When I got married to my first husband (and only, so far), our first love nest was a fine mobile home in a south Georgia trailer park.
Here’s the best thing about living in a trailer park in South Georgia — 20 years later, you have GREAT stories!
Our trailer wasn’t a sweet as the above multi-level beauty. It was just your basic single-wide, not too different from the blue and white one on the top right.
But, you know, we were poor. We were young and had a baby, and we moved to Statesboro, Ga., so that I could work while he finished college at Georgia Southern University. As soon as he graduated, I was going to go back to college while he worked, so it was a decent plan.
The problem was we lived in this crappy little trailer park, which had dirt roads, and it was a good 15 miles out of Statesboro. There was no cable TV service that far out of town, and back then, satellite dishes were bigger than the average SUV and cost about $4,000. So they were reserved for the rich folk, like our neighbors/landlords (who lived in a double-wide, y’all!).
Luckily, they let us steal from their dish, but the only way to do that was to watch exactly what they were watching. That means, if they change the channel at the CLIMAX of the frickin’ MOVIE (they did that a lot), we didn’t get to see the end, either. And speaking of climax, our neighbor liked to watch the Spice channel late at night … and so did my husband. (Sigh.)
Mostly we watched the only antenna channel we could get, which was the local Fox affiliate. In the early 1990s, that meant watching a lot of “COPS,” and “Rescue 911.” (Hooray.)
One day, some new people moved into the park. They rented a big lot and brought in six very old rust-bucket single-wide trailers. They chopped off the sides and squished them together to make miss-matched double-wides. Classy! I heard the owner of the park didn’t know they’d do that and was trying like hell to get them out.
There were several people living in this compound (the Kennedys’ white-trash cousins, perhaps?), including some kids. There was an old lady and man, a younger lady and man, and some kids. There were probably more, but I don’t remember now.
We had to drive past the lot on the way out of the park, so we were very curious about the goings-on there. But eventually, they got settled and life went on.
One day, I came home from work and there were tons of police cars surrounding the lot. Local police, sheriff’s deputies, state police, the whole shebang. My husband — who didn’t have a job, ahem — was better able to glean the info from all the neighborhood gossip. It was the most exciting thing that happened to us!
Apparently, the old lady killed the old man and buried him in the yard! The police were digging up the ground and running dirt through sifters! She was having an affair with the younger man, and they needed to get rid of the geezer.
But wait, here’s the best part — how did the police find out? Younger man’s brother got pulled over for a DUI one night. He said to the cops, “If you don’t lock me up, I’ll tell you where there’s a body buried!” Only in the Deep South!
The lady sat in jail for at least a year awaiting trial, refusing to speak or shower.
That’s the last I heard of them before the hubby graduated and we got the hell out of town. There was no Internet back then, and I don’t have any idea of the woman’s name, so I can’t find proof of this story. You’ll just have to trust me.
Nowadays, rural trailer parks are havens for registered sex offenders. Hey, sex offenders need a place to live, too. I know for a fact that a sex offender lived in our park back then, too, but that was long before there was such a thing as registering. I’ll save that story for another day.