It's here.
A long stretch of quiet beach off the coast of Georgia where memories of old meet the dreams of new. A small place in this world that is so very special to me.
It's where I shared my first kiss with a boy while building sand castles against the tide. It's where I learned to fight hard and swim against the current. A trait my mother said came naturally to me.
I had sand battles and found sand dollars, and walked forever and ever along the surf. Years later I brought my children back to play along the same sand. And still more years later, I would run to the island by myself for some much needed time alone. It's a quiet place, unassuming in it's gentleness. There are no high rise hotels, no restaurants lined along the beach. It has changed little in the all the summers I've been blessed to return.
As you turn onto the Island, the old archway, weathered and unimproved, still welcomes everyone as it has for many years. Through the arch the narrow road stretches out seemingly endless to a hidden ocean beyond. Along the sides of the two lane road, the sea marsh stubbornly stands guard, a whispering rebuke against any idea of progress that man may think to inflict there.
Off to the right was an old shack where my father took us out in a small boat to fish, and where we used to go crabbing for our dinner off an old rickety dock. Occasionally, if the tide is right, I can glimpse a worn wooden pylon where now just memories stand. It's here that the air conditioning in the car is turned off and the windows are rolled down. It's here you can catch a scent of the soft salt air hinting at the ocean beyond. It's here I can breathe.
Once on the island, much is the same as once remembered. There is the one small set of shops offeringthe basics for visitors. A T-shirt shoppe, a nook of a restaurant, a small grocery mart. And only a few hotels nestled here and there along the beach.
On the other side of the island is the grand old Inn. A stately reminder of a regal southern past. The few new additions to the island have been tucked away unobtrusively on a far corner of the island. Buildings are not allowed to be over two stories tall now. Progress is kept at bay.
The beach still stretches quietly for miles, the water unhindered where it meets the sand. In the evenings and early morning, deer and sea turtles are often silent company on solitary walks.
It's here every summer I watched my Mom find sharks teeth in the surf. It would take almost 30 years before I would find my first one.....and then find myself unexpectantly crying on the beach as I held it in my hand.
At night the lights from the shrimpers still dance against the black ocean water and with them, a chorus of giggly childhood voices echo the song, Shrimp Boats.
Somewhere on a neighboring Island is the old plantation house where we played in the old iron elevator in the front hall. We had to wear dresses when we went and visited the family. It was the genteel south. And it was proper. There were stories about the old cabins out back where ghosts slept and alligators lived. We were cautioned to stay away from the cabins lest we become alligator supper or children of the 'haints'.
Along the backroads, tendrils of Spanish moss still drip gently from the trees. Southern jewelry. I can feel it's texture in my hands now just thinking about it. I would always catch locks of the moss off a tree and keep it in my pocket. Later I would spend hours twirling the dry curls in my fingers. Picking apart the strands and trying to weave them back together til they were dust. I still catch some in my hands everytime I return. For me, It's like touching the past.
It's where I want to spend my future.
This is my entry for Judi's art essay contest.
No comments:
Post a Comment