The Aftermath of Hotlanta: A Tale of Blood Sweat and Tears


I am back from my trip to Atlanta and Birmingham. I have, as it turns out, been completely spoiled by the climate of the mountains. I forgot that when it is hot in the "real south" it stays hot, all day and all night.

The trip was very busy. Milo my mother and drove down to visit my sister first and we mostly sat around here house and went thrift store shopping, during which I found 4 sewing machines I would have liked to own, but seeing as how the car was packed like a well played game of Tetris, there wasn't much point in buying something that weighs 50+ lbs and comes with its own piece of furniture. So I petted them and wished them well.

Then, I left that afternoon for Atlanta. The plan was that I would go ahead and attend the preparty for the Indie Craft Experience and Milo would stay behind with my mom and sister to go to the concert in the park series.

Well, I got dstracted on my way out of town. The traffic was awful so I decided to take the back roads and before I knew it I was headed straight past the cemetery where one of my best friends is buried. He was hit by a bus when we were almost 19. I realized "Hey, I am almost 29.... that means Tavon has been dead right at 10 years. Almost to the day."

So I stopped to say hello at Elmwood Cemetery.

Good old Elmwood. I used to do grave rubbings as a hobby when I was in middle school, and I remembered that Elmwood is full of dead US Congressmen, major league baseball players, one of the Temptations, and Alabama's first suffragist. Also, it has my best friend.

I drove to where I remembered my friend's grave being and couldn't find it. All I remembered specifically was that it is somewhere near a big tombstone with "Bradbury" on it. Couldn't find it. I felt like Tavon was messing with me. It was close to the time for the gates to close.

I turned the car around, and around, and around, and found myself wondering who in the hell had decided that the cemetery needs to be designed in such a crazy non-linear way.

So I went to the main office, which has always reminded me of Lady Fairchild' house in that weird place where the trolley goes on Mr. Rogers and asked for help. Its a big concrete round building with vertical "decorative" bars that run around the outside of it.



The inside smells like old plastic and fake flowers. Thats right, fake flowers have a smell. A very nice lady took a very long time to make very specific directions for mee, so I had a chance to look around. I don't know how many people who are going to reading this have actually had the opportunity to browse through the selections of fine coffins and headstones that are on the market today, so I am going to give you a little update.

Headstones now come in pleather. Or at least I saw some that certainly looked like pleather. They also come in a wide variety of colors ranging from Melon to Sagebrush. Want a navy headstone for that tragic nautical fatality in your life? You got it. Also exciting: cheetah print neon green burial vaults. I kid you not. I am thinking about this Born to Ride Urn myself.

Hey, Kathryn Wyndam Tucker has her coffin picked out and sitting in her living room apparently, and has for the last thirty years or so. Great idea, break it in as a coffee table before you rest in it for eternity.

So then I had my trusty map in hand and I went back to try again. After only two wrong turns I ended up on black 35A.

It was like a treasure hunt, except less fun and I definitely had not brought the usual treasure retrieval goodies, or have any plans of digging for anything (or anyone).

I paced out the steps that the nice lady had given me, and still couldn't find it. Finally I yelled, "Dammit Tavon!" and turned around and there he was.

It was hot. I was tired. I flopped down on the ground and started brushing off the red dirt that was covering a lot of the words on the stone. Soon I realized, "Hey, I am in pain."

Was it pain from the grief of losing my friend?

Was it pain from the fact that his headstone is shiny back and in a particularly sunny spot in Alabama in June?

Noooo.

Tavon's headstone was covered with fire ants and I had them all over me.


I brushed them off and jumped up.I realized I was trying not to cry, not because of the fire ants, but because of the reason one usually cries at graves. And trying not to cry with fire ants swarming over me somehow made me want to laugh, so I laughed and sobbed alternately and kicked the crud out of the fire ants.

Then I said goodbye, again, and wended my way back through the graveyard, past Bear Bryant's grave, past the giant concrete Mushroom Tree, out of the gates and back into the land of the living, toward Atlanta.

So the blood - fire ant bites.
the sweat - ubiquitous
the tears - unexpected and accompanied by much hopping about, cursing and flinging of tiny insects.

If he's still around in any way, I bet Tavon laughed his ass off.