LOWDOWN IN LOW COUNTRY
A Minnesota gal, I am. Conversation with many a friend of mine, back home, may sound a bit like this - "So, what plans do you have for the weekend?" -a response - "I think we're headin' up north to the cabin." In Low Country, the replay is likely to be, "We are goin' down south to our sea place!" What may be a cabin in MN with a deer and pine tree motif of earthen browns, moss green and brick red would be rewritten in Low Country with white pillared porches and rocking chairs, surrounded by clusters of waving sea grass, bowls of shells and sky blue cushions trimmed in coral or lemon. The beach hats hang neatly on the porch hooks, beckoning a beachcomber to a stroll in the sand.
Low Country was something I'd read of in a few previous novels, but really had very little idea what the 'lay of the land' might look like, or even where it was. A bit of education was called for after seeing a few 'Low Country' road signs as I rolled down a South Carolina highway. My research told me it is a section of the east cost surrounding Charleston, South Carolina and Savannah, Georgia. Sea level is an operative word, when thinking 'Low Country'. Salt marshes pepper the landscape of this slow-goes-it part of the U.S. On a sparkling sunny day, the waving marsh grasses move in shades of celery, emerald and toast, outlining the puzzle-shaped patches of crystalline ocean waters. These saline swamps are teaming with all manner of sea life. A visit to the local supermarket is testament to this. The deli cases are lined with bowls of fresh crab cakes, mussels, shrimp and clam chowder.
The harbors along the fingerling-shaped coastline dock a multitude of shrimp trawling boats and seaworthy vessels loaded with the day's catch. Having never lived in this culture, my curiosity pushes me to peek around a corner here, a narrow street there, and a drive around the bend in the road reveals a line of pillared historic old south houses. A seaside bench beckons me for a few contemplative moments. Sun shining warm on my face, I recall the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriages of Charleston, and the open door of the centuries old Catholic church within the historic downtown sprawl of ornate iron-gated walls. Organ music spilled out the doors of the church. Drawn into the sacred space of the empty sanctuary, I sit a few moments on a pew, listening – music and voices - of yesteryear - of what was - of what is to come. A wondering – what will a year - or two - or ten bring to my life. Always within me, the tree-climbing girl that swayed in the wind, wondering about my tomorrows. A cessation of the music jolted me back to real-time. Unseating myself, I left the sacred space of my wondering. And, once more ….I snap back to the present, as I sit on the bench of the dock of the bay. Rising, I walk to Pedro, and the next Low Country stop.
Octopus arms - that's what they look like! Giant trees of the costal Low Country frame the road with their magical limbs. These angel oak trees are like no other oaks I have seen. A light-strewn roadway tunnel formed by their canopy mesmerized me on the drive to Kiawah Island - one of 20+ Low Country sea islands. There was a tugging at my heart - "Stop! Go climb them!" Then good sense took over - no longer am I the 'small fry' on my Iowa farm with nimble knees. Instead I stop and stare up through the maze, thick with hanging 'beards' of Spanish moss. The mystery of this moment consumes my being. Squinting and turning circles, diamonds of light swirl above me. I breathe in the moist Low Country air, feeling the goosebumps on my arms. And on I go, to the local Java-Java haven, and my morning tea.
Brookgreen Gardens lies about an hour north of Charleston. It is 9,000 acres of pristine nature at its best! As I drive the short distance to Hilton Head on a cloudy misting day, I rehearse the delights of my visit there. This oasis is home to a multitude of winged creatures, creepy crawlers and of course, an occasional alligator. The many life-sized bronze sculptures scattered on the grounds awakened plenty of artsy inspiration for me. Grinning to myself, I recall the humor of the moment as the great blue heron stared at me, lifting and retracting his thick S-shaped cordlike neck, like a child and his slinky. A stone’s throw away, 2 turtles sit, head-to-head in some turtleland conversation, a seemingly romantic turtle-moment. The tupelo trees and great palmettos drip on this dewey day and I find shelter for the moment under the angel limbs of a monstrous oak. The short-lived shower allows me to roam for another hour, listening to many a fountain singing its water-song and walking the secret wooded winding paths to charming green corners and a child’s fairyland of nature’s magic. I welcome the tsunami of new world images that settle in and fill my soul, floating down ‘the 17’ on my way to the next bridge and island paradise.
Most everyone, at one moment or another in their life, find themselves facing a trial, a trauma – a few seconds can change everything. My journey has had it’s share of trials – a time here and there where I ‘lost my grounding’, feeling a little low in spirit. I’ve ridden the wave out and landed on solid ground again, in time. Sporadic times of ‘the terrific’ have also been a part of this pilgrim journey – euphoric minutes of pure pleasure and joy. It all comes with the territory. This, my friend, is life! Giving and receiving remains central to my purpose as I roll off the miles. The solitude of letting both God and my heart speak has allowed me to find healing and wholeness.
On my morning’s drive to the Hilton Head library last week, it was my great misfortune to face one of life’s little traumas. The stop light hidden around a bend in the road was red – a stationary car in front me. Squealing brakes and …CRASH… then silence. I feel only a twinge in my ankle – no other pain. The car in front drives through the intersection and parks. 9-1-1 – time elapse – emergency squad – police – tears – confusion. As I pace on the roadside, answering questions for the report, I am filled with regret. Why, did I choose that moment to glance out my side window. Everything has changed. Pedro’s engine will not start. It is time for Plan B.
My accident - terrible but not tragic. Inconvenient, but not the end. I am amazed that with my dear daughter’s help, I am sitting on an airplane in Savannah 6 hours later bound for California. Pedro has been towed to a collision center. From the west coast, I will navigate the repair to my RV on the east coast. My journey is delayed, but still I will write. There is always an inner journey – and there will I go. Perhaps come January I will reunite with Pedro for the remaining 5 months of my pilgrimage.
A low moment – feeling down, but not out in Low Country. Through life’s highs and lows I go on, confident of God’s presence, always.
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
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