I slept in my little tent where looking up I could see the sliver of a moon through the tops of tall pine trees.
The woods and lake were breathing their musical notes in and out in a lullaby. Once, I heard a commotion among water fowls, but near dawn, there was a silence, warm, full of promise and comforting.
Yesterday evening I took the Beaver Pond Nature Trail which shoots off the camping area for one and a half miles. It is a white sand, pine needle covered trail through pines and oaks full of the unworldly black butterflies with blue markings (known as Limenitis Arthemis Astyana) drifting towards my outstretched hands and away. Suddenly, almost without warning I came upon the pond of high grasses and cat tails, alive with dozens of Great White Herons, wading, perching, bursting and careening through the air, as startled as I was to be an uninvited guest at their roosting and fishing place. Unaware, I had stumbled through that invisible barrier into another world inhabited by other beings. With reverence, I stepped as quietly as I knew how around the loop and back through the butterfly woods.
This morning at 5:00 am, I awoke to the strong aroma of coffee brewing, the orange flame of a camp fire not far away. I made tea and sipped it watching the dawn come. Showered and dressed I walked down to Lake Norton where the day before I had seen mallards and an anhinga with its wings wide spread on a little island. A young girl told me that she thought it was a fake bird. This morning, I could see many many white dots of herons far down the lake. Yellow blooms of lilies float on the dark black waters.
It was time to leave and I took another course home, first down hwy 57 to the crossroad of "Fork" where I spotted a huge fat snake curled on the side of the road, perhaps a copperhead or even a rattle snake, I did not stop to check it out but turned unto Hwy 41 to Marion. I have noticed that in Dillon and Marlboro counties, the garbage cans are Susan B. Koman pink.
In Marion, there were hand wavers up already, sitting in lawn chairs passing the time, greeting strangers driving by as well as friends passing. Here there is poverty, houses grown over with bushes, side walks fringed with tall grasses. It reminds me of how my town was growing up, how I remember walking barefoot on those grassy sidewalks in the silent summer heat. I turned onto Hwy 76 for Florence, past billboards for "Yams, Real Greens, Blackeye Peas, Boiled P-nuts and Beer on Sunday", soul food, but the food of the European Americans as well as the African Americans, who have shared much.
I stopped at a BP station which had a snack and breakfast-lunch bar with tables, a pool room with 2 pool tables and three, yes three, Ladies' Restrooms. This gas station has a porch with rocking chairs.
In Florence, there is prosperity, the Francis Marion College now listed in USA News and World Report as a best American College. There is McLeod Regional Hospital.
I cross under I-95 and head for Darlington. Now the land is softly rolling. Unbeknownst to me, today is the day of the Southern 500 at the Darlington Motor Speedway. I am driving behind the Joe Gibbs Racing Van.
Banners proclaim "Welcome Race Car Fans". I drive right past the speedway where thousands of those fans, dressed for the sunny day are parked and tail gating; one young couple is walking 6 hunting dogs on the side walk. People are hawking parking places, flags, mugs, hats, you name it, it is here. There is a festive spirit for the race which has not started yet.
My last stop toward McBee (pronounced Mackby with the emphasis on Mack) is the McLeod Farms Store. Huge Mrs. Huff's orange and pink Lantana along the side of the building, rocking chairs on the porch. Inside are peaches in season, vegetables, an ice cream parlor and peach cider, apple cider, corn relish, peach butter, apple butter, canned peaches, pickled peaches, peach almond bread, apple almond bread, peach cobbler with and without ice cream, anything your heart desires in the manner of peaches. I buy some fresh peaches.
Now a back road, we came this way on the driving to the beach when I was a child. We would stop, I suppose just here to buy peaches at a peach stand. At home, my mother would buy a bushel of peaches from Springs' stand and would be horrified when my father's mother (from Pennsylvania by way of Ireland) would stew the peaches. Somehow, our family could put away a bushel of ripe peaches in cobblers, pies and sliced on vanilla ice cream, made into homemade ice cream and on corn flakes with milk.
I notice that in McBee, the name on the water tower is Alligator Water. There are other businesses with the name alligator.
I am tired now of driving and hardly notice the yards with suspended gourd bird houses for purple martins,
motorcycles in the driveways, campers in the backyards, rockers on the porches, Chinaberry trees in the yards. I pass Papa John's Christmas Tree Farm, the brick house which looks uninhabited, the grass cut, the broken back yard cyclone fence which belonged to my mother's sister, Trude (married to Papa John). And there on the left is the place where my mother's old homeplace had once been before it burned, now just a small cottage where someone else lives. There had once been a sandy drive in the back where we played hop scotch, a privet hedge separating the barnyard of chickens, pigs, hunting dogs, smokehouse and giant walnut trees that had been cut down and hauled away by a crook who scammed my grandmother out of them.
In the Upstate, along the road, sweet gum, poplars and pecan trees have their first yellow leaves.
By late afternoon, I am back home again, feeding the cat and the dog and unloading the car. My glimpse into the other world of the Great White Herons is behind me, but will stay with me always.
Monday, September 7, 2015
September 5, 2015 H. Cooper Black Memorial Field Trial:Cruising Hwy 9
According to Chris Waddell, Ranger, H. Cooper Black is a 7,000 acre wildlife preserve with 50 miles of dirt roads, dedicated to horses and hunting dog field trials.
Highway 9 crosses South Carolina from the mountains above Spartanburg and goes all the way across the top of the state to Little River, Cherry Grove and Ocean Drive (home of the Shag) beaches. I cross the Broad River at Lockhart, through Chester , then crossing the wide Catawba to Lancaster where there is an odd billboard warning:
"Don't Let E-Coli Ruin Your Dinner Party"
Through Tradesville and over Lynches River into Chesterfield county and past Dudley Dorights General Store.
In Pageland there are lovely red roses blooming along the old main streets of town. Twenty years ago, as a volunteer, I drove a frail patient to a nursing home on the skirts of town here where posted at the door was a sign proclaiming "Quarantine".
" Never mind that", the white coated doctor said and I left the man there, to worry about it the rest of my life, including today.
Along the road through tiny hamlets are Evans Farm Produce, Rick's Produce, Grandma's Produce and at Mt Croghan in the road in front of Polecat BBQ lies a smashed furry red and black dead animal looking much like a "Polecat" (an ill smelling member of the weasel family, a type of skunk, or a vile member of the human family who acts like a polecat). In Ruby, Jewel City Produce is closed.
From Cheraw (home of the Braves), I take hwy 1, then left on Society Hill Rd and right onto H. Cooper Black Rd and left on Sporting Dog Trail. After a few miles on a gravel road, I come to stables, rest rooms, a Club House and a dozen white shiney mobile home/horse trailers as big as Trailways buses, parked under some shade trees. These huge vehicles cost from $40,000 up to untold fortunes.
There are really no hiking trails here. There are horseback riding trails, but Christ Waddell suggests I take a stroll around Goose Pond (one of three ponds here). I take a pleasant 1.5 mile walk around the little pond covered with water lilies, the large blooms now brown. At first I am following two pinto horses, their long tails swinging, carrying two riders who move off into the distance over meadows and into pine forests. No one else is here except me, a little white heron in the top of a tree, lots of orange and black fritillaries and thousands of grass hoppers flying through the air.
The field dog trials begin in the fall and continue until Christmas, says Chris Waddell.
Leaving, I pass through the sweetly named village of Society Hill, take Hwy15/401 across The Great Pee Dee River and back onto Hwy 9.
Here is the town of Clio, established 1836, where on Main St the fading letters high up on an old brick building proclaim: " Edens Opera House", now divided into an auto parts store and a Refuge of Deliverance mission.
Now, the land is changing into lush flat fields of cotton or soy beans and in the distance houses and barns banked against forests of dark green trees. I drive on through Minturn and Little Rock. A sign says:
" I love you
I forgive you
Come to supper"
Here is the huge looming Perdue Dillon Plant and then the even huger more looming Rocket City 2 Fireworks, it's red and yellow facade devastating the view of the town of Dillon. Highway I-95 crosses here, just over the border from North Carolina. A little north is the famous South of the Border group of Souvenir Junk shops and restaurants. I did not go there, but I have been there before when John was on his way to Kitty Hawk to run a marathon. Colleen, Michael , the dog, Finn, and I accompanied him. Not today.
I am on my way to Little Pee Dee State Park, turning rt on Hwy 57 for 11 miles, then left on Road 22 (State Park Rd) and across two bridges over the black waters of the Little Pee Dee River, then right into the Park, where I pitch my tent for the night.
Highway 9 crosses South Carolina from the mountains above Spartanburg and goes all the way across the top of the state to Little River, Cherry Grove and Ocean Drive (home of the Shag) beaches. I cross the Broad River at Lockhart, through Chester , then crossing the wide Catawba to Lancaster where there is an odd billboard warning:
"Don't Let E-Coli Ruin Your Dinner Party"
Through Tradesville and over Lynches River into Chesterfield county and past Dudley Dorights General Store.
In Pageland there are lovely red roses blooming along the old main streets of town. Twenty years ago, as a volunteer, I drove a frail patient to a nursing home on the skirts of town here where posted at the door was a sign proclaiming "Quarantine".
" Never mind that", the white coated doctor said and I left the man there, to worry about it the rest of my life, including today.
Along the road through tiny hamlets are Evans Farm Produce, Rick's Produce, Grandma's Produce and at Mt Croghan in the road in front of Polecat BBQ lies a smashed furry red and black dead animal looking much like a "Polecat" (an ill smelling member of the weasel family, a type of skunk, or a vile member of the human family who acts like a polecat). In Ruby, Jewel City Produce is closed.
From Cheraw (home of the Braves), I take hwy 1, then left on Society Hill Rd and right onto H. Cooper Black Rd and left on Sporting Dog Trail. After a few miles on a gravel road, I come to stables, rest rooms, a Club House and a dozen white shiney mobile home/horse trailers as big as Trailways buses, parked under some shade trees. These huge vehicles cost from $40,000 up to untold fortunes.
There are really no hiking trails here. There are horseback riding trails, but Christ Waddell suggests I take a stroll around Goose Pond (one of three ponds here). I take a pleasant 1.5 mile walk around the little pond covered with water lilies, the large blooms now brown. At first I am following two pinto horses, their long tails swinging, carrying two riders who move off into the distance over meadows and into pine forests. No one else is here except me, a little white heron in the top of a tree, lots of orange and black fritillaries and thousands of grass hoppers flying through the air.
The field dog trials begin in the fall and continue until Christmas, says Chris Waddell.
Leaving, I pass through the sweetly named village of Society Hill, take Hwy15/401 across The Great Pee Dee River and back onto Hwy 9.
Here is the town of Clio, established 1836, where on Main St the fading letters high up on an old brick building proclaim: " Edens Opera House", now divided into an auto parts store and a Refuge of Deliverance mission.
Now, the land is changing into lush flat fields of cotton or soy beans and in the distance houses and barns banked against forests of dark green trees. I drive on through Minturn and Little Rock. A sign says:
" I love you
I forgive you
Come to supper"
Here is the huge looming Perdue Dillon Plant and then the even huger more looming Rocket City 2 Fireworks, it's red and yellow facade devastating the view of the town of Dillon. Highway I-95 crosses here, just over the border from North Carolina. A little north is the famous South of the Border group of Souvenir Junk shops and restaurants. I did not go there, but I have been there before when John was on his way to Kitty Hawk to run a marathon. Colleen, Michael , the dog, Finn, and I accompanied him. Not today.
I am on my way to Little Pee Dee State Park, turning rt on Hwy 57 for 11 miles, then left on Road 22 (State Park Rd) and across two bridges over the black waters of the Little Pee Dee River, then right into the Park, where I pitch my tent for the night.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
August 22, 2015 The Cottonwood Trail, In the Time of Butterflies
It is the time of fullness, the time of harvest; the boardwalk is being overcome with green branches and vines trailing over it. The poison ivy is dark green and verdant, dripping urushiol on unsuspecting hikers and the coats of dogs. Again, after rains, the water is high. The gnats and mosquitoes are out in droves. There is a field of vibrant zinnias along the way, deep pinks, brilliant oranges and reds, soft yellows and even the occasional white bloom. On a path through tall bushes and brambles, there are pink Scottish thistles growing over ten feet in height. Near the wetlands are Dutchman's britches, the white massed blooms of Confederate Jasmine (Virgin's Bower), yellow woodland sunflowers, a tiny red flower on a vine, bunches of small purple blossoms on long stems hanging over the boardwalk. In a field of brown grasses, tiny white spiders have made thousands of pot holder sized delicate webs, glistening, ghostly in the morning dew.
Reaching the creek, I scare up a group of deer drinking water on the near side. They plunge, splashing into the water and up the far bank into the woods. Where I found the snake skin, a bridge has fallen off the muddy bank, but right away, someone has shored up the path.
At home, in my yard, I can hardly step for the countless hoppy toads that scatter along the ground before me.
And there at my back porch, the butterfly bush is full of yellow swallow tailed winged creatures, opening and closing their wings, mysteriously flittering into life and out again. Butterfly, in Greek, psyche, the word also for soul.
"He leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul"
The 23rd psalm, The Holy Bible
* The yellow tiger swallow tailed butterfly is the state butterfly of South Carolina.
Reaching the creek, I scare up a group of deer drinking water on the near side. They plunge, splashing into the water and up the far bank into the woods. Where I found the snake skin, a bridge has fallen off the muddy bank, but right away, someone has shored up the path.
At home, in my yard, I can hardly step for the countless hoppy toads that scatter along the ground before me.
And there at my back porch, the butterfly bush is full of yellow swallow tailed winged creatures, opening and closing their wings, mysteriously flittering into life and out again. Butterfly, in Greek, psyche, the word also for soul.
"He leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul"
The 23rd psalm, The Holy Bible
* The yellow tiger swallow tailed butterfly is the state butterfly of South Carolina.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
August 17, 2015 Rivers Bridge State Park "Dream of Battlefields No more"
From my home in the Upstate, along the escarpment of the Blue Ridge, which you can see from a good day, blue and gray undulating bands holding up the sky, it was a round trip of 524 miles down to Erhardt in Bamburg County. This is counting wrong turns in Aiken in a down pour and my accidental trip to the back entrance to the Savannah River Site (known in gallows humor by the locals as the "bomb plant") where I was met by a highly armed man in body armor. He was not glad to see me, but showed me on my map where I made my mistake in Barnwell by turning right instead of left on Hwy 64, the low country highway.
I had begun my trip early; everywhere the yellow school buses breaking my heart, scrubbed, blank faced children standing by the road with their backpacks under a buttermilk sky.
I passed through Kirksey after Greenwood with a pasture of white goats and an old store with a big fat black and white cat curled asleep on a red porch swing.
I drove down through historic Edgefield, "home to 10 governors--
Edgefield has had more dashing brilliant romantic firgues, statesmen, orators, soldiers,, adventurers and daredevils than any other county of South Carolina, if not of any rural county of American" W.W. Bull,
"The State that Forgot" this on the side of a building, near the square. It is also the home to the National Wild Turkey Federation (see the giant turkeys painted by artists all over town). One turkey has has an expanse of pottery painted on its wing, attesting to the famous Edgefield Pottery Works where the enslaved potter "Dave" created his artful jugs.
Passing under I-20 before Aiken, Hwy 19 becomes Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. Within the lovely still lively downtown, Hwy 19 becomes Whiskey Road, down to New Ellerton. 278 to Barnwell and 64 to Rivers Bridge. Just before the park, I pass a large ornate gate at a field proclaiming: "Stuck Kin Our Swamp"
.
Here it is the swamp of the two branched Salkehatchie river (a tributary of the Combahee). And here at the end of the Civil War on February 2 and 3, 1865, at the crossing called Rivers Bridge, Confederate troops vainly tried to delay Sherman's march up country to burn Columbia.
At the Ranger Station, I meet John White, Ranger and Archaeologist, who is on light duty recovering from knee surgery and takes the time to give me what he calls the "very short history of the park and battle", which did set the stage for a end of the war, the burning of Columbia and Sherman's march into Virginia to meet Lee.
He draws me a map of the Memorial and the Battlefield so that I can take the road down to the Salkehatchie River and Swamp. At the Memorial, rangers and the State Archaeologist are mapping the ground in anticipation of making either penetrating ground radar or ground resistance testing to search for the remains of the unknown buried dead soldiers. 10 years after the battle, residents of the community had disinterred the remains of many and placed them in a single grave just here where local women later placed a large general headstone with the words"
Soldiers rest, your warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Dream of battlefields no more,
Days of danger, nights of wakeing."
My friend from nearby Hampton tells of attending the Spring Memorial every Spring while growing up.
The trail to the battleground is a mile out and another back, an easy walk on white sand and pine needles. You must cross a road and come to the battlefield, pass by to the swamp where Union soldiers froze in the rain in the dead of winter. There is a great blue heron and some turtles, cypress and cypress knees. No copperheads or water moccasins about which John White warned me. Even so, I carried a stick.
I travel under black clouds, occasionally letting down heavy rain. On Whiskey Rd in Aiken, I pass statues of horses painted by artists. This is horse country, in fact. On the far side of town, I pass --
Off Da Chain Seafood and Mo, which is unfortunately closed and boarded up and the the Booyah Bar and Grill which appears to still be in business.
Much thanks to John White, to whom I am indebted for enlightenment in history and for helping me get back to Highway 64 (without going to the bomb plant) and home again before dark.
I had begun my trip early; everywhere the yellow school buses breaking my heart, scrubbed, blank faced children standing by the road with their backpacks under a buttermilk sky.
I passed through Kirksey after Greenwood with a pasture of white goats and an old store with a big fat black and white cat curled asleep on a red porch swing.
I drove down through historic Edgefield, "home to 10 governors--
Edgefield has had more dashing brilliant romantic firgues, statesmen, orators, soldiers,, adventurers and daredevils than any other county of South Carolina, if not of any rural county of American" W.W. Bull,
"The State that Forgot" this on the side of a building, near the square. It is also the home to the National Wild Turkey Federation (see the giant turkeys painted by artists all over town). One turkey has has an expanse of pottery painted on its wing, attesting to the famous Edgefield Pottery Works where the enslaved potter "Dave" created his artful jugs.
Passing under I-20 before Aiken, Hwy 19 becomes Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. Within the lovely still lively downtown, Hwy 19 becomes Whiskey Road, down to New Ellerton. 278 to Barnwell and 64 to Rivers Bridge. Just before the park, I pass a large ornate gate at a field proclaiming: "Stuck Kin Our Swamp"
.
Here it is the swamp of the two branched Salkehatchie river (a tributary of the Combahee). And here at the end of the Civil War on February 2 and 3, 1865, at the crossing called Rivers Bridge, Confederate troops vainly tried to delay Sherman's march up country to burn Columbia.
At the Ranger Station, I meet John White, Ranger and Archaeologist, who is on light duty recovering from knee surgery and takes the time to give me what he calls the "very short history of the park and battle", which did set the stage for a end of the war, the burning of Columbia and Sherman's march into Virginia to meet Lee.
He draws me a map of the Memorial and the Battlefield so that I can take the road down to the Salkehatchie River and Swamp. At the Memorial, rangers and the State Archaeologist are mapping the ground in anticipation of making either penetrating ground radar or ground resistance testing to search for the remains of the unknown buried dead soldiers. 10 years after the battle, residents of the community had disinterred the remains of many and placed them in a single grave just here where local women later placed a large general headstone with the words"
Soldiers rest, your warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Dream of battlefields no more,
Days of danger, nights of wakeing."
My friend from nearby Hampton tells of attending the Spring Memorial every Spring while growing up.
The trail to the battleground is a mile out and another back, an easy walk on white sand and pine needles. You must cross a road and come to the battlefield, pass by to the swamp where Union soldiers froze in the rain in the dead of winter. There is a great blue heron and some turtles, cypress and cypress knees. No copperheads or water moccasins about which John White warned me. Even so, I carried a stick.
I travel under black clouds, occasionally letting down heavy rain. On Whiskey Rd in Aiken, I pass statues of horses painted by artists. This is horse country, in fact. On the far side of town, I pass --
Off Da Chain Seafood and Mo, which is unfortunately closed and boarded up and the the Booyah Bar and Grill which appears to still be in business.
Much thanks to John White, to whom I am indebted for enlightenment in history and for helping me get back to Highway 64 (without going to the bomb plant) and home again before dark.
Monday, August 10, 2015
August 9, 2015 Francis Biedler Forest "Brake for Snakes...and Turtles"
I can't tell you how to get there. You will have to ask. I don't know if GPS will do it. It is really out in the boondocks, the sticks, the outback, out in the country. Traveling East on I-26, take exit 177 after going under I-95, about 7 miles and go into the town of Harleyville. From there, you are on your own. But the address is 336 Sanctuary Rd., Harleyville, South Carolina 29448. Believe me, it is worth the trip.
The Biedler Forest is an Audubon Center. Down the dirt road, you will find a well equipped station with guides, gift shop, rest rooms, outdoor picnic tables and after a $10.00 adult fee, the entrance to the 1.75 mile boardwalk winding through the last and tallest stand of Cypress-Tupulo Swamp in the world. Yes, I said, in the world. It is the summer (spring and fall) home to the protonotary warbler, a little yellow bird who makes its home in the hollows of the thousands of Cypress knees rising up from the black muddy soil of the swamp.
When I last visited here, it was winter and the yellow bird had gone down to South America.
I returned in hopes of meeting this yellow warbler, the mascot of the center. And I did meet him.
But first we traveled along the boardwalk until a blue eyed, grey haired New Zealand Birder, armed with binoculars, approached and pointed out not one, but two 5 foot long brown water snakes, their brown, yellow striped underbellies bulging with recent dinners.
We came to a high observatory stand built over a lake brimming with turtles swimming and sunning on logs.
It was there that I saw the yellow birds flitting around in the tops of the trees. The New Zealander was there and a young landscaper from Columbia who was also a birder. They pointed out the wood stork flying far up in the blue heavens above us, the great blue heron perched on a log down the lake, a little blue heron flying up from the bank.
Going back along the boardwalk, we meet a young woman and man using binoculars to watch small birds high in the trees, attempting identification. She tells me to get the "merlin" app of Cornell Lab Ornithology which will help me identify birds on a smart phone. You enter size, location, at most three colors, where the bird is sighted (such as soaring, in bushes, on a fence etc.) and then you will be offered a series of possible photos. You may even be able to hear the recording of the bird's voice. It is almost like having a teacher or birder guide with you.
This area is known as Four Holes Swamp. The Biedler Forest Center offers guided canoe trips in May and monthly night walks.
Notice the sign upon entering Sanctuary Rd: "Brake for Snakes....and Turtles" and the admonition in the Center: "May the Forest Be With You."
And so it will.
( If we take care of it.)
The Biedler Forest is an Audubon Center. Down the dirt road, you will find a well equipped station with guides, gift shop, rest rooms, outdoor picnic tables and after a $10.00 adult fee, the entrance to the 1.75 mile boardwalk winding through the last and tallest stand of Cypress-Tupulo Swamp in the world. Yes, I said, in the world. It is the summer (spring and fall) home to the protonotary warbler, a little yellow bird who makes its home in the hollows of the thousands of Cypress knees rising up from the black muddy soil of the swamp.
When I last visited here, it was winter and the yellow bird had gone down to South America.
I returned in hopes of meeting this yellow warbler, the mascot of the center. And I did meet him.
But first we traveled along the boardwalk until a blue eyed, grey haired New Zealand Birder, armed with binoculars, approached and pointed out not one, but two 5 foot long brown water snakes, their brown, yellow striped underbellies bulging with recent dinners.
We came to a high observatory stand built over a lake brimming with turtles swimming and sunning on logs.
It was there that I saw the yellow birds flitting around in the tops of the trees. The New Zealander was there and a young landscaper from Columbia who was also a birder. They pointed out the wood stork flying far up in the blue heavens above us, the great blue heron perched on a log down the lake, a little blue heron flying up from the bank.
Going back along the boardwalk, we meet a young woman and man using binoculars to watch small birds high in the trees, attempting identification. She tells me to get the "merlin" app of Cornell Lab Ornithology which will help me identify birds on a smart phone. You enter size, location, at most three colors, where the bird is sighted (such as soaring, in bushes, on a fence etc.) and then you will be offered a series of possible photos. You may even be able to hear the recording of the bird's voice. It is almost like having a teacher or birder guide with you.
This area is known as Four Holes Swamp. The Biedler Forest Center offers guided canoe trips in May and monthly night walks.
Notice the sign upon entering Sanctuary Rd: "Brake for Snakes....and Turtles" and the admonition in the Center: "May the Forest Be With You."
And so it will.
( If we take care of it.)
August 8, 2015 Givhan's Ferry: "This, the Way to the Stars"
I slept on the porch over the North Edisto River, watching the stars overhead which seemed to dance and disappear with the drifting of clouds. Before light, I head the call, "WhaaWooooo..Wa Wa Wa Whooooo" close by and then an answering call upriver. I have heard it here before. I think it is coyotes.
We visited Drayton Hall Plantation built by John Drayton in 1738. Over the great mantel in the Ballroom is the motto of the Drayton family inscribed in Latin and translated "This, the way to the stars". We walked the long grassy path from the house down to the Ashley River where ancient oaks lean over the waters.
Givhan's Ferry is found just off highway 61, "the Ashley River Rd" about 25 miles north of Charleston past the plantations of Drayton, Middleton and Magnolia. The four cabins here were built by the CCC in the 40's. There is camping with hookups and primitive camping.
"Floaters" drift down the dark tannin colored waters of the North Edisto on colorful tubes and rafts. I floated this river once at just this place. Nearby on the water, a gang of teenagers were yelling and diving for their truck keys which had gone overboard into the drink. A drunk woman motored her boat wildly up and down the river, pushing my float from side to side, interrupting the zen like travel down this beautiful ancient waterway.
Five years ago, my mother died in April at the age of 98. Two weeks later, her sister died as well. They had always done things together; gone to nursing school together, gotten married the same year, had their first child within a month of each other. And now they had taken their last long journey together. My cousins, Ruth and Grace and I went together on the weekend of Mother's Day to Givhan's Ferry after their passing. There was a Pow Wow of the Edisto Tribe in nearby Ridgeville and we took our folding chairs to watch.
Under a tent, men played the big drums in a circle while other male tribe members danced dances of the hunt. In honor of mothers and Mother's Day, all women were invited to dance in an only women's dance, even if you were not Native American. Ruth and Grace declined, but I joined the dancers. There was no way to tell if I was a member of the tribe. The chief's son was blond and blue eyed. Another primary dancer had the skin and features of Africa. The dancing women took me in and showed me how to dance the age old dance.
On another visit to the park, we were honored to see a local church baptizing members in the waters of the river. Ministers stood waist deep in the water and dunked believers. Several old men bound to wheelchairs were carried out, the old and infirm, as well as the young and healthy with tribal tatoos.
Today I take the Nature Trail of 1.6 miles through the forest. It begins beyond the camping areas and near a picnic shelter which has a horse shoe playing ground. The trail glances the edge of the Limestone Cliffs on the banks of the river. 30 million years ago, the ocean was here and left layer upon layer of sea animals which created the alkaline soil where plants live which are otherwise unusual to the acid soil of South Carolina.
I come to a fallen tree still bearing green leaves and go off trail through poison ivy and brambles for a while.
There is then a wooden bridge over a stream dried now to mud. Coming off the trail onto the athletic field, I meet two women who have been geocaching. They tell me they have found all of the caches in the park.
At the cabin, we cook waffles with strawberries on top and drink coffee and tea on the porch over the river.
We are in the zone.
We visited Drayton Hall Plantation built by John Drayton in 1738. Over the great mantel in the Ballroom is the motto of the Drayton family inscribed in Latin and translated "This, the way to the stars". We walked the long grassy path from the house down to the Ashley River where ancient oaks lean over the waters.
Givhan's Ferry is found just off highway 61, "the Ashley River Rd" about 25 miles north of Charleston past the plantations of Drayton, Middleton and Magnolia. The four cabins here were built by the CCC in the 40's. There is camping with hookups and primitive camping.
"Floaters" drift down the dark tannin colored waters of the North Edisto on colorful tubes and rafts. I floated this river once at just this place. Nearby on the water, a gang of teenagers were yelling and diving for their truck keys which had gone overboard into the drink. A drunk woman motored her boat wildly up and down the river, pushing my float from side to side, interrupting the zen like travel down this beautiful ancient waterway.
Five years ago, my mother died in April at the age of 98. Two weeks later, her sister died as well. They had always done things together; gone to nursing school together, gotten married the same year, had their first child within a month of each other. And now they had taken their last long journey together. My cousins, Ruth and Grace and I went together on the weekend of Mother's Day to Givhan's Ferry after their passing. There was a Pow Wow of the Edisto Tribe in nearby Ridgeville and we took our folding chairs to watch.
Under a tent, men played the big drums in a circle while other male tribe members danced dances of the hunt. In honor of mothers and Mother's Day, all women were invited to dance in an only women's dance, even if you were not Native American. Ruth and Grace declined, but I joined the dancers. There was no way to tell if I was a member of the tribe. The chief's son was blond and blue eyed. Another primary dancer had the skin and features of Africa. The dancing women took me in and showed me how to dance the age old dance.
On another visit to the park, we were honored to see a local church baptizing members in the waters of the river. Ministers stood waist deep in the water and dunked believers. Several old men bound to wheelchairs were carried out, the old and infirm, as well as the young and healthy with tribal tatoos.
Today I take the Nature Trail of 1.6 miles through the forest. It begins beyond the camping areas and near a picnic shelter which has a horse shoe playing ground. The trail glances the edge of the Limestone Cliffs on the banks of the river. 30 million years ago, the ocean was here and left layer upon layer of sea animals which created the alkaline soil where plants live which are otherwise unusual to the acid soil of South Carolina.
I come to a fallen tree still bearing green leaves and go off trail through poison ivy and brambles for a while.
There is then a wooden bridge over a stream dried now to mud. Coming off the trail onto the athletic field, I meet two women who have been geocaching. They tell me they have found all of the caches in the park.
At the cabin, we cook waffles with strawberries on top and drink coffee and tea on the porch over the river.
We are in the zone.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
July 30, 2015 110 Calhoun Street
The Emanuel A.M.E. church sits a half block off the intersection of Meeting St and Calhoun St. in Charleston, initially organized in 1891, it was named "Emanuel", meaning 'God With Us" in 1865 and has the oldest African American congregation south of Baltimore.
It was the site of a massacre of nine members on June 17, 2015 during a prayer service. On June 22, thousands linked arms, sang and walked across the Ravenel Bridge in support of the victims, their families and the congregation.
On July 10, we watched the Confederate Fight Flag come down from the South Carolina State House grounds.
I walked from the Music Hall which is close by. The facade of the building is amassed with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. The old Welcome Banner is now covered with prayers and condolences from thousands of people. Twenty foot square signs proclaiming "Forgive Us As We Have Been Forgiven" have been erected to take the overflow of writings. Even the fire hydrant near by is covered with signatures and prayers. A new purple brass plaque proclaims inside a heart , "We Are U9+ed in Faith and Love and has the names of the slain.
I leave my small note, "Time Passes, Love Lights the Way" nearly invisible among the thousands and complete my walk down Meeting Street, back up King and around John Street again to the Music Hall.
It was the site of a massacre of nine members on June 17, 2015 during a prayer service. On June 22, thousands linked arms, sang and walked across the Ravenel Bridge in support of the victims, their families and the congregation.
On July 10, we watched the Confederate Fight Flag come down from the South Carolina State House grounds.
I walked from the Music Hall which is close by. The facade of the building is amassed with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. The old Welcome Banner is now covered with prayers and condolences from thousands of people. Twenty foot square signs proclaiming "Forgive Us As We Have Been Forgiven" have been erected to take the overflow of writings. Even the fire hydrant near by is covered with signatures and prayers. A new purple brass plaque proclaims inside a heart , "We Are U9+ed in Faith and Love and has the names of the slain.
I leave my small note, "Time Passes, Love Lights the Way" nearly invisible among the thousands and complete my walk down Meeting Street, back up King and around John Street again to the Music Hall.
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