Wednesday, June 9, 2010
You Can Run But You Can't Hide
I can't tell you how many times I go to write a post and think of Garrison Keillor saying, "It's been a quiet week in Lake Woebegon."
In fact, I do believe I've said, "It's been a quiet day in Lloydbegon," or something like that before.
When I started doing this blog I should have come up with a different name for Lloyd, I think. It's such a prosaic name. When people around here ask me where I'm from and I answer, "Lloyd," they often say, "I know I've seen that sign. Where IS Lloyd?"
And there's something nice about that- the fact that people who live fifteen miles down the road really don't know where Lloyd is. Sometimes I feel like Lloyd is one of those places time forgot and I love those places. Apalachicola is like that and so is the tiny village where I lived as a child. Roseland is it's name and although the area surrounding it has grown like a mushroom cloud, Roseland itself is almost exactly the same as it was fifty damn years ago although now some of the houses look better than they did then which is odd as they were only old shacks to begin with.
I guess I like the forgotten places. They used to advertise the area down near the coast here as "The Forgotten Coast" and that was true, too. Fishing villages still thrived and yes, there was tourism but it was a mild and mellow kind. No spring breakers, no giant condos, no outlet malls or titty bars, just miles of beautiful powdered white sand and sweet blue water.
Things got a little scary there during the big real estate boom but a hurricane or two and the real estate bust pretty much took care of that. Took care of a lot of things, not all of them good, especially for the fishermen.
Anyway, as some of you know, Mr. Moon and I share a little shacky place on a barrier island called Dog Island about two hours away from here with a friend and I guess Mr. Moon and I are going down there this weekend. I think we all feel as if we need to get to the beach while we still can. While the dolphins and turtles and ghost crabs and sea gulls and ospreys and fish and egrets and herons and sea slugs and horseshoe crabs are all still there. While the water is still clear, the sand is still white.
Shit. I almost want to pretend none of it's there at all because the thought of it being raped and ruined is more than I can bear. I swear, I think it's going to be like visiting a dear friend whom you know has a terminal illness. You want to see them before they leave but you know it's going to be the saddest thing you've ever done.
But. We're going. I'm going to the store tomorrow before I get Owen to pick up all the things we need. We can take a lot of things from the garden. We'll load up on water and we'll take some beer and juice and I'll make sure to have buttermilk for pancakes and sunscreen and bug repellent and everything I can think of for two days in what is a virtual wilderness, albeit one with electricity and running water. You can't drink the water but you can shower in it, flush the toilets with it.
We eat all our meals there on the back porch overlooking the bay and we watch the osprey dive for fish to take back to their enormous nests which they build balanced precariously in old pines and we listen to the water rolling up onto the shore and then back out again. We hear the wind whistling through the dunes and frequently we can hear the waves on the Gulf side of the island from where we sit.
We're just going for two nights but we're going. I haven't been to the island in a long, long time. I had some rather traumatic experiences there and then the plumbing got fucked up and Mr. Moon and our friend had to replace all the pipes but I hear everything is working again.
We can take care of problems which arise in the house on Dog Island but we won't be able to do a thing if the water starts becoming black or tar balls roll in or that whipped oil and water mess they say is of the consistency of peanut butter starts washing in.
Not a thing.
So I guess we need to go visit, take it while it's there for what it is, which is up until now, almost pristine, untouched beauty.
I'll take a camera.
I'll hope for avoidance of this particular death but I'm not betting the island house. Oh wait- the island house won't be worth shit once the oil hits the beach.
Ah lah. If only that were the worst of it.
Well. It's quiet tonight in Lloyd and that's what I'm thinking about. A weekend at The Forgotten Coast on an island no one has heard of.
My kind of place, I suppose. For now. For now.