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Just this past month, we got to spend another adventurous weekend in the outdoors. This time we went to Tallbotton, GA. The TN farm is where Ryan's mom grew up and Tallbotton in Middle GA is where Ryan's dad grew up.
It's a small town amongst other small towns with beautiful antebellum homes and town squares dating back before the civil war and where cellphones have zero signal.
The shabin was built by Ryan, his dad and brother as a hunting lodge. It is basic at best. A small kitchen, small "bathroom" and larger room which houses several beds. The shabin is tucked away at the back of the 350 acre wooded farm. The only way to get back to the shabin is by truck or four wheeler because of the rough tree lined dirt road.
It's like stepping back in time. There is no electricity, no running water which means no toilet (hence why bathroom is in quotes). Ryan's dad was kind enough to accommodate us women with a camping toilet and a generator for lights.
I used to be a camping snob- working out in Colorado, making fun of people who brought pillows and air mattresses on camping trips. Now, that has changed.
I have never been so excited to have a little plastic camping toilet with the blue airplane bathroom flushing liquid. I washed my face in a metal dish with bottled water and felt a little closer to how my southern ancestors have roughed it.
The GA farm consists of the original house my father-law was raised in which is now falling apart and the remnants of it have been ransacked. Some old relics of cars and barns and the shabin.
Ryan's dad enjoyed driving me around town past the churches and houses sharing old folklore past down for generations, an old lady believed to be a witch that put a curse on a well and the healing snake stone given by the Indians that cured many illnesses.
The church he grew up going to was a Baptist church and was also shared by the Methodists across the street. They would all go to Sunday school in the Methodist church and then walk across the street to the Baptist church for the service.
Another church we visited was set way, way, and I mean way far down a bumpy dirt road. They have recently upgraded to a generator so they can have electricity on Sundays and a port-a-potty instead of an outhouse. They'd give you lots of excuses to skip church on Sunday.
The church grave site was really interesting. From years of plastic flowers discarded in the woods to poor families' tombstones engraved by hand. My favorite is "Willie Dide".
We had a great time riding on the four wheeler exploring all the parts of the wooded farm. The family grave site, now overgrown with weeds and fire ant hills, dates back to the early 1800s.
Somewhere in the grave site lies a mummy an uncle brought back as a souvenir in the early 20th century. It was neat to see old Ruff and wife, Fannie's marker, short for his full name, James Wiley Taylor Ruff and Ready Clay Perryman Jones. That was his real full name.
