There is it seems a wealth of Americans who have an undeniable – and mildly perverse – thirst for anachronism. We were reminded of this simmering perspective when visiting Palmetto Bluff today. Palmetto Bluff is 20,000-acre private residential community tucked away in beautiful and scenic Bluffton, South Carolina not far from Hilton Head Island. While the throwback is both entertaining and instructive it’s also a bit spooky. The Village amounts to a Disneyland re-enactment reminiscent of the 1939 American epic historical romance film “Gone with the Wind” starring Clark Gable (as Rhett Butler) and Vivien Leigh (as Scarlett O’Hara) which pointedly opened on the eve of the American Civil War in 1861. The plantation setting captures the magic of the era but the attempt to relive it is a reminder of the South’s shadowy past and its unwritten codes.

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When my iPhone started to beep at seven o’clock this morning I was awoken with a start.  Unusually I was in a deep sleep.  I recall I was dreaming about something and whatever it was, it wasn’t – for a change – upsetting.  Wouldn’t you know!  I deleted the alarm on my iPhone and flopped back into bed, partly draping the duvet over me, holding my iPhone in my left hand.  I began wondering whether I might fall back to sleep and drop the phone.  I thought of other things to keep myself awake.  At last I relented, peeked from under a corner of my eye mask to glimpse the dawn and then eased out of bed with a mournful sigh.  Saturday morning.  Breakfast at eight o’clock at Low Country Produce Market & Café.

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The first time I thought about losing weight was immediately after graduating from law school in 1973.  Three years of cooking my own food for the first time in my life had not been an improving culinary or dietary experience. There was an adage at law school that in the first year they scare you to death, in the second year they work you to death and in the third year they bore you to death. By the time I had reached third year at law school I was spending a good deal of time with my cronies at the Piccadilly Tavern where I regularly ordered quart-sized bottles of beer and afterwards contrived to absorb the liquid by eating sandwiches made of thick brown oatmeal/molasses bread and Cheese Whiz.

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Having to be anywhere at eight o’clock in the morning is not part of my routine. I won’t however pout about today’s regime. Though it involved an early morning start it was hardly an imposition. The theme of the day was a visit to Le Spa of Sea Pines for a haircut, manicure and pedicure. My first appointment was at 9:30 am.

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In an attempt to temper what can only be described as my school girl inclination to keep a  diary, and in submission to my urge to record the details of my littoral sojourn on Hilton Head Island, I have relented to the extent that I will attempt to capture the facts without completely contaminating the account with tiresome personal information. This is a project likely doomed to fail. Segregating individuality from the general landscape is virtually impossible. There may however surface in the slush of what I say at least an element of substance.  Such haughty aspiration!

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Generally speaking I don’t like old stuff.  I prefer things like “Cadillac all shiny and new” and clothing that hasn’t the dubious charm of a well-worn Harris tweed jacket. But I acknowledge there is a case to be made for a patina.

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I have never flown a glider. I have no desire to try bungee jumping. Aerial kite flying is right out! In fact for my entire life I haven’t really done anything either outstanding or remarkable.  Swimming, downhill skiing and bicycling are about as adventurous as I have been. The transitions in my life were essentially predictable. Even winning the occasional reward or distinction was about par for the course.  I have by comparison no hope of appointment to the bench or bestowal of a reward by the Governor General. Mediocrity is perhaps the least indelicate description of my life’s fulfillment.

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When my elderly mother asked when I intended to leave for Florida for the winter (we actually go to South Carolina but Florida is her colloquial term for “south”) and I told her early November, she summarily retorted, “So you won’t be home for Christmas“.

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When we spend the winter on Hilton Head Island it is “off season”.  The real tourist traffic starts in March and continues until Labour Day in September.  There are clusters of people who return for American Thanksgiving on the third Thursday of November and again briefly after the New Year. Otherwise the Island is comparatively quiet.  I was reminded of that today as I lounged by the pool in the late afternoon sunshine.

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I have always rationalized that I enjoy life because I have nothing much to complain about not. I haven’t any special talent for managing the ups and downs of life. Indeed I rather hold fast to the theme that life is good even though I am certain that an impartial on-looker might not be quite so charitable. This morning for example I received a long-distance telephone call from my neurologist’s office advising me that his review of my recent MRI discloses a degenerative disc. I can’t say that I was either alarmed or perturbed by the intelligence. After all I’ve been living with this progressive ailment for years now.  In fact I indicated that it is probably just something I will have to live with forever (although I may think differently once I receive his full written report). Until then however I have resigned myself to accepting that dilapidation and aging go hand-in-hand. That certainly seems to be the universal empirical conclusion so I don’t see why I should be an exception.

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