Spanish Moss Aint

The Old Man has been banging around the Georgia and South Carolina coast for a couple of weeks.  We went goofing around Savannah, Jekyll Island, Charleston, and Myrtle Beach.  For the better part of my life, the coast has sucked me in like a 500 pound Electrolux.  My first trip to see the ocean was with Mom & Dad to Virginia Beach.   Fascinated me to no end, and since then I've been intrigued by anything having to do with the whole low-country thing.  Take Spanish Moss for example;  it didn't come from Spain, it isn't a moss, and it doesn't breed chiggers.  It's actually a relative of the pineapple family, and takes its name from the days when the French and Spanish were dueling over possession of the New World.  The French called it "Spanish Beard" as an insult to the Spanish soldiers.
See what I mean?
 Over the years, I've collected all sorts of interesting chunks of lore, obscure and bizarre facts, and lots of people just being people. I sometimes think I collect "characters" like  Lady Gaga collects 'strange'.
One old pal of mine loved beach trips.  Haven't figured out why....he seldom went out on the beach and preferred to stay in his room and sleep.  Another always longed for the beach, but when he was there, he complained about the sand, whined about the heat, and if he was lying on the sand, wanted to be in his chair.  Yep, you guessed it; when in the chair, he started getting restless to lay on the sand.  Dr. Phil would be in "shrink heaven" if he could have been a fly on the wall on some of these trips.

But one of my all-time favorite collectible characters was Milburn.  During the summer between 7th and 8th grade, a youth organization from our church took all of us boys on a fishing trip down to the Chesapeake Bay.  As I recall, we were around a little village called Deltaville.  I don't know what Deltaville is like now, but back then, it was pretty primitive.  We were staying in an old house that looked like a Norman Bates reject.  Spooky doesn't begin to describe the place.  Back in the woods....no electricity, grey clapboard and a porch that listed like Titanic at midnight.
Now, you have to understand, fishing to a kid in Bedford meant cane poles and dug-up worms.  Add a sinker and a bobber and we were in business.  All we needed was a pond.

The Chesapeake Bay gives new meaning to "pond".

Our little fishing boat (should have been named "The Minnow") pulled out at sunrise.  We learned a whole new technique of fishing.  Hand lines are a witch spelled with a capital "B".  Handled improperly, they can quickly make your fingers resemble pulled pork.  I learned some other valuable lessons that are with me still, but old Milburn will never forget the equation of "sun + salt water + bare feet = misery".  When he wasn't throwing cherry bombs overboard, he was happily splashing his feet.....all day long.  What could happen with all that nice cool water keeping the heat down, right?

Milburn finally got shoes on two days later.  That night you could hear him hopping through the yard toward the outhouse, yelping with each step.  I know he wanted to cuss, but it was a church group, remember?

I don't know what ever happened to Milburn, but my love for the coast has been a deep part of me ever since those few days in Deltaville.  Whenever we go, and I begin to see the occasional grey clapboard house, looking like one who has stayed too long at the prom, I know at a deep level, I'm home.