Written by Gene Cashman lll

e returned to the low country the day before July 4th. We had been away since Thanksgiving and it was good to return. Much had transpired in the months in-between and I was glad to come back to the one place where I felt at ease. The strong salty smell of the coming ocean air mingled with the distinctive stink of the paper mill in Savannah as we blazed down I-95 into coastal Carolina. A turn off the main highway indicated the final destination lay only a few miles down the road. I nudged my sleeping bride who smiled and stretched. We approached the outskirts of Bluffton beneath a cathedral canopy of two hundred year old oak. The loyal guard were draped in full Spanish-moss regalia, arched in a lazy salute as we entered the grand ole town. The sea born air and briny feel of the marsh surrounding the once sleepy town instantaneously carried a person to a slower pace of life, a constant reminder of one’s presence in the low country. The sun melted slowly into the near horizon while cicada’s serenaded the evening. We pulled in to the azalea lined, oyster shell drive, our refuge for the coming days just as darkness fell.

Staying in the company of Papa and Yaya was always a delight and to have finally arrived a relief. We were met with warm hugs and welcoming kisses. Papa and Yaya, in their early sixties and full of life, stories, and kindness were fantastic hosts; there has never been a time when we have failed to enjoyed their gracious company, deep laughter, and easy fellowship. In usual fashion they had prepared a grand and welcoming meal. We were met with full glasses of rich red wine and a catch-up session in deep down chairs as YaYa retrieved the meal from the icebox. Papa insisted on hearing the details of the trip and of life since we last spoke. We indulged his desire even as the scent of good lowcountry soul food grew stronger. Sliced vine-ripe tomatoes, sweet onions and chutney grown on the farm of Papa‘s sister entertained our palates first, followed by deviled crab, in the shell, sweet butter beans and yellow squash; to finish we had a small dollop of chilled aspic and a dash of white wine. We retired to the porch, lounging on swinging beds; there the discussion turned to our intended stay. Papa remarked we were welcome as long as we wished, gratefully I responded we would have to wait and see but were appreciative of the offer, with that Papa relented and turned the conversation towards lowcountry boilerplate; fishing and boating. That evening we slept with the windows open so the smell of the marsh would fill our room.

In the morning we woke to a sea-bound sunrise that offered a glimpse of the heavenly realm. I grabbed some coffee and found Papa surveying his latest project, the installation of hurricane shutters on the cottage. I joined the task while my wife, Betsy, prepared patriotic costumes for the annual Bluffton parade. As Papa and I walked the property I was reminded of it and the regions uniqueness. The home is a beautiful river cottage nestled on a windswept bluff overlooking a vast landscape of marsh, lowcountry wild land, and the winding May River. With its tin roof, vast and welcoming porch, complete with beds which swing from chains anchored in the ceiling, it appears like an image from a dream. Oaks and hurricane palm dot the property; the grounds are also lush with azalea and hydrangea. A long wooden dock juts from the protective bluff giving access to the deep water of the river. The dock extends out over marsh and oyster bed into the tidal water of the May. At high tide the waters of the May lap the edge of the bluff and the underside of the dock; at high tide the river and the marsh look full and abundant with life; the green-black color of the water perfectly contrasts the emerald marsh and puffy cumulous clouds that frequently dance with trade winds on the horizon. At low tide the waters recede, revealing the nerve of the lowcountry. This particularly day the river was full of festively decorated boats and the bluff was packed with families and friends noisily celebrating our nation’s birth. After the parade we joined in and spent the remainder of the day lounging in hammocks laughing and watching the boats pass by.

That evening we went to a local restaurant for a Fourth of July Celebration. It was a fine place that served May River seafood and fine aperitifs and spirits. I ate there often with Betsy, Papa and YaYa. We would regularly retreat to this place after a long day on the river for cards and to drink gin and a lime tonic to set our palates. Papa liked to sit deep in his chair and recall the events of the day, speculating about tomorrow’s fishing luck while the girls would chat of starlets and trashy novels. I preferred to watch the assorted lot that passed through this road side joint. Most were from town but every so often there would be a rash of trespassers from nearby tourist towns that would loudly infest the premises with their far off twang and crying offspring. I don’t believe these trespassers appreciated the subtleness or the grandness of the lowcountry; only its close proximity to the Atlantic Ocean. Nevertheless, it was a fine establishment to eat and drink.

When in season I would order the oysters with a strong white wine to wash them down; in the summer it pleased me to have the taste of crab cakes, boiled shrimp and cold beer; such things always set me in a jovial mood for the evening. Most nights there would be a performance under the giant oak that dominated the property, giving the property a distinguished air. Of particular interest were a local family that played bluegrass music. In the quintet was a young man of no more than twelve playing the fiddle and singing as well as anyone in Nashville. It was fine music in the tradition of Appalachia and it made everyone dance richly and drink deeply. We danced until the last light faded in the western sky.

After dark we retreated back to Papa and Yaya’s dock to watch fireworks from the bluff. Being in Bluffton on the Fourth of July and participating in it’s whirlwind of activity always reminds me of my many blessings. As fireworks burst overhead I thought back over the past 24 hours since my arrival. I realized just how lucky I am and just how much I take for granted. It’s awful how I have to be jolted from my everyday routine to be reminded of just how fortunate I, and really, all Americans are. I had enjoyed great meals, rich conversation, deep laughter; I lived as if I had no real care in the world. I had wanted for nothing and enjoyed the splendor of Bluffton’s unique charm. I would be leaving in the next few days genuinely rejuvenated and relaxed. As my thoughts turned back to the fireworks and conversation I raised a toast “to the May River and a true taste of the good life it affords.” Yaya winked and handed me a sparkler to twirl; it was yet again another great day on the May.