Low Country Autumn Morning

My daughter reported snowflakes this morning in Minnesota. Not surprising -- it is nearly November!

I have missed the flames of color, the golds and reds, the fireworks display of the northern fall. But there are subtle changes, little bursts of color, here in the South, that are beautiful in their own way.

Near our house is a trail along an abandoned railroad bed for the old Savannah and Charleston Railway. Built in the mid 1800s, once it connected two of the most important seaports in the Southeast.

Created to transport rice, indigo, and cotton from plantations, it was quickly co-opted by Secession and then the Civil War to provide protection and supply Confederate troops with food and other supplies.

 

Near our house the dike runs through abandoned rice fields on either side.

In December 1864, during his March to the Sea, Confederate General William T. Sherman sent Union forces ahead to cut the Confederate supply line. They were unsuccessful but sections of the railroad were severely damaged.

As I walk I can't help but think of those who built this railroad by hand, men and mules, standing in mud, water, mosquitoes, in the oppressive heat and humidity of South Carolina.

A hundred miles through unpopulated land and water.

Brutal and dangerous work.

Most of the men were slaves leased from their owners, the owners, of course, receiving the wages. Not all were men either. In the book "Railroads in the African-American Experience," I read the story of Rose.

Rose was a house slave leased out as a cook for the laborers. She was sent several hundred miles from her home to where the railroad was being built through the unpopulated South Carolina swamps. For miles and miles the workers had to stand in the water and build dikes and cypress pilings for the rails to run on. There was no solid ground. Rose found herself with only crude cooking utensils and just flour, lard, bacon, molasses to feed a crew of enslaved negroes and some Irish railroad workers.The only woman there, she was isolated, vulnerable, terrified, and miserable.

 

The original old cypress pilings driven in by hand still stand like sentinels, witnesses to another time in history.

 

 

 

 

 

The pilings on our island stretch across the deep and wide waters of the Broad River, topped by the remains of a covered trestle and flanked by a new metal fishing pier.

We walk here in the mornings and sometimes in the evening sit on the pier to watch the moon rise.

 

 

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Nightfall

When the new bridge into Beaufort was built, the old two-lane was left below it as a community fishing pier. It's a place for anyone to fish, an equal opportunity for anyone to be on the water, and people of all ages, all colors, all walks of life gather there in the evening.

 

Some, like us, are just out for a stroll, but most are tending to the business of catching supper.

Families cluster around coolers of food and drinks, wives ease into chairs with books, chldren tend their lines as seriously as adults. Everyone is friendly, hushed, polite.

 

 

The air cools, dusk settles, the sun's evening performance begins.

We usually find a picnic table halfway down the pier and sit and watch the show.

 

When the sun is gone, when the last boat nears the shore, we head for home,

enfolded in a benediction over another treasured day.

 

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Summer of Bugs

"Red bug" bites, fire ant bites, the two huge yellow corn spiders, leaf-footed bugs, orange dog caterpillar, Hercules beetle, and now October brings us ...

Red Velvet Ants.

It has definitely been a summer of bugs that are new to me!

 

On my way to the mailbox yesterday, I encountered this zigzagging across the sand.

(By the time I could get my camera she had disappeared into the grass and this is a photo from a website called DesertUSA. There is lots more info there if you would like to visit.)

 

 

 

She is not really an ant at all but a wingless wasp with such a painful sting that her other name is Cow Killer. And she is big! An inch to one and a half inches ( 2.5 - 4 cm) long!

Even more exciting, the velvet ants come in other bright colors including royal blue, orange, and gray.

I kid you not!

 

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The Town of Fernandina Beach

Fernandina Beach is on Amelia Island on the northern border of Florida. The whole island is only 13 miles long and mostly 2 miles wide so Fernandina is pretty much Amelia Island.

The historic downtown has lovely old homes and businesses, with its streets ending in the Atlantic Ocean.

After its first inhabitants, the Timucuan Indians, it became known as the Isle of 8 Flags, with eight nations' flags flying over it since 1562: France, Spain (twice), Great Britain, the Patriots of Amelia Island, the Green Cross of Florida, Mexico, the Confederate States of America, and the United States. It is the only town in the U.S. that has flown eight different flags.

 

 

Two of those flags were pirate flags, a theme that seems to be still going.

The most famous pirate was Luis Aury who landed with three ships and proclaimed himself ruler of the island. It became a pirate haven and the location of much buried treasure.

And it took the U.S. Navy to finally roust him out.

 

Shiver me timbers! I'm not sure the U.S. Navy knows about it, but plenty of pirates are still around and about.

 

We bought apples for lunch from Freddy, who makes his way along the Main Street peddling fruit early in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We did some window shopping. Lots of interesting art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I kind of wanted to bring this southern Santa home. Somehow flamingos instead of reindeer and flipflops and shorts instead of fur-lined coat and boots are very appealing for my first southern Christmas!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for all your kind comments about my accident.

Although I have to continue to have the tape sutures in place for a few more days, I was very happy to have the stitches over my eye removed this morning.

 

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American Beach

American Beach is located on Amelia Island off the Atlantic coast of Florida and Georgia. It's a lovely, idyllic place where horses and camping are still allowed on the beach, the surf drowns out conversation, and the only other sounds are the gulls screeching from the air.

 

In years gone by, this beach was a bustling and busy holiday place, one of the few beaches on the East Coast open for African Americans to enjoy the sun and the sea.

Unwelcome on segregated white beaches, Black families flocked to the welcoming resorts of American Beach beginning in 1935.

When desegregation finally took place in the 1960s and modern development threatened American Beach, a champion arose in an unlikely person: MaVynnee Betsch.

 

 

Ms. Betsch was an internationally known Black opera singer who came to be called "the beach lady" when she gave up her career and returned home to save the community and her beloved beach.

She was so dedicated to the water, the flora and the fauna that she lived the rest of her life mostly outside, on the beach she loved.

 

The Beach Lady wore her hair in a 6-foot long dread lock, and kept her fingernails on one hand up to 16 inches long! She protected them by wearing a plastic bag over her hand.

 

 

 

She named the highest dune in Florida NaNa and eventually a 10-acre area was preserved as a national park.

Today some of the old resorts and beach homes on American Beach are still owned by the same Black families but, of course, people of all races are welcome there now.

 

 

 

 

I've never seen so many rules posted on a beach before as the giant board in the parking lot for American Beach.

Our favorite rule:

"Horses shall not be allowed in public showers or cabana areas."

Okay then!

 

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This Is Why I Don't Skydive

 

I got up this morning,

headed for the bathroom,

fell over an exercise bike,

and crashed head first into the French doors on the deck,

6 feet away from my side of the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have several stitches in a 3.5 inch gash in my head, a muscle relaxer for my neck, shoulder and upper back, and some pain pills.

My glasses are broken but they can be fixed. Just not today.

As we were leaving the emergency clinic, where he had been a model of sympathy and support, my beloved said:

" Took that corner a little wide there, didn't you?"

It really hurts when I laugh.

 

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Drop Zone

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When we visited my mom in Florida a new restaurant had just opened at the very small airport in town. They served fresh local food, a varying menu depending on what was available locally that day, and opened to rave reviews.

 

That alone would have beckoned us to visit, but the main attraction is this: you can sit out on the deck while you eat, watch sky divers jump from a plane, fall through the sky, and land just a few yards from your table.

 

Before we even sat down, we looked up into the sky full of a dozen or more colorful canopies that had just been released from a small plane at an altitude of about 12,500 feet. Jumpers at this airport have an incredible view of the Atlantic Ocean and coastline from the sky.

The divers fall at the rate of 115 mph for about a minute before their chute opens and soon we could make out the the forms of the divers themselves as they floated toward the earth.

 

Some did complete flips over and over in the air, to the applause of those watching.

 

 

A first jump, a tandem jump where you are tethered to an instructor, costs about $200. If you want a video to prove you did it, it costs a lot more!

Solo jumps for the experienced cost about $25 per jump and they make about 10 jumps per day.

The beautiful canopies cost upwards of $2500.

 

 

 

My sister and I both thought we would like to try it, although I probably would have to be (gently, I would hope!) pushed out of the plane when it comes right down to it. There are only 8 deaths out of a million jumps per year, comforting statistics, I thought, until I was reminded that I am a person who can trip over the toe of my own shoe.

Best to stay on the ground, I guess, but it sure was fun to watch.

 

 

 

 

 

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