Friday, August 11, 2006
Travel bug nips at gardens
Libba Wolfe
Libba Wolfe's column appears twice monthly in Extra.
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I never understood why my first father-in-law hated to travel during the gardening season. Even though he had reason to worry when he left me in charge of his huge vegetable patch and even bigger rose garden, it went beyond that. He would weed and trim and leave me with written instructions. He hated to leave his babies.
Now I get it. Before we left for two weeks for Emerald Isle, N.C., I spent hours watering, weeding and putting down the last of the mulch. I gathered all the pots in a shady area and walked around the yard with my next-door neighbor. Josh is a most responsible sixth-grader who handles the watering when I'm gone. I'm sure I've left my children with a less anxious baby-sitter than I was.
I bagged up the first of my homegrown tomatoes and we were off on vacation.
This was my family's 30th year at Emerald Isle. Four generations of loud, opinionated, hungry folks. Cousins and friends for lunch. Dogs. No privacy and, except for mandatory nap time, no quiet.
Our family has grown and so has the beach. For years we had to haul in two weeks' worth of groceries. The only store was a screened-door place that sold bait and bread. Now it carries good wine and hand-painted martini glasses. The long, empty stretches of dunes and sea oats are crammed with gift shops, condos and mammoth new houses.
New and fancy are not for us. The cottage we rent was old 30 years ago. It's "decorated" the way vacation houses used to be furnished -- with mismatched leftovers. Lots of shell art. It just got air conditioning in the last five years. Daddy would puzzle over our complaints about the lack of a dishwasher and say, "I've got you girls. Now go help your Mama."
It doesn't have WiFi connections, matching bedspreads or Hollywood bathrooms, but we'd never leave the Sea and Sound. It has windows that open to the ocean breezes and plenty of beds. It is full of memories. Sandy, bare-bottomed toddlers in the outdoor shower. Staying up late for wild games of Spoon and gin rummy. Wild cheers for the annual back porch talent show extravaganza. Daddy, deep in dementia, on the front porch yelling out "Lookin' good!" to bikini-clad girls. (Apparently you never forget some things.) As many as 18 of us crowded around the supper table.
Much of the conversation and activity centers on food. Our daughter Mariah packs her good knives and whips up healthy gourmet dinners. Mama brings a country ham and makes her famous biscuits. Our son-in-law's Low Country boil and my brother's pesto pasta are menu standards.
My sister Lou makes a vat o' chicken salad. Because she has such a special touch with our grandmother's cooked dressing recipe our nephew calls her the "Chicken Salad Whisperer."
There is always a row of tomatoes on the windowsill and the fridge is crammed with pimento cheese, egg salad and leftovers. We all agree "things go better on a Triscuit" and we eat thousands. I don't know why Triscuits doesn't sponsor us like golf or NASCAR stars. We could have Triscuit hats and beach towels and Triscuit decals on the cars as we make emergency runs when we run low.
Our children have always considered the beach trip the final test for any serious romantic interests. Why sign on for life with someone who won't wash dishes, make his own sandwich or doesn't eat Triscuits? If they politely wait their turn to speak, can't take a joke or haven't mastered the boarding house reach, well, they may not make it.
Other families on vacation might have orderly dinner discussions about the Middle East situation or books they're reading. Our grandson is in the "TA-DAAA!" stage of toilet training, so our meals were interrupted with applause and toasts to big boys who can do "standing up pee-pee."
Another year of sunny memories in the comfortable old beach house we love.
Home to find the windstorm had blown down my tomatoes, the rabbits had lunched on the Swiss chard and an amazing amount of grass had crept into the borders. But Josh had kept the pots wet.
I tied up the tomatoes and started weeding. It'll all get done eventually. Or maybe not. There's nothing like a vacation to give me a new attitude.
