Jekyll Island was a fun place to hunker down for a week. Our campsite was centrally located to beaches and walking paths, which made for fun mid-day adventures during “recess”.

We especially loved Driftwood Beach, where hundreds of tress were strewn across a stretch of beachfront. The skeketal remains of this tree graveyard gave off an almost eerie calmness. The Atlantic waves splashed gently on its shores. Crabs, sand dollars, and dead jellyfish skittered along the packed wet sand. Little rivulets etched their ways into and around the downed trees and rocks, creating their own little ecosystems. We discovered several conch shells in these areas, looking ancient among the twists of branches and long-dead roots.

By the time the long weekend rolled around, we were able to meet up (socially distanced, of course) with John’s parents, Jeff and Betty. Despite not being able to hug, and the general awkwardness of being masked all the time, we had a nice visit with them that helped soften the blow of not being able to celebrate the holidays together.

We took a day trip to St. Simon’s Island, which we found to be a little too touristy, so to avoid crowds, we wandered off the beaten path and played on another beach, where the children chased waves and picked up more sand dollars.

The next day we took a day trip to Savannah. We enjoyed running around Forsyth Park and looking at the different squares; however, Savannah was generally just too busy to enjoy. When John and I visited 15 years ago, it was a sleepy little town, filled with charm and secrets. We could take our bikes and leisurely roll from square to square, canoodle on the park benches, and take in a glass of wine at a street side cafe.

Today’s Savannah was busy and bustling, even in the time of a pandemic. The secrets have been revealed. Biking, especially with children, would have proved near impossible as cars whizzed by. Crowds of people dallied in the squares and packed the restaurant patios. The mansion tours appeared equally overcrowded, with little regard for COVID safety practices. We realized early on that our tour of Savannah would be superficial and quick.

I found a semi-private cemetery tour at Bonaventure that I deemed safe to join. Only Siena was interested in coming along for the 2-hour tour, so we separated ways with the boys and Jeff and Betty. Siena and I were in a group of 6 and were able to stay a safe distance from others. We all wore masks as we wandered the acres of headstones. 

Our tour guide was excellent and highly knowledgeable. We learned about fascinating gravestone art, discovering that even if a gravestone only has a name and date, there’s still a lot more you can learn about the deceased. For instance, a certain symbol might indicate what side of the Civil War the person fought. A rose would indicate that a woman had died “while still beautiful”. A pillar would indicate a man’s position in society. A blanket or cloth engraving draped over the stone would indicate that the person died of an infectious disease, and that certain rites were properly observed to assure their soul would be at peace.

We saw Johnny Mercer’s grave. Our tour guide was close friends with Mercer’s granddaughter, who had died a few years prior. She told us a couple sweet stories about the family, and even sang a little Johnny Mercer compliation for us.

I felt bad about how much I had talked up the magic of Savannah to the kids, Siena especially, only to not be quite as idyllic as I remembered it.Maybe our frustration with Savannah was also that it was time to move on. The night before I had been stirrred from my sleep because the stench of the marshes were so strong. The incessant gnats had worn our tolerance. The constant dampness in the air that wouldn’t allow so much as a tea towel to dry finally grew annoying. It was time to move on. The mountains were calling.