It has been so long since I have written here that I could swear I felt that tickly feeling you get when you walk through the whispery wisps of webbing left by the cobs who adorn our unoccupied spaces. Yeah, I know these networks of silky threads really come from spiders, but I’d rather think that the creaking of hinges caused by my first-in-a-while post is disturbing a cob rather than angering a spider.
I suppose part of my withdrawal from spilling words here stems from the disappointment of not hearing from a Pennsylvania agent of bestsellers. She was the fourth agent to ask for my full manuscript. Having often read that only one in 200 queries results in such requests, I am always filled with promise and anticipation when someone wants to see By the Light in its entirety. This agent’s handwritten note of request had warmth and personality, so naturally I assumed that she would be the one who would guide me to the Promised Land. That she intimated that it would be three or four months before I would hear from her did not dampen my parade. Now that nearly double that amount of time has passed without a note, a call, or the return of my story in the free-ride envelope I provided, my parade seems awash in New Orleanian proportions of the wet stuff.
Well, let me tell you about a cure for the potholes and mountains situated between first-time novelists and “the dream.” My wife and I just spent a week in a 1930s cottage recently restored by Jane Coslick and complete with its own pool on Tybee Island, Georgia. We discovered two days before we arrived that it was featured in the May-June issue of “Cottage Living,” but as good as the spread in the magazine is, the real deal is way better. I have been in over half of the states and on a Caribbean island, and this little piece of heaven is the most peaceful and relaxing place I have ever experienced. The America I knew as a kid still exists there today. They have a saying there about “living on Tybee time.” It’s an attitude. The locals, lucky devils that they are, exude it. Visitors needn’t try to resist adjusting to the pace.
Rolling out of bed and into the pool in the morning was invigorating. Bicycling for hours on the beach and through the neighborhoods of quaint cottages and venerable beach houses was awesome. More than half of our baths were taken in our outside shower. Talk about liberation.
Shrimp and grits with scrambled eggs at the Breakfast Club, source of the victuals at the late junior John Kennedy’s Cumberland Island wedding party, was a treat had on two separate mornings. A.J.’s Dockside Restaurant, approachable by land or by sea, serves great seafood within its walls or on deck over the water. That the address printed on their hats, like the one I bought there two years ago, is stated in latitude and longitude rather than as a street number tells you a lot about this place. Then there's the Sundae Café. It might sound like an ice cream joint, but rest assured, they serve serious and memorable cuisine there. A class act they are.
Dinner at The Lady and Sons, where Paula Dean dishes out the best that Savannah has to offer, was indescribably delicious. My wife, a salmon aficionado, says they serve the best. Hey, I’m Louisiana born and bred, and I sort of cotton to her particular version of shrimp and grits. On another night, Churchill’s Pub provided a delectable diversion from the seafood in the form of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Dining on their rooftop was quite a delight.
Our last night in the Low Country was spent in Forsyth Park listening to the Neville Brothers and Ziggy Marley at an outdoor concert staged by the Savannah College of Art and Design to honor their new alumni on the eve of their commencement. Corporate citizens rarely contribute as much to a community’s ambiance and culture as SCAD does to Savannah. Having attended a lot of open-air musical events, I’ve seen some outstanding grazing and quaffing techniques, especially in my native state of Louisiana. From chilled microbrews and tailgate food to wine, brie, and fresh fruit, that diverse crowd of Savannahians and guests proved that they’ve got it honed to a genteel art.
Weather on Tybee from Saturday to Friday was as if it had been ordered from the deluxe section of a catalog. Not so for our Saturday of departure. We were awakened that morning by the sound of raindrops on our roof. It was fueled by a tropical depression coming up from the waters off of Florida, so things deteriorated as the day progressed. Not to be denied, we proceeded with our participation in the Tybee Tour of Homes. Opening the umbrellas, dashing from car to house, pulling blue disposable footies over our shoes, and reversing the process to drive to the next stop. The homes were fabulous and provided a bright ray of sunshine on a wet and cloudy day.
Rejuvenated, I can now endure waiting to see what happens, if anything, with the lady from the Keystone State. I’ve also started work on Tit for Tat, as short story of suspense with a villain every bit as twisted as the bad boy in By the Light. If there is a tarot card that represents a determination to not be denied, the seer might as well plop that sucker down right in front of me.
I suppose part of my withdrawal from spilling words here stems from the disappointment of not hearing from a Pennsylvania agent of bestsellers. She was the fourth agent to ask for my full manuscript. Having often read that only one in 200 queries results in such requests, I am always filled with promise and anticipation when someone wants to see By the Light in its entirety. This agent’s handwritten note of request had warmth and personality, so naturally I assumed that she would be the one who would guide me to the Promised Land. That she intimated that it would be three or four months before I would hear from her did not dampen my parade. Now that nearly double that amount of time has passed without a note, a call, or the return of my story in the free-ride envelope I provided, my parade seems awash in New Orleanian proportions of the wet stuff.
Well, let me tell you about a cure for the potholes and mountains situated between first-time novelists and “the dream.” My wife and I just spent a week in a 1930s cottage recently restored by Jane Coslick and complete with its own pool on Tybee Island, Georgia. We discovered two days before we arrived that it was featured in the May-June issue of “Cottage Living,” but as good as the spread in the magazine is, the real deal is way better. I have been in over half of the states and on a Caribbean island, and this little piece of heaven is the most peaceful and relaxing place I have ever experienced. The America I knew as a kid still exists there today. They have a saying there about “living on Tybee time.” It’s an attitude. The locals, lucky devils that they are, exude it. Visitors needn’t try to resist adjusting to the pace.
Rolling out of bed and into the pool in the morning was invigorating. Bicycling for hours on the beach and through the neighborhoods of quaint cottages and venerable beach houses was awesome. More than half of our baths were taken in our outside shower. Talk about liberation.
Shrimp and grits with scrambled eggs at the Breakfast Club, source of the victuals at the late junior John Kennedy’s Cumberland Island wedding party, was a treat had on two separate mornings. A.J.’s Dockside Restaurant, approachable by land or by sea, serves great seafood within its walls or on deck over the water. That the address printed on their hats, like the one I bought there two years ago, is stated in latitude and longitude rather than as a street number tells you a lot about this place. Then there's the Sundae Café. It might sound like an ice cream joint, but rest assured, they serve serious and memorable cuisine there. A class act they are.
Dinner at The Lady and Sons, where Paula Dean dishes out the best that Savannah has to offer, was indescribably delicious. My wife, a salmon aficionado, says they serve the best. Hey, I’m Louisiana born and bred, and I sort of cotton to her particular version of shrimp and grits. On another night, Churchill’s Pub provided a delectable diversion from the seafood in the form of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Dining on their rooftop was quite a delight.
Our last night in the Low Country was spent in Forsyth Park listening to the Neville Brothers and Ziggy Marley at an outdoor concert staged by the Savannah College of Art and Design to honor their new alumni on the eve of their commencement. Corporate citizens rarely contribute as much to a community’s ambiance and culture as SCAD does to Savannah. Having attended a lot of open-air musical events, I’ve seen some outstanding grazing and quaffing techniques, especially in my native state of Louisiana. From chilled microbrews and tailgate food to wine, brie, and fresh fruit, that diverse crowd of Savannahians and guests proved that they’ve got it honed to a genteel art.
Weather on Tybee from Saturday to Friday was as if it had been ordered from the deluxe section of a catalog. Not so for our Saturday of departure. We were awakened that morning by the sound of raindrops on our roof. It was fueled by a tropical depression coming up from the waters off of Florida, so things deteriorated as the day progressed. Not to be denied, we proceeded with our participation in the Tybee Tour of Homes. Opening the umbrellas, dashing from car to house, pulling blue disposable footies over our shoes, and reversing the process to drive to the next stop. The homes were fabulous and provided a bright ray of sunshine on a wet and cloudy day.
Rejuvenated, I can now endure waiting to see what happens, if anything, with the lady from the Keystone State. I’ve also started work on Tit for Tat, as short story of suspense with a villain every bit as twisted as the bad boy in By the Light. If there is a tarot card that represents a determination to not be denied, the seer might as well plop that sucker down right in front of me.
As for Tybee time, we have decided that it will come around for us every other year. The years in between will afford opportunities to see new and different places. Our long term plan is to have a place of our own on Tybee for whiling away a third to a half of each year of our retirement. Once our own hinges get creaky, it will be the place where we can relax to a speed that might put us in jeopardy of being webbed by cobs.
