Memories of a Low Country Childhood
It was risky, you see, running barefoot down the dock.
Those days I was all sinew wrapped in terrycloth, skin riper than it should have been, teeth so small they didn’t touch one another, just ivory islands in my popsicle-stained gums.
My god, how we screamed and cackled and hip-hip-hoorayed our way to sunset — those humming, chirping sunsets when the sky bleeds into the water and the water wags its tongue, licks the shadowy golden shore where we hid, the lines of our feet filled with mud from the marsh, our hair strung with Spanish moss, that seamstress mother nature finishing our bodies with her embroidery.
I had no qualms then about cupping my hands into a telephone, placing my lips to the cylinder, and whispering secrets. Secrets, you see, were our language. Anything said quietly, reverentially, with awe and weight and magic — that was a secret. It didn’t matter what about. The fastest, most enduring way to make a friend was to share a secret.
Nights were clear and starry, but warm, always warm. On our screened porches we were like bread in the proofing drawer, waiting, growing in the humidity and the dark. Maybe a citronella candle flickered, maybe a radio voice murmured comings and goings, maybe an engine’s throb in the distance reminded us that we were not as marooned as we felt, treasure-hunting…
