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Maybe it’s the old-soul live oaks draped in Spanish moss lining the country lanes. Maybe it’s the ruins of an early twentieth-century mansion you passed as you strode through the village or the 1913 motor yacht you cruised on, named for Grace Wilson Vanderbilt, sister of the mansion’s owner.
Maybe it’s the small cluster of gravestones you biked by, their sparse inscriptions commemorating the slaves who worked the one-time plantation’s rice and sea cotton fields. Maybe it’s the knowledge that the ground you stand upon has buried within it stone tools and ceramic shards handled by Paleoindians 12,000 years ago.
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In the Summer issue of La Vie Claire Magazine |
