Laura's Last Dock Day

Or Memorial Day, if you'd like it to not be about me.

Unbeknownst to me, last Sunday was my last day of dock adventures for the summer. Isn't that tragic? A few days ago I was informed that my westwardly road trip must begin promptly Monday morning so that Mattie makes it home in time for upcoming Greecey activities. While I am currently in panic mode, I've done nothing particularly productive except make a loose packing list and map out a route with Mattie. We have 14 stops and 20 days. I'll keep you posted as we make it happen.

So to celebrate the commencement of Summertime, we put the jet-skis and dogs into the water and had a Sunday of boiled peanuts and sunshine. We also attempted some new water sports and saved Sonny from near-death way too many times. Even Omar showed up, for no man can resist a jet-ski and I'd been bragging about Dad's delicious grub for too long.

Perhaps you noticed an absence of Dad in the photos. Mr. Fix-it was present for all of our dock antics however his problem-solving mind could not let him partake in the day's activities as there was mechanical work to be done on our more sluggish jet-ski. Back and forth he walked down the dock, showing up with more tools and buckets each time. "It must be the plugs." he mumbled on occasion while Buddy cruised by on a surf board. His focus never wavered and it wasn't until our muscles trembled from a long day of holding on that Dad finally lifted his head out from under the jet-ski and sat on the bench to watch his daughter's Aquabatics.

Festering Festival

This weekend I attended the 8th Annual First Flush Festival at the Charleston Tea Plantation. The Flush in question has nothing to do with plumbing and everything to do with the time of year that the tea leaves are picked. There are four flushes, one for each season, and the Tea Plantation celebrates their first harvest of the year with a big music and food festival.

I stole this photo.

I'll start by saying that I had the greatest time ever and had no idea what a festering mess the whole ordeal was. That's because, as I was saying, I'm a content non-analyzer.
A couple months ago I bought Ari and myself a ticket. We decided she would be perfectly healed from her tonsillectomy by then and we could frolic through the tea leaves while listening to tunes and eating from food trucks. T'was just a few days beforehand that Ari called and screeched out an "I'm not going to make it." So to continue with the new trend, I forced Omar to go with me. Thank goodness I have him. I hope he's not feeling used.
It was a crowded and noisy festival but the weather was perfect and the food was delicious.

I stole this photo too.

The selling point for me however was not the farmy atmosphere or the mobile kitchens. Indeed my life was made this weekend because the headlining band was none other than my three true loves, The Avett Brothers.

Now clearly I did not take this picture either for if I was ever that close to these fellas, all hell would break loose. Or I would recoil into a bashful ball and watch quietly, hoping they could see through my sweaty, grinning exterior and find that I truly truly love them. Omar did however act as my muscle, pushing me through the crowd to get me close enough to take this picture...

...which is my closest to date. Next time, Avetts. Next time.

Now, the festering part. Apparently lots of people had an awful time. 

Apparently ticket-bearing folks were turned away at the door because it was too crowded. People were fighting their way in, parking miles away on the highway and trekking towards the fun. Meanwhile, Omar and I had plunked down on a grassy patch overlooking the festival goers, where we sat with a bowl of nachos, giggling and people watching. Apparently people were upset about how far the Porta Potties were from the stage. I remember thinking, "Oh good. They have Porta Potties." Apparently some liquor companies advertised drink specials that were nowhere to be found. I zoomed in on the fresh tea and exclaimed, "Sweet tea and sunshine! What more could you need?"

I wasn't bothered by waiting in the long lines or stepping over "poorly placed ditches." The litter on the ground, the "too-loud opening bands", and the "inadequately stocked food trucks" didn't phase me one bit. Should it have? Should my time have been ruined because there were other people present that also wanted food and a front row seat? Was I just too happy to be bothered? Am I doltish?

I will say that being turned away when I had already paid for a ticket would have most definitely upset me. Tickets weren't cheap and it would take more than rent-a-cop to keep me from seeing the Avetts. 

But gosh I had the best time just being there.

Maybe I'm a dog-like village moron and I never knew it. 

Blue Water

Have you read about this?
Folly's water has turned Caribbean blue.

I went to the beach last week and thought that my sunglasses were making the water this pretty greenish blue, alas, it's real. The blame is being put on the dredging thats been going on in an effort to renourish the beaches. Everyone's quite excited about the water and even I've been making more beach trips than normal, just to pretend I'm somewhere tropical. In addition to the pretty water, the sand underneath it feels like Play-Doh. The beach itself is somewhat rocky now. Parts are our soft white sand but large stretches are rocky tough spots that hurt your feet to walk on. Another obstacle is the long, rusty, serpentine pipe that now sits proudly amongst sunbathers day after day.

Every block or so they've built little sand bridges over the pipe so that folks can get to the water. The walk into the water takes you through a layer of normal, shell filled sand, to compact beach sand, to large rocks a foot below the surface. Then things feel normal for a while. When I was in thigh deep there was the strange sensation of stepping on a hard surface but that shifted under your feet. Like a skateboard or a rope bridge. But then, to my delight, at waist high, I was plowing through Pluff mud. I was sure of it. Some swimmers were put off by the texture. I loved it. I reached down for a handful to sling at my friends and when I pulled it up out of the water it wasn't Pluff mud at all. It was white and gooey. I think it was clay. 

No one is entirely sure about the changes that have taken place at Folly. One important science person mumbled something about lime and how it reflects colors. Probably the water color will go back to normal after the renourishment project is finished but for now it's very, very exciting. 

In other Folly news, a 10-foot alligator washed up on the beach and some heat-packing beach-goer shot it clear between the eyes, in front of all the little children.

I Have A Plan...Sort Of

Mattie and I are driving west.

Let me tell you the whole story.

I decided to go west. Nowhere in particular. And once I got there I would force myself upon old friend's sofas and do WorkAway programs while looking for something somewhat productive to do out there. Done. Decided. 

BUT I didn't want to drive out there by myself. The stretch from Tennessee to Colorado intimidates me. I'm gonna have to stop in there somewhere. What's in there? What if the only place to stop for gas is a rundown biker bar and the door swings open to reveal me, a lone giggler amongst thousands of pounds of tattooed flesh. "Do you serve sparkling water?" I'd ask, perched delicately atop a sticky vinyl barstool. "With a lime, please." I'd add, smiling politely at the droopy-eyed patrons rubbing chalk on their pool-cues, the cavernous roadhouse reeking of stale beer.

So, I started my search for a co-pilot and I found almost no one. Trouble with kids my age, they either have real jobs or they're flighty. "Sure, I'll go!" they all say at first. But when you ask for a date and tell them that all their things must fit inside my trusty 4Runner, they don't say much at all. 

So I forced Omar to forgo his flight to Portland at the end of the month in favor of riding out there with me. He had almost no reaction to this but politely agreed after a few days.

Just two days later Mattie arrived back in the States from Spain and I called to hear all about it. "I've got three week to kill before I go to Greece." Mattie told me, "I'll ride out there with you." And just like that we started scheming. Now Omar is off the hook, though I have been instructed to drop off his golf clubs in Portland.

Mattie will be here next week to map out a route and help contact all of our available sofas, I mean, friends. As of this moment, we're planning to leave the first week of June. 

I'm not ready.

Jared's Shoes

Let's toot Jared's horn. His first designs are finally on the market. Isn't that so exciting?! He's like a real person! That designs shoes! Gosh I'm excited. The shoes he's designed and worked on with other designers are up on the website, ready and waiting to be purchased.

I'm so proud!
I stole some pictures of a few for you. They're very Jared. Classic with a punch.

How Great Are Moms?

I made Mom take a picture with all her children. She didn't want to walk out into the grass or "Viper Villas" as she calls it. I was going to dress up like Mom and create a short but entertaining, after-lunch skit during which I would poke fun at Mom by acting just like her. Unfortunately my dark complexion and ethnic nose prevented me from looking anything like my own mother. This is really a perplexing thought. I don't look a thing like the lady but everything I say, think, and do has Mom written all over it. This means that I too, will be a crazy old lady.

I will laugh spontaneously, fire my finger guns when I get excited, hum when I eat sweets, and avoid jobs at all costs. Just kidding Mom. You work harder than all of us. (Or something like that.) 

I know a lot of lovely mothers. Some of which I have volunteered to be my honorary Mom if ever my own Mom isn't around. Fun mothers. Sweet mothers. Crafty mothers. There are all kinds. But I, I've got a best friend Mom.

How great it that?

I Realized Something

In the first grade I told my friend Yolanda that I thought a boy named Akim was a butthead. I don't remember the origins of my distaste for Akim but I can imagine that in the world of a six year old I really had no cause for such slander. Akim was tall kid with a big head and a giant smile. Now see, I just made him sound endearing. Don't fall for it. He was a butthead!

Yolanda told on me during story time and I was given a red piece of construction paper to slip into a pocket with my name on it. For the record, you didn't want construction paper in your pocket. Empty pockets were key. A notion I still practice today.

The consequences of each different color construction paper still flash in my mind. Green was a mild misdemeanor. Forgetting a pencil or picking your nose. Yellow was for disrupting the class. Red was the scariest of the colors because it meant that you were so awful that you were only one color away from the end- the black paper. In theory the black paper should have been the scariest but recipients of the black paper never actually saw it in their pockets because they would be immediately escorted to the principle's office within moments of Mrs. Welch's decision to bestow on you "the black one" as we called it. 

Being a butthead, Akim's pocket was very colorful most days and he was not phased by the presence of paper in his pocket. My pocket was pure. Never before had any paper found itself in my pristine, manilla pocket. The red strip caught my eye all day. I would look at that foreigner in my pocket and then look down at Akim. Poor Akim with his fidgety hands and beady eyes was no reason to have my pocket marred with red paper. Maybe Akim didn't know how not to be a butthead. Then I pitied Akim, scolded myself, and focused my attention on Yolanda. "What a jerk!" I thought while we practiced our cursive. Telling on me. Betraying my trust. Causing me paper! 

After this incident I remained a good kid all the way through school, never receiving any equivalent of paper in my pocket. I was once forced to partake in a class-wide detention in the fifth grade because of an unknown vigilante who made our teacher sit on an ink pad. It was like a censored bar across the back of her wide, khaki skirt.
I've never forgotten the shame of my class knowing I'd called someone a name. I was trained to be polite and I'd ruined it. Anyways, my point. I still feel bad about calling Akim a butthead. I realized that I'm so often accused of being too nice to people because I don't ever want someone to mentally put paper in their Laura pocket. They say you can't please everyone but I work overtime to do just that. Except for that one girl, Alice, but that's mutual so...

Why should I care if someone puts paper in my pocket? Is it because I knew I didn't deserve the paper just like Akim didn't deserve my slanderous words? This worthless rant took place because I was thinking about Akim again and thought "you never know the whole story. Don't call people buttheads."
I think that's a life lesson right there.

More importantly, today is Ari's birthday. She'll be here in just four days! Unfortunately it's to get her tonsils removed and you know I'm very squeamish. We'll have to work out a visitation schedule so that I'm not exposed to anything unpleasant. Notice I've made this about me. 

Happy Birthday, my love!!!

Social Engagements

Much to my dissatisfaction, my friends forced me out of the house and into a weekend of dressing up and acting right. Today is Omar's birthday. Since it is in fact a Monday, Omar instead chose to celebrate his birthday last Friday night. He treated us all to a grand meal under a vine covered canopy in a courtyard with an abundance of twinkling lights. It was delicious and I ate far too much. 

Remember Omar's Mardi Gras interview? Indeed, after eight rounds of interviews, MarMar was the last man standing and has been offered his dream job. Unfortunately for the rest of us, this means Omar is moving to Portland at the end of this month. Therefore, in-between cheesecake and creme brûlée, each of us offered some parting words for our nearly-departed. These folks had me in stitches with the most insulting fun facts and Omar-isms, all delivered to the birthday boy with so much love.

Then to my horror, I was forced to an "event" the next night too. Not just any event. It was a big awful thing put on by the College of Charleston. They do it every year. It's technically an alumni party but really it's a drunk-fest for the ramshackle frat guys and the run-down sorority girls of years past. I say this in anger. They are all still quite young and good-looking. I said I wanted no part in such things. I made so many awkward acquaintance type friendships at my half-hearted stay at The College that running into these almost-friends causes me much distress and awkward fumbling. No thanks. I'll pass. 

So how do you make someone go to party they'd rather judge from a distance? You pay a lot of money for a ticket for that person and you guilt them out of their jeans and into a girly dress and wedge heels. 

Ok, so maybe I did run into some of my favorite people ever. BUT I also saw some awful kids from high-school AND people who's names I couldn't remember. That's always so stressful. "... and what was your name?"

Also, I committed a light felony. I seem to be on a role actually. Just last week I decapitated someone's driveway lantern in an attempt to work out a beat I had been drumming on my stomach during my Buddy walk. Just one bat of my palm and the lantern left its post and shattered on the cool black tar of nighttime. I stood awkwardly in the dark, wondering how many people had heard the scene and were watching me from their bedroom window. It was close to midnight and that shatter could have been heard in Mt. Pleasant. I collected the glass shards and made a polite pile next to the post, which looked rather silly with no lantern on top. I went home and wrote a letter for the owners of the glass shards with the caption "It was me!" written in bold at the top. Though I offered to replace it, I noticed a new lantern standing proudly atop it's post just two days later. 

Here, at the Charleston Affair, I stole someone's dark grey, silk lined, Calvin Klein blazer. I thought I was doing a nice thing. I saw my old buddy Neil from elementary school. He's a lovable fella with a thick, bushy beard and a lumberjack's laugh. Just like in third grade. 

I sat with Neil a while and discovered that he's a Social Studies teacher and a soccer coach for an elementary school nearby. I like this and am jealous of his students. I reckon it's a good time. Anywho, after while Neil got up and said goodbye and disappeared into the night. I turned to face my friends and I saw it there. The blazer. Hanging delicately over the back of a plastic, white rental chair. 

"Neil left his jacket!" I shouted to no one, scooping it up in a hurry. 

I forced Omar to carry it around with his jacket for the remainder of our night. For approximately four hours, Omar shifted it from arm to arm, setting it down only for bathroom breaks and hearty hugs. "Do you still have Neil's jacket?" I would ask him too often, having taken responsibility for this rescue mission.

"Yes Laura" and he would raise a sleeve.

Having never met Neil, Omar handled his responsibility with honor and respect, assuming my love for Neil meant he might be an alright guy, worthy of having his jacket persevered for an evening.

It was at the end of the night, on our short ride home, crossing the bridge to James Island, that I realized Neil was wearing a blazer when he hugged me goodbye.