The King of Savannah

My little cousin got married in the last weekend in July. Friday to be exact in the early evening. My boyfriend and I drove straight to Savannah. Stopped to prep for the wedding. Afterwards, joining in the jovial celebration.



Saturday we explored downtown Savannah via the old foot to pavement. Through the brick maze of ancient runes. We marveled at its silent grandeur and the deafening echo of mystery that shrouded every corner. We snapped away on our mobile devices hoping to capture a ghastly remains of ancient folk.



Inspired. We walked and examined our photographs. After a short while, our glee faded and we retired. A few hours strolled by in typical Savannah fashion: slow and cool.

So slow and cool did time past that we almost forgot we were from New York. We rolled onto the road to meet up with my grandfather, The King of Savannah.

We turned down a dirt road that led to his house. His house was fairly modern and sat next to the skeleton of his childhood home with cascading bricks. Overlooking the swampy grounds rumored to be riddled with gators.


We stayed for a while, listening to his stories. I have always loved hearing his stories. But even more than his stories I loved the way his voice sounded. Like rolling waves crashing upon the shore. To me my grandfather embodied the South.

A big man with a mighty presence and an adventurous past. I could spend hours just listening to the waves coming and going from the shore. We left somewhat reluctantly. To Belford’s Savannah for some famed Savannah cuisine.
Before we going to our ghost tour. It wasn’t all that haunting, but it was quite fun.

The next morning, we ate breakfast. Then we walked some more downtown. We stayed so long that we left for home late. We stopped by Bobo’s Seafood and got some seafood. And drove on the road home.


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