The Breeze Magazine of the Lowcountry, MARCH 2019

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We Work Before We Play By Gene Cashman “You have got to learn to respect things” he bellowed. “You all won’t understand what I am saying until you own something of your own.” He stood hands on his hips and surveyed the yard with a displeased look. “The barnacles on the bottom of the boat won’t scrape themselves, the teak doesn’t stain itself. You all will learn to appreciate all this by taking care of it.” He tossed a putty knife and towel in my direction. He was shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the extent of the mess before him. “Once all of this yard is picked up and I mean every life jacket, boat paddle and crab pot, and once you’ve asked your granddaddy if there is anything he needs, once you have checked in with your grandmother about tonight’s meal”—he paused and turned to look me and my cousin in the eyes. My cousin, as he was apt to do, giggled and elbowed me in the side. This drew the ire of our teacher. He pointed at us both very sternly.—“Once you have worked, then and only then will we talk about the river.” We both groaned. He laughed the sort of laugh judges do when sentencing unrepentant criminals. “Boats need gas, gas costs money, fun costs money, to have fun, to earn fun, you work.” He exhaled and softened only slightly. “I am not here to lecture you; I am here to teach you boys that we work before we play.” Growing up, over the work bench that ran the whole length of the back wall of the garage was a sign. To be clear it was less a sign and more a warning. It was hand written in green marker, on a white paper plate no less. It began in bold uppercase letters “IF YOU TAKE IT OUT, PUT IT BACK.” This was a simple enough message relating to reasonable expectations for the garage and the tools therein. It continued “IF YOU DON’T YOUR A** IS GRASS AND I AM THE MOWER- MGMT.” The author of the message, the referenced mower of grass and rear-ends as well as the management was one in the same, namely my father. The referenced rearends were most definitely me and my cousin Shelby on most days, probably my mother and sisters on occasion, and potentially my ever tinkering grandfather even though the space was actually his, but in all cases the management meant business regardless of who-done-it. The sign was a physical representation and reminder of two things. First, my dad’s motto to us kids growing up of “we work before we play.” It was and still is a good motto from the parental perspective in that it can instill a good work ethic in children. Although I clearly recall for me as an adolescent boy and teenager it was straight buzz kill. Second and perhaps more subtlety was the fact it underscored 18
my father’s sense of duty to family, handed down to him by his grandparents and parents. He saw his maternal grandfather take care of his own adult daughters after war left them widows. He saw his father and mother take care of family in much the same way. He felt a deep sense of duty to taking care and being a good steward of his parent’s property. To him it was not only the right thing to do, but doing so alleviated any worry it might otherwise cause my grandfather, a noted worrier. Bluffton to dad, based on my waist high observations as a boy, was a place where he looked to fulfill a component of duty to his parents and to tend his familial land. He often spent the bulk of his time there working to maintain and restore as much as he spent time creating in the moment memories for his own family. This penchant for work is a memory all its own. He would say it was cathartic compared to working in an office. Perhaps it sometimes was, but I also often observed this work create tension in my dad that only a sense of duty to provide or fulfill an expectation can bring. Most typically upon arrival to my grandparent’s cottage in Bluffton my dad would have already spoken to grandad in advance by phone. The verbal list of projects and work that needed to be accomplished would be put onto paper over the course of our arrival dinner. Examples could range from simple yard work such as cutting grass, pulling weeds and clearing palmetto fronds to hauling trailer loads of yard waste to the dump. It always included cleaning out the shed and garage. I could never quite understand what would happen between visits that would create such havoc, but each returning trip the tool shed and garage would be in utter disarray. It was mind numbing work to a kid, untangling ancient looking rakes, hoes and shovels as well as miles of hoses and boat lines. These menial tasks seemed to last for days and since they were always done within eyeshot of the glorious river, it was tortuous work. A sign of hope was when my dad would finally turn his attention from the yard and house to the boats. Logically, I suppose it felt like the end was near because boats equated to water. Although this was often false logic because invariably this part of our work experience always took the longest and was the most extensive and tedious. The salt water and general environment of the low country meant that each season brought new issues with the boats. It was a ritual. The elation I saw in my father upon arrival to Bluffton would quickly turn to disappointment, frustration and eventually outright anger depending on the degree to which the issue grew. He called these moments getting “Bluffton-ized.” To him being “Blufftonized” was akin to being victimized in any number of ways by the natural environment or the lack of a speedy solution to a problem; it always meant wasted time and money. Whether it was gummed up carburetors, rusted over spark plugs or a rotted out transom it was as if each summer he hoped for a different outcome. I never recall that being the case. Each year his frustration rekindled anew. All of these minor issues meant an eventual big ticket trip to one or more of the marine supply businesses or marine mechanics that existed in the area at the time. These experiences were an interesting peak into owning a boat. My dad usually muttered under his breath the entire drive to the boat yard. Rumor and innuendo flew before we ever set foot on any lot. For instance, I might learn that one particular vendor watered down their gas, or another would gouge you because you weren’t local. At any rate there was a serious distrust of getting quality work done. Upon arrival serious discussions with grease stained mechanics ensued, often for long periods of time. Part of it was talking shop and picking up tips, most of it was relaying bad news. The terse words that my father would utter depended on the outcome of these discussions. As a boy these adventures were loathsome, mainly because for me it meant a lot of idle time. At least at home the hours of what I deemed “non-productive time” spent hammering, spraying and cajoling frozen 19
Page 1 and 2: Happy Valentines Day Page 8: Gullah
Page 3 and 4: 3
Page 5 and 6: CONTENTS MARCH 2019, VOLUME 17, NO.
Page 7 and 8: Recliners • Sofas • Sleepers
Page 9 and 10: Gullah Gamaliel by John Samuel Grav
Page 11 and 12: Upon arriving at Maum Celie’s sma
Page 13 and 14: 13
Page 15 and 16: By: Amber Hester Kuehn, Marine Biol
Page 17: Mike O’Regan has been named Direc
Page 21 and 22: MARCH TIDES Tide chart is calculate
Page 23 and 24: OLD TOWN You don’t want to miss h
Page 25 and 26: LIFESTYLES By: Samantha Williams Re
Page 27 and 28: cool at 50 to go back to school at
Page 29 and 30: 843.815.3315 | INFO@COCOONBLUFFTON.
Page 31 and 32: CHANGE Send your photos to Your Cor
Page 33 and 34: ON SPORTS-BASKETBALL Forty-eight mi
Page 35 and 36: ,..._, ,..._, ,..._, ,..._, ,..._,
Page 37 and 38: United States, holds its 23rd compe
Page 39 and 40: So you wanna open a yoga studio her
Page 41 and 42: EDITORS NOTE: I have always admired
Page 43 and 44: Hemlock Still “I’m very respect
Page 45 and 46: pieces to allow them to air dry, or
Page 47 and 48: It was certainly an honor to have p
Page 49 and 50: Iconic Lowcountry Homes ...since 19
Page 51 and 52: Johnny Ussery MOBILE: 843.384.8105

The Breeze Magazine of the Lowcountry, MARCH 2019

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