am in residence on Sullivans Island in South Carolina, but on my return, I will be in touch.
Cordially,
Miriam Elizabeth Swanson
Old habits died hard. I began my day fulfilling my obligations and that was that. It didn’t matter if I was in Timbuktu. But I have to say that I was beginning to think my obsession with writing all these thank-you notes was becoming slightly more than disingenuous. Besides, what I really wanted to say to Agnes Willis would never find its way into ink. Moreover, it was becoming clear that I had been taking my lead from others for about as long as I could stand it.
I was restless and couldn’t sleep. Never mind that I was awakened at the crack of dawn by my mother’s manly rooster crowing his head off loud enough to make his harem lay scrambled eggs. So I got up, packed, wrote my phony thank-you note to Agnes Willis, and walked down to the post office via the beach. It was a perfect morning. The damp air was chilled, but I welcomed the warmth of the rising sun on my back as I made my way toward the lighthouse.
Agnes Willis. Boy, she thought she had the world in the palm of her liver-spotted hand, didn’t she? And why was it that women like her always seemed to come out on top? Maybe it was because their husbands had trained them to look the other way and because they all knew divorce was just too bloody expensive. I really needed to get over her. No, I realized that what I really needed to do was stop letting the whole freaking world contribute to my horrible inferiority complex I seemed to be carrying around in the chip embedded in my shoulder.
I looked around me at all the “dog people” people on the beach—they were actually frolicking, dogs and people! Out in full force, they were tossing things that their pets chased—Frisbees, sticks, and tennis balls. This was one of the things I loved about the tiny kingdom of Sullivans Island. The ruling town fathers and mothers passed a law allowing dogs on the beach only during very specific time slots. They loved passing laws, it seemed.
I imagine that in the years of my absence some big old black Labrador had licked the leg or snatched the egg-salad sandwich of some crazy rich Yankee who owned a house on the front beach worth millions. That northerner complains and the council agrees that it’s not right; in fact, it’s terrible. Let’s be honest, since the south ceased growing cotton and our senators lost the support of the navy yard, tourism has been the cement that held the Charleston area’s economy together. Crotch sniffing, jumping, untethered wet dogs running wild all over the beach just wouldn’t do. The dog-owning local homegrown citizens moaned and complained but the law stuck.
What no one counted on was that a new society would spring from the cause of canine discontent. The “dog people” came to recognize, greet, and talk to one another. They became friends and I heard several marriages had come about as a result of the Island’s new mandate. Who knew? It was clearly one of the details of Sullivans Island living that only added to its magical reputation. It was charmed.
I walked past their gathering and over the dunes to the post office thinking about Mother. When she came home last night she did not say a word to me and I did not come out of my room to say a word to her. I was so flabbergasted. What if she had been caught? What if she went to jail? If her arrest was written up in the papers in Charleston, surely someone in New York would pass it along, and inside of a city minute, my life would be completely finished. And hers. And who was this ridiculous man jeopardizing our lives over a cheap thrill? It really was too much.
I bought a stamp from the machine, slapped it on the envelope, and tossed it through the out-of-town mail slot. Out-of-town? It should have been labeled ANOTHER WORLD . After all, Sullivans Island was not exactly a microcosm of the known planet. It wasn’t Charleston. It wasn’t Manhattan.
Cordially,
Miriam Elizabeth Swanson
Old habits died hard. I began my day fulfilling my obligations and that was that. It didn’t matter if I was in Timbuktu. But I have to say that I was beginning to think my obsession with writing all these thank-you notes was becoming slightly more than disingenuous. Besides, what I really wanted to say to Agnes Willis would never find its way into ink. Moreover, it was becoming clear that I had been taking my lead from others for about as long as I could stand it.
I was restless and couldn’t sleep. Never mind that I was awakened at the crack of dawn by my mother’s manly rooster crowing his head off loud enough to make his harem lay scrambled eggs. So I got up, packed, wrote my phony thank-you note to Agnes Willis, and walked down to the post office via the beach. It was a perfect morning. The damp air was chilled, but I welcomed the warmth of the rising sun on my back as I made my way toward the lighthouse.
Agnes Willis. Boy, she thought she had the world in the palm of her liver-spotted hand, didn’t she? And why was it that women like her always seemed to come out on top? Maybe it was because their husbands had trained them to look the other way and because they all knew divorce was just too bloody expensive. I really needed to get over her. No, I realized that what I really needed to do was stop letting the whole freaking world contribute to my horrible inferiority complex I seemed to be carrying around in the chip embedded in my shoulder.
I looked around me at all the “dog people” people on the beach—they were actually frolicking, dogs and people! Out in full force, they were tossing things that their pets chased—Frisbees, sticks, and tennis balls. This was one of the things I loved about the tiny kingdom of Sullivans Island. The ruling town fathers and mothers passed a law allowing dogs on the beach only during very specific time slots. They loved passing laws, it seemed.
I imagine that in the years of my absence some big old black Labrador had licked the leg or snatched the egg-salad sandwich of some crazy rich Yankee who owned a house on the front beach worth millions. That northerner complains and the council agrees that it’s not right; in fact, it’s terrible. Let’s be honest, since the south ceased growing cotton and our senators lost the support of the navy yard, tourism has been the cement that held the Charleston area’s economy together. Crotch sniffing, jumping, untethered wet dogs running wild all over the beach just wouldn’t do. The dog-owning local homegrown citizens moaned and complained but the law stuck.
What no one counted on was that a new society would spring from the cause of canine discontent. The “dog people” came to recognize, greet, and talk to one another. They became friends and I heard several marriages had come about as a result of the Island’s new mandate. Who knew? It was clearly one of the details of Sullivans Island living that only added to its magical reputation. It was charmed.
I walked past their gathering and over the dunes to the post office thinking about Mother. When she came home last night she did not say a word to me and I did not come out of my room to say a word to her. I was so flabbergasted. What if she had been caught? What if she went to jail? If her arrest was written up in the papers in Charleston, surely someone in New York would pass it along, and inside of a city minute, my life would be completely finished. And hers. And who was this ridiculous man jeopardizing our lives over a cheap thrill? It really was too much.
I bought a stamp from the machine, slapped it on the envelope, and tossed it through the out-of-town mail slot. Out-of-town? It should have been labeled ANOTHER WORLD . After all, Sullivans Island was not exactly a microcosm of the known planet. It wasn’t Charleston. It wasn’t Manhattan.
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