People keep telling me how much I’m going to love the movie, Nights in Rodanthe. How can anyone who’s been around me for more than five minutes think I would love a gush flick starring Richard Gere as a screwed up rich dude? “Go watch the trailer,” they say. “You’ll really be able to relate to it.“
Yeah, yeah. People told me the same thing about Sweet Home Alabama, so I was instantly suspicious. But I googled the movie trailer and watched part of it. Here’s a five point comparison of how much I have in common with Nights in Rodanthe:
1. I’m from North Carolina. The film was shot in North Carolina. Okay, I’ll give you that one.
2. I have been to Hatteras Island and the surrounding area many times with friends and some tents. Rodanthe is a beautiful place, rich in history. The surf is awsome. Amazing lighthouse. The locals are friendly, good people. But wait…this movie’s not about Rodanthe, is it? Too bad. That would be a cool movie.
3. The trailer preview began with a gigantic mansion built on sand. Anybody who really knows me is hee hawing on the floor right now. The places where I’ve cleaned toilets aren’t even half that fancy. I think it’s supposed to be an “inn.” What a quaint little getaway. If the hurricane blows it away, I’m sure they’ll be first in line for FEMA money. Nope. Can’t relate to that, either. We did get some free shingles one time after a hurricane. Sometimes they just blow into your yard.
4. There’s a doctor. Oh yeah, I can REALLY relate to his world. Next.
5. Mr. Doctor meets a lady and there’s some kind of relationship boo hoo stuff going on. Is it just me? Or does anybody else smell vanilla yogurt? Or lettuce? I like stories with gravy, extra thick. Stories that leave a grease stain on the plate.
I couldn’t even watch the whole preview, so I know I’m being mean. Sorry.
Maybe I should have stuck around to see if they have a maid with an attitude who serves the doctor blue crabs. Now there’s somebody I can relate to.
Jeeves, hand me my lyre. I feel a verse coming on.
We Leave The Beaches For Tourists
by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
Let them have the new white path.
We’ll keep our old black road.
We’ll keep the marshes, the bays,
the clam loved mud, the scaly
smell of fish house sweat.
We’ll keep the hard blue hands
of net menders, carvers, pickers,
oystermen, crab pot makers.
We’ll keep little wooden boats
churning foam, the musk of nets
hanging with vines in front yards.
We’ll keep the grit in our teeth,
the red bent backs of generations.
We leave the beaches for them,
the growing rows of condos,
swift internet access, dry stack
marinas, three story malls.
We’ll keep the slow turn of fans
in the heat, mosquitos, the creak
of sticky wooden floors, stepping
in the sweet shit of wild horses,
pickled smells of general stores,
old fishermen who sit on benches
and tell outrageous stories.
Let them have country clubs,
golf courses, famous actors,
casinos, beachside showers.
We’ll keep green garden hoses
and a beacon that opens and closes
its bright midnight eye.
We’ll keep sharp September stars
and the soft secrets of girls
growing up on salt water.
Let them have all that.
We’ll keep all this.
But all that keeps
moving closer to
our old black road.
it all erodes.