Washaway Beach is in close proximity to the Shoalwater Indian Reservation. This means that the Fourth of July must be avoided, as every red-blooded eight-year-old and drunken yahoo has easy access to professional grade explosives. While I have never been in actual wartime, there is something to be said for the effectiveness of the terrorism of sound. (See also: The Blue Angels). So, instead, here is a retrospective of one of my fallen favorites.
For a while it had a hand-carved sign with a blue heron on it that said “Driftwood Lane” but it disappeared in a winter storm. The house remained, picturesquely on the edge, hopeful in the eye of the hurricane, for almost two years.
It had one of the old-school “Owner Will Maintain” signs, which are from an era when, I’m told, your lawn would be mowed for you and you’d get charged for it, unless you proclaimed your own landscape maintenance independence.
I loved this house so much that when I would pull into town I would go there first, to check, before even checking on my own place. Its perseverance, lit up on a blue night, the coziness and hopefulness it imparted, despite the closeness and certainty of the ocean, would reassure me.
I was sad when they took down the big tree in what was left of their front yard, for erosion control.
Driftwood Lane’s little shed had a sign that read, “The Born Loser.”
I never saw it fall. This is how I prefer to remember it, flying, defiant, enchanted.
Photography, while a tool of reality, is also a fine instrument of superstition. So, while I believe in some of my pictures, I have to selectively ignore others, in order keep on visiting places that aren’t there.