Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, February 3, 1992 TAG: 9202030172
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-11 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
FOR SNOWBIRDS
OFTEN IN January, we go South. It's our opinion that Myrtle Beach is civilized only in the winter months - when restaurants and souvenir marts are mostly closed, when T-shirts are marked down to three for $12, and when the skies are cloudy all day more often than not.Judging by the license plates we see in the parking lots then, most of the other "snowbirds" come from farther north: Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Ohio, New York, Canada. The weather shift isn't so severe for us. Seldom do we arrive with highway salt on our car.
Also, from what we see around us, it's easy to suspect that we're among the youngest people in residence for these January weeks. (I'm certain we're the only non-golfers.)
But sometimes, as it did this year, "Super Bowl Sunday" falls within our time at Myrtle Beach. Young families and a handful of "Super Bowl Widows" show up then. The motel pool fills with squealing toddlers and restless, giggling women. And the character of the beach promenade changes subtly.
I take in this show from two perspectives: from in among the strollers and from our balcony high above them.
From above, the winter promenade looks like nothing so much as a gem show. The senior snowbirds wear amethyst and turquoise suits. They're lapis lazuli, sapphire, emerald, aquamarine and ruby. Sometimes all of these colors appear on the same walking outfit. Even the men wear bright jewel-tones and pastels.
In their celebratory, ceremonial clothes, the snowbirds move resolutely and blithely, close to the ground. An elderly jogger scarcely lifts his heels. A walker of some seniority is solid in each of her steps.
But they eat up the beach. They cover ground. The move. When I'm in these walkers' midst I may think I'm moving faster, but they're in their walks for the long haul: They always move farther than I.
What I saw from the balcony on this trip was that the younger strollers - the mothers with toddlers, the dogged joggers, the couples still shy of 40 - celebrated nothing.
They dressed in somber navy and black and gray. They picked up their heels, but as if something were snapping at them. Even when they ran, their shoulders sagged with the burdens of their lives. These people were tired, tired, tired.
And after I'd noticed this, I also noticed that my own beach jacket is navy blue. It zips tight up to my chin at the top and flops down at the bottom over my plain blue sweatpants. It struck me, when I noticed this, that I may think I'm striding happily up the beach. But the truth is walking, for me, is a task, something I do because I ought to.
That is, I ought to if I want to earn one of those bright, gem walking suits. The people who've already earned them, they walk with joy.