crabs. And the hot-pink
screen door with
aluminum heron
silhouette-lugged all
W e spent the next nine months bringing the house back to life,
w ith my husband’s builder brother, Bob, acting as general contractor.
Our vision was the pastel-color Florida beach cottages of the
1920
s,
’
30
s, and ’
40
s. That Christmas, I requested palm trees for the front
yard. I got them, plus the news that Katie and Mark would make us
grandparents by July! Over the winter, between working on my
novel-in-progress,
The F ix e r Upper,
I hunted down period-appropri-
ate fixtures. A claw-foot bathtub would be ideal for grandchildren
and rubber duckies. The vintage cast-iron kitchen sink could hold a
bushel of boiled blue
W H A T T O M A N D I REALLY CRAVED
W A S A T IM E A N D A PLACE T O SLO W
D O W N A N D D E LIG H T IN TH E LITTLE
T H IN G S . A FTER O N LY T H IR T Y YEARS
O F W A IT IN G , W E FINALLY HAVE IT.
the w ay from the Brimfield antiques market in Massachusetts—
was the perfect welcom ing touch.
To furnish the house I turned to our basement, where I’d been
hoarding decor for “our future beach house” for years. Vintage
rattan, antique wicker, retro ’
50
s lamps, bark-cloth drapes, chenille
bedspreads—all of it scooped up from estate sales, eBay, Craigslist,
and junk shops—w ere trucked down to Tybee.
Even before the house was officially finished, the family started to
congregate. St. Patrick’s Day brought a dozen of Andy’s college-age
friends for a cornhole (aka beanbag toss) tournament in the front
yard. Come Easter morning, w e walked to Mass at the tiny Catholic
church built by local fishermen and boat-builders, then invited island
friends to join us for lunch on the porch and Tom’s special roast lamb.
By August, w hen Tom’s birthday rolled around, w e gathered aunts
and uncles, nieces and nephews and grand-nephews—not to mention
our newborn granddaughter, M olly—for a weekend retreat.
Now that w e’ve been here two years, w e’ve slipped easily into the
rhythm of Tybee life. W hen the fish are biting, w e throw impromptu
fish-fries. W e sip early morning coffee in the yard, greeting neighbors
walking their dogs on our quiet street. W e pedal over to the market
on the “beer bike” (so named because it has saddle bags big enough to
hold several sacks of groceries and a case of Bud Light). Midmorning,
w e stroll three blocks to the beach, pulling a wagon loaded with
coolers and chairs. We take naps in early afternoon, the porch glider’s
rhythmic squeak providing the perfect lullaby for sleepy babies and
drowsy grown-ups. Nightlife might mean shagging to beach tunes at
Doc’s Bar, or more usually, dinner starring seasonal seafood and
Left, top to bottom:
Mary Kay, Corry, and Blaine sample the icing on Tom’s
birthday cake. Tom and Andy troll coastal waters in search of the day’s catch.
Mary Kay had an old porch glider painted margarita green for the back screen
porch. Corry bikes the beach.
4 2
JUNE 2010
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