The Story of Cammie Orton (again)

For those of you who have already read this story’s beginning, I apologize. Summer got in the way of writing, so I’m starting over. It’s been so long, you probably can’t remember it anyway!

My blog postings over the next few weeks will be an ongoing story I’ve wanted to share for quite some time. It occurred to me the other day that I could do it as long as I break it up into as many blogs as it takes to relay the whole adventure without wearing my readers out in any one sitting. So, here goes…I hope you enjoy it.

The Story of Cammie Orton

 Cammie Orton was the only name I ever knew her by although it’s doubtful that was really her name. We first met one day about five years ago in the early morning while I was walking the beach with my dogs and she was combing for treasures, tossing shells and beach glass into an old worn duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

She was tiny in stature; probably just under five feet tall, maybe ninety pounds. Her hair was bigger than life, gold streaks intertwined with mahogany and nearly reaching her waist. Her wild curls dwarfed perfect features. I was instantly struck by her appearance. She had the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen and lashes thick as feathers. Her smile made me feel as though we were old friends, lucky to have run into each other once again, especially on such a glorious morning.

Although the sun was brilliant, she wore no hat or sunglasses and surprisingly didn’t squint when she looked up at me. We greeted each other, she pet the dogs for a minute then commented that she’d never seen me on the beach before. I smiled and said I’d been walking the beach nearly every morning for many years. She simply nodded, gave a slight wave, and continued on her way.

Twice I looked back at her petite form as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The loose white gauzy trousers she wore flapped around her legs like a flag of surrender and her voluminous hair flew out around her as though it were a shield of protection.

I was bothered by this encounter, bothered that she inferred herself as a regular and me as an outsider. If she’d lived around here for any amount of time, she’d know I was a long-timer and walked daily. I wasn’t the outsider; she was.

To Be Continued