The colors are green and not yet of autumn. The pines are tall and sparse with a Florida like understory; the sky is blue like the bluest eyes I have ever looked into with only a bit of haze to make the coming humidity palpable. There is still warmth in the sun. The terrain looks parched without being so. The feel is quieter, slower, the people are fewer, the accents more lilting, the dogs tired. I know these are clichés. So be it, the world is full of them and if not malicious, they pack a lot of information into a small space.
I write this on a front porch in Sumter, SC. The sun is at about 2:30 in the sky and the quiet has just been disturbed by a gust of wind that rustles the trees. The greenery is lush with only a bit of russet on the tips of certain leaves. This place, if nature were given free range, would be jungle in a few years. In the north we encourage growth, here just the opposite. Every plant, bush, and tree is either trimmed or overgrown.
A thick bamboo grove and a patch of kudzu twice the size of my Chicago bungalow is across from where I sit. I want to wander through the grove but I am not from here and there is a prominent “Private Property” sign displayed, so I will tread lightly. The feel of this place is warm and soft and cushioning, and I do not want to become accustomed to it. I believe this is what snowbirds sense: a constant state of wonder.
There is hushed road noise, and the occasional roar of prodigious amounts of jet fuel burned by F-16’s taking off from the air force base to the north. I can hear squirrels rustling in the wheel barrel where a bag of sunflower seeds was inadvertently left. There are a few odd birdcalls, and the incessant soprano, baritone and bass of the three dogs next door. They are attentive to every movement, whether real or imagined, in their foliage obscured compound.
Here the streets blend seamlessly into the sandy soil. No curbs or sidewalks delineate boundaries. The pine trees are tall and magnificent, and leave room for the naked crepe myrtles and the waxy magnolia to flourish beneath. There are tall stands of luxuriant native grasses, and there is the suffocating quilt of kudzu. There is the good and the bad. Take it or leave it the land seems to say.
And when I venture into town, I am reminded of how crass I am. In Chicago, there are no preliminaries. We get to the point and are in a hurry to resolve, to compromise and go our way. Not so here. I force myself to say hello, to ask how one is doing, how the day has been so far, and how it is expected to go, and I have to do this sincerely, with true feeling in my voice and gestures.
This is the hardest part; after all, where am I going, what is my hurry, and why am I cranky. I remind myself to do the deep abdominal breathing I learned in a yoga class at the YMCA forty years ago. I try to relax my shoulders and not shuffle about. I might learn to do this instinctively if I lived here for years, but I am only here, in the Carolinas, for several weeks.
Is it worth it to keep up this charade, I think so. I was wrong to attribute the “feeling” only to the environment: to the sun, the clouds, to the soft breezes that rustle the palmettos. The feeling is an accolade to this people’s communion with their beloved land. If I try I might be able to carry this feeling home within me. That is except for the soft breezes.
November 2014
