As the bus slowed down at the crowded bus stop, the Pakistani bus conductor leaned from the platform and called out, “Six only!” The bus stopped. He counted on six passengers, rang the bell, and then, as the bus moved off, called to those left behind: “So sorry, plenty of room in my heart – but the bus is full.” He left behind a row of smiling faces. It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it.
~The Friendship Book of Francis Gay, 1977
A sweet photo from today at the peak of Blood Mountain…
I was cajoled into a “little hike” that turned into an all day adventure. The 2 mile section along the Appalachian Trail was nearly straight up (Ugh!) to the peak. We took the long way down, 4 miles on a very rocky trail, but at least it wasn’t so steep! It felt so good to finally take my shoes off!
There wasn’t much color yet, just some in the Dogwoods and, of course, the Black Gums, but we did find Asters and Gentians blooming along the trail.
~James Beard
A part of our beach-arrival ritual is to dip our toes in the sea, no matter the weather or time of day; it feels like coming home to me! On our first night of an experimental summer camping vacation, we walked the beach on Jekyll at low tide. It was empty and quiet, but for the almost full moon and a couple people out with red lights checking the sea turtle nests. We happened to talk to a couple of them, volunteer turtle nest monitors, and they directed us to nest #62 which looked as if it might hatch that night, in the next hour or so.
Really?!?
Squee!!!
So what if it was nearly midnight… we were on vacation and had nowhere else to be!
So we sat.
And we waited…
(for all of about 5 minutes)
before Jay thought he saw some movement and…
Sure enough, those baby loggerheads were boiling out of their nest! Coolest thing ever! It was pitch dark, but those little turtles knew their way to the ocean and we watched, and counted them, and cheered them on.
What luck!
So a couple days later we signed ourselves up for a “nest excavation” walk with the GA Sea Turtle Center. Their researchers dig up every nest on Jekyll a couple days after it’s hatched to record data about it. They count every hatched eggshell (51 in the nest we saw excavated) and they open each and every unhatched egg (49 in this case).
The unhatched eggshells were pretty gruesome and smelly. They estimate the stage of development each was in before it perished (the majority in this nest died very early in development.)
I’ve read that, historically, some people especially enjoyed the richness of cakes made with turtle eggs. Can you imagine?
Dead hatchlings are also counted – in this nest there were 2 – these are baby turtles that hatched, but died before making their way out of the nest and to the ocean.
Sometimes, live hatchlings are also found! There were 2 in this nest! I don’t know enough about Loggerheads to guess why they might stay behind in their sandy birthplace, refusing the call of the sea. Anybody know?
Two little Loggerheads were rescued from their sandy womb (tomb?) and pointed in the direction of the sea, with our cheers to urge them on. They didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, but with turtles, it’s hard to know.
; )
Sweet Sadie… ever patient and well-behaved, watched all of it pass her by at the tip of her nose.
(Tho there was one baby turtle she was determined to investigate as it made its way past her nose to the water that first night. I’m glad for any occasion to see her acting like a dog… but know enough to hold her very close!)
I was pretty surprised (pleasantly!) with how much this all touched me. There are devoted turtle-watchers who never get to see what we happened upon by chance and luck.
I feel blessed.
A visit to Jekyll Island always manages, somehow, to be magical.
To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.
~Clara Ortega
This is one of those magical photos that I took almost by accident, but that manages to capture some of the truest parts of my brother Brian. We’d just come back from visiting a local auction, one of his favorite places, and he was pouring over the treasures that he brought home with him. In this case it was a box of old records. The look on his face, his posture and the lighting all contribute to a scene I think I’ve been witnessing my whole life as his kid sister… his total enchantment with anything related to music and with old, discarded things.
“Perhaps this is our strange and haunting paradox here in America — that we are fixed and certain only when we are in movement… We never have the sense of home so much as when we feel that we are going there. It’s only when we get there that our homelessness begins.” ― Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again
Hurricane Sandy wrecked communities rich and poor in NJ, from the Staten Island-meets-Miami style multi-million dollar homes of Bayhead to the blue collar bayfront bungalows near where I grew up. Its images were unimaginable and unbearable to me: of trashed boardwalks pushed into the sea, of an iconic roller coaster dumped into the ocean, of a road leading into the tide where homes used to be. From a thousand miles away and desperate for news of what was happening at home, it looked as if my childhood had been washed away and that the entire Jersey Shore that I knew and loved was gone.
Eight months later, towards the beginning of last month, I went home to NJ for a couple days expecting to find a ruined way of life there, but also hoping, still, to catch a faint whiff of the competing aromas that signal “home”at the Jersey Shore: the fried dough of zeppoles just before the powdered sugar goes on, the sweet muck of a local salt marsh at low tide, the extra garlic on pizza slices and the salt spray coming off the ocean. All of these live deep in the soul of NJ for me. I found all of it, at once, and witnessed small moments in the sad seaside ritual of rebuilding the storm-damaged communities that I hold dear.
I can’t pretend to be untouched by grief at the total destruction of the shore towns that are a backdrop to a thousand stories in my life. But the Jersey Shore is more than a place; it’s more than its wood-plank promenades and town squares on stilts. It’s more than its carnival lights. It’s more than a staging ground for summer. For many, it’s an identity and an attitude. I love the shore best on foggy days when you can’t even see the boardwalk or the ocean, but can only smell it. I love the dampness and the feeling that you can almost lick the salt out of the air. I love the dampness in the sheets at night when you go to bed. You’d never put up with that anywhere else, but at the shore, it just feels right! When you walk around at night, you smell the boardwalk everywhere. There’s always a far-off murmur of traffic. It feels safe. It feels comfortable. It feels like home. All of these things, thankfully, remain.
*Photo of where a house used to be in Union Beach, one of the hardest hit communities in NJ.
*Post title from “4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)” by Bruce Springsteen
Boy… time sure does fly when you’re not paying attention!
I was about to tell you about our visit to The Sunflower Farm, but then, poof! and 3 weeks had gotten away from me.
There’s an actual festival here each summer, but I’ve yet to brave the heat and the crowds to attend. As it is, no matter how mild you think a particular day is, once you’re out in the middle of that ten acre field, it’s hotter than blazes!
The farm itself is beautiful and is a picture-maker’s delight. I first heard about the place because so many photo groups visit it. I go to pick flowers, tho.
I’m not sure there’s anything more cheerful than a field of sunflowers, except maybe for the bees and birds that visit it.
: )
I wondered aloud to the farmer if they sell the leavings for birdseed.
Nope, but they sometimes hunt the doves that are drawn to the seeds in the fall. That’s okay, too.
There’s plenty to photograph, here. Red (and green) tractors, old farm tools and a beautiful hummingbird garden. There’s even an enchanted forest nestled on the back of the property. And if you want directions to the little local place that sells the best homemade strawberry-cream cheese fried pies, just ask!
Plus, you get to keep as many sunflowers as you can carry away for $15.
: )
That makes for many old mason jar bouquets.
