Love from me, hanging with the sea turtles on Jekyll Island, Georgia
December 31, 2019
updated January 5, 2020
updated January 5, 2020
I told everyone I was leaving Portland to spend the winter in Mexico. That’s mostly true, but what I failed to say is that first, I am spending 2 weeks on Jekyll Island, Georgia.
I guess I didn’t disclose that part because 1) I love the quiet here and I don’t want everyone in the world to come here and ruin it for me; and 2) West coast people are blissfully unaware of the South, it seems. The few times I mentioned it, people looked at me blankly, as if I were talking about Soviet Georgia. No, Georgia, USA, you know? Jekyll Island, formerly the haunt of the rich, is now thankfully accessible to us ordinary people, and much much more down to earth than say, Hilton Head. And home to the Georgia Sea Turtle Center which provides medical care and rehabilitation for sea turtles whom they name and display their story of catastrophe and salvation on each of their individual rehabilitation pools. Who can resist donating or just loving them up?*
I have new turtle earrings, a turtle necklace and a greeting card of turtles from around the world. I guess turtles are my thing, come to think of it. I had a tragedy early in life involving a turtle, which I won’t go into here. Maybe they are my totem; I did see a quite large turtle on the side of the road last June in Wyoming while I was on my way from Custer, SD to Devils Tower National Monument. What in the world was he doing there? Although there weren’t many cars on that particular stretch of highway, I worried that he just wouldn’t make it across, if that was where he was headed. (Later, someone said I should have picked him up and escorted him across the road. Really?) Actually, I would have liked to have taken him home, but I don’t really have the means to care for him properly. But he blessed my life, for sure, and I pray that he is all right.
So, 2019. My god, what a year! I guess every year is momentous in its way; but this year was sheer grace and miracle. It started in 2018 when a Man at Church asked me to house a Speaker he had invited to our church. Sure, I said. I have space. Happy to help out. A week before the event, Man at Church said, “I hope you’ll be all right, Connie,” alluding to the Speaker being in my house overnight. Massive PTSD ensued for me; what was he implying? That I would be raped and murdered in my own bed, and by a highly educated white man and national figure in the progressive camp, someone YOU asked me to house? What the, what the f---?
