Rain, rain, rain. I drove to Charleston in a downpour all the way until Summerville where it stopped. Old friends were waiting at the Andrew Pinckney. We walked down Meeting St and across Queen St, past the pineapple fountain to the waterfront park where we sat on a big swing and watched the boats in the Cooper River.
In the morning the rain caught up with us while we had breakfast on the roof in sight of the Ravenel Bridge.
We toured Drayton Hall, sitting under a tent with shards of phosphorous, sweet grass baskets and a saucer of early Native American/African pottery on the table in front of us.
More rain poured down as we were guided through the hall itself, my favorite part being the penciled records of the heights of the children as they grew on the door jam, facing the record of the standing
heights of Charlotta's dogs on the other side.
May 1, Carl Sandburg's mountain-side home, Connemara, in Flat Rock, rain dimpling the lovely pond, twin
kid goats lying in the grass (descendants of Mrs. Sandburg's herd), the sound of Sandburg's guitar and his aged voice playing in the house.
In Asheville, we walked from the Grove Arcade up to Pack Square and the Vance monument and back and came down, down, down the mountain in the rain, rain, rain.
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