Beaufort

Beaufort is one of the prettiest little towns we have ever visited, and we spent today wandering its peaceful streets on the eve of our trip to New Bern to participate in the "Sister March."  So it was a quiet little interregnum, visiting the shops and the Maritime Museum and the Old Burying Ground.  I spent a long time in the Maritime Museum learning about the menhaden industry and Blackbeard and other local history while Martha investigated the little boutiques.

I could not avoid thinking about Potus Trumpus, and of how similar he was to Blackbeard, an outlaw boarding the ship of the Republican Party and looting it so thoroughly. 

Then, as I had done last year, I marveled at the beautiful little homes along Taylor's Creek, many of them dating back to the 19th century.

Out on Taylor's Creek I was surprised to see a rowing team, moving fast down Taylor's Creek, coxswain in the rear and all.  I was not quick enough to take a photo but Martha did:

And finally I found myself again at the Old Burying Ground, which I had enjoyed visiting last year; it was a spooky place, an owl hooting mournfully in the background, daylight fading.  I knew from its sign that the gates closed at 5:00 p.m. and I saw from my watch that I had  passed that fateful hour, and I would not have wanted to be locked behind these iron gates after dark.

This grave in particular is well-known locally; it is continually decorated with many small icons and little tokens.  Everybody can relate to the girl buried in a barrel of rum, which I wrote about in a poem (still unpublished) that I wrote last year.

Girl in Barrel of  Rum (1700s)

She would have come to gracious Beaufort as an infant,

And flourished into a sparkling, headstrong girl,

Freckled, slender as a weed.  “Take me to London,”

She begged her father, over and over again.

And so he relented, as fathers do, but not before

Promising to return her to her mother’s arms –

One final hug, spinning her around, lifting her feet high.

For every adventure a cost; she died on the voyage home,

And her father, true to his word, as fathers are,

Brought her back in this barrel of rum.  So to this day

Her rounded little grave is piled high with tokens,

Coins, flowers, metro passes:  trinkets from the future.

At the end of the day we met together, Martha and I, watching the sun set over Taylor's Creek.  Gorgeous!

 

This whole Town seemed to come to a standstill as, all along its waterfront boardwalk, folks gathered to watch, cameras clicking, children standing silently in awe, as another master painting unfolded in the sky brushstroke by brushstroke.

  Our destination tonight was the highly-rated Beaufort Grocery Company and a special small plates dinner being offered.  We were pleasantly surprised to see Dixie Stewart, one of our old Highlands running friends who now lives here, and her husband Richard, a doctor at the hospital and my former G.P., walk by.  We enjoyed sitting and visiting with them before returning home.

The other folks at the table were Molly and her husband, who lived only one block away from the restaurant in the historic district and extolled the virtues of living in this beautiful little city.  When we told them about the rowing they said that they were members of the rowing team!  What a surprise; they did not look like rowers.  Or smiters of the sounding furrows.

 Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows.