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The Third Day
- University of Georgia Press
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The Third Day Early morning we slip past Cobb Creek on the “white” side, then Morris Landing, Davis Landing, and Eason’s on the “Indian.” All these landings were named for families of early settlers with land holdings in these spots. Clifton, Stripling, Sharp, Kennedy, Hughes. Morris is undeveloped, sans the pavement that Deen’s has, and is the spot where I usually swim with Silas. This is where I come sit on a sandbar and write. If I have three hours to be in a boat, I come here and paddle down to an oxbow, go in, and explore it. Morris Landing has a few small inholdings of private property, where river rats, as they call themselves, jack travel trailers up on pilings. If the floods get higher than their trailers, they mop up the mess, replace the worst of the warped boards, and let her go. This is the country that Caroline Miller rambled as she collected stories for her book, Lamb in His Bosom, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1934. In 1991, unable to attend a Baxley ceremony held in her honor, Miller wrote an address that was read to the attendees by her nephew, Dr. Ward Pafford. In it she remembers the river: “The Old Altamaha lazes along toward the big water, talking, whispering to itself, its shining surface like crinkled check taffeta on a Sunday morning in May. The dark comes softly down and the ages-old river whispers along its tall shoulders and white sandbars.” At one place that I’ll call Buzzard Roost, forty vultures, and easily more, take turns at some bright red mass on a spit of sandbar. Vultures, both black and turkey, roost in the trees all around, some with wings outspread. The easterly flare of sun creeps through cypress branches. • Three of the paddlers are taking out at Eason’s Landing, where they’ve parked a truck. The Rafthands laugh when they remember 49 the third day that the Last Raft couldn’t stop at Eason’s. Somebody there had promised to kill Bill Deen, should he stop. Bill was known for his love of women. “I don’t cull nobody,” he is quoted as saying. Now, the love feud long over—Mr. Deen in the ground and his nemesis too—we’re stopping. Everybody is pretty grimy, and no one really wants to return to civilization, so I elect to go for ice. I take the order and ride on the back of the paddlers’ truck to Eason’s Grocery, a country store a few miles away. Miz Ann Eason, who runs the store with her husband, Richard, is at the register. They live in the back, like in the old days. I stop in whenever I’m passing, and I try to buy something, to help the store thrive. Miz Ann has grandkids enrolled at the school my son attended, before he went to Vermont. She always lent us her big popcorn popper for pto events. No marketing consultant has ever been able to convince the Easons to take out the wood heater surrounded by chairs, to make room for more shelves. In winter the stove is the heart of the store and of the community. I like hearing the yarns spun there and unfailingly wish I had time to linger. The chairs are empty today. “Where is everybody?” I ask Miz Ann. “Probably fishing.” “It’s a great day for it,” I say. “Are you all on the water?” “Paddling a little,” I say. “Hoping to get to Darien.” “Just keep going, you’ll make it.” “We’re needing ice,” I say. “How many?” “Six.” I get everybody a fruitsicle. Miz Ann tells me to be careful, have fun. Back at the river we sit around and eat our fruitsicles. We are down to a group we christen the Hardcore Heavyweights, eight of us in eight boats. In the days ahead, these are the people I will come to know well. Every person has a reservoir of inexplicable mystery, [34.204.196.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 09:51 GMT) 50 total immersion a façade, a soul in conflict with a personality. Every person is an enigma. Dr. Presley is one. Crawfish and Charlie make three. Dave is the fourth. I’ve already described him, big and steady and self-contained. Lincoln is the fifth, a thin, quiet man wearing glasses. For most of his life Lincoln worked for the cia, as a...