The Lost Soul of Savannah

In some ways, Casey Warren was destined to go down in the annals of American legends and myths like so many others, from Casey Jones, to Pecos Bill, or Johnny Appleseed. It was in Savannah, Georgia where it all began. For many years before the larger public had even heard of him, the people along the Georgia coast had known him well. Nobody seemed to actually know where he lived, but most folks had seen him more than once. He seemed a drifter who wandered the same paths over and over. He was often seen out along the marshes and savannas, gathering stalks of sweetgrass, and palmetto fronds. And he was well known among the weavers who peddled their wares in the city market.

These makers of baskets, carried on a tradition going back to their West African ancestors, of working with native materials to make vessels that held things. Useful things. And it was to these people, that Casey Warren brought his collected grasses, palmettos, pine needles, shells, knots and strands of cargo rope, and sun-bleached twigs. He gave these freely to these artists, as an homage, it seems. And they, in turn, revered him. Looked after him. Offered him food, and money, when they had some.

The demand for baskets among tourists trafficking the area, is what eventually led, in a word-of-mouth way, to a spreading awareness of Casey Warren, in places far away from Savannah, Georgia. The artists, and craftsmen peddling their wares, spoke of him. He became a part of their vernacular in the selling of their goods. Over time, a basket made of materials gathered by Casey Warren became something worth more than the others. Tourists, and collectors alike, asked about him. People came to Savannah just to drive around, in hopes they might catch sight of him. Few did, though many pretended they had.

Savannah is a city of parks, and had been since its inception. The nuclear city was laid out by planners long ago, to include a square in every ward. Today, many still stand. Little islands in the midst of buildings. Each resplendent with ornamental iron gates and fences, oaks with long dangling strands of Spanish moss, benches, and fountains. Statues. Each named after notables that included early settlers, or ancestors from Europe. Warren Park was named after Joseph Warren. And a story emerged, that Casey was some descendant of Joseph Warren. While this was founded on a few scant accounts that Casey had often been seen sitting on a bench in Warren Park, it turned out to be true.

Joseph Warren was a hero of the Revolutionary War. Even though he was an M.D., he volunteered into that cause. and was destined to be brought down by a bullet to the skull, in the Battle of Bunker Hill. It was a quick, albeit, untimely death, but the savage butchering of his body afterwards, with a shallow ditch as his final resting place, was what made him live on as a martyr.
Yet, while Casey was a true descendant of all that, it was something in his own past that was haunting him. But, he couldn't put his finger on what it was. And, that is what made Casey such a restless wanderer.

One day, Casey, with a sack of sweetgrass slung over his shoulder, entered the old brick marketplace looking for Osha, one of the basket makers there. He liked Osha. She was always nice to him. Osha sat on a large wooden crate with a basket on her lap, sewing twisted Palmetto spears in and out of the woven sweetgrass along its handle. She smiled up at him as he approached.
" Casey, Casey!" she said with a deep husky laugh, and the flash of her big white teeth. She was an aging woman whose great-grandparents had first come here from West Africa as slaves. Heavy cast iron rings anchored into the old bricks of the market place walls still remain as reminders of those dark days, when men, women, and children were chained and auctioned off. Wisps of silver gray hair now graced her round dark chocolate face. "Sit down, child. Sit down!" She was one of the few who understood Casey in some fundamental way. Knew of his uncertainties. His restless searching for something he could not quite describe. He sat and watched how easily her thick meaty fingers formed her art. She reminded him again to go visit Madam LaShaunda.
"I wouldn't know what to ask her." he replied.
"You don't need to ask her nothin', child. Madam LaShaunda will know what it is you are looking for. You tell her Osha sent you." Casey nodded, and turned to shuffle away. He thought of going to Wright Park. Of seeing Madam LaShaunda, as Osha had suggested. He had been putting it off for so long.

Wright Park is the small tree-lined square where Madam LaShaunda can most often be found, sitting in the shade of an old sprawling oak. There would be several dozens of small paintings strewn about on the ground all around her. She sold these to people passing by, and each tiny painting seemed to have a story that went with it. They all seemed to be miniature pastoral landscapes, dotted here and there with people. And to each person who stopped, she would offer a brief philosophical platitude, quite like those one might find in a fortune cookie. "May kind words keep you warm." "Something you lost will soon show up." "As the purse is emptied, the heart is filled."

But, Madam LaShaunda also had a reputation as a genuine seer. A fortune teller in some deeper sense. One who knew things about you that not even you knew. Many came to her for a sitting; a reading. And her price was modest. She turned her head to one side and smiled as she saw Casey Warren making his way toward her. Casey came to a fumbling, hesitant halt as he approached. Madam LaShaunda beckoned to him with her hand.
"Come Casey. Come and sit. I knew you would come to see me one day." Casey sat quietly down on the bench next to her. He turned to look into her eyes.
"I don't know why I am here," he stammered.
"Would you like for Madam LaShaunda to tell you?" she replied softly. He nodded, his head slumping toward his chest in helplessness.
"Close your eyes, Casey Warren," she said, as she reached to cup Casey's face in her dark brown wrinkled hands. Her fingertips seemed to move gently in small caressing circles on his temples, as though feeling for a connection to Casey's mind. His soul. "Madam LaShaunda goes for a walk now. Inside you." she said softly. "Along the halls.... And up and down the stairs.... Through many rooms....Memories, like pieces of a puzzle lie here and there....A small blue feather, with a white tip....do you remember it, Casey?" Casey's head nodded in her hands.
"Yes, the feather. I kept it on my dresser top."
"Yes," Madam LaShaunda replied. "It's lying there next to your baseball, and your glove." Casey nodded again. "There is a picture of a fishing boat on the wall above it," she added.
"A boat?" Casey mumbled.
"A green fishing boat. Your father's boat," Madam LaShaunda continued.
"I was just...," Casey stammered.
"Shhh," Madam LaShaunda said in a soft exhaled breath. "You were just 12 then." Casey nodded silently. "And you were so scared when you fell off the bow, and into the sea."
"Yes, yes," Casey said, his voice trembling. "It was dark. Everything was black. I swam, and swam." He fell silent again.
"And then what happened, Casey?" Madam LaShaunda said in a soft whisper.
"And then, I was there lying on the beach. I was so cold. I remember it was just morning."
"No, Casey. There is no memory of that, "Madam LaShaunda said softly. Her hands seemed to tighten slightly on his face.
" There was nothing after that night. There was but one brief image of your mother. And then there was only darkness," she whispered.
"You mean, I died?" Casey sobbed.
"Yes. You died that night Casey. Only your soul made it to the shore. It has been wandering lost now, all these years. Not knowing where to go. Madame LaShaunda can take you there, if you are ready. I know you are tired."
Casey nodded. The feeling of her hands on his face faded. Madam LaShaunda smiled, as she gazed at her out-stretched empty hands. Casey Warren was gone.
Madam LaShaunda walked wearily home, carrying the memory of Casey Warren in her mind. She shook her head sadly. She remembered that day when Casey's body was found along the beach, bloated and entangled in seaweed.
"He was just a boy," she said to herself. She fed her cat, and walked into her drawing room. She sat and painted another small picture. It was of a young boy swimming happily, alongside his father's green fishing boat at sunset. Casey Warren was never again to be seen around Savannah, or out along the beach gathering grasses. Madam LaShaunda gave the painting to Osha as a gift.


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