by Elizabeth Mellen
When I was nine years old, we landed on a red-dirt road in Warm Springs, Georgia. The road sloped down from the highway, that is, a two-lane narrow paved road which curved itself through the grouping of village store fronts and their boardwalks, proceeding through with no apology and out to the countryside beyond. It was fall, 1946 and I was very glad to be in this place after so many years of going to China and not going to China and going to China and not going, of living in New York and then Kansas, in New York and then Kansas again. We were together now, in Warm Springs, GA, mother and father, four children, and a car, a miracle after the war years without.
It was a white, one story frame house just across the red-dirt road just as it should have been from the white, frame Warm Springs Methodist Church building. Just beside the house, another road dropped down suddenly, to a railroad track. At the crossing stood a white X-shaped wooden sign with ‘RR Crossing’ in large black letters on it and beside it, a horizontal sign bearing the word “Bullochville.” I liked it then, still do, that the name Bullochville was still present in this place which carried the moniker ‘Warm Springs,’ for our life there really partook of both of this layered town’s identities. Continue reading