Monogamy is overrated. Honesty is imperative.

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          I had a boyfriend once who claimed that serial monogamy is the best humans could hope for. It didn’t sit well with me, in my twenties and rebounding from a disastrous relationship. I wanted this new man to want me so much that he would forsake all others forever. A proposal would be “proof” of my self-worth – not exactly the stuff ideal marriages are built upon, but did I mention I was in my 20’s?

          Of course, I asked Byrne about it. I knew that she and Duncan had been married for almost sixty years, and that not a day of that had passed without him watching her dress and tell her she was marvelous. I also knew that each of them had had affairs. Which was a contradiction I intended to resolve on a drive out to the beach. I was mad at her again, by proxy. Just like I had been when her philosophies on jealousy had backfired when I copied them, without being honest. This time I was mad because the boyfriend she had nicknamed my “Rolling Stone” had dumped me and my if-you-love-me-then-propose-already baggage.

          We drove across the swing bridge  over the Beaufort River and headed toward Hunting Island. There was no oncoming traffic, tomato season was still months away. I passed the turnoff to the road with the tree that an earlier boyfriend had aimed for, with me in the passenger seat. It was a mile marker of trials I thought had made me stronger but obviously hadn’t. The smell of marsh sulfur mingled with the salty sea air.

         “I’ve told you Duncan and I had an open marriage,” Byrne began. “But it was nothing like this serial monogamy nonsense.  The reason we began to take other lovers was to protect our own love from the stress of Alison.”

          Alison was her real daughter, not an adopted one, like me. She had some form of schizophrenia since childhood, back in the days when doctors blamed such conditions on mothers. I didn’t ask for details of the sexual arrangement she and Duncan reached in these troubled times, and Byrne offered none.

           “Neither one of us kept count. It wasn’t a game or a punishment,” she said. “It was just a way of getting away from it all, like going to a costume ball. Our various partners weren’t obliged to know the strain of what we ourselves could not escape. It was a physical release that kept us from wearing each other down. It saved our love.”

           This was not the image of a devoted Duncan I preferred, the pure romance that I wanted to think possible. It was not the image of a martyr mother, undyingly devoted to her damaged daughter. But there was a truth in what Byrne said that settled like a curtain coming down.  What matters, above everything, is honesty.

On affairs and jealousy

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To defying jealousy!

 Some of you have asked about one of the quotes I feature on the “Womenisms” home page.  It’s understandable. Not every octogenarian offers advice like this to her adopted daughters: “…have at least one affair. It builds confidence.” Especially when that octogenarian was married to the love of her life, Duncan Miller, for almost sixty passionate years. 

          I’ve learned, in the process of writing the memoir, that Byrne’s advice wasn’t literal. Our relationship never was. If I eventually got around to hinting at a moral dilemma I was facing, it wasn’t her style to launch into pronouncements or directives. She just told stories about her own life, and if I paid close enough attention, I found the link myself and figured out what to do. That’s why I call it re-parenting – it was nothing like how actual parents react.  

          In my twenties, I went through what I now recognize as a decade of hyper-drama – when every man HAD to be THE one or I would make him so. Which mostly led to incredible bouts of jealousy when I figured out they weren’t. The only clue I had that Byrne did not approve of the men I dated was her never calling them by their given names. Junior became “that junior person,” a quirky cameraman the “million-year-old-man,” an athletic kayaker “Neptune” and a sexy guitarist “The Rolling Stone.” 

          As I grew closer to Byrne, I slipped bits of my personal relationship problems into discussions on the porch, over a glass of wine. She always listened, and then launched into stories from her own life. The one I remember the most was how her husband, Duncan, was mobbed by beautiful models. He was one of Advertising’s early, brilliant, “Mad Men” and she was the tall and gangly mother of his two children. One model was particularly persistent, and early in their marriage, Duncan seemed to be wavering. 

          “She was so beautiful and so insistent,” Byrne described her. “Duncan was always speaking of her. ‘She’ thought this. ‘She’ mentioned that.” 

          I smiled at Byrne’s studious avoidance of the woman’s name.  “I didn’t mind the she-part, it was when ‘she’ was replaced by ‘we’ that I knew I had to do something,” she said. 

          That something amazed me. Byrne invited the woman to dinner, every night, just the three of them in their tiny Manhattan apartment. Within a week, the model’s beauty paled in comparison to her obsequiousness and Duncan begged to be rid of her. Jealousy was a waste of time, Byrne implied, and the implication was that if I was clever I could make any man see that. 

          The trouble came when I tried. I was living with an abusive man, consumed by jealousy of my TV reporting career and almost any man I interviewed. The police chief. The town judge. It didn’t matter. So after Byrne told me the model story, I decided to turn the tables in my life. I invited my boyfriend with me, to a trial, so that he could see that the judge and the police chief were just doing their jobs. Not flirting with me. But he interpreted my first-name-basis familiarity, and the good-ol-boy comradery they extended to me, as nothing short of an existential threat. A few days later, he drove our truck into a Live Oak. With me in the passenger seat. I’m convinced the only reason he braked, at the last minute, was to save the life of my dog, Wipeout. 

          At first I was furious with Byrne. Her advice hadn’t worked. But it was unfair fair to burst into Byrne’s world and call it a lie. Or tell her when I tried to be like her I almost ended wrapped around a tree.  She didn’t know the real reason I spent more waking hours with her than I did with Junior.  I hadn’t come right out and asked her for advice on how to handle his anger or his jealousy. The story she told about the woman in Manhattan belonged to another time, another kind of love. It wasn’t mine to copy. 

          I had to learn to love Byrne’s stories for what they meant to her, for how they let her glide over pain and disappointment with such grace and style. Stories like Duncan the brilliant writer. Duncan the devoted husband. Duncan who would never leave her. The truth might well be darker, the whole Duncan less triumphant than the parts. Behind all the confidence and charisma Byrne presented to her audiences, me included, off stage she was a woman, in her eighties, who didn’t want to be alone.  The love she treasured was dying a little every day and I resolved not to be the one to take its comfort from her.

Mothers of a different kind

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          I may never truly understand why I needed Byrne Miller as much as I did when I met her, in my early twenties. But I came a little closer when Pat Conroy told me the story of his re-parenting and the remarkable Julia Rendel. 

          Before he became a best-selling writer, Pat was a spectacularly unsuccessful teacher. He cared far too much, crossed way too many lines in the race-divided South. Readers of The Water Is Wide know of his ignominious firing from the one-room schoolhouse on Daufuskie Island. Julia Randel’s husband worked for the Beaufort County school district. He was supposed to testify against Pat in the disciplinary hearing.

          “Right up until the moment Ms. Randel told him he’d not have a bed to sleep in if he turned against their son,” Pat says. He uses air quotes around the word their, not son. She became a different kind of mother to him after her own son died, on the mound, playing ball with Pat. Her loyalty still amazes him. He laughs but there’s a hint of tears in his eyes as he tells the story. “She’s the kind of person you want to make proud. You’ll see when you meet her.”

          And so, one sunny Beaufort Saturday afternoon, Pat drove me to meet his Byrne. Julia Randel’s front yard is big enough for sons to play baseball. She mows it herself, as if the boys might come back from Beaufort High School any minute, drinking CheerWine and munching on Moon Pies. The Buick she still drives squats squarely under the translucent shade of a green roofed carport. I never had the chance to meet Peg Conroy, but somehow I expect the woman who replaced her to be larger than life. She must surely be Southern through and through, able to hold the ends of a cast net in her teeth as she waits for shrimp to shimmy past the dock, able to make a husband be a man.

          She is all that, in somewhere shy of ninety pounds. A hunched-over, candy-cane of a woman in a forest green sweater flings her arms wide open before she remembers the screen door is still between us. I am swamped with the sureness that if this frail woman could survive the death of her son and find the strength to mother others, there is a parallel planet of surrogate parents out there. She is the pardon awaiting those who fail: parents who aren’t supposed to exist but simply don’t know what to do with children. I don’t have any children of my own, but in the open arms of Julia Randel I see that I might be someone’s Byrne one day. I will watch for her, or him, listen for the pulses that ting against my emotional armor. It will be an honor.

           Pat lets me have the first hug, explains that I’m a writer who once found the mother she needed in Beaufort. Ms. Randel apologizes for not having the groceries put up, as if we had made an appointment. He teases her mercilessly from that moment on, about her filthy pornography collection, her egregious gambling habit and foul-mouthed cussing. She laughs and swats at him through the air, her hand as delicate as bird bones.

          “We raised him like one of our own,” she says. “Course we clearly didn’t do a very good job.”

The brilliance of re-parenting

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          Mine was not an abusive childhood but a smothered one. My younger brother was crushed under the wheels of the family truck – an accident that happened at home, in a split second, when my mother was watching my baby sister. He was almost four and I spent the next thirty years trying to replace him. I became whatever my father needed, even when it was a silent partner while he raged against the world that took my brother from him. I stopped being a kid when my brother died and took on the role of chief mediator between my parents and, when all else failed, distraction in the guise of “perfect” daughter. I found Byrne Miller when I got my first job in Beaufort, South Carolina and left my parent’s war zone for good. I slipped into Byrne’s life the very same year her youngest daughter was killed by a drunk driver. Now, nine years after her death, I am writing a book about our relationship from the very house we once, briefly, shared.

          “You don’t see the irony in that?” Pat Conroy says. We are having lunch and discussing Byrne, and her similarity to the women who became his surrogate mothers. As I described in the last blog, Pat feels not a shred of guilt about re-parenting himself. He thinks the reason I do is because I haven’t come to grips with my mother and father, like he did when he spilled their secrets to the world.

           “Byrne needed you as much as you needed her. That’s the survival instinct. It frustrates the hell out of parents like ours when their children figure out how to get what they need.”

          We deserved each other, not that I was the only member of her created family. I have dozens of brothers and sisters by Byrne, not birth, most of them former members of her modern dance company or students who grew up but never outgrew Byrne. We count among our clan Navajo tribal elders, DC lawyers, motion picture set designers and Lowcountry oystermen. One day Byrne decided we should all meet. It was the occasion of her 87th birthday.

               “I’ve lived in so many places, and gotten into so many projects, that most of my “children” do not know one another,” her invitation letter began. “I’d like to have one great party together while I still have all my marbles.”

               The fact that everyone came to her bidding and slipped into the supple moves of kindred spirits was vindication of her philosophy.

               “I am so thrilled,” she toasted the gathering on the bluff outside her marsh front home. “I have chosen each and every one of you and I stand before collective proof of my utter brilliance.”

          I have my own tradition now. On the anniversary of her birth, convinced she is listening in, I invite my sisters and brothers by Byrne over to the house to raise a glass of champagne. We toast to her utter brilliance.

The Re-parenting Dance

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          Summer is when I miss Byrne Miller the most. Maybe it’s the flowing clothes that catch the breeze, or the near nakedness of swimming in the creek outside her house. It’s the season for abandoning pretensions and inhibitions and the heavy, sticky heat of it reminds me of the woman who freed me. Until I met her, I was a little ball of guilt, trying to fix or placate my far-from-perfect parents. She was already in her 80s and had given up on that foolishness since before I was born. 

          “Blood relatives are simply people you were born with,” she always said.  “Not necessarily people you should stick with. If they can’t make you happy, or vice versa, then I say choose your own family. It works for me.”

          I was one of the daughters she chose. She showed me I didn’t have to grow into my genes, that I could pick and chose the traits I would preserve. There’s a bit of armchair psychology in all of this, I realize in looking back. “When the student is ready the teacher shall come” is only a cliché because it is so easy to confirm. My parents are grown-up runaways, suspicious of anything resembling roots or connections. There is nothing I crave more. I plant myself wherever I am and let rhizomes slither out, unseen, below my feet. In the sandy soil of Beaufort, South Carolina they touched something solid and I grafted onto it.  Byrne taught me in ways my mother never could – without any genetic responsibility to steer me away from harm. I wasn’t so much a blank slate as photosensitive film. Just by exposing me to other worlds — her worlds of modern dance, writing, radical pacifism — she transformed me.

          Children are instinctively aware of the nuances of family biology, how traps are set and reactions triggered. Expectations between parent and child are muscle memories, best unquestioned. Not so with parents we hand select. They have the capacity to catalyze thoughts, challenge assumptions. It can be uncomfortable, this process of discovery.  And so writers, who like to pick at scabs, write about it. It doesn’t have to bleed through in memoir form, like it does in my Byrne Miller story. Novelists work it into the characters they imagine.

          I have long suspected that writers re-parent themselves, that perhaps even the act of writing is part of the process. I don’t mean the old-school, Transactional Analysis spin on re-parenting. I have no desire to imagine my favorite writers sitting on the knees of their psychoanalysts, calling them daddy. Nor do I mean the Self-Help version of re-parenting: the mantra that we had no control over the stability of our parents but we can give our inner child the love they never gave us. I don’t know if it’s positive, regressive, dissociative or pathological. I have simply observed that writers latch on to people who are the polar opposites of their actual parents and never let them go.

               Pat Conroy, the writer who adopted Beaufort as his home town when he arrived here as a military brat, finds delightful coincidence in the way my re-parenting began – with Byrne Miller. The story of his abusive childhood is known to every fan of The Great Santini and The Prince of Tides. What isn’t as well-known is how he survived it: by finding gentle men and women to replace those who were brutal and broken. One of the earliest women he unconsciously selected belonged to another teenager on the Beaufort High School baseball team. That boy dropped dead on the pitcher’s mound, and Pat met Julia Randel at her son’s funeral. He started checking in on her, and gradually she became the mother he wished Peg Conroy could have been. I asked him about it over lunch not long ago, as part of an interview about re-parenting for an essay I’m working on. He told me he doesn’t believe his picking Julia Randel hurt his mother’s feelings one bit; she had six other children to manage.

               “Having Mrs. Randel treat me as one of her own allowed me to preserve my mother’s image. I needed her to be perfect. If I had to accept that my mother was as much of a jerk as my father was, I’d have killed myself. It’d have been too much.”

               Pat’s upbringing, if you can call it that, is a horror I recognize only in the way he coped. He navigated by the radar of need, pulsing out invisible signals to almost every sane adult who crossed his path and listening for the echo. His clinging to all these surrogate parents is how I know the truth in what he writes, even though I’ve never been beaten, berated or otherwise brutalized. Re-parenting is the echo-location of acceptance, the chance to reinvent your personal narrative. Surrogate mothers and fathers don’t trade in the currencies of your failures, counting the ways you don’t measure up to genetic code. In your admiration of them they see promise more often than problems.

               To find these parental replacements it helps to be socially awkward, more comfortable with elders than peers. Being a loner is a plus since revisionist history is a singular endeavor. Developing a sixth sense for loneliness will get you through doors closed to the over-confident or prematurely successful. Writers tend to notice tender interpersonal details like genuine interest or curiosity without judgment. Re-parenting yourself  is surprisingly non-exclusive. You could be the child of wanderers, over-procreators, under-nurturers or simply selfish breeders. Re-parenting is not restricted to children of awful parents.  It is a dance anyone can learn. Julia Randel taught the steps to Pat Conroy just as gracefully as Byrne Miller showed them to me.

Eiko+Koma are Byrne’s children too

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Eiko+Koma with Byrne in 1995


          Not all of Byrne Miller’s “adopted” children are as famous as the legendary modern dancers Eiko+Koma, but she made each and every one of us feel utterly treasured.   For almost a century she created this family and filled it with students and friends – starting with her husband. Duncan Miller was estranged from his own parents – some deep dark secret that she said he never shared with her and she never pried. She just simply offered him her love, and set about creating a new life with him. 

          I’ll never forget the moment I realized I was joining this celebrated circle, the moment when my re-parenting began. It was after the Martha Graham master class I wrote about in an earlier blog. I was waiting outside the Silver Slipper for a ride home with a woman I met in class, Lillian. She would become my first sister-by-Byrne. 

          “I’m one of her adopted daughters,” Lillian said. “We’re scattered around the world, wherever she’s danced.” 

           I didn’t have to ask what Lillian meant by adopted daughters. I was beginning to know the silky feel of Byrne’s favor, the web she wove that made me feel more charming, witty and talented than I did with anyone else. 

          Of course I knew her love for me was not exclusive. But a little part of me didn’t accept it, until the night Mark Dendy performed for the Byrne Miller Dance Theatre, in Beaufort, South Carolina. After the performance,  Byrne introduced Dendy to the astounded audience as if he was her own invention and then reclined in a chair that stage hands whisked in from the wings. The audience asked the questions Dendy heard everywhere he performed. How long do the dancers have to practice each day? What qualities does you look for in a dancer? Where will you be going next

           He was charming and deferential, yet every answer paid homage to the woman who had brought him here. 

          “You all have no idea how lucky you are,” he said. “Or should I say how lucky ya’ll are?” There was laughter and a murmur of agreement. “Byrne Miller isn’t just the Grande Dame of modern dance. She’s its Johnny Appleseed as well. Performances like this would not be possible without her vision and determination.” 

          By then the other dancers had gathered on the stage, after changing into street clothes. Each of them brought a flower to present to Byrne. They leaned over Byrne’s chair, offering first one cheek then the other for her kiss. She was clearly accustomed to such admiration yet received each dancer as though they were the last that she might ever meet. 

          A pang of jealousy stabbed through me. I recognized the way she scanned their faces, moving her head in an orbit of observation so that her damaged eyes could draw wholeness from periphery. She was adopting every one of them as she had adopted me.

The Scandalous Silver Slipper

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If it’s too hot to do anything else, dance. You’re sweating anyway, right? Byrne Miller always said sweating is the sign of doing it right, whether “it” was dance or sex. It’s your body’s testimony to the effort, the consciousness of movement. She was always conscious of how she moved, and how dance is the most sensual of acts possible to perform alone.

I became conscious of the latter when she invited me to take a master class from Martha Graham dancers. They were in Beaufort, South Carolina for a week-long residency in the local schools. This was in the early 90s, when Beaufortonians were more likely to follow the Kentucky Derby than modern dance. But she lured them in anyway and created an audience for the brilliant dancers she brought here to perform for the Byrne Miller Dance Theatre.

The Martha Graham master class was the last obligation of the dancers before their performance, and Byrne selected the perfect location. About a dozen students waited for class to begin inside a wooden building that was once a dance hall in the black part of town, the Silver Slipper Club.

From the street, it looked more like a church or a one-room school house, polite in its pretty pinkness. But inside, the floor sagged in spots worn smooth from jiving soles and jitterbug heels. The uninsulated walls let secrets to slip out into the night, like notes from a long-ago blues singer. Fans of Jonathan Green might recognize the building from his painting of a red-headed white woman dancing in the arms of a blue-black partner. Restraint was cast away in the Silver Slipper, like shrimp nets into murky Beaufort waters.  Of course Byrne would ask her followers to dance here.  

There is no instant gratification or quick release from the monotony of ordinary movement. Dance is a learned pleasure, one that requires practice and sacrifice, years of it. When you can finally make your body obey your will, when every muscle in your arm becomes part of your reach, it is exquisitely satisfying. When your legs can lift as well as thrust, absorb momentum and create it – that is power. When your center can spin around itself, eyes focused on a spot in front of you turn after turn – that is seeing.

In a Martha Graham master class there are no classical poses, balances or fluttering across the floor on tip toes. Hers is a vocabulary at home in the Silver Slipper: violent spasms, trembling and falls to the floor.  Graham called her signature contractions the physical manifestation of grief, but to me, pressed against the floorboards of a Gullah dance hall, they were birthing pains of belonging.  Beaufort was the place I would later write about, in “Transfer of Grace.” Byrne was the woman who made me fall in love with it.

  The class, billed as 90 minutes, swelled into two hours then two-and-a-half before, finally, Byrne moved out into the center of the Silver Slipper and began the chorus of applause. For the dancers, she clapped, for the students, for the spirit in the room and the sultry air that bound us all together one night in a Gullah dance hall.

Four walls with stories to tell

When the economy tanks, give them bosoms!

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It’s easy to think this recession is unique. We may indeed be the first generation to lose our houses to banks bailed out by our own pre-layoff tax dollars. But of course economic misery isn’t new, and every time I’m tempted to think it is I am reminded of Byrne Miller.   

She came of age in the Great Depression and had to marry her husband twice because of it. The first time in secret, because leaving her father’s household to start her own would mean the family would lose the meager income she contributed. The second wedding was a few years later, when her father found work again. Only then could she declare her love for Duncan Miller in public, at the Manhattan City Hall. Still, money was tight. So she answered an ad in the paper for dancing girls and a career of fifty years began.

“I wasn’t one of the great ones,” Byrne once told me. I had thought her modest, knowing that she had danced in New York, St. Thomas, Santa Fe, Mexico and Ireland before she landed in Beaufort, South Carolina in the late 1960s. It turned out she was anything but modest.

“No darling,” she said. “It was these bosoms that got me noticed. That and legs that wouldn’t quit. It was the Great Depression, remember, men needed a lift.” The troupe, she later told reporters, was called the Sara Mildred Strauss Company. Eighteen or nineteen scantily clad women, many of whom had been prostitutes, made up the ranks. Her job was to stand on a pedestal, wearing two inches of cloth, and waggle her hips.

“Let’s face it,” she told me. “The legs have to be worth the ticket price.” As thousands of Byrne Miller Dance Theatre audience members over the years can attest, those she brought to Beaufort always were.

Ghosts of Olar

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     Leaving Olar at almost seventy miles an hour is not when you want to see a South Carolina state trooper. Especially not one headed back into town, wondering what’s your hurry. His lights flash all they want but still aren’t near as blue as the disappearing sky. There’s no excuse crazier than the truth. The ghosts of Olar are at our back, puffing their cheeks to blow us away.
     We try it anyway. The trooper can’t be but twenty-five at most, might not have heard it all yet. No sir, not sure how fast we were going. Too busy talking, for what it’s worth. First time in Olar. Still can’t quite believe how pretty it is.
     This Olar? he asks. Stiff hat brim shadows can’t hide his puffy skepticism. No-one stops in Olar voluntarily. He’s behind us now, cross checking our license plate against DUIs on his on-board, patrol car computer. When it comes back empty handed so does he. It’s a warning, he says, but we already know that. Just as sure as we know that we’ll come back anyway.
     There is nothing so irresistible as being unwanted. South Carolina plates and a bag of boiled peanuts in the front seat don’t qualify us as been here’s. We’re come here’s, strangers from points East. Doesn’t matter that we aren’t lost, trying to find the interstate or the bomb plant up the road a piece. We’re driving the back roads gussied up by tourism officials as the South Carolina National Heritage Corridor. But deliberately looking for Olar is tantamount to sneaking up on it. Not that any curious locals draw open a curtain or roll down a window as they drive past. With a population 212 and dropping, ten percent a decade, the whole town looks empty, drained. We are trespassing on yesterdays.

      Just how many isn’t immediately evident. We pull up to a squat, one-story red brick building with a pole sticking straight out of its bulky forehead. A wood, hand-lettered sign hangs from it, perpendicular to the street. It’s only the last breath of twilight that swings it, gently, nothing sinister. The lettering predates the ubiquitous, commercial Helvetica font of common towns and nomenclature. It is carefully ruler-traced, black on white, the Bank of Olar.
     As ghosts go, this one doesn’t seem friendly. The windows on either side of a plain wood door are hung from the inside with faded blue fabric so you can’t see what’s left. Injured pride, maybe, after all these bank bailouts and bonuses. Nobody bothered to save the Bank of Olar. The entrance wasn’t grand enough, a shoe-scuffed concrete stoop only one step up from the cracked sidewalk. Deals died here, along with dreams of keeping farms in the family. It wasn’t until the 1980s that South Carolina officially lost its rural status, and ceding ground is never graceful in the South. There’s a round glass electric company meter stuck to the side flank of the Bank of Olar, still monitoring for a heartbeat. The window sill is only deep enough to lean against, not to sit and kill time.
     For that, you walk across Low Country Road, what Highway 64 calls itself when it passes through the eight tenths of a square mile that make up Olar. Stained black timbers form an open-air, triangular shelter, heavy with shade. The Works Progress Administration designation is a “shed” but it looks more like an alien ski chalet without the walls. Maybe the idea for it came down from the North along the “Route of Courteous Service.” Olar was a whistle-stop on the Seaboard Air Line Railway from Richmond to Jacksonville back when Southern hospitality slogans lured tourists to Florida. Maybe that’s what gave the Heritage Corridor people the idea. We came, so you could say it’s working.
     If the general store were still alive, we’d gladly contribute to the local economy, buy a can of Cheerwine and a Moon Pie and watch the ghosts of trains go by. But behind the side-by-side screen doors of the Creech Variety Store, established 1938, is a closed sign, like the owner just went out for a cigarette. Back in ten minutes, fifty years ago. The window sills are painted a blue that might be borrowed from a little east of here, on the sea islands. The Gullah people call it “haint blue” and swear it keeps bad spirits from barging in where haints aint wanted.
     What color keeps out conjuring, the kind outsiders do when they imagine what could be created here? Adaptations whisper from the arched facades, possibilities rustle through the leaves of Sycamores that shade the sidewalk. Good bones, these brick and mortar relics, capable of resurrections — cafés, dance studios or photography galleries. Screw a new bulb in the lamp clamped above the sign and Drink Coca Cola would light the way to Olar after darkness falls. Crickets begin to chirp, phantom frogs pick up the protest. Something slithers through the grass. Move along changers, the buildings mutter, we are settled in our ways. Gone but not forgotten.
     The store windows are clear enough to peer through, to long strips of wood flooring and walls still lined with shelves and cubbyholes. White painted tin squares pucker along the ceiling, high enough for heat to rise and gossip to carry. Who wore what to the horse races up in Aiken. Who got what for their cotton farms when the nuclear plant claimed everything from here to the Savannah River. No wonder the wariness of Olar, outsiders deserve a little suspicion.
     Across the tracks it’s just as melancholy. An abandoned gas station stands in the center of a grass lot, neatly mown except for the whiskers of weeds that tickle through gaps in the cement slab. Buicks and Oldsmobiles would have kept them down before, back when this building, out of all Olar’s ghosts, was a sign of progress. It’s stripped bare now, down to the metal knuckle that anchored down the pumps. Rust drizzles from the metal roof, leaving bloody stains on stucco walls. Exposed brick is unintentional. Move along, the walls whisper, nothing here to plunder.
     But inside even this most industrial of abandoned buildings there’s a sense of beauty waiting to be remembered. Nothing is destroyed, just left behind. The exhalations of customers no longer breathing rise and fall in an endless loop of captured space. A peaceful current circulates in perpetuity, echoes of an orchestra of life. Panes of windows, ripe for smashing, are eyes staring out at what passes by. They flirt with chance encounters, the curious and bewitched. Look, don’t touch. Listen, don’t speak. We are neither happy nor haunted, alive only in our deadness. Reach back into the past, you strangers seeking heritage, and the ghosts of Olar dance again.

Fishing is nothing like dancing

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It may sound obvious, that fishing is nothing like dancing, but it wasn’t to me. Until yesterday, when a friend took me out on his boat for six hours just off the coast of Parris Island.

I’d practised, assuming that, like dance, this is what fishing takes. For the past few weeks I took my rod down to the end of our dock around noon, when my mind usually starts to wander away from whatever page I’m writing. Instead of checking Facebook, or even blogging, I practised casting. There was no sense wasting bait; it was just me, the sand gnats, a bobber and a hook on the end of a line that hadn’t been used for a long, long time.

There’s a grace to casting. Dancers are graceful. Ergo, dancers should be good at fishing. I thought it must surely be in the arm and all I’d have to do is learn the port-de-bras of fishing. The problem with learning the port-de-bras of fishing is that there is no mirror on a dock. I couldn’t see how consistent, or inconsistent, my release was or whether I was arching my back too much or too little. I just kept guessing and wondering why I couldn’t put the bait in the same place twice. 

I thought perhaps when I got onboard a real boat, with a real fisherman, things would drastically improve. I would suddenly convert the coordination, flexibility and strength I have as a dancer into catching fish. I could not have been more wrong. The bow of a boat rocks beneath your feet. Mylar dance floors do not. So I spent much of the next six hours in a demi-plie just to avoid swimming with the fishes I was trying to catch. Score one for dance training – at least I have strong thighs.

The scenery when standing on the bow of a boat in the Port Royal Sound is quite distracting. Dolphins undulate in the currents. Pelicans fold themselves into descending projectiles. Oystercatchers emerge from rakes of mud and shell with only a flash of orange-red beak to break the camouflage. There is nothing in the environs of a dance class that can compare. It is much easier to concentrate within four walls of a studio, safe from natural splendor.

There are no lyrics in the music of the open ocean, no words to help you remember the steps or phrasing to set the rhythm of your movements. Your body creates the only sounds you hear and they are too loud – fish dart  away when a cooler lid slams or when you step down into the center of the boat forgetting to go through the toes and then the ball of the foot. 

And then there is the absence of yelling and corrections. Terry Stone, while an expert boater and fisherman, would not make a good dance teacher. He’s a good friend and much too gentlemanly. He cared more about whether I was okay with hooking a minnow through its jaw and out between its eyes. Whether I had enough water to drink, food to eat, sunblock on the back of my neck. When he saw me about to swing a baited hook in his direction, he simply adjusted his position to stay out of my way. A dance teacher would have made me start over. And over. Chin up. Shoulders down. Butt tucked. Stomach sucked.

So, if Terry wouldn’t correct me, I just had to try to copy him. This was daunting. In just over an hour he caught a Spanish Mackerel and four Red Drum – expertly casting to the one spot they all seemed to think invisible, behind a reach of oyster shells, in the ebb of the incoming tide. At least he didn’t make it look easy. There is grunting, sweating, swearing involved. In fact, it looked impossible to me – that degree of accuracy under such unrehearsable conditions.  So I gave up. I let Terry cast for me, then took the rod from his hands. And almost instantly lost it. The fish that thought he was biting on a worthy opponent’s minnow drug the bobber underwater in a flash. How a fish only 15 inches long can twist my wrist almost off, in a second, is still beyond me. I wasn’t ready for it. For the fight of it. For the speed of it. For the thrill of it. Of course, the fish got away. But I brought something else home. The certainty that fishing is nothing like dancing. These creatures are not my partners in any sort of art form. Their job is not to teach me anything. It’s to get away from me. And by doing so, lure me back to where I know I’m never in control. Nothing like dance at all.