When my wife Nicole and I moved to Georgia in the autumn of 2010, there was one sight I wanted to see.
Our home just north of Griffin is just 57 miles from Moreland, a town of just 382 people. The one resident I knew of had moved away more than 40 years earlier and had actually died in March 1994. But there’s a museum dedicated to him in Moreland, where he came of age in the ’50s and ’60s.
I didn’t discover the writings of Lewis Grizzard until I lived in South Carolina in 1983, when one of my roommates showed me some of his earliest books. He was a proud redneck, politically conservative and extremely sexist — three qualities I don’t particularly admire.
But damn, the man could write.
As someone who was a newspaper columnist for a good part of my career in journalism, I have tremendous admiration for good columnists. I loved the work of Mike Royko and Bob Greene, and Dave Barry nearly always made me laugh.
So did Grizzard, who didn’t make it to his 48th birthday before lifelong heart problems did him in.
He called himself “Southern by the grace of God,” and in fact lived outside Georgia just once as an adult. He worked for a short time as sports editor of the Chicago Sun-Times, and in fact wrote a book about it.
“If I Ever Get Back to Georgia, I’m Gonna Nail My Feet to the Ground.”
He came back to write a column for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, probably the best paper in the old Confederacy, a job he held for the rest of his life.
I wouldn’t say he was in a class by himself as a columnist, but to steal an old line, it doesn’t take long to call the roll in the class he’s in. I can’t think of anyone else as consistently capable of bring tears to my eyes and a smile to my face.
He was married four times, and only one of the four didn’t end in divorce. That wedding took place two days before he died of complications from heart surgery.
He was a proud graduate of the University of Georgia, and when the Dawgs won an NCAA football championship in 1980, no one could have been happier. Indeed, when they won back to back titles the last two years, I’m sure a lot of us thought of him.
I reread his columns from time to time, and in fact, I’ve been reading “Don’t Sit under the Grits Tree …” today. A lot of good stuff in there.
One strange thing, though.
I’ve lived here in Georgia going on 13 years now, the second-longest time I’ve lived anywhere as an adult. Barring something unforeseen, this will be the last place I ever live.
But I still haven’t been to Moreland, just 57 miles from here. They built a museum to him, and I would really like to see it.
I imagine it would bring a smile to my face … and tears to my eyes.