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There's no whistling past a graveyard
Within sight of the Frederica River, its blue-gray water moving slowly against the marsh grass, we sat talking about stories — collective stories, communal stories, the ones we all knew despite the fact that we came from different places. The particular story that had caught our attention that day was the story of Milledgeville and how, in a certain time, the once-state capital had been reduced to something like a threat. “You keep acting like that, boy, they gonna send you to Milledgeville.” “You ‘bout to drive me crazy! I ‘bout as well drive myself to Milledgeville.”
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