Down by the old Fogle house (Georgia....)

In a small town in Georgia, the Spanish moss cascades from the live oaks, the red earth is soft and warm and the benches are white. At this time of year, though, the grass had begun to parch and, by midday, the frames of the branches were hot to the touch. So it was good to be in the park with your Kool-Aid, sheltering in what less scorching enclaves you could find and catching the occasional spray from the fountain when a breeze came in your direction. And you want to be there rather than at the strip, with its hot tarmac and its huge Piggly-Wiggly and CVS stores; but even more, you would maybe not want to be on the other side of the town, away from the pretty centre, where green gave way to swamp and the fetid smell caught your nostrils in the summer. At least that's what the ladies who lived on the best street said.

Down by the swamp lived old John Fogle; he had, children said, the gift of second sight and, along with his cold, hostile wife and his unfriendly brood of  female offspring, did not like people to stray their way. The children were at school but chose to play together, shunning the company or Missy or Mary Lee or Claudia. Did well in school, though. Top of the class. Certainly, the other girls in the class tried hard to be friendly -- the ones, that is, whose mothers had not warned them away from the Fogle girls. The ones with the kinder, more broad minded mothers or those who wanted to rebel aganist their mothers -- for this was also a town in which mean mindedness and snobbishness tended to run rife.

Today, one young girl was determined. Betty was kind, but also intent on one day getting down to the house and looking more closely at the swamp. And she persisted.

"Can't I come home and play with y'all? Ma says it's o.k."

"No. Pa wouldn't allow it."

"Why not? I'd be real good."

"Don't matter."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Sump'n. Nothing. Can't tell."

This enigmatic last answer was all she needed. So she told her mother that she has been invited home -and her mother allowed her because she, too, was kind and kind of curious to know about this family and, essentially, believed that they would treat right if treated right. So Betty followed.

"Go away. Pa don't like it.!

"Oh go on. You yella?"

"No. Well, if you'll go away after."

To the girls' surprise, John Fogle, who had stood up in what felt like a menacing way (Betty shuddered and regretted coming along), said that it would o.k. as long as she did not stay long. And in went Betty.

Sure, the area around the house was close to the swamp; you could smell the heavy air. But, it was also somehow exotic and beautiful and a breath of fresh air after the tight little corner of town where Betty lived. And the house was tatty, but oddly welcoming and, well, fun. Yes, fun. Like anything could happen. And Betty liked it. Gradually, the girls began to play with Betty, too. Chase and hide and go seek and, well, anything that took their fancy. And Betty met their mother who, in a startling and untidy way, was also unexpectedly beautiful.

She stayed for the evening meal, too. Basic and old fashioned, but substantial, too. And, while no-one said much, Betty realised that she had been accepted. Maybe she would be able to go back.

Next day in school, the Fogle girls continued to play together only, but they looked sideways at her even with a hint of a smile. She felt happy. It was, in its way, all rather mysterious. She wondered, too, why John Fogle looked so old: more like a grandfather or even a great grandfather than a father.

I expect you, reader, would like to know a few answers, wouldn't you? Well, the writer Carson McCullers, who came from Columbus, Georgia, wrote that she needed to return to the South from time to time to renew her sense of horror. It's not that I generalise here, you know, but do you think she had a point? Because John Fogle was not the girls' father and he did have the gift of second sight. He was the girls' great grandfather and he had, for reasons and by folks we cannot name, been preserved for his gifts. Father and grandfather? Gone. To the swamp one day. John Fogle saw what they would become. Told you that old brackish water was fetid. Not just that: it lived and breathed and did what it would do. And John Fogle was its custodian, being no murdering sort himself, exactly. Betty would be just fine because, as I told you, she was kind and looked without arrogance - only with spirit, love and curiosity at the world, in the way child and adult should. And those hoity toity mothers who lived on the best street on the other side of the park? Well, better not go the Fogle way. Swamp gonna get you.

NOTES: thanks to Ned Vaught (from Georgia and on my mind -sorry). 
Piggly Wiggly is the name of a Southern chain of supermarkets.
cdsessum has piblished a number of portraits of the South at www.flickr.com Thank you to him for his generosity in making them available under creative commons at www.flickr.com