Low Country Christmas
Cashmere and wool were the first casualties of our arrival in Charleston.
The air was warm and wet. The sky wide and blue. Even with the wreaths that adorn the white picket gates of Bray’s Island, I wasn’t sure it was Christmas.
My memories of the season are whited-out and frozen-over, not laid low with mist. But who am I to complain? When Christmas morning came in at 67° and hazy, I lit out for a quick run around the ponds. The grass was wet with dew. The water was kissed with fog. Egrets and herons stirred from with each heavy footfall. I scanned the shoreline for alligators, Casey Shea’s “A Very Merry Christmas” looped in my ears.
Back home, I pulled on my brand-new, red plaid pajamas, mustered alongside The Keller Family in the kitchen, then dashed for our stockings. Santa spoiled me, providing me with sufficient quantities of Excedrin to get me through Q1 (or the Inauguration, anyway), plus enough running gear and Nuun to get me through the Miami Marathon.
When the hoopla subsided, and our scrambled-egg breakfast was all but a pile of dishes in the sink, we retired to the swimming pool en masse, and nursed cold beers until the sun fell over the muddy Pocotaligo.
Back home, we played board games as my friends shuffled on the iPod until we could sing and laugh no more.