Kingsport Spirit

Some of my fondest memories of my parents were our annual beach trips. It was the only time they didn’t work. They would scrimp and save all year for that one week in Myrtle Beach. There were 12 years between my brother and I, so his daughters were more like my sisters. We doubled-up in motel beds and shared a bathroom. None of that mattered. We were together.

We just completed a beach trip. I’m aware that I over post pics of my granddaughters—if there is such a thing as over posting. I’m also keenly aware that there are less than 2,000 days between the time they’re born and the time they start school. Then your life is inextricably linked to a school calendar for the next 16+ years. By then they may have children of their own and live in a faraway place. And maybe I’ll get to see them at holidays and special occasions. Until then, I don’t want to miss out on this special time.

It took a second chance for me to realize that.

Back in the early 1990s, we took our first spring trip to the beach with our newborn son and my wife’s uncle, sister, and grandmother. Her name was Rena, but we called her Mamaw Oonie. One of the kids pronounced it that way, and it stuck. It was her first time seeing the ocean. She clutched my arm as we walked into the surf in her house dress and giggled like a child. Like many mountain people, she was taught to fear water—and not just a little bit. She wasn’t accustomed to being in bare feet, so I instinctively grabbed some lotion and put it on her sore feet. It was a sign of respect, like washing feet in the Bible. She never stopped talking about that until the day she passed. We sat for hours with the ocean breeze and the sound of our rocking chairs creaking against the wooden porch. She told me her life stories and I hung on every word. It sounds so simple, but here I am thinking about it more than 30 years later. And a tear just flowed down my cheek.

Our daughter was born three and a half years later and we had a couple of more trips before they abruptly ended. I always looked back and wondered why. How did we drift apart? Then it occurred to me. School started, then sports. Life scheduling got complicated. And we never got a chance to slow down.

Since retirement in 2019, we have rediscovered Fripp Island, South Carolina. And it’s our turn to be the grandparents. My wife has a tradition of making a beautifully handcrafted Christmas stocking for each of our family members. They’re priceless. She opened her sewing kit and found the pattern she used for our daughter’s, along with a handwritten note, “Fripp Island 1994” – months before our daughter was even born. That same daughter is about to become a full-fledged periodontist and we’re so proud of her. But it required her moving away and she seems on the verge of moving even further after residency. But time and distance don’t erase what’s etched in your heart.

So, here we are at Fripp again. Our daughter couldn’t make it this time. Our granddaughters call my wife, “Mamoo”, which I just realized is eerily similar to Mamaw Oonie.

My son and I stand in the surf, chasing kids, and talking about his hopes, dreams, and plans for the future. And I sprinkle in a few of my life lessons into the conversation from time to time. I try to listen to him more than I talk.

We’ve come full circle without fully realizing it. And I wonder what the girls will remember about our beach trips and their time with their grandparents. Because you never fully know when it will abruptly end. Until then, I will cherish every moment and over post unapologetically.

And the brief time away from our beloved mountains only makes us cherish them more.