Unintended Irony

The sign says "Historic District," pointing left. Each time I follow that sign I am puzzled. Other than an old train station (always closed), the "historic district" consists of several blocks of abandoned and derelict buildings.

What must people think?

Say "Scottsboro" to someone with a bit of education, and that person will complete the phrase with "The Scottsboro Boys," the infamous miscarriage of justice against innocent boys accused of rape. Today, folks with far less education, will think "Unclaimed Baggage."

But neither the event nor the place appears in the "historic district."

No one expects this.

S-w-e-e-t-!

1. The camera salesgirl spoke with the soft lilt of Alabama, "How kin I help yew?" I smiled and slid right down into that familiar dialect. We chatted while I looked. "I just love it here," she said. "Is this your hometown?" I asked. "Oh, yes," she said and repeated, "I just love it." Scottsboro must have come a long way since it was a crime to be black in a little town.

2. On the walls, up high and mostly out of reach, fascinating objects are displayed with their dates of arrival at Unclaimed Baggage. Underwood typewriters, McDonald's arches, and this Hani headdress, my personal favorite.   East meets West by way of the South, where hundreds of folks pass every day. I wonder how many look up and stop as I did?

3. Veranda Cafe for lunch was a pleasant stop, but the dessert, which my friend and I bought because of the owner's enthusiastic description, exuded the too-sweet flavor typical of "the country south." Crushed pretzels, topped by what we were told was cream cheese (but seemed suspiciously like Cool Whip), slathered with sticky, gelatinous strawberry pie filling. Even the description makes my teeth hurt now.

4. A quick stop at the Stevenson Town Park rewarded us with coots bobbing on the water and pecking along the ground, their tidy feathered silhouettes like little mourning-coated gentleman mingling at a wedding, and a pair of osprey, their nest on a ball-field light. As if showing off for us, he fished, with success, brought the food home, and then they both soared.

Scottsboro has been known for two things: a horrifying miscarriage of justice famous in American history (The Scottsboro Boys) and Unclaimed Baggage. Today's journey added a few more to my list, all in the "best of" category.

The Deer on My Porch

I do not mind the presence of one deer: the one on my porch, made of cast concrete, painted, and left to weather in a garden art yard of a store on the outskirts of Scottsboro. Earlier this summer, I drove to Birmingham to celebrate Virginia's third birthday. Because I had no agenda, I took one of the long ways, turning after Stevenson onto 72 to the town where the nine famous black boys were falsely accused and tried and where today the unclaimed baggage store garners national attention. For me, Scottsboro has become a shopping mecca for concrete birds and gnomes and rabbits. When I saw a shoulder-high buck and his doe off the highway as I sped by, I took the first left, completed a U-eee, and drove straight back. Now when the deer nightly raid my garden for tasty morsels, another deer, a silent one without appetite, stares back. He is my welcome mat, and he always makes me smile.