Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

“Savannah was invariably gracious to strangers, but it was immune to their charms. It wanted nothing so much as to be left alone.” ~ John Berendt

It ended in the same way it began ~ at the airport, with a piano player doing what piano players do in a sunny atrium somewhere outside of Savannah. Picking up a last-minute praline for Mom, I immediately went to daydreaming about another visit, perhaps with the parents in tow. Savannah has enough magic for everyone, and with its walkable squares and plentiful historical excursions, along with such excellent food and drink, enough appeal for the most finicky of family members. I made a mental note to plan something in the future.

Part of its charm was no doubt due to the fact that I was vacation with Andy ~ a state in which we rarely find ourselves these days. It’s a happy circumstance that brings a certain peace, especially when separated from the usual burdens and chores of a house and work and political news briefings. We removed ourselves from that stressful world and sunk deep into siestas and slow walks among the pretty squares of the historic district, reviving ourselves with Southern bourbon cocktails and low country food-stuffs. Just as we were easing into an easy-going frame of mind, when the sweet slowness of the Southern pace was finally part of our schedule, it was time to go. That’s ok ~ we will take a bit of it back with us, I thought as I perused a book of Southern recipes and vaguely worked out a brunch or afternoon gathering for a sunny late spring day. Until then, here’s a linky look back at our Savannah Adventures:

• The Savannah Chronicles Part 1
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 2
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 3
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 4
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 5
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 6

“Once upon a time the world was sweeter than we knew. Everything was ours; how happy we were then, but then once upon a time never comes again.” ~ Johnny Mercer

I’ve always found cemeteries to be more than just peaceful places of repose. They are perfect for meditation, for returning to a frame of mind that is both grounded and relieved by mundane concerns. When it comes down to life and death, we are all equal. We each get one. What we do with the former is largely up to us; the latter is confoundingly out of our control, for the most part. Andy and I were dropped off at the entrance to the cemetery, and after a lost pair of sunglasses (I gave them up to Savannah’s ghosts) we began our self-guided walk along trees hung with Spanish moss and blooming camellias around every gravestone.

Little Gracie Watson’s marker ~ a pale sculpture of astounding life-like sadness ~ was surrounded and protected by an iron fence. It had proved too popular to be left open to careless tourists. We passed the cemetery for Conrad Aiken as well ~ I had no idea that he was buried there. Our real quest was for Johnny Mercer, and near the end of our journey we found him and his family. Beside a few palm trees, and marble etched with some of his many lyrics, Mr. Mercer’s site was in the peaceful shade of a few trees, near enough the water to feel its breeze. Nearby, a wayward wisteria wound its way around an iron gate, while camellias bloomed amid the green and gray.

“To understand the living, you got to commune with the dead…”

We paused there for a moment. We lucked out and were the only ones around for a while. Amid the beauty, there was peace. A few birds chirped above us as we made our way out of the cemetery. Our time in Savannah was coming to a close, and much too quickly…

“That old black magic has me in its spell,

That old black magic that you weave so well

Icy fingers up and down my spine

The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine…”

~ Johnny Mercer