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13 Ghosts O n Sunday Margery drives me over to Waller for the first time since I’ve been back. The film crew is coming in from Austin this afternoon , and I want to be there to greet them when they arrive. The main intersection in Whitesburg has been turned into a roundabout where logging trucks and SUVs do a traffic dosey-doe. Bunk Duke’s Package Store is boarded up, replaced by the inevitable Stop N Shop. The other concession to the twenty-first century is down the road: Lamp Music South, a Christian music recording studio-slash-tanning salon. Turning off the blacktop, we wind down gravel roads Depty and I traveled almost every day. I can’t say I remember them exactly, yet they resonate anyway, as if the molecules of air we breathed still cling to the dust raised by Margery’s car. In Jewish mythology there’s an Angel of Forgetfulness who visits you in the womb to lead you through the life you’re about to live. Then you’re born, and you forget what you’ve been shown, until those moments of déjà vu when you live for the first time something you’ve always known. We pass through an open gate. The driveway to Waller tilts toward the river, and time is bending back. I’m in Ethyl with Depty Dawg, on our way to see our friends, bumping down the drive as rutted then as it is now. Dep is at the wheel; I’m sitting against him, his hand on my thigh. In a minute the cabin will appear at the bottom of the road and Ape-shit will be wagging her unrestrained hello. There are no dogs to greet us now. Ape-shit died years ago. She never did get to be Georgia’s Mother of the Year. But in the spring of ’76, the hippies on the river finally had enough of local police harassment and pulled off a boycott of Whitesburg stores and gas stations. Not only did they remove the offending cops, they also managed to put a Punk Patroller in office. Campaigning on Main Street in his wheelchair, nineteen-year-old Tony Boatwright 56 Ghosts | 57 became the youngest mayor in Whitesburg’s—and the nation’s—history. As mayor, he dedicated the fire plug at the corner of Main and College to Apeshit . The official proclamation read: She has provided her services unselfishly to the members of the canine community. I gaze around the yard at Waller. The lights on the electric plant towers still blink through the woods; a measure of time, a heartbeat. Leaning against the tree trunk is a weatherworn sign: Flee Market Each Item 25 Cents. Along the top are the worn words Banning Mill Ensemble. Glyn has kept it all these years, his lone purchase at our impromptu bazaar. Arms open wide, he comes out to greet us. “Welcome back to Waller.” The place has changed so little, really. The house still smells of wood smoke and mildew, the incense of old country cabins. In the foyer the phone booth is no longer used, though the Power to the People on the fuse box has not faded. The back bunkrooms have been gutted to make one large bedroom overlooking the river. We step out onto a porch that now wraps around the entire shack. Sunlight glitters on the surface of the river. “Blaze helped me build these decks,” Glyn tells us. “When he’d come back from Texas to spend his summers here.” Tromping over boards Blaze nailed in place, Glyn leads us back inside. Above the living room, cobwebs still grace the rafters, an enduring tradition. Glyn grins. “I give starter sets for wedding presents now.” My laughter is cut short. On the wall is a large grainy photo taken at the Mill during a rehearsal of The Bear. Leo is knelt before me, I’m about to swoon, and Jo is watching intently like a maestro conducting a duet. We look very ardent and very young. “When did you put that up?” I sputter. Glyn strokes his beard. “Let me see, which wife was that?” He shrugs. “Twenty years, thirty maybe. Great picture, don’t you think?” I don’t know what to think. My brain can’t quite grasp that I’ve been here all along. I can’t bring myself to ask if Blaze ever saw the picture, but surely he must have. How...

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