On Monday—Memorial Day—it just so happened
that I spent most of the afternoon in a graveyard. Ruminating
on old headstones is something of a family hobby. They
used to be so interesting, and telling—how did we
get to the point that we thought people’s lives
could be reduced to nothing but names and dates?
Route 261 had been good to me: It was the very best
kind of blue highway, interesting and lightly traveled.
But I knew it had done me yet another favor when a stunning
church sheltered by picture-perfect live oaks draped
in Spanish moss came into view, and stopping was a foregone
conclusion. The Episcopal parish, it turned out, was
significant in a number of ways: The land for the church
was donated by General Sumter, the building was constructed
of pressed earth but currently under assault by termites,
and the graveyard was the final resting place of a number
of interesting characters. The latter included one Joel
Roberts Poinsett, a gentleman, scholar, and public servant
whose many accomplishments will forever be eclipsed
by his introduction into the U.S. of a pretty Mexican
plant that would later become a staple of American Christmases.
There was also a doctor who served in the U.S. Army
from 1858-61 and the Confederate Army from 1861-65.
I wondered what the good doctor, who lived to a ripe
old age, had felt about the switch; perhaps he and Robert
E. Lee and a host of other military men who made that
awkward, doomed transition are still kicking it around
in heaven..
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The Moon and a Mockingbird
I was heading for the Atlantic Coast, and the tall,
straight Carolina pines marched with me all the way
to the sea. In fact, that night and the next I camped
in the Francis Marion National Forest, right next to
the Intracoastal Waterway. Beyond the waterway lay a
wildlife refuge, and then the ocean. The moon, just
past full, lit up the sky and a mockingbird sang all
night outside my tent.
The Buck Hall Recreation Area Campground was a real
wonder: An otherwise bare-bones campground with an electric
hook-up at each site! (“Bare-bones” can
mean many different things, but in this case it meant
that the typical cinderblock bathroom had lights and
one hot shower, both of which were lacking at my last
campground.) It was the first time I’d ever had
a power-strip fired up in my tent with the laptop and
printer running and the cell phone and Palm Pilot charging.
It felt downright decadent. And all of this—plus
a secluded campsite—was mine for a mere $15 per
night! (The moon and the mockingbird alone were worth
considerably more than that to me.) Prominently placed
signs trumpeted the fact that all user fees were devoted
to camp improvements, so it was, in Washington parlance,
off-budget. This campground was a public good that even
a Carolina Republican could love.
In Greenbacks We Trust
On my way south down U.S. 17, I stopped at the tiny
general store in Awendaw. The pleasant lady behind the
counter—who turned out to be Charlotte Deets,
manager—and I struck up a conversation. She was
intrigued by what I was doing and mentioned that since
Charleston (perhaps 30 miles to the south) had long
been considered a high-risk target because of the naval
presence, people in the area were perhaps better prepared
for dealing with the uncertainties of post-9/11 life.
But then again, perhaps no one was really prepared:
This somehow felt different than whatever had gone before,
she said. Immediately following the attacks, adults
wanted to help but felt helpless, and the children who
came in after school for candy were uncharacteristically
quiet. For at least a month after, she said, credit
cards and checks slowed to a trickle; in a time of uncertainty,
people seemed to favor the solidity of plain old greenbacks.
A Cultural Crazy Quilt
As I neared Mt. Pleasant, which is just north of Charleston,
I began to see Gullah women selling their famously fine
sweetgrass baskets from stands along the side of the
road. The Gullah people, or Sea Island Creole, are descended
from African slaves; most of these came from the lands
ranging between Senegal and Sierra Leone, since the
slave traders and plantation owners knew they were suited
to the climate and work. In another of those tragic
twists of fate that bedevil the American South, these
Africans would pay an awful price for their prowess
in cultivating rice and harvesting seafood in their
native lands. The Gullah culture grew out of these African
roots that took hold in the isolation of the Sea Islands
of South Carolina and Georgia.
Once I saw Gullahs, I knew I’d soon reach one
of my favorite places: Beaufort, South Carolina, rendered
as “Byufurd” by the locals. (Someday I’d
like to take a Frenchman there—any Frenchman would
do—for the sheer entertainment value of watching
the apoplectic fit that would ensue from this mangling
of the mother tongue. The French take this sort of affront
very seriously!) Beautiful little Beaufort is quite
historic: Founded in 1711, it hosted the 1860 drafting
of the state’s declaration of secession from the
Union. It is also the gateway to both the U.S. Marine
Corps Induction Depot at Parris Island and the Sea Islands.
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A Southern Gentleman
In one of the many ironies of the Civil War, the slaves
of South Carolina’s Sea Islands were freed—in
effect, if not legally—in November 1861. Thus,
Reconstruction was launched in the islands long before
the war ever ended, and the Penn School was founded
on St. Helena in 1862 as part of that grand experiment.
Penn was the first formal institution founded to educate
freed slaves, and a hundred years later it served as
a rare and precious Southern meeting ground for blacks
and whites who were building the civil-rights movement.
Although Penn ceased functioning as a school in 1953,
it was reborn as the Penn Center and continues to be
an integral part of the St. Helena community, offering
historical/cultural programs, after-school/summer educational
programs for youth, elder hostel, and so forth.
Upon entering the Center, I was greeted at the door
by a real Southern gentleman, 11-year-old Quinton Ezekiel
Smalls. Soft-spoken and extremely polite, Mr. Smalls
welcomed me to the Center, asked me to sign the book,
and made me happy to fork over the $4 entrance fee.
His aunt, Sarah DeWeever, manned the gift shop and he
seemed to be a willing volunteer. When I purchased the
book Essence of Beaufort and the Lowcountry,
he shyly volunteered that one of his pictures was in
it. It was clearly the first his aunt had heard of this,
and she proudly urged him to date the signature I playfully
demanded of him. Mr. Smalls has the makings of a handsome
man, so if he continues modest he’ll be a very
special fellow when he grows up.
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It’s More Than Just Food
Many of you know my passion for cooking and eating;
you can be sure I’m happy in the lowcountry, where—thank
God—a superb regional cuisine thrives despite
the proliferation of fast-food chains. Of course I enjoy
cookbooks, so I had to buy a copy of The Penn School
and Sea Islands Heritage Cookbook (one of those
spiral-bound volumes that churches, fire departments,
and small-town societies sell for good causes). I was
charmed to read Mary Inabinett Mack’s comment
appended to her chicken-rice purlo recipe: “As
a child I thought the whole world ate purlo for Sunday
dinner.” Pilau, as it’s more often spelled,
is a savory concoction of rice, bacon, onion, green
bell pepper, and anything from shrimp to chicken to
okra. Since it’s one of those homey dishes that
makes you feel all good inside, I’m thinking that
maybe the world would be a better place if she had been
right.
The best cookbooks are as much anthropological Rosetta
Stones as they are practical guides, and this book is
a cultural gold mine: There are recipes for Monkey Bread,
Shake-and-Drop Grits, Joe’s Tomato Wine, and Barbecued
Raccoon, as well as seemingly endless numbers of ways
to cook sweet potatoes and all types of seafood. You
just KNOW that Mama’s Smothered Pork Chops, Daddy’s
Fried Green Tomatoes, and Cornbread from Zezzie’s
Kitchen have got to be good. Finish them off with some
of Marvalyn’s Bread Pudding, and you may have
a heart attack but you’re sure to die happy. .
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Slums for Soldiers
Friday night I had dinner on the back porch of Plums,
which overlooks Beaufort’s waterfront. I was just
about to pay the check when two Tennesseeans sat down
at the table next to me and we started chatting. Dan
Wilson and Nelson Holt are engineers with an Australian-owned
firm that is assuming responsibility for military housing
in the area; it seems that President Clinton signed
an order a few years back privatizing all base housing,
and their company got the job.
The two men waxed eloquent about the indignity of putting
people who are willing to surrender their lives for
our nation into substandard housing (“Some I’ve
seen is worse than section-8 [low-income] housing,”
Dan spluttered), and they clearly were committed to
righting the wrong. They reported, too, that the citizens
of Beaufort appreciated the military presence in the
area and wanted to do whatever they could to be good
neighbors. The next day the two were scheduled to go
boating with the head of the Chamber of Commerce, a
retired Marine. They like Beaufort as much as I do,
and we briefly agonized about the relentless development
overtaking the area; although none of us wanted to stand
in the way of progress, we also agreed that the prospect
of Beaufort turning into another Hilton Head—the
epitome of chic development—was too terrible to
contemplate, so we changed the subject.
And there’s so much more I’d like to share,
but this is too long already so I’ll sign off
for now.
Stay tuned for next week’s installment. . . .
