my home, then I could stand here and see all of it. I could see its edges; my whole world would be in sight.
For some reason that I cannot yet name, the thought brought me some measure of comfort. It made me feel less like a tourist and more like a native. Less like someone who was visiting and more and more like someone who belonged, someone who was at home.
On the other hand, it reminded me that within the boundaries that are set by the limits of my vision, there is, or at least can be, a whole world in which to learn tolive a life that is as interesting and astonishing as is the whole wide world itself.
I do not yet understand all of what that means to me. I am beginning to believe, however, that somewhere in between those two notions is where I am to make myself at home. That, too, when I sit still and think about it, can take my breath away.
The first time we went riding around on St. Cecilia, we circled the island on the ring road in a couple of hours, including a stop for lunch, and were home for the napping round. The drive is not much more than twenty miles altogether. It takes us longer each time we go now; sometimes it takes two or three riding-around days per visit.
We have to see how they are coming along with the restoration of the old hotel up by the hot springs just above town, and we have to make sure that no one issneaking a big new resort onto the windward side of the island yet. There have been rumors that someone is planning to build condos out at Three Kings Bay, and so we ride out there each time to make sure we get to see it the way it should be before someone comes along and “improves” it. They are adding to the school near the church in the parish where we stay most often, and we want to see how the work is going.
We have begun to feel the need to keep an eye on things here.
Five
The life of sensation is the life of greed;
it requires more and more.
The life of the spirit requires less and less;
time is ample and its passage sweet.
—A NNIE D ILLARD
T here is a rule at our house that goes something like this: you gotta have your stuff.
As I recall, the first time it was articulated was when I was trying to explain hauling a stereo system in the trunk of the car to the first place Sara and I went on vacation. Which only seemed over the top to those who were watching me pack, I suppose, because I was trying to fit it in around and underneath the beach chairs I was packing as well. You never know when you are going to get somewhere at the beach and find the beach chairs are uncomfortable.
The whole business would not have been so difficult had we not also been taking a couple of boxes of groceries. You can never be sure the grocery store in the place where you are will have the correct breakfast cereal. Sometimes there are vast differences between the national chain supermarkets in Tennessee and the ones in the next state, though once I am inside, they all look the same to me.
We also were packing a box with incense and candles and compact discs and a pretty tablecloth or two. I put my painting stuff in, too. I like to paint watercolors while I am at the beach, mostly just so I can throw them away when I get home from the beach. Painting is not one of my gifts. And I think there was a boccie ball set in there as well.
Then there were the boxes of books. Sara averages a book a day when she is on vacation. If something wakes her up early, and we do not have to go to town for any reason, she can knock out two of them by bedtime. She was in the red-bird group in grade school in her
Weekly Reader
days, an achievement she still recalls with great pride.
I had a pile of books too, though I do not read as many books on vacation as she does. I think the highest level that I achieved was maybe blue bird with a bullet or some such thing. I travel with a lot of books, not because I am going to read them all, but because I am not sure what type of reading I will want to do when I get there. I
For some reason that I cannot yet name, the thought brought me some measure of comfort. It made me feel less like a tourist and more like a native. Less like someone who was visiting and more and more like someone who belonged, someone who was at home.
On the other hand, it reminded me that within the boundaries that are set by the limits of my vision, there is, or at least can be, a whole world in which to learn tolive a life that is as interesting and astonishing as is the whole wide world itself.
I do not yet understand all of what that means to me. I am beginning to believe, however, that somewhere in between those two notions is where I am to make myself at home. That, too, when I sit still and think about it, can take my breath away.
The first time we went riding around on St. Cecilia, we circled the island on the ring road in a couple of hours, including a stop for lunch, and were home for the napping round. The drive is not much more than twenty miles altogether. It takes us longer each time we go now; sometimes it takes two or three riding-around days per visit.
We have to see how they are coming along with the restoration of the old hotel up by the hot springs just above town, and we have to make sure that no one issneaking a big new resort onto the windward side of the island yet. There have been rumors that someone is planning to build condos out at Three Kings Bay, and so we ride out there each time to make sure we get to see it the way it should be before someone comes along and “improves” it. They are adding to the school near the church in the parish where we stay most often, and we want to see how the work is going.
We have begun to feel the need to keep an eye on things here.
Five
The life of sensation is the life of greed;
it requires more and more.
The life of the spirit requires less and less;
time is ample and its passage sweet.
—A NNIE D ILLARD
T here is a rule at our house that goes something like this: you gotta have your stuff.
As I recall, the first time it was articulated was when I was trying to explain hauling a stereo system in the trunk of the car to the first place Sara and I went on vacation. Which only seemed over the top to those who were watching me pack, I suppose, because I was trying to fit it in around and underneath the beach chairs I was packing as well. You never know when you are going to get somewhere at the beach and find the beach chairs are uncomfortable.
The whole business would not have been so difficult had we not also been taking a couple of boxes of groceries. You can never be sure the grocery store in the place where you are will have the correct breakfast cereal. Sometimes there are vast differences between the national chain supermarkets in Tennessee and the ones in the next state, though once I am inside, they all look the same to me.
We also were packing a box with incense and candles and compact discs and a pretty tablecloth or two. I put my painting stuff in, too. I like to paint watercolors while I am at the beach, mostly just so I can throw them away when I get home from the beach. Painting is not one of my gifts. And I think there was a boccie ball set in there as well.
Then there were the boxes of books. Sara averages a book a day when she is on vacation. If something wakes her up early, and we do not have to go to town for any reason, she can knock out two of them by bedtime. She was in the red-bird group in grade school in her
Weekly Reader
days, an achievement she still recalls with great pride.
I had a pile of books too, though I do not read as many books on vacation as she does. I think the highest level that I achieved was maybe blue bird with a bullet or some such thing. I travel with a lot of books, not because I am going to read them all, but because I am not sure what type of reading I will want to do when I get there. I
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