Get the gravy on what's going on with soulful soul food maven Juanita Dixon.
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Sushi combines our two favorite things as a city: bars and seafood. No wonder the theatrical Japanese art is in Savannah to stay. Andrea Goto talks tuna and true happiness with a beloved local “roll model.” » Photography by Beau Kester
Joe Xayadeth, better known as “Sushi Joe,” doesn’t seem like he’s from around here. He doesn’t wear khakis with embroidered whales or sport a head of shaggy hair that grazes his eyebrows. He doesn’t say “y’all,” not even once during our conversation—in fact, I can’t detect even a hint of a Southern accent.
“Born and raised,” he assures me, smiling. I must appear skeptical because he attempts to offer further evidence: “I went to Jenkins High School.”
Joe is an affable, soft-spoken dude—the only child of parents who immigrated to the United States from Laos before he was born. He grew up fishing with his dad off Tybee Island and spending summers on his uncle’s shrimp boat in Thunderbolt, dreaming about becoming a firefighter or a police officer. But, after a few years working in warehouses and operating boat lifts, he stumbled into an unexpected opportunity.
Joe Xayadeth, better known as “Sushi Joe,” doesn’t seem like he’s from around here. He doesn’t wear khakis with embroidered whales or sport a head of shaggy hair that grazes his eyebrows. He doesn’t say “y’all,” not even once during our conversation—in fact, I can’t detect even a hint of a Southern accent.
“Born and raised,” he assures me, smiling. I must appear skeptical because he attempts to offer further evidence: “I went to Jenkins High School.”
Joe is an affable, soft-spoken dude—the only child of parents who immigrated to the United States from Laos before he was born. He grew up fishing with his dad off Tybee Island and spending summers on his uncle’s shrimp boat in Thunderbolt, dreaming about becoming a firefighter or a police officer. But, after a few years working in warehouses and operating boat lifts, he stumbled into an unexpected opportunity.
Catch of the Day
Joe was trying his hand as an assistant at Ele Tran and Sean Thongsiri’s celebrated Southside fusion restaurant, Tangerine, when the owners asked him if he wanted to try out to be a sushi chef. “I thought, ‘You know, I could try that on for a while,’” Joe says, casually shrugging his shoulders. He studied under Thongsiri’s critical eye for a year, learning to wield one of the sharpest knives in the kitchen and steam the perfect pot of rice—a revered skill in the sushi world—and when Joe felt ready, he auditioned for the sushi chef position at Tangerine’s ultramodern sister restaurant, Ele Fine Fusion. He admits that he still “gets a little nervous and breaks into a sweat here and there” when his sensei inspects his work, but because of that rigorous training, his job seems to come naturally. “It’s just 1-2-3,” Joe insists, oversimplifying his intricate craft. In just three years, the chef has quietly risen to sushi-making stardom, rotating between Ele, Tangerine and their casual downtown alter ego, Fire Street Food. “My regulars complain when I’m not at Ele,” Joe says with a hint of embarrassment. “Or if they find out I’m at Fire, they’ll go there instead.”
On a Roll
The easygoing 28-year-old credits everyone but himself for his success—his parents for instilling his love of food, the cousin who first got him the job at Tangerine, Thongsiri—even the fish itself. “I just make the sushi nice in regards to presentation, but the quality of the fish speaks for itself,” he insists. “I feel really, really honored that people enjoy my sushi and my company, but I’m just doing my job, you know?” True to his character, Joe downplays the skill involved in the art of sushi-making. “Mainly, it’s just a sharp knife, rice and nice fish,” he says. But anyone who has ever attempted at-home sushi knows better. And anyone who has ever watched Joe dice an avocado in his hand with a knife so sharp it could bisect an atom will call his humble bluff. His artistry is especially evident in his custom-made lobster roll, which is constructed from two lobster tails; one tucked inside a tear-drop shaped roll with crab meat, avocado and asparagus, and the other tail deconstructed into a lobster tartare, adorned with avocado and spicy sauce. “It looks like a blooming flower,” Joe says, gently cupping his large hands as an illustration. He doesn’t consider himself an artist or a “big time, big deal chef.” He does, however, consider himself lucky. “I never pictured myself at a nice place like Ele,” he admits. Joe seems like the kind of guy who’s happy where he is—not tempted by the “next big thing.” Which is why I’m surprised when he tells me that he may leave Savannah one day. “My wife, she wants to maybe move to Pooler or something,” he says. “But to me, that’s too far.” Clearly, Joe is from around here.
Surf ’n’ Turf
Six days a week, Joe is tasked with remembering 65 different rolls—and the special requests of his regular customers. On Sundays—his one day off—the chef prefers to stay home and turn up the heat for a change, serving his wife and two young children dishes that blend Laotian and American influences. “I’ll grill outside or, if the weather’s bad, I’ll do a stir-fry. I like a lot of seafood and beef,” he says. “My parents cooked Laotian food every day. After work, my mom would come home and cook a three- or four-course meal. Here, Joe provides one of his favorite courses—a beef salad with layers of color and fresh flavors.
Sushi Joe’s Beef Salad
(Serves 4) 12-ounce thick-cut rib-eye steak, seasoned with salt and pepper ½ red onion, thinly sliced ½ cup cilantro, minced ¼ cup scallions, minced 1 red bell pepper, sliced 1 lime, freshly squeezed 1 tablespoon fish sauce 1 tablespoon roasted rice powder (available at Asian markets) ½ cucumber, sliced Pinch of salt Pinch of sugar Preheat skillet on high heat. Lightly oil the skillet and place the steak in the pan and cook until medium (or desired temperature). Remove the steak from the pan and allow it to cool. In a bowl, combine the red onion, cilantro, scallions, red bell pepper and cucumber, then set aside. Thinly slice the steak and combine with the vegetables. Add the lime juice, fish sauce and roasted rice powder to mixture. Add the salt and sugar. Serve at room temperature.The ever-intrepid Andrea Goto comes to a fork in the road on her way to social refinement.
Beyond the beach-fare standards, a Tybee Island chef reveals his true heart in chalk. Amy Paige Condon shakes off the sand and pulls up a chair. » Photography by Beau Kester
My first visit to North Beach Bar and Grill on Tybee Island taught me a valuable lesson: read the signs. Of course, the canary yellow hut trimmed in turquoise looked like every other salt-and-wind-whipped crab shack up and down the southeastern coast. The wood plank floors were strafed with sand and a guitar picker’s music drifted in from the patio through the screen windows. Happily buzzed and sunburnt patrons sipped ice-cold longnecks and fruity umbrella drinks. Ravished from a day in the sun and wind, my husband and I snagged the only table left, mere seconds before a line started to snake out the door with hungry folks packed cheek-to-jowl at the bar. The crowd should have been my first clue that we were in for some kind of wonderful. The old standbys—burgers, crab cakes, fish tacos and peel ‘n’ eats—were available, but there weren’t deep-fried smells wafting through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. The aromas were subtler and spiced with something I couldn’t quite put my senses on—jerk or curry, perhaps? Led by my nose, my attentions strayed off the menu to a blackboard propped against the corner of the bar on the floor. Falafel salad, chipotle-citrus barbecue ribs, steak smothered in a caramelized onion-bacon-port sauce and lamb meatball sliders were writ in tidy block letters with white chalk. Directly above the bar, a hand-painted sign called for patience. “Every dish is made to order,” it read. Clues number two and three. I chose a salmon from the chalkboard. Seared, then finished off with a sweet onion relish and served with a side of broccolini, the dish proved worth every minute of the gut-grumbling wait. So did my husband’s succulent ropa vieja, which I sampled aggressively. That’s when it finally dawned on me. North Beach isn’t my granddaddy’s fish camp—it’s four-star fare dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. And the soul behind the Franco-Caribbean fusion, chef Mir Ali, tells me he often improvises the grill’s daily specials based on what’s in season and what spices he can get his hands on. Tybee’s a long ways from his native Pakistan, to be sure, but Mir has made a home for himself here in the South, melding the flavors and techniques of all the places he’s been.
Good Chemistry
Coming of age in New York City and the Washington, D.C. area, Mir didn’t dream of becoming a chef, although the culinary traditions of his homeland shaped his childhood. His family emigrated from Pakistan when Mir was 7 years old. As Muslims, his parents prepared meals according to Islamic law, choosing only halal, or permissible, foods and preparation methods.
“My mom is a hell of a cook,” Mir says with obvious pride, describing how his mother would buy meats only from kosher butchers and select spices to grind fresh from Indian grocers.
He didn’t dip his fingers into the over-salted fast-food nation swirling around him until the age of 15, when he forgot his lunch on a school field trip.
“The whole class was treated to White Castle. I had two orders of fries and a soft drink.”
Fast forward to graduate school where Mir studied pharmacology at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill. To help pay for school, he got a job as a prep cook at La Residence, the venerable upscale French restaurant founded by Southern foodways pioneer Bill Neal. The executive chef at the time took Mir under his wing, inculcating Mir with the edicts of New Southern cuisine—sourcing fresh produce and proteins from local growers, using heirloom vegetables and grains when possible, spiking simple foods with layers of seasonings, both indigenous and international. To his surprise, Mir found that he was able to lose himself in the cooking. He especially loved making fresh breads.
“It’s still chemistry,” Mir explains. “Compositions, mathematics, ingredients.”
In 1998, after college, he followed a friend to Savannah and got a job as sous chef at the former Georges’ on Tybee. There, he met the two Georges—Spriggs and Jackson—developing a food-borne friendship that endures today. Excited by the challenge of a down-island-inspired menu, Mir brought his New South techniques to the cutting board. He and the restaurant grew together, organically, until Mir left for France in 2000. There, he worked in a small bistro in the town of Toulouse to further hone his skills. Nearly three years later, Mir returned stateside, working in Miami for a brief time before he headed back to Savannah. When George Spriggs reopened his retooled beachfront outpost in 2011, he asked Mir to serve as the executive chef.
An Invitation
Mir is also the executive chef of the Wilmington Island home he shares with his wife, Azi, who was born and raised in Athens, Ga., to parents who emigrated from Iran in the 1970s. For everyday meals like the one Mir’s making tonight, he returns to the traditional dishes of his youth because of their familiar simplicity. He often incorporates the tastes and textures of Azi’s Persian heritage, as well. Standing at the kitchen’s island, Mir hand-tosses a crisp, colorful medley of English cucumbers, tomatoes and red onions. Its sharp, citrusy brightness fills the air, melding with the heady scent of saffron and ginger coming from the direction of the stove. A marigold-colored chicken korma, one of his mother’s specialties, bubbles away in a stock pot. “I ate this type of curry a few times a month growing up,” Mir says. “It was one of those comfort dishes—like meatloaf or mac ’n’ cheese—that I always craved when away from home.” Around the dinner table, as we’re savoring this feast and sharing stories, Mir explains that there’s an Urdu expression—hath ke bareme—that explains why his chicken korma tastes different than his mother’s. “It loosely translates to ‘about the hand’,” he says. “Even though I try to duplicate my mother’s recipe, I could never imitate hers. Each person’s hand adds his or her own flavor to the recipe. We can copy or mimic a recipe exactly, but it will never have the same imprint. Each hand has its own touch.” Mir’s words confirm why I should always order off the chalkboard.
Mir Ali’s Chicken Korma
(Serves 4) 10 garlic cloves 2-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled 1 whole fryer chicken, 2 to 3 pounds, cut into 8 pieces 1 tablespoon white poppy seeds 1 cinnamon stick 6 whole cloves 6 cardamom seeds ½ teaspoon turmeric 2 teaspoons ground coriander powder 2 tablespoons oil 1 large yellow onion, julienned 2 tablespoons grated unsweetened coconut flakes Salt and pepper, to taste 16-ounce container of plain whole-milk yogurt Fresh mint, cilantro and green onion, chopped for garnish Puree the garlic and ginger in a blender with a little water to make a paste to rub on the chicken pieces. Let the chicken marinate in the refrigerator for at least one hour. While the chicken marinates, grind the poppy seeds, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom pods, turmeric and coriander powder in a spice grinder or with a mortar and pestle, then set aside. In a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat and carefully add the julienned onions, stirring occasionally to allow them to caramelize. Add the ground spices, coconut flakes, salt and pepper and cook until the aromatics develop, making sure not to over-brown the spices. Add the marinated chicken pieces and cook for 5 minutes. Stir in the yogurt until it completely dissolves, creating a sauce in the pot. Cover the chicken and cook on medium heat until the chicken is completely cooked and fork tender, about 30 to 45 minutes. Taste and adjust seasonings as necessary. To serve, spoon the chicken onto a serving platter. Reduce the sauce in the pot until it is the desired consistency then ladle the sauce on the chicken. Garnish with fresh herbs.Does your little Jimmy Oglethorpe know how to say "Please" and "Thank you"—and "No, ma'am, that's not a Regency home; that's Federal style?"
Can your modern Julie Gordon Low shuck her own oysters, change a flat tire and fend off an online predator?
As concerned parents and invested locals, we have a new generation to raise—and a rich traditional culture to uphold. How do we balance the two? We asked Savannah parents and educators for their expert opinions.
MOM, M.D.
Dr. Katy Moretz is a pediatric neurologist who takes pride in the fact she was born at St. Joseph’s Hospital and has lived in the Coastal Empire ever since. Raised on Tybee Island, she feels blessed to stay in Savannah with her husband, Dr. William Moretz III, and relive her coastal childhood through their two children: Henry, 7, and Emily, 4. A Coastal Childhood: “When I went to college at the University of Georgia, everyone was so jealous of me for being from Savannah. My parents, Jim and Kathy McNaughton, still live on Tybee, and all my friends would beg to come home with me on the weekends. I never realized how lucky I was to grow up here until then.”
Special Skills: “Teach your children how to fish and enjoy seafood. My kids will eat shrimp—Lowcountry boils are essential. They love crabbing, and one day I might show them how to tear open a boiled crab the way Wink taught Hushpuppy in Beasts of the Southern Wild. Also, I’ll teach them to throw a cast net, which I believe is something all Savannahians should learn.”
Teaching Values: “Good manners are vital, but Savannah’s children also need to learn to deal with heat and bugs! They need to appreciate nature and to be well-rounded socially so they can be tolerant and accepting of all people.”
Take the Kids: “My favorite event of the year is the Fourth of July fireworks at Tybee—there is nothing like lying on the beach and looking up at a sky full of lights. I think kids should visit Fort Pulaski, the Children’s Museum and the Forsyth Farmers’ Market. And one of the greatest experiences for children is to take a boat to dinner—I love boating to Bonna Bella with the kids in the summer.”
Culture Under Fire: “Country clubs and clubs in general seem to be popular around here. We’re members of the Wilmington Island Club. All of the clubs are so much more progressive than they used to be. People are becoming more tolerant of each other and more effort is put forth to bring people together. It’s a slow process because some traditions are so strong that it’s hard to change people’s beliefs. Churches are still pretty separated and we need to work on that as a community.”
Role Models: “Paula Deen. She’s is such a great example of a Southern woman. She’s come such a long way in her life to build her success. I’m secretly trying to set up my daughter with Jack Deen in an effort to become part of the Deen family!”
YES, MA’AM
Cindy Edwards is the author of the etiquette-inspired blog “Southern Proper” and the mother of two grown Savannahians: Joe, 22, and Jack, 19. A native Georgian, she has spent the past 23 years in the Hostess City with her husband and college sweetheart, Dr. Joe Edwards III. She volunteers with the Telfair Museums, the Savannah Book Festival, March of Dimes and Young Life Savannah. Teaching Values: “The most important thing we can do for our children—other than love them and give them a stable home—is to teach them the Golden Rule. I also think people have higher expectations of (Savannahians). They expect us to have manners because we are from Savannah.” Special Skills: “Children should know how to introduce themselves to other people. It puts everyone in the room at ease and it gives the child confidence to go out into the world. I made sure my boys knew how to reach out and properly introduce themselves, looking people in the eye when shaking hands. Small children aren’t comfortable with that, but my sons got in the habit. Eye contact is so important for children.” A Coastal Childhood: “The biggest blessing has been spending our summers on Tybee. We were fortunate one year and got to see the turtles migrate from their nests and make their way out to the sea. Who gets to see something so amazing in their lifetime?”
Only in Savannah: “Every local child should get the chance to go to an oyster roast and shuck (his or her) own oysters. I also made sure my boys toured the Historic District and learned to appreciate and understand the history of our city. Children should know about the architect William Jay and his contribution to designing some of the most fabulous buildings in Savannah. To me, learning the history of our city is the most important experience.”
Culture Under Fire: “Research shows children nowadays just aren’t communicating the way they should. We need to make sure they learn to step away from the cell phones and video games and to enjoy their surroundings. They need to know it’s a gift to stop and enjoy the world and the people around them. My sons liked to play video games, but one day I had my son put away his game and walk with me to the beach to explore. When we got home, he hugged me and said it was one of the best days he ever had.”
Role Models: “I would like for my sons to emulate their father by being the kind of man who cares for people and the community. He works morning, noon and night for others, and I’m not just talking about his work at the hospital. I want my sons to always help people when they can and to always give more than they take.”
A VERY BUSY DAD
Tony Jordan has helped raise more than 1,000 Savannahians—including two of his own: Tony, 10, and Daniel, 5. Originally from Washington, D.C., Tony married into a local family and has immersed himself in the city for almost 20 years. After working with troubled youth through the juvenile detention service, Tony collaborated with his wife, DaVena, to found the award-winning arts and technology program AWOL (All Walks of Life), which aims to inspire and empower at-risk youth. Special Skills: “I’m from the city—I’m not a hunter or a fisherman or a fixer-upper kind of guy. My father-in-law, ‘Papa,’ God rest his soul, was from here and he was that kind of man. One day something was broken in the house and I heard my son say, ‘Do you want me to call Papa?’ We laughed, but I also learned to make sure I had our elders show the boys—and me—how to fix things. “My mother-in-law knows all about shrimp and she teaches my boys how to cook and peel shrimp. By having our elders teach the boys how to do things that are natural to this area, we give them a chance to learn about this unique environment and to pay homage to their elders who are from here.” Teaching Values: “One of the most important things is faith in God. Every night I pray with my sons before they go to bed. Prayer gives them a time to reflect on others in this city and to care about them so they can build stronger bonds with their neighbors. I regard the value of faith in terms of planting seeds—it gives my sons something to believe in during hard times. “Also, in AWOL, we teach the kids that they have the power to change their environment. We teach the same lesson at home with our boys.” A Coastal Childhood: “We have a large, diverse group of people here in Savannah. Unfortunately, I don’t think there is enough interaction between races, but we have the power to make those changes. I try to expose my boys to as much diversity as possible, so when they grow up they are comfortable in almost any situation with any group of people.”
Culture Under Fire: “Poverty is huge here, and Savannah will have a hard time moving forward economically if we don’t teach our children to move forward and to interact with each other in a positive light. We need to raise them to be well-rounded and progressive thinkers—fair-minded people who are willing to come out of their comfort zone and interact with each other.”
Role Models: “Oh, that’s easy. First, Pastor Ricky Temple from Overcoming By Faith Ministries. Second, Ron Thompson who owns the Inn at Ellis Square.
“Next would be Murray Wilson from TPS Consulting. He has shown me that giving your time is more valuable than giving money.
“And finally, Sidney J. Johnson; he’s 87 years old and he has been giving me great advice over the years. He always says, ‘Know the mix, but don’t get in the mix.’ All of these men have been mentors to me and they are the kind of men I want my sons to be like.”
Crafted in small batches by passionate distillers, boutique liquors are remixing Savannah’s storied cocktails.
Here, where the water meets the land, our past often lingers in our present. Allison Hersh sets out in search of the community spirit that inspired the Pin Point Heritage Museum. » Photography by Katie McGee
A joker, a pirate and a writer walk into a bar ... Andrea Goto takes a spin through the city with two seasoned tourism pros—and discovers just who the real characters are. » Photography by Beau Kester
Ambivalent about specters, Amy Paige Condon encounters the inexplicable and begins to wonder if there’s more to the afterlife than meets the eye. » Photography by Beau Kester
Chris Allen has been seeing dead people since the age of two.
That’s when he first noticed an elderly man skulking in the corner of the house where he grew up in Paulding County, Ga. A few years later, he and his grandfather were flipping through an album and Chris recognized the man in the photos.
The man was Chris’ great-grandfather, and he’d died before Chris was born. But, as an even bigger shock, Chris learned that his grandfather and mother also saw ghosts.
“So, this—ghost hunting, the paranormal—has been a lifelong passion for me,” Chris explains as he, my husband Brian and I stroll through Lafayette Square on a nighttime walking tour of Savannah’s most famous haunts. Flannery O’Connor’s birthplace fades into the darkness as we head due east, and I am along for the ride, neither true believer nor skeptic. If we experience a glimpse through some gossamer veil between the physical and spiritual worlds while we walk, I’m open, but I’m not exactly anticipating it.
Chris, our guide, is a teddy bear: good-natured, sincere and young, though he walks with a cane because of a knee injury. He tosses out puns like pizza makers throw dough.
Tucked beneath his arm, Chris carries an iPad, which he’ll use at intervals throughout the tour. He’ll share a video, shot by a teenager on vacation, of a ghostly child running through Colonial Park Cemetery; an audio recording, purportedly of a servant woman’s screams as she’s being hung at the Sorrel-Weed House; and sundry pictures snapped by the curious. The photographers are usually tourists who inadvertently capture something inexplicable and unseen by the naked eye—floating blue orbs, vaporous mists, blinding vortex strikes. It’s interactive, multimedia storytelling at its most visceral.
Of course, ghost stories are in Chris’s wheelhouse. In 2006, he co-founded the Paulding Paranormal Society and began conducting scientific investigations throughout north Georgia to gather documented evidence of hauntings, including photographic, videographic and audio recordings. In 2011, he pulled up stakes, headed south and hung out his shingle as Haunted Savannah Tours.
Chris Allen has been seeing dead people since the age of two.
That’s when he first noticed an elderly man skulking in the corner of the house where he grew up in Paulding County, Ga. A few years later, he and his grandfather were flipping through an album and Chris recognized the man in the photos.
The man was Chris’ great-grandfather, and he’d died before Chris was born. But, as an even bigger shock, Chris learned that his grandfather and mother also saw ghosts.
“So, this—ghost hunting, the paranormal—has been a lifelong passion for me,” Chris explains as he, my husband Brian and I stroll through Lafayette Square on a nighttime walking tour of Savannah’s most famous haunts. Flannery O’Connor’s birthplace fades into the darkness as we head due east, and I am along for the ride, neither true believer nor skeptic. If we experience a glimpse through some gossamer veil between the physical and spiritual worlds while we walk, I’m open, but I’m not exactly anticipating it.
Chris, our guide, is a teddy bear: good-natured, sincere and young, though he walks with a cane because of a knee injury. He tosses out puns like pizza makers throw dough.
Tucked beneath his arm, Chris carries an iPad, which he’ll use at intervals throughout the tour. He’ll share a video, shot by a teenager on vacation, of a ghostly child running through Colonial Park Cemetery; an audio recording, purportedly of a servant woman’s screams as she’s being hung at the Sorrel-Weed House; and sundry pictures snapped by the curious. The photographers are usually tourists who inadvertently capture something inexplicable and unseen by the naked eye—floating blue orbs, vaporous mists, blinding vortex strikes. It’s interactive, multimedia storytelling at its most visceral.
Of course, ghost stories are in Chris’s wheelhouse. In 2006, he co-founded the Paulding Paranormal Society and began conducting scientific investigations throughout north Georgia to gather documented evidence of hauntings, including photographic, videographic and audio recordings. In 2011, he pulled up stakes, headed south and hung out his shingle as Haunted Savannah Tours.
Hauntrepreneurship
The macabre is big business in places like Savannah, where histories run thick and are often tainted by blood spilled from war and oppression, where countless lives have been lost to disease and bondage, and where landscapes are—in the words of native daughter Mary Flannery O’Connor—“Christ-haunted.” Just look at the lists: New Orleans, Charleston, Salem, Key West and our beloved Hostess City consistently show up in the top 10. These cities sit at crossroads, where rivers and oceans, cultures, classes and faith traditions intersect. And in rural folklore, where two roads cross, evil is likely present. A steady diet of vampire novels, zombie movies and “found footage”-style films like The Blair Witch Project only feeds the public’s appetite for what’s being called “dark tourism,” which the Haunted Attraction Associationestimates is a $300 million industry. Savannah’s dark star ascended in 2002 when the American Institute of Parapsychology named it “America’s Most Haunted City” because of the high level of recorded paranormal activity. Since then, the Syfy channel’s Ghost Hunters series shot its inaugural Halloween episode here. The History and Travel channels and TLC have all come a-calling for a meeting with the other side. Although the competition for customers and credibility is fierce among the more than 20 companies offering ghost tours in Savannah, there exists a surprising camaraderie among a small fraternity of haunted hosts. On our tour, we notice a woman with flowing dark hair walking a golden retriever back and forth across President Street. When we settle on a far corner to discuss Anne Powell’s haunting of Room 204 in the 17Hundred90 Inn, the woman approaches Chris. He introduces her as Melissa, and she presents us to Bailey the Ghost-hunting Dog, who immediately takes a shine to Brian. Melissa shares with Chris two new images taken by a visitor on an earlier tour of the inn. They show the ethereal shape of a woman in a doorway. Later on, in front of The Marshall House, the driver of one of the Hearse Ghost Tours stops to talk shop with Chris. On our way to the Sorrel-Weed House, a bespectacled fellow on one side of Bull Street yells a “thank you” to our guide. “I got my tour guide’s license,” he shouts, fist-pumping the air. “(Ghost tourism) has really amped up around here,” Chris explains.
What Lies Beneath
That hauntings are grist for the Savannah mill is no surprise. Ours is a city built upon its dead. Most tours in town commence at Colonial Park Cemetery, at the intersection of Oglethorpe Avenue and Abercorn Street—where so many people’s journeys ended. Colonial is just one of seven registered graveyards in the Historic District and surrounding areas. There are unregistered burial grounds as well, many of them potter’s fields holding the remains of native Americans, slaves, the poor and the unclaimed. Chris tells us that as many as 28,000 people are buried beneath the city’s storied streets, and upward of 10,000 may have found their eternal rest at Colonial. “That’s just an estimate,” Chris qualifies. “There’s only 612 headstones still standing.” As we walk past the dueling grounds along the cemetery’s western fence line, a hearse tour approaches. Passengers from a trolley disembark to snap photos between the wrought iron posts while their guide offers a history lesson. We pause at a crypt that juts through the fence into the sidewalk, and Chris explains that the cemetery’s true boundaries extend into the middle of the street. “See how the sidewalk rises and falls with regularity?” he asks. We do. “That’s where the wooden coffins have rotted and collapsed and the ground has settled over the graves.” While this is creepy and intriguing, I’m not convinced forgotten graves are enough to guarantee paranormal activity.
Child’s Play
In spite of my ambivalence, my family has its own Savannah ghost story. Back in 2004, before Brian and I moved here, my mom and her two sisters were on vacation from Texas and shopping downtown. Aunt Teresa had wandered into the now-defunct shop Estoria, which was located in the bank of buildings on the southwest corner of Wright Square, just a couple of doors down from a plaque that marks this area as the first white burial ground in the city. Among my family members, Aunt Teresa is known for telling it like it is; she’s not prone to embellishment. When she recounts how she witnessed a cast iron sconce lift off a nail as if someone were carrying it, then smash down on a nearby table, breaking a cup and saucer, we believe her. “We had a lot of occurrences, and what your aunt describes was very common,” confirms real estate agent Jacqueline Mason, who owned Estoria until 2007. Jacqueline goes on to describe how the sound of shattering glass would set off the alarm in the middle of the night and draw the attention of ghost tours passing by. Upon investigation, she and the police would find nothing amiss. She began to track the odd happenings with store inventory and discovered that every time she sold an antique toy, the alarm would go off—like a paranormal temper tantrum. “We stopped selling antique toys,” she deadpans. Curious but not convinced she had a ghost, Jacqueline invited investigators from Ghost-stock, a now-extinct conference of hunters, into the shop after hours to conduct readings and recordings. They captured the sounds of a bouncing ball, a panting dog and the crystal clear voice of a child saying, “He likes you.” “I was an absolute non-believer when I moved here,” says Jacqueline. “Now, I consider myself a reluctant believer. After you live with it a while, you accept it.”
The Shining
Wright Square is evidently packed with the paranormal. The spot where Bull and President streets would meet in the center of the square marks the grave of Tomochichi, the Yamacraw chief who mediated between General James Oglethorpe’s settlers and the natives. A monument to William Washington Gordon, the builder of the Central of Georgia Railroad, sits atop Tomochichi’s grave. A pink granite boulder cut from Stone Mountain in northern Georgia, a sacred place to Native Americans, honors Tomochichi in the southeast corner of the square. Commanding live oaks shade the benches where street musicians often play for change during the day. It’s a curious note, though, that Spanish moss drapes only the trees south of the imaginary President Street line. The branches north are bare. Always have been. “No moss grows where innocent blood was shed,” Chris says, repeating an old legend as he begins the tale of Alice Riley, the first person hanged in Georgia for murder. Her ghost is said to haunt this square, searching for the baby she birthed just prior to her walk to the gallows. A wooden jailhouse, circa 1734, sat where the CVS does now, so Wright became the hanging square purely because of proximity. Rumor has it that the drug store closes at 6 p.m. because the staff refuses to work after dark in a place so haunted by spirits. But there hasn’t been enough investigation to substantiate that claim, says Chris, and he thinks the early closing hour is simply a function of economics. “Not busy enough at night,” he explains. He’s right. With all the businesses in the area shuttered for the evening, only a handful of couples stroll by. I snap a few photos of the square using my iPhone, making sure to get three or more in succession to have a better chance of capturing something otherworldly. I’m not prepared for the bright, comet-like orbs full of energy and movement that pop into a series of four pictures. I show them to Chris and my husband. We investigate the lens, the flash and our surroundings. Nothing accounts for the (goodness, gracious!) great balls of fire. I snap three more from the same vantage point, holding the phone the exact same way, and there’s nothing but a moss-less tree. Curious what another ghost hunter would say, I share the photos a few nights later with Georgeanne, our delightfully disheveled guide on the Tara Haunted Boos and Brews pub crawl. “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” she says with a voice graveled by smokes and spirits. “Go figure. I don’t understand it; I just tell it.” And with a shrug, Georgeanne heads across Oglethorpe Street, her shirt on inside-out. Her remark reminds me of something Chris told me as we crossed Liberty: “I’ve been doing investigations for 10 years. I have more questions now than I had before.”
The Others
According to ghost hunters like Chris and converts like Jacqueline, most hauntings are benign nuisances that, depending on your level of tolerance, can make life either interesting or irritating. The ghostly majority are formerly human spirits that have lingered on this earthly plane to attend some unfinished business or, perhaps, to relive some tragedy with the hope of finding justice at last. Particularly in the South, there lingers a whole separate category of paranormal activity reserved for the never-human. And according to Tobias McGriff, author of the self-published Savannah Shadows and owner of Blue Orb Tours, these “dark inhabitants from parts unknown”—or “hags”—are bad news. The term “hag” derives from an ancient phenomenon known as Old Hag Syndrome, characterized similarly by people across cultures and time who complain of a sinister, dark shadow pressing upon their chests. Victims often feel paralyzed by the oppressive weight, foul smells and hissing sounds. They awaken with scratches, bites and other attack marks as if they’ve battled for their lives. “(The hag) feeds off the unhappiness of people, using negative spiritual energy to prolong manifestation on this plane,” McGriff writes in his book. He recounts his own encounters with a hag, and claims that Savannah is “the heart of hag country.” Science has attempted to explain Old Hag Syndrome as “sleep paralysis,” caused when a person is in a state of deep REM sleep but physically awake—essentially living out his or her nightmares. What science has been unable to explain, however, is how very real hags seem to the people infested by them. All faith traditions have long recognized the presence of demons and other malevolent spirits. And, as recently as 2011, the Vatican put out a call for clergy to attend what the Catholic News Service termed an “exorcist boot camp” for training to fight against the forces of evil. According to McGriff, the greatest force against the hag is a change in frequency.
