Hilton Head Farewell

Friday -- Day Last

It must be nearly time to leave.  The weather is definitely spring-like and I saw my first local gnats today.  Bad germs are still hovering, taking one more bad night's sleep.

But it's been a good week.  Some beach walking and some good food.  Good books, lots to think about.

Vacations alone are fine for me.  The advantages are plenty:  I don't have to worry about what other people want to do, or feel responsible for whether we're all having a good time.  I get to choose movies, foods, activities (or none) that I enjoy.

But also it's a time to visit past vacations.  First, I see things I've enjoyed that I'll probably not do again -- bicycling, for sure, and possibly, sadly, tennis.

When I am on vacation, my family is there with me, my first years with Stephan, my babies, altogether, and then just us three.  There was our first time, the two of us, in the Caribbean, Paradise Island, where we did the new tourist bit of turning lobster red, but I also read aloud on the beach, could have been Mark Twain.

There was our first Disney vacation with our two little ones, when I began writing the first of the three Antoinette and Nikko stories.  I'd write a chapter a day, and read it to the family later.  I worked harder on those stories than I've ever spent on my writing.  I haven't looked at them in the many years since the rejection letters, but I still remember them being pretty good, and featuring two wildly fun kids that just happened to be my own.

A clue from the first Antoinette and Nikko adventure

Then there was our first solo Florida vacation, at Sanibel Island.  Nikko not yet seven helping to lug our assorted stuff up a couple of daunting flights of stairs.  After that we three had a couple more Disney vacations, until Antoinette informed me that next year she would be in high school and couldn't take a week off to go to Florida anymore.

So many bits and pieces of memories of great times.

I'm hoping that there will be more vacations together in our future, and do I dare to hope for family vacations with a grandchild or more?

Sir Terry and Me, continued...

Last year it so happened that the Discworld book I took with me featured a man of power and evil, and nicely put a face to the demons I wrestled with at home.  This year, as our politicians continue to search for ways to avoid making our country safe from gun violence, we have the power and evil of the gonne.  And here, believe it or not, is a quote from this book written in 1993:

"Gonnes don't kill people.  People kill people."  -- The Gonne

Hilton Head Spring

Thursday -- Day 5

Finally!

I do believe I am winning the battle of good germs v. bad germs.  And the weather is beginning to change.

I had my longed-for walk on the beach, still cool and breezy, but spring is in the air.  The beach is enormous, it seems there is either not much high tide, or I've been there at extremely low tide all week, and it's as calm as a bathtub.  No cars on the beach, not even the patrol variety, but lots of people, riding bikes (lots of bikes), flying kites, building sand castles, walking, sunning.  But the shore was so vast it hardly seemed populated.  My kind of place.

Sir Terry and Me

And it must be a vacation because I'm reading another Discworld saga.  The problem being that laughter -- even a chuckle -- can still lead to coughing fits.  But worth the risk.  I think the word "delight" was invented for the experience of recognizing the parallel between what has just happened in Ankh-Morpork and here in our world.  I know my aha! moments happen far later than the average Pratchett fan, but with no less amazement and joy.

Hilton Head -- It's Not Belleair Beach

Wednesday -- Day 4

So last year I had a much more ordinary condo in a much more amazing location.  A year ago I was on Belleair Beach, in a place that I could not have afforded except for the fact that the place was somewhat worn down and in they process of selling the condos and remodeling.  But it was right on a beautiful beach in a quiet area.  Belleair Beach is so small that there are no gift shoppes that sell Belleair Beach tchotchkes.  Perfect.

And the second day after my first traditional restless night, I found out that the big chair was a recliner, which I turned around to face the Gulf and made it my home.

But I was in this wonderful spot feeling massive amounts of anxiety and depression, and to be honest, heart-wrenching sadness.  I was wrestling with the fact that I could no longer continue in my low-wage job at the county library, which I had loved dearly.  The "new" library director had come in selling a bright shiny object that turned out to be a weapon designed to downsize and devastate our library system.  (I wrote about it here a year ago, and in more detail at my Thankful...to Have a Job? blog.)

This year, despite the cold weather and the body wracked with germs, I am feeling at peace with where my life has landed.  When I returned from my angst-ridden vacation, I wrote a letter to the Charleston Post & Courier describing the damage that was being done by policies that resulted in thousands of library books being discarded.  A couple of weeks later I decided that I could no longer continue to do that job.

Since then I have continued to speak honestly about what I see happening at the library, although (gratefully) not from within, but as a knowledgeable outsider.  It is still upsetting, but I am no longer a part of the mechanism of destruction.

My year has been a year of growing and learning new things and feeling as though I've entered another stage, not of retirement, but of being able to do good work that may make a difference.  I have been blogging like crazy, and happy to learn that many people enjoy reading what I write.  I am learning more about the crazy-land of local politics in South Carolina mostly through helping my friends at the ACLU track legislation.  I write letters to the editor, and meet with other Charleston activists.  And I am attempting to learn web design.  Oh, and I read.  A lot.

So I have had restless nights this week, mostly due to my nasty disease bugs, but the dreams I have had have been light.  In fact, since I have been giving much thought to where I was a year ago, last night I dreamed that on my last day at the library, I soundly told off the director, who was actually George W. Bush and not Doug Henderson.  Either way, a good time was had.

Me and Jack Reacher

I discovered Lee Child just about four years ago, and after a little initial confusion, I am reading the Jack Reacher series in order.  Since I just finished DeMille's The Panther, it just makes sense to compare the two.

There was more action in the first ten pages of Echo Burning than in the first 300 pages of The Panther.  Reacher, unlike John Corey, is a man of few words,  which DeMille (not Corey) could learn from.  His whole refusal to grow roots leads to some hysterical character traits and habits, like wearing the same clothes for three days and throwing them out and buying a new (cheap) set.  He has no sense of humor, which ordinarily doesn't appeal, but the pace of the plots and Child's ability to make the absurd credible makes for great reading.

Speaking of which, I have about fifty pages left, and I'm in the middle of a gunfight, so I'm off.

The Hidden Hilton Head

Tuesday -- Day 4

I'm tired of my cold, and tired of the cold weather.  Except that we haven't gotten down to freezing at night, the daytime temps have been colder than January or February.  So, because of my persistent germs, I have refrained from going for walks, trying to be content with my books and my pleasant view.

The apartment I am in is spacious to say the least.

It sleeps six, and with little effort you could easily avoid running into one another for days.  The porch gets afternoon sun, when it's not cloudy, as it was today, but the wind was so bad yesterday I only attempted it for about ten minutes.

I haven't seen any alligators, but I am continuing to keep an eye out.  My guess is it's too cold, no place to come up for sun, same as for me.  On Sunday I heard occasional loud splashes and ran in for my camera.  Hours later I realized it was a duck or two splashing around.  But the week is young.

Although I have to say, the time is flying, almost as though I was busy.  I am eating in tonight.  Even though I am traveling alone, I like to sample a few dishes from wherever I go.  I don't embarrass easily these days, but I'd be unlikely to order more than one appetizer or main course if I was dining in.  So  I do take-out, and overindulge.  And then on the next night, I have leftovers to enjoy.

Leftover night -- sometimes it yields odd combinations.

It's cheaper on average, I have my own stock of wine and beer, and I don't have to drive home sated, drunk or in the dark.

This afternoon I decided to explore the "other" side of this island.  I think the easiest way to get to know your way around a place is to try to find someplace.  My goal today was The French Bakery and Courtyard.  Should be easy, right on the main drag, William Hilton Parkway.  Except it's not.  With maps in hand, I drove several miles past where it should have been, no shopping center in sight, and pulled into a large Bi-Lo/Sam's Club strip mall.  Turned around and headed back.  Ended up unintentionally at the Giuseppi's I worked so hard to find on Saturday.  Stared at the maps again, and headed back out.  After a few tries, I found myself at what looked like the right shopping center -- which happened to be right across from the Bi-Lo I'd been at nearly an hour earlier.  This is getting to be an annoying routine.

It's a surprising shopping center, quite pretty but obviously older than the parts of HH I'd been seeing.

Based on the types and age and wear and tear of the stores in the area, I would say that I had found the hispanic area.  I liked it better than the newer, whiter parts of town.  I happily learned that Dye's Gullah Fixins  was in the same shopping center as the bakery, but after wandering around in the chill afternoon air, I found only a deserted storefront.

Time to head home, where I spotted a newer building with a sign that said "Dye's Gullah Fixins."  Of course I spotted it as I passed it, which meant yet another turn around in heavy traffic in four lanes.  But I was excited.  And then dashed, as I learned that it hadn't yet opened in its new location.

Here's something else about Hilton Head Island.  It's white.  Whiter than pretty much anyplace else I'd been since I'd come to live in South Carolina.  The exception being the help, employees in stores and restaurants and the crew at the resort.

For example, in my apartment is a lovely coffee-table type book called  Hilton Head Island Vacation Directory .  Pages 10-15 feature the island's Gullah Heritage.  And that is the last you will see of people of color in its pages.  (Let me know if I missed one.)  Oh, and maybe it's just me, but it's published by the "Anthem Media Group," which just plain old makes me shudder.

The other thing about Hilton Head Island that I am far more comfortable with is that it's faux nature.  Like Kiawah which neighbors my home of Wadmalaw Island, and which is even more exclusive than Hilton Head, the designers have taken great pains to give the appearance of a natural environment without anyone having to give up any of the comforts of civilization.  And let me just say that knowing there are turtles and alligators swimming in whatever that body of water is off my porch is about as close as I need to get to nature.  I know that lots of natural habitat was killed off so I could live in comfort this week, and folks can come golf here in luxury.  I'm not okay with that, but I'll live with the guilt for the week.

Hilton Head Island -- Too Much Weather

Day 2 -- March 24

A bad first night, which seems to be ritual on these solo March vacations.  The bed, as usual, is perched so high I could use a stool to climb safely to bed.  

Another factor making me miserable was that a couple of days earlier I had come down with a major cold.  This never happens to me; I have multiple aches and pains but it's been decades since I got hit with a bad cold.  And since I recently read Spillover, by David Quammen, things that don't usually worry me, like germs and viruses, have developed lives of their own in my imagination.  So I can not only visualize deadly microscopic bugs flying out of me with every cough or sneeze, but also practically feel my insides turning to masses of jelly-like viruses.

And of course there's my whole aching arthritic body.  I strategically saw my g.p. a couple of weeks ago and got a six-day prescription of that miraculous prednisone-like drug that wipes out the aches and pains while doing some other nefarious kind of damage that hasn't yet shown itself.  I had been holding off starting the regime, because I can deal with the pain at home, but had a memorably disastrous vacation that entails many, many stairs and so much knee pain that I was unable to walk on the beach.  That changed my philosophy of tolerating pain so that I plan my prednisone trips based on when I am away.  And coming up this spring we have a Harvard graduation at the end of May and a Champaign, Illinois wedding in June.  But enough was enough, and I determined somewhere through that first long night that faux-prednisone started Sunday morning.

Hours after the first a.m. double-shot I was happily pain-free.

The Beach

There were two types of weather predicted for this week:  wet and warm-ish and cold and sunny.  Violent Saturday night thunderstorms led to a cloudy Sunday, and by the afternoon I was ready to find the beach.  With my annoying cold and the threat of more rain, I just opted for walking, no chair and book, no camera.  It's a long walk if you're traveling with beach gear, but pleasant enough (about ten minutes) to the beach.

And the beach is beautiful.  Wonderful for walking, with hard packed sand, and it had the added advantages of no cars (Daytona Beach).  Weather and health permitting, I hoped I could have more beach time this week.

Brigantine Quarters apartments do have water views, but not the kind that warrant the nautical sounding names that overrun the community.  I would have thought that the water that runs past the back of my apartment was man-made; for what it's worth, it is a lagoon, which claims to be home to some interesting wildlife.

Wildlife, not as interesting as claims:

I haven't seen an alligator, turtle or even fish yet, but I'm going to stay on it this week.  I'm not sure why the fine for feeding an alligator is an even $1,062.  No doubt the research showed that at $1,061 the tourists wouldn't be able to resist.

DeMille and Me

When I was in graduate school, there were two young men who would sit front and center of every class and make wisecracks throughout.  The professors found them annoying and did their best to ignore them; the student thought they were idiots.

One of them is John Corey, the main character in a series by Nelson DeMille.  As with most wits that don't know when to stop, you eventually realize that they are just not that clever, but I have fond memories of Corey's first appearances.  As I recall, however, the first couple of books were about half the size of the later ones.  It feels as though we are actually with John Corey, for many long days, listening to him interrupt anything anyone has to say with a wisecrack.  And DeMille is determined to teach us the long history of the Middle East, so that nearly every other character but Corey is giving a history lesson.  Which makes me look forward to Corey's irrelevant interruptions.

In other words, it's much like being there, without the weapons.

The first exciting action scene takes place around page 300.  It was nicely done, but then in the next scene one bad guy tells another bad guy in great detail exactly what happened in the action scene.  Just so you knew they knew?

Why do I keep reading this guy, you might rightly ask.  Well, I like John Corey more than I dislike him.  And, like his wife, I shake my head much of the time, but occasionally bust out laughing, because even an idiot says something funny sometimes.  This is pretty much the only series by DeMille that I have stuck with, I think hoping that someday we'll get a little more action and a little less history.  And a little less wisecracking.  The stories are good.  The characters are good.  The plots are good.  I believe that DeMille needs a good editor that has the balls to stand up to him.  And I just don't want to miss the John Corey episode where that happens.

Hilton Head Island -- Not Far Enough South

Day 1

I got into town yesterday afternoon under heavy rain.  I would have called it torrential, but in my time down south, I recognized this as what they refer to in the weather forecasts as "showers."  In other words, I could see past the windshield.

My plan had been to get in a couple of hours before the 4:00 check-in so I could scout the various restaurants and other types of food emporia that I had been researching, choose a spot for lunch, do my grocery shopping and then check-in.  The rain drove me into the first restaurant on my list that I could find, which was good enough.  I settled down to a lunch of fried chicken, grits and fried green tomatoes at Annie O's and by the time I was done, the rain had stopped.

Being me, and despite my maps and notes, I had been completely turned around since I had gotten to Hilton Head Island, but it's an easy enough place to maneuver, and after 60-some years of being easily turned around, I took it in stride.  Which in fact led me to the Hilton Head tourist bureau, which I had wanted to stop by for a map but hadn't been at all looking for, and more happily to Hilton Head Ice Cream, which I had hoped to find at some point but had given up on.  Let me just say this:  I will be back for another cone of Espresso before I leave.

The Fresh Market was not cozy and personal, like the market I discovered near Belleair Beach last year.  It was big and packed, and had lots of great stuff to choose from, and the prices were fine.  My biggest complaint was that when I asked the deli person the difference between one plain old roast beef and an Italian roast beef, she said "I think the Italian is more rare."  She may have been right about that, but I was an idiot for going along with that.  Of course it is spiced differently, but then again we were in South Carolina, not the land of great knowledge of things Italian.  The desserts were lovely, and there was a good selection of breads, including one that said "hard crust" which actually was.

Which brought me right up to check-in time.  And the sun was out.

Brigantine Quarters is at the end of a winding path which includes the third right at a traffic circle -- they love their traffic circles here on Hilton Head Island (they make my head spin) -- and another right at some point to the end.  It was a short trip from Charleston by my standards (2 1/2 hours) and the improved weather conditions made me a whole lot less wrung out than I am usually by the time I get to where I'm going.  Which is why, instead of calling for my traditional first night pizza delivery, I decided to head out myself.  How hard could it be?

Here are some of the problems:

Knees.  The nice woman in Wyoming who rented me her unit misremembered and assured me there were no steps going into the front of the unit.  Wrong.  Add to that the fact that I don't travel light, and you have lots of trips up and down stairs to unpack.

General Discombobulation.  Once in the car, I had to get out of the car and make another trip up the stairs and into the house for the guest pass, without which I could not get back into the resort.  Then it occurred to me that I had left the resort map in the apartment, and decided that if I got lost finding my way back, I'd at least have dinner with me and wouldn't go hungry.

Eyes.  I have a pair of glasses that are only for night driving, because they are too strong to see anything up close, and a pair of old glasses that are for everything else, which makes my world fuzzy around the edges as well as in the middle.  So I was exploring a place I didn't know an hour or so before dark, and without a map to get me back.

But I did have my notes and maps to get me to Giuseppi's Pizza and Pasta.  So I headed in the general direction, supposedly for .8 miles.  Except that there were four lanes of traffic, and a divider with full grown trees in the middle, strategically placed so you could admire their beauty while not being able to see what was on the other side.  After I went about three miles, I decided to do a turn around and look for what should have been a fairly good-sized Shelter Cove Road.  There were signs for "Shelter Cove Community" and "Shelter Cove Something-Else" but no Shelter Cove Road.  When I finally turned into one of those, it looked like the right half of it was closed and out of business and the left side of it was dug up and under development.

So I decided to check the map.

I drove behind the closed-up building and pulled in,...

...checked the map and decided that I had no idea where I was but I was fairly sure I had to turn back.  So I backed out and got myself back out to the main road and turned in at a place that was a Mall with a capital M.  It looked, however, like I was on Shelter Cove Road.  So I drove along slowly looking at signs with names of shops, or shoppes, passing a Security car and thinking, "I should ask."  When I got to the end of the shops and shoppes, I turned around, found the Security car, nearly turned in the wrong way and then found the right way and parked behind him.

He sent me back the other way on the main road, past the Mall.  Which led me to a Piggly Wiggly shopping center, in a strip mall, so that looked promising.  I slowly meandered the length of the shops with no luck.  Past the Pig.  It looked like I was getting to the end of the run, and then I saw another shop at the end.  It was Giuseppi's!  And it was mobbed.  And I was exhausted.  I very nearly went home at that point to call for takeout, but decided that would be really idiotic.

So why didn't the Security guy mention the Piggly Wiggly Shopping Center detail, I wondered.

I did go in, and waited for not too long, and ended up with some delicious smelling pizza and fried zucchini, and a meatball sub (hoagie which I believe is a clue as to where the owner relocated from).  Grumbling about how my arthritic right hand was having a hard time opening the hatchback.  Slightly concerned about finding my way home -- where is it that I'm staying?  I backed out of the busy parking lot and headed out.

And realized that adjacent to this busy parking lot were the empty spaces that belonged to the abandoned building where I had parked to attempt to get my bearings.

Earlier that evening...JUST TURN AROUND!

You are here....

Thank You, Young Man

I've been wrestling with my fears of death all my life, really, since I was a child.  But (if not for dying) getting old hasn't much bothered me.

It really cracks me up that I'm now a senior.  I enjoy not giving a shit so much about what people think of me.  I'm in pretty good health, although I've had to adapt to arthritis pain and bad knees.  It's weird that there are places I can't go because there are too many stairs, but I'm getting used to it.  I'd rather read than do yard work these days, so I'm happy to limit it to a couple of hours whenever looking at the weeds or the height of the lawn drives me crazy.

One of the wild things about getting old, though, is the switch from those youngsters needing adult guidance and supervision to suddenly looking to "those young people" for help.  My children taught me to use Google when I have computer problems which I now mostly do rather than bother them.

And then there's my eternal cell phone dysfunction.  Since there's no cell tower out here in the boonies, I'm still on a land line, but every now and then I've bought one of those throwaways that drug dealers presumable use, so I'd have a cell when on vacation.  And I have recently gotten an affordable cell phone that I can use out on the road for emergencies.  If I can ever figure out how to use it.

So last night I sent out my very first text message, and hit "send" wondering if it would really reach its target.  In fact, it did, but later, when I was trying to call (like, to talk to) that same person, the damned phone kept trying to make me send a text.  Standing in front of the auditorium, trying to find out what had happened to the friend I was supposed to meet, I punched all the buttons I could think of that might magically allow me to make my call.

Of course, eventually I gave up.  I scanned what was left of the crowd, and chose two twenty-something young men and approached them for help making the phone call.  Which they quickly (and sweetly) did.  I actually just stuck the phone in one of the guy's hands, who made the call for me and handed it back.

So I just want to say, from one generation to another, "Thank you, young man."