Johnston.
Sherman took no pity on Southerners. He was the one that burnt Atlanta you know. They say he burned a swath of land fifty miles wide from Atlanta to Savannah. His troops burned crops, killed livestock, and consumed supplies as they destroyed every cotton gin and storage bin they come across, as well as tore up every train rail and station they could.
You see, I know a little history about Alabama, and our country too, but I did not learn it at school. I learnt it from reading. After I learned how to read, I read everything I could lay my hands on, from feed sacks to the bible… Unfortunately, the old live oak no longer stands. It was destroyed by a hurricane in nineteen hundred and two, but for many years, the ancient oak was reverenced, not just because of the surrender, but because beneath it, a way of life had vanished, ne’er to come again to the South.
The oak was said to have an aura about it, a mysterious way of putting a spell on folks who opened themselves up to its powers. Writers sat beneath its canopy of widespread, moss-covered limbs and fantasized novels of the Old South, a land of grandeur and gallantry. They romantized the war and chivalry lived on in their stories… Poets wrote surrogated poems about the oak. Meaning they substituted the tree for someone or something… Young lovers lay entwined on leafed bedding beneath it, making promises they failed to keep once they left its presence, the spell broken.”
“That’s beautiful, Miss Gilly, almost poetic in its telling.”
“Oh, I’m just getting warmed up. I have lots more to tell you,” said Miss Gilly with a grin, which caused me to smile.
“ Please, continue.”
“Tucked among live oaks, citronella fields, and the gently rolling hills of lower Alabama, the Citronelle of the late 1890s thru the mid 1940s, was a secluded, spa-like retreat of the rich and famous. It was a place where pleasure and immoral habits could be indulged. Then, when the likes of Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable came to stay, after the filming of Gone with the Wind, awed lawmen ignored the excesses that fanned the fires of fame. Citronelle was a place of incredible beauty, healing waters, and natural herbs.
By the late 1930s, it boasted several more grand hotels that were fit for royalty. Back then, silence could be bought for a penance and when all that bad stuff began happening, the town began to dry up. Bad word travels just as fast if not faster than good word does; folks looking to get away and relax decided to go on to the next new place to get-away to.
By the mid 1940s, the place had become a veritable ghost town. I don’t know why the citizens of Citronelle let it become such an awful place, a Sodom and Gomorrah of the South. No one ever told me the real reason, but I have heard stories, many different stories. Some say it was because things got out of hand, which happens when the wrong sort move into a place. Where the rich go, the riffraff will follow. And where there’s money, there’s corruption.
I believe the real change for the better came about when the daughter of the local sheriff disappeared. I hate that the girl lost her life, but if she hadn’t, there ain’t no telling how bad things might have gotten around here. She was missing for several days before they found her. The poor girl had been raped, murdered, and left to die in a ditch behind one of the opium dens. From what I heard, several of those had sprung up along with all the other fine establishments.
You know, Opium was legal back in those days, as was cocaine, marijuana and many other drugs that‘s now illegal.
There was one joint that was situated on that bluff over the Escatawpa River where it bends south just north of town- I’ve heard some awful tales about that place. They say that back in those days, every night, someone was murdered in that place for one reason or another. They’d take them out back and throw their bodies into the river to get rid of them. Most
Sherman took no pity on Southerners. He was the one that burnt Atlanta you know. They say he burned a swath of land fifty miles wide from Atlanta to Savannah. His troops burned crops, killed livestock, and consumed supplies as they destroyed every cotton gin and storage bin they come across, as well as tore up every train rail and station they could.
You see, I know a little history about Alabama, and our country too, but I did not learn it at school. I learnt it from reading. After I learned how to read, I read everything I could lay my hands on, from feed sacks to the bible… Unfortunately, the old live oak no longer stands. It was destroyed by a hurricane in nineteen hundred and two, but for many years, the ancient oak was reverenced, not just because of the surrender, but because beneath it, a way of life had vanished, ne’er to come again to the South.
The oak was said to have an aura about it, a mysterious way of putting a spell on folks who opened themselves up to its powers. Writers sat beneath its canopy of widespread, moss-covered limbs and fantasized novels of the Old South, a land of grandeur and gallantry. They romantized the war and chivalry lived on in their stories… Poets wrote surrogated poems about the oak. Meaning they substituted the tree for someone or something… Young lovers lay entwined on leafed bedding beneath it, making promises they failed to keep once they left its presence, the spell broken.”
“That’s beautiful, Miss Gilly, almost poetic in its telling.”
“Oh, I’m just getting warmed up. I have lots more to tell you,” said Miss Gilly with a grin, which caused me to smile.
“ Please, continue.”
“Tucked among live oaks, citronella fields, and the gently rolling hills of lower Alabama, the Citronelle of the late 1890s thru the mid 1940s, was a secluded, spa-like retreat of the rich and famous. It was a place where pleasure and immoral habits could be indulged. Then, when the likes of Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable came to stay, after the filming of Gone with the Wind, awed lawmen ignored the excesses that fanned the fires of fame. Citronelle was a place of incredible beauty, healing waters, and natural herbs.
By the late 1930s, it boasted several more grand hotels that were fit for royalty. Back then, silence could be bought for a penance and when all that bad stuff began happening, the town began to dry up. Bad word travels just as fast if not faster than good word does; folks looking to get away and relax decided to go on to the next new place to get-away to.
By the mid 1940s, the place had become a veritable ghost town. I don’t know why the citizens of Citronelle let it become such an awful place, a Sodom and Gomorrah of the South. No one ever told me the real reason, but I have heard stories, many different stories. Some say it was because things got out of hand, which happens when the wrong sort move into a place. Where the rich go, the riffraff will follow. And where there’s money, there’s corruption.
I believe the real change for the better came about when the daughter of the local sheriff disappeared. I hate that the girl lost her life, but if she hadn’t, there ain’t no telling how bad things might have gotten around here. She was missing for several days before they found her. The poor girl had been raped, murdered, and left to die in a ditch behind one of the opium dens. From what I heard, several of those had sprung up along with all the other fine establishments.
You know, Opium was legal back in those days, as was cocaine, marijuana and many other drugs that‘s now illegal.
There was one joint that was situated on that bluff over the Escatawpa River where it bends south just north of town- I’ve heard some awful tales about that place. They say that back in those days, every night, someone was murdered in that place for one reason or another. They’d take them out back and throw their bodies into the river to get rid of them. Most
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