In Georgia with the next generation

After three weeks in the verdant sanctuary of the Sautee farm with our dear 88-year-old Aunt Libby, leaving is a wrench. But the road trip must go on. Off through the familiar North Georgia town of Cleveland, we head south to Atlanta. Past the pawn shops and ammo shops, shrivelled corn fields, mini-storage facilities, salvage stores, cute gift stores with their

fresh autumn displays. Pumpkin decorations are everywhere. Some of them fanciful, some folksy, some Halloweenish, some just piles of pumpkins.

And here is a sign warning us that there are prisoners at large. There is a large detail of prisoners mowing the verges of the highway. This explains something about the great mowing demands of this much-mown country. What a good use of prisoners.

The road takes us through Clarmont, past barns and sheds, the niftily named Dari Spot Ice Cream Parlor (Dairy - geedit?), and a place which deals in salvage real estate. Hmm. Oh, and a plus-size clothing store. The plus sizes in the US are the bane of my life. All the best clothes are for big women. It is not fair.

More pawn shops. We buy guns, they shout. Churches sit right next door. Churches, burbs, thrift shops, guns, lawns; these prevail here in North Georgia.

And now we pass Lake Lanier, a vast and glorious body of water. Its muddy shores show the long lack of rain. It’s peaceful out on the lake. Little boats. Pontoons. Easy life.

We pass Gainsville’s city limits, turn on 129 south on a road lined with kudzu draped forest. Signs point to the towns of Cornelia and Athens. We drive on past gracious suburbs and white sharply-spired churches and then an immense medical centre, a veritable industrial park of medical buildings. Eye Centre, Cancer Centre, Imaging Centre, Orthopaedics, Urgent Care, Hearing Aids… Wow.

Another mowing-ahead sign. Another detail of prisoners riding mowers and swinging snippers.

Now the 985 to Atlanta, a swift Interstate whooshing with semi-trailers and rushing cars. Until the traffic jam pulls them all to a halt and then a crawl. Stop start. Stop start. Bruce groans. Just a road-works lane restriction, it turns out.

Soon the highway gains more lanes. We are close to Atlanta, a seething great city if ever one there was. From six lanes we spread to ten lanes. More roads feed in and join the highway. Cars from all directions flowing forwards. Now we are on an incredible 20-lane road of speeding traffic. It is utterly intimidating. I offer to drive. Bruce laughs.

The traffic is insane, glinting and hurrying all around us. Suddenly there are trucks in several layers above us. They are on coils over overpasses. Atlanta’s skyline spikes up on the horizon.

Then we are on a road so elevated that we are driving seemingly at the tops of buildings. Traffic slows, speeds up, slows. It is intense. Oh, I would hate to commute through this, sighs Bruce. Not an easy place to live, Atlanta.

Then, suddenly, we turn off a rushing main road into a leafy and serene inner suburban street and we are at our destination, the home of Sarah and Jesse Weathington.

Jesse is a lobbyist in the State Capitol. Sarah has recently had their second child, Kylie, a sister to Dylan. Sarah is the gorgeous daughter of Bruce’s cousin, Elaine. We adore her. So we will have a quick visit to look at the new marital home and catch up over lunch.

Kylie is not impressed with the invasion into her world. She would rather have quiet time at home with Mum than a trip in the car with

rellies. So, she squawks from her baby pod while Sarah drives us to the Ponce City Market where an array of the most bedazzling cafes and food outlets confront us. The choices are overwhelming. Sights and sounds and tantalising, exotic aromas. We walk along the vast arcade. Kylie drops off to sleep in her pram. Sarah and I finally plump for a modern Indian fusion place and take the luscious chicken and salads, naan bread, and lassi out to open air tables in a long shadey courtyard. Scrumptious, fresh, light, different, and zesty.

Afterwards, with help from security guards, we take a lift to the new Atlanta Beltline walking path and stroll down to a stunning antiques market wherein everything is arrayed like a wondrous gallery.

Even the resident cat has spread herself in front of a painting which perfectly matches her gorgeous golden-green eyes.

And there, outside, on the footpath, is a tiny door.

A weeny tiny door.

So bright and perfect.

A little art work.

A little voyage of imagination. Sarah says they are quite a thing in Atlanta.

I could spend all day here. But we have to keep moving. Hugs and waves from Sarah’s high front porch and we hum off in the Rogue heading for Fayetteville.

Only a 14-lane expressway. Pfft. We’re 20-lane veterans now. And south through neat, leafy outer burbs and shopping strips with the usual suspects sprawling along heaving great strip malls:

Walgreens, Family Dollar, mini-storage, car yards, Carpet Depot, Discount Mall, Dollar General, Waffle House. And in you-can’t-miss-it capitals on a huge yellow box building, Bail Bonds. Hmm.

These malls repeat and repeat across the country with small regional variations and one wonders at the thousands of chains and franchises which increasingly homogenise American commerce. The up side of it is the dependability of standards, and such details as we discovered with McDonalds’ prompt attention to my Tweet on an issue which impacted on its image.

We turn off the arterial road and are surrounded by trees, streets of pleasant homes, and lovely, lovely lawns. And here is our destination, a little old clapboard house tucked behind a spreading pecan tree in a woodland clearing. But it is not like all the other houses. It is just a bit alternative. It is festooned with shiny Mardi Gras beads.

They dangle from the front door and awnings and stoop rail.

Within the house lives Trishna, daughter of my cherished friend Sarita. Raised in Bali and New

Zealand, Trishna is married to Dan, who was raised in Georgia and New Zealand. With them are their children Ara and Made, born in Bali and raised in Bali, New Zealand and the USA. A cosmopolitan little family.

I have known Trishna since she was free-spirited child scampering through the rice fields of Bali and, for the times we were there, a playmate to my son Ryder. Now, here we both

are with bases in Georgia. This deserves significant celebration and time together.

So we accepted Trishna and Dan’s invitation to stay and merrily take over their snug guest room with its cooling old ceiling fan.

And thus do we slip into their family world, drinking New Zealand wine while Trishna prepares a Bali fusion welcome dinner and the kids play card games and surge merrily about the place. Made had badly

damaged her wrist in a play fall the night before and is bandaged and wearing a sling. Everyone is a little tired after a late night at the hospital.

With Trishna I revel in the pleasure of picking fresh, beautiful, organic salad greens from her vegetable garden. She has some tomatoes, too. I prepare salads. She has made rice and a delicate meat curry, rice with sweet potatoes, beans. It’s a lovely meal.

While Trishna puts the little ones to bed, Dan takes Bruce and me to his grandmother Lucy Huie’s place to watch the presidential debate.

Yep. Dan and Trishna may be the last people in the world who do not own a television set.

They use their computer for everything.

So off we go to Grandma’s house. It is quite a revelation. Grandma Lucy at 90-something is a charming friendly spirit and we get along wonderfully. She is soon showing me around the house to see the works of her late husband who was a trained artist a well as a farmer. Some wonderful works crowding the walls. Then the debate. Dan’s two brothers appear and then his

mother. Grandma Lucy made it very clear she was voting for Hillary and loathed Trump. He should get a new face, she declared. One of Dan’s brothers is a Trump fan. The other, who knows? He was not communicative.

Trishna makes congee for breakfast. We consume it sprinkled with basil and tarragon from the garden and then some fish. It is divine. Ara has

gone to school and Dan to work. Made is at home with us and her injured arm. Trishna makes an appointment to take her to an orthopaedist and then the four of us pile into the car and drive a considerable distance to a stunning park for a good walk in the country.

It’s a hot, humid day but cooler in the shade of the forest trees.

We follow a beautiful trail through tall timbers, some fallen trees, ferns, and deep litter.

It is a long and strenuous walk up hill and down dale and, most impressively, across huge smooth rock formations and past a little waterfall

and stream.

Despite her arm, Made keeps up with the adults. We start to realise what a fit and sporty girl she is. She’s good company, too.

We look at the collection of raptors at the park aviary and the indoor collection of diverse reptiles which include a huge old blue-tongue skink from Australia as well as one of the most appealing lizards Trishna and I

have never heard of, Uromastyx. They seem as friendly as they are colourful.

Before we leave, we feed a mass of turtles in the pond, examine the fantastic pitcher plants around the shoreline and deem the day a fitness, fabulous fresh air triumph.

We get home in time to heat up the congee and have another serve loaded with fish and chilli, and

Trishna gets Made to the orthopod in time. We stay home to receive Ara when he finishes school. At which time, after supervising his homework, I produce the PickupStix I have brought and we get playing. Made comes home with a bright pink cast on her arm and immediately falls in love with PickupStix. Play goes on enthusiastically until Dan comes home and we hurtle out for dinner at a Mexican place in Fayettville. It is a darling town. A pretty little classic country town with perky church spire and proud city hall. We are given a table on the roof patio. Big cloudy sky, air heavy, and

fan blowing out towards us on the patio.Tacos are on special. We order masses and masses - and a wee margarita or two.

Ara is due for soccer practice so we pile into Trishna’s people mover and hit the sports field. It is lovely out there. Small kids are swarming all over the place in organised teams and practice packs, coaches calling out instructions, and getting balls rolling. Parents sit on mini bleachers or on picnic chairs watching and encouraging the young. Kids pounding about, calling out, happy, healthy, communal.

And then the sky opens up. It doesn’t rain. It cascades. Everyone runs for cover. Except Ara’s team. They are going to tough it out. The coach will drop Ara home. We plow off through the deluge. Dan’s mother turns up later, drenched to the skin. She had ridden her bike to see Ara practicing. She changes into dry clothes and stays around to chat. She’s a Presbyterian chaplain, it turns out. Heavens.

PickupStix championship goes on into the night and then segues into a team game of chess, Dan and Made versus Ara and Sa, who had not played chess in 30 years. Ara has the smarts for chess. We have a lot of risk-taking fun and, eventually, an exhausted, good sporting Dan lays down his king. And thus to bed for one and all.

After a breakfast of congee and fish for me and Trishna’s homemade muesli for Bruce, we pack the dew-covered car and have hugs goodbye to the sound of rifles from beyond the trees. Yikes, shudders I. Guns! Not unusual, says Trishna. Just targets. We’re used to it. Ah, life in the woods in America.