Sunday Sauce Recipes
Meatballs
This is one of those every-Italian-family-has-its-own recipes. The triumvirate – beef, veal and pork, along with stale bread dipped in milk, are the keys.
1/3 (one-third) lb ground sirloin
1/3 (one-third) lb ground veal
1/3 (one-third) lb ground pork
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 thick slices Italian bread (day-old), crusts removed, torn into small pieces
1/3 (one-third) c milk
1/3 (one-third) c grated pecorino romano cheese
1 handful fresh Italian parsley, chopped
1 egg, lightly beaten
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
¼ (one-quarter) c extra-virgin olive oil
4 cups basic red sauce
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Soak the bread pieces in milk for 5 minutes. In a large mixing bowl, gently combine (by hand) all the ingredients. Do not overwork, the flavors will blend themselves. Based on your personal preference, shape into spheres as small as golf balls or as large as baseballs. Arrange on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil. Bake in the oven for anywhere from 20 to 30 minutes, depending on size. In a large, high-sided sauté pan, heat the olive oil over medium-high flame. Carefully add the baked meatballs and brown on all sides as quickly as possible. Add the red sauce to the pan, gently stir to coat the meatballs, reduce heat a bit and simmer for 10-15 minutes, stirring gently from time to time. Serve with additional grated cheese.
Baked Shrimp with Red Sauce, Feta and Orzo
1 ½ (one and a half) lbs large shrimp, shelled and deveined
1 pound orzo
2 c basic red sauce
½ c kalamata olives, pitted and chopped
1 lb, patted dry and crumbled
1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Cook orzo in a pot of boiling salted water until al dente. Reserve one cup of the cooking water. Meanwhile, in a large, high-sided sauté pan, heat the sauce over medium-high heat. Stir in the shrimp and cook for 2 minutes, until just cooked through. Drain the orzo. In a large mixing bowl, toss the orzo, olives, oil, shrimp with sauce, and a cup of the pasta water. Spread half of the orzo/shrimp mixture evenly across a glass baking dish bottom. Sprinkle with half the feta. Repeat, creating another layer. Bake for 10-15 minutes, until cheese is slightly melted.
Easy Eggplant Parmigiana
2 good-sized eggplants, cut into ½-inch-thick (half) disks
Vegetable oil, for frying
Extra virgin olive oil, for frying
Flour
4 eggs, beaten
Breadcrumbs (preferably panko)
2 balls whole milk mozzarella (approximately 1 lb)
Basic red sauce
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Fill a high-sided pan with enough oil to cover a depth of ½ (half) inch. Use mostly vegetable oil, but include a bit of extra virgin olive oil for flavor. Heat until very hot, but not smoking. Meanwhile, arrange eggplant pieces on a large tray covered with paper towels, sprinkle with kosher salt, cover with more paper towels and weigh down with heave pan or tray. This will drain some moisture out of the eggplant. Allow to sit like this for 20 minutes, then wipe clean and dry. Arrange three bowls side by side by side – flour, egg, breadcrumbs, from left to right. When you think the oil is ready for frying, test by dropping some breadcrumbs in. If they begin to bubble immediately, you’re ready to fry. Coat eggplant pieces in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs and fry till golden brown on both sides. (You’ll need to turn them once to cook evenly.) Remove to a tray lined with paper towels to drain excess oil. Rub a large baking dish with a paper towel moistened by olive oil to coat. Arrange a single layer of the fried eggplant pieces to cover the bottom of the baking dish. Ladle and spread enough red sauce to generously cover the eggplant. Top each piece with generous pieces of mozzarella. Place in the oven for 10-15 minutes, making sure the sauce and cheese don’t burn. Remove and serve with rigatoni coated with the sauce you’ve used.
Sky High
Climbing the
Grand Teton
By Joel Zuckerman
My first exposure to Jackson, Wyoming, came nearly 30 years ago. Three high school buddies and I drove, relay style, non stop from New England in the dead of winter on soulless Route 80, careening cross-continent, dodging ice storms, whiteouts and big rigs in somebody’s AMC rattletrap, taking 10-minute gas-and-rest stops only when needed. Two days going (including an overnight breakdown in Des Moines) five days in town, two days back. Sounds crazy, huh?
I’ve been back to Jackson several times since, most notably, a yearlong hiatus post-college, and have always relished the unique Old West ambience, the incredible open spaces, proximity to some of our most precious national parks, the thriving wildlife, forests, rivers and soaring grandeur of the mountains. But I never thought any subsequent visit would be as risky or pulse pounding as the first. Turns out I was dead wrong.
I’ve read or been told that normal families go on vacation to the beach. Or on a cruise. Or go to a lake, opt for a little camping in the woods, explore a new city, or visit grandma. It’s only the oddballs that stuff a pack, tighten the laces on gummy-soled climbing shoes, make sure their headlamps (no joke) are working, learn to tie complicated knots that would mystify a hangman, lock a carabiner or two, sling a rope over their shoulders and head up. And up. And up, up, up.
A reasonably comprehensive vocabulary is a prerequisite for any writer, but until this most recent family foray to Jackson words like “rappel,” “belay,” “carabiner,” “bowline on a bight” and “wag bag” weren’t part of my lexicon. Of course the alpinists among this readership might recognize the first four as essential elements of mountaineering. The last is a newfangled, portable commode unit, a hard-to-fathom, high-tech solution to the “leave no trace” concept that is thankfully now the standard in pristine natural environments, though both space constraints and delicacy prohibit more detailed information. Suffice it to say that one hasn’t experienced all that life has to offer until you’ve switched on your headlamp in the pre-dawn blackness, stumbled to an elevated outhouse in 40-mile-per-hour gusts, and then read the fine print instructions while trying to make friends with your wag bag.
This all-alpine crash course was administered by the legendary Exum Mountain Guides of Wyoming, who led our family expedition up one of the world’s most iconic mountain peaks - the Grand Teton. At a shade below 14,000 feet, it’s not like the Grand Teton is the highest peak in the nation, far from it. By contrast, neighboring Colorado has 55 peaks that are 14,000 feet or higher. But there are few mountains as recognizable, majestic or beautiful as the Grand, which lords imperiously over the verdant valley floor of Grand Teton National Park, some 60 miles south of our nation’s original and arguably most beautiful national park - Yellowstone.
There are certain qualifications to be met before one ascends to the summit. Neophytes (like us) must go through two days of intensive training, including rope tying, knot knowledge, boulder hopping, scrambling, vertical ascents, climbing techniques and, most memorably, rappelling, which is the French translation of the phrase “scream in terror.” Actually, to rappel a cliff means to gingerly walk backwards down the face, secured by rope and harness, until the cliff face becomes purely vertical, and the climber goes into a controlled descent via the rope line. It’s like being on an elevator, except instead of pushing a button and listening to Muzak, you hang for dear life onto the elevator cable.
Climbing the Grand is a 33-hour thrill ride that requires equal amounts motivation, dedication and perspiration. It’s a seven-plus-mile hike from valley floor to base camp, featuring dazzling wildflowers, gurgling streams, ice-cold waterfalls, expansive snowfields, endless fields of scree and a hundred million tons of boulders that must be scrambled over.
Bedtime comes early at base camp—basically a windblown, canvas yurt the size of a large dining room, strewn with sleeping bags, that climbers share with as many as 15 other like-minded enthusiasts. Slumber hour is suggested for about 8:30 p.m., despite the fact that the sky is bright as high noon at nearly 12,000 feet, and the shadows of the Tetons are just beginning to creep across the valley floor so far below.
Ascent day begins with a 3:15 a.m. wakeup call, water is boiled, coffee and instant oatmeal force-fed, and the summit push begins around 4, headlamps illuminated on helmets. If all goes well, the climbing parties reach the pinnacle by mid morning, the achingly beautiful 360-degree views are enjoyed, the commemorative photos taken and, 20-odd-minutes later, the descent commences before the inevitable afternoon thunderstorms begin to form.
While not for the faint of heart, this type of climbing is not “hang by the fingernails”, either. Teton rock is mostly solid, with reachable, generous footholds and handholds. Make no mistake - danger lurks off every precipice. Lean the wrong way, get caught on an exposed precipice during a sudden wind gust, lose your footing at an inopportune moment, and you might as well yell “Geronimo.” But climbers are roped tightly, there are checks and balances in place, the highly skilled and experienced Exum Guides are supermen (and women) - part nurse, cheerleader, psychologist, meteorologist and confidant, with the endurance, strength and lung capacity that flatlanders can only envy.
The journey to the summit, the accomplishment of such, is unforgettable, an achievement to savor. I’m thrilled we did it. And equally thrilled we don’t have to do it again.
Book Review
O. Kay Jackson – Then They All Got Naked
This one’s not for the kids! While the subject matter represents a fascinating peek into a world about which much is speculated but little is widely known, it is definitely not family-friendly.
O. Kay Jackson, well-known Savannah author and long-time contributing writer to The Skinnie, has launched her latest book, “Then They All Got Naked,” a view (from the coat room) of what goes on in a swing club.
But unlike “Waking Up Men,” O. Kay’s earlier book about Savannah’s maritime community, where she once worked as a pilots and tugboats dispatcher, her new could just as easily come in an anonymous brown wrapper as its commercially-available hot pink version.
The author explains the raciness of her latest project: “There’s no way it could not be. Because it’s all about the activities that take place inside a long-established swing club where members come to socialize and then fool around, mainly with people other than their partners.” Okay, O. Kay, I guess that sums it up pretty well.
As she did when she took us for a close-up and personal view of life on the Savannah waterfront, O. Kay peeks behind the faux-satin curtains Pennsylvania’s Poconos with an unblinking eye. She has once again gone inside a world most of us know nothing about where she uses humor to illustrate a very real slice of shockingly real life.
In 2005, O. Kay moved north for a time to be closer to the New York publishing markets and found herself living, literally, in the back yard of a “Lifestyle” swing club, a family business, of sorts. Intrigued by the hotbed of adult adventures just outside her window, she took a job inside the club to document what she observed as a fully-dressed employee in a clothing-optional environment.
While the setting of her current book isn’t local, you might be surprised to learn that there are many such clubs in Georgia, including some in this area, according to the author. She’s done her research. “Swingers are primarily married white folks from the upper-to-middle socio-economic strata, and chances are decent that you know someone in ‘The Lifestyle,’ even if you have no idea they are,” O. Kay explains. “In my book I write that ‘estimates of the number of people in the swinging lifestyle swing as wildly as swingers do, ranging from one-and-a-half million to upwards of four million in the United States alone.’ But just the other day I heard Dr. Phil give the number at possibly eight million. The numbers of people involved are increasing very rapidly, mainly because of the ease of connections made through the Internet.”
This book is clearly not for everybody, and we wouldn’t mention it without including a suggestion for caution, particularly if you’re easily offended by open discussions of sex. It does, however, take readers behind otherwise very tightly closed doors, and provides insight into motivations that drive people to behave in ways that are widely labeled “taboo.”
Copies of the book are now available downtown at E. Shaver Booksellers or through the author’s website, www.okayjackson.com.
The Story of Sandfly
By Charles Hendrix
When Union general, William Tecumseh Sherman, took Savannah in December 1864, he conducted interviews with local black to determine their support for the Union and their ability to sustain themselves if freed from slavery. Sixty-seven-year-old local minister Garrison Frazier was selected to speak for those present. When asked if he thought blacks should live among whites or by themselves, he replied, “I would prefer to live by ourselves, for there is a prejudice against us in the South that will take years to get over.”
Ex-slaves from plantations settled together in areas like Sandfly, forming closely-knit, supportive networks of families. It was these former slaves who gave the community its colorful name. According to some, slave boatmen were often at the mercy of pesky gnats in the marshes and used to sing “Sandfly Bite Me” when they rowed over from Skidaway. After the Civil War, the plantations’ former slaves received land grants in the area and built their own modest homes and small businesses.
Plantation work experience formed the foundation of African-American trade skills, such as carpentry and masonry, so the settlement progressed without help from outside builders and planners. In Sandfly, tradesmen passed their skills from one generation to another via methods like community house-raisings and running family businesses. Nearly every Saturday found the community raising a new home. The work depended upon a “skill pool,” from which residents drew on the specialties of individuals. Brick masons, plumbers, carpenters, and electricians all gave their talents freely to the building of the community.
Building skills formed the basis for many slave descendants’ livelihoods, and Sandfly tradesmen found jobs constructing Savannah area roads and buildings. This connection to the land generated a strong attachment to the area. Even today, this devotion remains strong in Sandfly, where the residents recently challenged the establishment of a Wal-Mart superstore.
Unlike downtown Savannah and suburban developments such as Ardsley Park, Sandfly was not a thoroughly planned community. The settlement evolved without the direct involvement of a professional designer, planner or engineer. The slave descendents who moved to the area, mostly from nearby Wormsloe Plantation, had free reign to organize their environment, placing churches at focal points of the landscape.
Sandfly is home to several African-American churches and cemeteries, including the Union Baptist Church, which organized during Reconstruction in the 1800’s. The most-attended church, Speedwell United Methodist, is situated at the intersection of Montgomery Crossroads and Skidaway Road, the geographic heart of Sandfly. Founded and originally built in 1884, Speedwell’s sanctuary was rebuilt twice as a result of damaging fires, first in 1934 and again in 1997. Located just across the street on the southwest corner of this intersection is the Southside Worship Center. Macedonia Baptist Church was erected in 1877, just down Montgomery Crossroads from Speedwell. The other major crossroads of Sandfly is the intersection of Norwood Avenue, Ferguson Avenue, and Skidaway Road. Isle of Hope Union Missionary Baptist Church and Union Skidaway Baptist Church are situated along these roadways in close proximity to their intersection.
The community’s cemeteries have rich histories as well. Old Church Cemetery on Skidaway Road and Eugenia Cemetery on Montgomery Crossroads serve as burial grounds for these churches. Old Church Cemetery traces its origin to 1863 and is named in honor of a Catholic Church that once stood on the site. Like Old Church Cemetery, Eugenia is still an active burial ground for the community. Its headstones date as far back as 1828, and the cemetery was established as a final resting place for slaves and their descendents.
After 1870, Sandfly’s Central Avenue became a principal route for streetcars, which connected Isle of Hope to Savannah during the Reconstruction era. Sandfly served as the suburban hub for the streetcar system, linking Vernonburg, Beaulieu, Montgomery, Isle of Hope, and Thunderbolt to downtown. In the early 20th century, both Norwood Avenue and the causeway connecting Isle of Hope and Sandfly were lined with palm trees. The causeway and other Sandfly roads were also used in the 1908 American Grand Prize Automobile Race.
Sandfly has continued as a community where African-Americans own and shape property. Ownership has been passed down through families for generations, creating a strong sense of connection with the place. Like many small, historical communities of African-Americans, Sandfly is struggling to preserve its heritage and lifestyle in the face of rapid commercial development. In recent years, burgeoning enterprises and road-widening projects, with their attendant home condemnations and resident displacement, have begun to fragment and erode the edges of this quaint residential community.
A 26-page plan adopted by the Georgia Conservancy in 2004 addresses the historical significance and need to preserve the character and cohesiveness of the Sandfly community. The primary concern that surfaced during the workshops that led to the creation of this comprehensive document was maintaining the community’s peaceful, residential character, and preserving its family- and church-oriented heritage, natural surroundings, and unique sense of place. This study involved city and community leaders, as well as industry professionals and volunteers from the Savannah College of Art and Design, who established recommendations for maintaining the Sandfly way of life. Some of the commendable achievements that sprung from this exercise are the establishment of the Sandfly Community Betterment Association, the application process for listing the community on the National Register of Historic Places, and rezoning a significant portion of the community to reflect current and desired future land use.
Party Animals
By Charles Hendrix
The Mascots are important symbols for groups, clubs and teams. They become the physical identity of an organization. Two of our most iconic American symbols are the elephant and the donkey, representing the Republican and Democratic parties, respectively.
But why these two continentally-divided beasts of burden as political animals? We dug through the dusty archives in the back of the library - okay, we Googled it for starters - and found the answer.
As a party symbol, the donkey is the older the two, going back to 1828 and the campaign of Andrew Jackson. Jackson, a populist who in that year ran for office with the slogan, "Let the people rule," was labeled a "jackass" by his political opponents. There being no such thing as bad press, Jackson co-opted the strategy and used the donkey on his election posters. Renowned for his stubbornness, the association of man and animal stuck throughout his presidency and beyond - in 1837 political cartoonists took him to task as still trying to lead his party though retired and he was represented in newspapers and illustrations as struggling to wrangle an ass.
Technically, then, the Democrats didn't choose a donkey; a donkey was thrust upon them. Nor, for that matter, did the Republicans choose an elephant. Political cartoonists were again behind the birth of this symbol as early as 1860, but it was one artist in particular who made both the images truly the respective parties' enduring mascots.
Thomas Nast came to America in 1840 as a six-year-old boy, and was sufficiently unimpressed with what he saw over the next 30 years, so he devoted his life to making wisecracks about it with pen and ink. The donkey reemerged in his cartoons in 1870 as the representative of an anti-war faction, stubbornly kicking Abraham Lincoln's late and literally lionized Secretary of War, Edwin M. Stanton. The image resonated, and the donkey reappeared in later works as associated with, but not yet a symbol of, the Democratic Party.
On November 7, 1874, however, Nast gave the future Democrat donkey a recognizable and recurring protagonist.
Earlier that year, the New York Herald raised a cry of Caesar-ism against Ulysses S. Grant and the possibliity of his winning a third presidential term. The issue quickly became a hot button for the Democratic Party. Nast knew good material when he saw it. The cartoon of the 7th, published in Harper's Weekly and titled "The Third Term Panic," showed a donkey wearing a lion's skin in order to freak out the other animals running amok in Central Park. Donkey = The Herald, skin = Caesar-ism, other animals = the people. One of the animals was an elephant, who specifically stood in for the Republican vote, as it was persuadable Republicans that the Democrats were hoping to scare over to their side. Note that the donkey is still not the Democratic Party symbol in that cartoon; there's a fox playing that role, sitting back from the brink of chaos into which the elephant seems ready to plunge.
Apparently the strategy worked. The Republicans lost the House of Representative that November and, on the 21st, Nast delivered the second part of his one-two punch. He portrayed an elephant caught in a trap set by a donkey, representing the success of the Herald's "deception." Pictures and parties became more closely connected in the public eye, but were not yet one and the same.
Throughout the 1870’s, the Democrats and Republicans appeared in cartoons variously as lions, bears, tigers, foxes, fish, lambs, sheep, roosters, bulls, and so on. Elephants were sometimes the Republican voters, sometimes the entire American public. It wasn't until the Electoral College controversy of 1877 that the elephant fully belonged to the Republican Party. When the Electoral Commission declared Rutherford B. Hayes, a Republican, President, Nast took the qualifying "vote" away from his elephant's label and made it the last animal he'd use to represent the party.
In the 1880 election, other cartoonists picked it up, and took the donkey, with its Jacksonian pedigree and close associations through Nast's work, for the more or less permanent symbol of the Democratic Party.
Though the elephant is now in fact the official mascot of the Republican Party, the Democrats have yet to formally adopt the donkey.
By Kevin Smith
Acquaintances commonly ask me how I came to appreciate higher-end wines. Rarely can we remember the date, time, place and occasion for such a mundane event, but I do. It was May 12, 1976, at Joe Wheeler Lodge in northwest Alabama. My bride and I (who I affectionately call “the demon”) were just married by Judge Bobby Lee Day in Morgan County, Alabama. Judge Day, who was umpiring a Little League double-header, between games threw his chamber robe over a chest protector and shin guards, and hitched us in an outdoor chapel at Point Mallard Park. On the way to the lodge for our first of many days of bliss, we downed a 1.5-liter bottle of Riunite white wine.
Upon arrival and check-in at Joe Wheeler, the desk clerk shoved several pieces of paper in front of me to sign. Pleading insanity - I’d just been married - I begged off filling out the paperwork until the next morning.
That night, my bride of 29 years-11 months-and-one-day-now, gave me a wedding gift that would change my palate and wallet forever. The gift was a 1969 bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. After chilling the bottle in that quintessential square hotel ice bucket, we toasted the future and settled in for the evening. The next morning, I walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the Tennessee River and overnight the entire river had turned from a dark green to grocery-sack brown.
Needing to complete the paperwork at check-in from the night before, I inquired at the desk about the color of the river. The confused clerk looked at me and said “Sir, we had a tornado come down through the slough last night!”
I smiled at the clerk and said, “That was no tornado, it was me in room 317!”
Actually, it was the Dom Perignon that created an uninterrupted night’s sleep. A bottle of wine so good that it could mask the roar of an Alabama twister. From that night on, I have been a slave to higher-end wines, and especially champagnes. But what is Champagne?
Basically, you utilize three grapes, Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier (moon-yay) and Chardonnay. The first two are dark grapes, with Chardonnay being white. Most champagnes today are white and can be made from any combination of the three. The pulp from these grapes is gently pressed so as not to impart any color from the skins of the dark ones, yielding a white wine. Once the wines are assembled, the winemaker will decide what percentages should be blended before the bubbles are added by the methode champenoise.
Making champagne is a mix or alchemy, luck and magic. Bottles are filled with the blended still wine to the winemakers taste. Thick glass bottles are used to resist the strong pressures created in the process. A solution of sugar and yeast (liqueur de triage) is added, and the bottle is sealed with a strong cap. Then, you wait for the yeast to create more alcohol and carbon dioxide. Given that the gas cannot escape and is building up pressure, it will dissolve into the wine. This is how those beautiful tiny bubbles are created. Next, you patiently wait, sometimes five years or more, to allow the lees (dead yeast cells) to impart richness into the wine.
Over time, gradually turn and tap the bottle so that it winds up top-down with the dead yeast cells congregating in the neck. This is commonly referred to as remuage, or riddling. When the winemaker feels his masterpiece is ready, he dips the neck of the bottle in freezing brine that creates a frozen plug, encapsulating the dead yeast cells in the neck of the bottle. He then pops the cap and the frozen plug complete with lees becomes airborne. This is commonly referred to as degorgement.
Top the bottle off with a dosage of sweetish wine, seal with a cork, wire capsule and foil, and sell this concoction for anywhere from $25 to $500. But when it comes to sparkling wines, I think its all about what tastes good to you.
One of my favorite bottles comes from Albuquerque, New Mexico. The folks at the Gruet vineyards make several smashing bottles of bubbly for under $20 a pop. But legally, it can’t be called champagne, because it is not produced in the Champagne district of France. The French are pretty hard-nosed about this issue, and rightfully so.
Going up in scale, my second choice would be Drappier Carte D’Or. Planted by the Gallo Romans circa 1 AD, this offering is 90 percent Pinot Noir grown on a 99-acre estate. It is crisp and clean and pairs wonderfully with oysters or my favorite scrambled eggs. Drappier retails around $35 per bottle.
If I’m feeling frisky and in the mood to heckle fellow golfers from our deck on Marshwood #5, I have to pull out a bottle of Bollinger RD from the Reims district of France. While pricey at $200 a bottle, I think Madame Jacques Bollinger summed up what champagne is all about from her famous quote: “I drink it when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I’m not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise, I never touch the stuff unless I’m thirsty.”
Everybody Loves Cecil
A Smiling Force of Community Strength
By Charles Hendrix
Often the most influential people are the ones who go about their lives with the least fanfare. Cecil Abarr is the kind of guy whom everyone would like to be when they grow up (even if they’ve already grown up). Cecil isn’t necessarily the action hero who swoops in and saves the day in dramatic fashion. Nor is he the sports legend who threw the winning touchdown in overtime back in his heyday. He is simply the guy who gets the job done. Or jobs – plural – more appropriately. While offering an indelible smile to everyone he meets along the way. Simply put, everybody loves Cecil.
From small-town Iowa farm boy to president of The Branigar Organization and beyond, Mr. Abarr has a list of accomplishments and accolades that keeps growing even as he approaches his 80th year. He started out working full-time in addition to going to school when he was in eighth grade. Those long days spent doing the chores on his granddad’s farm are part of what molded Cecil into the man he is today. His grandfather was from the anything-worth-doing-is-worth-doing-right school of thought, and that axiom has stuck with him.
Cecil’s most esteemed role model would have to be his mother. The greatest gift she had to give was love, a gift that Cecil passes on freely to those in his world. Cecil’s mother was a woman who led by example. The children observed how hard their mother worked and how she cared for them as well as the community. And being the second oldest of seven children, Cecil always felt responsible for helping his mother with the other six kids. This devotion to caring for others has been a recurring theme throughout his life.
At 17, Cecil enlisted in the Army. Shortly thereafter, he and about 5,000 of his fellow freshly buzzed buddies departed on a three-day cruise to Okinawa, Japan. At that time, you could sign up for an 18-month hitch, a stretch long enough for Cecil to progress to the rank of sergeant. After the Army, it was on to Simpson College in Indianola, Iowa. The GI Bill allowed Cecil to serve his country while earning credit toward an undergraduate degree. During his 18 months of active duty, he earned 30 months of college time, so he studied straight through the summers and earned his degree in three years.
Cecil’s first job out of college was with a small carbon-paper manufacturer. He was fortunate to be riding this wave of popularity in one-use carbon paper, and the company rapidly grew from a small family-owned business to the largest carbon-paper manufacturer in the world. Cecil gained invaluable manufacturing experience and was exposed to all facets of business and management and the enterprise grew rapidly.
Massey-Ferguson opened up an administrative headquarters in Des Moines and Cecil decided to try his hand at the tractor business. His experience in manufacturing enabled him to change roles within the company rather freely, holding several positions until he became head of all treasury operations for North America.
Cecil’s next order of business was to hook up with the founders of Holiday Inn Hotels, Kemmons Wilson and Wallace Johnson. This was, however, not a foray into the hotel business but his first venture into real estate. It was a tough time for the real estate market and large companies were buying up smaller ones. One of those biggest enterprises was Union Camp, which had purchased Tecton, a homebuilding company and Branigar, a development company. Cecil was recruited by Union Camp in 1974 to work for Tecton, which was later merged with Branigar and operated under the Branigar name. He was named senior vice president in charge of administration for the combined company. There was tremendous subsequent upheaval within the organization and Cecil was charged with finishing up many Tecton projects around the country.
In 1978, the parent company decided to move Branigar’s headquarters to Savannah, and Cecil was part of that relocation. The company was focusing heavily on marketing The Landings at this time, and Cecil was to be part of a group taking photos around the marina to be used for advertising. He was introduced to a group of people that included a young lady named Lou who was the office manager at the Marshwood Club. The photographer staged some shots on a boat and then asked Cecil and Lou to stroll hand-in-hand on the pristine beach of Wassaw Island for a shoot. A year later, the lovely Lou would become Mrs. Cecil Abarr, and they have been married more than 25 years now.
As a newcomer to Savannah in the late 70’s, Cecil would quickly get to know the movers and shakers in this relatively close-knit Southern town. As is typical, there was some resistance to overcome as he weaved his way through the mazes of local commerce and culture. The locals weren’t exactly keen on the concept of a $3.5 million bridge to Skidaway Island to be built with tax dollars. But Cecil and his colleagues helped Savannahians to see the potential impact of Skidaway development, and lasting relationships were soon formed. Old Savannah eventually began to understand the potential talent pool and economic engine that Skidaway Island would provide to the community, and Cecil was part of that education process, largely by example. Today, nearly every charitable and nonprofit organization in Savannah relies on Skidaway Island residents for crucial human and financial capital.
Cecil’s own charitable work began with the Salvation Army and he has been on that board of directors for decades, holding the position of chairman a few years ago. After then-president Rich Burke left Branigar to pursue his own interests, Cecil was promoted to his post. Shortly thereafter, he was invited to join the board of Candler Hospital, serving on numerous committees and eventually becoming chairman of that board as well. Cecil retired from Branigar in 1994 to start his own firm and developed the Henderson Golf Community. Friends jokingly say he was retired for about 20 minutes.
In 1996, Cecil and the board of Candler Hospital began work with the board of St. Joseph’s Hospital to merge the two organizations into St. Joseph’s/Candler. Steering the companies through this complex merger was virtually a full-time job for more than a year, but in the end the transition was successful and saved the hospital some $14 million the first year. He stepped down from the board at the imposed age limit of 75.
In addition to running his own business, roughly three years ago Cecil became broker-in-charge for the real estate firm of Maloney, Mitchell and Denton, a commercial operation specializing in large tracts of land for residential developments. You might think that Cecil has remained so busy he has little time for more charitable work. But he staunchly believes that he should give back to society through both financial means and his work. He feels fortunate to have been blessed with the success and good health that allow him to serve the community that has given so much to him.
As a member of Wesley Monumental United Methodist Church, Cecil is heavily involved with the organization of the South Georgia Conference and the 40-some churches that comprise that body. He is and has been on the boards of several committees within the Methodist Church. Proof positive of the adage: “If you want something done, ask a busy person.”
Throughout his career, and now into his “retirement,” Cecil has served on the boards of numerous charitable and philanthropic organizations. He attributes his success at handling the pressure in both his volunteer and professional life to the ability to compartmentalize. He works on one project, one task at a time, rather than letting a wide variety of thoughts overwhelm him. He learned this strategy early when he started running and cycling. Fifty-odd years ago, a jogger on the roads of rural Iowa was not a very common sight. Cecil remembers folks peeking out of their windows as he ran by, while drivers stopped to ask if he needed a ride.
But his runs were his quiet time - time to order his thoughts and plan the next project. The same goes for cycling. Thirty-five miles every Saturday for years. And then there were the triathlons and half-marathons he used to run. He even has a marathon finish under his belt.
Cecil also stresses that he has never stopped taking classes to learn as many things as he can. He notes that when he used to interview someone for a job, if the person said he was done with school and never intended to go back, Cecil considered that a negative.
Cecil has obviously never stopped learning, loving and living for his country, his community and his Creator, as he describes it. With his dedicated wife by his side, he has chosen to spend his retirement years as he has spent the rest of his life, serving with humility and selflessness rarely witnessed anymore. He could be traveling and relaxing, enjoying the fruits of his labor, but this is the way he prefers. The world is a better place because of people like Cecil Abarr. Savannah should be proud to consider this Iowa farm boy as a de facto native son.
Gone to the Dawgs
Lauren Medinger
By Charles Hendrix
Heading off to college is a big transition for any graduating senior. Attending school miles away from the comforts of home (even with Mom and Dad’s VISA card) presents a new set of challenges for even the most self-disciplined teen. For a fortunate few, their athletic acumen also propels them into the ranks of Division I college sports.
Authenticating the “local kid makes good” axiom, Skidaway spirit sprite, Lauren Medinger, has joined the rarefied ranks of University of Georgia cheerleaders. And if you don’t think cheerleading is a sport, just ask this veteran of the Cheer Savannah All-Stars about her training and workout regimen. Practice is three days a week for at least two hours and she works out with a personal trainer two days a week. But Lauren is quick to point out that the university is committed to working with the student-athletes to provide scheduling assistance and tutoring to ensure academic success.
Lauren is a part of the 20 member all-girl “Black” cheerleading squad, as opposed to the co-ed “Red” squad composed of six to eight couples. The Black squad works all of the home football games.
Lauren describes the vibe on the field as an incredible rush. The energy from the crowd and the players is the inspiration for what she does on Saturday afternoons. When asked about the benefits of cheering for Georgia, Lauren is quick to point out that she has had the opportunity to meet a lot of new people, attend special appearances and be seen on national television, although she has never seen a replay of herself. Not to mention that her position in the squad’s formation puts her about two feet from the world-famous dog, Uga VI.
Tough to Bring Down
John Moesch
By Dean Moesch
When you first see Skidaway Island teen John Moesch, you may not imagine him to be a force to be reckoned with on the football field. But play 48 minutes against this senior from Savannah Country Day School and you’ll quickly rethink your first impression.
The 5’ 8,” 165-pound Moesch leads the Hornets on both sides of the ball, as they, at the time of this printing, sit 5-3 overall, and a perfect 4-0 in region play. Through eight games, Moesch leads the Coastal Empire in tackles from the safety position, and has run for more than 700 yards from his tailback spot in the Hornets backfield.
This three-sport athlete has accumulated an impressive array of awards during his four years at Country Day, but his proudest achievements have come off the field and in the classroom. Last week, Moesch was inducted into the National Honor Society, an elite group of students who excel in the areas of scholarship, service, leadership and character. It is routine to see his name consistently on the honor roll while dedicating himself to excellence in all his athletic pursuits.
Despite his lack of eye-popping physical size – Moesch is impressively fit and solidly built but measures small by typical major-college standards - his hard work and dedication have paid off as he has caught the eyes of coaches at the collegiate level. Washington and Lee, Tufts, Sewanee, Harvard, Bowdoin and Wesleyan have contacted the senior and expressed interested in him as either a football or baseball player at the next level, or both.
The Hornets know it is their last year with this talented athlete, but he’ll be missed for more than his touchdown production. Moesch is known throughout the Country Day community as a person of the high integrity with a kind heart. When a friend’s mother was asked about John she replied, “If the world was filled with more John Moeschs’, it would certainly be a better place.”
Moesch is a study in quiet determination. So it’s for certain that this special young man will continue his athletic career after graduation this spring. The college for which he elects to strap on his cleats will be very lucky to have him not only as a player, but as a solid campus citizen with a bright future.
Where There Was Smoke...
THERE'S PIGEON ISLAND
By Charles Hendrx
The coastal waterways of Georgia are dotted with tiny, uninhabited islands that pique the interest of boaters, fisherman and naturalists alike. By their geographical nature, these little hammocks, accessible only by boat, have undoubtedly been pit-stops for ne’er-do-wells and scofflaws looking for a place to lie low or set up moonshine stills over the years. In this day and age, most lay quietly embraced by the rivers and creeks that encircle them, playing host to the seasonal flora and fauna taking up residence, and inviting the occasional adventurer with a boat ashore for a respite from the humming of the outboard.
Gazing out over the marsh heading west on Diamond Causeway, Pigeon Island looms to your left just past the newly paved entrance to the public boat ramp. Less than one square mile in area, the island is at once familiar and foreign. So close in proximity but guarded like a castle by the moat of saltwater surrounding it, keeping her off-limits to those not nautically inclined.
In colonial times, the island was used by Capt. Noble Jones and his Northern Company of Marines to patrol the Skidaway Narrows searching for Spanish privateers approaching from Florida. Known today as the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway, the Inland Passage was a critical route to protect colonials from enemy advancement into early settlements. General Oglethorpe authorized construction of a watch house on Pigeon Island in 1740 to warn troops stationed at Jones’ Wormsloe Plantation of approaching invaders. Wormsloe was officially deeded to Jones by a King’s Grant dated 1756, although he had occupied the land since 1736. Pigeon Island was gifted to Jones in 1761.
Over the years, the island has seen several owners, held at times by individuals, a local family, and private interests seeking to develop the land for home sites. Today, Pigeon Island is once again part of Wormsloe Plantation. The 1997 purchase was part of Gov. Zell Miller’s Rivercare 2000 project benefiting riverfront land facilitating wildlife-management areas, parks, natural and historic landmarks, and greenways.
Thankful to have Pigeon Island back as a historically significant part of Wormsloe, the staff of the storied plantation is at once proud and reluctant. The island appears from a distance to be a lush natural landmark teeming with life. And it is. Unfortunately, further exploration tells a more sordid tale. The tree line just beyond the beach is littered with bottles and cans alongside remnants of campfires which are strictly prohibited. And the undergrowth bears the charred remains of the fire a few months back. It’s painfully evident to anyone who comes ashore why the Wormsloe crew doesn’t want to draw additional attention to Pigeon Island. The last major clean-up effort yielded six dumpster loads of refuse. And there is plenty more littering the island’s interior right now.
So if you decide to stop by Pigeon Island for a picnic or to birdwatch (we spotted a bald eagle on a recent visit) or simply to enjoy your own private beach for an afternoon, please clean up after yourself. And consider making a difference by taking a few other pieces of trash with you as well. Mother Nature and the animals and plants that live on the island will be very grateful.
Skidaway Institute of Oceanography Update
Fish Farm Can Feed Sushi Lovers
By Mike Sullivan
Sushi may be one of Japan’s most popular culinary-concept exports but, before too long, that California roll you dip into soy sauce may trace its roots to Skidaway Island. Scientists at the Skidaway Institute of Oceanography are developing an aquaculture system they hope will provide fish suitable for sushi and economic opportunity for South Georgia at the same time.
Professor Dick Lee has been raising black sea bass in a closed-cycle aquaculture system to develop a process that is commercially viable and environmentally friendly. “We are raising black sea bass,” says Lee, “as sushi chefs tell us this is a very tasty fish they really enjoy using to make sushi.”
Black sea bass is a relatively small saltwater fish, running approximately two pounds at market size. Typically, black sea bass in the wild take two years to grow to that weight but, in Lee’s system, the fish are ready for market in an average of 11 months. The key is the diet. Lee is feeding his black sea bass juvenile tilapia, a freshwater fish. “The tilapia makes an excellent, high-protein diet for the black sea bass, and they are thriving,” notes Lee.
Lee continues concerning the objectives of his work, “Ideally, we would like to be able to demonstrate this could become a money-making business for farmers in this region.” Aquaculture systems could provide alternative land use for farmers currently raising other crops.
A big issue with many aquaculture projects is their effect on the environment. Typically, in most aquaculture systems, some clean water comes into the process and some waste water is returned to the environment. The Skidaway project is a closed-cycle system that results in no discharge into the environment. The project team operates two separate systems, or cycles, in their greenhouses. On one side is the black sea bass, raised in saltwater tanks. On the other side is tilapia, in freshwater tanks and ponds. The juvenile tilapia are hand harvested to be served later to the black sea bass. In a typical fish-farm set-up, the fish are fed food pellets. Many of the pellets go uneaten. They sink to the bottom or float to the top, and generally foul the water. In the Skidaway system, the baby tilapia just swim around until some hungry sea bass sucks them down in one gulp. “No muss. No fuss. And much cleaner water,” says Lee’s assistant, Karrie Brinkley.
On both the saltwater and freshwater sides of the system, the researchers use algae and bacteria to cleanse the natural fish byproducts from the water. The water is pumped into a series of trays full of algal mats and bacteria. It takes roughly 45 minutes for it to flow downhill from one tray to the next, until the water at the bottom is relatively clean and then pumped back into the tanks. What looks like an unwanted mess to the casual observer is actually a great filter.
One more twist exists on the freshwater side of the system. It turns out that what is bad for fish water is great fertilizer for plants. So Lee and Brinkley also grow hydroponic vegetables in the freshwater trays. This serves a dual purpose. The vegetables help pull waste elements out of the water and use them as nutrients, while also providing a second tasty crop. Currently, Brinkley frequently puts her latest crop of cucumbers or lettuce out in the Skidaway Institute lunch room for her friends and co-workers to enjoy. But in a larger commercial system, the effect would be two distinct revenue-producing harvests for the farmer – fish and veggies. “The vegetables are a side benefit, but they could provide an additional revenue source for a farmer,” explains Lee.
Right now, Lee’s project is fairly small. He raises the fish in a handful of tanks enclosed in two greenhouses. However, he envisions a time when a South Georgia farmer may have dozens or hundreds of tanks and greenhouses and produce adult black sea bass on a commercial level. Last summer, Lee had some help designing such an enterprise. He had a group of interns from Clark-Atlanta University working with him for the summer. However, not all were science majors; some were business students. Their final project for the internship was to produce a business plan for a start-up fish farm using the Skidaway system.
One question that hasn’t been answered: “So how do these black sea bass taste?” Lee is currently setting up a taste test. He has been raising some black sea bass on the traditional food-pellet diet for comparison purposes. He would like to find some knowledgeable sushi fans and offer them some delicacies from black sea bass raised on both the food-pellet and the tilapia diets. Any volunteers? Contact the institute.
We’ll let you know how the “Sushi Challenge” turns out.
Skidaway Institute of Oceanography is a scientific research facility, a unit of the University System of Georgia, located at the north end of Skidaway Island. Mike Sullivan is the institute’s External Affairs Manager.
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