My Fauxtography: Cemeteries: Gallery One

Gallery

This gallery contains 45 photos.

I wouldn’t say that I have the best camera in the world, but I do have a natural eye for moments. In fact, if I had a great camera, I’d be dangerous. Even with limits, I’ve garnered some impressive feeling … Continue reading

Love By The Numbers

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

(Listen To Shannon Recite This Poem)

One lover is but one.
Two in a room, opens the womb.
3 perfects the “you and me.”
For love is the 3rd person.
Few are willing to see.
Love with only two, cannot be harmony.
Only egos, competing endlessly.
The 3rd must be observed, before the two can truly be true.
Number 3 must be honored, before there will be a “me & you.”
Two easily visible, but with persona in stirs,
3 goes neglected, true love suffers to be observed.
Ones are each vital, but three is the guide & will not be denied.
One and two, must turn to 3 to be free.
Bowing, smiling, asking for true epiphany.
Only then, can one and two be friends.
Love, the 3rd person, unites all ends.
Love is a triangle, with 3 sides to complete.
Love is the point, one & two must reach to meet.
Friendship foundation, arms joined high for trusting walls.
But without love as the crown, all 3 will fall.

LoverPyramid

The Media of Two

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015
(Listen To Shannon Recite This Poem)

The world waits on edge for vapid news shows and magazines.
Such fervor over the who’s who of being seen.
But my headlines are your texts on my cell phone screen.
Or your pretty voice on my answering machine.
In my world, this is the news that matters.
Not all of the ink paper and cyber chatter.
You’re my morning show, News@5 and Weather Report.
Broadcasting sexy information of every sort.
A face I can trust with words that are more than play.
My world gets swayed by your opinion and say.
Adding new insights into my world and day.
Who needs the boob tube when I’ve got you Jude?
Let the world stay lost with the web and newspaper clippings.
Exhausting fingers on keys and all of that channel flipping.
While they do that we’ll go margarita sipping!
For the news of us is much more all the fuss!
As the world makes wars, we’ll live like lovers!
Surely news of it will make all of the covers.
2IsAPair

Some of Shannon’s Art

This is just a post to generate a link for a quick view of my art & studio. More information can be found under the Art Tab itself. More works to come! Thanks!

Shannon Scott's Studio

Shannon Scott’s Studio

Dreaming By The River. Ink.

The General's Arrival. Charcoal

The General’s Arrival. Charcoal

Male Torso. Colored Pencil

Male Torso. Colored Pencil

Loves By The Light

Loves By The Light

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My Life As Esthete

Aesthete or Esthete. 1. a person who has or professes to have refined sensitivity toward the beauties of art or nature. 2. a person who affects great love of art, music, poetry, etc., and indifference to practical matters.

I truly believe everyone has various inner spirits inside of them, no matter what vibration you find yourself using your senses to harness, there’s some work involved in fine tuning it. I certainly had some help. My grandmother (see portrait of Koko), on my mother’s side was instrumental in speaking to my own inner artist and would spend time showing me how to color within the lines, but at the same time, not to be limited by them. She passed away when I was 9 of Alzheimer’s but in my short life with her, made an indelible impression. The portrait of her and I as a newly adopted infant, was my very first attempt at a life drawing when I was 17 or 18.  My mother too, also deserves credit with developing my artistic sensibilities. When I was really just a young boy, she’d sign us up for public craft and art classes and so together on the weekends we’d go down to the local craft store on my small town’s main street, and there did wood burning, some sewing, and very simple painting together. She would also be the person who would later expose me to musical arts and saw Kabuki theater around the age of 12, experimental composer, Phillip Glass (life changing) and more. I was very fortunate to have such exposure to the arts. My mother very gifted musically, always playing the piano, organ and as a young woman, she was awarded the John Philip Sousa Award for trumpet. Looking back, even being from a small town, I had unique closeness to the arts and some special role models and guides.

Koko & Me (1988)

Koko & Me (1988)

In spite of the obvious exposure to the arts I really fell into pursuing fine arts academically by default. Truth be told, in the 8th Grade as my parents saw me entering High School in the next year, they realized I didn’t seem to really have a calling so nudged me into the art classes. I had also shown an aptitude for out of the box thinking that actually cost me some marks, but it was validation to myself that I was a “creative thinker.” During difficult adolescent years, art became kind of my way to stand apart and a way to find a way to share my observations of the world around me. Nearly every year that I entered art into Illinois Scholastics competitions, I came away with honors and more of a road opened before me. Class trips to universities to tour their facilities also exposed me to very talented artists and eccentric personalities. So in the vein of those connections and in the tradition of other artists with a “look,” I developed an eccentric look of my own and became my home town’s original “Goth kid.” Which seems almost passe to any school in any town today, but was very unusual and somewhat daring in the 1980s in central Illinois.
CCI07082014_00004 (2)
        “Mom & Me” (1986)                       “My Best Goth Hair” (1987)

During my high school years in Illinois, the Savannah College of Art & Design (SCAD), routinely shipped out catalogs to their college and to me of all the school catalogs I’d seen, their’s was the best designed and really said, “art school.” To some degree it came down to two schools for me, SCAD and the Art Institute of Chicago. The latter seemed much more serious and the city colder to me. After a trip down to Savannah during a Spring visit, and waking up from the ride in a town exploding with azaleas, I felt like an artist who had died and gone to Heaven. The campus made up of historical buildings throughout this town of charming, even exotic squares full of sculpture by famed artists like Daniel Chester French, Felix de Weldon and others, for a lover of art and history, the town and the school were undeniable. Plus after having visited Spain in high school, the trip left me wanting something older and more European and Savannah was an artist’s sort of city scape. After the school offered me a $25,000 scholarship, I made the move.

The General's Arrival. Charcoal

The General’s Arrival. Charcoal

I found myself making art like crazy. Part inspired by the town, and a way for putting the nerves of being 1000 miles away from my family into something positive. My dorm room walls were lined with so much art that once when a fellow student asked if I’d brought some of this with me from high school, I replied, “No, I’ve done all of this in 3 weeks.” He was astonished to say the least.
Dreaming By The River. Ink.
W
hile in school I dabbled a little bit in theater and some video production, but those departments were really in their infancy but they allowed me to dabble in some things that would become a part of my life later in performing and TV & Film work. Where I really found happiness was in the world of Life Drawing. Its considered quite a rite of passage once you’ve drawn a nude figure and I took to drawing models like paint takes to a car or chef to cooking. I was very much at home and it would become the template for the rest of my work at school. I wouldn’t say I’m the best at figure drawing, but at school I was always invited to upper level classes that the professors had to invite you to and I’ve had more than one person tell me that my portraits have really captured the spiritual essence of someone. I love the process of free form drawing and also more intense layered works. It was in the experimentation of Life classes that I was pushed to try various mediums ranging from conte, charcoal, pastel, ink, watercolor, colored pencil, you name it. I discovered a certain confidence there that I had the ability to play with a medium for part of a day and by the end of the day, it was like I had been using it my whole life.

Male Torso. Colored Pencil

Male Torso. Colored Pencil

While in school, my influences I found were in artists who also had other talents, particularly those who could write as well as they paint or draw. Although I loved the works of Marc Chagall, de Chirico, Roger Brown, Henri Rousseau, El Greco, Caravaggio, Ben Shawn, and countless others, I developed a particular love for Dante Rossetti as painter/poet, Kahlil Gibran as the same, and William Blake who outshines them all and may very well be the original modern artist. As of late, I would say because of my time roaming Bonaventure and living in Savannah, I’ve added Johnny Mercer to the mix as he could write music, play any instrument and draw or paint anything on top of that, but is rarely thought of as a visual artist. These people with so many God given talents have always intrigued me because I have been blessed with a similiar spark. Which many artists have more than one side to them, but I have also met many who can paint amazing things but can’t write a paragraph or talk in front of people without sweating bullets. They have the golden touch in some respects but two left feet in others.

Sometimes I wonder why I have been given so many tools. As I’m getting to a point, I don’t mean this to sound vain when I say that if you look at the resume of my artistic design, its like I was handed a magical number of talents. They are not automatic by any means and I have had to refine them and learn them and work hard for them. But in my life, I’ve come to draw, sing, paint, cook, act, make films, narrate, write, art direct, publish and also realize there were or are other things I could plug my being into that I would do very well, but don’t simply for some of those other things absorbing my life.

As special as that all sounds, its also maddening. I’m a terrible procrastinate, awful at managing personal time and finances and being someone who “feels” so much, I’m am often taxed by a very sensory world full of energy. To the point where I sometimes don’t do anything at all but recoil and avoid life (I like to call this recharging).

But here’s my message. People ask me all of the time, “What do you do?” I’m always stuck to tell them that I’m an esthete because they just won’t get that 9 times out of 10, but its what I am. And being one has put me in touch with the greatness of human nature and things cosmic in the universe. The only explanation I can come up with about my talents and their various range is that curiosity is my credo and gathering information via getting my hands in various things, is the way I give this information back to a higher source. Or what Conrad Aiken and many others before and after him call The Universal Substance. Or God if you like. Or Collective Consciousness. I do believe in this special energy or this cosmic library place. What I believe we all are, no matter what we do with ourselves, or what we call it, and we are all in the business of doing whether we realize it or not — WE — You & I, are satellites. Information gatherers. Its this purpose I have found that we are, that proves the universe is infinite, expanding and growing. And we are responsible for pushing it wider with our purpose and roles. With what we do and learn? The universe then learns. It grows with it. As we experience, create and achieve? We give back up to it, and it returns something to us. More knowledge, more happiness. Some of it already known and older than us, but in our efforts of giving up our experiences to this higher power, it feeds us in return. We grow. Our internal universes expand. And with this old knowledge and even secrets we are instilled with from our efforts, we then have new tools, more tools to advance in our cause we call “our lives.” I think this also explains why someone who can seem so ordinary or only has one set of talents, suddenly invents the thing that changes the world. Its not that they devised it entirely on their own, but they found the discovery in the zone of such spiritual work. And yes, perhaps our 5 senses are the receptors for these whispers from divine places and are the tools to harness divinity.

A man once asked me quite humored, “how on earth did you go from art school to cemeteries?” I’ve been asked it since too. Even though my answer can easily show the obvious relationships between art and the beauty of a cemetery, my inner gut wanted to scream, “Man, can’t you see I’m gathering more information???” And I cannot always say for what it is that I’m doing this or explain the rhyme or reason. I am just stimulated by beauty and the movement of life’s mechanics and I seek to discover all of their relationships in the way that I am meant to learn from them and about them. I believe this is where poet Conrad Aiken and I am very much alike. We are less concerned by the fame of our name and more so earnest about “the work.” My way of honoring existence, and the highest thing I can do in my life, is to gather more experience, create more art of all kinds, and give it back up. There is some part of this that is automatic and I am merely the steward of this energy with a consciousness of the fact that I am its machine doing the bidding of what my machinery is supposed to do. I also believe we all are truly purposed or if you wish, “designed” to do this or be this. And you can either choose to cheat it or embrace the incredible power of it. For good and for bad, I have embraced it. And because I have, no matter what, I will hever be a failure. None of us can be when we accept the design and live this cosmic program. Yet at the same time, its much simpler than this. All one has to do is fall in love with the world or someone like your grandmother shows you how to see the beauty in it and understand the motion of it through the movement of something like a crayon. Its everywhere you look and in everything you touch. Beauty and love. Make art of your life by living like art. Be art in motion with what you do and there is nothing higher. Not money, not fame, nothing.

What's Next?

What’s Next?

The Great Wave

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015
(Click Play To Listen To Shannon Recite This Poem)

Long ago, the earth cooled from toil.
And the seas quieted.
The energy of love manifested in the stillness of before 
It began deep in the womb of the earth with a small quake.
Like a shivering newborn, a ripple was sent into the sea.
Delivering the energy upon the sands. 

Each granule washed with it.
Every wind, rain, coating the land.
Every rock, reed, creature becoming inspirited.
Every thing becoming an elemental. 
Love currenting further in.
Like some great wave.

So began the dreaming of the world.
And the pounding in one heart.
Then a second, feeling for the other.
A new ocean of sister and brother.
Love in waves.

The Great Wave

The Great Wave

 

 

Rare Savannah Voodoo Rite Discovery

(Click Play To Listen To Shannon Recite This Article)

There is a long history of ritualism in cemeteries, both for purposes Good & Evil. In the Low Country South, we find the Gullah & Geechee people most prolific in the practices of Post-Africanism with what they call “Root.” The shamans if you will, known as Root Doctors. There is also a tradition of Vodun or Vodou here but how widespread it is or has been, is debatable. Brazilian Macumba also. In fact, the rituals of 200 years ago may have been more distinguishable, whereas today with all of those cultures, including Santeria, having mingled, rituals of today may actually be blends of more than one. Let’s face it, chefs borrow recipes. Unlike New Orleans, a city that has these practices more in the open, if just for tourism’s sake now, Savannah historically was much more Puritanical and to be known or associated with such things, could and did literally mean your death with Savannah having publicly executed some who were convicted of heresy and the like. Even if some of it may have been misunderstood by the punishers. The Root Doctors and Sangomas in response, took nearly all of it underground as a culture and it misses the eyes of most visitors to Savannah and those that even live here. But make no mistake, if you were to turn Savannah inside out? You’d find something not unakin to New Orleans in terms of an active culture. Hence, why we’re sharing this photo below. It is a rare peek at a ritual appearing in a cemetery, that place between worlds, and someone conducting it probably for a benevolent cause versus an evil one. Everything about it from the inscriptions (Faithful Unto Death) mirror (reflecting light) mother hens (food/eggs/life) to the shells (protection) peacock feathers (Oshun Goddess) and fresh tufts of field cotton (absorption/purification/cleaning), bespeak a spell being done on the behalf of Love. We just hope it worked. Want to learn more? Well, tour with us and you shall! #BonaventureCemeteryJourneys  #BonaventureCemetery #BonaventureTours #TourBonaventure #VisitSavannah #SavannahCemeteryTours #Savannah #RootDoctors #Voodoo #Vodou #Vodun #Sangomas #DrumsAndShadows #LadyMinerva #DoctorBuzzard #DoctorFrog #DoctorHawk #DoctorGregory #DoctorLavender #LoveSpells #WhiteMagic 
Photo By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

Photo By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

Photo By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

Photo By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

Lady Minerva, 1996. She passed way in 2009.

Lady Minerva, 1996. She passed way in 2009.

 

Bonaventure: Heaven’s Playground (Part II)

Apologies that this has taken awhile to publish. Please read Part One on the blog first Bonaventure: Heaven’s Playground (Part One) These articles originally appeared in the Halloween Edition of Twisted South Magazine.

Gracie – Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Bonaventure feels old. Really old. But beautiful. It feels like a destination after a long journey. I was told it’s a 10-minute drive from downtown but was once hours by horseback. In fact, the winding roads going up to it from two directions bespeak of an old carriage road that was never straightened. At the main entrance stand towering live oaks that look like elder guardians and an elegant brick caretaker’s house with pristine flower gardens. It’s a city office today, but was first the home of the cemetery’s sexton families. You ever look at a house and get the feeling it knows things? This one does. Especially those upstairs rooms, but they weren’t talking. Again, those confounding dualities of the Midnight In The Garden of Good and EvilSavannah. Mysteries hidden like you have to earn them or wait til they come to you.

My first clues? Little bat or gargoyle wings cast into the main iron gates and these two statues capping the entrance pillars. These “Mary” figures look sleepy and kind of sensual prompting in the reverent spectacle, what felt a semi-blasphemous thought, “Can cemeteries be sexy?” Before I could give that much attention, I saw something looking at me. An eye shape on what appeared to be the main cemetery map board encased in glass. Sure enough as I approached, the eye was there (not unlike the one on the business card given to me by Sabine). I walked closer and as I did the sunlight went from feeling yellow to golden. I mused, “Shadows and sunlight are stronger in here.”

When I got to the map board, I saw that the cemetery is rather large to say the least (100-200 acres). As I looked at this very distinct hieroglyphic-like eye, the map seemed to have a profile of a head around it. I’d seen things on TV about map makers and park planners using symbols and other impressions of antiquity inside such designs but wondered if it was my over-active imagination. The Victorians were into the iconography of the Egyptians, although this head reminded me of those murals of bald slaves or perhaps a pharaoh without his headdress. Near the map board was a yellow wooden arrow on a temporary stake. Taped to it was a piece of printer paper bearing a name and time, “Martin – 2pm.” I presumed this was pointing funeral goers to a plot, so I decided to walk in that direction. It was still early, and I might meet someone interesting.

As I roamed, I was taken with how garden-like Bonaventure seemed. The sheer number of live oaks dressed out in dangling moss cobwebs. It occurred to me that if one was seeking to conceal anything gothic or creepy, they might consider sticking to just palm trees. The live oaks are like something out of Tolkien’s imagination, waving gnarled arms with mouths that are both yawning or screaming in the serenity. As you pass, it’s as if they’re saying, “Wait til the sun goes down, that is when our day begins.”

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Just ahead I could see a black van and a green tent. I continued to pass through an array of mourning statues, towering obelisks several stories high, broken columns and urns covered in veils. The many symbols made me aware of how so many religious views live on the backs of others and how diverse Savannah is or had once been. Suddenly more eyes were on me. A small headstone depicted the faces of three children peering from inside a heart-shaped window as if they were in heaven looking down on their family. The expressions of sympathy carved into their tiny faces was so natural. I marveled at the artist’s skill while trying to comprehend the mother, who in 1903, lay with all three of them lifeless in her arms. Standing over this small grave there was a simple but jarring phrase stamped in bold letters…(TRIPLETS). The parenthesis there as if to whisper the impact. Neighboring were the headstones of two other children for what appeared to be a total of five lost by a single mother. I was reminded of how novelist Mary Shelley had lost several children during childbirth and that “Frankenstein” in some way was her processing her anger toward God.

“Those are the carvings of John Walz,” a voice announced from behind.

As I whirled around, an older man stood there, probably in his 70s, breathing tubes extending from his nostrils leading to an oxygen tank strung over his shoulder.

“Sorry if I startled you, young man. I’m here for a friend’s service and came early to walk around as I’ve got a lot of family and memories here,” he reminisced. He called himself Mike Deegan.

“Who was this sculptor again?” I asked.

“John Walz. He was from Philly, married a Savannah girl and made our cemeteries more beautiful for sure…yeah, Savannah really lucked out with him,” he noted with a certain pride.

“Mike, is it true that those sculptors made their livings, so to speak, from children’s deaths during that period..it really seems like their graves are everywhere,” I noted.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he sighed. Mike then popped up and asked, Have you met Little Gracie?“

Telling him no, he asked if he could introduce me. As we walked, Mike spoke of many names and families. Although the monuments seemed more than twice his age, he spoke of them as if he had known them. I heard both happiness and sorrow in his voice as if he wished they were still here.

Mike stopped in the road for a moment, wheezing, “Kid, whatever you do, don’t smoke anything stronger than pot…man, I shoulda listened to my friends at Haight-Ashbury,” he chuckled.

For all of the hushed conversation in Savannah, it’s amazing what residents will actually tell you if they determine you’re worthy. Like they want you to carry the truth outside of the walls and share, but not give them up at the same time in their home town. Mike said the reason he could talk more like this was because he lived way out in another county now.

As we continued to walk, I seemed to miss the major monuments in plots as I was struck by all of the children’s graves tucked at the back of family plots. Whereas monuments to adults were often bold, gray granite pieces, the memorials to children appeared stark white as if the stone marked their innocence. Tiny, even miniature headstones with little marble borders surrounding the grave poked out, and depending on their lengths, hinted at the child’s age at death. Toddlers a foot or so long mixed with slightly longer pieces of marble of children closer to 7 or 10 years old. According to Mike, these were flower beds where ivy once grew or morning glories, and now most are barren. There were reclined lambs carved into the top portions of some, with the occasional toy or trinket placed by family or perhaps a random stranger moved by the loneliness of one grave. I pondered if these were some of the lights and sources of the laughter at night. Do people hear it during the day?

Gracie - Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Gracie by Jennifer Anne Photography

As we turned down a road bearing the sign, “Gracie Section,” there were a few cars parked narrowly by a fenced-in plot and several people standing in front smiling and stretching their arms above or through the fence to take pictures. Rising above some interior shrubs, there stood a glowing white marble statue of a small, pleasant-looking girl seated on a bench. One hand of the child was resting on a tree that looked chopped in half, a vine climbing it, the other hand holding perhaps a flower, and the pedestal she was seated on had branches forming the girl’s name, “GRACIE.” There were toys scattered in the front part of the plot, some handwritten notes and coins placed along the railing of the fence. She was also holding a toy teddybear on her lap, evidence that the fence didn’t deter everyone. There was a marble plaque with a few details but I preferred to hear Mike’s take on her.

“Who was she?” I asked.

“She’s Savannah,” Mike replied. “Her mother and father had a fancy hotel downtown during the “Cotton Boom” and Gracie was their only child. There was something special about her and everyone knew it. Everyone came to see her at the hotel (that was their home)…mayors, politicians all saw her as good luck, travelers too that were so far from their families. She must’ve been an old soul or something. People would give her things because they believed it meant their own families would be well when they returned off a long road,” he remarked.

“Newspapers and travel journals talked about her for awhile and it seemed like everyone wanted to know her…but she died when she was six in 1889 of pneumonia. Some say she got hit by a carriage first, but I don’t know that.  First statue John Walz did in Savannah, and no one every forgot him for it…people were real sad over her death,” he noted solemnly.

“Every kid in Savannah grew up with her in a way…we all played around her before this fence was here, and you know, we all kept coming back to her as we grew older..she was like family, and I won’t lie, we might have had a beer or two with Gracie, but that’s ok, her parents owned a bar,” he laughed.

I asked him if he had more than oxygen in the tank, and after Mike stopped roaring over my jest, he looked at me like he was making a study and prompted, “Bet you wanna know the legend, huh?”

Of course I did, and said as much.

“Well don’t you believe that junk on the internet about her crying tears of blood…dumbest stuff I ever heard,” he fired back. “Even my grandmother told me this one, if you come out here under a full moon in the winter, all of these headstones are cold as ice, Gracie though – warm – like she’s still alive!”

As I looked at Mike’s elated face back over at Gracie, it seemed that she was smiling more than when we first arrived.

“She does that,” Mike boasted.

“What do you mean?” I chuckled.

“You saw her smile didn’t you?” he said proudly.

I thought to myself, had I? Was I becoming part of this illusory Savannah mindset?

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Gracie suddenly seemed to me the reigning child; princess of “Heaven’s Playground”. Like she was the central figure in the cast; that all living and dead children came to pay homage to and perhaps lead their games. And for all of those who have no life-like statue, no headstone, no face, she symbolizes all of them. She is every child buried at Bonaventure.

“Why is Gracie here alone, Mike?”

His face grew sullen. He looked deeply at Gracie and said, “No one really knows, but after Walz unveiled the monument, her mother and father lost faith in the business…things…they sold the hotel, and within a few years were all gone. Guess they had nothing left for this place after such a golden time.”

Mike genuinely had tears in his eyes as he spoke, “Stranger still no one knows where they went or what happened to her parents.”

After holding back, I bravely asked, “Mike, do you know any ghost stories about Bonaventure?”

He shot me a look, and then humored, “Boy you really know how to work a guy!”

We both cracked up for a minute. I went on to tell him what I’d heard about the spook lights and children’s laughter. I could tell from his face he understood every word.

“So you wanna know about Heaven’s Playground?” Mike asked. “Now I don’t want you to think what I’m going to tell you is dark or evil or anything, because I think these kids out here have passed on but come back to fill this place with good energy and that’s what people feel out here day and night. They’re like cleaners of all the energy people come in with. They take people’s pain away, you see. They send everyone back to their lives good or better than they were before,” he concluded.

“I appreciate that Mike, but how does Gracie fit in?”

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

He went on, “Well before they put up that dern jail cell around her, the tradition was for everyone to come here and give Gracie a toy, maybe a coin and keep her company for a minute. The old saying is that she adopts every passerby and every passerby adopts her…she’s kind of the main attraction in “Heaven’s Playground” I guess you could say.”

He added, “But now she’s in a pen, and I don’t much like it. Gracie was out here for everybody. I know people do dumb things but I miss the old-fashioned way, you know…guess I’m showing my age.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noted that hearses and a string of cars were flowing into Bonaventure.

“Mike! Oh man, I forgot you were here for a funeral!”

He looked over in the direction of the tent and laughed, “Do I look like I’m in a hurry to get to a funeral, son? They need this oxygen more than me!”

We laughed. He appreciated my own quip when I told him that I too had a “deadline” waiting on me. As we were saying our goodbyes, I couldn’t resist asking, “Mike, has anyone ever seen Gracie’s ghost? I mean, does she play here or does she just sit here?”

He seemed impressed, “Son, I’ve never seen her myself, but I had some good friends who did. They used to live in that house up at the front for a long, long time. Just before the city moved in to take over the cemetery, there were my friends who were the sextons. One night in the heat of the summer, the grandmother and great grandmother were alone in the home when a friend dropped by. They were all sitting in the den with the door open with just the screen closed to catch the breeze off the bluff. Without a whisper, …there was suddenly a girl standing at the door with her hands on the screen and her nose pressed into it. She was just staring at them.there was suddenly a girl standing at the door with her hands on the screen and her nose pressed into it. She was just staring at them. The family friend took no notice of the girl’s appearance, but the other women knew who she was and couldn’t even speak. They said that the buttons on the girls dress were identical to that of Gracie’s, as were the style of shoes and buttons as well. The family friend was first to speak and asked the strange girl if there was something they could do for her. The girl responded by taking her hands off the screen and began to walk backwards away from the door. The family friend got up and went to the door and the other women followed. There the girl stood at the top of the steps, still staring at them and without a word, and without taking her eyes off of their’s, walked backwards down the steps and uncanny I tell ya, walked backwards staring at them back into the mist of the cemetery! Can you believe it? In reverse! Just gives me chills thinking about it and the two women of the family were stupified! But the family friend hadn’t made any spiritual connection and said casually to the women, “I’m going to go after her.” As she opened the screen door, an icy breeze blew into the house and the great-grandmother lunged at the woman yanking her back in and shrieked, “DON’T YOU DARE!” Once the two women explained to her who they believed had just visited them, their friend began to tremble with understanding and fear. Funniest part is, they went over to a bar in Thunderbolt that next minute and ordered themselves the biggest shots they’d ever drunk in their whole lives!”

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

Mike roared with laughter, yet I felt reluctant to do the same, as I stood there trying to process what he had just told me. Laughter was the last emotion I could conjure up thinking about not just a vaporous apparition doing this, but a flesh and blood statue spirit walking in the night.

“Why do you think Gracie did that or came to them in that way?” I managed to ask.

“Well, I can tell you what those women told me as a much younger man…since they were moving out they believed it was Gracie coming by in her own way to say goodbye to them, and a kind of “job well done for us here in the cemetery” parting moment. And I need a drink for just telling you that, young man,” he amusingly confided.

“But right now, I gotta go say a final toast to an old friend,” he said as he turned to go.

Some crows nearby began to caw in the trees and he commented, “Oh boy, that ain’t good luck. People used to say if you heard that at a funeral, meant someone else in your family was going to die. Sure hope it ain’t me, I gotta lot more to do today!”

I told him the crow would probably die before he would, I heard him laugh approvingly as he walked away. As I turned to leave, I caught sight of a note that didn’t seem to be there the whole time Mike and I were talking. It was a little weathered, yellow piece of journal paper, tied to Gracie’s gate, written in a child’s hand:

Dear Gracie, my baby brother came to join you last week. Please take good care of him for us. I loved him very much. Love, Jenny

Her handwriting told me she wasn’t more than 5 years old. Right about the same age as Gracie when she passed. A part of me wished I could tell Jenny that it would be ok and that Gracie would be looking out for her little brother.

That’s the thing about Savannah. It has the most beautiful of living things and the most beautiful of life gone by. It is full of notes and signs that seem to be found in the slightest moments with random encounters or people. They’re all reaching out and telling you something at every turn, entrusting you with it for some purpose of your own. And when I thought about why Mike had told me that ghost story, it dawned on me, that through the story, both he and Gracie wanted me to do a good job telling their story; and I certainly hope that I have.

So strange, but Savannah in a short time has become a new layer of my own skin. A part of its soul, now my own. Even if I didn’t have a moment with a ghost, in the very short time I visited, I feel like I got something better. Like I had a profound out-of-body and other worldly encounter with a mystical city and its most mysterious cemetery.

Photo courtesy of Dick Bjornseth

Photo courtesy of Dick Bjornseth

#Savannah #BonaventureCemetery #BonaventureCemeteryJourneys #BonaventureTours #TourBonaventure #MidnightInTheGardenofGoodandEvil #CemeteryTours #SavannahCemeteryTours #ShannonScott

“Savannah: City of The Dead?” by Shannon Scott

This article first appeared in Twisted South Magazine’s Fall 2014 Issue. Photos by Dick Bjornseth. www.twistedsouth.com 

Imagine if you will, a city where the discussions of ghosts, hauntings, or the dead are a daily part of community life – where it’s so casual, it’s giving the one about the weather a run for its money. If you’re having trouble imagining chatting about the deceased over your morning coffee or lunching with friends while you tell a good ghost story, then just visit Savannah, Georgia.

Upon arriving, visitors find the town somewhat removed from the 21st Century, so much so that when modernism does creep in (like anything or anyone entering Savannah’s suspended dimension,) it’s absorbed in a flash by the town’s living past. Savannah gives most people some sort of spiritual and mental reconfiguration, even to the general traveler coming to the city for a good dose of Southern gentility – you leave feeling a bit different. Some never know the reason why Savannah grabs hold of them or pulls them back to her. So make no mistake, these are no ordinary ghost stories you are hearing. Not every haunting is scary or should be interpreted that way. As residents of this town, we live with the past as much as with the present – ‘The Savannah Effect’. One has to evaluate other aspects that influence our concept of this “Effect” which is part of the strange consciousness found here.

We’ve all experienced marveling at seeing an old building, often announcing matter-of-factly, “Wow, that building is over 100 years old!” Understandably, most place 100 years between themselves and the object without comprehending how close they are to it by the logic of time. The very years since something was built or created are always right at the back of us in every moment. In Savannah, yesteryear is more a part of the present than usually fathomed. In some sense, there is no yesteryear here, merely the people and some shades of details have changed or been added to the spectrum. We accept that buildings still stand after 100 years, but is it really so strange to consider that so do the people? Granted buildings are buildings and biology is biology, but as buildings housed people and were so central to their lives, the very next question is often (even if subconsciously,) “Where are the people, and are they still here?”

Savannah may seem to stand still but the city is very much concerned with the active preservation of this time phenomenon. The more we aim to preserve something old, the more we are able to connect or stay in touch with the past. It gives us roots, grounds us, supplies us with tools for every type of advancement. To destroy important relics is like reading a worthy novel, but then ripping out the first half or every other page and giving it to a friend to read hoping they will understand it. So you see, to do away with objects made with care, shows carelessness for the past as well as one’s self. In effect, to tend to the cultural old, the very substance of a culture’s soul, may not be a guarantee for the future, but is it not promise of a greater one? Savannah seems to understand this connection of past and present.

What an amazing concept, having an object of the past, living in the present. Well then, what of a whole town and one filled with the objects of life from the spirits of the past that once dwelled there? These object have remained and so too have the people and their stories. So it is YOU who is new to it. Man has been moving around, era after era. It doesn’t die per say, we do. Do you understand now? We are all Savannah’s ‘ghosts’ – floating in and around the place. To marvel at spirits in nature is merely to be astonished by our own reflection! Savannah is filled with lessons of our own mortality – flashback reminders that we are mere life-filler. We are of course substantiating its existence with our own, but life comes with the knowledge that it will not last. We all stumbled out of the dark, and we will all stumble back. Which is a part of the visitor’s awe when absorbing Savannah as a place. It’s almost like survival envy.

Savannah shares her secrets by revealing the lives of the people who built up her neighborhoods, erected her churches, commissioned her statues and cemeteries to those who visit. Spirits wander her streets like a time capsule of love, war, betrayal, happiness, sadness, friendships, life. For many, entering Savannah is like entering Heaven for a time; there is evidence here that your struggle in this life is rewarded in the next. She captures her visitors by teasing them each time with one more story, one more ghost – imprinting their own experiences here but always bringing them back for more.

Savannah’s endurance through time, its ability to withstand and recover, its very existence refutes the nature of our own. People look upon this city and realize their mortality in a single glance. Part of experiencing the joy of Savannah is that all at once we are asked to sound the depth of her sadness, and this can invite some very deep feelings of lament. It is bitter sweet. Yet it is to honor Savannah and ourselves by allowing her to plumb our inner strings so that we might play something back to her. We all leave something behind within her walls after we are gone, and she accepts it with the grace of a sweet Southern lady.

Bonaventure: Heaven’s Playground (Part One)

Photo By Shannon Scott (C) All Rights Reserved

Photo By Shannon Scott (C) All Rights Reserved

NOTE: Originally appeared in the online quirky magazine, Twisted South, and I am mentioned as the mysterious man of the cool business card. Any other implications to me in the writing are either highly exaggerated or completely true. As many know, there is a City Cemetery Policy against telling ghost stories or discussing anything psychical, paranormal or otherwise “creepy” in City of Savannah Cemeteries. And although this seems highly contrary to A, The First Amendment, but also in a city where the heritage of such discussion easily goes back to The Revolutionary War, if not prior, all the more curious. Noteworthy is that the City of Savannah government page has a Q&A section where in the Top 5 questions is strangely, “Are any of the cemeteries haunted?” As if this somehow is such an issue that they need to formally address it in a government way. Lo & behold there is actually a governmental answer and everyone should definitely check it out at the below link. http://www.savannahga.gov/faq.aspx 

Part of my adding this article to my blog page is that I found it highly respectful of Savannah, the history and entertaining at the same time. I also address my feelings about said rules & their reasons in the article itself. 

Bonaventure: Heaven’s Playground (part I)

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Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

I went to Savannah, Georgia looking for ghosts, yet I’m the one who came back feeling haunted. For the past few years, I’d heard that Savannah was supposed to be the most haunted city in America. When I got the call to write a story for a magazine, I wasn’t sure I’d end up caring much about it because, frankly, I had some pretty cheesy perceptions of such things. I was leery. Now, I’d say never judge a ghost by its sheet!

As I poked around, it turns out in 2002 Savannah was dubbed “America’s Most Haunted City” by The American Institute of Parapsychology.  In no time at all (according to the city’s Visitors Bureau), it went from a town of five ghost tour companies to over 50!  So if Dahlonega, Georgia is known as the original Gold Rush town, Savannah may well be considered the original “Ghost Rush” town. Like any good prospector, I wanted to know if there were ghosts in dem thar hills (or swamps, but you get the point). I’d visited Savannah before and really took to the place, but I didn’t want to be too touristy this time around, so I decided to bypass the ghost tour scene. My aim was to grab up a few ghost stories from the locals and head out on my own. To be honest, it really seemed that everyone I talked to had the same story about this house or that hotel, with some variations. I was getting discouraged. But with one phone call, my angle (and my attitude) completely shifted to a single cemetery.

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Anne PhotographyPhoto courtesy of Jennifer Anne Photography

I was on the phone with a city person, and was trying to feel them out on why hauntings were such a big deal. At one point, I asked what seemed to be a perfectly normal question, “Do you have any haunted cemeteries?”

*Silence*

They muttered, “Umm…we don’t have any.”

I chuckled back, “How’s that?”

The person responded more convincingly, “None of our cemeteries are haunted.”

My curiosity was naturally raised by this retort, “Are you telling me that officially? How do you know that they’re not?”

More withdrawn, they replied, “Ummm…we have a city policy that there can be no discussion of ghosts or paranormal subjects on cemetery grounds managed by the city.”

I nearly dropped the phone. Although it felt very stop-the-presses, I could not get much more out of them and was shocked by what seemed a genuine nervousness around the conversation.

“You do realize you’re known as America’s Most Haunted City, right?”

“I’ve heard that, yes,” they replied.

Coyly, I asked, “So do Savannah’s ghosts just know to stay out of the cemeteries or do you tell them they can’t come in?” I had hoped to prompt a little laughter, but none came and I left them with a final query, “Ok, so if I wanted to not find some ghosts and not hear any ghost stories in a cemetery, where would be my best bet?”

“On or off the record?” they asked. “Off,” I told them. And then came the name…”Bonaventure.

Once the name had been spoken, it was like it kept growing in importance. I started to see the name printed in tourist magazines, on brochures and heard the word coming out of many mouths in hotel lobbies and gift shops. I got the feeling this place was taunting me through total strangers. My curiosity only grew while feeling equally uneasy, like maybe I should ignore the voices. Unfortunately I couldn’t, and it got worse when a beautiful, smiling bartender named Sabine, standing behind the basement bar of The Olde Pink House, exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve got to go there! I know the perfect person for you to talk to.” She handed me the strangest business card I’d seen in a while.

BizCard

Half listening to Sabine talk of being in Bonaventure late one night during a lightning storm with friends thinking they’d not live to see tomorrow, I stared hypnotized at a single large red eye staring out at me from this business card. Three links formed a crescent above it like a halo or bizarre eyelash. There was no name, just three initials, “S.S.S.,” but on the back of the card there was a winged hourglass graphic, and it boasted, “PROVIDING the Public with The Most Illuminating, Inimitable and Eternally COMPELLING TALES Currently Possible Here On Earth.” I felt like I was inside of an 18th century mansion root cellar and the ghost of P.T. Barnum had handed me his 19th century calling card through a gypsy woman. I half expected Sabine to be gone when I looked up, but no, thank God she was still pouring. Tomorrow I’d dial the number.

At first, I got the voicemail a few times, then finally a call back. The man’s voice was very pleasant and he sounded like he was a singer or a DJ.

Asking politely, “How can I help you, Byron?”

I spoke of my mission and he acknowledged my interest but after a few minutes of conversation he said, “I respect your interest but I really can’t comment on anything because it would put my livelihood at stake.”

He seemed genuinely guarded, “You see, I’m a believer myself, and have seen things, but to do what I do in the old guard’s cemetery, I have to keep the lid on that topic. It’s kind of a gentleman’s agreement out there.”

Inquiring further, “But why all of the secrecy? Don’t they know it just makes it sound more haunted?”

Photo courtesy of Dick BjornsethPhoto courtesy of Dick Bjornseth

The man with the strange card thoughtfully answered, “I do, Byron, but really I think the intention is to guard the old cemeteries from exploitation. I think their hearts are in the right place, but it’s a kind of censorship, and you know, some of the earliest ghost stories themselves come from locals talking in the 18th century about the spirits of Revolutionary War soldiers coming out of the wall of Colonial Park Cemetery. That’s on record.” He went on to add, “Ghosts are a long-standing part of the city heritage and really, if told the right way, can act for sources of reflection on life and our values. Some scare a little, but you know, mostly they’re there to tell a kind of life story or comment on history in a different way. It’s not a bad thing, but some see it as making fun or something about life being cheap.” He joked, “Some story tellers are better at keeping it thoughtful and classier than others.”

He spoke of a tour that he did called Bonaventure After Hours which was the only cemetery night tour in the city.  He invited me along. Our conversation was like Savannah itself, a mixture of dualities and contradictions. Even though I’d not gotten what I’d hope to get out of him, I felt like I’d learned something very deep about Savannah. I was more eager than ever to visit Bonaventure.

Bonaventure Cemetery sits in a town that according to Savannah author, Tarrin Lupo, was named by pirates, as well as for the intense lightning storms that occur there. In the minds of most who live in the area, it’s still Savannah, but the old fishing village is technically a separate jurisdiction. Any town named by pirates has got to be good, so I made my way down Victory Drive to see the town, Thunderbolt, where Bonaventure rested. As I turned down the waterfront road, there were condos, a smattering of funky old cottages, a couple of shops and not much else. It was quaint, reminiscent of many New England port towns I’d grown up around. Smack dab in the middle of the main road was a large wooden cross.  I thought of John Carpenter’s The Fog and had visions of sailor ghosts with glowing red eyes wandering the streets.

I decided to pull into the parking lot of a restaurant that was all verandas and decks called Tubby’s Tankhouse for more story reconnaissance and a drink. The bartender, Sheila, was nice and without much hesitation, I told her what I was doing. Before I could even ask her, she was off and running with a story about working there and seeing a ghost in the kitchen. My mind began to wander and it struck me that people who live in Savannah are either slightly off, or there’s something about the environment that causes people to really see apparitions. Not expecting much, I asked her if she’d ever seen anything in Bonaventure itself.

Photo courtesy of Dick BjornsethPhoto courtesy of Dick Bjornseth

Sheila paused for a moment and then offered, “Mostly spook lights and children’s voices…and their laughter sometimes.”

I gulped a little bit at her answer and asked, “What do you mean?”

She began, “Ever since I was a little kid, my friends and I, we’d sneak out there and just wander around, and we’d see these big balls of light jump across the path and sometimes rise up into the trees and sit in the crooks like they was birds perched or somethin.”

“How big were they?” I asked.

“Some were tennis ball size and then some bout as big as a basketball, I reckon,” she concluded.

“You said something about laughter,” I inquired.

“Yeah, it’s the darndest thing…we’d hear running in gravel behind us, feet skidding and pebbles going every which way, and then kids laughing like they were right behind us and all around us, and then we’d see the spook lights,” Sheila said, somewhat elated.

Beyond curious, I pressed, “Sheila, why do you think all of that is happening?”

Her answer was touching and amusing. …“Well we used to call it Heaven’s Playground as kids…there are more kids buried out there than anything and we kind of saw it like Heaven was letting them come out at night to play with us real kids.”

I thanked her, paid my bill and set off to see a place that now felt more mythical than real. Bonaventure.

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2!