The old lawyer had once been a man of perpetual motion—courtrooms, cities, first-class lounges, the world itself. Now, his movement was deliberate, strategic even, dictated in part by the sturdy tricycle that had become his chariot of choice. He had traded the salt air of a seaside resort for the gentler rhythms of the riparian countryside—where the rivers meandered at his pace and the local wildlife stared at him with the same bemused detachment he reserved for strangers.
The old lawyer had once been a man of perpetual movement—courtrooms, cities, towns, the world itself. Now, his movement was measured, his steps deliberate, his outings dependent on the sturdy tricycle that had become both companion and necessity. He had left the clamor behind, retreating to the quiet countryside where time passed more slowly, unbothered by urgency.
Precisely 7 days from now – Saturday – we leave. This morning we began preliminaries of our long, slow descent to Canada, an anticipated journey from here of three nights and four days. Already we have dinner reservations along the way; and, we have targeted places to have the car washed. Early this morning after my constitutional breakfast of steel cut oats, berries, prunes and fruit, pecan slices, maple syrup and yoghurt I tricycled around Lands End then along S Sea Pines Dr and back for a total of 6.12 Kms. This final matutinal repetition kicked off the impending absorption.
As the enraptured hours of our resort on Hilton Head Island diminish progressively, approaching our departure a week hence, I find myself having frequented only lately two venues which I have intriguingly spied – though had not yet frequented – throughout our two month tenancy here beginning the end of January last. The tardiness speaks to the odd characteristic upon arriving at an unfamiliar territory to seek to discover, rather than what is immediately at hand and inviting perusal, instead that which is further beyond and unspeaking except because of its distance.
Gems in the Rough
March 29, 2010
JoAnn Ferguson
The glint in JoAnn Ferguson’s eye—if you catch it before she evasively looks away—betrays her mischief. The slight curl of her lips barely disguises the pleasure she derives from her devilment. Opinionated to a fault, she needs only a hint of assent or objection to translate her correspondent’s reaction into either glee or resentment. Don’t expect direct statements, just innuendo—usually deprecatory. Her tongue moves with the precision of a lizard’s, striking quickly and with intent. Some call it satire; I find it more visceral than cerebral.
Unwittingly, we merged into the measured chaos of breakfast at Palmetto Bay Sunrise Café, rousing ourselves from the overnight tangle of sheets and blankets promptly at six a.m. in preparation for our scheduled departure. Showered, shaven, and dressed in freshly laundered clothes scented with lavender, we ventured into the early morning shadows, where the distant sun had yet to make its presence known. The winding corridors of Sea Pines Drive and Greenwood Drive, leading to Arrow Road and Helmsman Way, demanded careful attention as we navigated their dark, narrow passages.
Although it has been pushed aside by the daily commotions emanating from the White House, the weather continues to disturb the innards of many coastal proprietors throughout the globe. It appears that it is not only history that repeats itself.
The arrival today at 09:02 of the Vernal Equinox—the beginning of astronomical spring and the end of astronomical winter in the Northern Hemisphere—marked the accelerated descent toward our departure from Hilton Head Island less than ten days hence. This swift approach was further distinguished by an uncommonly cool, dry, and breezy climate, perfectly suited to a thin wool sweater, a silken scarf, and white woolen socks—a moderate shield against the elements, whether predictable or unexpectedly contrary to the euphoria of the irradiant day.
When we’re young and in school, filtering in and out of classrooms and on and off athletic fields, hearing the constant noise of our companions to whom we are seemingly conjoined like darting fish in a shared current, we may overlook the bounty of society. Later as life propels us forward through advanced studies, careers, travel and the myriad demands of existence we develop differences into which we separate from the herd and become progressively distant from one another. We begin meeting new people of entirely different and unpredicted parallels. We may even fall in love. Yet amid this flux the connection or acquaintance which stands out from all the others is that of friendship, whether newly formed or continuing from adolescence. Friendship, that undeniable preserve of distinction, can mark a lifetime like an embossed stamp.
It disturbs me that the much-touted and predictable demographic changes on the horizon are illogically perceived as the advent of social, cultural, religious and economic change. From my vantage the recognizable demographic change will be confined to changes of age, popular youthful diversions, slang and drinks. In short nothing but the usual over time. As for the patent change of people’s outer colour (and perhaps their sartorial expression) the change is skin-deep only, not anything catastrophic affecting the principles of either democracy or the “American Way of Life”. Walmart survives in spite of approaching demographic change.