Author: Katherine Tandy Brown

The third week of April, I was writing a story with a day or two left before deadline. Plenty of time, as long as I kept tapping those laptop keys. The weather was luscious. Seems that last rain washed out a good deal of the excessive pollen that our Lowcountry humidity had trapped in its sticky molecules. The sun shone warm and bright; fat, opalescent clouds skittered across a powdery blue background, temps hovered in the low 70s, and a soft breeze whispered just enough to keep tiny, bitey insects at bay. 

To date, I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t have at least one regret. An “if only” worthy of a do-over. Many of us have lots, which we often enumerate at least mentally so frequently that residing in the past has become a habit, no matter the time that has elapsed since the “transgression.”

Yes, I know the title is a cliché, and clichés are no-no’s for writers…that is, unless they work. As I’m sure you know, a cliché is a phrase or opinion that’s overused and betrays a lack of original thought. That may well be true but this phrase fits the topic beautifully and I’m using it. That topic is exercise. 

A note to readers: Since this particular column is a second half of the previously-published one, my co-columnist, Chris “Sutty” Suddeth and I decided to break our every-other-issue writing pattern and publish this one back-to-back with its predecessor. Sutty will offer his wisdom on another topic in the following two issues of Lowcountry Weekly. Fair enough! 

Life circumstances spared me the experience of heart-deep grief until I’d completed my university degree, and equal measures of courage and foolhardiness led me to become a Thoroughbred exercise rider for several years. In Saratoga a woman with whom I worked and shared a house became a good friend.

Ready or not, here it comes… 2019 is nearly upon us. How’d that happen, anyway? What I know from experience is that the more years that roll by in one’s life, the faster they seem to pick up speed. Remember when you were a child and Christmas took its own sweet time arriving? Not unlike reaching the destination of a trip. “Are we there yet?”

‘Tis the season once again for holiday cheer, scrumptious kitchen aromas, flickering menorahs, evergreen trees loaded with twinkling lights and candy canes, families coming together, African objects of art for Kwanzaa, hot chocolate with marshmallows melted on top, carols sung in chilly evening air that captures one’s breath, and…presents.

Beaufort first “spoke” to me as a destination I just might want to come home to one day when I arrived in her bay in 1999 as first mate on a sweet, lovingly restored, 1974 Jensen sailboat. Such an abundance of water I’d never experienced – tidal creeks, inlets, sounds, the river…yea, the Intracoastal itself…and the Atlantic Ocean, for heavens sakes – all reflected daily sunlight and opal clouds scuttling across a crystalline blue sky.

When I was 13, I watched my first Winter Olympics in glorious black-and-white. I marveled at meticulously-executed spins and glides as Carol Heiss nabbed the gold medal in women’s figure skating. Her performance was flawless, as were those of many athletes competing in Squaw Valley. But the ski jumpers had me spellbound.

Time was when the words to a country song entitled “Get Along” might be followed by “little dogie,” sung by the likes of Tex Ritter or Sons of the Pioneers, romanticizing cowboys of the Old West. Now Kenney Chesney, with more than 30 million albums sold worldwide under his belt, has broached a very different and timely subject in his recent release of that title.