Flower Lady

     Sissey and I were able to sneak in a few days in Charleston over Spring Break...the Holy City is at it's best this time of year, when the flowers are bursting with blooms and the humidity has yet to blanket the city in a fog of sweat. I drove up and down the streets, giving Sissey the same old tour she gets every time--"There's the bank where I used to work! That used to be the East Bay Trading Company! There's my favorite restaurant!" etc. etc. etc. But it was at the corner of Meeting and Broad that I got a little misty eyed as I remembered my favorite flower lady, the one I would pass on my way to and from work, the one who always smiled and sang out her flowers, enticing  workers, residents,and tourists alike to take home a bunch of her beautiful blooms. I always thought she had the best job in town, sitting in the middle of the Holy City, surrounded by flowers, singing away the day, a smile on her face, a flower lady.

Flower Lady

Dark skin wrinkled deep-

Proud eyes return your gaze

then soften with a smile.

"Hey sweet chile

Buy dese blossoms he-uh!

Got me de glads
an som snaps
Zin-nee-yas!
Be-gon-ee-yas!"

She sings her wares.

Straw hat
boasts a purple bow.
Large worn hands
caress the blooms.

"Growed'em myself
on de Johns I-land.
Popcorn plant!
Make pretty wreath!
Dolla a bunch- no bow!
2 dolla- wrap'em up!"

She sings her wares.

Corner of Broad
and Meeting Street
she rests her blooms

and calls...

"Law chile

Buy dese blossoms he-uh!

Dolla a bunch!

Dolla a bunch!"

No time card

No days off

She sits.

She sells.

She smiles.

She sings her wares

Fishing Feet

     It's getting to be about fishing weather again. Of course, for some die-hards, that would be year round.  I don't care if it's raining, snowing, or a hurricane's a-brewing, every day's a fishing day for those that were born with a rod in their hand. I should know, I come from a fishing family, that DNA swimming through our veins like a salmon searching for a spawning stream.

     As Sissey and I cross the Catawba River Bridge each morning on our way to Lancaster, I always check to see if the regulars have cast their lines.  There are usually two old timers out on the banks of the river, irregardless of the weather, just sitting, watching their lines. I don't know if they ever actually catch anything, or if it even matters, because the point is, they are there, and it reminds me of my son, born to be a fisherman if ever there was one. I smile as we ride by.
  My son came about fishing the old-fashioned way. He inherited it. He's from a long, long line of DNA that contains the fishing gene. My grandfather,Charlie, was one of the original heirs born of the rod-in-hand, growing up in the lowcountry where salt water flowed through his veins and plough mud graced his feet.  It was a rare day that didn't call for a little fishing and Grandaddy was always prepared to cast a line. It didn't matter if there were chores to be done, school to attend, lessons to be learned, or places to be....fishing always came first.  Being a smart man, he had an ingenious system devised whereby he could sneak in a little pole-wetting each morning and still get home in time for school.
     The plan went something like this: when he went to bed at night, Grandaddy would tie a string around his big toe and hang it out the window of his third floor bedroom. His friend would arrive early the next morning and yank on the string until Grandaddy was awake. He would then crawl out the window and the two lowcountry boys, one white, one black, would sneak off to the marsh with poles in hand to spend the morning fishing. The boys would sneak back in time for Grandaddy to slip back into the house, change into his school clothes, and walk downstairs completely dressed, shoes on his feet, books in hand, ready for the world of academia. No one was the wiser, or so they thought, and the fishing had been accomplished.
     Grandaddy loved nothing more than running barefoot down those sandy roads heading toward the marsh and his favorite fishing hole, but he always made sure that he made it home in time for school.  One day, his teacher sent a note home to his father with the following message: "Please make sure that Charlie comes to school each day with his shoes and socks on."  His mortified parents quickly notified the teacher that Charlie was always properly dressed and shod every morning when he left the house; but life in the lowcountry was warm and humid, and shoes were a cumbersome nuisance for a growing boy....they cramped the toes and made the feet sweat.  Grandaddy knew he couldn't possibly concentrate on strenuos studies when those wretched leather contraptions were suffocating his feet and cutting off the oxygen flow to his brain, especially after he had just spent the morning wriggling his toes in the soft mud and sweet water of his favorite fishing hole.
     Charlie would have none of that, so being a smart man, he had devised another ingenious plan, this one aimed at freeing his feet for the remainder of the school day. Little did his parents know that as soon as he reached the end of the driveway each morning, those shoes and socks came off and were stashed beneath a bush, where they would sit until he arrived back home from school each afternoon. His plan went well until the day the teacher sent  the note home to his parents.   
     After being caught bare-footed, he obediently wore his shoes--but only when necessary.  As a result of spending his growing years as barefooted as possible, he spent the rest of his life searching for shoes to fit feet that had morphed into small boats, nearly as wide as they were long,  a size Nine Quadruple E, almost perfectly square peds, regulation fishing feet.
     I drove down Rifle Range Road the last time I was in Charleston, searching for the old homeplace that existed no longer. "Yeough Hall" had burned down years ago after being struck by lightening, and the old homesite was replaced by upscale subdivisions, subdivided into small lots with massive homes, swimming pools replacing swimming holes, jetskis and power boats replacing the old fishing skiffs, and an unrecognizeable myriad of landscaped yards smashed onto the fringes of the old salt marsh. It looked nothing like the rambling, wide-open flat coastal land I remembered as a child.
      As I passed a retention pond that lined one of the new golf courses, it brought a smile to my face to see a young boy on the bank, shoes resting by his bike, fishing pole in hand, just watching his line. Progress may have come barreling through the marsh, but some things will never change, and a boy born to fish will always find a fishing hole.

"Fishermen"

Elizabeth M. Daly

Oil on Canvas

2008

Canine Couture

     I've heard of e-mail, snail mail, and DHL, Pony Express, UPS, and Federal Express. I've gotten insured delivery, special delivery, overnight delivery, registered delivery, sent air mail and forwarded mail, Santa mail and pen- pal mail, but I've never, ever seen or heard of doggie mail.
        Until late Saturday afternoon.
        That was the day a  doggie delivery arrived at the front door of Walnut Street. I'm not talking about the kind of doggie package that you should scoop up in a bag and dispose of in the trash. This was a real life, honest-to-goodness package, an eight-by-ten padded manilla envelope with sufficient postage stamped in the upper right hand corner, return address correctly written in the left corner, properly taped and sealed and stuffed in the official, regulation-sized, federally-approved, United States Postal System mailbox.
     It was a rather inocuous looking package, but the address caught my eye. It was not addressed to my father or mother. Not addressed to me or Sissey. Not addressed to any human being who presently or formerly, in this life or any other, had ever occupied this residence. Written in bold letters across the front of the envelope, plain as day, right there for the postal inspector, the mailman and the United States Postmaster General to see was the name of one five-pound, miniature, tea-cup sized, white-with-a-hint-of-apricot toy poodle. It was addressed to none other than Mr. Big. The dog. The canine. The one with four legs and a tail.
     "Mr. Big! Mr. Big!" I yelled as I ran through the house waving the package in the air. 
      "Here boy, here big guy!  You've got mail! You have a package!! Come See!!"
      Everyone in the house was full of excitement as I ran into the den and told them Mr. Big had received a mysterious package from Virginia.  When I placed the package before him, Biggie started jumping up and down and running in circles round the den, clearly excited but without a clue as to why. He was hoping for another one of the almost-real beef-basted doggie bones that I had bought him at Wal-Mart on Saturday and seemed  unsure what to do with the padded envelope.  He sniffed it a few times, pushed it with his paw, wagged his little puff of a tail, tried to nibble on the corners, then stared up at me with a pleading look that seemed to say, "Please tell me what I'm supposed to do with this...it doesn't really taste very good."
      I retrieved the package from him like a good owner. My father's yellow lab, Rebel, eagerly ran over to help, but dropped his tail between his legs and pouted in the corner when I told him the package was just for Mr. Big and  no, he couldn't  rip it open.
      "Come on, Biggie, I'll help you," I said, tearing  open the seal and dropping bits of paper on the floor for him to sniff. A pretty little card decorated with butterflies, bunnies, a racoon and a mouse fell into my lap. It was from the mother of one of Mr. Big's former classmates at Northstar Academy, the school he had attended in Richmond with Sissey.
    I picked up the note and read it to him:
             "Mr. Big,
              "How are things in the great state of South Carolina?
               Crocuses and daffodils are up in Virginia!
               I am most concerned about your safety AND masculinity!!
               I'm afraid Mary Lapsley is going to take you on the bike with Rooster.
               Enclosed please find a Biker's Jacket for such an occassion."
               Love, Kathy"

    Inside the package was a "Boots and Barkley" black leather biker jacket with silver spikes studding the neckline-- Stunning!  The perfect accessory for any poodle to wear on a day of biking! Mr. Big was ecstatic.  He may have been small, but he had a huge sense of fashion, and the manly biker gear had him salivating more than a bag of basted bones.  He slipped it on, ran around the room to model it for us all, than sat down to wait for Rooster to arrive.

      When Sissey was still a student in Richmond, Kathy would often would pop by school as she was picking up her son Jay and leave a bag for Mr. Big at the front desk, a note attached on the outside and a new outfit tucked inside. She had helped him become the best-dressed canine in town and he was quite proud of his haute-couture wardrobe, which he kept in a special little pink and black LL Bean tote bag with "Mr. Big" monogrammed across the front in pink. His favorite outfit arrived the day Kathy sent him a policeman's uniform, complete with badge, handcuffs and a billy club attached to the belt. There's nothing quite as handsome as a poodle in uniform.
      So now he could add to his haute-couture wardrobe an oh-so-snappy leather biker's jacket from the House of Kathy, Clothier to the Canines, an outfit that not only defined his masculinity but  ensured he practiced safe biking.
     I couldn't wait to tell Rooster that Mr. Big was ready to ride, baby, ride with him on his next Harley excursion.  I was certain he would not be the least bit intimidated to roar through town on his Harley with a fluffly little poodle perched on the seat in front of him, both nattily attired in black leather, studs shining in the sun, hair and fur blowing in the breeze.  It takes a real man to burn rubber with a poodle.
     If only I could find a little pair of goggles to match.....

Atta Girl!

     Yesterday, while sitting in sociology class, Mary Lapsley heard her name being called in the hall. She looked up to see the secretary of the academic dean standing at the door waving an envelope.
     "I have a letter for Mary Lapsley Daly," she announced as she handed Sissey the envelope.
      With a puzzled look, Sissey started to open the letter.  She had registered on Monday for the Fall 2010 term, and I held my breath, expecting it to contain a schedule of the anticipated tuition increase.
      A smile started to creep across her face as she read the following:

              "Dear Ms. Daly:
                    In recognition of your excellent academic performance and achievement at the University of South Carolina-Lancaster, I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to participate as a marshal at our 2010 commencement exercises. This is the highest academic honor that can be awarded to a freshman at USCL....I offer my warmest congratulations upon receiving this honor, as well as my appreciation for your commitment, hard work, and achievements......"

I think the scared little girl from Virginia who arrived on campus last August has been replaced by a confident young woman who's going after her dreams with great gusto! I gave her a huge "Atta girl" hug, a high-five slap, and walked around campus for the rest of the day with a Cheshire cat grin plastered across my face.

It's SRO'ver

     SRO 2010 is over. We left the conference, the University of Louisville, and a dreary Bluegrass State on Sunday morning and started back to South Carolina.  Never saw a single blade of blue grass the entire trip.  Never saw a single blue sky either. 
      I grabbed a couple of free cups of coffee from the lobby of the Hilton, reprogrammed the GPS system to head for home and hopped onto the expressway leading out of Kentucky.  We perked down the highway, passed horse farms and pastures, passed signs pointing to  "The Bourbon Trail" and "The Kentucky Thoroughbred Retirement Farm,"  and marked off the drizzly miles as the GPS lady calculated our trip and navigated our route.

       I had been fighting with the GPS lady ever since we left the mountains of North Carolina on Friday. Seems she and I had differing opinions on how to get from point A to point B: when I wanted to take the scenic backroads, she wanted me to "make a legal U-turn, make a legal U-turn" and head towards the interstate; when I wanted to pull over for pictures, she insisted I "continue on the current route, continue on the current route." We had screamed and yelled at each other for the entire eight hour trip,  me banging on the dashboard as I continued down the backroads while she kept insisting  "make a legal U-turn, make a legal U-turn" and return to the interstate. It continued like that until we pulled into Louisville.
    For the trip home, I was tired from being on the road all week and  wanted to take the quickest, most direct interstate route back. I was also determined to patch things up with the GPS lady and have a pleasant ride home, so I decided to just go wherever she directed me, convinced I could become her new best friend. We were getting along famously as she directed me through Kentucky and Tennessee.   
      Once we passed Knoxville, a series of very large "DETOUR AHEAD" signs began to pop up along the side of the road. I continued to drive down the interstate, listening to the radio, ignoring the "Interstate Closed Ahead" and "Detour" signs, and believing that oh-so-obnoxious voice when she told me to "Continue on the current route. Continue on the Current Route."  I figured she would let me know when it was time to exit for the detour.
      I drove on until I reached the very end of the accessible interstate. There, in blazing orange, with lights flashing and barricades blocking the highway,  was a HUGE Detour sign, with the GPS lady calmly telling me to "Continue on the Current Route, Continue on the Current Route." Evidently, a rock slide on the North Carolina/Tennessee border had closed the interstate indefinitely, but not once, not a single time, did GPS lady warn me that the interstate was completely blocked and I had better turn around.
     Either no one had told the GPS lady that little important piece of navigational information, or she had an alterior motive. I realized at that point that perhaps GPS lady might be a little bit vindictive.
     Had I made her so mad on the trip out that she was going to take me straight down the interstate until I rammed into a rock slide while driving 70 MPH? Surely not! Surely she had just been misinformed by that great satellite in the sky which communicates all pertinent information to intelligent life forms below. Surely this was not a deliberate attempt to cause me bodily harm simply because I had questioned her navigational skills....
      I decided at that point that I was a little uncomfortable with her in the car, so I told her goodbye, flipped the GPS off, and  followed the detour route, thinking it would swing me around the blocked road and right back onto the interstate.  I quickly realized, however, that the detour was only a U-turn and I  was headed straight back up I-40, going back exactly the way I had just come, heading back towards Kentucky. GPS lady had gotten her revenge.
      Exasperated, I stopped at the next rest stop to pick up a map, hoping that old-fashioned method of navigating would be a little more friendly and a lot more accurate.  The attendant, an actual real-live, person, told me I had two options: drive all the way back up I-40 until it hit I-81, head north and then pick up 1-26, head back down to Asheville, pick up I-85 etc. etc. etc.  That was a whole lot of backtracking and extra mileage if you asked me. 
    She then said , "There's another way, a pretty drive, but it's a mountain road and you gotta go over the mountain to get there."
    She slapped an official Tennessee State Map on the counter, with the recommended route back to Interstate 81 highlighted in yellow. Taped to the map, however, was a small, handwritten note that gave directions to the "unofficial" mountain road detour: "Go five miles back up the road, turn right until it dead ends. Follow that road to I-26."
     I decided I liked the attendant a whole lot better than GPS lady. She actually wanted me to take a scenic route, plus I didn't think she wanted to kill me.

     When I got back in the car, Sissey just rolled her eyes when I told her which way we were going. It was a no-brainer. To heck with the faster route home. We had to take the mountain path, the road less travelled.

      And let me tell you something, I am so glad we did.  We followed the French Broad River as it wound through the valleys, then headed up a gorgeous mountain pass through the rolling hills of North Carolina. I was driving that mountain road with my camera propped on the driver's wheel, snapping pictures while I tried to negoatiate curves and narrow bridges, the GPS lady strangely silent. 
    I snapped pictures of the river and pastures and bridges, but I had to stop and turn around when I passed an old car jacked up a mile high on mud tires.

    "Sissey, look at that!" I yelled as we turned around on Pig Trot Road.  I'm still not quite certain what they planned to do with a '57 Chevy perched on some bodacious mud tires, but it was certainly a sight worth turning around for and capturing on digital. She made me promise at that point to just keep on driving, quit turning around for stupid pictures, and get her on home.  She had two tests the next week, one the day after Spring Break, which I'm not sure is completely legal, and the scenic route was not rocking her boat.

     We drove on until the road ran into I-26, made only one more quick detour in Spartanburg for me to drive Sissey through Converse College, my alma mater. I snapped a few more digital pictures, then drove non-stop down the western side of Highway Nine until we pulled into Chester.

    I apologized to the GPS lady for my poor behavior, gave her a little pat on the dashboard, and turned off the engine.   I was sorry to see spring break come to an end, but it was good to be off the road, alive and back home in the grand ole state of South Carolina.

Entering the Bluegrass State

      Spring Break for the USC-L gals started with a trip to the coastal plains of South Carolina, followed by a quick mid-week jaunt to the mountains of North Carolina, and ended up today in the bluegrass state of Kentucky. Sissey is attending the SROW Conference at the University of Louisville, along with 1500 students from colleges and universities in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina and Tennessee. I think I am the only one here over the age of 21. Haven't spent this much time with a bunch of college kids since I graduated in '83, and had forgotten a few things about the younger generation.
      Number One: A basketball stadium full of college kids smells worse than a locker room.       
      Number Two: A basketball stadium full of college kids is louder than a war zone in the midst of direct, full on, mano-a-mano combat.
      Number Three: A basketball stadium full of college kids contains enough raw energy to fuel the entire nation for the next three generations.
      We were in the basketball stadium last night for the opening ceremony and skit competition which centered around an '80's theme.  I think the students all thought it was extremely hysterical to focus on such an out-of-date, far away, long ago time in their lives, practically back when the dinosaurs still roamed the planet.  I didn't feel old and out-of-place until the MC asked  if anyone had actually been BORN in the '80's and if so, to jump up and scream and yell and wave their hands.   Only a few hands clapped...the majority of these babies had been born  AFTER 1990.   I kept waiting for him to ask who had GRADUATED from COLLEGE in the 80's....just dying to jump up and scream and yell and wave my hands like all the kids were doing.... it didn't happen. I don't think he even realized people who graduated from college in the 80's were still alive.
       Before we arrived, I had promised Sissey that I would behave all weekend and try not to do anything that would embarrass her...things like jumping up and screaming and yelling and waving my hands.  So when the jumping and yelling and screaming actually started, she glanced over with that "You promised me" look and heaved a great sigh of relief when the moment passed and I had simply continued to sit quietly on the sidelines, hands folded demurely in my lap, lips silently zipped shut,  practically non-existent.
       And that is how I will continue for the rest of the weekend.  I promise.  I absolutely will not try to act like a college kid, will not jump up and scream and yell and wave my hands, will not carry a USC-L banner or wear a college t-shirt or paint a mascot on my face. But I will say one thing, and it is this: of the 1500 students in that gym tonight,  of all those PALS and leaders and orientation ambassadors, there was exactly ONE student in a wheelchair. I give great credit to USC-L for that, for looking beyond a physical disability and seeing Mary Lapsley for who she is, and for being a real champion for students with disabilities. 
     And for that, I WILL jump up and scream and yell and wave my hands!
    

Road Kill on Highway 17

    Spring break brought an excuse for Sissey and me to head south, south, south....searching for the warmest spot we could find in South Carolina.  The first few days were spent in Hilton Head, where the temperature never broke the sixty degree mark.  To hell with global warming, Al Gore, we were freezing.  I must say I had never, ever in my life been to Hilton Head in March and had to dress in turtle necks and jackets.  Used to be we had already spent a month on the beaches by the time March blew in ( albeit usually huddled in some sand dunes to break the chill,wrapped tightly in beach towels, but nevertheless on the beach or bust).   This time, we caught glimpses of the ocean only while huddled inside a cafe sipping hot, hot, hot coffee.  Of course, the day we left the island, temperatures soared to seventy, and we caught our first scent of plough mud as we drove through the marshes headed up to Beaufort.

      The plan for the rest of the week was to drive to Charleston to meet Nancy, my best friend from college and the second half of the Fun Girls from Mt. Pleasant. We were planning to indoctrinate Sissey into the Fun Girls Club, turning the duo into a trifecta, insuring that the next generation would carry on the torch, with plenty of shopping and restaurant hopping included in the plan.  The trip to Charleston, however, was going to take a little off-beaten path, as I had a hankering to see some of the prettiest marshes on God's green earth, take a leisurely drive through the barrier islands, absorb some of the sweet low country air, and stop at some local stores and cafes that you can only find when you aren't really looking. We headed to Beaufort, St. Helena's Island, Frogmore, Hunting Island, Fripp Island, made a u-turn at the end of Fripp and backtracked through Cat Island and Port Royal, then turned towards Garden's Corner and  Charleston.  

     We had stopped for lunch at a little spot on St. Helena's  called "Gullah Grub Restaurant." It was located in an old white frame store-front with a sign announcing it served only authentic low-country food.

      "We'll see about that," I thought, as we pulled in and parked in a sandy spot under the live-oaks. We were greeted in the parking lot by a local artist who made sweet grass baskets and sold her original paintings from the front porch of the restaurant.

      "Ya'll need some hep?" she called as I was getting Sissey's walker out of the car.  "Come on in sweet girls, dey'se open!"

      She walked over to the car and chatted with us all the way to the front porch, talking about her art, the cafe's food, the local weather, where we wer from. You can see, of course,  why I love it here.

   We strolled to the front porch of the store with her to see  her wares spread out on an old bench.

    "I'se the artist done all the art heah," she proudly continued, as she showed me her baskets and folksy  paintings of local life.  I promised her I'd do a little shopping after we finished lunch, but told her that we were both starving and had to eat first or we'd soon expire.

      "You go on in, dalin', git you somptin good to eat."
    We entered the storefront through one of  two doors that formed a perfect v-shaped opening in the middle of the porch, and sat at a table by a tall front window.  The waitress tried to sell us some crazy concoction called "swamp water",  but we didn't take the bait and ordered jars of sweet iced tea instead.  We feasted on creamy she-crab soup, chunks of sweet cornbread, and strips of fried shark. Our waitress insisted that we also have the potato salad," 'cuz Bill jes made it fresh this mawning and it is some mo' good."
     It was as good as she promised.
    After what I deemed acceptable as an authentic low-country lunch, followed by a little porch-shopping, we headed on up the road, as I was eager to take Sissey on the most beautiful drive on God's green earth-- that stretch of Highway 17 from Charleston to Beaufort.  When I lived in Charleston, I couldn't wait for an opportunity to get in my little blue Volvo and head south to Hilton Head, windows rolled down to suck in great gulps of plough mud and marsh breezes as I rolled beneath moss-covered oaks, past Edisto Island, Jacksonboro, Garden's Corner.  I would almost burst with anticipation as I drove, waiting for that one part of the road that would take your breath away as it entered the heart of the marsh.  On both sides of the narrow road, for as far as you could see, stretched the great, open marsh, divided only by the little creeks that cut through the grasses and flowed to the sea. It was a sight God had made just to make man smile. 
     My gas gauge had been warning me for miles that I needed to  "fill'er up," but I was trying to make it to Garden's Corner so I could stop at the little market/gas station/store which I loved and that sat beneath some sprawling old oaks in the middle of the intersection.  About a mile out, highway construction signs began warning me to merge left, use caution, reduce my speed.  I adjusted my driving and told Sissey to hang on, we'd be stopping in just a sec to get gas.  I was shocked when I reached the junction.  Gone was the intersection I remembered. Gone was the little market/gas station/store. Gone were the live oaks. Nothing remained of Garden's Corner.
     Instead, Garden's Corner was now a new four-lane intersection with signs pointing to Interstate 95/Savannah/Charleston. I felt my stomach lurch as I turned right onto Highway 17 and headed up the ACE Basin parkway, sensing changes I knew I would not like.  Both sides of the road were littered with heavy excavating and highway maintenance equipment, the two-lane, narrow road in the process of becoming a four-lane divided highway. The beautiful moss-covered forests on both sides of the road had been massacred to make room for the new lanes of traffic. Plowed earth, concrete pipes, mounds of gravel and neon orange cones littered the lanes on each side.  I wanted to cry. Who, I thought, who could possibly be in such a hurry that this beautiful road had to be butchered for the sake of speed? Who would want to forfeit a moment of beauty, a chance to stroll through the marshland, in order to shave a few minutes off a trip? Who would interupt the estuaries and disrupt the wildlife that had claimed this land long before man arrived? Who?
      I held my breath as we neared the portion of the road that entered the marsh. Surely, surely, I thought, no one would desecrate that holy ground, but as we drove on through the miles of construction, my hopes faded. As I feared,  progress had trumped preservation.  The marsh had been raped.
       The new road, all four lanes of it, was tearing right through the ACE basin, home of the wetlands of the Ashepoo, Combahee and South Edisto Rivers, habitat of bald eagles, herons, turtles, shellfish.  Huge mounds of earth lined the left-hand side of the road, completely blocking our view of the wide expanse of marsh.  Preparations were well under way to plow on through and plop four lanes of macadam on top of the plough mud and sea grass.
    The old scenic road was gasping for it's last breath as the new highway rolled on top of it and covered everything historic and gentle and slow and beautiful.  My soul  hurt, hurt to see what man would sacrifice for the sake of convenience. Again, I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream and grieve and mourn and wail over the loss of yet another slice of life that will never be recovered. Interstate 95 hovered only a few miles away, yet it was deemed worthy to desecrate the marsh to get to there more quickly.  A slow dose of beauty held no value in today's frantic pace to get somewhere, anywhere.
       I drove on in silence, with a heavy heart and a dangerously empty gas tank.  I finally stopped at a new mega-convenience store just outside of Jacksonboro and filled up. I could also have bought a lottery ticket, played video games, purchased a quick fast-food lunch, stocked up on souvenirs and groceries,  or fueled up an 18 wheeler.  As I pulled back onto Highway 17, I noticed a sign pointing to Interstate 95. It would have taken a little longer to take the Jacksonboro Road to Hwy. 61 which runs right into I-95, but it would have preserved the pristine beauty of the ACE Basin parkway. I'm quite sure it would take longer to restore a marshland and a scenic, forested highway than it would to take a detour to the Interstate, but who's got the time for that?  Besides, it was just another highway fatality, and who was keeping count?
       I swallowed the lump in my throat as I drove on towards Charleston, laughing at myself for crying over "road kill," but crying anyway as I mourned the death of a lovely old lane, a path through time that had been wiped out as the violent march towards progress continued to plow through the south.
    It was just another fatality, an innocuous death on Highway 17, but I mourned.
      
   
       

   

Oh My Darling

      Sissey has a new hobby. The ukulele.  Yes, I said the ukulele. Baritone, to be exact.  A regular throw back to Don Ho. She's always wanted to go to Hawaii, and with the recession and all, this is as close as she's gonna get. Besides that, the ukulele has become quite popular again. Oh, you didn't know? Well, it has. Don't think Tiny Tim and Don Ho had a monopoly on that fine instrument. It's making a come-back BIG TIME.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
     She didn't actually start out with the ukulele. It was the guitar that she was really interested in-- that oh-so-popular instrument with all the young female musicians-- so she called her cousin in Anderson, SC and asked if she could borrow an old one.  Anna was the proud owner of a new, top-of-the-line Fender that she had gotten for Christmas, so she was more than willing to ditch her starter guitar . She agreed to bring it over the next time she was in town, but cautioned Sissey that it needed a "few little repairs."  There was one other condition attached: her brother, Tripp, and his band  "The Dealers" wanted to smash the guitar as part of a routine at one of their college gigs. Anna asked Sissey to send the guitar on to Tripp as soon as she was finished with it and ready to upgrade. Although the thought of smashing a perfectly good instrument was a little appalling to Sissey, she agreed to Anna's terms.
      The guitar arrived and off we went to the music store in Rock Hill, eager to replace a few strings, grab some new picks, and begin her journey into the acoustical land of strummers and pickers.  Only one little problem: the "few little repairs" involved some major cracks in the fretboard and some pretty big structural problems.  The bottom line was that the repairs would cost more than a new guitar. Things were not looking too good.
     In the meantime, Sissey had also discovered that Anna's guitar was a bit cumbersome for her to manage and that the strings would have to be reversed in order to accommodate the limited range of motion in her right hand.  She would have to learn to play the guitar left handed and backwards while creatively trying to  to hold an instrument that was practically as big as she was. It became apparent this wasn't going to be a successful musical venture. The owner of the music store, however, was determined not  to let an eager musician walk out empty handed. He started walking around the store and pointing out other options.
     I said "Absolutely not!" when he suggested the violin, as I was still having painful flashbacks from my experience tutoring a young violinist back in my high school days (I would play the piano as he practiced, the neighborhood cats howling along with the screeching notes, my head pounding at the end of the hour long session).
      I suggested the tambourine, but they both shook their heads and cried  "No!"
     "What about the mandolin?" I offered next.
     "You have got to be kidding!" Sissey said. "NOBODY plays the mandolin."
       I could have argued that point, but let it pass.
      We circled the store, checking out drums, banjos, keyboards. Finally, the shop owner had an insight.
      "Wait just a sec," he said as he headed towards the back of the store. "I have something that just might work."
     He reappeared with what looked like the perfect "Sissey-sized" mini-guitar. It was about two feet long, half the size of a standard guitar, but perfectly aportioned and resembling Anna's Fender.  Her eyes lit up like sparklers the minute she saw it, and I knew we would not be leaving that store until my credit card had been swiped.
      Sissey grabbed the "mini-guitar" and started strumming away. It was a perfect fit. Not only that, but instead of the usual six-strings found on a guitar, this one only had four!  So much easier than those pesky six...who needed those extra two strings anyway, when four did the job just as well?
     "We'll take it!" she said as she strummed away.
       "Do you even know what this is?" I asked her.
       Didn't know, didn't care. It was the right size, it had strings, it made sounds, she could hold it on her lap, and she was in her element strumming away. It was a done deal.
       The shop owner gave her a quick lesson on baritone ukuleles, and when she found out they were the instrument most associated with Hawaii, there was no turning back.  We left with the uke, a couple of picks, and a Mel Bradley instructional book of chords and songs. She learned the first two chords in a flash: G7 and C. That's all you needed to sing most of the songs ever written for the ukulele, but for some reason, she was stuck on one in particular: "Oh My Darling Clementine."
     For the last week, she has strummed and we have sung "Oh My Darling Clementine" enough times to set a Guiness Book of World Records, which I'm sure has never been done with the baritone ukulele. We are so very proud.
      So Sissey has a new hobby. She's a ukuleleist.
      I insisted she take it with her on spring break so her Dad can get the full effect of "Oh My Darling." All weekend long. Over and over and over. Morning, noon, and evening. Yep, strumming away. On the beach. By the pool. In the car. Non-stop. With me singing.
     Oh, my darling, it's going to be a great week!