The Quiet of the Island Night and Morning

    

     There's something magical about the night when you are on an Island.  It's 8:30pm and I'm heading to Goose Creek Island.  My best friend Shirley Mayo Ireland wanted me to come spend the evening with her.  Our jobs and lives are busy, so when we can find a few moments to get together we make the most of it.
     The weather is mild tonight, a slight, salty southwesterly wind coming off the sound.  The numerous bugs and insects are dotting my car windshield.  As I come out of Mesic, heading towards the Island, I do not pass a single car. There's some kind of serenity about approaching the Island.  It's almost like the hustle and bustle of our daytime activities come to pause in the evening on the Island. Time slows down.
     As I make my way towards Springs Creek Bridge, I keep my eyes open for bears.  I look for the tell tell signs of water across the road.  I pass over the bridge and on towards Lowland.  I round the curb approaching Potter Bridge and cross the Potter Ditch.  I reminisce that this bridge bears the name of my ancestors.   I wonder who dug this ditch? When was it dug?
     I make the turn on Middle Prong Rd.  Here is where my ancestors lived.  Potters, Carawans, Lewis' and even currently my namesake Foreman.  I see Larry is home tonight staying with Uncle James.  That's good.  Uncle James is getting up there in age but he's still strong and continues to keep busy.
     It's dark; I mean it's really dark but every star in the sky is clear and bright.  I strain to look further down the road for any signs of life.  All is dark at the church, at Uncle Jonah's and beyond towards Uncle Denard's.
     I pause in Shirley's driveway for a moment and take in the quiet of the night.  It has an inviting feel. You can hear the crickets chirp. A frog grumbles every now and then I listen.  Then I imagine.  Is this how it felt to live on Middle Prong Rd. so long ago?  Darkness. Quietness. Peace. Without the sounds of a television or cars traveling on the roads.
     We had a wonderful visit and stayed up way to late, knowing we had work in the morning.  But it was so worth it to be home on my Island, even for just a few hours.
     I wake early.  As I gather my things and make my way to the car, I stop to listen again.   I  listen to see if I can  hear the sound of a lone shrimp trawler humming along the shores of the creeks, heading home from a night of shrimping.  I only hear it in my mind and but feel it in my heart.
     The morning light is starting to filter through the trees at the end of Prong Rd.  I look east towards Pamlico Sound.  Everything is still silent, peaceful.  I reminisce to the days of my ancestors beginning their work day in the quiet of the morning.  Before long the birds will begin their morning prayers and the Island will come to life with school buses and workers leaving the Island for their day of work.
     I am blessed to say that I grew up on an Island.  There's just something about an island.  You can't describe it to an outsider.  You've got to experience it.  It has to do with this serenity of knowing that this is your home.  Maybe it has to do with the knowledge that all of those on an island are all in this together.
     There's not many places in this world where you can witness the solitude of a fishermen leaving the dock at sunrise to go pull crab pots. Or have a natural alarm clock of the dawn chorus of seagulls awakening from their slumber. Or witness a beautiful Pamlico Sound sunrise or a Goose Creek sunset.  This is what I call real Island time.