Since 1986 I had often visited my parents here on Amelia Island, but I only became a resident in September of 2015. It was time to retire from thirty-five years of teaching, twenty-five of which were spent overseas; it was time to come “home” and help out with mom, who at 96 was still driving! At first I missed my students and teaching colleagues, but I soon got into the rhythm of the Plantation. I began to enjoy being mom’s “wing man”, cooking and taking the wheel on our errands, trips out to lunch or to Baxter’s on a Sunday night. Moving in with mom was an adjustment for her, as well! She was very independent living on own in her two storey condo since my dad had died in 1993. Mom had a busy diary filled with golf several times a week, luncheons, and her membership of the Federated Republican Women of Nassau County. Plus, mom would steam through a book a week and, on a regular basis, we would go down to the Book Loft to find a new novel or biography, hopefully signed by the author.
Living on the Plantation and looking out over the 9th fairway to the marsh, provided me a new awareness of the island's almost primal natural beauty. I would walk over to Drummond Park and out onto the docks to explore the peace and tranquility of the still water and tall grass.
Dragonflies would weave through the Devil’s Walking Stick and swoop to graze the water or to light precariously on the topmost twig of fetterbush. Small tree frogs chirped their coded messages to the tribe. The smell of saw grass and the slight funk of composting growth along the shore were signals of decay and rebirth in this place where the hieroglyphics of bird tracks and the squiggles of small worms or snakes in the grey mud were a temporary sign of the seekers.
Colorful male marsh ducks would sense my presence and glide swiftly away from the nest to distract me from too close an examination of the mate on her eggs. Fiddler crabs poked one eye and part of a claw out of holes along the edges, as my steps reverberated on the dry boardwalk.
Further back from the edge, marsh oaks and pine flatwoods cast shade and waved in the freshening breezes, bringing the promise of renaissance to the edge of the pools of plankton, small fry and skating water bugs. The rich soup absorbed the pods, pollens and leaves.
I learned that here the herons are called “great” and nest, feed and gracefully navigate the waters on long segmented legs. They move in regal slow motion, looking down and stretching long, curving necks to pick a small fish from the shallows with spear-like precision.
The Snowy Egret uses these waters and weeds as a safe place, a base, from which to fly over the houses and the cultivated acres of the golf courses, trailing its long black legs and orange feet like a banner behind a small plane. White flags of ibis move along the fairway, foraging with red curved beaks like delicate groups of harvesters, oblivious to the rolling carts, the swing and clatter of clubs and hard balls bouncing nearby; they move in easy unison, heads down, intent.
Soon sunset casts a rosy glow over the marsh and marks the end of the quiet day of gently seething life. The transparent moon rises, looming large and low in the wings to herald another rotation in the cycle.
As I retreat from the edge of this watery world, I sense that my life has slowed to a rhythmic crawl toward an unknown. Busyness and industry are a distant past and I prepare for an uncertain final phase of searching memories for meaning. Looking for a legacy to outlive me. There is a sense of uncertainty, as I wonder who I am now that I am no longer who I was.
But, of course, I am Betty’s daughter and I am defined by my new role, which provides me with a new person to share a laugh, a meal, an adventure and a segue into new circles of friends. Like the marsh birds that have a particular purpose in the cycle of life, I have found my way and need not wander through the days wondering what I have left undone. What I may have left undone is found in my role as daughter and caretaker.
(On April 27, 2019 Mom celebrated her 100th birthday with a festive gathering of her many friends. A month later Betty died peacefully gazing out at her beloved marsh view.)
In 2015 I became a resident of Amelia Island and settled into the condo that my sister had set up as a base-camp next door to my mother. I had retired from thirty-five years of teaching overseas and it was time to come “home”. I soon got into the rhythm of the Plantation, being mom’s “wing man”, cooking and taking the wheel on our errands and trips out to lunch or to Baxter’s on a Sunday night. Living next door to mom was perfect; she was a very independent ninety-six-year-old and had been on her own in this two-story condo since my dad had died in 1995.
Living on the Plantation provided me with an awareness of the natural beauty of the marsh. Late afternoons, I took walks to Drummond Park to explore the peace and tranquility of the still water and tall grass. Colorful male marsh ducks sense my presence and glide swiftly away from the nest to distract me from too close an examination of the mate on her eggs. Fiddler crabs poke one eye and part of a claw out of holes along the edges, as my steps reverberate on the dry boardwalk. Great herons nest, feed and gracefully navigate the waters on long segmented legs in regal slow motion, stretching long, curving necks to pick a small fish from the shallows with spear-like precision.
Dragonflies weave through the Devil’s Walking Stick and graze the water or light precariously on the topmost twig of fetterbush. Small tree frogs chirp their coded messages to the tribe. The smell of saw grass and the slight funk of composting growth along the shore, signal decay and rebirth in this place where the hieroglyphics of bird tracks and the squiggles of small worms in the grey mud are a temporary sign of the seekers. Marsh oaks cast shade and wave in the freshening breezes, bringing the promise of renaissance to the pools of plankton, small fry, and skating water bugs. The rich soup absorbs the pods, pollens, and leaves.
Sunset casts a golden glow over the marsh marking the end of the quiet day of gently seething life. The transparent moon rises, looming large and low to herald another rotation in the cycle; I retreat from the edge of this watery world. There is a sense of uncertainty, as I wonder who I am now that I am no longer who I was. I am defined by my new role, which provides me with a new person to share a laugh, a meal, and an adventure.
I am Betty’s daughter and, like the marsh birds that have a particular purpose in the cycle of life, I have found my way and need not wander through the days and dreams wondering what I have left undone. The thing I may have left undone has been found in my role as daughter and caregiver.
Footnote: In May of 2019, just three weeks after her 100th birthday, Betty passed away peacefully