Low country memories of my father

The ocean. The smell of the marsh and salty air. Charleston. Hilton Head. Family. 

Memories of my father warm me in the summer sun and haunt me in the ocean breeze as I sit reading and reflecting alone with my coffee on the balcony of our beach condo this first morning of our annual beach trip. 

The first midmorning morning beach jaunt is marked by children's giggles filling the air over the chorus of breaking waves with the smell of sunscreen wafting across the sand.

 The annual late morning trip to Hudson's Seafood Market with my brother to acquire provincial fruit del mar, which last night was swimming beneath the trolling shrimper's nets, and tonight will be hungrilly devoured by the Byrd Clan for the first of 5 6pm meals. 

 Early afternoon kitchen preparations and organizations while the children enjoy a respite from the sun then rain watching movies snuggling on the sofa or reading in their room.  Smells of deliciousness: butter, bacon, onions; culinary sounds: chopping, sizzling, dishes clanking, pots clanging, accompanied by laughter as the feast is prepared.

 Six o'clock. The counter is set. Small bits of caprise salad and buffalo dip are nibbled as the family assembles in anticipation of the first of five family dinners. Final preparations are made, shrimp are bathed in steaming pots of seasoned water, drinks are poured, the family gathers young and old, parents, teens, toddlers, all hand-in-hand, eyeing the food in anticipation, yet waiting. The pots are emptied, steaming shrimp heaped onto platters, bread sliced, the meal ready.  A prayer is offered, thanking God for the meal, for the family, for the one who began this legacy 16 years ago.

Throughout the condo and on the balcony the family settles in to dine. Cousins chatter together, brothers and sisters banter, childhood memories are shared, and mom beams with satisfaction and joy.

 Though he has been gone for six years, his legacy lives and thrives on this island, in this place - sacred ground for the family, his heartbeat sounding in the rhythm of the waves, his call in the cry of the seagulls, his laughter in the play of the children, his serenity beneath the live oaks, his smile in the warmth of the sun, his memory in our stories.

 Yes, he is here, in our annual low country gathering. And he is at peace.