Watts Line

Charleston to Charleston

So this is what happens when you live in Charleston S.C. and you have a grown child living in Charleston. Oregon. That’s right. Charleston, Oregon.

Surfer Dude moved there nearly three years ago, following the love of his life in her pursuit of higher education. Higher, higher education. And that’s what she’s doing.

He had visions of surfing the perfect wave and building original and exotic furniture and that is exactly what he’s doing.

So, happily the purpose of their relocation is being fulfilled.

And we’re thrilled. Really. We are. Thrilled.

The only problem with this idyllic scenario is that they are doing it so far away in a place accessible only by the expenditure of large amounts of money and lots o’ time. Why? These two Charleston’s are as far apart from each other as the two Spoleto Festivals -- the one here and the one in Spoleto, Italy -- are.

Now, I’ve been out to visit a few times, but the Hubster has never been able to go until now. He has resisted after hearing about my tales of woe that it takes every mode of transportation (short of a yak) and light years in a sleep pod to get there.

This is what it take to get from Charleston to Charleston. We drive to the Charleston airport and head out to Atlanta on a medium size plane. On arrival we take the airport subway to some far off gate and catch a big plane to San Francisco. From San Fran, we take a smaller plane that flies right over the top of our destination of Charleston/Coos Bay straingt to Eugene, Oregon which is not our destination. The last leg, from Eugene back to the place we just flew over is aboard what I think of as a pretend plane. It’s tiny. The kind of tiny that has you maneuvering up and down those rickety aluminum stairs that are most often used for politicians putting on a show for their constituents.

This little Chas-to-Chas trip takes about 13 hours. That’s right – 13 hours. If we’re lucky. Lots o' hours and lots o' legs mean lots o' opportunities for disasters like delayed flights, missed flights and lost luggage (which has happened only two out of the three times I’ve been there.)

So in a few weeks I will head out on the yearly Odyssey to Oregon with the Hubster in tow. We will see the seals on the little islands just off shore, we will see the places where lumber used to be floated down the river, we will see the sand dune mountains and the beautiful blue water of the north Pacific – and we will see our much loved and hard to get to kids.

And it will be worth it.

Best Friends

My best friend since childhood is Mary Ann. Mary Ann and I met in third grade when we were sitting out recess on the playground bench because we both had colds. I can remember that moment as clearly today as the day it happened. Sometimes you just meet people along the way that become part of your life immediately.

So through the years we've whined to each other over boyfriends (or the lack thereof), celebrated life's victories (especially in finding our very excellent husbands), agonized over teenage and young adult children who don't think the same way we do, and of course...we've giggled.

Like last weekend, for instance. M.A. asked me for a visit to her uncle's house, The Barnacle, at Holden Beach. We've been going there since we were kids.

Saturday night we decided to drive over to the seafood shop to buy seafood (of course) but on the way home we got to talking so much we drove right past The Barnacle and ended at the end of the road where we turned around in the parking lot at the Holden Beach Pier.

Well, the pier is a special place because there was a time when that was literally the only place on the beach to go. So, we got to talking about the famous (in our history) photo of us as very unaware 13-year-old girls. The photo had been taken on the pier on one of those beach-windy days that blows sand and hair everywhere. After the photo shoot had been completed (with our little brownie cameras), we went inside the pier store, plunked a quarter into the juke box, and danced to the music, much to the horror of her grandfather who had driven us down there. We giggled at the memory. And then M.A. recalled the really cute clerk behind the counter. And we giggled some more.

Looking back on the incident we're both surprised her grandfather didn't haul us back to The Barnacle and lock us in our rooms for the rest of the week. He must have taken our behavior pretty well since we don't remember any serious results from the event.

But anyway, we got to giggling about that day and we giggled ourselves through the rest of the evening.

I'm not sure what it is about girls and women (age isn't that big of a factor in the giggling discussion), but a good giggle goes a long way toward smoothing over life's issues. But you can't giggle with just anyone. It usually requires some connection of history or temperament. Some understanding of past events that defies logic and sees some nebulous humor that might elude anyone else.

M.A. and I don't spend a lot of time together since we live in different cities and have right busy jobs, but last weekend during the beach visit, we realized we need to.

Because she's my giggle buddy. And sometimes that's all you need.

Princess Sally's surgery

We have this wiener dog named Sally. Princess Sally to be exact. It's "princess" because she's always been very much in charge.

Fortunately, we like her right much.

A couple of months ago, her back went out. At first she dragged one leg, then both. The vet gave her steroids and she got better and seemed fine. Then a week later, both legs went limp again. She dragged herself around, but was a happy camper otherwise.

"This isn't good,' I said to the Hubster one night as she dragged herself merrily across the floor. "This is no way for a princess to live."

So we took her back to the vet for more steroids, which didn't help. We moved on to another vet who immediately sent us to a surgeon. The surgeon took one look, pronounced an unbelievable fee, (which, I must say, my dear guy did not blink at too hard because he knew I was in somewhat of a state) and had our Princess in surgery by day's end. The surgery, doctor dearest explained, would be followed by three weeks of inpatient therapy at the facility next door.

Within a week or so, Sally was swimming in the indoor pool at the therapy center, harnessed like an Olympic high diver learning a new trick. When she wasn't swimming she was walking on the treadmill.
She truly was a princess with everyone dancing in attendance. I made tearful visits during my lunch time.

After three weeks, the only leg movement was when she was frolicking on the treadmill or in the pool. So then we went to outpatient therapy. Every morning as I left for work I scooped her up, desposited her in the passenger seat and hauled her to therapy. Every night I picked her up on the way home.

Finally the therapist suggested we take a break from therapy. Sally could continue her exercises at  home for a while, then we'd reassess.
The first day Sally pitched a fit because she wanted to go with me to work for her usual day at the spa.
The second day was not much better.
By the end of the week, the fit was more of a sulk.
She still was not walking.
By the middle of the second week she stopped sulking, apparently coming to terms with the fact that her spa days were over.

A day later she took her first steps. The next day she took several more steps and the next walked across the patio.
I have since decided that Sally, sweetheart that she is, was not the least bit interested in walking at home for free when she could get us to pay for her to swim in the pool and walk on the treadmill.

Her gait is a little odd, but hey, she's walking...running, even, when properly motivated. Like on Sunday afternoon when she caught her first mole of the season. She was so proud.

And to tell you the truth, so were we.