Wordless Morning-Beach-Musing Wednesday

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

Wordless I-Love(!)-Luna Wednesday

 luna the albino alligator at north carolina aquarium at fort fisher

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

Wordless Not-Jumping-Off-The-Birthday-Bandwagon-Yet Wednesday

Wild Thing. You Make My Heart Sing.

CatCon lost her voice last weekend at the beach. In fact, it's still gone, or she'd be posting this herself.

What's that? What does not having a voice have to do with being able to rock the keyboard on your best friend's blog, you may ask? You may ask, but I don't have the answer. She's pouty that way. Probably because I took away her whiteboard because I was tired of seeing her write:

"WHY? Why CAN'T we live at the beach? Give me ONE good reason. I could sing at that dive by the pier. TILLY could frolic in the dunes. MR. J could let his hair grow long — well, longer — and sell friendship bracelets. YOU could do whatever it is you do." (It was a very large whiteboard. She's now trying to master the art of lettering on an Etch-A-Sketch. It's not looking promising. )

So. CatCon lost her voice. No easy feat, but probably attributable to the ingestion of many hops and much tequila.

Or maybe multiple scoops of ice cream overcoated her vocal chords.

And definitely the sand. She swallowed a lot when she face planted on the shore. No connection whatsoever with the hops and the tequila, however. She was just giving the beach a hug — a big one — when we first arrived.

And the beach hugged her back. And said, "CatCon, I think I love you."

A girl could get used to that.

Carolina In My Mind

Sitting on the beach, overwhelmed with a glorious sensory overload, I thought of two dear friends whom I knew were there with me in spirit. Given that they weren't actually within earshot to hear either a squee of delight, a sigh of contentment, or an alternating rhythm of the two, I decided to text them a simple message.

In my immediate short-term memory, or within my direct line of sight were several captivating images.

Like this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

And definitely this one.

So. I scrolled to their names in my cell, composed a simple three-word text message, and hit "send."

My phone buzzed me back almost immediately with a response from sweet CVZ, with the simple advice to "enjoy" and her always-appropriate admonition to "breathe." (I do need reminding. To breathe. It's a problem.) A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again. Absorbed with all my my enjoying and breathing, I reached for it with a smile, certain it would be an equally happy response from sweet SPG.

Hmm.

Apparently, I only had SPG's landline programmed. The notice was from Verizon, kindly offering to transmit my text as a voice message. For a split second (Or two. I can be impulsive. It's a problem. Ironically, SPG is the one who has talked me down off that particular ledge.), I considered it. I thought, "Wow-isn't-that-cool-you-can-send-a-text-to-a-landline-and-it-magically-turns-into-a-voice-message." Just as my finger was headed in for a landing on the "send" key, two things occurred to me.

One: It wouldn't be my voice. It would probably be some skeevy computer-generated voice. Or worse, a voice like the lady who lives inside the voicemail box. Who doesn't sound like me, but might sound enough like somebody to make SPG wonder, "Do I know this chick?"

Two: Context. Not only would a disembodied, unknown voice be delivering the message, but those three words would be delivered in the absence of any frame of reference.

I started to imagine picking up my own phone to hear something along the lines of: "the following is a message from meaningless-number-number-number (I don't know anyone's actual phone number anymore. Do you?) ..." followed by my well-intentioned, share-the-moment three-word text. And then I decided against it.

Because I may be overly excitable, impulsive and even delightfully obnoxious, but even I know hearing a random voice on the phone saying "greetings from heaven" is just creepy.

Making Friends (or Beach Bliss, Day Two)

This is a first for Halfglassistan: a literal transcription of my journal, but the first draft needed no editing. Day two, morning one, of beach therapy, in which I say my ritual hello to the beach:

5:30 a.m., Saturday, May 29

Carolina Beach, Cape Fear, North Carolina

Sunrise. The wind is brisk. It's unimaginable that it's this cool in May, much less June, but I love it. Will be interested to see how warm (hot?) it is later on the beach. Amazing how, just like the sound of the surf magically transforms the environs once one crosses the path of buildings, so too changes the temperature. It is, without a doubt, another world. And, one I have longed for and needed for far too long. It was more than worth the wait.

6:30 a.m.

Back on our deck

I have not been one to gather shells since I was a little girl, except for the one or two that would always be pocketed as a tangible souvenir on the last day of beach therapy. This morning, however, I have returned with no fewer than nine. They, like this beach that is not a grand strand, are rough and weathered. The sand here is amazingly soft at the dunes, more powdery than any other I recall crossing. This fine, fragile base, however, quickly gives way to  coarser, sturdier grains. This, too, is unlike any other I've known. Mixed in with the impersonal taupe I'm expecting is not the familiar reddish hue of Georgia clay, nor the pure yellow color of the cornmeal I used to make a desert diorama in the seventh grade, yet some color all its own that is, at once, evocative of both of those references. Stepping further, I am immediately struck by an infusion of black and slate into the palette, to include random clumps of clay. 


The tinges of black remind me of the sandbox in my Nana and Papa's yard. My sister, cousins — and all the neighborhood kids with whom we graciously shared Nana and Papa — and I would dig as deep as we could to reach the cool, wet sand deep in the sunken site. As deep as Dairy Queen spoons and empty Peanut-Buster Parfait cups and Pringle's cans would allow our stubby (but resourceful) little hands, that is. We'd catch just a glimpse of the rich black Calumet soil, know we were that much closer to China — then quickly funnel it back in the illicit hole before Papa spotted it. Here on the Atlantic coast — a thousand miles away on the map (and a million in my mind) — the juxtaposition is both jarring and delightful.


The shells I have arranged before me now — aligned, from smallest to largest, in a straight line on the on the rail of our balcony (a formation that has me instantly questioning my obsessive compulsive reflexes that so easily reveal themselves) — are happy finds. Like all the other revelations this morning beach has represented, these shells are out of context with my expectations. I am first struck by the large number of intact oyster shells. Really? I've never seen some so large and/or prolific outside of on an empty platter in a bar — or the whitewashed masses found outside said joint. Where are oyster beds? I never thought to wonder, but I suppose I always imagined they must be near rocks — all the better to have allowed that first brave soul to crack them open. As this shoreline progresses north, it becomes more rugged. Perhaps these oysters' former homes have traveled down some current's path.


While I did leave the oyster chunks in the sand, the others I've carried back were also surprising. It was still high tide, so anything other than chunks and chips of what were once pristine exoskeletons of marine mollusks is rare and special. So to find an intact specimen as large as my palm was amazing. It's not perfect — in the traditional sense, anyway — you'd never see this piece in a souvenir shop. But I wouldn't want that anyway. Trite, unoriginal, and as unreal to me as if it were pressed in a mold, a store-bought shell is like a silk flower: intended to be a beautiful facsimile of what nature produces, but in an immutable, homogenized form. Isn't that the very antithesis of nature? Not my shells. They are hard and weathered, but solid. They have substance, weight and undeniable strength. They are unapologetically imperfect, but proudly resilient. There is beauty in their scarred outsides, and an exquisite elegance and grace in their polished insides.


I like my shells. Were they people, I'd be proud to know them.

Wordless Breakfast-Of-Champions-On-The-Balcony-At-The-Beach Wednesday

Everybody Move Over — CatCon's Taking Over

me-me-me-me-me-me-me ... [dum-DUM] me-me-me-me-me-me-me  ... [dum-DUM]

No, not vocal warm-ups — pfft! like I need them? — just clearly stating what's the what here in Halfglassistan right now: It's. All. About. Me.

Miz CCW is prepping for her big holiday weekend, as tomorrow is, of course, the actual date of Cathleen Day on the calendar — the High Holiday of Halfglassistan. It's observed nationally (we're working on a global campaign) Monday.

So, that three-day weekend you're looking forward to? The fireworks? Parades? General merriment to be had by all?

Umm, yeah — you're welcome.

But for now ... follow my lead, and ONE AND TWO AND THREE AND FOUR:

Happy Cathleen Eve (hey)! Tomorrow's her birthday (hey)! We're going to the beach (YAY)! ... and, all together now!

A-HEM — I said, all together now ... Thank you. That's more like it.

Happy Cathleen Eve (hey)!

Wordless "Yes. Yes, I Did Just Bury My Brother In The Sand." Wednesday

Wordless Charleston Wednesday

Chucktown

So. It turns out TAHITI* bears an uncanny resemblance to Charleston, South Carolina.

Huh. Who knew?

Charleston was a favorite jaunt of ours back in our dating days, and we didn't realize until we were making our plans for TAHITI* that we hadn't been there since before the Wedding Wedding. 

Over the years, we'd spent time in the mountains, and at various beaches, sure. 

But not back on cobblestones of old Charles Towne? Not listening to the water beat against the retaining wall as we gaze out at Fort Sumter where that Citadel cadet fired the first shot in the War of Northern Aggression? Not listening to the ghosts whispering in the Live Oaks in Battery Park? Not reveling in the architecture, and breathing deep the air of courtyard gardens on Rainbow Row?

Well, that just needed fixing — and quick-like.

So we sauntered on down to the Lowcountry ... OK, we didn't saunter, we zipped down the interstate in a Toyota truck. (But doesn't it seem like we should have sauntered? I thought so.) No worries, though. We slowed our steps and strolled at the appropriate pace once we arrived in the Holy City.

First stop was James Island and Folly Beach because Cat Con was with us and we were forced to obey her Saltwater Proximity Axiom. The law simply states that if an ocean shoreline is within 32 (give or take) miles in any direction, she must go to it, strip down (at least her tootsies) and become one with the beach. 

Hours, days, weeks, all are preferable timeframes for worship, but a surprisingly small exposure can actually get the job done:

Cat Con has been known to admit to depression, frustration, melodrama, fear, angst, insecurity (Yes, really. Her ego does have some boundaries.) and all forms of melancholia at many different points in her life. 

But she has never, never, never — never — been anything but at peace on a beach.

[sigh]

As for all those other Charlestonian delights mentioned above, I've got some sweet pics of those, too.

I think (if we're lucky) Miss Almost-Boundless-Ego might be done gazing at her toe ring in the sand before Wordless Wednesday rolls around, and I can wrest the images from her (if we're lucky).

Stay tuned.

Wordless Veterans-Day-At-Folly-Beach Wednesday

Miss Me Much?

I'm ba-a-a-a-ck. 
Imaginary vacation is over.
More to come.


p.s. for what it's worth, I missed you