Tidings of Comfort and .......

 

A trip to the post office can kill your comfort and joy buzz — IF you let it. 

Don helped me carry heavy boxes into the post office this week. As we got in line, a lady behind with an enviable resting bitch face and eyeroll muttered something that didn't sound like a greeting. I looked behind her and realized the actual end of the line went on a good ways behind us. We moved to the back of the pack without taking my earrings off.

 

Literally moments later another "lady" in front of us felt that she needed to dictate to another where she should stand, the other lady told her she was just fine right where she was.  I believe those damn aisle arrows that have been removed from the grocery store floors have thrown these wanna be traffic police into a tizzy. 

As we moved through the line at an acceptable holiday pace, it was clear to see that there were two kind of people in that room. The patient and impatient. Sighs and mutterings could be heard behind me if someone took longer than a minute with the postal clerk. 

And then — it was my turn. I was greeted by a jolly postal elf with a ginormous Christmas Santa hat on. While he was scanning my packages I  fixated on his hat. It had bulbs on it and looked like it may be a little uncomfortable.

 

I knew the minute it left my mouth I was click bait. "Does you hat light up?" I asked. 

He grinned wider than a Cheshire cat and said "Well yes it does." he answered. 

He pulled a bell hanging down near his ear and the hat moved up and down on his head and the bulbs all lit up and elf ears popped out from the side and it sang "We wish you a Merry Christmas." and more verses of it than I knew it had. 

I scanned the room behind me, sneers and jeers, I was clearly the bane of their existence. I've always been the one to mash a button on a toy in the store to see what it does and then fumble to find the cut off switch hurriedly. I couldn't get behind the plexiglass to do so and just suffered through the imaginary projectiles being thrown at my back.  

But, the song eventually ended and the postal clerk wished me a Merry Christmas with a wink and a nod for the next person to come to the counter. 

A little reminder, we don't have to tell everyone how we feel about them. Sometimes we can just go along with it and be better for it. 

That Kitsch Shit Going On

I don't believe the true magic of the universe can be conjured but I do believe it will present itself if I am open to it. I realize with Covid that I can fall into a much smaller world (rabbit hole) which closes the portals to that magic. I have to fight that, I will ALWAYS fight that. I can take a ride, walk, phone call, write, spill into a journal, cook, paint, etc.

On our way home from a trip to the mountains to meet a precious new life, our 4th generation great-grand girl, I thought of how fortunate I am to even utter those words. 4 generations of women in one room. How divine. 

The night before I was to meet Tinley I climbed into the foreign cabin bed in the foothills of NC, my soul's home away from home. My furry girl Zoe sighed and finally fell asleep curled up beside me, un-settled herself and looking for comfort from my body heat, I — the same from her. Both of us are accustomed to the creature comforts of our home. 

Sleep was not as quick to come for me as was with Zoe. I tossed and turned. I was absolutely positive the ancient cabin logs housed creepy crawlers just waiting for the lights to go out. Finally, my eyes couldn't focus, my sub-conscious put guards at the gate and I drifted off.  

Around midnight I rolled over and noticed a glow in the bedroom. A dream catcher hung in the  window. I didn't pay any attention to it when when we first arrived. Aren't they in every cabin in the mountains? So kitschy that they have lost their wonder. Or have they?

Maybe I just need to remind myself of their origin. I like to think an Indian maiden lying on her back, star-gazing on a cool mosquito-less fall night with a crackling fire nearby, framed the galaxy in her minds eye and then made a twig frame for it. Call it what we may it's really not the piece itself is it? It is what is behind it, seen through it, or the memory caught in it. 

I walked in my own yard a month earlier and there too was a perfect nature-made frame hanging from a few transparent webs. There is a constant in the universe, an earth-speak, subtle hints of wonder left just for me on my journey if I will just pick up the little pieces of puzzle it leaves me along the way. However, it's not a practice as easy as eating and drinking, etc. 

But — tonight, with the slivered light of a new moon, the dream catcher caught in it's web 2 huge glowing stars/planets of which I am not sure. I called Don in to see them, they were so bright!  We do that, we share the wonder. Don is a night-owl, he will come to me in the middle of the night and take my hand to walk outside into the darkness for a night-wonder;  a moon glow, an owl, a wood-line full of fireflies or the eyes of a herd of deer. 

Tonight I called him. Light fluffy pastel blue clouds wafted through the webbing of that dream-catcher, the symmetry of the stars in it was absolutely beautiful. 

Later I Googled the heavens to see what the phenomenon may have been. I really didn't know what to look for but Earthsky.org said that on October 16, 2020, the Eastern seaboard would have the year’s closest and largest new moon. 

Yes, a new moon she is, our beautiful little great-grand Tinley. Continuity, promise, hope. Shine your light little one. Your light, your life is your voice. 

2 nights after we came home from the mountains, just to prove it's not just a mountain thing, earth was showing off in the southern sky. Don again took my hand and walked me down the steps with a flashlight and then cut the light off to show me the big and little dipper. As a bonus, the Milky Way swept through the middle of the sky as if with a angled camel haired artist brush, dipped in blue-gray paint. 2020 ain't all bad y'all! 

Sands of Time

The first time I remember my feet touching the silt of the sea I was around 8 years old at Atlantic Beach in NC. I remember the scary tug of the disappearing sand as the tide pulled it from under my feet, I felt I would fall. I crave that tug annually. We have never lived more than 4 hours from the coast but it seemed like forever away sometimes. I once put sand in a box and brought it home. Then one cold winter day in North Carolina I warmed it in the microwave, took the box to my office and jammed my toes into it while I worked at the computer.  

In the late 70’s I was pregnant with my first daughter but wasn’t about to let that keep me from the sanctity of putting my ass in the sands of Key West. I dug a hole in front of a probably now defunct sand bar blaring Peter Framptom and Bog Seger. I then placed my rotund belly in the cool concave. About a half hour into my sunbathing I was hit on by a dude. I put down my book and rolled over to address him, he stopped mid-sentence and took off when he saw the swollen orb that had been hidden in the sand. 8 weeks later when I went into labor I walked the sands of Isle of Palms in SC because walking the halls of a hospital was so much less appealing.

When I go to the beach I seldom go into the ocean but I love the waves, the tug in the shallow surf. I adore how the sand makes me feel. I have come as far as one can go, to the edge of my terra-firma without being consumed by its majesty, the ocean.  

I have wizened to the idiosyncrasies of beach people now that I have become one: 

• Those  with the faraway look in their eyes. I used to walk past them and look out to see what they were looking at. Nothing and everything.
• The buried feet people, these are the ones that came out the day before and didn’t put sunblock on.
• The combers, the people who walk like they have a certain intention—  straight ahead, they pass you again a half hour later with the same intent. 
• The seekers, those hunch backed young and old with solo cups full of shark teeth and shells.
• The builders, those who make towers to say they were here, with moats and windows of shells. 
• The losers, the people who don’t know the tide and come back to find their chairs, flip flops and towels have been consumed by the Atlantic. 
• And lastly, sweet baby Jesus, bless their hearts — The sea gull feeders.

I can also tell you that sand is the best pedicure you can get. I always come back from a beach day with pristine pink bottomed feet. Sand isn’t always kind though. I would pack band-aids for Don and the boys for their boogie board irritated nipples. And there is nothing worse than sand in any crack if you aren’t near a shower when you leave the beach. I swear I almost made an oyster once in the car ride home once.  

Over the sands of time I have been all of the above. Today, on Folly Beach, I am just lost in the awesomeness of it all. I began seeking for elusive sharks teeth. I am sure I didn't look that distruaght but a kind man came over to me and held out his hand which was full of sharks teeth. He gave me three of them. A lot of people had walked by this man and he chose me to reach out to. I freaking love kindness!! Don then found one and gave it to me. 

After about an hour we made our way back to the public access. I saw my granddaughter sitting in the sand, her 7 month pregnant belly swollen. With a little imagination I can see my great granddaughter Tinley rising butt up to greet the sun and surf. Continuity, no where says it more clearly than the edge of America.  

Magnolia Plantation & Gardens Chinese Lantern Festival

When we arrived at  Magnolia Plantation & Gardens for the Lights of Magnolia display in collaboration with The Zigong Lantern Group the lights were competing with a brilliant fuchsia sunset to the east. In no time at all the sun set and the production proceeded to steal the show.
I had been excited since before Christmas to see the display and avoided looking at pictures (the best I could) of friends who posted on FB and Instagram of the event. That worry was unfounded, there isn't a picture out there, anywhere, that could replace seeing this in person.
My husband, two friends and I were greeted near the ticket booth by one of Magnolia’s own colorful beauties. Mr. Peacock was lackadaisically foraging the grass for a late evening snack. Minutes later he flew to one of the magnificent moss laden oaks and posed as one of the most beautiful silhouettes I have seen.
As we entered the arches the “oohs and ahhs” began. The 3/4 mile stretch of phantasmagoric eye-candy was filled with people of all ages. Glee, amazement and gasps of awe were heard from the smallest to the oldest around me in addition to my own. I slowly moved from one display to another through the slack-jawed, wonder-struck crowd. I talked to strangers too overcome not to speak about what we are seeing; The colors, the miles of silk, the weight of the bent steel, the precision, the perfection, the art, the intensity, the backdrop of Magnolia Garden’s dripping moss and towering oaks. It was an amazing marriage between the lights and Magnolia’s natural flora; the lighted alligators among the low forest, huge butterflies alongside the winter blooms of camellias. 
We wound our way around the fairy tale children’s section, the ark, the fields of butterflies, ladybugs and more. The trees and paths were filled with brilliant Avatar sized blooms and dripping icicles formed a canopy overhead along with the hundreds of LED lit Chinese lanterns. The panda, lion and zebra displays were just dazzling. The wall of Chinese Zodiac tiles was a huge hit with the crowds as everyone searched out their birthday year and sign to take a picture with. And then — there he was, the  200-foot dragon.
The dragon being one of the most magnificent lantern displays was built on-site by The Zigong Lantern Group. The artisans, use a variety of materials including silk and chinaware, LED lights, bent wire, plates and cups.
Hong Jun Deng's magnificently created dragon "is really the biggest dragon I have ever made." he said through an interpreter to Herb Frazier, Magnolia Garden’s Public Relations Director.
Its head towers 45 feet into the moss-draped trees. The dragon's scales are made of 26,000 porcelain plates. Deng and Wu carefully attached each plate on the dragon's body with thread. I stood transfixed at this piece for a long time in wonder. I crept up as close as I could get and was admiring the plates, the thread-work, the silk, the wire fabricating, the bracing. I turned to find my husband to find an Asian man smiling at me across the path, I smiled back. I think he was pleased to see the work of his culture so greatly appreciated by the crazy lady about to tip over the rope to get a better look.
For more stories about the fabrication, the process and the people behind it, please check out Herb Frazier’s stories based on interviews of the artisans here. https://www.magnoliaplantation.com/lights_of_magnolia_stories.html

As we exited the last arch, my friend touched my shoulder. "Look back." she simply said. As a whole the lights were just as gorgeous, but narrowing and dimming with each step away. A perfect close to 2019. Hello 2020.
Thank you to the powers that be at Magnolia that brought this beautiful lantern festival to us. Get your tickets and don’t let this event slip by.
The hours are 5:30 to 9:30 PM Wednesdays through Sundays. Tickets are $28 with fees for adults, $13 with fees for children ages 6-12 and free for children ages 5 and under. Additional fees for on-site parking and shuttles apply. For more information and ticket options, visit www.lightsofmagnolia.com

Lions & Panthers and Eagles, Oh My!!

I was scrolling through social media one morning when I saw a photo of the last known Barbary lion, now extinct. The grainy photo was taken out of the door of a plane by it’s pilot in 1925. The year they actually went extinct is disputed but this appears to be the last actual photo. Proof in hand (or on film) is not always good enough. There are disputers to this day.
Lions with similar DNA touted to be Barbary’s in zoos around the world are likely mixed descendants. Barbary lions were huge! 600 pounds and over 6 to 9 feet long with a defining dark mane on it’s head and chest with a light colored body — think Scar from Lion King, only not as skanky. My gosh they were a magnificent species. Sadly the reason for their extinction was un-restricted hunting.

The story struck a chord with me, it reminded me of my own “sighting” over 40 years ago of the thought to be extinct Eastern black panther. I was working at a tiny country store in Dorchester County when a young man that I knew pulled up and came in. I saw his tailgate was down and figured he must have a deer on it which wouldn’t have been unusual, a lot of the local fellows paraded their deer on the way back from a successful hunting trip.

“What did you bag today?” I asked him after I rang him up for his drink.

“Come look.” he answered

There were no customers in the store so I followed him out of the door. When I stepped past the porch column I saw it, that mythical sleek black cat on the tailgate and gasped. I ran my hand across it’s body. It was still soft and subtle. I was speechless and fought back the tears that were threatening to spill down my face. I was both the saddest and luckiest girl to have seen it but I wish more that I spied it darting between pines in the straw covered terra-firma rather than lifeless on the back of a pick-up truck.

There is no question, no doubt whatsoever that it was a black panther. And no, it was not a melanistic cat or mistaken identity. It was in full sun beneath my hand. Jet black with no mutation of color anywhere. It had a lithe slinky body and long tail. My guess is that it weighed 60 - 70 pounds or thereabouts. It’s black coat was very shiny. It’s eyes were open and the most beautiful aqua color.

I looked up at the young man in disbelief. He didn’t act proud or chatty and maybe even became a little solemn when he saw my reaction. I think he wished he hadn’t asked me to come look. He moved the panther back and shut the tailgate. Of all of the questions to ask, the only thing that came out of my mouth was “What did you kill it with?”
He pointed to his bow hanging in the truck over the back window.

I sympathized with the young man as he pulled off and I walked back into the store. I thought of the Mockingbird that I killed with my brother’s BB gun when I was 9 or 10 years old. I don’t think I believed that I could possibly even hit it when I pulled the trigger. I was sure that it would fly away and I would talk about how close I got to it or something of that nature. But — no. It fell to the cool sand under a oak tree and I buried it there. I hoped that when the last handful of dirt covered it I would never think of it again —but that wasn’t the case. I was sick and heartbroken for the longest time and it still bothers me to this day. What in this world made me do that? To show my brother that I was a better shot?

The night after I saw the panther I called my Dad. He told me that he had heard of local hunter’s spotting them since he was a little fella but had never seen one or heard of one being killed.

If this had been present day I am sure it would have been all over social media. The tiny little country store would be a busy convenience store today with every person there snapping a pic with the camera. The headlines would read “Young man kills phantom thought to be extinct black panther, maybe the last of its species.”

I am glad it didn’t go that way, it would have done no good. I believe with all of my heart that he wishes he had not reached into his quiver for that arrow. It was possibly an impulse reaction from the adrenaline induced by seeing the magnificent animal.

Even though we lived in the same town and still know each other, it is something that we have never mentioned again. I did however reach out to him several years ago when there was a sighting of a panther near Edisto Beach. I told him that we both know they are/were out there. I didn’t hear back from him and didn’t really expect to. I don’t worry about credibility with telling the story. I know it’s a few notches shy of saying I saw Sasquatch but — it happened. The truth is always stranger than fiction. I did see an Asian Black Panther up close and personal for a photo shoot in NC once. It was definitely NOT that Panther. It was much smaller, but with the same features.

In the early 70’s my parents received an urgent request to hurry to my grandmother’s house. When they arrived my cousin was sitting in the living room with his rifle between his knees looking proudly at his kill. Stretched across my grandmother’s tiny living room was a Bald Eagle. It’s wingspan was nearly 7 foot across. My cousin showed no remorse for killing the eagle which was actually still on the endangered species list in the 70’s. He bragged about what he was going to do with the feathers and talons.

I have to admit that I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him the next year when he lost a toe on a hunting jaunt. A rattlesnake crossed his boot and the dumb ass shot his own foot.

I am not against hunting legally at all, on the contrary. I anxiously await a freezer of venison as I write this. But I would never, ever again in my life pull the trigger on an animal that I wasn’t going to eat with the exception of  poisonous snakes. And — other than the Palmetto Bug, (roach on steroids) I can think of no species that I would want eradicated from the planet.

My kids would chime in here and say “What about those two hamsters?”
They were accidents and that’s a story for a different day. As I look at the photograph that started this morning of retrospect I found myself in the seat with the pilot in 1925, far above the now extinct Barbary lion as he looked through his lens at what he believe was the last of it’s species. I know how he felt.

I think of the still quiet body of that Eastern Black Panther on the tailgate of a truck and how it felt to my hand. I wish that it too would have been shot by a camera like the Barbary Lion that day as well as the Eagle and the Mockingbird.   

Privilege, Privilege Everywhere.

My phone rang  and I looked down at the call coming in, it was my granddaughter. We had just finished a long conversation a half hour earlier, so I was surprised to see her name on my incoming screen. I knew something was wrong when I answered, I could hear the shakiness in her voice.
“Grandma, I am so upset!  Something crazy just happened here and I feel like a second class citizen, like these people think I am a criminal or something."
"Whoa, what happened?" I asked.
"I went to my dog sitting job, it's in a gated community. The clients were still home and I thought I would let them leave before I came in, I didn’t want to interrupt their last minute packing. I decided to pull over at the park to eat my lunch and give them time to leave. There were two ladies there, one old and one young. They watched me pull up and saw me eating. They kept staring and then went over to each other and kept looking back and talking. Then one of the ladies walked past me, glaring, she was so close to me that she could touch me. She picked up a football in the park and walked over to a car like mine a mustang. I could see there were two young school aged teens inside. The women told them something and pointed at me and the boys started staring as well. I finished eating and went to leave and the boys pulled in behind me. They followed me staying right on my bumper. They stopped pulled up beside me and glared like the women did back at the park. I just don't understand this." she said.
“Yes, I know exactly what this is, and I am so sorry you went through it.” I told her.
I call it privilege paranoia. I have experienced this more and more in the past years as a service provider. Our business requires us to work in gated communities all the time. Along with the absolutely phenomenal customers that we have, the communities are also brim full of Nosy Nellie’s and Picky Pete’s and it’s not just in gated communities anymore, it’s spilling over into developments everywhere. I know this because I lived in one. Actually it was one of the reasons we wanted to move to the country. People were fighting everywhere and about everything! Feed the ducks, don’t feed the ducks, dog poop on ground, dog poop smell, late postal delivery, suspicious car, suspicious that, child alone at the park on a swing, child didn’

t’t have a pass to the pool, vehicle didn’t have a sticker on his car, their grass is 1 inch over regulation, they had 4 cars in their driveway, they left their garage door open all day, they left their garbage can out all day, house trim color is hideous, their trim needs painting, their shrubs need trimming and the list could go on and on. 
We saw and heard it all. If you want an idea of how it goes, join the community Face Book page of the development you are living in or plan to live in. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to have caring neighbors and HOA rules and regulations are set up to ensure a better living environment. Their restrictions are fine if that is what you agree to, BUT — let better judgment prevail.
When you see a beautiful young lady or hell even an ugly old ass lady for that matter sitting in her (beautiful black mustang) car eating her sandwich, can’t you just assume that is all they are doing? What triggers you to think she is a child snatcher, a package thief, a criminal that you needed to corral out of the park? If you see a 60 year old grandmother driving a company truck looking lost can you just assume that she IS lost and not a serial killer.
This happened to me in an affluent community last year. I pulled up to the community gate, which opens to public at 9 a.m. I followed a truck through the gate. After getting about 20 feet in the gate the man put his brakes on and got out. He walked back to me and asked me what the nature of my visit was. I told him I had a quote to give.
He said, “You piggy-backed into the gate behind me.”
I told him, “No, the gate opens at 9 to everyone.”
He said “It’s not 9 yet.”  I looked at the clock on my dashboard, it was 8:58. 
He asked me if the business name on the side of the truck was my business. I wanted to say “No, I put these magnets on so I could pose as a legit business while I come in here to case you out for a robbery.”  He then walked to the back of my truck and pulls out his phone to take a picture of my license tag. By this time I am done with Barney Fife wanna be cop and pulled out. I left him with his mouth open in my rear view mirror. I cut a few blocks and lost him but was shaking by the time I got to my clients house. She was very apologetic, she said she didn’t know what was wrong with these anal people in her community.
All I am saying is give peace a chance. You would have liked my granddaughter. The neighbor of yours that she was dog sitting for would have recommended her to you to care for your pet. And she might even have forgiven your crude ass and done so. She is working two jobs to go to school in the fall. 
Me, I’m a little charred. You left a bad taste in my mouth. I wouldn’t be rude or nasty but  I‘d mutter under my breath, “Bless their teeny weenie privileged ass hearts.”
Privilege begins as a supposed blessing before it becomes a fence, whether it is in a gated community, a line drawn in the sand, a sect that won't tolerate other's that don't feel or think like them. Privilege can be anywhere or attached to anything. It can even be imagined. But what it can't do is make itself invisible.   

Hurricanes in the lyrics of Clash — Should I stay or should I go now?

On the cusp of Hurricane Michael bearing down on the gulf coast, I write this story of resilience during and after Hurricane Florence in one of my other favorite seaside towns. 

Davis, NC is a small fishing community on the Core Sound, about 15 miles outside of Beaufort. You have to drive right through it to get to the Cedar Island Ferry to go to Ocracoke, but don't blink. Population is somewhere between 250 and 400. An un-deserted island of sorts, the majority of it's residents would just as soon stay on it than leave it. Oh they may go to high land for a bit, but there is never the thought of NOT going back to Davis Shores. When you are born in these parts, you're a lifer. 

Davis Shores (the endearing moniker of the town) is the idyllic stomping ground of my childhood summers. Think Mayberry minus Main Street. Most roads were dirt roads and even the paved roads were mostly sand. It was, and still is, a tight knit community. I wrote letters after coming come from those summer breaks, scribbling Aunt Marie or Aunt Mary Louise on an envelope and Davis, NC. Nothing else. They got those letters because the postmaster knew everyone in town. 

I held my breath as Hurricane Florence began to jog closer to the Core Sound last month, checking online continuously as Florence came ashore and then again as the tides crested. I watched Facebook video's while nibbling my fingers. Just when I couldn't bear to watch any longer my cousins' phone got damaged from the onslaught of rain and they couldn't post anymore. Davis was completely underwater during the storm. 

My cousin's daughter, Melissa, was my liaison between the states after Florence came ashore. Some people left for higher ground, but Melissa tells me that about 70% of the community stayed put. My cousin Lanier was one of them. He and his wife, Annette, run the family business Davis Shore Ferry Service that sits on the Core Sound of the Atlantic. Their house is 20 feet from the Atlantic. Davis Shore's documented sea level was 5 foot in 2010. 

Melissa told me "The house which my parents currently live in belonged to my great grandparents, it was my mother Annette's grandparents home. They originally built it as a single residence, and over time, they added on to the home to accommodate a growing business, a fishing bed and breakfast. Jeanette and Alger opened their home to fishermen to stay the night before the next day's ferry ride over or upon returning from the Banks. Jeanette would serve basic meals including breakfast, lunch and dinner. The rooms were simple, and included iron twin (single) beds laid head to toe in a room (beds similar to old hospital beds). Captain Alger ran the single-car ferries over to the Banks. This operation began in 1966. He kept the ferries; she kept the house and food."

During hurricanes the ferries were moved to the "safe harbor" of the local fish house, James Styron Fish House. Alger contracted with Mr James that when storms came, it would be permissible for Mr. Alger to dock the ferries in the harbor and that tradition has continued ever since. The business has spanned four generations:  Captain Alger Willis and Jeanette Willis, Captain Glenn Willis, Annette Willis Mitchum and Captain Lanier Mitchum, and Captain William Lanier Mitchum Jr (Mitch). Davis Shore Ferry Service has ferried many a family and fisherman over to South Core Banks, Cape Lookout, which is more commonly known as Great Island Camps by National Park Service.

THIS is why these small communities choose to face the daunting threat of increasingly ferocious hurricanes each year. They make a living by the sea, on the sea, from the sea. It is their livelihood and has been for generations.

As Mellissa put it, "people that choose to live their lives Down East respect that there is a cost to living where they do. This storm took away a lot of what most people took their whole lives to build, but they will rebuild. Salt water is in their veins, that can't be taken from them. Aside from the ferry business, independent commercial fishermen still operate out of Core Sound, but in drastically reduced numbers over the past decades. Shrimping has made a rebound in the past five years, enough to support those that continue to operate. Crabbers still set pots in Core Sound and gillnet fishery for mullets has always been a part of Down East heritage and continues to be a local tradition."

I fell in love with the sustainability of the town when I stayed with relatives during those summers in the late 60's and early 70's. I just couldn't believe you could eat seafood everyday if you had a rod, a cast net, a bucket, a chicken neck or a clam rake, but you could and that's exactly what we did!

My Aunt Marie walked to work from her conch shell studded driveway to the fish house two blocks away to head shrimp or pick crabs all day, she always brought home a bag of sea goodies that either ended up in the freezer or in a pot that evening. Uncle Moye taught me to clam dig with my toes and look for the tiny bubbles to show me where they were. I would fill a bucket in no time and take them to the fish house to collect some money to buy YooHoo's and M&M's at the little country store.   

Yes, Florence whipped up the town pretty good. But it was so encouraging to hear the hope and continuity that I expected would come to Davis.

Melissa finished, "It has been amazing to hear the stories regarding the aftermath of the storm and the cleanup. Everyone has joined together to look after the elderly and the ones that suffered the most above their own needs. Several of our family friends rushed to our families aid, not everyone is so lucky to have that network. The churches have worked hard to ensure that their congregations are looked after, despite whether they attend the up the road church, the down the road church, or the out the road church. They all looked out for one another. One of our family friends, Mrs. Sue Buck, took Lanier (her dad) in after the storm. She offered him a place to sleep, shower, and food. Our people just naturally look after one another, it's what we do."

So how is Davis Shores doing today? They are grateful! The community is rebuilding as expected. They are proud and resilient people who rolled their sleeves up to tackle the hard stuff immediately, but they are eternally grateful for the help that came from Red Cross, the Davis Shore Fire Department, a Go Fund Me page started by a fisherman in the community, the boaters who brought food and supplies in, and the endless - seriously endless - help from family, friends, and people that they don't even know. As of now, the ferries are up and running and the docks rebuilt just in time for those fall fishing trips to Cape Lookout. It's a great destination for family and fisherman alike.

As Hurricane Michael approaches Florida, I think of the other little fishing communities along the Florida coast. I know those strong, salty souls are considering their options as well. One thing Melissa told me is that of that roughly 70% that stayed in Davis during Florence, most said they wouldn't next time. Storms have become more frequent and debilitating. I hope that life and limb is considered higher priority than shingles and structures. Like Davis Shores — if the water recedes, they WILL be back. 

Davis Shores and other communities nearby have a dialect all their own, the unique brogue has been studied by NCSU linguistics professor Walt Wolfram. It seems to originate from early English settlements of the 17th century. I can still to this day fall into a pretty good rendition of it and will take the liberty of expressing what A Hoi Toider (local, high tider) could very likely be heard saying to you today. "Florence came in here and mommucked (shredded to pieces) up the whole town, what it didn't mommuck is all whopperjawed (askew). But it's slickcam (calm, no wind) out there now and we are just glad to sit on on the pizer (porch, piazza) with a glass of tea for a little while." 

The poignant picture of the outside church service in Davis says it all. I'm sure their hearts, as well as ours in Charleston, go out to those in direct path of the incoming Hurricane Michael.