I researched, wrote monographs, presented findings and developed exhibits about it. But that was years ago. It again comes to mind when we visit family in the low country of Georgia.
Earlier this year:
Eleanor and I had gotten up early in her brother's old Victorian veiled with Spanish moss hanging from old live oaks. We were in the old town area of Brunswick, Georgia and were off to sketch and paint a quick watercolor before the heat set in. I noticed an old packing house sign at the entrance to a tree-covered sand road. We ducked in and found a shrimp boat dock stuck back in an earlier time. Crew had shuffled off the boats, where I expect they may have lived, to sit on a variety of worn-out lawn chairs and drink coffee. They were cordial but pretty much ignored us.
Eleanor recorded the view. We drew but mostly I smelled the salt and muck and thought about the past.