Pawley's Island: A Short Story

Between having won a financially lucrative lawsuit against the owners of the Mineral Springs Hotel and Bathhouse, plus getting paid for still working there, and now collecting a monthly pension, Charles is able to purchase a lot and a half for $150 ($4,000 in 2017). He is undeniably enthusiastic as he hires men to build the first house that he and Elizabeth have ever owned. And what a location. Near the end of a dead-end street, it is only a one block walk to church and a three block walk to work. As August of 1907 arrives, the Okawville newspaper announces that “Charles Lorne’s new residence was nearing completion.” In September he and his family move into his new residence at 804-06 North Nashville

Stuffed and happy after the large meal, anyone who wanted to extend the day would meet for after-dinner drinks and relax on the drinking deck. The guys puffed on cigars, the resulting smoke necessary when nights brought sweat and no see ‘ums, gnats so small you only felt

Even though she did not want to travel to Florida, the grandmother was the first in the car the next day. The grandmother was prepared as “She had her big black valise that looked like the head of a hippopotamus in one corner, and underneath it she was hiding a basket with Pitty Sing, the cat, in it (O’Connor 853)”. During the trip, the grandmother took a nap, and when she woke up she realized they were outside of Toombsboro. She remembered an old plantation she had visited when she was a young lady. The grandmother knew Bailey would not want to stop and view the old plantation, so she kept talking about it hoping to convince the family. She succeeded as the kids were eager to see the old plantation but Bailey told them no. The kids began to scream and bicker at their father “John Wesley kicked the back of the front seat and June Star hung over her mother’s shoulder and whined desperately into her ear that they never had any fun even on their vacation, that they could never do what they wanted to do (O’Connor 857)”.

“You have arrived at your final destination.”, My GPS concluded in its computerized voice leaving only the harsh sound of the rain wailing on my car windows to fill the void. I cut the engine and took stock of the small colonial I’d been persuaded to dine at tonight. It was painted modest colors and seemed no different than the few other houses I’d passed on the out-of-way drive over. I could distinguish no more discerning features through the sheets of rain and the window’s translucent varnish of condensation. I exited the car and bounded up to the door with long strides crossing a previously well-kept lawn now messy and puddled with mud and standing rainwater. My rap on the door was briskly answered by the proprietor of the house, a man I

The old rusted home was built in the 1800’s for troubled adolescents was still standing after all these years. There were many rumors about the group home and what was going on inside.

The peninsula stuck out like a like a fractured rib from the rest of the smooth shore, it was rocky but every point had been filed down by the waves of the sea. The stiff stench of stale water and low tide drew focus to the banks of the sea which contained clumps of sea vegetation braided into the gravely sides of the peninsula. Everyone was more relieved than excited to finally be so close to land but too tired to express either of these emotions.

A few rain clouds lay silent in the eastern sky; however a beautiful southern sunset greeted two dozen friends that gathered at Sadie's for an evening cookout on that celebratory evening. Immediately upon arriving Sadie sashayed her guest to the back yard, where her husband, James had spent weeks stringing thousands of miniature lights and decorating the yard with Sadie’s favorite colors pink, green and a hint of baby blue sprinkled about. The guest sat upon lawn furniture, handcrafted by James, and strategically place under the ancient Weeping Willow that stood with pride in the center of their back yard. Under this fairytale motif they sipped iced tea and shucked succulent Chesapeake Bay oysters as the corn roasted on one grill and meat on

It was chilly. It always was. The slight breeze and the overcast clouds provided a gray morning, which to some foreshadowed a sad and droopy day but I saw the hopeful rays of sunshine attempting to leak through the dull, gray bars that separated the warm sun from the cool ground. The lake house: a place where I enjoyed the fruits of having a friendship with the daughter of the family who owned the house. From wakeboarding to tubing to boat rides the lake offered all the amenities one could hope for in a fairly large body of water. Yet these forms of entertainment only amount to the smallest fraction of why the lake house is so integral to my contentment.

Nose-ring boy then grabbed the lizard’s tail with his other hand and yanked. Half the tail broke off. The severed end wiggled and curled within nose-ring boy’s pinched fingers. He reached and brushed the still-alive tail up and down Benji’s bare leg.

One afternoon, during an unexpected visit from Opa Taco and Oma Tine, our presence downstairs was requested when they rang the doorbell upon their arrival. Wondering what was going on, Ellen and I hurried to the street level to find our grandparents standing in the common entryway, holding the front door to the outside

Their manor was decorated beautifully with cornices, gables with pediments, and plenty of white columns. Usually, when the children would come home, they would leave their stuff in a mess at the front entrances, demanding a snack of fruit. Both children were very critical about their refreshments, picking out the ripest ones only. The parents noticed this, so they decided to tell a story. . . .

Backward in great Grandpa’s life, his warming heart and hardworking self decided to build a petite log cabin on the great hill of the family farm. The cabin which lives on with lots of laughing, family time, yummy food and concentrated fishing on the pond. Looking back on memories as just a young girl, remembering a long drawn out trip up to dubuque through the windy roads and forests of trees, reaching the destination of the family cabin. Recollecting the warm fuzzy feelings of all the cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents coming together for a day of canoeing on grandpa’s man made pond, gliding downward on the steep grassy hill, stuffing our faces in scrumptions homemade food and enjoying each other's presence. Grandpa, always teaching

Rainsford was sitting in a small square room with a reporter that was recording his story. He had survived this nightmare that nobody thought possible till they had arrived to the island and found him and the body of the General. Nobody wanted to believe what Rainsford had gone through was true. It happened almost five years earlier and this was the story he told.

Several miles just outside of Jamestown, sat a small log cabin atop a hill with a long, winding, carmel carriageway. The house was weathered and worn. Dandelion white smoke spewed out of the chimney, and an old wooden rocking chair moved ever so slightly in the delicate wind. Just inside the door sat a chest filled with quilts of many colors, made with scraps and patches of old clothes. Each piece, with uneven stitches, hand sewn with love. To the left sat a cast iron pot, black as night, heating over the red-orange blaze of the cooking fire. Next to that there was a small wooden table with a plaid cloth draped across it, and two ash grey bowls anxiously waiting to be filled with soup. In the back of the cabin there were two rickety beds that held up mattress made of straw, and on one a small doll with golden locks and heavenly blue eyes. Outside, in the backyard, there was an ice cold creek used for bathing and cleaning, and at the very bottom of the carriageway stood a small girl named Elizabeth Jackson.

I thought back to the day in 1956 when my dad and I scanned the 1885 photo of Comfort Island with the magnifying glass. I wondered then and for the five years that followed if we would ever make the trip there as he promised. My older sister, Betsy, had visited Comfort Island briefly with Mom and Dad in 1948 after completing first grade, but my other sister, Deborah, was only one at the time, and I was two. We weren’t invited to go. Instead, we stayed home in California with a very sweet nanny named Field.