Florida bound
October 23, 2009

So much for cleaning . . . Chris washed the trailer’s exterior, cleaned out and organized the truck cab and camper in addition to lots of other neglected chores plus lubing the trailer and hitch. I, on the other hand, did my blog, showered and got ready to go to Mom & Dad’s for our last evening with them.

It was a bittersweet time: how we have enjoyed being with Mom & Dad; hopefully, another visit will not be too far away.

We readied ourselves for departure this morning later than planned. We choose to blame our oversleeping on gloomy skies and daylight savings time. By skipping breakfast, we managed to get on the road by 8:30, about 600 miles to go, so not too bad.

We didn’t manage to beat the rain, though. A slight drizzle turned into real rain as I was finishing the hitch-up just so I could be wet before I got into the truck. Stopping for gas, I was surprised to see the picture I took of Dad on the front page of the newspaper. Seems the Tryon daily unexpectedly decided to run another story about his volunteerism award.

Andersonville Prison . . .

It didn’t take very long to zip across South Carolina’s corner and gain our day’s destination state: Georgia, with gray threatening skies continuing to loom above us. We planned our trip leg to Florida with a one-night stop near Andersonville, Georgia, to allow us to visit ancestral grave of Daniel Coykendall. He is buried in the National Cemetery at the site of Andersonville Prison, the most infamous of Confederate camps, where he perished from disease, one of 13,000 prisoners to expire in those unthinkable circumstances.

Coykendall’s wife, Julia Ann Perry, died in March 1862. Daniel enlisted in the New Jersey infantry the following August, was captured in May 1864, and died in August, leaving eight orphaned children, including our g.g. grandmother Ada Belmont Coykendall who later married John J. Rhodimer. The children were taken in by relatives, causing hardship and bitterness that as a legacy for later generations. Who can know what motive was behind Daniel’s leaving his family in such dire straits? I suspect it will likely remain one of those mysteries never solved.

The visitor center at Andersonville is a POW museum, a place that projects somberness at first glance; its architectural style evokes a prison-like atmosphere. The museum itself leaves a person decidedly thoughtful and gloomy. We chose not to go through it again; our visit nine years ago was more than sufficient to absorb the lesson,

This Confederate prison camp existed for only 14 months, but its horrors reverberate through time. It was designed to hold 10,000 prisoners, at one time housed 32,000 in unthinkable conditions. The complete and utter lack of food, water and sanitation created a situation of disease and starvation beyond imagining. Even the men who escaped via tunnels were recaptured and returned to die in those confines.

The stockade’s commander, Captain Henry Wirtz, was tried as a war criminal and hanged shortly after war’s end.

The names of those lost there would likely not have survived but for the efforts of a 19-year-old prisoner, Dorance Atwater. His assignment was to record the identities of the dead; fearing the loss of those lists, he made his own copy which allowed him and Clara Barton to later mark most of the graves. Because of their work, we are able to visit Daniel Coykendall’s grave and leave flowers. We photographed him with an American flag, but it is not allowed to leave flags at the site.

The records maintained at the visitor center years ago put us in touch with Coykendall kin from New Jersey, even to obtain from them a letter written by our grandmother Ada. They had found Daniel before us and left their contact information. We were surprised on this visit to find neither their nor our family material still being held there, so we will send it to be filed again. I hope that lack has not caused us to miss being contacted by other kin.

We left Andersonville behind to find our one-night-stand RV park, chosen only for its proximity to the area. It had a low Good Sam Club rating, so we were not expecting much; what a pleasant surprise to find it one of the nicest spots at which we have stayed.

Bonded brothers of bluegrass . . .

Located on a grassy meadow surrounded by trees, it is across the road from its companion golf course, a very nice-looking course indeed. The host greeted us immediately on our arrival and informed us that we were just in time for a fish fry and bluegrass festival. Seems the Bonded Brothers of Bluegrass meet many weekends to make music, only once a year at this park - lucky us! The owner is an excellent musician, a member of the group, and a cigar-smokin’ fool.





















We had eaten earlier in the day so thought we wouldn’t join the meal gathering; however, we had little choice in the matter. We were lounging in front of the trailer talking to a fellow RVer from Alaska when I saw a man by the clubhouse making an enthusiastic “come on over” gesture in our direction. I waved back to acknowledge him and the next thing I knew, the feller was on our doorstep in a golf cart, come to fetch us.

It was a great southern feed - catfish, hush puppies, lima beans, collards, cheesy grits, sweet tea and desserts galore. What a great setup they have: a nice clubhouse with many evenly spaced double French doors around the perimeter so that it can be opened up to the surrounding verandas and overlooking the ponds. A buffet area on one side insures that everyone gets all they want to eat; the whole allows for great socialization. We met Ed and Julia, even older than us, who RV for four day weekends to follow the music.





















As they were ready, the musicians gathered on the pond-side veranda and commenced to produce excellent music - old time country, mountain and bluegrass. About ten folks rotated in and out of the group and exchanged instruments; most played numerous instruments and vocalized. Listeners pulled up chairs around them and sat back for an evening of exceptional music in a perfect balmy Georgia evening.

We were grateful that we had arrived at the exact right time in the exact right place - could not have been any better. I shot a lot of photos that I will share with the group. It would have been great fun if Chris could have played with them, but the keyboard does not conform to their strictly acoustic genre.

Moving day . . .

We were happy to leave behind the ten-lane interstate highways that conveyed us around Atlanta and Macon.

As we proceeded south of those metropolitan regions, we found ourselves traveling through lots of very pretty agricultural land - cotton, soybeans, hay and cattle pasture plus miles and miles of pecan and peach orchards. It’s been fairly level country, slightly rolling in places. We zipped right on through some lovely historic towns, mostly founded in the early 1800s. In Marshallville, I spotted a house we remembered checking out when we last visited here. Darren was with us then; that handsome structure was empty and in disrepair. Intrigued by it, we wandered the grounds and porches. It is presently being renovated, I was happy to see.

Our Saturday morning, we heard bright and early from Darren wondering about our arrival time, which should be early afternoon. We’re definitely getting into a more tropical clime - have spotted a few palm trees and cypress swamps. One tiny town we passed through begged a photo stop. Desoto, or Desota depending on which sign you believe, had a downtown that looked exactly like something out of “Fried Green Tomatoes”, a perfect movie set.

Although we drove in rain much of yesterday, temps were up into the 80s, something we haven’t seen for quite some time. Still scattered clouds, but nothing that looks very threatening. I have high hopes of driving into summer for one last fling, have given up the search for bears, now on the lookout for ‘gators.