Earlier this month, Henry and I decided to take a little vacation to visit Charleston (SC). We haven’t been on any trips since we moved up here 6 years ago and both of us were craving some good fresh fish, which is hard to come by up here in the mountains.
Back in the 80’s, 1st husband and I used to go to Charleston every November to binge on seafood and walk the streets lined with beautiful old homes. Henry has never been there so it seemed like a good idea for a get-away. And I thought the week before Labor Day wouldn’t be too awfully crowded…maybe.
So I got on-line and found a lovely historical B&B on Broad Street and booked 3 nights. It’s a 6 hour drive so that would allow one day to explore the city and one day to go out to Folly Beach. Then we would fill up an ice chest with fish and head home.
But then…
Three days before we are to leave, Henry calls me from the grocery store. The car won’t start. He gets a jump and goes to Wal-Mart to confirm the battery is dead. No problem. Much better we find this out now and here than on the way down at some rest stop. Lucky us!
Two days before we leave, some unhappy former restaurant employee in Charleston goes on a shooting spree complete with hostages. OK. It’s not a terrorist attack and the shooter is in custody so no worries.
One day before we leave I go on line to make dinner reservations for our 1st night in town at a neat little restaurant I’d been to before. It’s just a few blocks from our hotel, easy walking distance to stretch our legs from the drive and has good low country cuisine in a lovely Victorian house. Oddly, they are closed for the entire three days we’re there. I have two other picks for the two other nights so I start searching for a third restaurant that specializes in seafood. It is a coastal town so it should be easy, right? Most of the restaurants have one or two seafood listings on their menus but it’s usually shrimp and grits or Alaskan crab legs. I want local fish…grouper, snapper that sort of thing…and I’m not finding much. I finally settle for an oyster house/raw bar at the Market and make reservations. It’ll be good, I’m sure.
Then the night before we leave…we’re all packed and have a pet sitter briefed…a little storm system that’s been sitting off the coast of Florida for days decides it’s time to move out…up along the coast of SC and NC, turning into a tropical storm in the process, before heading out east. Now it might just blow through quickly Monday night with no damage and Tuesday could dawn bright and beautiful but I don’t gamble on tropical storms. It could just as easily flood the city and knock out power for days. Or, like Harvey in Texas, it could stall out for the entire time we’re there.
After a bit of primal scream therapy (much to the discomfort of husband and cat), the thought occurs to me…perhaps someone is trying very hard to tell me something…
“DON’T GO TO CHARLESTON, YOU IDIOT!”
Each small event is, on its own, a minor, random occurrence of no real import, but taken as a whole it sounds like an air raid siren to me. Maybe it’s my guardian angel or God or Fate trying to get my attention. Or maybe it’s just my imagination running wild as it often does. Whatever or whoever it is, I cannot ignore it. I dare not ignore it. And as soon as I make that decision, a sense of relief washes over me. It is settled. I’ll likely never know what would have happened or not happened, but sometimes you just have to listen to the voices in your head.
Postscript…The owner of the B&B wouldn’t issue a refund of my deposit because today (Tuesday) was a beautiful sunny day in Charleston. Huh?
cat's mountain 