I skipped riding my bike in Clarkston, Georgia when I was here earlier this week (because predator) but I couldn’t do that again (because pissed) so I changed my route today so I wouldn’t be on the trail he frequents.
Instead, I rode past Clarkston High School and the Clarkston campus of Georgia State University, and then I fell upon an historic cemetery. Right after taking this photo, a woman pulled up in a car and walked solemnly across a few gravesites.
She eventually asked me if I was with the county’s historic society, and when I said no, that I was just riding by, she proceeded to pour out details about the multitude of her relatives who are buried here. The one directly related to the one who signed the U.S. Constitution. The great-great-granddaddy who was the postmaster of what was then the new city of Stone Mountain. The great grand something or other who “fought in the Battle Of Vicksburg in the War of the States and wrote letters saying how the soldiers took back the jewelry that Yankees done stole from the women of Mississippi and how there would be a special place in hell for them for having done that.”
She told me how her mother died last year and she’s moving Daddy somewhere else in Georgia or maybe even Alabama — anywhere out of DeKalb County.
I just listened.
And then I went back to riding my bike, waving to refugees-of-war in what is now the most diverse square mile in the USA, and thinking about how much there is still to learn in this world.