Ahhhh, deep breath

We just took off right in the middle of the week and went to the beach. What a sweet blessing for Coty, Joel and me to have the use of my parent's beach house, and then the added delight of my sister and all but one of her family joining us the next day.

Perfect weather, bright skies, mild breezes, thunderstorms in the afternoon just when we wanted to be chilling out back at the house, a wonderful long ride on a new-found bike trail, a seafood dinner out for the grown ups at a little local joint, some games, books, a movie, fresh strawberries, walks, seashells, a full moon over the inlet last night ...

What is it about a little getaway to that beach house, that is just so refreshing?

It's many things for me.  The beach house was my grandparent's home, so there are many, many happy memories of my own childhood years.  Then my grandparents died, the house passed on down to my dad and mom, and I had children of my own who had the growing up joy of weeks at the beach with their grandparents.  Last summer, I even had the pleasure of beach time with my granddaughter.  So, going to the beach house is about family and continuity and being connected.  Years and years and years of connection to people and place.

Oh, things have changed for sure.  Too many new stores, too many "attractions", too much traffic, too much of a number of things I'd happily do without.  But, when we unlock the door of the beach house and step inside, those things just don't matter, because we smell the smell of the place we know and it doesn't ever change and we relax and settle in to reading on the beach and pimento cheese sandwiches and pecan twirls.  We slow down and sit on the folding chairs on the porch in the morning with our coffee and we watch the same people walk by with their dogs, and hear the towhees calling and the doves cooing.  We walk the four blocks to the beach, past the park and the pond, past new condos and little old beach bungalows, climb up the steps and down the dunes and breathe the salt air and feel the waves on our feet.

Tonight, back at home, I slipped on the sweatshirt that I'd taken with me, but not worn, this week.  As I pulled it down over my head, I got a just a whiff of the beach house.  My sweatshirt, sitting on the back of the chair there for four days, had absorbed the smell.  I pulled the fabric back up over my face and took a deep, deep breath.  Ahhhhh ...

Roots in the South

After picking blackberries at a friend's farm the other morning, the boys and I sat on a lovely old porch under the shade of pecan trees, and had a conversation about growing up "southern."  When my older children were young, we lived in New England.  Our daughter, Erin, never lived in the south, since she went off to college in Massachusetts before we moved to North Carolina.  Jonathan lived here in NC with us for a couple of years before leaving for the same college up north as Erin.  My four younger boys have spent more time down south and they've mostly shed any traces of their New England younger years in accent and leanings, except perhaps that a couple of them root for the Red Sox.

I'm one of those G.R.I.T.S - Girls Raised In The South.  Whatever stereotype comes to your mind when you read that, probably doesn't fit, except that I do know how to brew sweet tea and I love fried okra.  I grew up mostly in South Carolina with a few years in Georgia, then went to college in North Carolina.  After that, I left for parts far, far away...California, Kenya, a short bit in the northern Virginia/DC area (which doesn't count as the south), Massachusetts, and Cameroon.  Somehow, I never thought I'd live back down south.

Little did I know.  The move here in 2002 was very hard for me, leaving a tiny New England college town with no stoplight til the last couple of years we lived there.  We walked or rode bikes everywhere, saw people we knew all the time in the grocery store and post office, let the kids go just about anywhere they wanted in the woods and fields nearby.  We played in the river behind our house, ice skated in the back yard, helped friends boil maple syrup a time or two, wore LLBean mucky-muck boots a lot, and cross-country skiied out the back door.  Some of those things, you don't do in the south.

When I lived in New England, I loved it.  But, though I was very, very happy there, in some ways it never felt quite like home.  My mom supplied me with a Southern Living subscription every year.  My children, unlike their New England buddies, said "yes, ma'am" and "yes, sir" (well, some of the time) and apparently, according to them, whenever I talked on the phone to my sister, my southern accent was particularly pronounced.  They say they could always tell when it was Aunt Anne was on the phone by how I sounded.

So, though the move was a hard one and I left behind a very beloved place, I felt like I was coming home. Back to the comfort of people who call complete strangers "honey" and  say "bless your heart."  But it's more than that. I've learned since returning to the south, more than I knew before about those deep southern roots - French Huguenots, on my dad's side who emigrated to South Carolina in the 1700's, and Scotch Irish on my mom's side, going back a long way in the Carolinas, too.  My husband also has deep southern roots, too, and famous ancestors, to boot. Charles and Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, were signers of the Constitution.  I'm no genealogy buff like others in our families, but I appreciate those who have tracked these connections down.

This summer we've had two very special opportunities to explore those southern roots in a more tangible way.  Next post, I'll tell you about the Rocky River connection and how it seems, to me, rather amazing that I live so near to where my great, great, great grandfather on my mother's side served faithfully as a minister for 35 years and spearheaded the building of a beautiful country church.  Somehow, knowing this has made me feel more like I belong here... at least for now.