Some say General Sherman (that bastard) didn’t torch Savannah because it was “too beautiful to burn.” Others claim Savannah’s lack of resistance and strategic import to the Yankees made burning the old girl down pointless. Whichever you believe, it’s hard to deny the city’s charms.
Nearly 150 years later, Savannah remains a splendid place to visit. When I was the travel editor of Southern Living, I always adored any trip to this Georgia peach. The squares, the shops, and the waterfront make for a very romantic getaway.
Mrs. Murphy, however, had only visited Savannah once, I’m ashamed to admit, and that was for a Cadillac convention. Worse, it rained the entire time. So we took some time to roam the squares and see some of Savannah’s famous sites.
About the time we decided to ease out of town, I stopped Heavy at a traffic light just north of Moterey Square. Now, this Brougham runs quietly, but suddenly she became really quiet. Silent, even. In fact, upon further examination, the old whore was dead. Naturally, we were on a busy street with traffic on all sides.
I sighed, opened the driver’s door, and stepped out to look at the engine. Regardless of whether you know anything about mechanics or not, it is one’s duty as a man to look at anything that’s broken. Head scratching is optional. As I opened the hood, some idiot in a Prius (surprised?) whined up from behind and stopped. He then blew the horn for 10 seconds.
Ten seconds of irritating beeping from a tinfoil Radio Flyer was all I needed. He rolled down his window. Was he going to offer help? Perhaps a lift? Some friendly advice? Nope. Instead, he yelled, “Hey! Move your car!”
I glared at the idiot for a beat or two, then calmly replied, “If it would move, you moron, I wouldn’t be sitting here. Pedal around.”
Shortly thereafter, a manager of a local hotel (and fellow car enthusiast) approached and asked if we needed anything. Water? Help pushing the car from his valets? A flashlight?
“If I were you,” he suggested, “I’d go ahead and call AAA. They take awhile to arrive sometimes.” Now before taking this trip, I would have done exactly that: gotten the boys at AAA on the horn the minute the car conked out. Yet I’d learned a thing or two about old cars over the course of 14,000 miles and I was determined to finish this interminable journey under my own power. I suspected the ignition (again). To test that particular theory, I yanked a jumper wire from the trunk, applied it between the positive post and the automatic starter unit et voila. Heavy rumbled to life. We hit the road for Charleston.