Listening to Rain

[Stormy afternoon in Hilton Head, South Carolina. Taken last weekend.]

I am still catching up on things after a long weekend away in South Carolina, where the main staple was not a specific vegetable or dish, but simply FRIED. And can I say? Fried = good, which means it's a good thing I don't have easy access to the fried green tomatoes, fried chicken, hush puppies, fried shrimp and peanut butter pie (not fried, but just as addicting) I indulged in all weekend long.

I had not been in that part of the country in many years, not since I moved from Athens, Georgia after finishing graduate school and moving to Santa Barbara. We flew into Atlanta and drove to Hilton Head for a wedding, and every moment of the weekend was dripping in nostalgia. Not only did I spend three years in Athens, but I also spent three formative years in Jacksonville, North Carolina - 3rd, 4th & 5th grades - where I spent hours and hours on the beach every summer. Everything from the roadside signs for boiled peanuts to the crooked wooden fences along the beach sparked a memory, or if not an intact memory, a feeling that washed through me in an instant, and disappeared just as quickly. It sometimes felt like the scent of french fries at the beach was just beyond my reach, and the quiet of all the nights I spent working late as a grad student were close enough to touch. All these moments brushed past me like shy moths; the minute I'd turn to get a closer look they were off, making me wonder if they were ever really there in the first place.