I Am Somebody – Georgia Lee


Sanitation Workers – Monday morning

Today is the first day of the rest of your life
A dorm-room poster that never inspired
But the nation is sick, trouble’s in the land
And every day now is somebody’s last Continue reading

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THE MAIN PAIN – By Georgia Lee

Last photo with my mother – 2012

Mother was there today. I lie face down on a table, under a bright light. My back exposed and wrapped in white paper with a big hole where the needle goes. Continue reading

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Mother, dead eight years, was there today. I lie face down on a table, under a bright light. My back exposed and wrapped in white paper with a big hole where the needle goes.  Continue reading

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(Reposted/ April 12,  20…)

April 12, (year intentionally left blank) Today on my 61st birthday, I choose to be alone.

I retreat to a cabin, deep in the North Georgia mountains wilderness. To contemplate the meaning of life. To contemplate the deluxe spa treatment, hot tub and gourmet dinner to follow.

This is wilderness on my terms.

Continue reading

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THE BEATLES – August 18, 1965 Live at Atlanta Stadium

My ticket – Beatles Atlanta Stadium – $5.50!

The Beatles at Atlanta Stadium – August 18, 1965  

I was a pre-teen Beatle-maniac on a magical night. Fifty-plus years later, I relive it all. 

Who knows how long I’ve loved you? You know I love you still. 

Somehow, my best friend, Suzanne Stroud, and I convinced both our fathers to take us to see The Beatles, along with her cousin, brother and sister. 

I know I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before. Some are dead and some are living…  

Nobody was dying that night, not at Atlanta Stadium. Brand new, space age – The Braves had yet to play there. The air shimmered, hot and electric.

Outside the gates, I saw Paul McCartney laughing. I almost fainted. Then I saw Ringo. Ditto. Then I realized these were “decoys” – that’s what people called them – lookalikes to distract hysterical fans. Inside, incredibly, there were empty seats. Back then, Atlanta was virginal, undiscovered. Hot ‘Lanta and The ATL yet unborn.

The official program had a photo of Jean Shrimpton, a supermodel before the term existed, in a full-page ad for Yardley’s “The London Look.” Pigtails. Glosssy lipstick. Smokey eyes. Oh! I would’ve happily lived a two-dimensional life as the beauty in that photo. The full-page black and white shots of each Beatle, each so swoon inducing. 

John with a life-size teddy bear. 
George, with a cowboy hat, pensive as James Dean.
Ringo, clouded in cigarette smoke in his be-ringed hand.
Paul. Oh, Paul…I vowed to marry you. Do you think there’s still a chance?

Will I wait a lonely lifetime? If you want me to, I will.

After the opening band, “Cannibal and the Headhunters,” the Beatles ran onto the stage, on second base. They played for 45 minutes that warped the time/space continuum into an eternal event horizon. We screamed without ceasing. Dad claimed he had to restrain me from jumping onto the fields, but I wasn’t that brave, even in that altered state of mass hallucination. Shockingly, John Lennon forgot a lyric that I knew like my own heartbeat. Weren’t they as obsessed with themselves and their music as I was?

Eight days a week, I lu-uh-uh-uh-uv you. Eight days a week is not enough to show I care.

Afterward, in the traffic jammed parking lot, kids pressed programs to windows – turned to the full-page photo of their favorite Beatle, like today’s car flags for UGA, et. al. Paul, Paul, Paul – oh Paul! I pressed his image through the window, to the world. 

At home, my mom, who would never have gone, said she smelled me before she saw me, the sweat-soaked wool. Crying, laughing and reportedly storming the field in August, works up a lather.

“I’m not taking them off,” I said, retreating to the stereo console in the living room. With a pencil, I circled every song The Beatles had played on back of my album covers. I love to look at those circles. I played my six (as of then) albums repeatedly, when my mother spoiled my party, well after midnight, directing me to bed.

 “No!” I’ve just started “Beatles ’65 – second side.”

She left, returning with a glass of water and two yellow pills – “mothers’ little helpers.” She actually gave Valium to a minor, and she was right to do it. I may have had a seizure, exploded into space.

Can that actually be 54 years ago? I remember thinking Sgt. Pepper’s “20 years ago today,” was a lifetime the first time I heard that line.

The Beatles were a bridge between my parents and girlfriends and the boyfriends to come. Non-threatening. Boyish. Sweet. Funny. Irreverent. Innocent.

Today, all 16 American albums are framed in order, on an 18-foot wall in the main room of my house. The wall is painted the exact orange color of George’s tie on Hey Jude.

When I find myself in times of trouble…

I listen to each of them, in order, even “Yellow Submarine.” After years as a “White Album” supremacist (meaning my favorite) I had a recent epiphany. “Revolver” is ineffable, unbearable, overwhelming. 

Turn off your mind relax and float downstream. Listen to the color of your dreams. Play the game existence till the end…of the beginning…of the beginning…of the beginning…of the beginning…

The Beatles are a constant. Not to offend anyone, if I haven’t already, but they are a Higher Power. They remind me that I could, and can, love with passionate, innocent intensity. That perfect moments can and do happen. 

Come on now, my fellow aging, dying, dead baby boomers out there – get a grip. Rise above it. Treat yourself to “Meet the Beatles.” 

With a love like that, you know you should….BE GLAD
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Yeah, Yeah. Yeah. Yeah Yeah, Yeah YEEAAAHHHH!!

P.S. I Love You

At 10 years old, I wrote WQXI for tickets to this Beatles concert - $5.50

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My Parents’ Wedding Day

Emmett and Frances Lee
would have been married 72 years today

By Georgia Lee ( From “A Father’s Legacy – Your life story in your own words”) Dad’s journal.
Journal Prompt: Tell me about your wedding day. What Happened? How did you feel? Were you nervous, scared, Happy?

GOOD LORD! Again, you ask such personal questions. Ok – Wartime, remember? Continue reading

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Writing books is easy!

By Georgia Lee, from the diary of Emmett Lee     


Dad reading to my son Miles, 1991

      When my father, Emmett Lloyd Lee, turned 80, I gave him a guided journal

“A Father’s Legacy – Your Life’s Story in Your Own Words.” Dad is a

natural, conversational writer, full of depth yet lacking pretension. Reluctantly

accepting my gift, he then became obsessed with writing every day, filling every page

Continue reading

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footwear friday – vote early, vote often

Vote for you favorite footwear! At the recent Southeastern Writers Conference, Saint Simons, Ga., your intrepid former fashion reporter did an impromptu survey of summer comfort and fashion shoes. Check out these lovely ladies and (one man) pedicures and all.

TOP:  Jan Babcock in Donald Pliner;  BELOW, LEFT TO RIGHT:   Pam Bolyn Hunter in Impo;  Jeanie Loiacono in Chocos with fitness monitor;   Heather Trim in riding boots;  Pam Mather in Converse;  Georgia Lee in Munro;  Stu Blandford in Bjorns;  Mary Stripling in (unsure)  Dana Ridenour in Sanuks; 

Summer fashion, fun, comfort

Summer fashion, fun, comfort

IMG_3313 IMG_3315 IMG_3316 IMG_3317 IMG_3320 IMG_3321 IMG_3314  IMG_3319


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By Georgia Lee 


I try, yet never enough.
And when I do try enough
I know it
But nobody cares or even listens  
And you know that can hurt.
Where did all that work go?
Why try a little, a lot, at all?
Why pretend, writer/artist/musician
breaking rocks in the hot sun?
Leave those tons of granite
just keep digging for that
one glittery mica fingernail
torn from some corpse
It shines. It reflects.
hey, you’re good blah blah, see ya.
People-pleasing fake that I am
I will learn to devour sweat
laugh at tangled brain wires
breathe in a tasty headache
Those roadblock rocks
will absorb heat under our sun 
when I, on my cold death bed
decide not to dance around
your sacred bonfire of regret
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