I guess the perfect place for a neat freak has to be Folly. The paradox being, of course, that if Folly is anything it is certainly NOT neat. Named initially by the British, a
folly is
a green space with trees and dense undergrowth. The follies that dot the English estates are costly ornamental buildings with no practical purpose. My Lowcountry Folly is green, and that I love. It's the
ornaments that catch in my craw. At one point, this little six mile slip of land was called Coffin Island and collected the sick and dying before they could infect the port city of Charleston. Our little riverfront park has a marker recognizing the presence of the war machine during the conflict between the brothers. To the east of the island is the Morris Island Lighthouse, which sits on the most threadbare of beaches. You will know Morris Island as the place where the 54th Massachusetts stood its ground. I've walked its shores and borne witness when African-American re-enactors came to honor the dead. The gorgeous Atlantic ebbs and flows and the river seeks the sea. Water is everywhere. It's a beauty, for sure. She is an endangered barrier island. Even when the storms come and blow the trees about there is beauty and order in its slow decay. It can be the most spiritual of places. The Irish call them
Thin Places where they say the veil between heaven and earth is barely noticeable. I try to remember all of these things when I come head-on with man's footprint. I am not the only one who loves this Folly, you see. When the others come, they bring cigarettes and pollute the streets with their noise and their trash. They bring their issues and argue them vociferously in the still-dark morning air. "F--k you. Go home to your mother. That's where you want to be anyway." The police officers have not arrived yet. The dog voices his protest. That was last Thursday morning before school. Today, Sunday, I awoke to find a junked stove in the front yard along with a collection of tires. I grew up on a farm. No one on the farm ever had to instruct the mule on mule behavior. So what is wrong with these humans? I water the flowers, weed-eat the grass, vacuum the floors, and sweep the entry. I walk to lunch at a café on the island. I still can't get that ugly picture out of my head. I'm reminding myself that this is the last week of August, and they have to go home soon. Sadly, I also realize why some of us build walls and call them gated communities. It is entirely because of junked stoves, towers of tires, and language not fit for the lowliest of creatures.
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They say every yard in the south comes with errant tires. I say every
outdoor room needs a little black. It adds a bit of elegance, and
it definitely pops the rust tones in the farm equipment across the street. |
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Vintage Folly stove situated on a thread-bare lawn
complete with cigarette butts.. |
