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To love a place

The cold is biting. In that--you thought you were packing for the beach but instead the humidity is snow--kind of way. It's cold in the unfamiliar sense. Not that I haven't known cold, freezing, tundra-like settings. Old man winter and I had six long years to get to know each other when I lived in Boston. You could say we were intimate. But this is South Carolina. For those of us who come here to escape, old man winter is an unwelcome guest in this land of hospitality.

But it's Christmas, and we're cozy by the fire on the inter coastal waterway. Boats pass, birds call, and, according to my brother and nephews, the fish are biting. We've kayaked down the Wambaw River through 1,000 year old cypress trees. We've explored Fort Sumter, where the first shot of the Civil War rang out (General Anderson and 86 Union soldiers defending the port of Charleston before surrendering to the Confederate army). And we've come upon hundreds of wild ducks in the Santee Coastal Reserve, flushing them from swamp to air in the most graceful of holiday dances. Nutcracker ain't got nothing on this.

Meanwhile, my parents are teaching us--their children and grandchildren--what it means to really love a place. Not just your home, your school, or even the characters of your story. But the background and foundation of it all. We live in a treasured place, they've whispered to us. See that bird, those trees. Careful of your feet. Every step is on holy ground. Land and life preserved, where humans are not the main characters at all.





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