Helen, A Hand Basket

Beautiful clock-makers village nestled within the foothills of northern Georgia.

The light was beginning to dwindle. This was the time when proud Georgians don their liederhosen and wander into the streets of Helen, awaiting the fireworks spectacle that would illuminate the pseudo-Bavarian architecture of this fantasy town.

Large of people meandered and limped their way through parking lots and intersections, full of cars, which in turn were full of either claustrophobic tourists led astray or two guys from Greenville that were elated to stumble across a cultural anomaly/travesty such as this. Justin and I both shouted for joy when we saw the clock tower from fifty-five car lengths away. We had struck gold in Helen. If I remember correctly, Justin shed tears.

Three miles of jam later, unable to contain ourselves any longer, my friend and I bled into the droves of inappropriately clothed mothers, Biblical-celebrity look-a-likes and cavorting children, all of whom were whirlpooling toward the town square, out of which Rehadriash, the Angel of Pyrotechnics, would spout forth Black Cats until sulfur haze drove away the hordes of mosquitos.

While Rehadriash's handiwork was spectacular (and he was nice enough to give us autographs), the place that will be forever etched on our minds was Jimmy's Druid Bear and Reptile House. A wooden bear hauling a mead wagon stands stupidly, yet patiently, in front of the huge double doors that are the portal to Jimmy's. His cohorts, Haunches, the pine bear and his three nameless birch cartwheeling sons, roared, "This place is magic." It was closed.

But, Helen was magic....and we'll never speak of it again for that very reason.