The Tale of THE SCARF

One of my favorite words is "ubiquitous." I like the way it sounds, and how it requires your tongue and lips to really work out in order for it to be spoken. "Ubiquitous" means "seeming to be everywhere at all times." A synonym is "omnipresent." From my appreciation of the word, comes "The Tale of THE SCARF."

Several years ago, a scarf featuring a classy plaid, a tartan, I believe, began to appear around people's necks. I wouldn't have taken note, but it wasn't just a couple of necks, but dozens and dozens of them. Then dozens and dozens more. I began pointing this out to Linda, and before long, we'd be nudging each other several times, no matter where we might have been, and saying under our breath, "There goes THE SCARF."

The ubiquitous nature of this neckwear showed itself almost frighteningly one winter night at the Carrier Dome. I was leaning against one of the walls on the lower concourse waiting for Linda, who was in the ladies room. In the minute or so, I stood there, THE SCARF went by 11 times. If I were paranoid, I might have thought of the classic film, INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS.

In an earlier post, I wrote about the ubiquitous nature of North Face apparel on college students. But THE SCARF knows no demographic. It's on kids and senior citizens and all in between. Also, THE SCARF is no longer just a scarf. I have seen this classy plaid on raincoats, pocketbooks, coat linings, driving caps, backpacks, and probably other items I have forgotten. From just THE SCARF, it has become the most ubiquitous of plaids. This plaid is pictured in the photo above. It's the second one from the left. If those of you who might read this have a moment, I would appreciate knowing if you do now or ever have owned THE SCARF in any of its incarnations.

Priceless!

Blaze the Wonder Horse had been hanging on a hook from our garage ceiling for a long time. Talk about an inappropriate place for a horse who had been riding the range under a variety of kids for nearly 60 years. Blaze, in fact, was my bouncing horse, when, in the late 40's and early 50's, my mom and dad and I lived in a tiny apartment behind my grandmother's house on Five Mile Line Road in Penfield, NY. My parents often tell me of the hours I spent riding Blaze and listening to the record the "Brave Cowboy Bill" over and over again. I seem to have a memory of climbing off Blaze's narrow back to start the record over, but that might be one of those memories that have been created by the retellings of others.

When I grew out of Blaze, other kid members of the Ellstrom clan rode him in my parents' basement. But for at least 5 years now, Blaze had been on a garage hook, and sometimes I thought I should take the old stallion to the road on garbage day. I just didn't have the heart, though. So yesterday, I decided to deliver Blaze to the Salvation Army in hopes that he would find a new home in some kids corral. I had just handed his reins over to the Salvation Army lady, when Mike Keville pulled up in his van, hopped out, and said, "You just turned a bouncy horse in. I'm going to get it for my kids." If I only had seen Mike a minute or so before, I could have delivered Blaze directly to the Kevilles. "Who did that horse belong to?" Mike asked. "He was mine," I said, and his name is "Blaze." "So his name shall remain," Mike assured me.

I drove over to gas station, filled up, got the car washed, and then stopped back at the Salvation Army just to make sure Mike had gotten the bouncy horse for his brood. "Yes, he did, " the lady told me. It was great. I was mourning giving up an old friend, and another friend bought him. The cost of one 60 year old bouncy horse named Blaze? You'll have to ask Mike. The knowledge that the Keville kids will be riding him into the future? Priceless!

Dreamcatcher

Having suddenly lost our wi-fi connection in our rented house on the river, I am blogging from the Olde Towne Coffee House in Port Royal this morning. I had intended on doing a serious blog today, but cyber-fate has intervened. Just as well. It remains gorgeous in the new South. I'll save the serious posting until we are home next week. Instead I'll share a photo of this natural dreamcatcher formed by a skinny branch and Spanish moss. According to Ojibwa legend, "Bad dreams would stay in the net, disappearing with the light of day. Good dreams would pass through and slide down to the sleeper." May all your dreams be good.

Police (long o, accent on the first syllable)

I have a serious blog topic I hope to deal with soon, but today was so gorgeous, I had to come up with something pleasant. After all, we spent several hours on the beautiful Hunting Island beach today, a wide strand of sand, winding off in both directions, lined by palmettos. Riding home from the beach, we passed restaurants with names like "Weezie's Seafood," "The Crab Shack," and "Gullah Grub." We also passed a bunch of deputy sheriff's cars lying in wait in hopes of laying a speeding ticket on some scofflaw. I thought about the police and the wonderful way some people talk around here, and an idea for a blog came to me. And though the idea has nothing to do with Hunting Island beach or South Carolina, for that matter, it does deal with the way different people talk around this country. It deals with something else, too--little devices used to trigger explosions called blasting caps!

At this point, my blog takes specific aim at people who grew up in the 50's and watched TV in the fifties. Other people, unless they're involved in the construction or destruction industries, may never have heard of a blasting cap. I have, because 50's television was peppered with public service announcements warning kids not to pick up or play with blasting caps, that they might find laying around construction sites. There were so many ads, in fact, that I soon believed there were misplaced blasting caps everywhere, just waiting to blow one of my feet off. Or worse, blind me. I and all my friends tiptoed carefully around any construction site we happened to be frequenting to "borrow" scrap wood to build our various forts with. These little things, which no one had ever seen, really terrified us. It was the Willie Mays' blasting cap commercial that really made us believe.

Willie, after all, was one of our heroes. He spoke in a wonderful Southern accent and pronounced police as "poe-lease" with the accent on the first syllable. I'll always remember Willie's warning, "If you see a blasting cap, do not touch it! Call a poe-lease o' fireman. Do not touch it. You may loose your hands o' eyes!" Willy's warning is a delightful memory which now makes me smile. Back then it scared the heck out of me.

Good Signs

I poked a little fun at a South Carolina sign a few blogs back, but when we were taking our stroll on another beautiful southern morning, we came upon two signs I just loved. I thought it was only fair to give equal time to the good signs as I had to the strange one. These two pieces of signage, (how I hate that word) mark the spot at Port Royal Elementary School, where moms and dads drop off their kids. I make a motion they be adopted in upstate NY school districts.

Did I Mention We Met Forrest Gump?

Last week we took Linda's sister Claire to Savannah. I love the city, and in order for Claire to see as many of the beautiful squares as possible, we took one of the rather overpriced tram tours of the city. As we were approaching Chippewa Square, the driver/narrator stopped. She explained that this was the square where the "box of chocolates" park bench scene was filmed in FORREST GUMP. To our left, she pointed out, was the church where the CG feather came wafting down. We took a slow drive around the lovely square and saw the spot where the bench had been placed for filming. When we were 3/4 of the way around, our narrator said, "Why look who's waiting for our tram." There on the corner was Forrest Gump. Sneakers on and suitcase in hand. Baseball cap atop his head. The tram pulled up and Forrest got on.

The young guy they had found to play Forrest was pretty great. He really looked like Tom Hanks and sounded like Forrest. He began to talk to us in Gump-ese, telling us that he was going to meet Captain Dan. Then he grinned Forrestly, waiting for someone to ask him a question. And the whole tramload froze up. No one said a word. I thought of asking him how Mama or Bubba were but was afraid he'd say, "they're both dead, don't ya know?" After a minute or so of babbling about chocolates and Jenny (who come to think of it, is dead, too), Forrest hopped off the tram and went running down the street at a Forrest "I'm crossin' the country" pace. And I bet he was thinking, "Another bunch of idjits with nothin' to ask me." Heck, I even forgot to take his picture.

South Carolina Irony/Introspection

This is a photo of Fripp Island, South Carolina, taken from a pier that runs out from one of the visitor centers at Hunting Island State Park. This is about as close as a "visitor" can get to Fripp. It's a private island, owned by the residents of the million dollar homes and condoes that make up Fripp Island real estate.

Pat Conroy is one of my favorite writers and a resident of the island. My favorite Conroy book is THE LORDS OF DISCIPLINE. In it Conroy explores the insulated world of the Charleston elite, wealthy old families, who have ways that prevent those who don't belong from becoming part of their society or caste or whatever term of that sort works for you. LORDS OF DISCIPLINE is an intense, insightful, sometimes heartbreaking story, seen through the eyes of Will McLean, a Savannah-born Irish-Catholic cadet at a thinly disguised version of the Citadel. Pat Conroy had graduated from the Citadel, so in my imagination he was, in spirit at least, that brave cadet, who dared defy the entrenched way of things in the novel. Will was the kind of young man that Pat Conroy, who was a true champion of his needy students on the barrier islands where he taught when he was a young man, would have been, if placed in the fictional situation of his own creation. What a great book! I love it!

Where is the South Carolina Irony of my title? It lies in the fact that the author of this wonderful indictment of elitism now makes his home in a most elite community. I am almost certainly being unfair to him. Like everyone, Pat Conroy deserves his privacy, and I'm sure it's a commodity that is often hard for him to come by. I asked myself, if I were financially able, would I own an ocean house on Fripp Island. Believe me, I would love to own a waterfront vacation house somewhere. One of the seaside mansions of places like Fripp Island doesn't appeal to me, though. Give me a little two or three bedroom cottage somewhere on the shore. I wouldn't buy on Fripp Island, if I could! Or would I?