On a regular basis, while standing on my front porch, I hear the sound of rifles on repeat and children screaming. The gunfire is from Parris Island, a couple of miles south and across Battery Creek. I’m assuming it is target practice and ordnance drills. The children’s screams are from the elementary school playground just down the street. I’m sure it is mostly excited kids burning off energy and springing surprises on each other. I’m aware that in other locations around the world gunfire and children screaming might be signifying an active war zone and terror. But that’s not where my mind goes. I live in bucolic Beaufort, and I wish that more people around the world lived in places like this.
Such a difference between life here in Beaufort and hot zones of suffering around the world displays the truth of context for sounds like rifles and screaming. We are fortunate to live in a peaceful area, even as the military presence is obvious. My next door neighbor is an active Marine, and he is soft spoken and kind. Our only disagreement is over who we want to see crowned college football’s national champion. We have fighter jets crisscrossing the sky almost daily, but I have no fear of bombs dropping on the Lowcountry I’ve come to love.
Instead, I take walks daily and see such gorgeous light illuminating strands of Spanish Moss swaying from branches of majestic oaks all around my neighborhood. Oh that sacred-seeming light! I take too many pictures and marvel like a rube. My house looks straight down a tree-lined median and I mostly remember to gaze every time I leave by the front door.
When I drive to the grocery store my head swivels to take in both directions from the McTeer Bridge. To the north is downtown Beaufort, a couple of steeples, a swing bridge, trees in the distance. Southward is the path Beaufort River takes to the sea, the gentle confluence with Battery Creek at Sands Beach, marsh grasses proudly revealing tidal changes, the whispers of cyclical wonders of that thick, sticky, nutrient-rich sediment we know as plough mud.
During this second year in Beaufort I’m still cognizant of its overall beauty. My wife and I travel and have this little routine upon return: one of us will turn to the other and simply say, “We live
in a beautiful place.” Then we just smile and go about our business.
Discoveries still abound and I only recently explored some back roads on Lady’s Island and St. Helena just taking in the sights. Coffin Point was a great find, as was Fort Freemont, and I still get a kick out of Meridian Road as more than a cut through, whether on bike or in a car. It takes keeping my eyes open and tending to the fires of curiosity when routine rears its ugly head. Fighting obliviousness and complacency as I work, stress, and get wrapped up in the false belief that I am the center of the universe and must serve the almighty me first.
These are lessons that repeat throughout life, but for some damn reason are easy to forget. For instance, I’ve known for a while that my moods pass through certain stages when it comes to dreary, rainy days. At first, I’ll grumble and moan because, “It’s bad weather,” but if I decide to act there’s a chance of that dissipating quickly. So on a recent Sunday I woke up in rain, learned it was going to continue for the day and copped an attitude. Then I forced myself out of the house and set out for Widgeon Point Preserve, that lovely small park on Lemon Island tucked beside the Broad River.
That 160-something acre spot has a walking loop less than a mile long that punches way above its natural world weight class. It includes forested tableaus worthy of oil paint, ponds that provide deep breathing exercises, and a point that offers a stunning view of Hilton Head and beyond. It is a treasure.
Life is abundant where we live, and peace reigns supremely. The holiday season was serene and special, and my New Year’s Day plunge into the sea at Hunting Island with hundreds of other maniacs was joyful. As I went under and arose in chilly splendor my simple wish was this: more folks around the world get to feel something like what we have here in Beaufort, wherever they are. And that the sound of gunfire is just target practice, and children’s screams just expressions of unbridled joy.
