As Gomer Pyle used to say to Sarge in almost every show, it seemed, and usually to hilarious effect. A few weeks ago, my man in Charleston with the sweet sense of humor asked me if I liked surprises. Oh, yes! So he said he might surprise me with a visit sometime. I thought it would be great fun and told him so... and quietly hoped that he would do so. Today was that day!! Beautiful sunshiny day, blue skies, and just the right mix of warmth and cool breeze. A glorious day to be alive and outdoors!
The morning started with a surprise, too. Bonnie called me to say Daddy wanted to spend the day in Savannah with me (!) and they were in the Expedition and headed my way. He was having a lucid day and wanted to take advantage of it... especially as he did not remember my three-hour visit the day before, when I sat by his bed and I talked about all manner of things as he sometimes held my hand, sometimes responded, nearly always was turned to face me. So today was to be a day to remember! When they arrived, I suggested we drive down to Tybee and enjoy some time on the pavilion. And so we did. And next time I'll know where the handicapped parking is, too, you betcha.
We all had a good time in the sun, Bonnie and I munching good beef hotdogs and corn chips. After about an hour and a bit, we headed back to the car, taking the easier wheelchair ramp for the trip down from the pavilion. You betcha I'll remember that next time, too. We returned to town with the windows down, smelling the salt marsh and talking about music and food, enjoying each other's company. Then they dropped me off at my house and returned to Beaufort, where Michael and Bobbi would be waiting to help Daddy get into the house before they went to a birthday party for one of their son's friends. Nice. What a lovely day for us all to remember.
I spent the afternoon doing yard work. I had considered a movie, but the day was just too beautiful to be indoors, even though it has been weeks since I've been to the cinema. Cutting dead lantana, hauling it to the front yard. After a couple of hours, and a trip on a weed-clothed garden timber, I was done, but I still had so much energy that I decided to take a shower and take a trip to the laundromat. And just as I got to my car, my phone rings.
"Hey, Tina! Where are you?" "Hey! I'm at home." "Well, come on down to the waterfront!" "What?" "Come on down to the waterfront!" Brief silence as I tried to make sure I had heard correctly, then "What waterfront??" "The one in Savannah! I'm down here at East Broad and Bay Street." At which point I squealed like a little girl, apparently, said I'd be right down, went in and changed from my ratty shorts into long pants, and off I went!
We walked up and down River Street, hand in hand, listening to the sax playing, the guitarist, the trumpeter. He introduced me to the dark chocolate pecan clusters at the Savannah Candy Kitchen - and they're even sugar-free! We both have sugar problems, him hyperglycemia (aka diabetes) and me hypoglycemia. So here's something amazingly yummy that we can both enjoy that won't be evil to our metabolism! Nice touch.
We finished the afternoon at Emmet Park, sitting together by the Harbor Light. Just talking, with me leaning on his shoulder. Enjoying this lovely bit of time, together. Then, as dusk was nearing, our enchanted time was done and the real world beckoned.
The man drove the two hours from Charleston for two hours here with me before driving two hours back to Charleston. For two hours here with me. Does that make me feel special? Darn tootin'!!! Wow! I am so very blessed...
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
roller coaster
I have always said I love roller coasters, mostly for the scream value. Truly! You get whipped around, up dizzying heights, dramatically down into narrow pits, around sharp bends into nothingness. And while all of that is going on, you can scream as loudly as you want. Quite a nice primal bit of escapism.
But lately I've been on a ride of a different sort, an emotionally exhausting roller coaster called Watching My Father Die. The highs are fabulous, life-affirming, but short-lived, like radioisotopes emitting high energy gamma rays for only nanoseconds. The lows are draining, frustrating, debilitating, with longer and longer lifespans. For this ride, screaming wouldn't even give the needed release to abate the desperation-tinged terror of watching a loved one lose their grip on both their own identity and that fragile thing called life.
Daddy called me this morning as I was leaving Columbia, wanting to know when I would be in Beaufort. "Throw on your clothes and come on! We're just waiting on you!" "Well, then, you're in luck 'cause I'm already dressed and on the highway!" "Okay then, we'll look for you about one o'clock." Upbeat, he and I and Bonnie looking forward to our upcoming lunch together. That was around 11am and I was on 26E, driving to 95 and down. He and Bonnie had been awake since 8:30 and he was feeling his oats!
By the time I arrived at 12:40pm, 20 minutes ahead of time (he always chides me for being late; "If you're on time, you're late!" he'll say with a grin), the oomph was already dissipating. He looked really good, new haircut, clean clothes, but his energy level was flagging. Still, he insisted that we go out and get some lunch, so that's what we did. First, he had to be transferred from the recliner to the rolling kitchen chair, then pushed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where we then helped him transfer to the wheelchair. Out we went to the front porch, to the top of the stairs, where three of us helped him get down the stairs and into the Expedition, door already open at the foot of the stairs. And justthatfast, he was so exhausted that he had the shakes. Justthatfast. But still wanting to spend time with me and Bonnie.
We drove down to the waterfront park, but it was crowded, so we drove around a bit more, letting Daddy catch his breath while we all chatted about where to have lunch. Finally, we picked a destination, all got out and got inside... and Daddy had to go to the restroom. By the time he and Bonnie returned to the table, he was too wiped out to even eat. Still, we stayed there for about an hour, again letting him collect himself while she and I ate, talking about things around town. We get back to the vehicle, without incident, get back home, wait for Michael to return, then get Daddy back up the stairs to the waiting wheelchair.
He and I sit on the porch, enjoying the afternoon warmth and sunlight while he finishes a cigar. Fairly normal, right? Done many times in the past. Except he keeps dropping the cigar, his fingers just not able to maintain their grasp on the half-smoked cylinder. After about the twentieth drop, he's done. Done with smoking the cigar, done with sitting on the porch, done with being upright for the day. Michael and I move him back inside, pulling him in the wheelchair in the front door, to the kitchen, where we help him transfer to the smaller chair so he can be pulled into the bedroom, right next to the hospital bed brought by hospice, where we help him transfer into the bed... and pull up the rail so he won't fall out.
I stay a while longer, reading some favorite comics aloud, even doing different voices for the characters in Beetle Bailey, Wizard of Id, Foxtrot. I thought maybe he had fallen asleep, but when I stopped talking, he opened his eyes, so I would resume. I finally finished the readings and told him I was going to go on home. I finished up with a kiss and "See you next weekend." "I hope so." "Me, too."
Me, too.
And I drove home with the radio off, driving and crying, painting my shirtsleeves the color of tears. Eventually I pushed the button for some music: "Silent Lucidity" was just beginning. "Hush now, don't you cry/ Wipe away the teardrop from your eye/...it was all a bad dream/ spinning in your head/ your mind tricked you to feel the pain/ of someone close to you leaving the game of life." My angels, coming to my emotional rescue and using music for therapy. Taking a cue, I turned the radio off after the song, came home, put on Queensryche's "Empire" CD at high volume... and I'm back, tired, but with my head again clear and looking to the new day.
But lately I've been on a ride of a different sort, an emotionally exhausting roller coaster called Watching My Father Die. The highs are fabulous, life-affirming, but short-lived, like radioisotopes emitting high energy gamma rays for only nanoseconds. The lows are draining, frustrating, debilitating, with longer and longer lifespans. For this ride, screaming wouldn't even give the needed release to abate the desperation-tinged terror of watching a loved one lose their grip on both their own identity and that fragile thing called life.
Daddy called me this morning as I was leaving Columbia, wanting to know when I would be in Beaufort. "Throw on your clothes and come on! We're just waiting on you!" "Well, then, you're in luck 'cause I'm already dressed and on the highway!" "Okay then, we'll look for you about one o'clock." Upbeat, he and I and Bonnie looking forward to our upcoming lunch together. That was around 11am and I was on 26E, driving to 95 and down. He and Bonnie had been awake since 8:30 and he was feeling his oats!
By the time I arrived at 12:40pm, 20 minutes ahead of time (he always chides me for being late; "If you're on time, you're late!" he'll say with a grin), the oomph was already dissipating. He looked really good, new haircut, clean clothes, but his energy level was flagging. Still, he insisted that we go out and get some lunch, so that's what we did. First, he had to be transferred from the recliner to the rolling kitchen chair, then pushed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where we then helped him transfer to the wheelchair. Out we went to the front porch, to the top of the stairs, where three of us helped him get down the stairs and into the Expedition, door already open at the foot of the stairs. And justthatfast, he was so exhausted that he had the shakes. Justthatfast. But still wanting to spend time with me and Bonnie.
We drove down to the waterfront park, but it was crowded, so we drove around a bit more, letting Daddy catch his breath while we all chatted about where to have lunch. Finally, we picked a destination, all got out and got inside... and Daddy had to go to the restroom. By the time he and Bonnie returned to the table, he was too wiped out to even eat. Still, we stayed there for about an hour, again letting him collect himself while she and I ate, talking about things around town. We get back to the vehicle, without incident, get back home, wait for Michael to return, then get Daddy back up the stairs to the waiting wheelchair.
He and I sit on the porch, enjoying the afternoon warmth and sunlight while he finishes a cigar. Fairly normal, right? Done many times in the past. Except he keeps dropping the cigar, his fingers just not able to maintain their grasp on the half-smoked cylinder. After about the twentieth drop, he's done. Done with smoking the cigar, done with sitting on the porch, done with being upright for the day. Michael and I move him back inside, pulling him in the wheelchair in the front door, to the kitchen, where we help him transfer to the smaller chair so he can be pulled into the bedroom, right next to the hospital bed brought by hospice, where we help him transfer into the bed... and pull up the rail so he won't fall out.
I stay a while longer, reading some favorite comics aloud, even doing different voices for the characters in Beetle Bailey, Wizard of Id, Foxtrot. I thought maybe he had fallen asleep, but when I stopped talking, he opened his eyes, so I would resume. I finally finished the readings and told him I was going to go on home. I finished up with a kiss and "See you next weekend." "I hope so." "Me, too."
Me, too.
And I drove home with the radio off, driving and crying, painting my shirtsleeves the color of tears. Eventually I pushed the button for some music: "Silent Lucidity" was just beginning. "Hush now, don't you cry/ Wipe away the teardrop from your eye/...it was all a bad dream/ spinning in your head/ your mind tricked you to feel the pain/ of someone close to you leaving the game of life." My angels, coming to my emotional rescue and using music for therapy. Taking a cue, I turned the radio off after the song, came home, put on Queensryche's "Empire" CD at high volume... and I'm back, tired, but with my head again clear and looking to the new day.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
still me
One of the lessons I've (re)learned these past few months is this: whatever life throws at a person, they still NEED to be treated as they always have been. Not pitied, not shunned, not scorned. Too many times, the PERSON is equated with the physical body, though nothing could be farther from the truth. The physical body is simply the destructible, flawed vessel inhabited while doing time on this planet. The French philosopher, Teilhard DeChardin, long ago wrote: "We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience. Rather we are spiritual beings having a physical experience." Even before I knew of this person's writings, these words have been a cornerstone to the foundation of my views on life in this material world.
After the divorce, I kept telling everyone that I didn't want to be part of the great sadness in the world. I hadn't asked for the circumstances that threw me into this situation and I didn't want it to affect how people treated me. But the label "divorced" did change how I was treated. I was, and still am, the same spiritual being I ever was, with the same moral code I've had since my early 20's, but I found that my new label made folks a little uneasy. Suddenly, I couldn't be trusted around other people's husbands because I was an unescorted woman. Suddenly, I had friends questioning their own marriages because mine was no more. Suddenly, I was excluded from some social events because I would have been attending alone. Suddenly, I was regarded as "available" sexually.
What the hell?! I am still me, the same caring, trustworthy gal with the open heart, open mind, open arms. I am STILL me.
And my father is still himself. His body is full of Cancer, but the disease is NOT part of him. The disease is simply part of his body. Daddy still has his lively sense of humor, he still has his stories to tell, he still has the need for a connection to those he loves and holds dear. And so I have been trying to do as he wishes, to treat him still the same as I ever have, though maybe just a little nicer... then I get in my car to return home and shed my tears once I am on the road.
After the divorce, I kept telling everyone that I didn't want to be part of the great sadness in the world. I hadn't asked for the circumstances that threw me into this situation and I didn't want it to affect how people treated me. But the label "divorced" did change how I was treated. I was, and still am, the same spiritual being I ever was, with the same moral code I've had since my early 20's, but I found that my new label made folks a little uneasy. Suddenly, I couldn't be trusted around other people's husbands because I was an unescorted woman. Suddenly, I had friends questioning their own marriages because mine was no more. Suddenly, I was excluded from some social events because I would have been attending alone. Suddenly, I was regarded as "available" sexually.
What the hell?! I am still me, the same caring, trustworthy gal with the open heart, open mind, open arms. I am STILL me.
And my father is still himself. His body is full of Cancer, but the disease is NOT part of him. The disease is simply part of his body. Daddy still has his lively sense of humor, he still has his stories to tell, he still has the need for a connection to those he loves and holds dear. And so I have been trying to do as he wishes, to treat him still the same as I ever have, though maybe just a little nicer... then I get in my car to return home and shed my tears once I am on the road.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
new sky
Although the skies were grey and drear/ My Saturday was full of cheer!
Yes, indeed, yesterday was a beautiful day. Not according to the weatherman, not according to the thermometer, not even according to my five senses. But my heart, my soul, my spirit experienced nothing but sunlight and warmth!
I was able to spend almost five hours in Beaufort with Daddy and his family. I drove over after breakfast, not knowing what to expect when I arrived, hoping he would have a few coherent moments that we could share. It had been a rough week for him, his failing health taking a decided turn for the worst, with him not even able to sit up or hold a train of thought for two minutes on the phone. So, number one on my agenda for the day was time with him. Lo and behold, a minor miracle had occurred on Friday afternoon and he had started to rouse himself, even playing checkers with the hospice personnel. When I arrived on Saturday morning, he and Bonnie were out on their front porch! True, Daddy was in a wheelchair, but he was outside enjoying the day, gnats, grey chill, and all. I tell ya, it did my heart a world of good to see him like that! After all, I AM his one-and-only, ever-lovin' daughter, am I not?
And we had a very fine visit, with him trying hard to show me he was okay, even insisting on getting up and WALKING (though rather unsteadily) to the bathroom. Thank God Bonnie was still at home at that point, because I really don't think he nor I would have wanted me to follow him into there. At least we had moved from the porch back inside, away from the flying teeth, and were in the bedroom when he made his move, so he didn't have far to go. Bonnie helped him get settled afterward into his big chair in the bedroom, then she, Bobbie and the two grandsons left to take care of some errands.
Daddy & I then had the next hour together, watching a John Wayne movie ("North to Alaska"), talking and joking, and smelling the Shriners' boston butt warming in the oven. The Bobbie's dad came by and we three chatted and somehow the conversation turned to work experiences. Herschel talked of the mechanical processes to turn cane into sugar of various kinds, Daddy of those which turn trees into pressure-treated lumber and of the techniques for killing insects in the wood. I had no idea how any of it was done and just enjoyed being the audience.
more to come...
Yes, indeed, yesterday was a beautiful day. Not according to the weatherman, not according to the thermometer, not even according to my five senses. But my heart, my soul, my spirit experienced nothing but sunlight and warmth!
I was able to spend almost five hours in Beaufort with Daddy and his family. I drove over after breakfast, not knowing what to expect when I arrived, hoping he would have a few coherent moments that we could share. It had been a rough week for him, his failing health taking a decided turn for the worst, with him not even able to sit up or hold a train of thought for two minutes on the phone. So, number one on my agenda for the day was time with him. Lo and behold, a minor miracle had occurred on Friday afternoon and he had started to rouse himself, even playing checkers with the hospice personnel. When I arrived on Saturday morning, he and Bonnie were out on their front porch! True, Daddy was in a wheelchair, but he was outside enjoying the day, gnats, grey chill, and all. I tell ya, it did my heart a world of good to see him like that! After all, I AM his one-and-only, ever-lovin' daughter, am I not?
And we had a very fine visit, with him trying hard to show me he was okay, even insisting on getting up and WALKING (though rather unsteadily) to the bathroom. Thank God Bonnie was still at home at that point, because I really don't think he nor I would have wanted me to follow him into there. At least we had moved from the porch back inside, away from the flying teeth, and were in the bedroom when he made his move, so he didn't have far to go. Bonnie helped him get settled afterward into his big chair in the bedroom, then she, Bobbie and the two grandsons left to take care of some errands.
Daddy & I then had the next hour together, watching a John Wayne movie ("North to Alaska"), talking and joking, and smelling the Shriners' boston butt warming in the oven. The Bobbie's dad came by and we three chatted and somehow the conversation turned to work experiences. Herschel talked of the mechanical processes to turn cane into sugar of various kinds, Daddy of those which turn trees into pressure-treated lumber and of the techniques for killing insects in the wood. I had no idea how any of it was done and just enjoyed being the audience.
more to come...
Friday, March 13, 2009
first time
A week ago tonight, I stood on a new beach, in the moonlight, under fireworks... being kissed for the first time. Incredibly romantic, especially for a first-time kiss!
This is not to say I was kissed for the first time ever. I'm fifty years old and I've been married twice, so I have certainly been kissed a time or two. Truth to tell, I'm a big fan of kisses, in all their myriad forms. Quick little brushes of the lips before rushing off to work. Butterfly-light kisses on the face, neck, hands. Migraine-crushing pressure point kisses along the eyebrows and on the temple. And let's not forget those "...long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days", as Crash Durham lovingly described.
But, a first kiss is a wondrous thing, a marvel to anticipate and to behold. As Mae West once opined, "A man's kiss is his signature." That bawdy, self-assured 1940's film and radio star, a long-time favorite of mine, could be relied upon to know whereof she spoke. I have certainly found truth in her words. First kisses are like snowflakes, each unique and never to be repeated. Every man puts his own mark on a first kiss, with no two doing it quite the same way. The lip texture and taste, the strength behind the caress of the lips, the duration of that first overture and the quickness of the next. Every man has a unique kiss, one to be taken on its own merits, to be savored and enjoyed, in the moment and later in the memory of that moment.
Oh, yes, first kisses are the ones full of promise, harbingers of the possibilities of future encounters, the delights to come. My singing bird and I shared a first kiss on the beach, in the moonlight, under fireworks... and I smile as I remember.
This is not to say I was kissed for the first time ever. I'm fifty years old and I've been married twice, so I have certainly been kissed a time or two. Truth to tell, I'm a big fan of kisses, in all their myriad forms. Quick little brushes of the lips before rushing off to work. Butterfly-light kisses on the face, neck, hands. Migraine-crushing pressure point kisses along the eyebrows and on the temple. And let's not forget those "...long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days", as Crash Durham lovingly described.
But, a first kiss is a wondrous thing, a marvel to anticipate and to behold. As Mae West once opined, "A man's kiss is his signature." That bawdy, self-assured 1940's film and radio star, a long-time favorite of mine, could be relied upon to know whereof she spoke. I have certainly found truth in her words. First kisses are like snowflakes, each unique and never to be repeated. Every man puts his own mark on a first kiss, with no two doing it quite the same way. The lip texture and taste, the strength behind the caress of the lips, the duration of that first overture and the quickness of the next. Every man has a unique kiss, one to be taken on its own merits, to be savored and enjoyed, in the moment and later in the memory of that moment.
Oh, yes, first kisses are the ones full of promise, harbingers of the possibilities of future encounters, the delights to come. My singing bird and I shared a first kiss on the beach, in the moonlight, under fireworks... and I smile as I remember.
Monday, March 9, 2009
folly beach
Friday night, fireworks lit up the sky over Folly Beach. An almost full moon traced a path across the waves as the Big Dipper stretched across the star-strewn dark velvet. And I enjoyed it all in the presence of my singing bird, snug in each other's arms, sharing the impromptu juxtaposition of man-made and celestial points of light.
The timing couldn't have been better. In fact, the timing was ... incredible. If this were to have occurred in a movie, you would have thought it such a contrived bit of romantic wishful thinking. But 'twasn't in a movie. The event was real, the setting was real, I was there and so was he. Perhaps it was simply a dream. But I was fully awake and so was he. Maybe it was a drunken hallucination... but no alcohol was involved, not a single drop.
Coincidence? Simply "a striking occurrence of two or more events at one time apparently by mere chance"? A phenomenon which appears to, and is constructed by, the mind? Hmmm... You certainly must be actively looking for correlations between events to say "Aha! A coincidence!", but that is common for an analytical mind. We all seek guidance outside ourselves, we all want to believe that we are on the right path, that our decisions are sound. So, I can look at the above event in scientific terms: we were both there by decisions made in the past, deliberate decisions which made both of us who we are now, conscious decisions which led us both toward that moment in time. Perhaps they were not always perceived to be the right decisions at the time, but neither of us would be who we are today if we had made different choices. I prefer to refer to the wise (and even somewhat wise-aleck!) words of one of my favorite authors, Douglas Adams. "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be." Even Dr. Seuss would have agreed with that description, especially when used in accordance with the phenomenon of coincidence.
We have no friends in common, no coworkers to have introduced us, no soirees where we might have even accidentally seen each other. And yet... there we were, on the same beach, under the same moon, thrilled by the same fireworks... in each other's arms. Incredible.
The timing couldn't have been better. In fact, the timing was ... incredible. If this were to have occurred in a movie, you would have thought it such a contrived bit of romantic wishful thinking. But 'twasn't in a movie. The event was real, the setting was real, I was there and so was he. Perhaps it was simply a dream. But I was fully awake and so was he. Maybe it was a drunken hallucination... but no alcohol was involved, not a single drop.
Coincidence? Simply "a striking occurrence of two or more events at one time apparently by mere chance"? A phenomenon which appears to, and is constructed by, the mind? Hmmm... You certainly must be actively looking for correlations between events to say "Aha! A coincidence!", but that is common for an analytical mind. We all seek guidance outside ourselves, we all want to believe that we are on the right path, that our decisions are sound. So, I can look at the above event in scientific terms: we were both there by decisions made in the past, deliberate decisions which made both of us who we are now, conscious decisions which led us both toward that moment in time. Perhaps they were not always perceived to be the right decisions at the time, but neither of us would be who we are today if we had made different choices. I prefer to refer to the wise (and even somewhat wise-aleck!) words of one of my favorite authors, Douglas Adams. "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be." Even Dr. Seuss would have agreed with that description, especially when used in accordance with the phenomenon of coincidence.
We have no friends in common, no coworkers to have introduced us, no soirees where we might have even accidentally seen each other. And yet... there we were, on the same beach, under the same moon, thrilled by the same fireworks... in each other's arms. Incredible.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
a singing bird
"Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come." So says the Chinese proverb on the yellowing newsprint, held to my refrigerator by a magnet my mother gave me. And so I have and so I do. And... a singing bird has indeed come. The singing bird first appeared to me on the 25th of February, but off in the distance, too far for me to easily hear or see. For the next few days, the image of the bird was all I could espy, still off in the distance, and though its beak was in motion, I could not yet hear its song.
On Saturday, I hesitantly trilled my song out there, reaching across time and space... and the bird answered, its song sweet and steady. Nice! But the bird was still so distant and I waited to see if it would fly just a little closer... just a little closer... if I were to gently approach. And the bird came, its song a nectar in my ears, renewing my spirit with its bright notes.
Now, the bird sings to me its song of hope every night. The notes trail after me as I go to bed and echo still in the hall, in the house, in my head when I arise the next morning. The bright and cheery tune keeps a smile close to my lips and in my eyes. Perhaps, someday, the bird will come to stay in my green tree, nestled deep in my heart. Perhaps...
On Saturday, I hesitantly trilled my song out there, reaching across time and space... and the bird answered, its song sweet and steady. Nice! But the bird was still so distant and I waited to see if it would fly just a little closer... just a little closer... if I were to gently approach. And the bird came, its song a nectar in my ears, renewing my spirit with its bright notes.
Now, the bird sings to me its song of hope every night. The notes trail after me as I go to bed and echo still in the hall, in the house, in my head when I arise the next morning. The bright and cheery tune keeps a smile close to my lips and in my eyes. Perhaps, someday, the bird will come to stay in my green tree, nestled deep in my heart. Perhaps...
Monday, March 2, 2009
a new beach
I'm exploring new beaches now. Time for new adventures to stir my soul, to awaken my mind, to bring me to life. Next weekend, I'll be off to Charleston, to visit beaches I have never set foot on. Sure, I've been to Charleston plenty of times - but I've never been to even one of the beaches there. I've been downtown at various restaurants and shops, at various times of the day and night. I've been to the Joe P. Riley Stadium for baseball games, to watch my boys of summer pit themselves against others. I've even been to the Coliseum for hockey games featuring the South Carolina Stingrays!
But I have not gone to Folly Beach, regarded as the best beach in South Carolina, and dipped my toes in the water and watched the sun sink toward the horizon. Nor have I been to Isle of Palms, which sounds like a paradise transported from the Gulf, with white sugary sands and clear blue water - though that is probably not the case. How would I know? I haven't been there, though I did consider going there for part of the Lowcountry Blues Bash early on in February. And then there's Bulls Island, accessed by ferry, part of a national wildlife refuge, home of the rare red wolf. What color is the water there, what shells and other treasures wash up on its shores?
Adventures await... and I eagerly go!
But I have not gone to Folly Beach, regarded as the best beach in South Carolina, and dipped my toes in the water and watched the sun sink toward the horizon. Nor have I been to Isle of Palms, which sounds like a paradise transported from the Gulf, with white sugary sands and clear blue water - though that is probably not the case. How would I know? I haven't been there, though I did consider going there for part of the Lowcountry Blues Bash early on in February. And then there's Bulls Island, accessed by ferry, part of a national wildlife refuge, home of the rare red wolf. What color is the water there, what shells and other treasures wash up on its shores?
Adventures await... and I eagerly go!
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