By Marjorie Ritchie

There is a lot of talk these days about the issues of borders, walls and deportation. I spent my early years living near the border where the Chattahoochee River separates my home state of Georgia from my father’s birthplace in Alabama.

When my father turned 13, his courageous, God-fearing parents emigrated legally from Alabama to Georgia. They left their modest Alabama home and drove across the Chattahoochee River bridge to Georgia in search of a better life and a good education for their son, my daddy. My grandfather was proud of the lovely stone house he built in Georgia after the Great Depression. The home had pretty camellia and gardenia bushes, as well as small bird baths, in the front yard.

Sadly, my grandparents left some of their kinfolks, like Uncle Billy and Aunt Bess, behind in Alabama. After repeating the eighth grade several times, Uncle Billy played football for Bear Bryant and his Crimson Tide. Aunt Bess was proud of her husband’s notable accomplishments.

Because my father held dual citizenship in both states, he wanted us children to experience the culture and cuisine of his native Alabama. On Saturday nights during my teenage years, while my Methodist grandparents dined at our hometown’s finest BBQ restaurant, my daddy drove our family across the border to one of those honky-tonk-style fish camps located in the “Heart of Dixie.” That is where we feasted on frog legs and catfish and listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” playing on the juke box. I surely did envy those cute Auburn co-eds who danced with their macho boyfriends in that smoke-filled night spot. My grandmother called those establishments “dens of Alabama sin.”

During my growing-up years in Georgia, there were several serious deportations that occurred. One time, the authorities deported my 95-year-old Aunt Beulah to the asylum in Milledgeville, Georgia, when they found her skinny-dipping in the muddy waters of the Chattahoochee River. Unfortunately, my Alabama cousin, Jimmy, was deported to a boy’s military academy in Montgomery after he drove off to Panama City, Florida, with his girlfriend, Smiles. I heard that Smiles changed her name after that scandalous event, and cousin Jimmy did not drive again until he turned 16.

The Yankee poet, Robert Frost, was right when he wrote that “good fences make good neighbors.” Fences, like walls, can keep your neighbor’s goats from straying over and eating your garden. And fences help prevent crazy neighbors from sauntering into your backyard. But as Frost says, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” I am glad there was not a wall between our kind neighbor, Mr. Rea, and us because he could walk over and bring us the gift of laughter and conversation each day.

Maybe we should be building more bridges in America. Building bridges, however, requires much more effort and time than building walls. Remarkably, bridges, unlike walls, help us to connect and communicate with other people who are different from us.

Do you remember that monumental day in November of 1989 when the Berlin Wall came down that separated East and West Germany? I am praying that the destructive walls that separate us Americans will start to crumble, and one day we will no longer be such a divided nation.

Finally, I have spent much time crossing that border bridge between Georgia and Alabama where I enjoyed playing with cousin Clyde when we were children. Clyde is Uncle Billy and Aunt Bess’s son who got his brains from Aunt Bess and graduated from Georgia Tech with a degree in civil engineering. Last I heard, Clyde was helping South Carolina build bridges and highways. Thank goodness! South Carolina can surely use his help.

Marjorie Ritchie lives near the border between Rowan and Cabarrus counties.