To be quite honest I have not thought much about our little bridge since its demise. I tend to do that–erase things that  weigh on my heart, I sort of shut down until I can cope with it. It’s been a year, or nearly one, since they hauled our history away and I guess that’s the way I see the departure of the swing bridge–our history-what makes us who we are (or were), being dismissed, forgotten–as if it was never really that important. That bridge MADE US SLOW DOWN.  It made us take time whether we liked it or not. Now it is more, more, faster, faster, bigger, better. To me those things are pretentious, and I only see how these things diminish us as human beings. I like to think that patience is still a virtue, that kindness is love, that honesty is the best policy, that we are our brothers keeper, and that lying is always wrong. But morality has become very muddy here on our island, especially with the local political climate. Shame, shame. Alas, I still love this little strip of sand.  Someone asked me the other day if I ever thought of leaving–“Oh yes,” I replied. “I think about it all the time.” And I was gone for around 20 years once, but I still think there are grains of sand on the beach that I walked on as a kid, teenager and adult. The history is in my heart and this is my home.

QUOTE;  “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.” Henry David Thoreau

I finally realized what it is about Surf City and Topsail Beach that makes us so unique, so really cool–and that is that this little sand bar (everyone calls it an island) offers a plethora of eccentric  personalities. I mean, why in the world does anybody want to be like someone else? It’s the individual soul that soars, and boy does Topsail Island have its fair share of those. The most interesting of these souls is the free lancer, not the guy who came here to get rich, (and suck the life and beauty our of our little stretch of sand) but the person who loves the lifestyle-who has shifted down a couple of gears and doesn’t give a damn–except about true friendship and patience. It all kind of reminds me of Tortilla Flats, a novel by John Steinbeck–he’s the ordinary man’s penman–no frills, no veneer.

The above picture was taken in the early sixties or late 50s at the VFW. Any old fogies out there recognize anyone? Talk about eccentricity–whoa!