Blog

Hi Irene (who should receive a citation already). I have added you to my email list to keep you in the loop.

And Todd, Chris, Missy & Dan -- I know I said I'd foist this blog on you for one post only, but I can't very well let you off a moving bus, so consider yourselves held captive till we reach our next scheduled stop.

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Chapter 2

I bought these sneakery things a year ago. They're the best, everyone should have at least one pair (brand name Oboz, look for them -- not cheap). Only thing is: you could tie redwoods with the laces. And on Friday the snakeskin-like outer coverings of both laces separated from their rubbery cores leaving long, loopy strands, rendering me virtually immobile.

It was also on Friday that our dicey relationship with our contractor thoroughly unraveled. On Friday the contractor's alternating pattern of stoney silence and terse, obfuscating messages became laced (sorry) with progress reports that we knew to be flat-out false. Flags went up. We emailed, threatening legal action; no response. An instant message was launched and bounced back as undeliverable.

3:00 Saturday morning I awoke with the certainty that the horse had already left the barn, that our contractor had done a runner, that we'd been left holding the bag of whatever a horse might chose not to carry off. Santina said I was over-reacting. I envisioned turtles and alligators. Saturday was a dead day. Sunday morning was no better. I contemplated our barren moonscape years to come. But then Santina took me for a walk on the beach and on our return we stopped at a mall; I bought a pair of fancy laces -- with their plastic locking mechanisms they're billed as great for young children and also for elders, both of which I happen to be.

I can tell you that I took a certain pleasure in cutting out the old laces and threading in the new. Granted, it's a small step for mankind, but it felt like the perfect start for whatever comes next.

I know I haven’t stopped talking about Brookgreen Gardens since we discovered the place, but it is genuinely worthy of comment even though the gardens have yet to present themselves. We’ve visited four times and you’d think maybe that would be enough to see everything — until a little research reveals that Brookgreen encompasses 9100 acres and includes more than 1400 sculptures. Many of the sculptures date from the first half of the 20th century and feature the work of Anna Hyatt Huntington who, with her husband Archer, created the estate in the 30’s. I’m sure there are a few pieces I have yet to see but Glenna Goodacre’s bronze triad “The Water Bearers” cannot be surpassed.

We’re anxious to start sending emails from Asheville but we’ll certainly return to Brookgreen when the gardens are in bloom.

Brookgreen Creek, a minor version of Kipling's great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo, once irrigated coastal rice plantation fields. Today a sign warns: 'CAUTION: No Swimming or Wading. Illegal to feed Alligators.' Yesterday Santina and I stood on an observation platform searching for early season signs of life; first in the murk flowing just below our feet, then in the reeds across the way, and finally (why not?) in a camouflaging tangle of Methusalahan tree limbs.

A dear friend has asked me to list my three favorite things about Myrtle Beach, and I've been thinking about it. Right out of the chute I have to say that the carp from the previous post didn't make the cut, me not being much of a fish fan. But I'm happy to report that a poet friend offered the following carp caption: "the hungry ghosts (as the Buddhists understand them: our dangerous relentless craving)." Is that not perfect?

So anyway, I'm really liking the Myrtle Beach weather. We did have some chilly days but now it's bright sun and 70's. At some point on most days I can be found dozing, stretched out here in Jane and Alan's backyard, risking sunburn, a paperback A-framed on my chest. I could go on, but don't want to seem to be one of those sorts who rub things in.

Secondly, every Myrtle Beach woman involved in the service industry, regardless of age (hers or mine), calls me 'honey' -- which is really sweet. If I sense a funk coming on I know I can go out and buy a doughnut or something and come home feeling just super.

Finally, and this pushes the boundaries (but whose blog is this actually?), I love Myrtle Beach's proximity to Brookgreen Gardens just down the road in Pawley's Island. Brookgreen has vaulted to the top of my list of Places I'd Never Even Heard Of Before. Sprawling majestically across the acreage of four former rice plantations, it features wikipedia sculpture gardens -- everyone and every thing that's ever been. A walking tour describes plantation days. There's a guided flatboat tour through the marshes, a small zoo that is decidedly non-zooish, and an aviary I just might retire to.

So those'd be the top three.

I'm really not quite sure what to say here . . . captions welcomed.

South Carolina stands out for its incredible flatness. If you drive from Myrtle Beach in the northeast corner of the state you will need to get well west of Columbia in the smack dab center before resting easy about rogue waves. And the terrain northwest of Columbia on Rte. 26 toward Asheville rolls very gently till you reach the exit for Landrum SC on the North Carolina border. Only then do the mountains that form the bowl that cradles Asheville rise up to make a statement. Only then do the semis begin downshifting and flashing their hazard lights. If you roll your windows down a cool breeze blows through and beneath the groaning of those trucks, if you listen oh so carefully, is a subtle, haunting melody that just might be springing forth from banjos.

In the land of far away and long ago there is ice and there is snow. But here on the flatland coast of South Carolina I photograph plants loosely described as pampas grass and admire the flight of a pelican whose bill, as someone famously wrote, holds more than his belly can.

Our house is not nearly complete, so here we linger, our animation suspended -- broken only by the yelping of a neighbor's dog and the passing shadows of incoming planes, their portals plugged with happy faces of early tourists; the formal list of which, you'd now find, includes us.

One of the best ways to break up a long road-trip is to spend part of it on a ferry; which is exactly what Alan and Jane treated me to on our drive back from Myrtle Beach. Everyone on board seemed at ease and happy to be afloat.

But that was last week. Now I'm back in SC and heading to Asheville. When I return tomorrow I'll be all full of house stuff, so I want to mention the ferry while it's on my mind; in the event that you also have a road-trip on the horizon, or that you've been tinkering with starting a business that affords people pleasure.

One of the first things you stumble into when visiting South Carolina is the potential for confusion. Take Myrtle Beach. There's Myrtle Beach the city (established in the early years of the 19th century, population now hovering around 30,000). But to many people Myrtle Beach simply means golf; 100 local courses keep you ducking. And of course there's also Myrtle Beach the beach, which is part of a 60 mile stretch of uninterrupted sand known as the Grand Strand that extends south past the township of Pawley's Island (which is also the name of an island within that township). Quite confusing.

So my tip of the day is: you can shorten your South Carolina luncheon experience considerably if you modify the popular expression "please pass the ketchup" to "please pass the ketchup to me."

The Big Bang sent everything eternally outward, but in our small pockets of the universe things tend to move toward. We are drawn to people who interest us, even at our peril. Whole careers are spent refining work to better fit who we think we are. And we allocate more time for sliding toward rather than stepping back from identified weaknesses. So this move of Santina's and mine -- a move away from what we know and love -- runs a bit against the grain. I view it as a cosmic chiropractic adjustment. Better that than a response to the gravitational pull of the planet Jupiter.