no room in the end

I was born and raised a true Southern Baptist complete with dinner on the grounds, summer revivals,  and Wednesday night prayer meetings. My week was planned before it even started  - days were for school, but Sunday and Wednesday nights, church. But for me, the best part of all, was seeing my friends and getting that extra 'bud' time that school days just didn't provide. In the disguise of GAs and Acteens, I met my 'bestest' friends, spent hours of doing what teenage girls do best, jabbering! We made some memorable (and questionable) decisions - like when Carol, Pam, Susan and I stuffed into Brenda's Henry (a.k.a. a pea green late 60s Mustang) and rolled our Acteen leader's house, or when we borrowed my dad's 48 Chevy and spent my 16th birthday at the drive-in (THAT is a another tale).  It was fabulous. As an only child, I lived for church because that is where I found the sisters I never knew I had.

At that time, I had no idea what a lucky girl I was.  Not only did I make some of the most enduring and long-lasting friendships of my life, but I also formed a relationship with God that would carry me through my unpredicted later years. Although I'm not as consistent, shall we say, as I once was, when it comes to walking through the church doors on a weekly basis, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't look UP and converse.

With that said, I am most assuredly not Catholic, but my husband is. Much like me, my husband's life was resurrected around the church, its traditions and beliefs. I tell him I would have been a horrible Catholic, with all that kneeling and stuff - terrible knees. I have visited St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York, purchased a beautiful pearl-like rosary and even lit a candle for my daddy. I'm sure I didn't "do" it right, but in my simple mind, I was close to God and my daddy.

Every year since the beginning of my life with Len, we have celebrated Christmas by attending Midnight Mass at St. Joseph's in Athens. Much of the time, I was lost, but followed my husband's movements as best I could. It was a long way from Bethlehem Baptist! If my prayers were answered, Rev. David McGinness would lead the service. I first met him at St. Mary's Hospital when he comforted Len as his mother was slipping away. Such peace, humility and grace he brought with him.

He's a man of small statue, heavy on the Irish brogue, and shockingly, very entertaining. At masses, he always began his remarks with a comical tale and then shifted into a deeper lesson. He did so this Christmas night when he began with a scale and ended with a birth. "There was no room in the Inn," he began matter-of-factly. Such a disappointment for those who missed this blessing, he continued. And why is there no room today? Such clutter. Such unnecessary stuff.

As life begins in 2012, I want that stuff gone. Those thoughts erased. Those people that make me sad. The events that I can't change. The lives that I can't touch. I don't want to miss out because I didn't make room for the important moments, people, events.

This year, I will make room - daily, moment by moment, breath by breath. For my husband who unselfishly gives me his heart; for my children who still hug me and want to spend time with mom; for family who never forgets the history that glues us together; for my heritage, one that has built my character and won't let me down; for my career, one that gives me such enjoyment; for friends who make me a priority in their life, not an option. I don't want to wake up this time next year and realize, with disappointment, that I missed the King.

Lessons from the Attic

The attic is a scary place where boxes turn in to headless monsters devouring once empty space. And inside those monsters, well, that can be equally daunting. Once you move past the aged smell of something that has been sealed for far too long and the massive amount of black (and white I have discovered) mouse droppings, it's all downhill.

There's endless quantities of outdated clothes, unused kitchen utensils, unopened (regrettable) gifts, worn-out shoes, discarded computer equipment, dead TVs, packaged Christmas decorations, busted lamps, unnecessary nick-knacks, and more and more of the same. Most you fly right by, but there are some objects that require a closer look.
 
I can't begin to explain how many Hallmark cards can fit into a box about waist high. I believe Veta (Len's mom) kept them in business. Whether it was the sending or the receiving, she did her part in establishing Hallmark as a billion dollar enterprise. It may appear to be just paper, but you have to attach humans to these mailings.  Think of those who sent the cards - how they perused the aisle in the grocery store, reading card after card until the right one made them smile. Jackpot! And then, days later, Veta, sitting in her green Lazy Boy, going through the mail, finding a colored envelope and realizing it wasn't a bill. With her trusty letter opener, she slit open the envelope and then magic, a smile from ear to ear. Thoughts from far away! No matter if the occasion was a birthday, a holiday or even a death, a smile was there because someone cared enough to send a card. Not an email, a hand-written card.

And in the old steam truck of mom's, one single greeting card that stood out from all the others: the first Valentine from what would turn out to be one of many during a very long, love affair.  He only signed his name, Kimsey, and added no thoughts or phrases. His name was enough. I wonder how many times she read the card while tracing the imprint of his name with the tips of her fingers. Ah, the romantic in me!

When you least expect it, you will find treasures wrapped securely in 1980s newspaper pages. There's the Drag-ula car made by my husband for his pine-wood derby years ago. Wrapped securely in browned paper, hours and hours of work lay in my palm. Before I even knew he existed, he carved it with his hands and crafted it with his heart. Then, there's the SoSewSoldier sewing kit that belonged to Neil, Len's father. He carried this government-issued necessity to France, through Belgium and then home again during WWII. Both will have a new home, free of stuffy air.

Finally, I'm going through a heaping box of towels, dishcloths and crocheted throws and stumble upon a beautiful blush linen tablecloth, complete with eight matching napkins - still in its original box, unused with creases still crisp. As with all things cotton packed away, a wash is required. As I'm tossing the tablecloth in the washer, I read the tag: Made Right in America. Not Made in America, but Made Right in America. Pride jumped off the tag and smacked me in the face. I don't recall seeing that wording ever. I'm sure that in 2011, those aren't the words added to tags on linens or toys or computers or anything else for that matter.

There are lessons to be learned from the attic. Mice can get into any box, I don't care how secure you think it is. Most of us have way too much stuff. Those clothes you wouldn't wear in the 70s will NOT come back in style and even if they did, you wouldn't or couldn't wear them then so you won't wear them now, so get rid of them. Dead TVs and computers are just that, dead. And, when you dig through the clutter, there are gems of lasting worth that must be saved. There are stories of accomplishments and failure, of loneliness and hope, of holidays and dreams - magical seconds of a lifetime made concrete by materials stored in an attic.

Re-Invention

Okay.  I've done it. I've gone and got myself a personal trainer. Maybe it's too many sessions of the Biggest Loser, but I like to think that by the time this is over, I will have obtained my version of that quarter of a million dollar prize - health (and a really cute little black dress).

I was hoping for a brash Bob Harper or an irreverent Jillian Michaels or even a soul-searching Dolvett, but no matter what, I was expecting a 'get-in-my-face-kick-my-ass' kind of experience.

It's my third week, and I'm asking, "where is he?" No yelling, no in-my-face conversations, no teary failings. However, I have figured out that instead of the in-the-face business, he will 'scream' elsewhere - and that will include squats.

Squats standing still, squats gliding across the floor, squats leaning against a yoga ball; with bars, with weights, without bars and weights. After my training session last Monday Monday, I was powerless on Tuesday to walk, sit or even climb into bed. Tuesday screamed bio-freeze morning, afternoon, and midnight, too. For my next circuit on Wednesday, I hoped to be ready for another round of squats. I said yes, but in moderation. After all, the getting down is possible; the pulling back up is improbable.

Finally, it's week four, and yes, he's bringing back the squats. The muscles have loosened and I think I'll make it through the week just fine. Never count a Southern woman down when there's a little black dress waiting at the finish line! This 52-year old will defeat the squats!

From Plowboy to Soldier

Reprinted from the fall issue of Georgia Connector magazine.  www.georgiaconnector.com

His life began simply.

The son of sharecroppers, a plowboy who “didn’t know how to do anything but work on the farm,” he understood right from wrong early and when mama spoke, there was no “no diddly-daddling around”. He “got education” at Hinon Brown in Athens, leaving after his seventh grade term to raise cotton, pigs, or anything that would thrive on the family’s 300 acres. He learned early to tell the truth, always pay back debts, and if he worked real fast, he could pick 360 pounds of cotton in one day.

And then, in December of 1941, Pearl Harbor was attacked, the country was in mourning, and by June of 1944,  Private First Class Lloyd D. Carter of the 1^st Infantry Division - Big Red One,  found himself in the throes of a choppy English Harbor, on his way to an unknown destination.

Safe at home in Hull, Georgia, he remembers that first night aboard the USS United States and the voice of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. “He came over the PA system.” Carter’s voice wobbles, and he covers his face with both hands. “You ‘bout to make history . . . the eyes of the world are watchin’, he said, and then he wished us good luck.”Carter withdraws his hands and looks up. “I’m sorry,” he says, tears escaping his eyes.

Just as quickly as he chokes up, he recovers and returns to his account; most assuredly, a trained response.

With the weather deteriorating, the powers-that-be questioned the notable invasion. Finally, the forecast improved with a full moon scheduled for the sixth, providing a luminary for the amphibious landing.

“We hit the beach about sun up. The little boat carried one platoon, about 36 men. The whole A-Company was in one wave. When you hit the water, they’d crank it [rear of landing craft].”

Carter’s first glimpse of Normandy was daunting. “All you see is ships, about 600. Guns shooting four at a time over our head, shooting inland, pulverizing the beach. Airplanes were over our heads.

“They told us they were going to put us off on dry ground, but they couldn’t get there. Dumped us out in water up under our arms. We’d wade out in the water with all our stuff. It [supplies] was in life preservers and was waterproof. Bazooka guns were wrapped, so if you went down, the stuff would float to the beach and we’d still have equipment.”

Orders were to get off the boat quickly. The sooner they reached land, the sooner they would be safe.

Carter recalls “bullets hitting the sand, sweeping” as he ran inland. “Lot of people got hit when the thing fell, but I got off there.”

“I was probably pretty calm,” he remembers. “I was trained. You weren’t supposed to stop. You were moving so fast and concentrating where you were going. You’re heavy and loaded down. I had on wool clothes, and all that stuff in the bags. If it got wet, it wouldn’t work. You had to get across there.”

And finally, he “made it. The water turned red they said.”

Once he maneuvered inland 20 feet from the water’s edge, the barbed wire impeded forward movement. “There were men that were prepared to do it [tear it down]. There was a guy angled, laying there, his face shot off. I got behind him for protection. I wiggled in that gravel and was about half-buried. I reached in my pocket and got my knife to cut all that stuff loose, so I’d be free to use it.”

Moving forward, Carter decided he “was in the right spot. The commander (Pence) was in the gravel, urging men to ‘move it’. My platoon leader said, ‘Carter, I can’t count but six men, you and five more’.”

The count only continued to diminish as bullets exploded overhead, “snapping like paper”.

“I reached back for ammunition and pulled it up. ‘Bout the time I reached back, I rolled over and it saved my life.” A bullet blasted through his right arm, hitting him with such force that it threw him onto his back, knocking off his helmet.

Carter remembers his platoon leader’s comic relief. “He wasn’t supposed to do this, but he took my field jacket off and there was a bullet hole where I was shot. He said, ‘Carter, it ruined your field jacket’.”

To ease the pain, Carter downed the sulfur pills from his supply kit. “I laid there all day, wet and watched people come in. The 4^th Division came by me . . . walking on people, dead and wounded.”

By this point, the Allies had pushed the Germans inland. Soldiers couldn’t hear any riffles, only sounds of shells busting and hitting the beach.

The cold ran deep. “My teeth were just a rattling and I couldn’t stop them. I had been wet all day and the sun wouldn’t shine.” Carter recalls a man lying beside him with his ear shot off, “slap against his head. I said [to him], ‘if you’ll help me stand up, we’ll get out of here. They’re going to blast this thing off the map’.”

Together, they waded back across the swamp through booby traps and dead bodies. “It was like a turnip patch, step on one and it would blow you slap up.”

“We got to the beach and there was an A-Man [medic]. ‘We’ll have you a boat in a minute’ he said to us. He laid me down on the sand and gave me a morphine shot. He punched one right in there.”

A boat finally arrived with two sailors on board. The driver maneuvered and the other tended to Carter. “He took off his jacket. He put it over my face and spread a blanket over me. My teeth were still chattering. He sat down and started patting me. ‘Relax’, he said, ‘just relax and your teeth will quit chattering.’ He said that over and over again and before we got to the ship, they had done quit.”

Carter still feels the pats on his shoulder and hears the voice of encouragement from this stranger he would never see again.

He was transported back to the ship where they “cut my clothes off to see if I was hit anywhere else. They put my arm on a board and wrapped gauze around and put it in a sling. All I had in the world, about three thousand miles from home was a knife, a billfold and a New Testament. About midnight, I felt the ship raise the anchor, and we headed back to England.”

In England, Carter departed the ship wearing “worn out sailor clothes.” On his way out, he glanced toward the deck that was covered with bodies in mattress covers, laying row after row.

Placed on a military bus, he moved 30 miles inland. “I believe they could run over a matchstick and I would have felt it.”

The station hospital looked like big chicken houses back home in Georgia, and finally, thirty-six hours after storming Omaha beach, Carter was at rest and receiving medical attention. “They put me on a gurney and the nurse buckled me down. She asked, “Where you get that curly hair?” He giggles and says, “My mama give it to me.”

After the Pentothal shot, his countdown ended at 17. He remained under medical care though England, Scotland, Iceland, and New York until he finally arrived home.

Today, PFC Lloyd Carter speaks infrequently about his army days, but he never forgets. He proudly displays his burdensome wool uniform and his medals – a Silver Star, Purple Heart, Bronze Star, WWII Victory Medal and a Presidential Citation – and notes that he has no idea what happened to the men he served with for two years. He remembers his sixty-four-dollar monthly salary (including a $10 raise for being shot) and how the 16^th Division was a “good fighting outfit”.

He remembers the invasion of Sicily and being so scared that his gum stuck to his teeth and how he had to walk 120 paces a minute. He says that the Italians were “pretty good people” and they [soldiers] were the blood, and well, General Patton, he was the guts.

He tells of a medic from California who couldn’t read or write. Carter would write to the medic’s mother just like he would write to his, and when the medic would receive letters from his girlfriend, while reading, Carter would “gussy them up” just a bit. Another medic from Missouri would go into town and leave Carter in charge; “they’d come in with a headache and I’d give them an aspirin.”

He reminisces about his English girlfriend, Joan. He met her in Lyme Regis, how he “walked her home and met her mama”. He remembers walking in a pasture of blooming flowers and making her a ring out of a quarter. “I betcha if she’s still living, she’s still got it,” he remarks with assurance.

“The last time I seen her she was crying,” he recalls. The next morning, the plowboy turned soldier was in France.

At 89, Carter is an active member of the Hull Baptist Church in Hull, Georgia, walks four miles a day, dotes on his grandchildren and grows the best tomatoes in Madison County, Georgia.

Remembering September 11 - Ten Years Later

As a teacher, one of the best experiences of the school year, was traveling with my  journalism/yearbook students to Columbia University in New York for the annual scholastic conference in March. For one incredible week, everyone would be saturated with the most up-to-date trends in journalism plus be able to attend a Broadway show and inhale everything New York had to offer. We were the typical tourists, always looking up.

March 2002 Skyline

However, this time, a different view would paint the heavens.

It was March 2002, what seemed like only days since planes had crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and Shanksville. The trip was questionable. Would it be safe in a post 9/11 world? After all, these travelers were merely teenagers. Looking back, I realize, that of all the years we traveled to New York, this would be the most important. Much like every year that had come before, students were excited about seeing the usual sites and attending the conference, but what consumed their thoughts was their visit to Ground Zero.

We all remembered that Tuesday morning in Room 3 watching the events unfold and crying and holding each other tighter than ever. My fourth period family rushed into my room after first period and never moved for the rest of the day. These students were journalists who wanted to know answers; they had been taught how to ask questions and find the story. But today, they were also children whose hearts were breaking. The world had changed and for a few kids from a small town in Georgia, they needed to see it first hand.

Just outside of Trinity Church

Suzy & Friend

I remember landing in New York. There were no Twin Towers to greet us. It was a different landscape. We made our way into Manhattan, checked in and our first stop, Ground Zero.

Even though it had been six months since the attack, evidence remained. I was amazed that dust still covered nearby windows and remnants of who-knows-what still hung in trees. Policemen and workers were everywhere. The students and I visited at night, and it was a hive of activity. My guys became working journalists that night; they talked to everyone, asking questions, saying 'thank you', and even giving hugs.

Subway Entrance

Memorials

There were plywood barriers separating the onlookers from that ominous hole, walls that had been confettied with signatures, photos and missing person flyers. All expressing love, respect and regret for what had happened. Photos of fathers, children, mothers - all the object of a search that would end in tragedy.

Standing at the Trinity Church adjacent to the site, I remember looking up into the trees. Debris still hung on the branches, and dust covered the trunks and limbs. Yet, the church stood tall; they said no windows were broken. Now, it was a refuge for rescue and recovery workers serving hot meals and providing rest.

I was also amazed at the silence, the over-powering 'something' that seemed to be walking beside me. It was definitely a sacred place. I tried to fathom what had happened, but I could not. No one talked; there really wasn't anything to be said. A few sniffles broke the silence.

Taking it all in

I love New York City, always have since my first visit. The energy on the streets moves through me. I know many reject the idea of the big city, but I embrace it and can't wait to return. It's more than Broadway plays, street vendors and Central Park. Now, in this Post 9/11 World, I try to recall that The City that Never Sleeps now lives as a symbol of what happens when every man is on the same page and moves forward with the strong will to overcome evil with good.

Times Square

September 11 has forever linked me to those kids that were in my classroom that day. Every year, we will all return to that same place, that same moment and remember. On this ten year anniversary, I watch the memorial service and cry; I listen to the actual morning broadcast and weep. Part of me can't fathom how anyone could do that. The other part wonders when the next attack will take place.

Times Square

Because of You

         It's an amazing August morning. The sun is shining and although it would be great to have some rain on my crunchy grass, I'll take the sunshine. A slight breeze blows through me as a sweep the front porch (so like my mother). There's even a stray dog there looking terribly hungry and lost; I quickly grab some bread from the kitchen and hope he takes the bait. He hides in the corner and an hour later, the bread is gone and so is he.

Veta and Len

Juette and Mari

       Today is one of those milestones for my husband that is calendared later in life. It was two years ago today that his mom,Veta, went home to Neil; and automatically, I think of my mom, three years ago December, who journeyed home. Days like today become a benchmark for children. A day that for some reason we judge all other days upon. A day when a part of one's heart that has always been within a stone's throw, leaves. That seems so odd, something so stable, someone so important is suddenly gone and life must continue.

       I remember when daddy died almost 25 years now, I watched as they closed the top of the casket, a movement very much like one of those slow-motion moments in a horror film - a sign that something ominous was behind the door or on the phone. One inch, then two. As the slick-haired, funeral type physically lowered the top, I felt my body following his direction.  I remember thinking how can life ever be the same. It did. The next day the sun rose and cars were actually seen on the highways, and life went on without daddy.

       The cycle of life continues, and it's okay. I will be okay. I have to keep telling myself that, that this is the way the good Lord intended it to be. What remains will be a testament to the life lived. But no matter the common sense thought, tears still fall and chairs remain empty.  

       That's when we gather up all the moments over the past fifty-or-so-years, hold them close and never forget. These will carry us through each day, beyond the shadows and away from the fears. Thank you mama, Veta and all the others that have left. I will be okay because of you.

A Barber Shop and an Air Compressor

Once every four or five weeks, my jersey-born husband drives his juiced up Trans Am into town and pulls over to the only barber shop within miles of our home. Right smack dab downtown, on the corner of School and Main. He walks in fuzzy and walks out coiffed to perfection. And that procedure includes an air compressor.

After hearty conversation of summer heat and the neighbors found on the police blotter, the cut is done and it all comes down to the 'blow'. She grabs the long blue hose and lets him have it, blowing microscopic pieces of hair from one end of the parlor to the other. People sit and read their papers, unshaken by the blast of air that inevitably whisks right by their ears. They pay it no never mind and wait for their turn in the chair.

The South is an amazing place. I forget that it runs through my veins, sometimes right up until the moment an air compressor becomes part of an unconventional salon experience. We're weird, I get it, but we're solid, too. We carry our traditions out the door and hope no one flinches when we shout our 'y'all' and 'ya hear' on a daily basis. Come to think of it, those words warm my heart, just like remembering the smell of country ham cooking and fluffy biscuits baking in my mama's kitchen.

I try to convince my husband that he is truly a Southerner now. After almost 20 years of being in the thick of our drawl, you can't help but become one of 'us'. Every now and then, he'll say my version of  'why' - always a multi-syllable word - and that confirms my suspicions. He'll try to deny it, but I know better.

Another reason I know for sure? I'll bet my life that his hair cuts will always include an air compressor.

"It's All About the Scooter" and other Observations

Helmet Hair and other Non-Important Things

Call me crazy, but I'm not sure which was more exciting - visiting Bermuda OR scooting down the winding roads with a helmet on my head and aqua shoes on my feet, going a brisk 35 kph. Sometimes, I even dared to move the needle to an unprecedented 45 kph, mainly on the straight-a-way near the airport. I was a speed demon which led to 'scooter wrist'. Two rules to observe always: avoid the curb and stay near the center (for some reason I'd rather hit a car than the curb) and remember, TURN LEFT.

Renting scooters is the only way to travel in Bermuda. It will set you back about two-hundred and change for a week's rental, a small amount considering distance and costly taxi fares. If you're really prepared, bring your VOX walky-talkies! We did, and it relieved Len of the need for screaming mid-road and upsetting the golfers.
I must warn you. If you're the least bit vain, reconsider scooters. In fact, reconsider Bermuda. Yes, Bermuda is pricey and jet-setters and celebrities call it home, but if your real reason for visiting is to experience the culture, history and feel like a local, leave the vanity back home in the States.

A Little Bit British

The touches of Britain are everywhere and rightly so. From driving on the 'wrong side of the road' to stepping into a red telephone box, the British influence is still strong. A mailbox sits on Queen Street in downtown Hamilton just before the entrance to the Perot Post Office.

Time for The Swizzle (Again)

The Swizzle (South Road) and The Swizzle Inn (near St. George) provide great atmosphere, excellent Rum Swizzles (by the pitcher) and killer nachos.

The Pickled Onion

Last year, we took the kids (all FIVE on OUR honeymoon) to The Pickled Onion. I fell in love with the atmosphere when my first observation were thoughts of famous thinkers, strategically placed on the rafters and walls.  I'm a quote girl, I must admit. Why reinvent the wheel when someone can find the words to declare the perfect sentiment? I won't even try.

Combine two of my favorite things - words and champagne - and I'm hooked. Thank you, Dom. Although I've never opted for the pricey bottle, I feel sure that no matter how you pour it, there's always stars involved.

Back to The Onion. Opt for a seat on the deck. Preferably during Harbor Night - each Wednesday when the streets close to the throngs of cruising visitors and crafty vendors. And don't forget dessert - cheesecake - and you'll be set for the evening.

Bermuda Shorts

I can't help but smile each time I see a man in coat and tie and Bermuda shorts  walking in the financial district or even riding home in the scooter around dusk. 

Honeymoon Cove

You'll never find this cove unless you're in the middle of Hamilton Harbor. Located on one of the many island dots in the harbor, this cove is just roomy enough for two. 

Harbour Night in Downtown Hamilton, Every Wednesday Evening

Italians and Bermuda Sun
Don't let the Italians fool you. Yes, they tan and and yes, they even burn. Spending five hours face down in pink sand will yield a burn that will eventually lead to peeling. Gross and inevitable.

A Diver's Paradise

I love how my husband loves to dive. Me, well, not so much. However, this time, I tagged along during what would be the worst weather of our trip. I rocked the boat with captain Guy from Fantasea. He got the ten divers ready, shoved them off the boat, and then lent a hand to scoop them up. A 9:30 a.m. two-tank dive leaving from the Dockyard: the first was to a sunken ferry, downed five years earlier with paint still visible and glass removed so divers can shimmy through the structure; secondly, to the Blue Hole, a circular hole in the reef a short distance from the wreck of the Sea Venture. Divers can swim through the tunnel with the parrot fish and groupers.

Landmarks of Bermuda

Verdmont Museum

This circa 1710 home is now part of the Bermuda National Trust. Currently, the home is only open Wednesday through Friday. Admission is $5. Located on Sayle Road, this Georgian-style treasure sits quietly and is untouched by modern conveniences of electricity and or other technological advances. A parking area for scooters is to the right of the front entrance. Most likely, the only sign of life will be the butterflies floating through the gardens. Check the schedule; don't be disappointed like us and find it closed.

Crystal Caves

This remarkable natural beauty is a must see for visitors. Formed over 30 million years ago, the crystal stalactites and stalagmites are located 120 feet underground. For an admission price of $20, you'll spend about 30 minutes on a tour to learn the basics. Quite beautiful but for the price, questionable. Fantasy Caves is a tougher excursion and an extra cost. Make sure you can handle the steps.

Even Crystal Caves is not exempt from a wishing well.

The tour guide said that he would meet us back in about 200 years and by then, these two will be touching.

The Unfinished Church
St. George

One of the most amazing sites was the Unfinished Church, located to the north of St. George on the way to Tobacco Bay (Head of Duke of Kent Street). Like Verdmont, it is a part of the Bermuda Historic Trust. Construction started in 1874, but was halted because of disagreements among the Anglican community and a debilitating storm caused costly damage. Unsure of the future of the structure, construction was halted immediately.

Visitors are welcome to roam the outside of the structure, but the inside is closed due to crumbling stones. If beginnings amaze, the Unfinished Church is a must. It must be on your Bermuda Bucket List.

Fort St. Catherine
Eastern Most Point of Bermuda

This is  the first site you will see if you travel to Bermuda via cruise ship. We sat at Blackbeard's Pub (good food and they will fill your water bottle at the bar) and watched a Carnival Ship cruise toward the Dockyard. The current 19th century structure replaced an original 1609 structure built by the first settlers to defend the island from the Spaniards. A nice secluded beach.A nice ride on the scooter.

St. David's Lighthouse
St. David, St. George's Parish

Part of St. George's parish, St. David's sits on the highest point of the island. You might remember it from the movie, The Deep. It's told that the locals lured ships onto the reefs, causing ships to wreck and then the thieves would rack up on loot. The lighthouse was built to stop this practice. Today, it signals the end to many yacht races whose final destination is Bermuda.

It's a long winding road past the airport to this somewhat residential area.

Royal Naval Dockyard

For the classic tourist, it's the Dockyard. The Commissioner's House, Frog and Onion Pub (very historic and authentic, brews its own beer, but too pricey and not worth it), The Clocktower (filled with shops and restaurants), and the docking site for cruise ships. There are 'cruisers' everywhere on the days the ships are in town, so if you're interested in taking your time and not having to wait, plan accordingly. Most dive trips leave from the dockyard. Segway tours are available, too.

Lean forward and you go. Lean backyard and you stop - that is, unless your feet are positioned too close to the end and in that case, you just head toward a wall. Lovely tour guide Jordan saved the day, grabbed my handles and steered me to safety...however, my heart (and hers) did skip a few beats. Cost is $75 per person for a Segway experience. Pricey, but fun, but where else are you going to get to ride those rolling beasts.

Perot Post Office
Queen Street, Downtown Hamilton

For those who still believe in the art of writing, this little piece of history will still place a Bermudian stamp on your letters and cards. The first stamp was issued in 1812 by postmaster William Bennet Perot. 

White Horse Tavern
King Square, St. George

Right on the square, White Horse is one of the oldest pubs on the island. Sit on the water. The signature club was perfect, and they have every beer on the planet.  You'll even have the pleasure of tossing a few fries to the birds. 

The Majesty of Bermuda

Along South Road, a traveler's first stop just beyond The Swizzle (a must stop for later for a pitcher of Rum Swizzles) is Astwood Cove with majestic rocks perched above a rugged shoreline. This photographer's dream is perfect for a first stop on the island. A great preview to sites that will literally take your breath away.

Further down South Road is Horseshoe Bay, one of the most notable places on the island.  The natural sculptures frame the playground for the locals and visitors. Just before sunset, the orange glow nestles among the rocks making the sight even more unbelievable and inviting.

Our view of Hamilton Harbor from the top of Scarrington Hill located down Middle Road. The sailboats dot the waters and it's hard to believe that this is as fast life gets in the harbor!

 Astwood Cove and Park

 The rocks make the shoreline hard to access, but don't dismiss this cove and the power of nature.

Horses along Warwick Long Bay. Our only companions during our afternoon at Warwick. Although most sun worshipers and tourists flock to Horseshoe Bay for the afternoon, this setting is not to be missed. Start at Warwick, stroll the beach to Jobson Cove and enjoy the solitude.

Warwick Cove. There are many nooks to hideaway along this stretch of beach and just enough beach for the walkers. I'm not sure which is more delightful and fascinating - the view (wow!) or the pink sand between my toes. Coral, chipped away by the parrot fish, lands on the beach, making this pink wonderland a dream to a girl from the South.

 Horseshoe Bay

There's always a crowd. Our first evening on the island we visited Horseshoe and a bunch of high school kids were in a cove, burning their past year's school work. A celebration that school was almost done and summer was around the corner.

Sailing into the Sunset. Our last evening on the island, we sailed from Hamilton Harbour towards the Sound. The island is beautiful, but I must say, looking at everything from the sea's point of view, outstanding. Very different and something each tourist must do. On this evening, the sunset was rather remarkable, and it was proven when the boat's captain (an island native) took out his camera and started snapping shots. Book through Fantasea, the Catamaran Evening Sunset Sail. I will do this on every visit.