Post-Festival Chill-Out

The Savannah Book Festival was really great. Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful, so you KNOW I went junking. Found a yard sale in Ardsley Park (very nice Savannah neighborhood–aka old money, old junk)and bought a cool Eastlake dresser with glass drawer pulls. I’m going to paint it jadeite green and put it at Maisy’s Daisy. My talk seemed to go well. It was at Trinity Church, a beautiful old church on Telfair Square. To my surprise, we had a packed church. Of course I couldn’t say bad words in church, and I had to restrain myself from genuflecting when I got near the altar, but other than that it was all good. I made everybody swear to run out and buy multiple copies of DEEP DISH so I can make the New York Times bestseller list and buy a beach house. As I’ve said, they really know how to party well in Savannah. A trolley picked up all the authors at their hotels and took us to the aforesaid Ardsley Park for a progressive dinner party. No surprise, several members of the Ardsley Park Supper Club were our hosts. The fabulous Johnathon Barrett and Tom White served appetizers and cocktails (fried oysters on little Chinese porcelain spoons, gorgeous shrimp, teensy little ‘mater sammiches which were the work of my friend and cookbook writer Martha Giddens Nesbitt). Then we tottered down the block to the home of Brooks and Carolyn Stillwell for our entree and yet MORE alcohol. After that we staggered over to the Belfords for desserts and after dinner libations. I had the chance to chat with Charles Shields, who wrote MOCKINGBIRD, the biography of Harper Lee, which I read and loved recently. At some point we were loaded onto a trolley and delivered back to our hotels. Thank Gawd for the trolley.
Yesterday Mr. Mary Kay flew back home and I stayed in Savannah to chill out. I resisted the urge to attend SuperBowl parties. Instead I climbed into the big fluffy white bed at my friend Ron and Leuveda Garner’s cottage. I read decorator porn and slept. At some point in the night I dreamt I got fired from the Atlanta Journal Constitution. It was very upsetting, despite the fact that I have not worked for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution in nearly 17 years. When I’m stressed or worried, I always dream either that an AJC editor is forcing me at gunpoint to write some stupid story on deadline, or that they are firing me. I may need counselling.