Atop the empty lifeguard stand, her heartbeat hails the ages; her skeleton sings of prehistory.
Last year my wife and I drove from New Jersey to Florida and back. We visited the low country of South Carolina, the sea islands of Georgia, and the coastal wetlands of northern Florida. Two years ago we drove from New Jersey to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee and North Carolina, and then drove west, across Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico, up into Colorado and across Wolf Creek Pass in the San Juan Mountains and down into Durango.
I spent a lot of time in the 1950s in the 1980s. My first decades were traveled in an ersatz time machine: a two-tone, two door, 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air. My father’s favorite child, that Bel-Air symbolized his past and future. For his family, the 50s meant mobility – literal and figurative – when they, like so many, imagined themselves en route to the “good life” promoted in the advertising images they slavishly emulated.
I took a bus from our home in Tokushima to Takamatsu and walked to the ferry terminal where I bought a roundtrip ticket to Teshima. The early autumn weather was perfect: not too hot, not too cold. Fleecy white clouds floated across the azure sky.