Down on Tybee Island, there is a farmer’s market by a lighthouse that takes place on Monday afternoons. At that farmer’s market, there is a booth of paintings of all sizes and shapes in mismatched frames. Each one is backed with a piece of cardboard, taped to the frame. Behind the glass, there are small fragments of shells, sand, and whatever else was captured there. Each painting is a creation of a 94-year-old woman named Alice. And Alice? She’s having so much fun.
Alice is short and round and wrinkled and tan. She has white hair and a joyful grin. She’s smart and sharp - she remembers details and people and places - oh! and she’s got her doctorate, too - and you don’t have to ask many questions before she starts offering up information:
All of the paintings are $10. The proceeds go to a charity benefitting Parkinson’s patients, in memory of her husband, who died nearly 40 years ago. This is her son - he’s in movies now. And Charlie, over there with the chicken eggs? They’re friends, too. That painting, the one you’re holding, is where they shot a Miley Cyrus film a few years back. Here’s one of some people that were walking on the beach…and on and on and on.
If you, like me, look for meaning in everything, then the obvious answer to, “Will you buy a painting from this old woman today?” is always Yes. These opportunities are presented for a reason. So, as a strategic overthinker, I walked back and forth from table to table, trying to decide which painting would serve as a memory of the week I was only just beginning. On Tybee, it’s the trees and the grasses that speak to me the most. But the locals are also something to behold. Alice told us her address and said we could stop by anytime - she was usually on the porch. She kept telling us her age, reminiscing on how she wasn’t sure why she was still here, but she just kept on going. Apparently, her story wasn’t over yet, so she was gonna keep on living, keep on painting, and keep on being open to whatever came her way.
I certainly hope I can say the same at 94.
The funny thing about a farmer’s market in a tourist destination is that there aren’t exactly a whole lot of farmers. There are, however, a lot of creators. Artists. From the very young (like the 8-yr-old girl who wrote her own book about saving the turtles) to the very old. Tybee seems to bring that out in people. People who are just really happy to be doing what they love in a place they seem to love.
In a total coincidence, we actually spent our week-long vacation in the home of another artist. Built in 1942, “Shirley,” as we called the house, later became the residence of Ann Osteen, a painter who (of course) Alice knew. If you can imagine the perfect, old, wooden, forgotten beach house hidden behind the dunes, this was it. Every room possessed character, hidden details, perfect touches that took you out of kitschy beach condo and into a place that felt like home.
It did feel like home, of course, because my husband and I were there with my parents, as well as my aunt and uncle. Throughout the week, we obsessively built a puzzle to Yacht Rock tunes, tucked into our own corners to chat or read, made PB and J sandwiches, drank cocktails, and combed the beach looking for seashells, shark teeth, tiny crabs, and long-legged birds. At dinner one night, I got to feed a baby alligator from a fishing pole, which I still can’t stop talking about. Sometimes, we’d wake up early to see the sun rise. And every night, the six of us would convene for movies and popcorn, with titles ranging from Dirty Grandpa to Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Flipper and Meatballs. (When I say ranging, I truly mean it.)
For our anniversary, my husband and I spent a date night roaming around Savannah, revisiting our favorite haunts. We listened to the same pianist play some of the same tunes in the same dark bar we love. We even went on Captain Derek’s Dolphin Cruise, which I thought would be the most corny, disappointing thing, and ended up being one of the most magical, wonderful moments of the entire week, led by none other than a man who called himself Gator. If given the opportunity, I would do it all again.
But looking back at pictures from that trip now, I just want to cry. Because all I want to do is go back, to that perfect little unassuming island, where there was nothing to worry about, nowhere to be, no one to impress, nothing to do except avoid getting caught by the cops because one of you (i.e. me) is riding in the trunk of the CRV while it cruises down the boardwalk and through the old neighborhoods trying to decide where you’re all going to finally stop for dinner.
While everything in my real life felt like utter chaos, Tybee Island was my refuge. It was a safe place, cushioned by the presence of family, friends, history, art, and the salty smell of ocean air that promises a sort of freedom.
Alas, time travel is decidedly not yet a realistic antidote to this sort of feeling, so let’s go back to Alice, instead.
When I think about her, which I can’t stop doing, I think about someone who is unabashedly free in their ability to be themselves. Some of that, I’m sure, comes with age. But even reaching that age, if I’m being honest, says something about who a person is and how they live. I think those who live the longest only do so because they enjoy it and keep on believing that they’re here for a reason. And there are so many days when I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing enough, if I’m “making the most of it,” if I’m being productive, if I’m on the right path or the wrong one or simply sitting still. The more I obsess about it, the more in my head I get, and the more out of myself I fall, which seems to defeat the enjoyment of anything, doesn’t it? To be so worried about living well that you forget to live at all? To keep looking back so far that you can no longer see forward?
This has been a lifelong struggle of mine, but it’s something I’m trying to come to terms with. (The first step is admitting you’ve got a problem, right?) So in contrast to the societal ideals that tell us that if you’re not doing something productive, you’re worthless, I think I’m beginning to believe that some of the most unproductive moments are the ones in which we feel the most worth - in which we are most in touch with our authentic selves. (there will be more on this later)
Of course, Alice is being incredibly productive with her paintings, with her charity, with her weekly setup at the farmers market. But she’s not hung up on chasing the Big Time - she’s just being herself. She’s putting one foot in front of the other, every single day. And she’s finding something useful to do with the thing that brings her joy.
When you learn to live like that, I think you create your own little island - a place you can escape to anytime, a place in which you can just be yourself, a place in which you glow and hopefully help others glow, too. And while I thought that the writers’ colony was the only place I could ever do this, reassessing that truth is how I keep moving forward. I don’t exactly have all of the answers to how we get there right now, but I can’t let go of believing that Alice just might.
Your blog takes me back to those lovely days in Tybee. It was a magical week. ❤️