I realized that I had not yet blogged about our brief side trip to Andalusia, the home of Flannery O’Connor in Milledgeville, Georgia (which is about 25 miles east of Macon).

This isn’t the first time I’d been there. Michael and I visited – probably about ten years ago – on a very hot, probably July day. We lurked in front of the large house near town where Flannery spent part of her youth, after they moved from Savannah, and where, at that time, her mother still lived. Michael wanted us to go up to the door and knock. “Old people love company,” he said. I was too timid. So we didn’t.

We went to the cemetery a few blocks away where Flannery is buried (and now her mother, too). At the time, there were absolutely no markers or signs pointing to her grave. We searched and searched, and finally ended up at the caretaker’s shed, and were invited into a pickup truck and driven to the spot. Another man stood there. He looked up as we approached and said, “They still don’t want to claim her, do they?”

We went into the little Catholic church where Flannery worshipped, and then headed for Andalusia, the farm where she lived after her lupus diagnosis, with her mother. At the time it was abandoned, with a fence, a closed gate and stern “no trespassing sign,” so I could do nothing but hang on the gate and search between the trees.

I went back a few years later on my own, to do a bit of research for this article.

(By the way, I think the proudest moment of my life as a writer came when, a few months after that article appeared in OSV, I opened my mailbox in Lakeland, Florida, to find a letter from none other than Sally Fitzgerald herself, saying that someone had passed on the piece to her. She said that I “got it.” That I understood. I don’t know how true that is, but I hope it’s a little bit so.)

That time, I spent more time in the Flannery O’Connor room at Georgia State College, but of course, visited her grave and once again hung on the fence at Andalusia. This time, I think, there was a camera mounted on a pole at the gate.

A few years later, I was delighted to hear that the heirs had finally agreed to allow the Andalusia site to be developed as an historic site, so this summer, when it became clear that we would be carving a route through Georgia at some point, there was no doubt we had to go.

We drove by the home downtown again, which seems in slightly better repair than in the past (the caretaker of Flannery’s childhood home in Savannah had told us that Miz O’Connor was quite resistant to any work on the home.)

We went to the cemetery, and found that now a gazebo has been erected at the entrance with a map of the cemetery on display, with graves of prominent citizens, including Flannery, marked.

Her long flat stone was as it has been, next to her parents’. Someone had placed a pen on the stone, which is understandable, and there were several coins, which were not. If anyone can explain, feel free.

Then it was on to Andalusia, which is not nearly as isolated as it once once – that whole stretch of 441 or 41 or whatever it is, is terrifically and typically built up, and one can’t help but wonder, “What would Flannery say?” But the farm’s property is still maintained, the road up to it still dirt and gravel and the air, protected from the busy highway by thick trees and some overgrown bushes, is still heavy.

We were met by the president and sole employee of the foundation that runs the property, who gave us a tour and answered our questions. When Mrs. O’Connor moved from the farm, he said, soon after Flannery died, the place was just abandoned and largely left as it was – furniture and even books. The important books and papers, of course, were removed, but a substantial number of books remained.

Only the downstairs is open at this point. Flannery’s room was in the front, in what was designed to be the sitting room, but became hers because of the difficulty presented by stairs. As befits the climate, the ceilings of the farmhouse are enormously high – maybe fifteen feet? – and while there are still plenty of cracks in the paint, they’ve done a nice job of restoring so far.

As you look into Flannery’s room from the hall, you see her narrow single bed with its iron head and footboards first. The typewriter (hers), sitting on a small table nearby, and her crutches (he assured me they were hers) leaning against a bookcase. I can’t describe the rest of the room, because I was so absorbed in memorizing and breathing in that small space: her bed, her typewriter and her crutches, the spot, the very spot where she suffered, prayed and gave back to God – and the rest of us – by the act of creation. Oh laugh if you will, but it was a holy place.

The dining room was across the hall, the kitchen and sitting room in back of the stairs, an old engraving of the Sacred Heart with what Michael said was a papal blessing hung next to the stairs, and also in the back were a small gift shop and office for the Foundation.

(There were a couple of bumper stickers, and I told the guy I didn’t understand why they didn’t have one that read “No one with a good car needs to be justified” – a line from Wise Blood. I’m sure he’d heard it before. I bought a daily calendar with quotes and a nice little calligraphied (by a cousin I think) card with one of Flannery’s most reassuring quotes on it – at least to me – “Total non-retention has kept my education from being a burden to me.”)

Outside were a few markers explaining the layout of the property, including one pointing to where the fowl were kept. (And to answer to most common question – no, there are no peacocks and have not been for years. After Flannery’s death, they were given to the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Stone Mountain and the Hawthorne Domincan Sisters’ Cancer Home in Atlanta. I asked Craig Amason, the director, if there were ever any thoughts about bringing some back. He said no – not just because theyre trouble to care for, but because of predators. He said foxes were always a problem, but of late, coyotes (coyotes?) had established a presence in the area as well. Too bad. There was a donkey, though.)

I took more pictures than I have up on my Summer page, but not with the digital, and they’re still on film, undeveloped. There is a big commemoration planned for August 3, the 40th anniversary of Flannery’s death. It would be interesting to be there….hmmmm.

One of the pictures I took was from the large front porch. I wanted to capture What Flannery Saw.

But of course, no one but Flannery could do that.

Everybody, as far as I am concerned, is The Poor.