Who Is Miss Georgia?
Full Moon Madness
Miss Georgia, a bright eyed highly intelligent young woman, was killed seven years prior to the murder of young Emmett Till. She was ahead of her time in many ways but lagged behind, awaiting others to confirm her worth. On the Ides of August, the bush shook from a thunderous racist footprint, a lurid ostentatious code for rehearsed iniquity and indisputable impiety owned by those sharing an unverifiable relationship with humanity.
Amidst light rising fog, the bush also shook for Miss Georgia’s dear Mama Bella and for women shunned while seeking their profile in courage. Yet, these women grew confident in their ability to overcome narcissistic acts of cowardice insult perpetrated against the female gender.
Albeit, the author attentively offers Volume One of The Bush That Shook based on what was known, seen, heard and spec reckoned in the sweltering summer of 1948. On Saturday night, Black Bottom could morph into an armed camp. Grave Digger Doug, without mumbling a solitary word, seemed to know when to gather his shovel and tool toward Ole Billy Goat Hill. Whether branded hooch or shine, booze was on the rise. Lacking sober rationale, pure madness was often consigned to potency of the moon.
The Bush That Shook candidly describes events leading up to The Ides of August. It details who allegedly knew what, and when did they know it? Just what did Miss Georgia do, and what was done to her? A nucleus of neighbors deciphered the handwriting on the wall. Even though they had their own little red wagons to pull, could any one member of the five families intervened? How could a story with blatant racial sensitivity and incendiary fallout be buried and remain buried as though it never were. The Bush That Shook endeavors to sort out why folk are content to let sleeping sagas lie.
In an isolated mining camp in the heart of West Kentucky coal country, not unlike folk in the state of Mississippi, people of Color struggled to make sense of race relations in a free America. Whilst taboo restrictions governing social conduct took precedence on both sides of the Jim Crow chalk line, some risk takers stockpiled arms against notions of a regulated nature. With a little Dodge City mentality, they passed the jelly jar, sang on the fly bluesy tunes and danced their jig at The Jumping Jingo. This juke joint facilitated conversation to be continued elsewhere. Roustabouts availed themselves of any opportunity to make up rules that suited them just fine, even if they rattled poor Sheriff Archie’s nerves something fierce.
Thus, a confluence of values created the emotional atmosphere for one hellified twister, and it touched down in camp, rearranging the bottom land. Yet, how could such an aloof God fearing woman who walked with her eyes affixed to the ground get caught up in the mix of unsavory business. Whether culprits in the thickets were good old boys, bad old boys or the Klan, it was all the same difference. The presses never rolled and cameras never flashed. Yet, Miss Georgia’s story was played forward caustically in hush-hush fashion.