David Barwick

It’s Springtime, Tybee!  It’s about to be St. Patrick’s Day, ya’ll!

It’s time for green beer, green rivers, green fountains, green leprechauns, green everything.

Oh yeah.  And then there’s that whole “wear green or get pinched” thing.  Pinched.  Even now I wince.

Now, I like leprechauns as much as the next guy.  Heck, I believe in them just in case there really is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  I am. if nothing else, an optimist…or gullible…either way it works for me.

Legend has it that you’re supposed to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day so that you’ll be invisible to those leprechauns.  If you don’t wear green they can see you and they’ll pinch you.  Pinched.  Another wince.

Wear green or get pinched.  Come to find out it’s not even an Irish thing.  St. Patrick chose the green three leaf clover as a way to explain and define the trinity.  God The Father, The Holy Spirit and The Son.  Irish soldiers wore green as a sign of rebellion at the start of the Irish Revolution.  Heck, in the very beginning green wasn’t even the official color of St. Patrick’s Day.  It was blue!  And, they never even did the whole pinching thing.  Pinched.   Another wince.

The wearing of the green or get pinched thing was an American invention.  Shucks, if I didn’t know better I’d swear my dear saintly mother started the whole thing.  My mother was not Irish and she was no leprechaun.  She was Southern Baptist.  That’s a whole different ball game than any mere cultural tradition.

You see, when you’re born in the deep south chances are you’re brought up in some type of religious environment.  For me, that meant I was part of a rural farm family where church was the social hub of the community.  We went to church every Sunday morning, every Sunday night, every Wednesday night and every time the church doors were opened.  We even had our own pew.  My grandmother sat on one pew.  My mother sat behind her.  I could sit on either pew, but there was a strict code of decorum no matter which one I occupied.  And, we’re talking Southern Baptist which meant they were hard wooden pews, too.  You ain’t being a good Christian if you’re comfortable during the service.

Then there’s the whole hellfire and brimstone sermons the preacher rained down on us poor sinners every time he took the pulpit.  Lucky for me I had already figured out by the time I was seven or eight years old the wages of sin he warned us about each week didn’t really apply to me.  I was just a kid.  I didn’t have a job or any way to make money so I was exempt from the tithing thing and I was too busy playing to be coveting anything my neighbor had and I never dared to show off  the cuss words I knew…at least not in front of anyone that would tell on me.

So, that meant while that preacher was bent on stepping on everyone else’s toes I was free to swing my legs, look around and day dream.   That is, so long as I limited my movements and didn’t draw attention to our pew.  My mother had perfect poise and dressed in her Sunday best and fully understood that her reputation as a good wife and mother was to be demonstrated by the prim and proper behavior of her children in church.  From time to time my day dreaming and  mind wandering would make me forget just where I was, but my mother had a sure fire way of bringing me back into the fold.  Without even uttering a word.  Never turning her head in my direction.  Her eyes would glare at me from the side of her beautiful face.  Her chin would tilt downward ever so slightly.  Drawing my eyes down towards her lap.  There it was.  Her right hand cocked into the shape of a claw.  A Pincher.  Coiled tighter than a rattlesnake about to strike.  Her thumb and finger clamping shut and then opening in rapid succession.  I was being warned.

Let me tell you.  Getting pinched by my mother was kind of like squeezing a tube of Brylcreem in hopes of taming the cowlicks that populated my hairline.  A little dab will do ya.  I quickly learned it was best to heed the warning.  If not, with lighting speed my mother could pinch the tar out of you, recoil and re-cock for another strike.  If I made even a whimper she’d yank me up, take me outside, dust my backside good and then usher me all the way back down the aisle to our pew.  She wasn’t having it.  It made a lasting impression.

So, ya’ll go ahead.  Tempt the fates and not wear green on  St. Patrick’s Day.  Get  pinched all you want.  It holds no fascination for me.  I’ll be surrounding myself with every shade of green in the universe.  Kelly green, grass green, lime, pistachio, mint, sea foam, dark green and light green.  I ain’t taking any chances, so I’ll even have teal, turquoise, aquamarine and every shade of green I see.

Lucky for me they’ve got em all over Tybee and the Mermaid Cottages are eat up with it, too!

It’s Irish Heritage Celebration, ya’ll.  It’s about wearing o’ the green.  It’s about life lessons.  It’s about showing respect for any house of worship, no matter what the religion.  It’s about remembering someone once loved and cared for me enough to make me behave.  It’s COTTAGE CHEESE!

Tybee Island is one of those places where you can find something new each time you visit. I ‘ve made some fantastic discoveries each time I walk my dogs and I often go back to take closer looks when I’m out walking by myself.
     The tree lined streets, different styles of architecture, the colors of the cottages, and the exotic vegetation all help me leave behind the fast pace of the city. I give myself the pleasure of actually seeing individual things that normally would be a blur on the best of days at home. I’ve even found my special favorites around the island where I let my imagination take off and soar free of worries, schedules, and deadlines. My ramblings always seem to become my own little Narnia, where I find a hidden passageway into another world.
     Such is the case with this lush garden of Eden I found at Fish Camp Cottage. The cottage itself is so charming and inviting. The kind of place one looks at and fantasizes how happy and stress-free life could be if one only lived in a little haven such as this.

     Can’t you just imagine how nothing stressful or bad could ever follow you through the gate into this place? Isn’t it evident that only good vibrations reside here? Even the trees, flowers, vines, and grass seem to know this is a truly magical place.
     How many times had I walked down this street? Countless. How many times had I gazed in admiration at how perfect its setting? More than I can remember.  I’d be embarrassed to admit how many times I imagined how wonderful it would be to live there.
     Many times, I almost plopped down in the silky grass and just lay there until the sun had set and the stars had come out to greet me.

Okay…I said almost. There have been way too many times I worried someone might turn the flood lights on me and ask, “Boo Radley, is that you? You know it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird!”
     I must have done something right somewhere along the way, for one fall evening I got an invitation to attend a party at this island paradise. What if someone recognized me as the loitering stalker who, time after time, walked past? Stopped, then paced back and forth, wistfully gazing from the street… Exactly what are the grounds for a restraining order? Forget about it! I was finally gonna get a closer look. I new it would be magical. I knew it would be even more beautiful up close. I was going to Fish Camp!

     Don’t you just love it when something you’ve always wished for turns out to be even more fantastic than you imagined? I gave myself a good talking to and made myself promise to not be a total geek freak and drool over what I was about to see. I vowed that I would act as if I had some sense of decorum and at least a glancing familiarity with party manners. I would behave myself in front of the caretakers of my Narnia…surely they must be special people. Maybe they would recognize they had done a wonderful thing by letting me cross their threshold.

     That night, I learned an awful lot about how someone makes a house a home. The hostesses were two of the most welcoming people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Of course, upon first introductions their names flew right past me, but they gave wonderful hugs and ushered me right in. With each passing moment my life long shyness gave way to the kind of comfort I always felt in my mother’s home. I watched as every guest was warmly invited in, given hugs, and even joined in on some of the laughter and smiles that everyone was enjoying. Finally, my hearing returned and I could hear, “Margo and Betsy!” and “Betsy and Margo this is so wonderful!” so there you have it. The magical caretakers of this my secret garden wonderland were Betsy and Margo. I was in a home. I was among wonderful people. I was part of something special. Good food, good drinks, good people.
     I have no shame in telling you that over the next week I eagerly accepted two more invitations to visit with Margo and Betsy and Fish Camp. I met their husbands. This was real. These are truly special people that work hard, enjoy each other, and what they have… and they love to share with new friends. They even let me drop by with two other great friends I had just met (Camille and Deb, from Georgia Made, Georgia Grown) and they served up a breathtaking sunset complete with champagne toasts!
     Now, I proudly walk by Fish Camp when I’m on Tybee. I hold my head high, stop and take my time, admiring the beauty of the cottage and the yard. I know the owners…I can do this. I’m not stalking or loitering or lurking in the shadows. I know that if they’re visiting Tybee, Margo and Betsy will call out and invite my in. Of course, we don’t have to tell them everything. We don’t have to tell them I walked by just last week to behold their Christmas decorations. My little island getaway was even more beautiful! Bathed in the soft glow of white Christmas lights. Giving this heavenly little home a halo it truly deserves.

We don’t have to tell them I sat down in the yard and gazed up at the stars that filled the night sky. We don’t have to tell them I felt right at home and at peace with the universe. They know they’ve created a home that welcomes all that admire it. We really don’t have to mention I lost track of time and sat there for a good long while…

     Of course, I’ll be a little on edge until the statue of limitations has expired for a no trespassing restraining order. I’m not sayin’…I’m just sayin’…they read my blog!

     ‘Tis the season! It’s the holidays! It’s a champagne toast to friends, new and old! It’s a little slice of heaven! It’s Fish Camp! It’s Cottage Cheese!
Happy Holidays, Margo and Betsy and families!
See you soon, Fish Camp…Merry Christmas, ya’ll!