Sandy Point Times
Sandy Point Times. What comes to your mind when you see these words used in the title or a chapter of a book?
Maybe this is a newspaper, like the New York “Times” or The London “Times”. Maybe it refers to “periods” of time, maybe to certain “occasions”, the speed at which something moves, or quantities as measured by a clock.
Maybe it’s a little of all these except the newspaper. This is more of a record of my memories from a “period of time”, a “time” in history, and “mindset” in rural Middle Georgia in the late ‘40’s and ‘50’s. It was a “way of life” that was not intended to be good or bad, but just “was” and likely these pages fall far short of enlightening the reader as to what they were like. Maybe we can give a glimpse here and there. In each short story there is a little of what life was like in those days. Days I remember with fondness and people I still hold in high regard.
I realize that many others in many other places have their stories, their memories, and their experiences that are similar, better, and worse. I can only speak to mine and I wish I could do so more eloquently and expansively.
Having spent a lot of time there as a youth, I went away only to return for another 20+ years on the same dirt that my great grandfather, grandfather and mother had walked on with my wife and three sons who never felt the same attachment there that I felt. I held on to that land until the emotional attachment and feelings were eroded by the sad direction that the area took as the timber company tracts were broken up, the land chopped up and the complexion changed to the point I was no longer in the place I remembered and loved. That place was now only a “memory”. I seldom go back by there now because I choose to remember it as it once was. Our memories allow us that privilege in spite of what our eyes tell us.
I was not able to protect or save the place I knew. I suppose it was not my privilege, right, or responsibility to do so. After all, all things change and none remain the same. But, I have tried to preserve them in my memory and wish I could convey to my distant grandchildren those feelings of safety, love, and family that I knew there and they will miss. They will miss and not even be aware they missed them. So one could argue if they really missed anything at all. And, I am sad to say, increasingly I realize that they will not care. It only matters to me.
They missed the people I knew there that lived a large part of their lives with no electricity, no TV’s, no phones, little money and no credit cards. People who worked hard, loved and respected each other and their neighbors, and were highly self-reliant. Expecting nothing from the county, the state, or the federal government. Yet, they were happy and enjoyed their lives. They greeted you with a hug and a kiss and said goodbye the same way. They said “I love you”. “Come back soon”…..and they meant it.
Sandy Point was not a city and is not today. But it has GPS coordinates and people. But it was a way of life that has now disappeared and some would say “good riddance”.
Some of these people have roots there going back to the 1800’s. Although I moved away, I still have roots in those sand beds and clay hills. A connection written in stone at The Dixon United Methodist Church, The Fellowship Chapel, The Old Bethel Cemetery , Mt Paran Church and some small, almost disappeared spots beside the road. But more than that, it is a mindset and a way of life that has shaped me for good or ill. Maybe these stories will give you a glimpse of what life was like then.
© 7/02/2015 JC