Written by Gene Cashman III

sipped a glass of Hendry cabernet, commandeered from Papa’s nice wine cabinet, as my lime infused May River crab creation simmered on the stove. The CD player changed over and the Four Top’s It’s the Same Old Song came through the speakers as the water pot for the angel hair pasta came to a boil. I remarked aloud, but to no one in particular, about how nicely the combination would taste. It was truly an embodiment of Hemingway’s Moveable Feast except the setting wasn’t Paris. The setting was a tucked away refuge on Bridge Street 29910. It was late. Well, it was late for dinner, close to 9 PM. I had spent the day, up until daylight faded, crabbing and cleaning traps. It had been sunny and hot, but now the air coming through the open kitchen window smelled of rain.

Thunder rumbled up the river from the direction of Hardeeville. “Lions roaring in the marsh,” YaYa said as she walked quickly through the room. The house was a flutter of activity. Neighbors and family were over for the typical Sunday night dinner and were milling about the kitchen and porch. Every Sunday all summer friends and family would gather at various houses along the bluff for a lavish meal. Amid the noise and loud music I continued to work on my creation. I was in a vacuum, alone with my thoughts. Unfortunately I was deep in thought over heading back North in the morning, back to central time zone reality. The car was already packed, yet river salt still clung to my skin. My senses began to mourn the forced march back up I-16.

The dinner itself was simple, yet exorbitant by any standard. Sweet jumbo lump crab, field peas, corn, and juicy tomato slices served over a bed of pasta. It was my favorite meal of the summer. A slice of watermelon and cantaloupe was served as a side. It was all fresh from river or garden and served family style. Candles illuminated the long porch. A steady breeze blew in from the bluff. The table was decorated in typical fashion for an event thrown by Yaya. An overflow of hydrangea blossoms and magnolia leaves stuffed in mason jars or old whiskey bottles decorated the table. Yaya has that magical touch. She can take something very simple and make it extraordinary. I think she got that from her father. He was an architect who could make lines on a page into wonderful structures. Yaya was an artist who could pluck from her surroundings unlike items and make them the centerpiece of a party. Her handiwork always set the mood and what she communicated on this night was simple, distinctly southern, and down to earth. In other words, it was the perfect way to cap off a summer of fabulous parties.

The sweet crab was served amid conversation of the previous week’s events. There was the sandbar trip, the birthday cookout, and the boat ride to Beaufort. Leisure in the eyes of 99.9% of the planet’s inhabitants. Yet, the visit wasn’t all about play. For me the days to Bluffton had been purposeful. Gene Sr. and Isobel had to be celebrated in grand fashion for 68 years of marriage. I wanted to see my sister Lynn and brother-in-law David. They live in Summerton and I rarely see them except when we all converge in Bluffton. An old friend, who was suffering great emotional pains, needed the refuge of the May River’s inclusive, natural grace. I have never, by the way, seen a medicine heal as quickly as a week spent on the May River. Heartache hardly has a chance. So, while this particular visit was more about seeing and celebrating others rather than just having fun in the sun -- it definitely reminded me just how special time with family can be. As I looked around the table I saw the generations, the smiles; I heard the laughter. All the varied sun kissed faces warmed my heart. The meal was the culmination of a wonderful stay at Papa and Yaya’s, but it also represented the end of the summer, the closing of another chapter in our lives. My thirty-first summer was at its end and my heart once again began to mourn.

As the night wore on Papa stood, as he typically did, at meals end for a toast. “A toast,” he said in half seriousness and half jest “to Madame May.” The table erupted in laughter and applause. He cleared his throat. “We so greatly enjoyed our time with you.” Cheers and whistles echoed up and down the table. It seemed several people had maybe, over served themselves. “We came tired and ragged and leave relaxed, refreshed and healed by the beauty and pace of your ways.” A loud burst of thunder seemed to resound mutual appreciation. He continued “Thank you for affording us this opportunity, the opportunity for laugher, great family meals, and family time. We so genuinely and deeply appreciate your generosity. You definitely speak our love language.” Papa indicated, by picking up his iced tea, that it was time to raise glasses. “Keep on marching mighty May until the next time we’re in your embrace. Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray. Hip, hip, hooray!” Just as the last cheer went up the bottom fell out. It was raining so hard you could hardly hear the conversation. Everyone settled back into their chairs and conversation started back up. It seemed the end to summer would have to wait a few hours more, or at least until the rain ceased, whichever came first.