The man at the State Historic Preservation Office was quiet a long time after I read him the number off that little brass plaque. Then he said, Mrs Harris, do not let anyone touch that sign. That motel is on the register. The state cannot take it for a road without going through us first, and we do not say yes easily.
Odell built a little service hatch in the back of the neon cardinal for the transformer, and he told me once there was something else in there for if the state ever came. I thought he was teasing. Inside, wired to the transformer in a coffee can, was a letter from the Georgia Department of Transportation dated 1974, and a brass plaque that said Historic Landmark, Do Not Remove.
Our motor court on old Highway 41, the kidney pool, the twelve rooms, and Odells neon cardinal, had been designated a historic landmark back in 1974, when they first talked about widening that road. Odell saw to it then and never made a fuss about it, just wired the proof into the bird and kept the sign lit.
The developer told me the neon bird was coming down either way. The state put that bird on the register fifty years ago, and the state is exactly who he was counting on to take it.
A registered historic landmark is not a thing the DOT bulldozes for a fourth lane. Once the preservation office confirmed the listing, the road engineers had to find another way, the way they always can when they have to. They can widen 41 without taking a landmark, and now they will.
The developer who ordered my lunch at Cracker Barrel without asking, who told me my old motel was not worth much, does not get his parcel. The state does not get my corner. And Odells cardinal does not come down.
I keep the sign lit every night, the way I have since Odell passed. It throws a little red glow across the kidney pool, same as it has since 1972. Travelers still stop because of that bird. And now I know what my husband knew all along, that he protected it before I ever thought it needed protecting.