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Old Salt spurred world travels By Charles Clemons For Coastal Senior Over 50 years of world travel has been a wonderful experience. It's strange how it started. It was late October 1938. The long walk from Savannah High School to Municipal Stadium where I worked as bat boy and clubhouse attendant seemed longer every day. I sometimes stopped under the pavilion at Daffin Park to rest and watch a grizzled old fellow with gray hair and matching stubble hustle his string of small boats. But on this day he was sitting quietly in the shade of one of the magnificent willow trees working with something that was hidden by his gnarled fingers. "Whatch'a making, mister?" He stopped working, held the carving of small, interlinked monkeys out for me to see. "They're beautiful, mister," I said and wondered how his thick, bent fingers could do such delicate work. "How did you learn to do that?" "On the beach, over in Java years ago. My girlfriend's father taught me." "Java? Wow. You been there?" "Yep." He paused a moment. "You? By the way, call me Salt." "No, sir. Jacksonville is the furthest I've been." "Well, listen up ... ." That was the first of many imaginary trips where Old Salt made lions pounce in Africa and snakes dance in India. I was there. I was late getting to the ballpark that day. I could see the groundskeeper Scurdy standing underneath the western concrete bleachers where the old clubhouse used to be. "Hey, Scurdy, wait to I tell you about Java and ..." " Never mind no Java. Where you been, boy? You better get those uniforms inside and get those shoes polished before those players come." I almost laughed at his pretended scowl. He couldn't get mad if he wanted to; not that big guy with the hundred pound heart ... but that's another story. Charles Clemons is a freelance writer in Savannah. He has a novel, ''Umbuntu,'' which will be published by Protea Publishing of Atlanta in the spring. |
Georgia Ear Institute |