Steep

By the time we arrived in Georgia the azaleas had bloomed. There were just enough flowers on them to remind us of the glory we missed. A tree of unknown type was shedding inch long caterpillar shaped variegated flowers rich with sap. They covered every available surface of the car and defied removal, disintegrating with the slightest touch. Long brown syrupy trails down the side of the car were their calling card. 

 

The house we rented for a week 0n St. Simons Island turned out to have three floors. A fact that went unnoticed in the thirty pictures we previewed on the Airbnb. On first seeing the steep staircase to the bedroom we both sighed. Though strenuous, it turned out to be a blessing. A perfect opportunity to get our winter weakened legs in shape for the summer cruise. 

 

Three flights up was a small cheery room with sliding doors on either end and a retractable shade, which I managed to coerce open after years of neglect. There was even a two inch long frog wintering in one of its support beams. It never moved either on opening or closing the shade. Cool NE then warm humid SE breezes filled the space with the added benefit of a partially obscured view of the Atlantic Ocean.

 

To live in such a house, especially with limited energy stores to draw upon, a certain logistics must be followed. Time and distance dictates which space is used and when. As much as we wanted to eat breakfast on the 3^rdfloor deck it was untenable. Our tea and toast would be cold or spilt by the time we got there. Thus, breakfast was in the cool dim first floor dining room. When retiring for the night we made a reconnaissance to determine that phones, computers, clothing, and reading materials accompanied us to the second floor. My shakuhachi and espresso machine resided on the third floor.

 

The townhouse was steps from the beach. And even at hightide the block wide and blocks long hard packed white sand beach provided a perfect walking surface. At low tide we could walk along it a mile into the village in search of an ice cream cone. Except for one time, breakfast, lunch and dinner were prepared at “home.” Foodstuffs skillfully packaged in Chicago were stored in the trunk of the Honda providing the basics for our simple Mediterranean diet.

 

If possible I bake bread soon after arriving at a destination: it’s my method of burning incense. It is curious how a foreign place with unfamiliar ambiance and awful beachy art begins to feel homey after a few days. Of course, this does not always occur. Some spaces are beyond repair and need a complete refit. We were lucky this year with our primary residence. The second venue . . . well let’s just ignore it. 

 

Between the steep stairs, the ocean views, and the beach walks I feel enlivened. Ready to take on whatever Maine and Carrie Rose throws at us this summer! 

Reclaim

It is good to get away from Chicago. If we lived in paradise we might never leave, never see or taste the wonders that the world offers. The end of March is a hopeful time. In fact, any month other than February is hopeful but the third month always lets us down. There are a couple of warm days. There are even a few overly optimistic soil hugging spring flowers that appear in the garden, and then the inevitable deep freeze and snow storm follows. It is all a charade. 

My thinking on this subject has changed over the years. I used to believe leaving in January and February was the thing to aim for, but I may be mistaken. Many times, in the past, when we have headed south during the first two months, Chicago’s miserable weather follows us. So, you say, go farther south and for reasons I cannot explain we rarely venture from the mainland. This year though, we did travel to Costa Rica. No complaints there.

 

Still, that was in February and as March came around we decided to escape again. This time to St. Simons Island and Jekyll Island in Georgia. Now in the latter of the two we sit on a small veranda looking out onto a tangled mass of moss covered live oaks with a fan palm understory. About a half block away through the trees is a tranquil Atlantic Ocean. Between the end of the tree line and the ocean lies a DMZ of rough brown sand and small grey granite rip-rap.

 

The ocean has been trying to reclaim this part of the island for decades and the good people of Jekyll Island have been waging a quiet and expensive war against mother nature. The genesis appears to be a devastating hurricane in the 1960’s. Of course, as with much of the eastern seaboard, development has taken place close in along the shore line. This despite the risk that sea rise and the next errant hurricane will flatten whatever is standing tall.

 

This area of southeastern Georgia is new to us. I do not recall how we discovered it. Where there are beaches, they are composed of firmly packed fine white sand. Many are, at least during low tide, a block wide. They are a joy to walk or ride a bike on. There is an occasional sighting of porpoises just off shore and legions of pelicans and gulls fishing. And for a couple of boating enthusiasts, large freighters head into and out of interior ports, and smaller more relatable boats transit north and south on the Intracoastal Waterway.

 

On Sunday, Palm Sunday I think, and we drove 6 miles to the southern end of Jekyll Island. The beach is intact here and we walked 5000 steps along the beautiful packed white sand littered with the remnants of live oaks. Though they are called driftwood, it appears to me to be part of the island’s forest reclaimed by the sea. 

 

Near the parking lot there is a short trail that explains, using placards and audio, the interdiction of a lawless slave ship called the Wanderer. It is a vile tale of the slavers that brought to America some of the last Africans and sold them into slavery. I was not a deep thinker as a youngster but I did wonder why no history was taught about slavery. In past travels in Carrie Rose on Chesapeake Bay we visited the Washington and Jefferson plantations, and obscure places such as Chestertown, Maryland. The history of slavery is thankfully addressed in each. Little by little the blanks in my education are being filled in. 

 

I have wanderlust, so after a few months hanging around the bungalow on Talman Avenue my mind begins to cogitate: where to next? I drop Charlotte a few hints of places I’d like to go, and wait to hear what and where is possible. By the time we get home I realize paradise is closer than I think . . . at least until the cogitation begins again.