Jekyll Island has been my mother's favorite retreat for years. I promised her shortly after my father died that the two of us would go there to spend a restful time looking at the Atlantic wash the shores like lacework my grandmother crocheted to make doilies she placed on the backs of chairs and sofas.
Jekyll Island, being beautiful, has drawn the attention of developers, those for whom greed turns everything desirable into nothing more than a commodity. The island is being bull-dozed and transformed into rows of condominiums. The Republican legislature gave the developers their blessing, until they heard the outrage from their constituents. So-called progress has been slowed, but development is a juggernaut, sure to win in the end if enough people don't stand in its way, refusing to be moved.
My mother and I stayed at one of the first motels built years ago on the island, The Buccaneer, as it was then called. We had a second floor balcony from which to watch the clouds move, the palm trees sway, the Atlantic swell. The fishing boats floated on the horizon. At night we could see their lights far out at the edge of the world.
No matter what happens to the island, the clouds will continue their journey across the sky, the wind will blow as fiercely as always, whe surf will thunder onto the sand. As for us, who knows? Will we have the endurance to keep fighting for the places we love?
