Written by Gene Cashman III

called my grandmother, Isobel McRae Cashman the other day. She was crying. Well, sobbing actually. Her heart was so full of joy that it moved her to tears. You see, earlier that same day my mother had picked up my grandparents, Gene and Isobel, from the Savannah address they have called home for more than half a century. She had chauffeured them across the Talmadge Bridge, down highway 170A, past the Pink Pig in Levy to their final destination along Highway 46 in Bluffton. Isobel was crying because her heart was so happy. My mom had delivered them from a cooped up den in Savannah to their cherished village by the May. Isobel rejoiced that she would be able to see her lovely old hydrangea, to walk the halls of the cottage her father built, to watch the tide and to tend her sweet memories. My grandparents don’t get out as much as they used to, being 95 and 94 years old. When they do, it’s usually for clinic appointments. My granddad will sometimes joke they don’t even get to go to funerals anymore because everyone’s already dead. So, when they get the chance to come over to Bluffton it’s a very special outing. It’s not special just because they are out of the house, but rather they get to reconnect to a place that has brought them so much joy through the years.

Gene and Isobel may be advanced in age, but they are extraordinary people who have lived during the most remarkable years in history. When Isobel and Gene exchanged vows in the Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah in the summer of 1940, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor was still 18 months away, a gallon of gas cost 11 cents (give or take) and the country was still feeling the affects of a great depression. Yet, as Isobel will often wistfully say, “Aw, the world hasn’t changed that much. My high school class was twenty-two people carrying one,” referring to a pregnant classmate in her high school class of 1931. But the world was different. The summer of their marriage saw Europe engulfed in a world war; America wasn’t a superpower and in local terms a hurricane could roar into Beaufort, Bluffton and Savannah killing more than 50 people and there was no up-to-the minute CNN coverage. I doubt many under 25 years of age can remember a day without constant television coverage. “Hells bells,” Isobel often says whenever reminiscing about the era. “I picked up your grandfather hitch-hiking his way back to Chatham County from a Georgia football game in Jacksonville.” She recounts the story with love in her eyes. “We were tucked into our little pocket of the world. Y’all sure are lucky traffic was heavy and my sister Bessie was so persistent I give him a ride.” Imagine that grandkids --- grandma met grandpa hitching back from Florida. This all but confirms the America they knew in the 1930’s, regardless of any attempt to draw social parallel, was much simpler, more humbled and much, much safer.

Yet, outside family there was little fuss over their 68th wedding anniversary. Al Roker didn’t come down from New York to interview and Dr. Phil didn’t call for advice. No, they began the day and ended it like most of the other 24,819 days prior. They were together. So, now here in the present day she was still sobbing into the phone. “Grandmother,” I said “at least you are crying because you are happy.” There was a gush of air through the phone. I could picture her sitting up in her canopy bed, Gene Sr. next to her eating a big bowl of cherry vanilla ice cream rolling his eyes and huffing at her emotional display. “Yes,” she stammered “my heart is so full of sweet memories and happiness it could burst.” I smiled. “I wish you were here with me,” she continued. “This place means so much to me. Your mother walked me out to the dock today.” I could picture the two holding on to one another gingerly making their way down the old pier. “I looked out on that river and I saw the water and those boats and it reminded me of when my sister Bessie would row across for crab.” She pronounced everything in a fabulous Scottish-tinged accent peppered with coastal Georgia flare. She choked up a bit. “It was as if nothing had changed.” Of course, everything had changed, but in that moment all the faces long departed from this earth were alive again. I could sense the tenderness in her voice as she recounted the well-worn stories of family. There was her brother Oonie fishing from the bank; sisters Flora, Rita and father Farquahr skipping oyster shells across the water; her mother Lissy and Gene’s parents Bessie and Joseph Oscar sitting together in a wooden bateau dressed in their Sunday finest. They were all there once again, raw memories in her aged mind pushed up and renewed like a fresh spring from deep in her soul. Her memories embraced her and held her firm. I could sense, even through the phone, that telling me about her family made her happy. She ended her call with her usual “I love you darlin” and handed the phone to the next party waiting to talk.

I could hear my grandfather scrambling through his newspapers and magazines to pick up the phone. “Hey buddy,” he said in a low tone. I could tell he was sleepy from reading the evening paper. “It’s good to hear from you. We are here in Bluffton. Your mother brought us over and your grandmother couldn’t be happier.” He was making it seem like Isobel was the only one happy to be there, but I knew otherwise. Bluffton, for them both, has always represented something ancestral, something rooted, fiercely in passion and tradition -- the land sacred, the river wild. You can hear it in the way they remember and describe in rich detail the pureness of the tidal islands, tales of wild horses and eagles, the bounties of an unspoiled river. The two of them can remember Daufuskie, vividly, long before Pat Conroy ever set foot there. The wonderful stories they have told over the years of Hilton Head, Dafuskie and Tybee as well as most every other destination between Thunderbolt and All Joy are an essential oral history of the region. They lived in a Bluffton governed by a gentleman’s handshake, when a man’s word was as strong as the Secession Oak’s roots. A man’s honesty governed everything from dock rights to local business. Family and responsibility took precedence over one’s own selfish desires, no matter how unfair. Many other old Bluffton families can share in the understanding of this history. I know because I have spoken with them and have heard their stories. They all speak of a time, both naturally and socially, that has long since passed. It’s an exercise in living history to listen to anyone from their generation wistfully recount Bluffton’s culture and natural history from the first 50 years of the 20th Century.

My grandfather ended the conversation with a heartfelt “I love you buddy,” and handed the phone to my mother. I could hear Isobel’s singing to Gene Sr. in the background “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” It’s the song they sing each other every night before bed. I asked my mom if they were going to be okay. My mom, ever the optimist, replied “could they get any better?” I laughed and continued to listen to them sing. It made me think of the nickname Isobel’s father, Farquahr, gave her as a child. He called her Rain in the Face. He gave all the children nicknames that were descriptive of each child. I like to think he gave her that particular name because of her gentle soul and the wellspring of love in her kind eyes. I jotted down a quick description of her on a napkin as they sang. It read “faded golden curls, a wispy mop upon her head. A broad smile of well worn pearls. The sun shines, to the distant corners of her eyes. A body well worn, a life well lived. A soul used to its utmost potential. This is my Isobel.“ It was a fragmented description, but one that was fitting as I listened to her serenade the love of her life. I started to hang up but paused to listen to the two of them laugh at their off key singing. A voice came through the line. It was my mother. “God broke the mold with those two.” I laughed out loud. “Yeah, but I am just glad to have been a witness for part of the show.”