Writers’ Retreats
By Joan Baril
The twisting branches of the live oaks met in the middle of the South Carolina street, each branch dripping long grey locks of Spanish moss. I expected Scarlett O’Hara to drive by in her carriage any minute. I should have brought my hoop skirt, my parasol, my 16 inch waist.
A yellow cottage with a tall pointed roof line and pink shutters peeked from under climbing roses and other foliage. This was to be my home for the next week.
The owner, Mary Ann Henry, showed me around. A small kitchen at one end, a modern tiled bathroom off on one side plus an outside shower tucked under the trees of the patio, a window seat with television and books in the living room, a bedroom loft upstairs and, most importantly a writing desk.
“I won’t bother you,” said Mary Ann, “but if you need anything or just want to talk, come next door.”
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