Why write this book? Contents of the book People who made this possible People who influenced the author Dedicated to: About Dan K. Phillips
Jekyll Island, Georgia


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Dan's Daily Blog

1. Preface (Four Corners )

Includes photographs of Four Corners and the background of why Dan wrote this book.

2. The Photographer - (Tucumcari, N.M.)

Dan goes to Tucumcari, New Mexico, to visit the photographer who took Ian Frazier's picture for the the book Great Plains

3. An Outlaw and a Politician - (Las Vegas, N.M.)

He travels to the Teddy Roosevelt Rough Rider Museum to visit the "smartest lady in the world."

4. The Blues Brothers - (Las Vegas, Nevada )

Who would have guessed that riding an airplane-dressed as Shumu the whale-, would take him to the mysterious rhealm of multi-millionaire Howard Hughes.

5. Mysterious Adventures With Mark Twain - (Reno. Nevada )

Read some weird stories of a bunch of "wild consultants" who spend a week in Nevada exploring!

6. The Poet - (San Francisco, CA. )

This story describes his first visit to San Francisco to celebrate a wedding anniversary. He discovers the "ghost" of Jack Kerouac and hits several other literary high spots while here.

7. The Distant Listener - (Cape Cod, MA. )

Visiting Cape Cod,he discovers Henry Beston and Gugliemo Marconi. This leads to a history lesson on the beginning of radio listening and a unique baker (Ollie Ross) known to have picked up every radio station in the world. Was Ollie Ross for real?

8. Hermit of the Essex Coast - ((Jekyll Island, Georgia )

Jekyll Island is a special place for Dan. Study the billionaires who inhabited this island every winter. Listen to their stories of richness and pettiness.

9. A Writer and A Preacher - (Savannah, Georgia )

Did you know that the sign indicating where Flannery O'Connor was born is really a lie? And did you know John Wesley once fell in love here and caused a major disturbance because of this love affair. If you have read The Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, you need to read The Writer and the Preacher to capture even more weird tales of Savannah.

10. Patti's - The Best Restaurant in the World (Grand Rivers, KY.)

This is Dan's favorite eating place in all the world. Read this story and discover how a pot-bellied pig named Calvin Swine became the symbol of great American cooking.

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Jekyll island is located 2,200 miles southeast of Four Corners. Typically, I travel through Nashville, Chattanooga, Atlanta, Savannah, and south to Brunswick before arriving at Jekyll Island.

Traveling south through Atlanta, I am reminded that two important events in my life occurred here: I was born in Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta, and I was sitting high atop the bleachers in right field of Atlanta Stadium on a cold night - April 8, 1974 - when Henry Aaron broke Babe Ruth's home run record. I did not think Aaron had a chance of breaking the record that night. It had been a weekend when many terrible tornadoes hit our nation; from Alabama to Ohio there were tornadoes.

On that particular night in Atlanta stadium, it was cold. The temperature was in the mid-40s, and the winds were whipping around the stadium like a tornado was ready to hit Atlanta. When Henry hit the ball, I had an umbrella raised, a pair of binoculars over my eyes, and a radio earphone attached to my ear. I saw him swing but that was all. By the time everyone jumped up, and I removed the eyeglasses, the earphone, and the umbrella, it was too late; the ball had disappeared over the fence. But I continually remind myself years later that "I saw him hit it!"

Atlanta is the focal point of the south. Ask any air passenger; "Yeah, doesn't matter where you're going. You gotta go through Atlanta," they say in mumbled tones. Many of my relatives live near Atlanta. Such diverse tiny flecks on the map as Flippen, Ellenwood, Jonesboro, Lovejoy, and McDonough, contain the Phillips, or the Davies Families. My family consists of lengthy lists of school teachers, railway employees, engineers, and a few preachers. The Davies side claims kin to Jefferson Davis and Lyndon Johnson and are practical jokers. They have been known for such escapades as a night sowing of turnip greens on the town square in McDonough, Georgia, while it was being cultivated with new grass seed. They are sometime politicians who more often than not get beat. The Phillips side is known more for their fishing exploits. Give one of them a safety pin, and a worm, and they can perform miracles.

On the particular journey in question, I was passing through Atlanta going to Jeykll Island for a short vacation. I traveled south on Interstate75 to Macon, took Interstate 16 to Savannah, then south on Interstate 95 to State Road 25 in Brunswick, which crosses the intracostal waterway that leads to Jekyll Island.

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I first heard of Jekyll almost three decades ago. An aunt and uncle of mine had traveled there and brought back tales of a millionaires village, boat trips, and "the most fantastic sunsets every seen."

My first trip to Jekyll is memorialized on a fragment of eight-millimeter film made in the late 60s by my father. Magnetic flecks of sand dance across the screen. A large Jekyll Island banner is draped across the entrance to the causeway.

There have been other reminders through my many years of travel to this beautiful island. One is a yellowed piece of newsprint I found on Jekyll once long ago that read, "Once our feet touch the sands of Jekyll Island you will always come back." The tug of those words continue to draw me over two decades later. I still love Jekyll Island.

To me, Jekyll is a magical island - an island of whispers and messages from strangers. In fact, one of these messages is beside an old telephone beside Indian Mound Cottage: "The first transcontinental telephone call was transmitted by a telephone instrument of this type on January 25, 1915. Mr. Theodore N. Vail, President ATT to Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone in New York. Thomas A. Watson, assistant to Dr. Bell, in San Francisco and President Wilson in Washington, D.C. " The magic of that call still lingers today.

Whenever I am there, I feel part of an imaginary world of millionaires, and servants, and leisure. I find myself dreaming of rich ladies and their beautiful daughters frolicking in the sun, or I hear a whisper of hilarity across the porch of the Jekyll Island Club, as millionaires laugh after losing thousands of dollars at poker.

In my more pensive moments, I am haunted by the ghosts of an an overly plump J. P. Morgan staggering home after a lustful night of dining and drinking. Or, across the island, I hear the swaying language of Joseph Pulitzer launching forth with a fitful barrage of words that sway the energy of the world.

Jekyll's world consist of: trumpets and violins; dancing and kisses; nannies and servants; large suitcases filled with unneeded clothes; cups of warm tea overflowing; hastily gathered tennis rackets bought at trendy New York sportings good stores; and endless holes of "birdies and eagles." This island mecca is part of a giant-black hole from an earlier generation when American's role in the world was unquestioned. It is a delicate land, time-warped through the past century, trying to regain its composure for a new generation of tourists.

Historically speaking, Jekyll Island was the winter play ground of some of the world's wealthiest eccentrics. The Jekyll Island Club was formed as a hunting resort in 1886 when 53 businessmen from the Northeast and Midwest bought the island from John Eugene DuBignon for $125,000. The roster of owners included: Jay Gould, epitome of the late 19th century robber baron; financier J. P. Morgan; newspaper publisher Joseph Pulitzer; merchandising pioneer Marshall Field; railroad magnate John J. Hill; Everett Macy, president of Union Pacific Tea Company; William Rockefeller and Cornelius Vanderbilt - names synonymous for wealth; and Richard Teller Crane, whose name was stamped on varied products, ranging from oil well equipment to bathroom fixtures.

"Each February, they arrived from New York aboard yachts that anchored at the Jekyll River wharf. Family members and friends were dressed in three-piece suits, bustled dresses and bonnets. An army of servants unloaded mountains of baggage for their two month stay. Horse drawn carriages carried the arrivals past a sweeping lawn of live oaks to the club. They strode the graceful veranda to the main reception hall, resplendent in English Victorian furnishings," said Barry Parker in a magazine article in Sojourns.

Club buildings were constructed between 1886 and 1928 in styles ranging from the informal Shingle to the formal Italian Renaissance Revival. The Great Depression and growing appeal of European spas began to draw members from the Club in the 1930s. By World War II the island was almost deserted. It was disbanded in 1942 because of threats received during World War II. Today, the 240 acres is a National Historic Landmark owned by the state of Georgia.


Not everyone who inhabited Jekyl lived in a state of perpetual happiness. A historical sign on the harbor side of Jekyll Island reads: "This chimney is all that remains of the cottage of Bayard Brown, original member of the Jekyll Island Club. In his gay, young days, he built this cottage at Jekyll, overlooking the marshes. He erected a bridge to reach the isolated house, built stables for his horses, and furnished the cottage elegantly for his bride-to-be. But the wedding never came off. The house deteriorated and was torn down."

This eccentric millionaire was known as "The Hermit of the Essex Coast" in England. At the age of 37, he became an exile from America, sailing on his yacht Valfreyia . Unrequited love is said to be the cause of his renouncing his native land to become a legendary port-bound yachtsman for 36 years. On the Essex Coast, his yacht engines were always in readiness for a sea voyage. His crew of 18 waited in vain for the order to put to sea.

According to personal accounts, Mr. Brown's fortune included an income of over a million dollars a year. He frequently tossed gold souvenir's from his yacht for anyone to pick up. It has also been reported that anyone who mentioned "America" in his presence was dismissed. He died in 1926 requesting that his body be returned to America on the Valfreyia.

All that remains of the memory of McEvers Bayard Brown, New York banker, is a chimney, decaying and falling apart. It sits reluctantly at the site where his cottage was.


I have official known only one real hermit. Once, while living in the central part of Alabama, a fellow church member, who was sort of the associate manager of the local liquor store, thought it would be a good idea if I experienced the joys of hunting with him. As one who had never been hunting in my entire life, I was in for a new experience.

A couple of hours before daylight, on a morning that was bitterly cold, we drove to the top of a local mountain to hunt squirrels. He had a gun. I did not carry a weapon but watched attentively, less a squirrel should surface nearby, and I could make some kind of motion that would let my friend know of the arrival of this delicate creature. After two hours of failed effort, Ben suggested we go visit the man who owned the land. We then proceeded through much underbrush to the home of Uncle Alf. The shack had one room. Boxes were used as shelving, the floor was of dirt, the bed unmade, and in the same room lived a flock of chickens. The only other remembrance was of a checker set on a small table and Ben and Uncle Alf playing a couple of games of checkers.

After the checker game, and no breakfast, it came time to leave. Before we left, Uncle Alf made a couple of important comments to Ben: 'Ben, don't go across the stream toward the fence row," (no doubt to avoid the moonshine still), and "Ben, come back to see me, it gets mighty lonesome up here."

As the car left, I looked out the rear-view mirror to see Uncle Alf standing on his rickety porch alone. He was officially the only hermit I have ever met. I doubt he is alive today. The last I heard of Ben, he was a deacon in the local Baptist church and had a new job.


While on Jekyll, I enjoy visiting the cottages of the millionaires. For some reason, walking in the same room as these wealthy barons of industrialism causes me to sense a firsthand closeness with them. It’s a game I play. "Be wealthy today, act like a millionaire." And, I always try to respond in a positive manner. I often sit outside a cottage and dream that snapping my fingers will bring an instant waitress with a corresponding cool drink for a hot summer day, or I walk from room to room in the mansions dreaming of what the parties were like. I can visualize myself walking up to J. P. Morgan and saying, "J.P., how about a tip on the old stock market," or "J.P., have you got any other hot tips, if you know what I mean!" Ha! Ha!

My favorite cottage is the Crane Cottage. Built in 1917 by Richard T. Crane Jr., it was the largest private residence constructed by a club member. Crane's father, Richard T. Crane Sr., founded the Crane Company - a company specializing in fluid control equipment and plumbing fixtures.

The Crane Company was the first company to make bathroom fixtures in colors other than white. The chief boast of the Crane Cottage was that it has 17 bathrooms. I have often wondered about the need for 17 bathrooms. Could it be they had many visitors, or was it that each was color coordinated to enhance the mood of the user, or were their kidney problems in the family, or was it because the house was so big that ones needs could not wait the travail of traveling three flights to the nearest restroom. It is a phenomenal question of intense interest to me.

Certainly, this cottage on Riverview Drive is an architectual gem. Its style was directly copied from Italian Villas built during the 16th century. A stately air surrounds it - almost an atmosphere of revelling disobedience. The last time I was there the cottage had deteriorated considerably. The walls needed painting, several of the bathrooms were closed - a sure disappointment for me - doors squeaked when one tried to open them, the courtyard tables wobbled, trash was hidden behind unused doorways, and a sign on a table near the entrance was accompanied by a small basket requesting any assistance for money to repair the Crane Cottage.

In a note of irony: in this crumbling cottage the Federal Reserve Act was drafted. John D. Rockefeller, J. P. Morgan and other exponents of free enterprise, dressed up like duck hunters, and rode in a special railroad car to Jekyll Island with the sole purpose of straightening out the financial conditions in the United States. Beleaguered by politicians who blamed recent bank failures on high-level money manipulations, they spent nine days in the clubhouse drafting a monetary reform plan of their own that became the Federal Reserve Act of December 23, 1913. Over three quarters of a century later, the finery of this house is dependent on a church offering plate on a small table by the entrance way.

Another cottage I often visit is Indian Mound Cottage. Indian Mound sits beside a small mountain of Indian graves. It was built in 1892 for Gordon McKay, a wealthy industrialist and inventor from Massachusetts. In 1862, McKay's patent for a machine that improved a process for sewing boots and shoes made possible the inexpensive mass production of shoes for the United States Army. At his death, his estate was estimated to be worth $40,000,000. The second owner of Indian Mound was William Rockefeller, younger brother of John D. Rockefeller, president of Standard Oil Company in New Jersey. William was a formnible force primarily responsible for developing the firm's export markets. In its living room is a picture of Sir Joseph Jekyl, a major supporter of General James Oglethorpe's expeditions into Georgia, and the individual after whom Jekyll Island was named. Following his death in 1922, Indian Mound was purchased by Helen Hartley Jenkins, one of only 32 women who were members of the Jekyll Island Club.

I often pass other cottages, and though I may not enter, I still am entranced by their lingering vigor. At Jay Gould's home, cement lions still guard the entrance. And nearby is where it all began, the DuBignon Cottage, former home of John Eugene DuBignon, who had interested the wealthy businessmen in 1886 into buying the island as a hunting retreat. This simple farmhouse, known as "the Superintendent's Cottage," held the distinction of being the home of a young Swiss immigrant E. G. Brob, who for 42 years served as the resident manager of the Jekyll Island Club. Every time I visit the island, I look for changes. I search among the remains of the dust-covered streets for unsuspecting ghosts hidden among the ruins. At the least, these are reminders that “even the rich” rot in tombs buried six feet below ground level.

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My favorite of all the millionaires is financier J. P. Morgan. It is somewhat ironic that today this rather obese man of questionable athletic ability has his name attached to the J. P. Morgan Indoor Tennis Center, located in the center of the millionaires' homes. Any previous attempt to document his athletic prowess deals only with his ability to jump in one bed and out the other without being caught. He was noted as a womanizer whose escapades bordered on the incredulous.

According to his biographer, Stanley Jackson, J. Pierpont Morgan was a "businessman of the first order. He was a beefy thick-necked financial bully, drunk with wealth and power, who bawls his orders to stock markets, directors, courts, governments and nations."

Behind this facade of success was a man of immense financial talent, a hard drinking extrovert with a taste for bawdy stories, a man whose contributions to the Catholic church were of such magnitude that the "Pope described him as a good man." A financial wizard, who hobnobbed with William Rockefeller, Joseph Choate, and Jack Morgan, he was one of the founders of the Jeykll Island Club.

A historical sign beside the Jekyll Island Club Wharf extends the legend of Morgan:

"Here anchored the most luxurious pleasure craft in the world during the existence of the Jekyll Island Club, 1886-1942. No other yacht was comparable to John Pierpont Morgan's several Corsairs. Corsair II, to large to dock, anchored in the channel. Morgan was escorted ashore by a flotilla of small craft, after a cannon had sounded off his arrival in these waters. Corsair II was 304 feet overall, speed 19 knots, and tonnage 1,600. Morgan, when asked how much it cost, made this classic remark: "If you have to consider the cost you have no business with a yacht." Other palatial yachts owned by Jekyll Island Club members were: Pierre Lorillard's Carmen, James Stillman's Wanda, Astors' Nourmahal, Vanderbilt's Valiant, H. Manville's Hi Esmaro, Pulitzer's Liberty, George F. Baker's Viking, E.T. Stotesbury's Castle, Crane's Illyria, Theodore N. Vail's Speedwell and Northwind, Commodore Frederick Bourne's Marjorie, Goulds' Hildegards, Saono, and Ketchum. Edwin Gould built a private dock in front of his cottage, Chichota. Andrew Carnegie, whose family owned Cumberland Island, visited Jekyll on yachts Skibo and Missoe."

J. P. Morgan and Cornelius Vanderbilt were among the first 19th century American industrialists to use yachts as status symbols. Corsair III was Morgan's proudest possession. With it his statue had reaced its peak. It was the third in a series of yachts that boasted a proud history of luxurious living. Corsair III was 302 feet long and manned by a crew of 69. She was used in home waters in the northeast for lavish parties and secret business meetings. Regularly, she sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to be joined by the banker later for Mediterranean cruises. When she came to Jeykll, the horn blew from the moment she hit the bay until she parked. Everyone knew when she arrived.

Of special interest to me was a one line quote describing the scene of Morgan's annual arrival at Jekyll: "Morgan was escorted ashore by a flotilla of small craft, after a cannon had sounded off his arrival in these waters."

Several years ago, during a previous trip to Jekyll, I visited the home of Joseph Pulitzer. Pulitzer, owner of newspapers in New York and St. Louis, continues to demand respect for his contributions to the field of journalism. The Pulitzer Prize was established as part of his will in 1918. For journalistic achievement it demands the upmost respect among those known to covet the sounds of words on paper. Pulitzer's home is directly across the bay from the wharf, easily within sounding range of boats that pass. On that particular visit, the tour guide told us that Pulitzer had one pet peeve; "He hated the boisterous noise of the boats passing in front of his house and he reportedly offered the sea captains money not to blow their horns."

I can conjure in my mind the scene now. It's early February on Jekyll Island. Pulitizer has been relaxing. Smoking a pipe, or sipping tea, or talking to his wife or mistress, or waiting for supper, or watching the sunset, or reading the sports section of the New York World, when he is startled from his noiseless paradise by a bombardment of sound stretching across the universe.

First, a canon's flare in the sky. Maybe he thought Jekyll Island was being attacked by pirates, or a flotilla from Spain lost for a generation has come ashore, or maybe the Germans had decided to start World War I early. Whatever the case, there was the explosion; a sound of immense magnitude sending ripplings of movement through the base of the earth. Moments later he heard a faint sound of music, maybe of a lone trumpet, or a whisper of march music stirring through the pines.

Then, the horn again, the shaking of the ground. A chorus of trumpets growing louder, and their was a Sousa March, and then, straining his eyes in the direction of the commotion, he could see them: the flotilla of ships, the bands, the shouting flag bearers, ladies in corsets whistling lustful noises, engines coughing, captains ranting and raving, and there - perched on the highest point of the Corsair III, was "J. Pierpoint Morgan," waving, smoking a big cigar, snorting and waving his hat in a political fashion of the highest order. "The King of Finance" had arrived!

Across the street I can see Pulitzer stuffing his ears with cotton. No wonder he tried to pay the captains to lay off the horn, to blow softer, or better yet, not to blow at all. Standing in Pulitzer's living room years ago, looking toward the wharf, I thought for a moment I heard a "whisper of trumpets." But, I passed it off as a passing dream. Or, maybe it was part of an eternal nightmare that existed in the ether surrounding that particular spot in the universe.

E-mail Dan Kenneth Phillips


Whenever I visit Jekyll Island, I always take an afternoon and travel to St. Simons Island. I like to sit on a bench overlooking the ocean near the town section of St. Simon's and watch people walk along the beach, or fish from the pier.

In the background is a small white fence surrounding a lighthouse. A bay of antennas peer from the peak of the lighthouse. This lighthouse was the source of a historically novel, The Lighthouse, written by Eugenia Price, a novelist who lives on St. Simons.

Another of her novels - The Beloved Invader - the story of Anson Dodge, brought me to this site over two decades ago. I remember the day well. It was cold, and windy, and late December. The wind strongly suggested the struggle of Anson Dodge to rebuild Christ Church after the Civil War. I remember standing by Anson Dodge’s grave. Someone had placed a fresh red rose on the grave of Anna, his second wife.

Not far from Christ Church is the Wesley Oak where John Wesley once preached. And a couple of miles north is a historical marker noting the site of Charles Wesley's first sermon. Charles Wesley had his difficulties while on St. Simon's Island. While his brother was involved in rewarding spiritual days and romantic adventures in Savannah, Charles was the ruling spiritual leader on St. Simons. Unfortunately, he got entangled in the affairs of James Oglethorpe, the leader of the Georgia colony. From dubious sources he erroneously concluded that Oglethorpe was a lecturous leader involved in numerous adulterous affairs.

Charles, not one to err on the side of human reason, thought it was his spiritual duty to confront the less righteous with paternal advice to renounce their sins and return to the fold. This methodology often caused him much trouble. His most notable error involved the arrest of the only doctor on the island, Dr. Hawkins, for firing a gun during his Sunday sermon. The arrest resulted in the good doctor being placed in jail. Soon, one of his patients had a miscarriage and Charles was blaimed as the perpetuator of this dastardly deed and deemed a murderer by some. Things continued downward from there. Oglethorpe, tired of his confrontational style, accused him with a lack of discretion; and despite John's intercession, Charles soon abandoned his missionary sojourn in Georgia and returned to England.

Another of my favorite duties while on St. Simons is to eat at the Crab Trap. It is an excellent restaurant. During my last trip I was having difficulty finding it, so I stopped at the Texaco station near the pier to check directions. The cashier, in his mid-twenties, was going through a complicated business deal with two female college students who were buying bikinis. For some reason he seemed uninterested in my arrival.

"That doesn't look like its big enough to cover anything," he said to one of the young ladies.

"That's what I need," she said with a wink.

"Have you tried it on?" he asked. "Maybe you should take it in the backroom."

Realizing that this conversation could take all day, I interrupted impatiently.

"Is this the right road to the Crab Trap?"

"Yeah," he said. "A half mile up the street on the left."

"Is the food as good as it use to be?" I questioned.

"Sure is. Been in business ten years. The best!"

I rushed to the car chuckling to myself and wondering what that tiny postage stamp of a bikini really covered.

The Crab Trap is located at 1209 Ocean Boulevard on St. Simon's Island, Georgia. When we arrived at five o'clock in the afternoon, the parking lot was almost full. A common thread was discovered in the parking arena. The cars were expensive, and each of them had license plates with some variation of the word Dog on them: (No doubt in deference to the Georgia Bulldogs from Athens, Georgia) GO DOGS. LUVEMDAWGS, DAWGLVR, and DOGS DOGS. One Mercedes 350SL had a broken window, but a sign on the car read, "DOGS DOGS."

I ordered the Crabber's Delight. It was one of their specialties. A seafood platter with battered french fries, hush puppies, and cole slaw cost $11.45. Their broiled rock shrimp was $11.45, and fried shrimp was $9.95. We were hungry. We ordered fast, then looked at an old fish net tacked up in the corner against the wall.

When we finished eating, we got in a family argument over T-shirts and tips. My brother-in-law Alan, would not let his new wife leave a tip. "I'm not about to let you leave a five dollar tip for that waitress. She's just a college student like you. Just from us she is making more than 20 dollars an hour. More than most college students I know," he said in rather convincing style.

"Maybe I should be a waitress instead of a college student," said his new wife coldly. It was a futile battle. Intense! Words wobblied angrily across the table until there was an explosion of angry silence.

About that time, my 13- year- old daughter Melinda entered the fray. "I want a Crab Trap T-shirt," she said.

Such statements always drive me up the wall. "We already have enough T-shirts to plaster the entire city of Atlanta," I said with authority. With a presence of mind of a broadminded dictator I added, "No one in their right mind would buy a Crab Trap T-shirt." Argument over!

We stayed two more days on Jekyll Island. We watched the Jekyll Island Club being remodeled, marveled at the fresh paint on some of the old mansions, walked along the beach at sunset, ate at Blackbeard's Seafood Restaurant, listened to the distant honks of passing tugs, walked to the edge of the T shaped pier on the northern edge of the island,watched anxious fishermen as they tugged at their lines, followed the footprints of landbound seagulls, and looked through the Tiffany window at the small chapel on the island.

We swam on oversized floats, playfully fought in the motel pool, practiced back flips, laughed, dunked each other, and played underwater tag. Or, we walked along the sandy beach. One day we watched a woman in a black bathing suit bury her husband in sand. She placed a blue towel over his head. Sand covered the rest of his body. She patted his sand covered tummy. Water was splashing on the sand near his feet. If it had not been for his oink like noises, I would have assumed he was dead or wishing for a speedy death. Two large ships watched from a distance. That night there was a full eclipse of the moon. It was a memorable evening. Life began to take shape again. Time to return to the real world.

As the week neared an end, we packed our bags and set out for one last stop: SAVANNAH. We would only be there part of a day, but it would be a happy conclusion to a relaxing week. After breakfast at the Huddle House, we drove across the causeway, that no longer had a Jekyll Island Banner welcoming us, and drove north.

Send any comments about Jekyll Island via E-mail Dan Kenneth Phillips

To Chapter 9: A Writer and a Preacher - Savannah, Ga.

How To Develop A Spiritual Journal Process of Spiritual Growth Sitemap of Dan Phillips Works Thoughts In Solitude With Merton Thomas Merton Retreats Spiritual Direction Workshops Thomas Merton - Monk and Poet A Pilgrimage to the Abbey of Gethsemani A Pilgrimage to the Abbey of Gethsemani How To Develop A Spiritual Journal Process of Spiritual Growth Sitemap Spiritual Direction Workshops Merton Retreats More Thoughts with Merton in Solitude

My Great Grandfather Date: Sat, 16 Sep 2000 09:07:32 -0700

From: "Susan Morris"

I came upon "Hermit of the Essex Coast" early this morning. This is fantastic compilation of information on the "Big Guys" of Jekyll Island. But, what about the other people on the island? Is there information on them? I have a big interest in Jekyll Island. My Great Grandfather, George Morris worked on the island for many years. I have been told by an old family member that he was a caretaker on the island. I have been tracing him for years now. After he served 4 years as a Confederate Artillaryman protecting Charleston, SC, he moved to Jekyll Island. He went through the Spanish American War there as well. I have located his grave in Brunswick, GA (deceased 1920) and I have a picture of him. I would like to know if there is an archive collection of photos and information about the other people who worked and lived on the island, too. Can you be of HELP sir? From the Low Country,

Respectfully, John L. Morris jsmorris4@home.com

(843)766-6581 (home)

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Dan K. Phillips
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Phone: 615-790-7129

Dan K. Phillips, writer of this Savannah, Georgia story, is the author of the internet travel book FOUR CORNERS - A LITERARY EXCURSION ACROSS AMERICA and is the editor of the monthly travel e-zine The Web Surfer Travel Journal. He also writes extensively on the works of the monk and poet, Thomas Merton. Please check all of these sites. THANKS! To E-Mail him click here!


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