Friday evening we made our way onto Hilton Head Island, which I've heard about my entire life (it's a popular getaway spot for Atlanta folk, since it's only a five-hour drive from the city) but never visited. I'd seen other of the barrier islands on the Georgia coast – Jekyll Island, St. Simon's, and the tiny Tybee, which is essentially a strip mall surrounded by beachfront – but none of those quite prepared me for the sheer magnitude of the tourist industry on this one island. There are reportedly three thousand restaurants on the island, which is about twelve miles long and five miles wide. This information comes by way of the natives, who were only too happy to ramble on about the golf courses, the hotels, the beaches, and anything else you wanted to discuss.
I'll give them this: the beaches are gorgeous. On the stretch we visited, there weren't the miles of parking lots stretching parallel to the beach like you'll see in Florida. Palmetto Dunes, which is where we stayed in a many-bedroomed house (I didn't visit them all so they went uncounted), had its own stretch of beach. On a blustery Sunday afternoon, we had the shoreline to ourselves, which is a pretty neat trick if you can manage it.
After changing into some "nice" clothes, we were joined at the house by my youngest brother Benjamin, my parents Lynn and Rob, and my sister (the youngest sib and only girl) Pamela. Then we had to hurry hurry hurry and get to the rehearsal dinner. We weren't part of the rehearsal but it was nice to be invited to the restaurant anyway. There we saw the lucky couple, Geoffrey (my oldest sibling – I'm the oldest of four boys and five kids, for those counting at home) and Jennifer. A few minutes later we were joined by a multitude of relatives on both sides of the family, including my grandparents on my mom's side and my aunt, with family in tow. Once Nicholas (the middle child and Duke law student) arrived with his girlfriend Sarah, we had nearly the entire clan together. I think the only person missing from the old days of Christmases at my grandparents' place in Florida was my cousin Joshua, who now has a kid and lives in Louisiana. I could stop here and talk about the vertigo it gives me to think that he has a child of his own, but I think I've digressed enough for one paragraph.
After dinner a "Mardis Gras party" was held at the aforementioned beach house. So yes, even more food, free-flowing booze, and a pair of airlifted king cakes that didn't look as if they'd made the trip as nicely as they could have. Somewhere in there Amy and Tanya arrived, sneaking in the back door and completely freaking me out as I'd been kind of looking for them out the front door. As an honorary Holland, Amy is automatically granted admission into family functions like this one. Geoffrey, as the eldest of my siblings, probably remembers most clearly those days when Amy lived in Atlanta and used to help lug bricks into the back yard. (Another long story. Let's not get into it.) Legend has it that Amy lent me an algebra book when we were in the eighth grade, thus saving me from academic ruin and a life of panhandling or at least an endless succession of low-grade food service jobs.
Amy, Tanya, Christina, Sarah and I retired to one of the bedrooms with our libations in hand. Sarah is the president of the Amy and Tanya fan club, although I don't think I'm giving away any secrets when I say that Tanya is her favorite member of this particular duo. Up to the moment at which A&T arrived, Sarah had been pointedly looking at her watch and asking how much longer it would be until their car would pull into the drive. Amy and I pulled the iBook into a corner and perused the music we had brought each other (she, the new Ben Folds album; I, the I Am Sam soundtrack) while the other three spoke on topics which I am sure were of great import, except for the fact that I can't remember what any of those topics were just now.
The next morning brought a "gentlemen's breakfast" at the local branch of the Cracker Barrel restaurant chain. There I observed yet again the reason for my grandparents' extraordinary fitness: while the rest of us were enjoying biscuits and eggs and bacon, my grandfather indulged in two boxes of Special K, a banana, and half an apple-bran muffin. They say you'll live forever if you give up everything that makes you want to. This man, however, thrives on vigorous exercise and a modest diet, and he seems to enjoy every minute. At eighty-some years old, he could probably whip my ass in a heartbeat. One of his doctors used to call him "the Beast" – and this was only a few years back.
This did not, however, stop me from ordering the biscuits and gravy. I did fall short of eating the whole serving, but I like to think that this stems more from my desire to live past the age of forty than from any intimidation I felt in the Beast's presence.
Next time: the wedding day, the reception, and the clan begins to depart.
Christina and I missed the traditional Shrove Tuesday practice of cooking pancakes for dinner, so we're going to do it tomorrow night for Valentine's Day. Who needs to fight the restaurant crowds when you've got flapjacks a-cookin' at home? I bought an electric skillet for the task – I'm tired of our stove, which has only one properly working burner, and it's sort of lopsided at that. Bed Bath and Beyond wanted $40 for a Black and Decker skillet, but I knew that Target had a comparable model for $25. BBB may be great for gourmet kitchen gadgets, but for most everyday stuff they're astronomically high retail.
I buckled down tonight and actually got some editing done on the book, fixing typos and incorporating improvements suggested by our crack team of proofreaders (thanks, guys). The first chapter is just about done and soon I'll send it on to the fact checkers who will tell us that The Blob was directed by someone else entirely. Or something like that.
I'll give them this: the beaches are gorgeous. On the stretch we visited, there weren't the miles of parking lots stretching parallel to the beach like you'll see in Florida. Palmetto Dunes, which is where we stayed in a many-bedroomed house (I didn't visit them all so they went uncounted), had its own stretch of beach. On a blustery Sunday afternoon, we had the shoreline to ourselves, which is a pretty neat trick if you can manage it.
After changing into some "nice" clothes, we were joined at the house by my youngest brother Benjamin, my parents Lynn and Rob, and my sister (the youngest sib and only girl) Pamela. Then we had to hurry hurry hurry and get to the rehearsal dinner. We weren't part of the rehearsal but it was nice to be invited to the restaurant anyway. There we saw the lucky couple, Geoffrey (my oldest sibling – I'm the oldest of four boys and five kids, for those counting at home) and Jennifer. A few minutes later we were joined by a multitude of relatives on both sides of the family, including my grandparents on my mom's side and my aunt, with family in tow. Once Nicholas (the middle child and Duke law student) arrived with his girlfriend Sarah, we had nearly the entire clan together. I think the only person missing from the old days of Christmases at my grandparents' place in Florida was my cousin Joshua, who now has a kid and lives in Louisiana. I could stop here and talk about the vertigo it gives me to think that he has a child of his own, but I think I've digressed enough for one paragraph.
After dinner a "Mardis Gras party" was held at the aforementioned beach house. So yes, even more food, free-flowing booze, and a pair of airlifted king cakes that didn't look as if they'd made the trip as nicely as they could have. Somewhere in there Amy and Tanya arrived, sneaking in the back door and completely freaking me out as I'd been kind of looking for them out the front door. As an honorary Holland, Amy is automatically granted admission into family functions like this one. Geoffrey, as the eldest of my siblings, probably remembers most clearly those days when Amy lived in Atlanta and used to help lug bricks into the back yard. (Another long story. Let's not get into it.) Legend has it that Amy lent me an algebra book when we were in the eighth grade, thus saving me from academic ruin and a life of panhandling or at least an endless succession of low-grade food service jobs.
Amy, Tanya, Christina, Sarah and I retired to one of the bedrooms with our libations in hand. Sarah is the president of the Amy and Tanya fan club, although I don't think I'm giving away any secrets when I say that Tanya is her favorite member of this particular duo. Up to the moment at which A&T arrived, Sarah had been pointedly looking at her watch and asking how much longer it would be until their car would pull into the drive. Amy and I pulled the iBook into a corner and perused the music we had brought each other (she, the new Ben Folds album; I, the I Am Sam soundtrack) while the other three spoke on topics which I am sure were of great import, except for the fact that I can't remember what any of those topics were just now.
The next morning brought a "gentlemen's breakfast" at the local branch of the Cracker Barrel restaurant chain. There I observed yet again the reason for my grandparents' extraordinary fitness: while the rest of us were enjoying biscuits and eggs and bacon, my grandfather indulged in two boxes of Special K, a banana, and half an apple-bran muffin. They say you'll live forever if you give up everything that makes you want to. This man, however, thrives on vigorous exercise and a modest diet, and he seems to enjoy every minute. At eighty-some years old, he could probably whip my ass in a heartbeat. One of his doctors used to call him "the Beast" – and this was only a few years back.
This did not, however, stop me from ordering the biscuits and gravy. I did fall short of eating the whole serving, but I like to think that this stems more from my desire to live past the age of forty than from any intimidation I felt in the Beast's presence.
Next time: the wedding day, the reception, and the clan begins to depart.
Christina and I missed the traditional Shrove Tuesday practice of cooking pancakes for dinner, so we're going to do it tomorrow night for Valentine's Day. Who needs to fight the restaurant crowds when you've got flapjacks a-cookin' at home? I bought an electric skillet for the task – I'm tired of our stove, which has only one properly working burner, and it's sort of lopsided at that. Bed Bath and Beyond wanted $40 for a Black and Decker skillet, but I knew that Target had a comparable model for $25. BBB may be great for gourmet kitchen gadgets, but for most everyday stuff they're astronomically high retail.
I buckled down tonight and actually got some editing done on the book, fixing typos and incorporating improvements suggested by our crack team of proofreaders (thanks, guys). The first chapter is just about done and soon I'll send it on to the fact checkers who will tell us that The Blob was directed by someone else entirely. Or something like that.
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