Rocky Drive
Athens, Georgia. March through August, 2020 (Rereleased with voiceover)
This essay was originally published in February 2022. It has now been five years since the events I wrote about here.
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Everyone has a pandemic story now (as well we should!): Where were you when? And what happened after?
Telling that story, even over and over, can play an important part in coming to terms with the world we’re (still) living in.
Mine revolves around a couple of square miles in the rolling hills north of Athens, Georgia. While Covid wasn’t the reason for the brevity of our stint in the Peach State, it was responsible for almost everything that happened during the second half of our year there.
Because it was home for such a limited duration, the ways that Athens felt like “home” are flimsy, although not insignificant. I remember breathing in the musky scent of red clay after rain. I remember the tap tap tap of my heels on the old wood floors as I walked down the hallway to my office every day, feeling proud that I finally had a job on a college campus. I remember conversations with some interesting, intelligent women, and what the seedlings of those friendships felt like. And I remember gazing out at the stunning peachy sunrises and sunsets, even if that afterglow is just Atlanta’s pollution in all her enormous beauty.
Perhaps the strangest feeling of all is that it feels like it was all just a dream. Two years have passed since this “new normal” began, and so much has changed in the world and in my own life that my life in Athens sometimes feels like a misty memory.
And yet, on some days, I open my eyes to the dark morning, thinking I’m about to go through the motions to start my day on Rocky Drive.
As strange and uncertain as the second six months of our time there felt, the mundane rhythms and seasons of our neighborhood were grounding (both figuratively and literally). During that bizarre, sometimes frightening spring, I played the dual role of mom and teacher, barely scraping by in my third role (and the only paying one) for the University, having just enough mental energy for email responses and those incessant Zoom meetings, and little more.
My husband and I were mirrors of one another; when one would work, the other bore the responsibility of caring for our daughter, and vice versa. This necessary setup ensured that the enjoyable moments with all three of us together were limited, but we’d try to get out as a family at least once a week, even if it was only to do laps, or, later on, ride in the car to pick up the takeout and see if the rest of the world still existed. It was nearly impossible to make any plans.
But there was one constant, in the very small, very placid bubble of a world we now inhabited, and it was our little circle of peace on Rocky Drive, Athens, Georgia, 30607.
We were in Southern North Georgia, where the Appalachians taper into undulating foothills, waves of deciduous dogwood, birch, elm, oak, and maple, but the land in our spot was crispy and seemed to be dominated by pines and dotted with succulents, like the lovely yucca filamentosa, relative of asparagus.
Nestled beneath the southern end of the 700+ acres of Sandy Creek Park is Rocky Drive, a quiet neighborhood of 52 small houses on appropriately-sized lots, tucked off the main road and surrounded by country on the South and East, a thicket of trees and wisteria vines buffering US-441 to the West, and the park to the North. When I’d have trouble falling asleep, I wouldn’t count sheep–I would count the houses, mentally moving around the circle one by one, until sleep came to me before I was back at number 410.
Across the way, there was sweet Lin and her rambunctious spaniel, Charlie. There were Mark and Felice with their two cats, and Joan, who made my day when she told me she was inspired by my dedication to running. There was Kathy’s one-woman garden show yard and lively pup Bella, and her next-door neighbor who adorably nicknamed our daughter “Miss Hollywood” because of her sunglasses, and Lindy and little Gavin, who walked in circles too, and Kevin who did the weekly fish fry out of his driveway and I wish I could still walk down the street to pick up some deliciously crispy breaded shrimp, and precocious first grader Gabby with her yard creations (like the tortoise trap–more on that later), and the cool-looking tattoo guy with the even cooler artist wife and the woman who made us our first masks and the guy who fell out of his tree and broke both legs and almost died and the three Georges: Old George, Young George, and George and his uber-protective chihuahua, Chloe. That George, the final George, died last year, after we had already left, but if you walk around the circle on Google maps, there he is still, mowing his yard.
This collection of people, and many others whose names I don’t know, became our whole world, the only faces we’d see for days or even weeks. During a time when “real” church had to be put on hold, this congregation of neighbors was the closest we’d get to a sacred community. We didn’t know each other well, and it wasn’t a great time to really get to know one another in any sort of depth. But that was okay. The “community” was there in the kind interactions we could engage in, short conversations with the pavement between us, checking in on and learning about the lives of other people who were bonded with us during this time, albeit in an unexpected, ragtag way.
We hardly ventured out to the main road. But because of these limitations, our daughter, three and a half at the starting line, evolved from being pushed around the circle in the jogging stroller to running alongside me, and that kid ran 2 miles one of those days, and it turns out that she loves an audience when she runs. But the stroller was good for carrying our supplies, and sometimes I’d strap her in the hiking backpack and push the stroller, just for an extra workout, which I’d packed with Arden’s Garden juice and Bunny Grahams and a blanket, and head to our regular picnic spot. It was just a little patch of grass between the road and the short trail leading down to Sandy Creek (we learned our lesson about avoiding the trail; it was often terrifying to traverse because of rampant fire ants and aggressive stinging flying things). Though our picnic spot doubled as a dog poop depository, it was otherwise beautifully mundane, at least on days when I was in a space, mentally and emotionally, to fully appreciate it.
These excursions–the highlight of the day, and sometimes our only destination all week, every week–were sometimes so boring I wanted to scream. I knew we were lucky to have access to a little bit of nature nearby, but I missed the outside world. The noise in my head was far too loud, and it was too quiet here to drown out all my frustrations and fears.
And yet. A hello and smile from a neighbor walking by could be just enough of a lift to pick me up until the next day. And I think that the sight of us–a curious roadside attraction–fed them, too.
Some mornings I would wake up ungodly early to wait outside the doors of the huge “Space Kroger” before they opened (why do they call it that? I never figured it out) because we’d heard there might be 4-packs of Charmin or an allotment of Lysol wipes. Other times, I would utilize grocery pickup and would often end up with odd amounts of items, like the time I asked for 5 bananas and was delivered 5 pounds of bananas, or when we ended up with an extra baguette, or the time I ordered half a bushel of peaches from the West Broad Farmers Market delivery. We’d load up the stroller and walk around asking neighbors if they needed bananas or peaches or bread. I even got to see my supervisor for the first time in a month when he stopped by to drop off some spare romaine. (And, this being early on, I promptly brought the bag inside and rinsed it with soap–on the outside).
Sharing our bounty was a small kindness we could offer during a time when sharing brought much uncertainty, because we just didn’t know. Selfishly, my ultimate motivation was that we got to get out of the house and talk to people, face to face. While interacting with other kids at her school was on hold, we got to show our daughter what generosity looked like. We even helped corral a runaway tortoise in our neighbor’s yard while we were out delivering those bananas. (That was a big day).
In our own yard, which stretched all the way back to the trickling creek, we had a swing, and a lovely tulip poplar, and a deck for multitasking in the dark (I could talk on the phone to my grandmother and smush roaches at the same time). And that yard was where we were graced by an enormous variety of wildlife, including hawks, bats, many opossums, a rat snake, one baby duckling (RIP), several deer and a few fawns, and one energetic and absolutely mesmerizing armadillo.
Earlier in the year there had been an incident with two young raccoons getting stuck in a large birdhouse way up high on a tree, and the ordeal lasted an entire day and into the next, and had both me and their own mother pretty worried. Our landlord came over and knocked off the birdhouse roof so the kits wouldn’t have to wait until they were half-starved and skinny enough to slink out of the hole through which they entered. It ended well.
One day, later in the summer, we were in our little kiddie pool cooling off when I noticed an army of ants congregating around a fence post nearby. Momentarily worried, I stood up, dripping, to get a closer look. They were not concerned with me. By the dozens, then hundreds, they emerged from their hill, carrying their eggs atop their bodies, and began a frantic, yet dutiful procession into the backyard, under the deck and out the other side, through the chain link fence to the wooded area beside. I was mesmerized (like when I saw that armadillo). Dave Matthews sang in my head (“They all do it the same way”), and I excitedly called out to my husband, who was at his work-from-home-“office”, “You’ve got to come see this!” I had never seen anything like it before and had barely given ants much thought. But here it was, a spontaneous-yet-completely-on-purpose moment of incredible determination and beauty, and I had been in the right place–the kiddie pool on a humid, 90-something degree day–at the right time.
When we weren’t in the yard or roaming around the neighborhood, I led art projects and baking projects and teaching projects and when we found the sack of rotten potatoes in the pantry, I decided that it was high time to plant our own garden. The potatoes sprouted, and now we had a job to do, a reason to stick to new routines.
We used old bricks to create a perimeter for a little flower garden, stabbing at the dry clay to try to make some sort of fruitful seedbed for native wildflowers and butterfly weed and, later on, my big, beautiful hairy balls milkweed plant. Kathy (of Kathy and Bella) from down the street had a yard riotous with flowers, so she filled a rusty old wheelbarrow for us, laden with wet dirt and spindly purple and yellow wildflowers, and I walked them down the street and transplanted them in the cool of early morning, and pushed the empty wheelbarrow back to her yard, mission completed, as the sun was rising.
Planting a garden of one’s own signifies the intention to stay put. (Put down roots, as they say). The rhythms of the garden–planting, watering, checking on progress–gave us hope. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough.
For the purpose of self-preservation, I clung to a small routine that kept the trampling thoughts of near-total internal collapse at bay. I’d go out at first light to run laps around Rocky Drive before the heat of the day descended. Or I’d wait until dusk, grab a to-go cup, and pour my favorite beer (or just carry the can, who cares?) and walk circles around the neighborhood, zoning out to guilty pleasure music (ask me for my playlist) until the bats came out and I imagined what would happen if one swooped down and gave me a Covid kiss (because that’s how it works, I’ve heard. Only kidding!).
These nights were a small thing, but they were mine, and I loved them.
Surrounded by woods, we played host to the infamous Brood IX cicadas that year, and I reveled in the show they put on that summer, their heady chorus in the damp heat making me swoon, images of barefoot childhood summers cavorting through my head. With the world slowed down, I noticed new/old things, sights and smells that had been there all along, such as the delicious fragrance of a sprawling holly bush in spring, swarmed by hundreds of pollinating bees–the minutiae often overlooked by us all. My senses were heightened. I am so grateful they were, because I saw and heard and felt things I would not have paid attention to otherwise, like a worm hatching, something I have never seen before and have yet to see since. It was disgusting and beautiful and amazing. I had nowhere to be but the moment I was in.
And then, in June, we found out about an opportunity to move, again. It wasn’t what I thought I wanted, and at first, I was certain that we would not do it. But during a road trip to my brother’s house near Memphis (our first pandemic escape), the infant-sized idea became full grown. And by the time we got back home to Georgia at the end of the week, we knew we’d be leaving; this time, for the Pacific Northwest.
Two months later, we did just that, and it was a parade out of that neighborhood, with all the neighbors stopping by to say goodbye, like the reverse of Dorothy come back to Kansas, and still there’s no place like home, but this wasn’t home anymore, and never would be again.
Reflection questions:
What do you love (or not) about your neighborhood? Were you stuck there during the first months of the pandemic, and what was it like?
Do you trust yourself when you have to make a big decision, or do you constantly question whether you made the right choice?
Rocky Drive is located in present day Clarke County, Georgia, on the land of the Tsalaguwetiyi (Cherokee, East), S’atsoyaha (Yuchi), and Mvskoke (Muscogee/Creek) nations.
Image: Hairy balls milkweed.