement.
I have also played a Theramin - my niece owns one.
I have autographs from the entire Chicago Bears Super Bowl team, on restaurant checks from where I worked. And I told the “Punky QB Known As McMahon” that he was a jerk.
I have a first edition of the Mark Twain book Following The Equator.
I delivered my niece, ten minutes after my sister-in-law’s obstetrician said,“It’s going to be few hours yet” and said he’d come back after lunch.
There is a copy of “Dancing Naked in the Mind Field” (published by Pantheon heh) on top of my microwave right now, having just been returned by yet another friend pressured in to reading it.
The guy may be a kook, but he is a genius, and he speaks his mind.
I flew a moonwalking astronaut’s private plane across Texas - he took off and landed for me, but I sat in the copilot’s seat and flew the rest of the way.
I once held a $10,000,000 Stradivarius violin (belonging to Maxim Vengerov).
In 1965 I appeared in what I believe may have been the only amateur dramatic production of The Catcher in the Rye ever authorized by J.D. Salinger. I played Sally, Holden’s dimwitted girlfriend. The adaptation was written by Dr. Robert Wilhoit, a drama professor at Drury College (Springfield, Missouri). Salinger agreed to allow three performances, with absolutely no recordings of any kind, video or audio, and no charge for tickets (or any other fund-raising angle). After the third performance, all scripts had to be destroyed.
My old regiment had the honour of guarding the palace and gardens when she was in residence. At day, we did the wind-up soldier bit with shiny buckles and whatnot for the tourists - at night, we did what came more naturally to grunts like us: Donned camo and formed a defensive perimeter.
One evening in the gardens, I heard footsteps on the gravel path and so did what any alert sentry would do: Illuminated the possible intruders with infra-red and checked out their identity through my scope. Oh, no problem, just the Queen Mother and a couple of guests taking a late evening stroll… and at that instant, I realized that my scope & searchlight assembly was mounted on top of a loaded H&K G3 assault rifle. :eek:
I’ve flown the refueling boom of a KC-135 Stratotanker. Didn’t hook it up to another aircraft, or get it anywhere near another aircraft for that matter, since that would be dangerous for an untrained civilian like myself. But I did lay in the boom operator’s pod, extend the boom, and steer it around for a while.
