The Boat Ride

The Boat Ride

            The sign on the dock said $10 for ½ day--$15/whole day.  But you don’t want to be out there all day.  Out there was where we were going—to little more than a mud flat off Edisto Island, SC.  That’s where the terrific shelling was.  Mostly undisturbed by humans, each tide change brought in shell, large and small, pink and brown, rough and smooth, empty or still occupied.  The outgoing tide left hundreds or maybe thousands of them behind, so many that it was nearly impossible to choose which one or one to keep.  Always thinking the next one would be even more beautiful, more perfect, more unique. 

The tiny island had no shade, no water, no food, no anything so desperately needed by humans except for the beauty of the shells.  For visitors, getting there involved renting a boat and guide—the very one advertised at $10 for ½ day.  It turned out that the guide would take you out and then come back for you, meaning that you would be literally stranded out there.  At the mercy of this low-country guide and his shallow-draft boat, not really much more than a rowboat—the kind they call “flatties.”

We paid the $10.  Ten dollars per person it turned out when we got right down to it.  Maybe we looked like suckers, rich suckers, or maybe that really was the price.  We got our gear—sunscreen, hats, long-sleeved shirts and pants to put on over our bathing suits, sandwiches and water, lots of water and a bunch of ziplock bags and a couple of  big black garbage bags.

By the time we’d all loaded onto the little boat, Larry and I and our good friend David plus our cooler and the guide, the boat was riding very low in the water.  No sign of life jackets, unless you counted the boat cushions, and there were just two of them.  The guide pointed out to the northeast where, if your imagination was very good you could almost see the small island to which we were headed.  The water was calm and quiet and shallow near the dock.  You could see the bottom clearly and it seemed almost as if you could wade to the island, if you didn’t mind taking a long time.

We set off for Shell Point as we’d begun calling it, all standing as there wasn’t room for all to sit, and everyone being polite and leaving the seats for the others, so consequently we all stood.   The trip was short, though slow, and smooth and relatively uneventful except for when David said he had never learned to swim and sure hoped the guide came back for us.

Sleeping Over

Sleeping Over

I think I’m becoming my grandmother, which is even worse than turning into my mother.  My grandmother faithfully watched her soap operas for years, but quit in the 70’s—when she was in her 90’s—because, according to her, they had gotten so “ugly”, meaning sex-filled. I can’t even imagine what she’d think of today’s soaps, which I hear have evolved steadily downhill (or uphill, depending on your point of view.)

But anyhow, I used to think my grandmother and, of course, my mother were such big prudes.  They didn’t want any reference to reality to intrude into their movies and TV shows.  But, last night I watched The Batchelor on TV, partly because my son claims I have totally missed out on pop culture  of the last 25 years as I never go to movies and I seldom watch network TV and have never seen a “reality” show.  I picked The Batchelor because Susan Reinhardt writes about it all the time in her column in the Asheville paper and because my TV was already set to ABC from my evening date with Peter Jennings. (See, I do know a little something about TV programming.)

Anyhow I watched the whole hour, and was totally mesmerized, partly by the incredible number of times the word “amazing” was used by the Batchelor or one of his three girlettes.  But what shook me were the three sleep-overs—tastefully depicted but also clearly regarded as a requirement for snagging the Batchelor. 

Somewhere along the way I have become a prude.  Not that I’ve never had a sleep-over, or that my children haven’t had sleep-overs.  But three in one week with three different women and on national TV?  And no one thinks that’s even “risque?” And the funny thing was, all three women (girls?) hated the contestant who claimed to have slept with 35 guys.  I wonder if each of these three will add this sleepover to their own cumulative lists.  They’ll have to, the whole world knows.

Piecrusts

Piecrusts
 
 
 
My piecrust, nowadays, would be made by Mrs. Smith or Pillsbury.  But once upon a time, and I do mean once, I did make a piecrust.  A piecrust for an apple pie, which if I do say so myself, turned out to be delicious.  I made it on a Saturday, in the winter, while living in a tiny, very cozy trailer on the grounds of the Florida State University Married Student Housing Trailer Park.  Today it’s probably called Merry Acres or Hilltop Haven or anything other than the FSU Trailer Park.  But I digress.
 
I was a newlywed and I was very serious about what “the wife” (that’s what Dennis called me to our neighbors)—about what “the wife” should bring to the marriage.  Dennis had already proven to be very handy with saws and measuring tapes, and hammers and ladders from the top of which he clearly expected me to be “the gofer.”  “Hey, Babe, can you hand me that screwdriver?  Hey, Babe, could you go for a cold drink?”  Half the neighborhood called me Babe, thinking it was my nickname. 
 
But back to the piecrust.  I decided that now would be a good time to branch out from spaghetti and meat loaf and baked chicken and mashed potatoes and pound cake, pretty much my repertoire when we married.  I got out my nearly new Betty Crocker cookbook I’d gotten for a wedding present from some of my college roommates.  It was the early ‘60’s.  In five years, no female college student would give another female college graduate a cookbook for a present, not under any circumstances.  They’d be burning cookbooks, along with their bras.
 
Anyhow, I had a cookbook—one cookbook—and it had 6 pages on how to make a piecrust.  I read them all carefully before beginning.  I’ll admit I was a little concerned that I didn’t own a special utensil—I forget what it’s called—for folding the flour into the lard.  Lord, now there’s a product I don’t use a lot of anymore. But I’ve always forged ahead, so without the special utensil, I made do with something.  After what seemed like, and probably was, hours later, out of the oven came the most beautiful, delicately browned, bubbling apple pie you’ve ever seen.  I set it to cool on the corner of our tiny kitchen table.
 
When Dennis came home from his job caring for laboratory animals at the end of the day, he stepped inside the door, took a deep breath, and said, “Wow, who brought us a pie?”

SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE COMMUNITY CENTER

SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE COMMUNITY CENTER
By Gwendie Roberts Camp
 
Saturday night dance at the Community Center.  At least half of Fort Pierce Junior High School would be there, plus a few kids from White City and St. Lucie.  The ritual was boys on one side, girls on the other.  The jukebox, controlled by Mr. Lewis, the 8th grade science teacher, played alternately “slow” and “fast” songs---“This Old House”, “Davy Crockett” (which we sang along to), “Blue Suede Shoes”, “Heartbreak Hotel.”  Those kids who were “going steady” were the only ones who danced to the slow numbers but most everyone was on the floor for the fast numbers—girls dancing with girls, boys dancing by themselves along the sidelines. 
 
Once in a rare while one of the unattached boys would ask an unattached girl to slow dance.  On a good night, I might get asked once.  On a very good night.  In fact, it was pretty painful being at these dances, wondering if anyone was ever going to ask you to dance, afraid that geeky George would be the one to get up the nerve to invite you onto the floor.  The only thing worse than being at one of these Saturday night dances was NOT being at the Saturday night dance.
 
As I recall, there wasn’t much going on in the way of either sex or romance.  We were a previous generation, unexposed to much public sex or romance, except for the handholding and neck nuzzling that took place in the high school corridors and which we had heard about.
 
It’s hard to remember or to even imagine what the thoughts were that ranged through our early pubescent minds.  I recall worrying a lot, but just what exactly I worried about has mostly vanished, except I do remember that I’d worry whether Daddy would remember to pick me up at 11:00.  Once when my aunt Libby was supposed to pick up my cousin and me, she went to sleep and didn’t come.  I didn’t want a repeat of that.  It was very uncool to be left standing on the sidewalk when everyone else had been picked up.  No self-respecting junior high kid wants to be noticed in any way whatsoever.

Eating Out

Eating Out
 
            Eating out of the original carton or container is about as far removed from my mother’s definition of and expectations for eating as you can get.  The idea that a family might eat pizza right out of the box it was delivered in, or that you could eat left-over Chinese take-out as a snack right out of the carton was incomprehensible to her.  Seeing someone drink milk directly from the carton would have put her in a tailspin.
 
            Despite her humble, rural upbringing, she knew that genteel folks—in fact, all folks—eat their food from a plate, with portions served from a larger plate or bowl that held enough for the entire family.   She had very strict views about this.  Children did not eat raisins from a box.  The box was what the raisins came in from the store.  Little children ate raisins that had been moved from the box to a tin measuring cup with a handle for little fingers to hold tight.  Teenagers were served sodas in tall glasses, the drink poured from the bottle, even if the teenager drank all that was in the bottle.  Fathers poured cold water from the refrigerator jug into a glass, and refilled the glass if necessary.  No one would eat cookies straight from a bag.  They must be arranged on a plate, and the plate offered to the hungry cookie lover.
 
            How difficult it would be for her today, watching French fries being served in waxed paper, and hamburgers in Styrofoam boxes.  She’d probably have a picnic box in the car, with colored paper plates and napkins for the hamburger and small side bowls for the French fries.
 
            It does seem more civilized doing it her way.

THE TAXI RIDE

THE TAXI RIDE

I watched through the pouring rain as the line at the taxi stand got shorter and shorter. There had been a string of taxis waiting for fares when I first left the terminal, but now there was only the one that had just arrived as the line whittled down to me and the couple in front of me. The cabbie jumped out with a big black golf umbrella and said “Where to?” to the couple.
“Dupont Circle. Dupont Plaza Hotel.”
“That’s where I’m going, too,” I said quickly.
The cab driver looked at the couple with a questioning glance, and the man said, “Want to share a cab?”
“Thanks so much” I said, sliding into the front passenger seat while the two of them got into the back.
I’d been calling them a couple to myself, but now as I got a better look at their reflections in the vanity mirror on the sun visor in front of me, I noticed that they weren’t at all the same in age. He looked to be in his late 60’s—hair mostly gray, cut conservatively, Varilux bifocal glasses, neatly trimmed mustache, a few deep wrinkles around the mouth. She looked young enough to be his daughter—perhaps 30, maybe 40. A good haircut and coloring job, like a TV anchorwoman might have. Honey blond streaks in brownish, medium length hair. Good tan, good jewelry, circumspect blouse and jacket. His daughter? His colleague? His wife? His lover?
For once, the cabbie didn’t have the car radio blaring to a DC shock talk jockey, or a Top 40 country music station, or a hip-hop DJ, or a football game with crowds and commentators screaming. And the driver wasn’t talking either, actually hardly moving except to look back over his shoulder before changing lanes. The ride was strangely quiet. Often when I’m in DC I strike up a conversation with the driver, trying to hear the inevitable accent and trying to guess what country the driver immigrated from. I don’t think I’ve ever had a native born American cab driver, certainly not in DC.
Anyhow, in the absence of noise or conversation, I was paying attention to the sights of Washington as we made our way through town to Dupont Circle. The tidal basin, the Lincoln memorial, Georgetown University.
Suddenly the woman spoke, but not in English. The cab driver replied, also not in English. Did they know each other? Had she correctly guessed at his nationality? Was she also from there? I looked at her again in the mirror. Clearly Caucasian, could certainly pass as an American, or maybe European. The driver, dark skin, dark hair. Maybe Northern Africa? Or Middle Eastern?
The woman laughed at what the cab driver said. Feeling a little left out, but also a little silly, because this was just a cab ride, for God’s sake, I said, “What language are you speaking, if I may ask?”
They stopped laughing abruptly and I could feel the two in the back really noticing me for the first time, and sensed that the cabbie’s eyes were on me.
“It’s Swahili,” the woman said in as American accent as you’ll ever hear. But she didn’t continue.
“Oh, REALLY?” I said. “Isn’t that African?”
“Yes, it is,” she said.
“I’m confused,” I said. “None of you looks African.”
“I’m American,” she said, “but I learned Swahili during the two years I was in the Peace Corps in eastern Africa.”
“How interesting,” I said, wondering whether to just barrel ahead asking the questions flooding my mind or to try to gracefully get out of this intrusion I’d made. Ignoring the conventions of courtesy and restraint, I lied and said,” I hope you don’t think I’m too intrusive, but I’m a reporter for the Washington Post and I’m afraid I have a bad habit of asking questions of people I find interesting.”
“Is that so?” she said. The man looked amused. “You don’t by chance know my good friend Carl Bernstein at the Post, do you?”
Damn! Why did I make up that stupid story? Now how was I going to get out of this?
“Not really,” I said. “He’s much higher on the ladder than I am. But I have great admiration for his work, especially the Watergate coverage. I’ve always been curious about his secret source, the one he called Deep Throat. How do you happen to know Bernstein?”
“Well,” she said. “It’s really my father….” And she looked over at the man . “….who knows him. They worked on a project together years ago.”
Turning to the cabbie, I said, “So are you originally from east Africa?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “My parents took me from western India to Uganda when I was a small boy. When I was a teenager, when Nixon was President, I came to this country, this wonderful city, and here I became a cab driver and then a cab owner, and have put all my four children through college.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, “but (speaking to the woman) how did you know to speak to the driver in Swahili?”
“I’ve ridden in his cab before, many times, beginning when I was a small child and he had just arrived here.”
“This is getting more and more interesting,” I said. “Why did you ride in his cab?”
“My father trusted him. He would always call for this cab driver when he was going to meet Bernstein. Later on, after I did my Peace Corps stint, I could practice my Swahili with him, so I’d call him when I needed a cab.”
“So you must have called him specially to pick you up at the airport?”
“Yes, we did, but it’s OK. We don’t mind sharing.”
I sat back and watched as the cab navigated the traffic circle at Dupont Circle and pulled up to the entrance of the Dupont Plaza. The two of them paid the driver, the woman said a few words in Swahili and the man in English, and they walked inside.
I followed as soon as I had also paid the driver and retrieved my luggage. As I came into the small, almost shabby lobby of the less-than-elegant hotel, I spied the couple again, standing and chatting with another man, about the same age as “my” gentleman. Just as the elevator doors opened to take me up to my room, I turned to look at them again. This time their companion was looking straight at me.
It was Carl Bernstein.
As the doors closed behind me, my mind was furiously putting the pieces together. Bernstein, Nixon, frequent meetings at places arrived at by cab, a trusted cab driver, a small girl as “cover.”

Had I just ridden from Reagan International Airport to Dupont Plaza Hotel with DEEP THROAT?