With Vicki behind the wheel of the Jeep, it took about two-and-a-half hours to get from the Confederate Monument outside of St. Augustine and into downtown Savannah, Georgia. And as luck would have it, my photographer’s wife found reasonably priced street parking alongside Colonial Park Cemetery, which was our first planned destination. I laughed to myself when I watched my two companions frantically search for every quarter, dime and nickel they had, which they inserted into the parking meter. After the meter swallowed all of their change, my companions had two hours, thirty minutes in which to walk to the six historic sites listed on Tom’s agenda. It was 1:30pm on Monday April 29, 2024 and we had no time to waste.
Tom carried me along Abercorn Street until we reached the entrance to Colonial Park Cemetery at the corner of East Oglethorpe Avenue. As soon as we walked through the arched entryway and into the six-acre burial ground, I heard my photographer say he could see our first site – the monument that marked the final resting place of Button Gwinnett, Signer of the Declaration of Independence.
Colonial Park Cemetery was established in 1750 when Savannah was the capital of the British Province of Georgia, last of the 13 colonies. By 1853, however, the cemetery was closed to burials; and since it had closed eight years before the start of the American Civil War, there were no Confederate soldiers buried there. Colonial Park Cemetery became a city park in 1896, and now plays hosts to thousands of tourists who walk among the 9,000-plus gravesites.
But it turned out not all of the visitors to Colonial Park are alive, at least according to my photographer and his wild imagination. As we walked towards the large monument which marked the grave of Button Gwinnett, I heard him tell his wife about some of the paranormal activity on the grounds. Tom mentioned the most famous ghost, Rene Rondolier, a seven-foot-tall shadowy figure who allegedly walks among the graves or is spotted hanging from a tree near the back of the burial ground.
It was a video Tom mentioned, however, that sent goosebumps up and down my stainless-steel spine. On December 31, 2008, according to my photographer, a seventeen-year-old guy from Akron, Ohio named Jesse Greathouse captured video “evidence” of a small child ghost running through the cemetery before it jumped into a tree and disappeared. And to make matters worse, at least for me, was that paranormal encounter happened in the middle of the day.
My senses were on high alert as Tom set me on the 15-foot-tall monument made from veined Georgia marble. Although that monument was placed on Gwinnett’s final resting place in 1964, it was erected nearly 200 years after the Signer’s untimely death on May 19, 1777.
Button Gwinnett was appointed to the Second Continental Congress as one of the three representatives from Georgia. After he voted for independence on July 2, 1776, Gwinnett signed the Declaration of Independence on August 2nd. Following the historic moment at Independence Hall, the Congressman hoped his newfound fame as a Signer would pave the way for him to be named as brigadier general for the 1st Regiment in the Continental Army. To Button’s dismay, however, the position went to Lachlan McIntosh, who had become his bitter rival. By early 1777, Gwinnett became Speaker of the Georgia Assembly, and soon was elevated to President (Governor) of Georgia, which meant he was McIntosh’s boss. In that powerful position, the famous Signer did whatever he could to undermine his rival’s leadership.
As commander-in-chief of Georgia’s military, Gwinnet had McIntosh’s brother arrested and charged with treason. Then he ordered his rival to lead an invasion into British-controlled East Florida, which failed. After Gwinnett and McIntosh blamed each other for the defeat, Lachan publicly called the Governor “a scoundrel and lying rascal” – pretty harsh words in 1777. Pissed beyond belief, Gwinnett demanded a written apology. When McIntosh refused to apologize, Button challenged his rival to a duel, which they fought on May 16, 1777. At twelve paces, the pair exchanged pistol shots – and Gwinnett fell to the ground wounded above the knee, while his rival remained standing, although shot through the thigh as well. But after Gwinnett’s shattered femur and thigh had turned gangrenous, the Signer died three days after the duel at the age of 42. Lachan McIntosh survived his wounds, was not charged with Gwinnett’s death, formed an alliance with George Washington, and lived in relative poverty thanks to the British until his own death in 1806.
Gwinnett was laid to rest in Colonial Park Cemetery, but over the years, the location of his grave was lost to time. After an intense investigation was carried out by a retired Savannah school principal named Authur Funk, the possible grave was discovered, and a skeleton with a shattered femur was exhumed on December 2, 1957. While at first no evidence was uncovered that positively identified the bones as Gwinnett’s, a second examination determined the femur bone was broken by something round, like perhaps a pistol ball. That was all Funk needed to hear – he kept the now-famous skeleton in a copper-lined oak coffin, which stayed in the guest room of his house until October 1964. After a fight with the city of Augusta, because they wanted to inter the skeleton into their Signer’s Monument alongside the remains of Lyman Hall and George Walton, Funk remained steadfast that Gwinnett belonged in Savannah, where he once lived.
During the few minutes I posed for photos on the Gwinnett monument, I was confident the Signer rested below me. But when my photographer held me up and tried to balance me on the raised marble pedestal, I had a chance to grab a quick look at the affixed bronze tablet. I was stunned to see the raised lettering which spelled out the following words, “Whose remains buried in this cemetery are believed to lie entombed hereunder.” Perhaps the only way to be one hundred percent sure would be to exhume the skeleton once again and perform a DNA test on the bones.
In my heart and in my mind, I have confidence in the intense work carried out by Authur Funk in the 1950’s. Because of Funk’s passion, I think we all know the answer to the age-old childhood question ‘Button, Button, who’s got the Button?’ It’s Colonial Park Cemetery, located in the heart of Savannah, Georgia.
Following our visit to the gravesite of Button Gwinnett, Tom and Vicki set out in search of the final resting place of the man who uttered those duel-triggering words “a scoundrel and lying rascal” to the Signer of the Declaration of Independence over 247 years ago. The three of us headed along a pathway surrounded by Spanish moss-covered oak trees; my companions looked high and low for the grave of Lachlan McIntosh, who was definitely not the apple of my photographer’s eye. As for me, I couldn’t help but watch for shadowy figures or listen intently for the cries of the countless souls lost from the Great Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1820. While the ancient headstones and brick enclosed crypts that were scattered throughout the historic burial ground were spooky in the daylight, I couldn’t imagine being carried through Colonial Park at night. Then, just as my imagination began to run amok, I heard the voice of a woman in the distance yell out, “Lachlan McIntosh – I’ve found him.” Sure enough, I looked up and there was Vicki standing about 50 feet from us as she pointed at a small plot surrounded by a three-foot-tall iron fence.
Historically speaking, Lachlan McIntosh was a leader during the independence movement in Georgia in the early 1770s. As he exemplified his bravery over and over during those times, he began to rise among the ranks as a staunch opponent to British rule, even when most Georgians felt the need for British troops to protect them from possible Indian attacks.
But there are times when personalities and egos clash, which was the case with McIntosh and his more-famous counterpart and rival, Button Gwinnett. Both men did what they could to get under the other’s skin, when finally, their anger hit a boiling point on May 1, 1777. That’s when McIntosh addressed the Georgia General Assembly and called Gwinnett, the Governor of Georgia, “a scoundrel and lying rascal.” Perhaps those same words should’ve come out of Joe Biden’s mouth during the first Presidential debate of 2024, but unfortunately, he barely remembered his name or where he was at.
While we will never see a pistol duel between Biden and Trump, which would settle a lot of their personal issues, that wasn’t the case on May 16, 1777. Because McIntosh refused Gwinnett’s demand to apologize, the Signer challenged his rival to a duel by pistols, which was held in a field located a few miles east of Savannah. When the smoke cleared after their pistols were discharged, both men took a lead ball to the thigh – although Gwinnett’s wound proved to be fatal. Three days later, America lost its first Signer of the Declaration of Independence – thanks to the man buried in the grave in front of me.
After McIntosh was acquitted of murder, General George Washington feared Gwinnett’s allies would seek revenge. To keep his ally safe, the General ordered McIntosh to report to the Continental Army headquarters where he spent the winter of 1777-78 at Valley Forge. Throughout the rest of the Revolutionary War, Lachlan McIntosh commanded several regiments, but failure always seemed to find him. On May 12, 1780, McIntosh was taken prisoner by the British and remained in captivity for nearly two years.
When the Treaty of Paris was signed and the war was officially over, McIntosh returned to his plantation near Charleston, South Carolina where he found it in ruins at the hands of the evil British soldiers. Although he tried to restore his property and business interests, Lachlan McIntosh spent the rest of his life in relative poverty. In1791, McIntosh was part of the delegation which officially welcomed President George Washington to Georgia – which was likely Lachlan’s last public act. Fifteen years later, 80-year-old Lachlan McIntosh died in Savannah and was laid to rest in the Colonial Park grave, which was located within eyesight of Button Gwinnett’s monument.
During our time at the gravesite of Lachlan McIntosh, Tom held me up while I posed for a few pictures alongside the three-and-a-half-foot-tall tombstone. Just before my photographer was about to pack up his camera gear, I heard something come out of Vicki’s mouth I never thought I’d hear, “Would you want me to step over that fence and put the bobble head on the headstone?” I looked around and wondered what happened to the “real” Vicki Watson. Not only has she illegally parked numerous times in the past two days, and has also become a believer in the paranormal, but now she’s volunteered to trespass on a historical gravesite.
Vicki stepped over the fence, set me down on a level spot on the gravesite, and got out of the way while Tom snapped a few more photos. During the time I stood a few feet above the mortal remains of Lachlan McIntosh, I heard my photographer utter the same words I was thinking, “Lachlan McIntosh, you shot and killed a Signer of the Declaration of Independence and for that, I wish my bobble head could pee on your grave right now. To me, you’re nothing more than a scoundrel and lying rascal yourself, and that’s on behalf of Button Gwinnett.”
My photographer’s wife returned to the plot, plucked me off the gravesite, and the three of us began the hike out of Colonial Park Cemetery. I wished we would have had more time inside the burial ground, just to sit and take in the magnitude of where we were at. Even though the six-acre plot of land was a cemetery, it was also a beautiful park filled with history, scenery, and of course, ghosts.
After Tom carried me out through Colonial Park’s arched gate, my photographer and his wife headed on foot along East Oglethorpe Avenue for about a block. When the three of us stopped in front of a three-story home on the north side of the street, I couldn’t believe my painted eyes – it was the home of General Lachlan McIntosh. At first, I wondered why my camera guy wanted to visit a home once owned by the guy who killed a Signer of the Declaration of Independence. But when I discovered George Washington once slept there, his reasoning became very clear to me – the home was a Presidential site.
The beautiful white stuccoed home in front of me was built in 1770 and is considered the oldest brick residence in the state of Georgia. The first constitutional session of Georgia legislature was conducted within the walls of that home in 1783, and eight years later, President George Washington came to Savannah and spent the night in the home of his friend Lachlan McIntosh.
When Tom set me down on the porch entrance of the historic home, I was instantly overcome with a sense of pride. Just two years after he took the first-ever Presidential Oath of Office in New York City, George Washington walked up the same steps in front of me, along with Lachlan McIntosh, and entered the General’s home. That’s right, I was standing in the footsteps of one of the greatest Presidents in American history – and at that very moment, I began to have a change of heart.
Less than ten minutes earlier, I had loathed McIntosh during my visit to Colonial Park Cemetery, and so did my photographer because the scoundrel had shot and killed a Signer. As a matter of fact, the very sound of McIntosh’s name had a sinister ring to it. But when I thought about George Washington, who was known for his good judgement of character, it dawned on me that perhaps the two of us were wrong about the acquitted murderer. After all, Button Gwinnett was a politician and there are times when those folks take advantage of their positions; and there’s even more times when they tell bold-faced lies to get what they want. American politicians have come and gone for the past 250 years, and it seems as though their Stormy reputations for being deceitful haven’t changed all that much.
Tom snatched me off the McIntosh’s porch and slid me carefully back into the camera case before we headed for the third stop on our walking tour, which was less than two blocks to the south. During the short hike, I realized that American politicians are like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get until they’re in office for a while. But when a politician shirks his or her duty for their own benefit, and we keep voting them back into office, there’s only one thing I can say – “Stupid is as stupid does.”
When the three of us arrived at Chippewa Square, which was almost in the shadow of the Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah, I wondered which President had visited that small park or had delivered a speech near the statue of James Ogelthorpe. While there’s no evidence of any Presidential visit since the square’s inception in 1815, it’s likely James Monroe saw the park when he attended the dedication ceremony of the nearby church just four years later.
Just after we arrived at the north side of Chippewa Square, my photographer placed me on the ground where I stood between two signs and was surrounded by a variety of plants. One sign indicated the street in front of me, which was Hull Street, was a one-way avenue. And the sign to my right read ‘Chippewa Square’. There I was, smiling for the camera, and posing for pictures of absolutely nothing. Seconds later, I discovered that iconic ground was a lot more than nothing.
Out of nowhere, a white feather dropped from the sky and landed at my base. When I looked at the feather, I heard a soft whisper in my ear – almost as though the voice had come from heaven above. The voice whispered in a southern accent, “Hello, my name is Forrest. Forrest Gump. I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it’s both. Maybe both is happening at the same time.”
Although Tom and I weren’t at a bus stop, that plot of ground alongside Chippewa Square was where actor Tom Hanks sat on a prop bench as he waited for a bus in the 1994 motion picture ‘Forrest Gump’. I was standing on the spot where Hanks sat and recited the iconic line, “My momma always said, ‘Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.'” And in a strange sense, that spot was a Presidential site because in the movie, Forrest Gump met John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, and Richard M. Nixon. To me, that plot of ground was destiny, even though it was accidental – like a box of chocolates.
After Tom had finished taking photos of me at the Forrest Gump bench site, he carried me up to the James Oglethorpe Monument before we joined Vicki, who was sitting on a nearby park bench. While it seemed good to relax for a minute on the shaded bench, I could tell my photographer was perplexed. After I saw him point to the steeple of the Independent Presbyterian Church, I heard Tom mention to his wife about how the same steeple was featured in the movie. Then he said to Vicki, “That church is much more than a movie site, it’s a Presidential site. James Monroe was in attendance at the dedication ceremony for the original church on that site, and President Woodrow Wilson was married in the church manse. And that’s the problem, I have no idea where that manse is located. For weeks before we left on the trip, I had scoured the internet for information; and each time, I came up empty. I’m so close, the church is right there; yet I feel so far away.”
Then it happened, and to me, it seemed like a scene out of the movie Forrest Gump. Tom found the telephone number of the church and he made a quick call, even though he believed nothing would come of it. But after he talked on the phone for about five minutes with the receptionist of the church, I saw a huge grin appear across my photographer’s face. When the conversation was over, Tom said out loud, “This is incredible – we’re going to the church, and someone is taking us inside to see where Woodrow Wilson was married. But we have to hurry, I told the woman we’d be there in five minutes.”
Bad knees and all, Tom sprung off the bench and hurriedly walked through Chippewa Square with me in hand. My only thought was, “Run, Forrest, Run!” Although my photographer couldn’t run like the wind blows, we did make the journey to the pre-determined spot in front of the administration building within the five-minute time frame. When the door to the building opened, the three of us were face to face with Evan Gear, the associate pastor of the Independent Presbyterian Church.
While that initial meeting may have been accidental, or perhaps it was destiny, or maybe even a combination of the two at the same time, it didn’t take long for Gear to become my photographer’s long-lost friend. With their love for history, the pair hit it off instantly; and that affection for the past continued when Evan led the three of us across the street and into the historic church.
The Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah was founded in 1755 and was the first Presbyterian church in Georgia. When the original building burned down in 1796, a new church, which was modeled after London’s St. Martin-in-the-Fields, was constructed on the site in 1800. That church became a Presidential site on May 9, 1819 when President James Monroe, along with his Secretary of War John C. Calhoun and other members of his Cabinet, attended an impressive dedication ceremony held there.
A little over sixty-six years after President Monroe made his well-publicized appearance at the church, another event of historic proportions occurred in the Presbyterian Manse, which was located alongside the church. On June 24, 1885, 28-year-old future President Woodrow Wilson exchanged wedding vows with Ellen Axson, who was three years younger than her groom. Ellen’s paternal grandfather, Reverend Isaac Stockton Keith Axson, was the pastor of the church and resided with his wife in the manse where the ceremony was held. But since Woodrow’s dad, Reverend Joseph R. Wilson, was a pastor as well, the pair of ministers performed the ceremony that united Woodrow and Ellen in holy matrimony. Following the nuptials, the Wilson’s honeymooned at Waynesville, a mountain resort in western North Carolina.
Unfortunately, the historic Presbyterian Church which had two Presidential connections met the same fate as so many other significant buildings of that time period – it burned to the ground in 1889, just four years after the Wilson wedding. Two years after the fateful fire, a reproduction of the historic church was built in the footprint and has been opened to churchgoers in Savannah since.
When Evan led us inside the sanctuary where I posed for a handful of photos, the assistant pastor mentioned the baptismal font had survived the fire and was original to the church when President Monroe and John C. Calhoun were in attendance. Gear’s words had just come out of his mouth, when seconds later, I found myself standing in the historic artifact. While it was a tragedy the historic church was destroyed by fire, another famous Gump quote came to mind, “My Mama always said, you’ve got to put the past behind you before you can move on.”
Tom and I were finished inside the church, and we were anxious to see the Wilson parlor we were told was somewhere on the property. When the two of us walked up to our host, who had been talking with Vicki, Evan smiled and said, “Follow me, we’re headed to the Wilson-Axson Room.”
The three of us followed Mr. Gear through a maze of hallways and through a myriad of doors until we arrived at the precise room Evan wanted us to see. Although the original Presbyterian Manse had been replaced by the Axson Memorial Building in 1928, a reproduction of the manse parlor, where Woodrow and Ellen were married, was preserved for Presidential historians like my photographer and me.
Once inside the Wilson-Axson Room, I was instantly transformed back in time to June 24, 1885. I stood on the marble fireplace mantel and witnessed the wedding ceremony officiated by the father of the groom and grandfather of the bride. Ellen wore a simple white dress she had made; her groom sported his dress suit. The large parlor barely had enough room for the guests, most of whom were relatives of the two families. The pretty Ellen Axson was 5’3″ tall and her reddish-brown hair was piled high in a pompadour style. Woodrow Wilson stood eight inches over his bride, and by his own admission, he was a homely man. He once composed a self-deprecating limerick that went something like this – “For beauty I am not a star; there are others more handsome by far. But my face I don’t mind it, for I am behind it. It’s the people in front that I jar.”
When our time inside the Wilson-Axson Room had finished, I knew I had been in the presence of a great man – and I’m not talking about my photographer or Woodrow Wilson. I was extremely impressed by the hospitality we received from Evan Gear, who took time out of his Monday afternoon to take us on a tour of his historic church, and also let us bask in the ambience of Woodrow Wilson’s first wedding in the recreated manse parlor. Gear’s passion for the church’s history, along with his amiable personality, forced Tom to do a complete one-eighty of his preconceived viewpoint of Savannah.
In 1991, when my photographer and Bob Moldenhauer visited Savannah during their much-heralded Declaration of Independence tour, Tom said he felt uncomfortable during their entire short stay. My camera guy claimed the historic district near Colonial Park Cemetery was dirty, run down, and seemingly dangerous with undesirable vagrants at nearly every street corner. All of those factors from 33 years ago gave him reason, at least in his mind, to be cautious as we walked the streets of downtown Savannah on this trip.
But during the first 45 minutes of our time in the Hostess City of the South, however, my photographer mentioned to Evan how impressed he was with the cleanliness and overall appearance of Savannah’s historic district. Tom said the sidewalks were filled with tourists who were basking in the glory of the city’s historic and haunted past, while at the same time, there was no feeling of him or his wife being in danger whatsoever – with the exception of Rene Rondolier in Colonial Park.
After my companions thanked their host for his time and hospitality, we left the Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah behind and once again were on foot to our next Presidential site – the DeSoto Hotel, which was roughly three blocks to the south. I could tell our time with Evan Gear had put a newfound bounce in Tom’s step, and that was due to his belief we had just uncovered one of the coveted “Diamonds in the Rough” he and Moldenhauer find on most of their trips.
At roughly 2:50pm, the huge building known as the DeSoto Hotel came into view. Actually, the building in front of me was the Hilton Savannah DeSoto, which opened in July 1968. The original DeSoto Hotel, which once graced the same site, opened on New Year’s Day 1890 in the heart of historic Savannah, but its fate met the wrecking ball in the mid 1960s. The original DeSoto, as well as the new hotel, have played host to countless celebrities, dignitaries, authors, six Presidents and two Kings over the past 134 years. The half-dozen United States Presidents were William McKinley, William Howard Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Herbert Hoover, Jimmy Carter, and Ronald Reagan; and the two Kings were B.B. King and Elvis Presley, the King of Rock and Roll. When Elvis stayed at the hotel several months before his death in 1977, the King secured the entire top two floors for him and his entourage.
Once I had posed for a couple of images outside of the hotel, my two companions and I went inside the massive luxury hotel to not only see what the interior looked like, but for Tom and Vicki to dance their way down the Yellow Brick Road to see the Whiz as well. When they were done, and my photographer didn’t find anything worthwhile to have me stand on, the three of us headed to the sixth and final location on our agenda – which was located in the shadow of the DeSoto.
It was a bit of a disappointment when I discovered the original historic hotel had been demolished, along with its Presidential connections. However, the fact Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter stayed at the DeSoto on St. Patrick’s Day in 1978 before the President spoke at the Hibernian Society Dinner, that tidbit made me feel a bit better.
From the Heartbreak Hotel where Elvis stayed, we headed around the corner and down to the end of Lonely Street where we stopped at a famous and historic Savannah bar named Pinkie Masters. While the small “watering hole” didn’t look like anything special from the outside, it had a treasure trove of local and national history on the inside.
Pinkie Masters opened its doors in 1951 as The Rainbow Grill, and it’s one of the oldest running bars in Savannah. The original owner was Luis Christopher Masterpolis, but his friends called him “Pinkie”. In the 1970s, Masterpolis was a huge supporter of Governor Jimmy Carter. When the governor was on the Presidential campaign trail in 1976, Carter visited the ‘dive’ bar whenever he was in Savannah. While Pinkie lived to see Jimmy elected as President, he passed away a few months before Carter returned to the bar on the day after St. Patrick’s Day in 1978.
In an effort to celebrate the life of his friend, Pinkie Masters, President Jimmy Carter walked from the DeSoto Hotel to Pinkie Masters on Saturday March 18, 1978. While there, Carter stood on the bar and addressed the 125 patrons with a fond tribute to his good friend.
On St. Patrick’s Day 2017, a celebration was held at the Original Pinkie Masters where the plaque marking the spot where Carter stood on the bar was put in place. The former President sent a signed letter stating, “I will always remember the times I had at your establishment. When I ran for Governor, Pinkie himself was one of my most important supporters. And when I was back in Savannah as President of the Unites States, I will never forget standing on the bar to say thank you.”
After I posed for a couple of photos near the entrance to the “dive bar with cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon beer”, the three of us went inside to see the spot where Jimmy Carter once stood on the bar. The place was filled with “locals”, some of whom sat around the U-shaped bar and drank their favorite brew, Pabst Blue Ribbon. Tom and Vic decided to sit at a table, where they both indulged in their beer of choice – Michelob Ultra. Thankfully my photographer had cash on hand as the bar didn’t accept credit or debit cards.
While the decor on the wall above and around the juke box was eclectic, another wall featured pictures from the past, including an autographed photo from President Jimmy Carter himself. But the highlight for me, and the main reason for our visit, was when Tom placed me on the bar where Jimmy Carter stood in 1978. There was no doubt I was on the right spot because there was a plaque embedded in the bar to mark the location where Carter once stood.
Our time in one of Savannah’s oldest running bars was special; my photographer had doused his thirst with a mug of beer, and I stood on the bar at Pinkie Masters, just like Jimmy Carter had done 46 years earlier. However, as much as my companions didn’t want to leave that dive bar, the clock was ticking. We had less than 30 minutes to get back to our vehicle before our meter ran out; and we were about seven blocks from the Jeep. In my mind, I knew Vicki had dodged tickets for the past two days when she parked on sidewalks and other illegal zones. But at the same time, I envisioned a Savannah meter maid hovering over our Jeep just waiting for the time on the meter to expire. It was time to “Run, Forrest, Run!”
Not wanting to get lost or take a longer and timelier route to our vehicle, my photographer was smart and used the walking mode on his GPS. After Tom and Vic huffed and puffed their way for nearly fifteen minutes, we made it back to the Jeep with time to spare. Okay, we only had twelve minutes to spare, but I also didn’t see any of Savannah’s finest around, either.
The clock on the Jeep’s dashboard read 3:55pm as we began our journey out of Savannah. Even though we didn’t spend a lot of time in the most haunted city in America, what time we did spend was absolutely amazing. When Vicki drove our “vee-hickal” over a couple of bridges and into South Carolina, I heard my photographer tell his wife we needed to make a return visit to Savannah and spend more time there. He even mentioned taking a night stroll through Colonial Park Cemetery, which once again sent shivers up and down my stainless-steel spine.
For the next two and a half hours, Vicki drove along a highway that skirted the South Carolina side of the Savannah River until we reached Augusta, which was when we crossed the river back into Georgia. The hotel Vicki had made reservations at was the Baymont by Wyndam and it was located north of downtown Augusta in the National Hills section of town. We were in a prime location for our tour of Woodrow Wilson’s boyhood home, where Tom had a 10am tour scheduled for the following morning.
Registered and unpacked, my companions got into their room at roughly 6:20pm. But when Tom unlatched his camera bag and lifted me out to place me alongside the TV set, the two of us were shocked beyond words at what we saw. My right arm stayed in the bottom of the case, once again severed just above the elbow. I had endured a surgical procedure on the same arm after it broke off at the NASCAR race on April 21st, and now I was faced with a similar situation.
Before my photographer donned his scrubs, however, he and his wife took me to the nearby Texas Roadhouse where I saw him carve up a piece of steak with the precision of a highly skilled surgical doctor. And although the huge slab of ribeye beef on his plate didn’t make cattle go extinct, it likely put them on the endangered species list. Once my fat friend had polished-off the last morsel of grizzle, we returned to the Baymont where I was instantly placed on the operating table.
My photographer applied Gorilla Glue to the joint, then he used surgical tape to hold my arm in place for the night. Throughout the ten-minute procedure, I was left pondering how in the world that crippling incident happened. I felt fine when Tom placed me in the padded case at Pinkie Masters with both my arms intact, and I didn’t notice anything unusual during our drive from Savannah to Augusta. So how in the world could that injury have happened?
With no proof or photographic evidence, I narrowed the cause down to a single source – Pinkie Masters himself. I believe Mr. Masterpolis, who was a steadfast Jimmy Carter fan, didn’t approve of me standing in the President’s footsteps and Pinkie unleashed his angst on me just after Tom placed me safely back in the camera case.
At 9:30pm, my camera guy extinguished the lights in the room where I stood the entire night in solitude next to the TV with my right arm wrapped in tape. What puzzled me was the fact I had survived the ghost tour in St. Augustine, even when I stood in Peter Rasmussen’s chair and was taken into the pitch-black haunted lighthouse.
But this afternoon, there was something strange, in the neighborhood – something weird, and it didn’t look good. Who could I call? Evan Gear – because he ain’t ‘fraid of no ghosts, even though he works in the most haunted city in America.
** This post is dedicated to Evan Gear for his hospitality, knowledge, friendship and time during our amazing tour of the Independent Presbyterian Church in Savannah **
