I've spent so much time on the water in the last few days. We had lunch today at a place over the Indian River and as we waited for our food, I sat and watched the water, taking in the sounds of the waves, the sight of the rippling breast of water. It occurred to me once again that so many of us self-medicate with the water. Why do you think there are so many creative, artistic people who live on the beach? And I'm not calling myself one of those. Just one of the crazies who feel drawn so strongly to the borders between water and land and sky.
And oh, how the wind chimes of the giant bamboo have comforted and enchanted me as it sways in this cooler-weather-coming in wind. It thrashes and dances and clangs and bumps and rubs and talks.
There's a vase I bought on Thursday at the Methodist thrift store for fifty cents. In it are bleeding heart, a piece of snake plant Mr. Moon dug me from the jungle and a few sprigs of bamboo.
The man who owns this place along with his husband has done such a beautiful job of planting and maintaining this lush piece of property. There are so many varieties of palms and lilies and hibiscus and I could go on and on. I could talk to him about plants for hours. He has planted all of these magical plants and has nurtured them and the native ones so beautifully and valiantly. And I, being someone who tries to do the same in my own different geographical area but on a much smaller scale, recognize and appreciate this. Every time we come back, I notice new and beautiful plants. I try not to take too much of his time to show them to me. But I love every minute of it when he does.
I'm becoming one of those talky old women. "When I lived here as a child..." Blah, blah, blah.
Anyway. Last sunset over the river from tonight.
More time on the water.
I feel like I grew up on a dock. I wouldn't mind dying on one but hell- how lucky can you be?
I've been in good touch with my brother White these past few days. He is two and a half years younger than I am and he remembers Roseland with as much love and yearning as I do. That, too, has been a sweetness.
The train is coming over the Henry Flager trestle. My granddaddy would have stood on his porch and counted the cars. I feel him here and my granny too. Another beautiful thing.
The best anniversary. Relaxing and re-living and living and sensuousness and bawdiness and gratefulness and wonder and discovery and comfort and laughing and so much love. And watching the herons fly from the river to roost. And the mullet jumping. And laughing so hard I can barely stand it.
And tomorrow we'll drive home to Lloyd and I'll read more of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings as we cross this beautiful state where there are still jungles and rivers and crazy people and scrub and pines and stars and the moon and and the oceans which pound the shore and creeks which flow through it, tea-colored and pure and sink holes suck all the way to the depths of the aquifer and cypress trees thousands of years old and I love this place. Disney and Universal and Rick Scott can try to tame and monetize it but they'll never (God, I hope) be able to ruin it entirely.
And I love this man.
And I love this life.
And if my father hadn't been such a damn son-of-a-bitch I wouldn't have ended up here when my mama had to leave him and so...there you go.
Roseland, Florida. October 25th, 2014