Exiled- all downhill from here
Wandering around a nearby mall shortly after my move to Myrtle Beach, I decided to get one of my infrequent haircuts. Conversation with the stylist meandered along typical phatic pathways, each of us sharing meaningless tidbits with the other. She was excited about having just closed on her first house, and asked me about my former home in Colorado. So I started "well my house was a bit over 8,600 feet" " My God" she interrupted, "what kind of job did you have?" Ah, epiphany! No one back in Boulder would have not understood that I was talking about altitude, not square feet. It would not even have required a conscious decision. But in a place where the highest altitude one might typically attain might be a friends tenth floor condo, it's just something one does not normally think about. So to begin with the most common three words in Literature examinations the world over "Compare and contrast"...
Comparison starts with something I don't understand, I just recognize. There are at least thousands of seeming authoritative attempts to name it. Pick one; or two. For me it is just a feeling I get in some places, a feeling of belonging there, of being content with that place, and that place being content with me. I got that feeling often hiking around in my Colorado mountains, and I would not wish to live again in a place where I did not feel that. I remembered the feeling from years ago, walking by the sea, and so I knew it would be here waiting for me. To paraphrase a line from a poet I think may have been Frost, but maybe not " One can do worse than being a walker of beaches." That's important to me because walking is one of my very favorite things. Beyond the physical benefits, even, some say, spiritual benefits, I just find it enjoyable.
Of course there are lots of contrasts between walking along the Grand Strand and walking around Roosevelt National Forest in the Rocky Mountains, not the least being that there is more oxygen in the air here, an element I find refreshing as I grow older and the cigarettes I smoked 30 years ago come back to haunt me. Visual changes in the mountains are much more dramatic. The view changes from expansive meadows, to dense willow patches, to far away peaks, past long way downs, to narrow trails going up, the angle of which seems to increase perversely from its appearance below, and sometimes to the most disappointing view of all: the dreaded false summit. (gasp) Here the distant view is always the same, just a simple horizon bending slightly at the urging of gravity. The changes are all small and close by, the constantly changing, ever similar bend of waves on the shore. (Obviously, I am speaking only of the view seaward, the jiggle here and the curve there along the beach soon fade into the background).
The most surprising, albeit obvious, difference I had not anticipated are the sounds. In Colorado sitting on my balcony or hiking when the pine needles are damp, there are extended periods of absolute silence. I would caution people thinking about moving to the hills away from Boulder "if you are going to live up here you have to be prepared to take care of your own needs. It's not just that getting services in the winter is far more expensive than downtown, but when the weather is rough you can't get anyone to come at all, so if you want to hear some noise, you will just have to make it yourself." I loved the silence. And here along the beach I love the sound. There is the constant mummer of water in motion, to me it is the voice of the sea sounding a never ending background note. (OK, I am a newbie here, so I don't know whether the background noise is actually a blend of the sound waves from approaching waves and the echoes of waves moving away from me, or whether it really is a separate sound from that of the waves landing on the shore at my feet. Not being one to quibble over scientific minutia over my head, I prefer to think it is the voice of the sea welcoming me, and I find it very comforting).
For many years I had planned to move to the sea sometime after I retired. After thirty years in the hills, the forces of gravity on my body parts insisted now was the time. I had never really decided on a place although I had visited both coasts in numerous locations as far south as Costa Rica and read extensively about retirement options. When the time came to narrow down my choices it was easy, but not as a function of my careful research. I just liked the sound of Myrtle Beach, it sounded like a fun place to be from, and after all it was the same spontaneous out of the air method I had used to pick Boulder. Of course I did a lot of research on the net, and made a scouting trip, but basically the name just popped into my head. So here I am and here I will stay, if for no other reason than to avoid the hell on earth of having to sort out things I needed to bring from the 30 years of eclectic stuff I had accumulated - scuba gear yes, chainsaw no... I thought I would never get done.
Whether I actually got done, or just abandoned ship is a matter of viewpoint. Anyway I finally got the stuff I decided to keep piled into a U-Haul truck, loaded my old Landcruiser, which I had revived from retirement on to a trailer, and hired a competent driver for the 1700 mile journey. Meanwhile, citing executive privilege, Stewball (my aging cat) and I decided to depend on Delta. Here we are.
Wandering around a nearby mall shortly after my move to Myrtle Beach, I decided to get one of my infrequent haircuts. Conversation with the stylist meandered along typical phatic pathways, each of us sharing meaningless tidbits with the other. She was excited about having just closed on her first house, and asked me about my former home in Colorado. So I started "well my house was a bit over 8,600 feet" " My God" she interrupted, "what kind of job did you have?" Ah, epiphany! No one back in Boulder would have not understood that I was talking about altitude, not square feet. It would not even have required a conscious decision. But in a place where the highest altitude one might typically attain might be a friends tenth floor condo, it's just something one does not normally think about. So to begin with the most common three words in Literature examinations the world over "Compare and contrast"...
Comparison starts with something I don't understand, I just recognize. There are at least thousands of seeming authoritative attempts to name it. Pick one; or two. For me it is just a feeling I get in some places, a feeling of belonging there, of being content with that place, and that place being content with me. I got that feeling often hiking around in my Colorado mountains, and I would not wish to live again in a place where I did not feel that. I remembered the feeling from years ago, walking by the sea, and so I knew it would be here waiting for me. To paraphrase a line from a poet I think may have been Frost, but maybe not " One can do worse than being a walker of beaches." That's important to me because walking is one of my very favorite things. Beyond the physical benefits, even, some say, spiritual benefits, I just find it enjoyable.
Of course there are lots of contrasts between walking along the Grand Strand and walking around Roosevelt National Forest in the Rocky Mountains, not the least being that there is more oxygen in the air here, an element I find refreshing as I grow older and the cigarettes I smoked 30 years ago come back to haunt me. Visual changes in the mountains are much more dramatic. The view changes from expansive meadows, to dense willow patches, to far away peaks, past long way downs, to narrow trails going up, the angle of which seems to increase perversely from its appearance below, and sometimes to the most disappointing view of all: the dreaded false summit. (gasp) Here the distant view is always the same, just a simple horizon bending slightly at the urging of gravity. The changes are all small and close by, the constantly changing, ever similar bend of waves on the shore. (Obviously, I am speaking only of the view seaward, the jiggle here and the curve there along the beach soon fade into the background).
The most surprising, albeit obvious, difference I had not anticipated are the sounds. In Colorado sitting on my balcony or hiking when the pine needles are damp, there are extended periods of absolute silence. I would caution people thinking about moving to the hills away from Boulder "if you are going to live up here you have to be prepared to take care of your own needs. It's not just that getting services in the winter is far more expensive than downtown, but when the weather is rough you can't get anyone to come at all, so if you want to hear some noise, you will just have to make it yourself." I loved the silence. And here along the beach I love the sound. There is the constant mummer of water in motion, to me it is the voice of the sea sounding a never ending background note. (OK, I am a newbie here, so I don't know whether the background noise is actually a blend of the sound waves from approaching waves and the echoes of waves moving away from me, or whether it really is a separate sound from that of the waves landing on the shore at my feet. Not being one to quibble over scientific minutia over my head, I prefer to think it is the voice of the sea welcoming me, and I find it very comforting).
For many years I had planned to move to the sea sometime after I retired. After thirty years in the hills, the forces of gravity on my body parts insisted now was the time. I had never really decided on a place although I had visited both coasts in numerous locations as far south as Costa Rica and read extensively about retirement options. When the time came to narrow down my choices it was easy, but not as a function of my careful research. I just liked the sound of Myrtle Beach, it sounded like a fun place to be from, and after all it was the same spontaneous out of the air method I had used to pick Boulder. Of course I did a lot of research on the net, and made a scouting trip, but basically the name just popped into my head. So here I am and here I will stay, if for no other reason than to avoid the hell on earth of having to sort out things I needed to bring from the 30 years of eclectic stuff I had accumulated - scuba gear yes, chainsaw no... I thought I would never get done.
Whether I actually got done, or just abandoned ship is a matter of viewpoint. Anyway I finally got the stuff I decided to keep piled into a U-Haul truck, loaded my old Landcruiser, which I had revived from retirement on to a trailer, and hired a competent driver for the 1700 mile journey. Meanwhile, citing executive privilege, Stewball (my aging cat) and I decided to depend on Delta. Here we are.
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