By the end of my week in Savannah, I have no desire to move again. I find myself sitting on a bench in Troup Square, pondering my own Southern past. Then I notice a historical marker that read, 'This is the “birthplace” of “Jingle Bells” in 1850.' Apparently James Pierpont published this familiar song nearby, while serving at the Unitarian Church in Oglethorpe Square. It seems to me that in Savannah, every square and every house is a museum of sorts; each collecting the memories of those from the past. It is as though every acre of land is a romantic tomb, preserving our collective Southern past. In Savannah, it looks as if it is useless to pretend that we are not all connected.