Pennsylvanians Drive Across Georgia, Counting Dollar Generals and Eating Boiled Peanuts

“There’s jokes about lots of Dollar Generals in the South,” I say to my sister when I see the discount chain’s black and yellow sign. “Let’s count how many we see before we get to Marilyn’s house.”

My sister, two of her children, and I are taking a detour on the way to Florida and visiting our cousin’s family. Our route leads us from Savannah to Camilla, more than two hundred miles on secondary roads through forest, farms, and small towns in rural Georgia.

“There’s a cotton field,” my sister says. A few cotton bolls cling to dead plants at the edge of the field.

“I wish I could see this place in the spring or the summer.” I imagine fields filled with cotton and colorful blooming flowers. But we’re here in February and most of the fields and trees are bare.

“There’s another Dollar General. And another Baptist church. I should have counted Baptist churches too! There’s more Baptist churches than Dollar Generals, I think.”

I look down at the gas gauge and realize we need fuel. “Let’s look for a gas station.”

From the back seat, my nieces make the familiar request. “We need a restroom!”

“Okay, well, I don’t see too many gas stations. That one looks like it hasn’t been in operation since the Clinton administration. Oh, look, another Dollar General, everyone!”

At the next gas station, my sister goes in to check. No restrooms. “Guess we’ll have to keep looking.”

“Georgia has no bathrooms,” grumbles my niece. “Only Dollar Generals.”

She’s exaggerating. Soon we find a gas station with public restrooms. While inside the store, I notice tin cans of boiled peanuts on the shelf. I think of cold, soggy peanuts swimming in salty liquid. It brings to mind the tin cans of mushy peas in Ireland. I decide to pass on the cultural experience.

At my sister’s suggestion, we also stop at a yard sale. There’s advantages to getting off the interstate.

We drive on and on, passing orchards with unfamiliar trees. “Let’s see, they’re obviously growing something. Can’t be fruit trees, they’re too big. Pecan trees?”

Our count of Dollar Generals keeps going up. “Nine… ten… eleven… twelve!” In four hours, we’ve seen a dozen Dollar Generals.

When we get close to Marilyn’s house, she messages us. “We live on a dirt road.”

“I’m glad she warned us.” The road leading to our relatives’ home is a true dirt road— not gravel like Pennsylvania’s dirt roads.

Once at the house, we have a mini-family reunion. It’s been less than two years since my cousin and her family moved to Georgia, and she’s happy to tell us all about their new home.

“The field across the road is cotton. Cotton and peanuts are what the farmers grow here. Yes, the trees you saw are pecan trees.”

“When it rains, the dirt road gets slick. You don’t get stuck, the soil’s sandy and you just slide around.”

“Yup, there’s a lot of Dollar Generals around here. I shop at three different Dollar Generals.”

Marilyn shows us her screened-in back porch. “The bugs get bad here in the summer.”

“Do you have armadillos?” asks Brenda.

“Yes, they can make a mess in the yard.”

“We can hear coyotes at night, and there’s poisonous snakes. The boys aren’t allowed to go to the creek without high boots. Our neighbors say they’ve seen a bobcat.”

Coyotes? Bobcats? Snakes? Suddenly Georgia sounds more Wild West than Southern.

Marilyn and her husband moved to Georgia for the same reason settlers took advantage of the Homestead Act: cheap land. They bought five acres with a modest home (originally built by MDS) for only a fraction of the price that five acres in Lancaster County cost. They have a church and a school for their children and seem very happy.

After we leave our cousin’s house and head back toward the interstate, we stop at a gas station again. This gas station has fresh boiled peanuts, regular and Cajun-flavored, in steaming pots.

“I’m going to buy some this time.” When I open the lids to the pots, there’s an earthy smell like cooking potatoes.

After asking the cashier how eat them (you pop the whole peanut into your mouth, then spit out the shell, like sunflower seeds), we all try the boiled peanuts and we all like them. (However, I decide it’s easier to shell them with my fingers than in my mouth.)

To treat my nieces for the extra hours in a car, we stop at a BBQ restaurant for supper. “Why does the waitress keep saying ‘y’all’?” asks one of the girls.

“It’s called a Southern accent. They probably think we sound strange when we speak, too.”

“Oh.”

As we keep driving, Brenda and I discuss whether we could live in rural Georgia. “Less traffic would be great. And think of the great plants you could grow.”

“But the heat. This is nice, but it’s February. You’d barely leave the air-conditioned house in the summer.”

“I’d like the cheaper house prices,” I say. “I could actually afford my own house here. But what I would I do for a job? Operate a cotton picker?”

“I know,” laughs my sister. “You could work at Dollar General!”

Maybe. I wonder if they sell boiled peanuts!

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