In Search of Flannery O'Connor
What immediately distinguished Ms. O'Connor from other authors was that I never quite understood what this pious spinster was trying to say with all the violence and religious perversion. To look at a photograph of her was to see a modest, plain woman who I imagined could be quite acid-tongued if pushed. However, after I read most of her stories, I realized that each one had a special way of revealing sharp insight into the South and its people. Anyone who's traveled through parts of rural Alabama and southern Georgia know that the characters she describe really do exist.
By my freshman year of college I was an avid fan and decided to make the trip with my father to O'Connor's hometown in Milledgeville Georgia. I wasn't expecting much: some Flannery souvenirs and maybe a few snapshots of the family farm O'Connor called Andalusia. But mostly, I wanted to see the place where she wrote those stories of hers; and I couldn't wait to get back and send my teacher some pictures.
When we first arrived in town, the Little House on the Prairie I imagined looked like any other American city with its bypass, Walmart and fast food chains. There was no Flannery amusement park and the spot on the map marked Andalusia looked like a barren field from the road. We stopped at a few bait shops to ask for directions but none of the locals had heard of Flannery O'Connor.
We decided to double back to the field we supposed was Andalusia and sure enough there happened to be a street called O'Connor drive. The street was a dead end but I spotted an elderly man mowing his yard who I could ask for directions. When I asked him if he knew anything about the O'Connor farm estate he laughed and remarked that we were in the right spot but he didn't know it was a tourist attraction. The man told me the house wasn't visible from the road and the estate had recently sold to a local developing company. I thanked the man but was beginning to feel ridiculous looking for traces of someone I thought was famous.
Upon approaching Andalusia I glanced across the field and sure enough could see the beginnings of a red tin roof glistening in the sun. We entered the gravel driveway leading up to the field and had driven no more than twenty feet before a metal gate blocked our path. On both sides of the gate stood lines of barbwire that ran as far as I could see littered with No Trespassing signs. My father and I exchanged sidewards glances and I knew I was going to have to be quick. I slung the camera over my shoulder and carefully made my way over the barbwire.
It wasn't long before I could barely see my dad as I jogged across the field. A barn became visible on the right side of the house and the overgrown grass had begun to reach my knees. I began to think this field of thick grass and bumble bees would never end when I decided to stop running. I was panting and my arms and legs were sticky with sweat as I hadn't anticipated the temperature rise in Georgia. I snapped a few pictures of the barn that was dilapidated and leaning to one side. However, I was very apprehensive to approach the house. It too had a wire fence surrounding it and weeds had begun to overtake the wooden porch. The house was tiny and quaint and definately a far stretch from today's celebritiy mansion. I began to imagine what would happen if two men swaggered out of the woods looking like something out of her stories. I glanced back at my father who was completely out of sight and decided the situation could get O'Connresque fairly quick. I started back and midway across the field I made out my father waving to me.
By the end of the day we had visited her gravesight, and toured the Flannery O'Connor room at Georgia College where she had attended. On display were old letters to friends with little blue peacocks sketched around the pages. The letters spanned different periods of her life, and I noticed even when the end was near, she still wrote in that sly sense of humor.
Upon leaving Milledgeville we passed Andalusia and I felt a twinge of guilt over photographing the farm. I remembered reading that Flannery O'Connor regarded photographers and reporters as the scum of the earth. And here I was, this kid who snuck onto private property to satisfy my curiosity. But after a while the guilt turned into relief that I had gotten to see a great writer's home in its preserved state. I won't ever forget running across that field as long as I live. And sometimes when I read her stories, I can picture her sitting on the front porch laughing that someone cared enough to sneak onto her farm.
