We call
ourselves “The Venuses of Willendorf Book Club” an unsuitably highfalutin name
for the group of eight of us women. Our
ages span decades and our careers range from financial planner to retired
teacher to hardware store owner to artist.
During the past 15 years we've read hundreds of books together and met
for monthly discussions full of scholarly and artistic insights. And many
conversations about life and love. “It's no use,” Florentino Ariza explains in our
current book Love in the Time of Cholera, "Love is the only thing
that interests me."
We've taken
several trips and outings together to enhance our reading experiences. Cold
Mountain was discussed as we
steeped in hot tubs in Hot Springs , N.C. ; we toured Mepkin Abbey as we walked in the
footsteps of Clare Booth Luce and took the obligatory trip to Savannah
after reading Midnight in the Garden
of Good and Evil. We've
discussed books while picnicking at Cypress
Gardens , Brookgren Gardens
and Buck Hall Landing. Our members’ birthplaces range from Cuba to England
to several Northern and Southern states but we all share a keen interest in
exploring South Carolina . So after reading about love and life in the
Caribbean and South America we came, of course, to Lake Marion . Actually it turned out not to be as
incongruous a choice as it seemed.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s sweeping
narrative mixes the mundane with the supernatural and realities with fantasies.
This magical realism overtakes us at Martha’s family’s cottage. The past percolates into the present. In the cottage’s stash of old magazines Jacqueline
Kennedy is still a stylish first lady. Recipes with jello are the latest
thing. The house envelopes us in its
musty embrace when we arrive for our highly anticipated weekends each
year. With only the quiet lapping of the
wake from passing boats to distract us, our minds clear a swath for us to be
creative. We sometimes spend hours
making marbleized paper out on the patio or cover tables with art supplies and
make altered books or paper flowers. Not
exactly “Girls Gone Wild.” More like
“Girls Gone Wyboo.” One Saturday afternoon Martha tinkered with a shadow box
“museum” made from items she’d unearthed in a bathroom drawer: give-aways from
the radio station, Man Tan, a piece of soap to which her mom Lucinda had
painstakingly glued a cut-out bouquet of flowers, a small plastic statue of a
pregnant young girl provocatively captioned “Kilroy was here”. In Martha’s hands symbols from the past
became art, folding time again.
Captain Richard of Fisheagle Tours told
us an allegory about the past resurfacing.
Before Lake
Marion was built in the
1930’s, only three percent of the state’s citizens had electricity. To speed the building process that would
produce hydroelectricity, the WPA cut down the cypress trees, chained them
together and submerged them. Eventually
the chains rusted and one by one the trunks bobbed, and continue to bob, to the
surface. “It blows my mind to think these
trees are older than the lake,” Richard says.
“Cypress
trees can actually live to be over 1,700 years old. They’re cousins of the sequoia trees, those
huge Redwoods in California .” His eco tour is full of stories that inspire
us. He passionately describes the
prevalent osprey that construct gangly 1,200 pound nests to which they return
every year to live with their life-long mate; stories of how osprey band together to drive away bald eagles
that venture into their territory. Despite
the rivalry, the bald eagle has rebounded from less than 100 in the state to
over 400, he recounts. On cue, Mary
spots one on the horizon so he quietly cruises the boat through the carpet of
water hyacinth to where we can observe it through his high powered
binoculars.
As we glide on the surface of the
lake, our imaginations are fueled by his stories of what lies beneath us: farms, forests, cemeteries and fields that
were buried when the Lake was built. “They paid the landowners 75% of market value
plus 100 chickens,” he says. The
government built them new houses, or moved theirs, which included a screened
porch which was the clincher for the deal since mosquitoes were so prevalent. Six-thousand graves were moved but many still
remain beneath the water today with ominous signs warning of disturbing
them. Graves sometimes emerge when the
water level drops, he says. Supernatural sparks of creativity ignite in our
imaginations.
All of the Venuses are nature
lovers. Yvette and I have a tradition of
swim hikes. We loop swim noodles around
us in inventive ways and swim parallel to the shore past the raucous campers at
Bob Cooper or over to Scarborough ’s Landing. An hour of swimming justifies the cocktail
hour to come. Sometimes we bring kayaks and
we go sightseeing along the shore admiring the variety of houses and making up
our pretend futures there. Feeling
particularly ambitious one year, a couple of us joined a kayaking expedition to
Sparkleberry Swamp .
Imitating the locals, we’ll occasionally drag fishing poles out from
under the house and try our luck. Sandra
and Martha enjoy early morning swims or evening dips to bracket the relaxing
day. On chilly nights we delight in
making a bonfire and roasting gussied-up s’mores constructed of homemade peanut
butter cookies, Swiss chocolate and marshmallows.
Sometimes I bring a couple of bikes and explore the area.There are some nice trails in theSantee State Park
but my favorite biking destination in the area is the Cuddo Unit in the Santee
National Wildlife Refuge. On an early morning ride there, the only other living
thing I saw was a huge alligator lying across the trail ahead of me. As I
barreled towards it I shrieked “get out of my way you alligator.” He lumbered
into the marsh as I sped on. Mostly we
stay in our bathing suits, our make-up packed away, drifting from one reclining
position to another: a chaise in the
sun, a couch in the shade. The dock is
our living room. We drag a table out there for lunch or toast the sunset from
its benches, waving at passing boaters.
The stars
are brilliant from the end of the dock. The water shimmers in the moonlight. We always comment on how dark it is away from the city lights. Early risers like me can enjoy the sight of
the mist-shrouded lake greeting the sunrise, snowy egrets wading majestically
on our beach, geese honking by in V formation.Sometimes I bring a couple of bikes and explore the area.There are some nice trails in the
Walking and hiking in the area is
easy to do. Santee State Park
has trails and lovely picnic spots by the water. There are three one-mile hiking trails and a
7.5 mile biking trail there which are clearly marked and well maintained. There’s also an informative visitor’s center
with a display about the area’s history and ecology and cabins to rent. Nearby the cottage, picturesque acres of
unpicked cotton delight us in the fall. Flocks of migrating birds squawk as they fly overhead or land to forage in the fields. A short walk away is Scarborough ’s
Landing where we sometimes have breakfast.
All eight of us could eat heartily there for about $50. The short path there goes through a fish camp
of trailers and mobile homes for vacationers.
Sitting on a porch that they’re proud to tell us they built themselves,
a cuddling couple told us they come most every weekend from their farm in
Bishopville to enjoy the fish camp and its bar’s karaoke. Were we missing some exciting nightlife we
wonder? But we prefer our own cocktail
hour. We leaf through a crate of old
LP’s someone has left behind and put Wilson Pickett on the aging turntable. The past bubbles up again as we tell stories
of high school proms, first dates and young love. Showered and relaxed from a day in the sun,
we unselfconsciously dance in our pajamas. “As soon as I drive up here I feel it,” says
Kimberly, “There’s no pretense. If you
want to stay in your pj’s all day, no one cares.” We are, as the sign on the house next door
aptly says, on “Idle Speed Only.”
The cottage’s décor is a chronicle
of years of playfulness. The artist
Carol McGill has spent several days here painting plein air. It’s a location that calls to her
repeatedly. Several of her creations
adorn the cottage walls. In one she did from the shore
of Santee State Park, her passionate
strokes of high contrast color beautifully capture the unusual landscape of the
trunks that protrude from the Lake . Her paintings incongruously share wall space
with paraphernalia from the family’s history:
assemblages of sun hats, and insignia boasting “pride in tobacco”, a “Wyboo
World” plaque, “Go Cocks” license plates and photos of Martha’s parents shaking
hands with Fidel Castro. It’s a creative
hodge-podge with the Lake as its muse.
Martha jokingly says about the
cottage’s kitchen: “Just remember when
you have something at your house that you really don’t want anymore, bring it
here.” Deep fryers, punch bowls, scores
of beat-up pots and pans and enough plates to feed an army crowd the old wooden
cabinets. But we manage quite well to
serve wonderful meals that draw from the book’s settings. Over a Caribbean
themed dinner of mangos, avocados, shrimp and rice pudding we recount the
final, beautiful chapter of the book: two elderly lovers lie side by side in
their cabin on the riverboat, holding hands as the boat drifts. They’d spent a lifetime waiting for this
moment. Fifty years, nine months, and four days to be exact. Florentino was patient throughout Fermina’s
fifty year marriage replete with its passion and disillusionment, adventures
and estrangements. So, inevitably, we are back to the subject of love
again: of love-sickness and obsession,
the vicissitudes of long marriages, the agelessness of desire and the
friendships that help steer the course in life’s rushing currents.
If You Go:
Fisheagle Tours: www.fisheagle.net
This article was originally published in the May/June 2014 issue of S.C. Wildlife Magazine
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