The morning was cool so we picked basil from the garden and whipped up a lot of pesto to use in soups and over orzo. After that, we sat on the porch having coffee and listened to yelling and expletives being screamed by the deranged teenager who lives with his mother and step-father on the adjacent property. I don't know what his problem is, but he has been having disruptive rages for several years. He has been committed to the psychiatric institute for depression. And the police have been called by his mother when he has been out of control. This morning, the yelling went on for about 15 minutes, after which it ceased and all was quiet. I figured that either every one was dead over there or some resolution had been reached.
The country around here is generally peaceful. Once in a while, there will be something out of the ordinary, like a theft (which we experienced) or the occasional murder every ten years, or someone dying in an automobile accident after having too much to drink. I'm sure that there are drugs on the island. But at no time, have we felt unsafe.
When we first moved out here, we used to drive home from work and if we saw ten cars, we thought there was a traffic jam. Today, there are more cars and more people. There is a wine festival that is held at a vineyard on the island. And the First Flush tea festival was held up the road at the tea plantation over the past weekend. This will draw lots of people to come see this part of the Lowcountry. Hopefully, they will decide that it is way too far to travel, and they will decide that a suburb nearer to the city is a better place to live.
Some of the characters that I used to see walking the roads are gone now. There was Tripod, the three-legged dog who would walk along the highway with his owner who would turn around and stare at everyone who drove past. I thought that he must have a fear of being hit by a car because he would stop walking and turn around as a car went past. Tripod died a number of years ago, and his owner hasn't been seen walking the road anymore.
I also think of Joseph who would walk our road to get to the horse farm across the field. He took care of the horses there for years until alcoholism got the best of him. I would sometimes give him a lift, but toward the end he reeked so badly that I stopped. A neighbor once found Joseph sleeping in his car. After Joseph lost his job caring for the horses, it was all downhill from there. He died living in a shack about two miles from here.
I regret that I didn't get photos of these people. It's said that there are the "Bin Yah" or "Come Yah" people in this part of the coast. The following video explains this better than I can.
It is a special place to live. I may be a "Come Yah" but it sure feels like home to me.