Retrospective

A weeping willow mirrored in the face of a calm pool of water, the sun shining through puffy white clouds seen on the surface of a quiet lake.  These reflections have a beauty all their own but they are bound by time, showing only what is in the present. 
A year has past since my life was radically turned in a different direction.  A year ago I could only reflect, just as  mirror does, seeing only what was happening that day.  But, now I find my reflections are no longer limited but encompass a year of discovery and the gifts that has brought.  It has been a sensory year: a year that has delighted all of my senses filling them to the overflowing.

I've felt the touch of hot, dry wind as I stood enveloped in the deep of silence present in the sacred desert places of Monument Valley.

I've tasted the rich sweetness of just picked summer blueberries proudly displayed by farmers at the Eugene Saturday Market.

I've heard the pounding of  waves as they crashed with unbelievable force against the Oregon Coast, slowly chiseling shapes like a Michelangelo as he revealed the David he found hiding in a block of stone.

I've felt the bone- numbing Pacific waters  while wading  through the lowered to  examine starfish and anemones clinging to the sides of sea boulders near Brookings. 

And I've seen snow-capped mountains framed by a cloudless summer sky reflected in the rich turquoise of a crater lake that filled a long silent volcano. 













And today? Well today I reside in my native state, uncovering my roots as I search records for lost relations; gaining new perspective on my country and its people as I delve into the nooks and crannies of one of the  13 Colonies. 
So many sights and sounds have filled this past year and have become a part of me. And now as I reflect on them all, unbound by the constraints of time and space, I can  gratefully  exclaim,  "What Satan meant for evil, God has turned to good!"

Georgetown

My explorations into the  nooks and crannies of South Carolina have been influenced by an insatiable  desire  to uncover the quintessential "Southern" town.  It is interesting and very telling to read about and drive through these hamlets.  Some towns are quite endearing.  Others seem to have lost their soul, there identity erased by the flight of industry and a seeming sense of giving up and giving in to the reality of the changed  economy. Happily, one of our first discoveries nook and cranny discovery was the historic seaport village of  Georgetown. 

Georgetown (est. 1732) is South Carolina's 3rd oldest city.  It is sometimes referred to as "little Charleston" and after seeing its historic district I can say  that nickname is well deserved.  The wide avenues of this town are bordered on both sides by live oaks dripping with Spanish moss.  The tree's arms reach across to each other seemingly to hold hands.  Walking under them makes me feel like the bride at a military wedding under the rifled arch.  They are magnificent. 

In 1940 one of these was giants was estimated at over 500 years of age. It was registered with the American Forestry Associates as a South Carolina Champion.  At that time the circumference was measured 23 feet around. I continue to be in awe of these natural beauties.

But the trees aren't the only beauties this town has to offer.   Along the streets I see house after house  that has been lovingly restored to the beauty of its early years.  It's easy to get a sense of  how it feel to sit, soaking up the peace of a slow moving pace while rocking on one of the wide verandas.

The hook that drew us to Georgetown for our first visit was an ad promoting their annual Wooden Boat Show. Saturday morning event found Georgetown filled with all kinds of wooden boats on Front street, in the water and along the Harbor boardwalk.  The only prerequisite for a show entry is that the main structural strength be derived from wooden products.  Everywhere you look you see sail boats, row boats, kayaks, antique boats and even boat cradles for the youngest of yachtsmen.

They are gorgeous.  They are works of art.  The sun shining on the polished wood shows  depth and warmth when you look deep into the wood's grain.  To say it is brown doesn't come close to describing the velvet look that permeates the wood.  Many of the boats are accompanied by their builders, designers or restorers who are proudly waiting to tell me all about their passion. 
What a treat...can't wait till the next one.
Georgetown is now on the list of favorites. More about this town coming soon.

Conway, South Carolina, my Mom's hometown

Every year, until I was in high school, my family  traveled the road from Louisville, KY to Conway, SC to visit my grandmother. 

 Now that South Carolina is my new home,  it is fitting that my first exploration finds me on Hwy. 501, driving  into my past. 
Headed into town, the road is still shouldered on both sides by those well remembered swampy lagoons all soggy with black water. As a child I was afraid of that black water and its hidden mysteries. Looking into that swamp now   I can almost feel the ghost of Francis Marion (the Swamp Fox) peering from behind the trees. The swamp providing unlimited hiding places to wage his monumental campaign to help us win our War for Independence.
Conway, originally named Kingston in honor of King George I, is the last town on the road to Myrtle Beach. It's a river town, filled with pine trees, sandy soil and those oh so familiar black water swamps that border rivers in coastal South Carolina Even today the scent of damp pine needles and sandy soil conjures up memories of sitting on my grandmothers's screened porch, shelling butter beans as fast as I could, so we could beat a path to nearby Myrtle Beach.

Conway (est. 1734)  is one of South Carolina's oldest towns sporting streets peppered with one of my favorite trees, the live oak.  Bordering the road, they spread their arms wide to welcome my return.

Delicate strands of Spanish moss trail gracefully from their outstretched fingers.  They have a quiet dignity.  The breeze is warm.  The air is humid.  It is the Deep South.  It is home. 
A stop at the visitor's center and I'm loaded down with information about the Conway I remember and the Conway I have yet to meet.
But for today it is enough to enjoy the beauty of the oaks. 

The live oak.  It symbolizes all that is southern.  The oaks are Conway's oldest citizens thus are held in high esteem. It is the South's "postcard tree".  Antebellum plantation owners, well aware of their stateliness, planted avenues of them.  Leaves are leathery, shiny, evergreen.  Branches spread much wider than the tree's height giving them the look of an open hug. 

In shipbuilding days,  the  "knees" where the limbs join the trunk were prized for their strength and used to brace the sides of ships.
Conway has protected these "citizens" since the 1880's and continues to enforce a tree ordinance to ensure our enjoyment of these beauties for years to come.

Spanish moss is partial to the rough surface of live oak bark.  The sight of live oaks and Spanish moss existing hand in hand is so classic that a tree without its moss seems almost naked when not adorned by those tendrils.  It's interesting to note that Spanish moss is neither Spanish or moss.  It is an air plant (epiphyte) surviving on dust and water.  The  solid oak is there for support and is not hurt by its abiding presence. 

 I walk the streets my Mom walked as she grew. The same streets she stood to watch the circus parade as it marched through town.  The branches of the oaks  form an umbrella over my head just as they did my Mom as she walked home for lunch and a break from her vacation job "downtown". The Post Office is now a museum, the department store where she worked  no longer sells trendy dresses..  The Presbyterian church is still shouldered by the graves of founders of this town and those who fought for its freedom and to preserve its way of life.   Civil war veteran tombs are dressed with replicas of the "Stars and Bars".

 

It is an odd sensation to revisit places from your past.  You look at things through eyes of the heart, seeing not just what is there but what used to be.  Walking down the Main Street of Conway I am thrilled that this  Southern town has worked to keep the area vibrant and central to the heartbeat of Conway life.  Buildings wear new names but are still clothed in character and style luring shoppers  and diners to frequent visits.

  

 The black water Wacamaw river running through town is now framed with a river boardwalk.  People are everywhere, the town is alive, vibrant, keeping pace with the times yet walking hand in hand with its past.