Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Old Christ Church..A Not So Gray Day
That sunny forecast wouldn't be today. The skies above the stone and mortar church are gloomy. The church looks depressed. The slabs of gray leaning tombstones echo the sentiment.
I try to imagine it as I would a black and white photo from the year it was built in 1727. I mentally erase the stop light, the fence, the power lines and asphalt. Eerily what I imagined was exactly how it looked in a photo I googled later. http://www.christch.org/#/home/our-history
The light changes and I try to resume speed as a flash of red passed my peripheal. A camelia bush bleeds red into the gray day. I hastily threw on my turn signal while being cursed (I read his lips) from behind. As I pulled into the narrow drive, I chastised myself. None of the circumstances are right. It's gloomy, I don't have anything but my sucky phone camera and last but not least... none of life's circumstances this week warrant a graveyard as a pick me up adventure.
Amidst the silence of lived here - died here's, fat squirrels scurry about confidently in their safe zone. I mean really, if you are gonna bury your nuts..a graveyards the place to do it right?
The church yard was oddly absent of faded plastic grave flowers. Then I realized as I noticed the dates on the leaning markers that you would have had to been an exceptionally good fellow or gal for someone to continue placing flowers on your grave two hundred years later.
No flowers..no problem. Nature takes care of it's own. The sacred grounds are void of grass from the expanse of the angel oaks, but gently ablaze with wild flowers.The Dogwoods bloom beneath the oaks and the burning bush that pulled me in with it's brilliant red blossoms stood before me adjacent of the church.The Camellia bush was full and beautiful amidst it's somber backdrop. It's base however, was carpeted in the befitting crimson decay of it's older blooms.
I tried to peer into the window of the little church, bumble bee's kept me at bay. I walked around the grounds reverently. I am surprised at how calm I felt here. Is it the quiet? The lack of visitors? The absence of all? I didn't figure it out, and that's ok. Somethings are better as mystery. For now I conclude Christ Church grounds is asleep, but not soundly..as spring knocks.
Footnote: As Don walked into the door that evening he hands me an old book. A boy he works with has been filling him in on his family's history in Mt.Pleasant (Villeponteaux). My mouth dropped when I read the gold insignia on front of book ~Christ Church Parish Preservation Society~ History of Mount Pleasant. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the pictures to show Don pictures of the church I had ironically just left. The mystery continues. I got chills, maybe there's a story from the grave that needs to be told.
Friday, April 12, 2013
First Shots of Civil War ~ Honor in Infamy?
I wrote this on the morning of the 150th anniversary of the first shots of the Civil War. I slipped out the back patio and onto the wooded path with Snowy for her early morning walk. The thick fog quieted the morning. At first I thought it was thunder. But after hearing the consecutive short blast that didn't wander off into the horizon, I knew what it was. It was the sound of the ancient cannons sitting on Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie firing to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the first shots of the Civil War.
It was both exhilarating and scary. I shuddered. The pre-dawn fog, lack of first light, and Spanish Moss hanging like apparitions down the path transcended me to a time that I couldn't know of. I could sense what that morning must have felt like. I tried to imagine what my ancestors were doing the moments they heard these booms. My maternal lineage would have my ancestors farming in a community near the Myrtle Beach area, Conway. They would have not heard the cannons. But were stirred nonetheless by the impending war. Not wealthy by any means. Hardworking farming family. I don't have records of their opinions of the war, but I do have records that show their support. My Great-Great Grandfather was the sixth child of nine children. Five boys and four girls. I can only try to imagine the tears of the mother and sisters, the pride of their fathers as they watched their sons and brothers walk down a dusty dirt road on August 7th, 1961. Walking together to enlist in one of the bloodiest battles we have ever known. The Civil War.
On that day SC 1st Infantry (Greggs Company F) took the handwritten signatures of enlistment of three brothers and two nephews of my family. Leaving behind a brother who enlisted months later in another company and my great-great grandfather who stayed at home for three more years before enlisting in the same company. I wondered if this were a family decision brought about by rules of engagement. I often heard that one son needed to stay at home to care for the needs of the family. Of those boys, five brothers, three were killed. Two killed in action, one sent home with wounds that eventually killed him. My great-great-grandfather came home after the war. I have not located any papers to this time that show they owned any slaves. This is not to say that they didn't. It is probable. I have found papers where my great-great-great grandfather Lowrimore owned 300 acres of a plantation in the Marion County District.
Even though I have the proof of their bravery, battles and death’s on cold gray tombstones...I am left puzzled. What were they fighting for? The question still looms today, why so many conflicting opinions? Some say, we weren't fighting for the right to keep slaves, I believe this to be both true and false. I believe for some, they were indeed fighting for their right to keep slaves. The huge plantation owners would lose everything without their workforce of indigenous peoples. I believe for the majority, they fought for protection from oppression themselves. They weren't going to allow anyone to take away what was rightfully theirs (property, not people). For others it was the blood, guts and glory of war. For some, pure patriotism...remember this was only 85 years after becoming independent from England. Also, there were still Indian battles occurring all over the US.
I don't guess I will ever know the motives of my family. But today...I imagine that if I were the same person I am right now and I were a little girl on a plantation, a farm, a dock...wherever I was on the morning that I heard those booms, I would be scared for myself, my family going off to war and my little black girl slave friend. I know that I would have been just as confused at the motives of this war then as I am today. It is a very weird sense of being, living in Charleston. When your ancestral roots forage deeper into the ground than the oldest live oaks, we innately know which of the motivations of war we sympathized with and that knowledge gives us either enormous pride or painful shame. Or as in my case, both. I honor with all of my heart the memory of those family members and all of their brothers that lost their lives fighting this battle. I hurt for the wrongdoing of others that brought this on by ever trying to control or own a person in the first place. I love the South...I am not ashamed of it one bit. I am ashamed of those few, through greed and in darkness, slipped ships stealthily into our harbors and brought the curse of this war. I am ashamed of the men in fine suits on the foggy docks of our ports that traded money for lives.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
She'd Sell Her Soul for a Bag of M&M's
Thankfully, a breakthrough this week as I went through the motions of a "normal" day. I was returning from grocery store laden with bags when a neighbors sweet lab came bounding toward me. Her owners and I marvel at the bouncy Labrador’s timing skills. I am the Milk-Bone lady. I think she still loves me without them, but so much more with them. I laughed as she stuck her wet nose into my bags. It is her lucky day, I just so happened to have a brand new box of Milk-Bones. I put by bags down in the grass and opened the box. She gulped the crunchy bone tail wagging. Her owner shakes his head and says "She would sell her soul for a Milk-Bone". We laughed and I went inside, dropping my bags on the kitchen table. Snowy sits patiently waiting for her Milk-Bone.
As I began emptying the grocery bags. My M&M's spill out onto the counter. I didn't even make it through the grocery store before I had ripped open the bag. I laughed out loud. The M&M's are my Milk-Bones. It should not surprise me that the little chocolate discs would bust the clot that kept me from writing.
M&M's....They have kept me sane when pregnant, stable every 28 days and sinful on occasions. We go back a long ways. We have family stories about the M&M's. As children, my two younger siblings and I would have to share a bag. There was always an argument over who the counter was going to be. We watched the count so closely we could feel each others breath on our crossed arms at the table. The amount hardly ever came up even. The one or two left over would be fought over as well. If my brother was counting, he normally ended the argument by tossing the extras in his mouth. We would be mad at him for hours.
Our allowance at this time was 25 cents a week. I was one happy kid when it went to 50 cents! There was never any question about putting the money in a piggy bank or saving for some jump rope with lights in the handle..uh uh..that wasn't me. I was all about instant gratification. That raise in allowance covered the cost of a bag of M&M's and two Atomic Fireballs! Fireballs were for later. But the M&M's... they were poured out into my sweaty palms and gone 10 minutes into the ride home.
Well, the malady ensued when my copy cat little sister decided that M&M's were also her favorite. She was resourceful, into delayed gratification. She would also buy a bag of M&M's. After I finished my bag in the car I would look over at her gingerly holding her unopened bag smiling smugly at me.. I was pissed. I would tell her "You really need to eat them. They are just going to turn to mush in this hot car" She just smiled.
Hours later..That bag of M&M's sat on the dresser, taunting me. God, my stomach twisted and I swore I was dying of hunger. In my sweetest voice "Sister? can I have some of your M&M's?" The answer.… a confident negative nod of head. A few choice words and I left the room. Hours later I heard her rip open the bag in the bottom bunk bed in the dark. "Crunch, Crack...Cruuunch" This drove me insane. You don't crunch M&M's! You let them dissolve in your mouth until they were melting, then eat them. I couldn't stand the M&M abuse any longer and cried out. "Sister, I will give you whatever you want for the rest of the bag right now." The bag appeared at the side of my bunk. I snatched quickly lest she change her mind. "Wash the dishes on my turn for 4 times." she said. I agreed. She hated washing dishes more than anything. Well she didn't trust me and the next thing that got passed up to the bunk was her Bible and a pen. "Write it and sign on the back page." she instructed. I obliged from the moonlight streaming through the window. That Bible held M&M promises for years, obviously I never embraced the delayed gratification lesson from this. But, eventually I got a job and sister had to do dishes again.
They aren't iconic for me. I don’t' collect M&M memorabilia or follow the M&M NASCAR racer. I just want them when I want them. They have been on every diet I have even been on. Omg in a weak moment I decided to abstain from chocolate for Lent two years ago. Oh how I longed for a crinkly bag. I searched the candy shelves for a replacement..Nerds..Laffy Taffy..a Fun Size bag. Well, I will tell you this..IT WAS NOT FUN. I contemplated taking them back for misrepresentation. Forty days and forty nights. No, I won't sell my soul for M&M's. But, I guess I did barter again didn't I?
They sit by my happily tapping keyboard now. Oh, and Sister and I now share. On a recent trip to NC, two bags sat in the console.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
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