Mustang Rolling

Pedro sez, "Chili tonight, but uncertain Tamale"

2011-07-21T03:29:00.000-04:00

Our arrival at Hamer, SC, in search of the bottling plant for legendary Blenheim Ginger Ale was disappointing and strange. We found an unremarkable concrete block structure behind which was a labyrinth of piping and a very large tank marked "CO2". So much for natural carbonation. The front of the place has two resin or plastic eagles pitched and perched on pipe legs at either side of the door. It is sequestered down a short dirt road from a gate beyond which visitors were not allowed. The gate had been left open. The unadorned grounds are used as random storage for rusted implements. The plant sits on land used for other things. If you removed some of the modern junk and scattered a few 1956 Chevys around, it could pass for Cuba.

This is neither the original plant nor ownership. We got a different story from each of the several people we asked about the place none of whom we will quote. It did not fit our expectations or the projected image of the product. Hamer, we found, was right in the middle of the famous tourist attraction, South of the Border. On that account it did not seem like a wasted trip.

We quickly fell under the spell of Pedro's sombrero. South of the Border or "SOB" (black letters painted on a large YELLOW elevated water tank) for short, was born of the inventive talents of the late Alan Schafer more than 50 years ago. Schafer legally sold beer at his store just inches within the South Carolina side of the state line. Inches north was dry Robeson County, North Carolina, the citizens of which were only too happy to step over the line for good cold beer. So, we drove four hours looking for a ginger ale plant and wound up at a beer joint turned tourist trap empire.

At the beginning Schafer began importing trinkets from Mexico to enrich his South of the Border motif. He must have learned early on that bad taste can be bankable and that ethnic funmaking is fully acceptable as long as it's at the expense of the right ethnicity. Perhaps he saw that comic images of certain folks eating watermelons and picking cotton was causing considerable ill will and sharply diminishing revenue for traditional roadside stands.

In a few years the Frito Bandito would be drawing belly laughs with TV viewers and selling corn chips by the carload. Unlike Frito-Lay, however, Schafer didn't roll over when joshing the Mexicans became a raised issue. In spite of brewing demands to sanitize that image including an undocumented protest from the Mexican Embassy, Schafer pulled only a few of the more exaggerated Mexicanisms from his billboards, but then put them all in a colorful booklets which he sold quite successfully to customers in his gift shops. He gave up nothing while making a bit more money in the process. He possessed the instincts of the pure promoter unfettered by distractions.

We prowled around the compound checking out the amusements, following a Zebra, looking at the people seeking relief from the monotony of Interstate 95. Upon closer inspection we found that several buildings were still "Closed for the Winter". An adjacent motel promoted their "Winter Rates" of $33.95. One could still pay for a ride in an elevator up to Pedro's sombrero, but we saw the majority of visitors lined up at the restrooms. Pedro's Concrete Gallery was also closed, but we peeked in to find nothing more than an assortment of dreadful cement statuary of the type seen in the yards from hell along our way. Two gargantuan concrete Pedros are posted at the gallery entrance. They seem more the creatures of Diablo than Disney. In any respectable horror movie they'd come alive and turn the tourists to stone in revenge for the many gags at Mexican expense or just eat them when the cement tacos ran out.

With an endless supply of bored motorists informed of Pedro's charms by a dense series of signs many miles up the road, things are slow. The gaudy nature of the place was the bulk of its charm, but things now look worn and tired. It presents as a small town in decline. Shafer may have stored tumbleweed somewhere for the final phase of SOB. He could turned the demise of SOB into a profit. What we saw looked like the figurative winter in the middle of July for Alan Schafer's once joyfully gaudy empire of fun. Mr. Schafer died in 1991 and Pedro, while not on life support, is just a little short of wind and a bit long in the tooth.

Budget VooDoo - African Village for Ten Bucks

2011-04-17T07:55:00.001-04:00

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At the entrance to this compound a sign reads, " You Are Leaving the United States and Entering the Yoruba Kingdom, Oyotunji Village ". Since the respective continents are not contiguous, this already sounds somewhat suspect. The fact that this border checkpoint is in Beaufort County, SC, does some violence to the illusion, but we go forward and enter "Africa" anyway.

Our greeter and guide is pictured at the side of the GT. The message board under the stop sign asks visitors to blow their horn. Our greeter-guide did a pretty good job of blowing his. He was cordial, inviting and granted permission to photograph the village as long as the photos were not for commercial purposes, that is, not for profit. He then rounded up a few visitors to form a tour and collected Ten Dollars (US) from each person.

As we were conducted through the village our guide's commentary took a convoluted path weaving first through interpretive perhaps extemporaneous accounting of African lore then swerving back into contemporary low country South Carolina anecdotal references. His rich cultural tapestry went uninterrupted by even one common thread. Perhaps he was demonstrating Vachel Lindsay's classic poem, " The Congo ":
THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK
Walk with care, walk with care,
Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
And all the other
Gods of the Congo,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
It was an enjoyable visit, but we felt just a tad hoo-done.

OYOTUNJI - VooDoo Alive in SC

2011-04-17T07:55:00.000-04:00

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A reader asked whether we had encountered "AWOLOWO" during our visit to the Yoruba Kingdom, Oyotunji Village at Sheldon, SC. The short answer is YES as can be seen in the photo above. During our tour this was barely mentioned and we were not motivated to ask. We can report that the container is an actual burial vault. The round object in front is not a wheel cover, but a medallion of some sort which was also not explained. Just to the lower right of the medallion is a regulation metal name plate used immediately following burial, but prior to the arrival of a rendered granite headstone. We noticed that several sacred sites are garnished with spent half pint liquor bottles. Perhaps this an accommodation for the after life much as for Pharaohs in their pyramids. Whether the figure on top of the vault is, but a representative figure of one which may be within, we also failed to discover.

In our meeting with AWOLOWO we must say that the conversation was a bit one sided. It was reminiscent of our visit to the Military Mannequins at Bowman, SC, last October: mustangrolling.blogspot.com/2005/10/of-mustang-and-militia...

During the lull in our guide's presentation, we looked expectantly toward the next exhibit. Fortunately, he moved us along. Some things are more fun when you don't know too much about them.

The Art of Pearl Fryer on his John Deere

2010-03-28T03:45:00.000-04:00

If you have seen the recent John Deere Tractor commercials during major sports broadcasts, you will see the man who created a world of inspiring designs by his artful trimming of shrubs. This is an update of a previous blog entry.
The man is Pearl Fryar and he does the darndest things to shrubs. Mr. Fryar probably called these things bushes, shrubs or even by their given names as we, too, would prefer. Somebody from some agency, gallery or university came along and declared them to be "botanicals", the term which we are now obligated to use.

Back in January of 2006 we began to hear of Mr. Fryar and his work and decided to pop up to Bishopville. We posted some of these photos and copy back then in the blog.

It's a long way to Topiary, It's a long way I know....well, about 165 Miles to Bishopville, the Seat of Lee County, South Carolina. The mileage from Charleston just happens to coincide with the address of a most unusual botanical artist which he has rendered in topiary-numerics in his front yard. Just try working this out with your riding lawnmower. This is NOT Photoshop, but the real living topiary plants which form these numbers.

There being no Academy of Topiary Art around these parts, the artist, Mr. Pearl Fryar, is a self taught man. He began experimenting by cutting plants on his property into unusual forms in 1984. It seems to have been a lark which begat a hobby which begat a stylistic art form which is both eccentric and captivating. He branched out into larger and more daring shaping of his plants and hedges from an apparent desire to win the Yard-of-the-Month award.

Mr. Fryar wasn't working via cutouts from British garden magazines nor was he following any path known to him. He didn't call this art nor himself an artist. He just went out into his yard and nipped and tucked or whacked and hacked his way with only imagination as a guide. Now he has a yard full of topiary art which has spread throughout his neighborhood. .

Word of this extraordinary undertaking spread so far by early 2006 that paved parking and a turning circle for tour buses has been laid to accommodate the flow of visitors.

We didn't get to meet Mr. Fryar, but hope to learn more about him from the film which is called "A Man Named Pearl".

Canine Enchanted

2010-02-21T02:48:00.000-05:00

We were cruising up Highway 61 this afternoon and connected with Highway 165 just below Summerville, SC. We like to survey such open land and wooded tracts as remain for us to admire these days.

On 165 there's a road widening project for many miles with thin brush buffers left between that road and the subdivisions soon to come. It's all over except the shouting and the uptake of ticky tacky for that portion of 165. It will be expensive and the houses more artfully angled to scatter the effect of regimentation, but ticky tacky is ticky tacky and up it goes. Developers often stage what they call a dog and pony show before regulators or concerned neighbors to facilitate their plans. This show appears to have worked well.

There seemed no need to spend more time there than it took us to pass this ugly spot in the road. It was a very nice day, one of those promise-of-spring afternoons. 165 cuts through what it still relatively primitive territory and seeing more of that and less of civilized tracts gave the nice day back to us. We rolled down through miles of countryside so unspoiled that the few wretched dwellings along the way could not diminish the view. Crossing Highway 17 into Ravenel, taking Towles Road at Hollywood and Church Flats Road through Meggett brought us to Yonges Island.

Yonges Island has the good fortune to be interrupted frequently by marshes on which no one may yet build. What isn't wooded is open, sunny and salty. You get a sense of protected space down there so that development feels like a foreign war on a distant continent. Just before the end of 165 we noticed St. Mary's Catholic Church and pulled in to get a better look. Once out of the car we could barely make out the figure of a dog barking and charging toward us from far down a dirt road. When he got very close to us he suddenly turned and quietly faced the shrine for no apparent reason. We couldn't figure out whether he was protecting the church or was just as overwhelmed by the peace and quiet of that spot as we were.

MAN PAINTS TRAINS

2010-01-11T02:43:00.000-05:00

The Norfolk and Western Railway began life as City Point Railroad which was chartered by Virginia State Legislature in 1836. Mississippi & Ohio Railroad sold under foreclosure in 1881 and renamed Norfolk & Western Railroad. In 1998 Norfolk & Western Railway ceased to exist and was consolidated with the Southern Railway to form Norfolk Southern Corporation.

During those many years the railroad hauled coal in amounts, at distances which would have been considered record levels by many of the lesser lines. N&W also carried passengers, but as with all other railroads, that was a break even return at best. Hauling people is the least profitable cargo for any railroad. Amtrak provides abundant evidence to that effect.

In 1984 the Norfolk and Western Society was formed to collect, catalog and display information, images and artifacts which commemorate this nobile line. They currently have 10,000 photographic images, 56,000 drawings of engines, cars, sidings and associated structures, but this is only what has been organized so far. There is considerably more material to be had.

Why are people love trains so very much? We're drawn to all things railroad related, but it's hard to say why. Certainly railroads are prominent in our American history, but exactly what is it which drives this passion. Not just grown, but quite senior men and women spend countless hours with model trains. We do not have an answer or even an educated guess.

Our pictures above were taken of murals painted on commercial walls in Columbia, South Carolina. These are excellent illustrations of the rolling stock from several famous railroads. Notice the tiny bird in the photo "BIRD PAINTS CAR". It looks like he painted the fender as he was passing over. "MAN PAINTS TRAINS" is the title of the balance of our photos.

We can't explain why we took a three hundred mile round trip up to the state capital just to snap a few photos of paintings of trains, but it was well worth the trip. We love trains and we want to see more of them.

Gentrification's Outer Ring.

2009-11-17T01:16:00.000-05:00

We have paused at the Neighbor's Store at 1740 East Montague Avenue in North Charleston, S.C., to gauge the outermost concentric ring of regentrification, the epicenter of which isolated between Virginia and Spruill Avenues. That's quite a few blocks east of here. They call that section the "Olde Business District", but we'll use O.B.D.

We fear that the superfluous "e," a misdemeanor of affectation, may come back to bite the upwardly mobile in the rear in the near future. As they consolidate their place in the brave new world of North Charleston, they will certainly eschew middle brow suburban trappings as surely as the blue collar past will be swept under Oriental rugs. " Olde " is the misdemeanor which invariably leads to the felonious "Pointe" with which many a subdivision is tagged. It simply won't do. It won't do at all.

The O.B.D. has been careful to nurture old buildings into new and acceptable uses. They wisely wish to avoid the complete makeover which kills the local soul. Where then will Neighbor's Store fit into the plan? We note that groceries and candy replace beer and ice on typical convenience store front promotions. It's still a dicey neighborhood, but we found a kind and courteous lady within. Frankly, most such places run us off once we pull out the camera, but the lady wished us well and spoke favorably of the Mustang.

We like it and we hope that there's a place at the table for Neighbor's Store when regentrification is completed.

The Clubbable Mustang

2009-10-23T23:53:00.001-04:00

As Americans, we like tout the concept of the Melting Pot, the tradition of assimilating all comers into the one big happy family which is the United States. We wax eloquent on public monuments, we talk a pretty good game of it in our classic movies and it runs out of our ears around every election season. The old E Pluribus Unum: "Out of many, one", is all over our money.

Do we put our money where out mouth is? No, we use it to pay club dues. We love clubs and we love belonging them. Some facet of human nature enjoys belonging where others do not. Certainly we love being part of this one big happy family of Americans, but we'd kind like having that fifty-first star on our own private flag flown over our own private club.

We floated Samuel Johnson's concept of one being "clubbable" in our visit to and picture of the Poinsett Club in Greenville, SC last year. The Poinsett has that burnished look of old money and first family networking. We stopped by Harold's Country Club at Yemassee, SC, last December, a bit more toward the other end of the rainbow. We beheld the Oaks Country Club at Goose Creek, SC, in November of 2005 and lamented its future as the masthead of yet another development in Berkeley County. In May of '06 we rolled over to the Sea Island Yacht Club in the village of Rockville, SC, just prior to their annual mega regatta. On the very first day of this year we pulled up to Mel's Filling Station out on Dorchester Road in North Charleston, SC, only to find the pumps to be dry window dressing for what is actually the meeting place for the Low Country Model A Club, a sort of semi-secret age specific automobile group. Later in January we enjoyed the open air quality of the Spit and Argue Club at Columbia, SC, our state capital where the General Assembly does quite a bit of both in their very exclusive public club. Most recently we can be seen incognito sneaking up to the Wow-Wee Country Club...INC, apparently some sort of private corporate club for executives who seek the remove of Bamberg County. We were captivated by the sheer exuberance of the name. The unassuming nature of the clubhouse in the background adds to the stealth and charm of the place.

You can see the diversity of the clubs from the photos provided. While private clubs may seem anathema to the American way, there is no nation which has more of them. If we are actually some sort of melted goods, we seem to use many individual pots into which we want to we want to be poured with our own chosen alloys.

TUNNEL VISION - More Midlands Mystery

2009-09-27T12:20:00.000-04:00

Don't let our insurance company see this. Here we are again going the wrong way on the wrong side of the road around a dangerous mountain curve...and NO ONE is in the car ( as usual ). You can bet your blinking blogs that we were plenty scared...and who wouldn't be !

We're a bit enchanted with the Midlands, actually Columbia, SC, the state capital and bedrock of the all knowing, all seeing, all blogging cognizanti. Naturally, one would be a bit taken aback to run into a mountain road tunnel right in Columbia. If you run into this " tunnel " things will go hard for you. It would be like those old Road Runner cartoons where characters would slam into a wall on which had been painted a road only to crash and peel off the surface. That's just what this is: a tunnel painted on a brick wall.

This is a wonderful piece of outdoor art painted on a wall at a Columbia parking lot by the artist Blue Sky in 1975 which is called " Tunnel Vision ". If you look closely it seems as if textured paper has been through an ink jet printer and there's just a bit of " banding " on the print. That is the texture of the bricks coming through. The only three dimensional prop is the guard rail. Everything else is painted. In person this is a stunning image which suddenly confronts drivers along a relatively drab section of Taylor Street.

There are some unkind critics who suggest that " Tunnel Vision " is not just artwork, but a theme for our Legislature. We pass off all political footballs to folks such as Ms. Manning at LaurinLine. We feel that driving into painted tunnels is a safer sport.

To get the true perspective of this display see the photo posted below:

The Duke of Berle

2009-09-27T02:22:00.000-04:00

In the Pantheon of abandoned commercial spaces, the former site of the Berle Manufacturing company rates high on the stunning index. There is more parking here than in all of the metered spaces in the City of Charleston. One could, some have had sports car racing events here.

This place may be found just past Signal Point Road on the right hand side of Folly Road heading toward the beach.

The structures on his property are disused except for the space on the south end of the complex. It's been a very popular French restaurant and a smoky bar for boozers who live near the edge of the edge of America. It is some sort of chicken wing place now. Otherwise, the abject vacancy of the place is breathtaking. The Olympics could be held within this buildings and with no blocking of internet access.

How often we've passed this place and duly noted the scope of its oddness, but paid no attention to what might be found BEHIND the buildings. We figured that little more than empty liquor bottles, spent safety socks, needles and such might be there for the taking. Little did we know. Using a tip from an unnamed source, we eased around to the back of the building and saw what you see in the photos above.

These murals are clearly signed outdoor artwork and not criminal graffiti which we neither abide nor promote. The artist seems to go by the name of "Sheep head," a breed of fish to our book. We doubt that he's exhibited in any of the upscale northeastern galleries yet. Maybe these paintings are designed to drive off trespassers by sheer dint of fear. Whatever the commission, we were quite taken with this stuff.

Now if this quality of artwork could be painted on the front in what might be a more commercially instructive message, the parking spots might begin filling up. This fellow may not be king of the outdoor artists, but he is certainly the Duke of Berle.

A Last Look at Randy's Hobby Shop

2009-09-26T00:18:00.000-04:00

[ FOR BETTER RESOLUTION, CLICK ON IMAGE ] An item in the Charleston CITY PAPER by T. Ballard Lesemann http://spoletobuzz.typepad.com/backchannel/2007/01/randys_hobby_sh.html sent us over to Mt. Pleasant, SC, to have a last look at yet another local treasure which is on it way out: Randy's Hobby Shop.

With the exception of some public nuisances, it's almost always sad to see a local business close. When it's a business which speaks to our early life adventures it will be missed all the more. Randy's has closed its doors. They specialized in delighting the spirits the very young, the very old and every group in between. Some hobbies are simple diversions, but others are educational, even inspiring.

In 1968, Randy Dicks of Dayton, Ohio, bought the rights for custom blending of model airplane fuel. Sooner or later most boys were lucky enough to get one of those model airplanes which had an actual internal combustion motor which was flown and controlled with a set of strings. They'd fly in a circle like the astronaut's pod on those giant centrifuges. You could make the plane climb and dive simply by the way you held the strings.

Dicks moved to South Carolina in 1974 and opened his hobby business. Over the last 29 years, the models and even some of the hobbies went through great changes, but the one constant was the fascination and delight which they bring. Mr. Dicks must have loved hobbies and those who followed them. What could be more rewarding than seeing a little boy's eyes grow large a saucers on walking into a place like Randy's. Old boys, too, were dazzled by the massive inventory at Randy's.

Advances in radio controlled devices boosted the hobby and the business. Regional championships are held in every part of the country. One has only to drive out to James Island County Park to see men well into

Supply and Da Man at Edisto

2009-09-25T11:46:00.000-04:00

We are on Edisto Beach, SC, in front a place which promotes its Ugly Fish Gift shop. The green roof and blue trim are new, but the gas pumps it covers are not. Behind this bright greeting is the old solid concrete block building from which Whaley's Store has been supplying islanders for many years.

In the days before the supermarket or convenience store came to the north end of the island, all things came from Whaley's. If you didn't bring it with you then you went to Whaley's. If your ran out if it you went to Whaley's. They carried everything from soup to nuts, from beer to ice, light fishing tackle to chicken necks and crabbing sinkers. If one had not been prudent enough to full the gas tank long before reaching the beach, it was fuel at Whaley's price or he could sell you some nice flip-flops for the long walk up Hwy. 174. Whaley even had some sort of weather station rigged up at the store which provided customers with more of a curiosity than forecast.

Pricing and policy were not set by remote home office. Marion Whaley was the man who made all rules, regulations and revenue. It was all well and good to stew over the higher prices at Whaley's, but there it was, take it or leave it. It came down to the simple economic principle on Edisto, " Supply and Da Man ". Da Man being Marion Whaley.

Folks tend to fall into partying ways once settled in at the beach. When more, beer, ice or tonic water was needed, Whaley's was the safest, the only choice when it came down to driving any distance under those impairments.

There was, of course, unrelieved grumbling about the high prices at Whaley's, but we all went there and we all got what we wanted ultimately admitting that we could well have brought what we needed. Whaley's was part of what beach life should be. A stay at the beach was, after all, a getaway. You weren't spending the weekend at a shopping mall. Implicit in any sane person's getaway is the removal from stores of convenience as well as from the general crush of urban life, traffic and people.

Those were the days when an old AM radio might sit on the kitchen counter and pick up mostly the sharp pops of static from distant lightning. The few TV's around were small black and white models with little aluminum flags flying from their rabbit ears. We had yellow anti-bug bulbs at the street side of the house to save people from tumbling down the steps. Folks sat in the dark on screened porches, rocked in chairs to the sound of the surf, fast melting ice clinking in raised glasses with the only light coming from cigarettes. You could see faces only when the smoker drew hard on their cigarette.

One of Edisto's primary virtues is the fact that it's just a little too far for uninvited guests to simply happen by. Brazen were those who would drive a minimum of 45 minutes from Charleston over largely rural roads and claim to have just been in the neighborhood upon darkening your doorway. So, in those rare sober moments of beach weekends at Edisto, folks generally agreed that Whaley's prices were small prices to pay for the peace and relative solitude we so enjoyed in the old days.

Besides, we often went down on the chance that we might see Mr. Whaley himself and extract some bit of wisdom, some opinion or some advice on fishing, weather or sports. Whaley was decidedly charming in a salty sort of way. There have been Whaleys on Edisto Beach almost as long as the sand has been there, but they are far less vulnerable to erosion.

Fortunately, Edisto Beach still has a Whaley Store, still has indigenous Whaley families and is still a full 45 minutes drive from uninvited guests.

The Mustang You DO NOT Want to Meet

2009-09-25T02:34:00.000-04:00

We've presented this Windveil Blue 2005 Mustang GT at places, from angles, in situations which we think are enjoyable and inviting. We'd like to think we're the kind of car folks might like to meet someday. Well....here's one Mustang GT you DO NOT want to meet or even see in your rearview. Chances are you won't see him before he sees you.

The car belongs to the City of Charleston ( SC ) Police Department's Traffic Division. It is certainly the largest and probably the most prestigious municipal police force in South Carolina. CPD has its very own unique radio code system, examples: auto accident = Signal 40, traffic stop = Signal 19, DUI = Signal 45 and they do not use a " 10 " prefix which every other department in the US does. They have gone to an " On Glass " antenna for their two-way radio system which means no unsightly holes in that nice Mustang sheet metal. In fact, their GT might even be able to outrun the radio.

They patrol a municipality with very challenging and diverse traffic problems where some streets date back to pre-Revolutionary war days, many of which are one way. They deal with a community which has a military college, a medical university, a hell raising party college, a lot of crazy ( Signal 67 ) locals, an abundance of confused tourists all of whom have cars, lots and lots of cars who can't get there from here, but take to the road anyway.

We eased over to CPD headquarters ( 75 in radio code ) and got up with the traffic officer who pilots this black and white GT. He's big guy, a very nice fellow who kindly obliged us by parking along side and activated his blue lights which are the new LED type by the way. He asked how we liked the performance of our car and we replied that for some reason it never seemed to run over the speed limit in the City of Charleston jurisdiction, but ran a bit faster outside the city limits. We'd certainly enjoy seeing Unit #525 anytime socially, but ...not on business, please!

WITH LIBERTY AND MUSIC FOR ALL

2009-09-24T02:51:00.000-04:00

One of our great pleasures is in discovering inventive, unusual or outrageous murals. Such murals are almost always painted on unattractive, unadorned expanses of masonry surfaces which were duller than dishwater and far less clean. They bring colorful relief the grayed out commercial sectors along our path.

This delightful patchwork of bricks in the great wall pictured above was in no need of such relief especially with the deep green carpet of grass before it. We initially thought this a great miscarriage upon the clay, an adventure in visual flatulence if you will. The garish colors fairly belch out from the bricks. Art this ain't, but we began to get the point.

The next to the last character on the wall is, of course, the logo for the University of Georgia and we are in Athens. Every college campus hungers for some force of wrong which they may right by protest. We're well versed in most of the causes celebres, but were unaware that music was being withheld from rightful ears by church, state or dreaded bourgeois parents. We turned on the FM radio and there wasn't much censored. We logged on to the internet and cubic yards of free music came forth.

After much thought and some research we came to understand that both the University and the town of Athens are very strong on the teaching, performing and appreciation of music. "MUSIC 4 EVERY 1" seems more a pledge to expand the opportunities in music to a wider variety of people than has been customary.

Democratisation or Democratization of information seems to be one of the celebrated changes in our social order brought on by the internet. Less often is knowledge the property of the literary, technical or social elite. The imperative statement on the wall seems to ask the same of music's custodians. No longer, they hope, must one swear a blood oath to The Juilliard School or be a descendent of Hector Berlioz or find the hidden key to open the doors to music. Whether one aims to become a virtuoso or simply fiddle around with music, they will have that chance. Certainly talent has not been the sole determinant of success in modern music, so why not give everyone a shot ?

Willkommen zum Mustang-Rollen

2009-09-21T00:57:00.000-04:00

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Rural roads wind the rolling hills of north Georgia providing a nice blend of cultivated fields, country homes and a scattering of charming tiny towns. On this first day of April under a brilliant blue sky we thus made our way toward Helen, Georgia. We undertook this bit of investigative touring having seen an ad in the SC lowcountry's " ISLAND LIFE" which showed a sketch of the place. Obviously, we need little if any provocation for hitting the bricks.

Good weather, open roads and the budding florets of Spring made the day. Changing gears with the gentle twists, turns and easy inclines came as smoothly as the fluid sweep of an old fly fisherman.

Suddenly we are met by a phalanx of bumper to handlebar car and bike traffic. Around that last turn, Helen presents as " Little Bavaria ", an entire town made in the image of a German village. It is a set piece which seems to have required unanimous consent of every owner of every patch of land to cooperate in the making of this fantasy. We imagined their Board of Architectural Review handing down stern decisions, " Sorry, not German enough. We want a little more gingerbread on those gables ".

This happened to be that one weekend during which everyone came to Helen. We had the feeling that everyone in the world was on Helen's e-mail list except Windveil. Babies in strollers, elders on walkers, fraternity boys crawling, everyone was there in a three generation array. You can't get some of the worst brats to eat bratwurst so there is a Wendy's for the unwilling.. Pommes-Frites mit dem?

The Hantzel and Gretel Candy Kitchen and Chocolate Factory caught our eye. There could have been a thousand or more people in Minideutschland at that moment so we took a pass on the H&G, but we managed to scatter some bread crumbs as we left in order that we might find our way back once the crowd cleared. That's as much GPS as we care to have.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN, HELEN

Racing Canonballs !

2009-09-19T00:04:00.000-04:00

Always competitive, we were challenged to race a ball fired from that brass cannon at the Citadel. It's the only college in the world with a drag strip designed for cars vs. cannons. The cadets had some gunpowder left over from their New Year's Eve celebration so they wanted to rumble. We had blown all of our fireworks so we decided to lay down a Windveil Blue streak for the Long Gray Line.

Well, actually the GT is parked on the driveway to the parade grounds at the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. This is just follow up to our most recent posting of the F-4 C Phantom jet fighter. That picture showed none of the surrounding buildings at the Citadel. We are in front of the Padgett - Thomas barracks and the official seal of the State of South Carolina hangs just above the arch.

The Citadel is a four year military college which still fields a full corps of cadets. Their graduates have fought in every war in which our nation has been engaged including the Civil War or as it's called down here, " The War Between the States ". In that war they fought on the side of the Confederacy, a legacy which had been celebrated ever since Lee surrendered to Grant...until the wet blanket of political correctness put an end to the singing of " Dixie " at their football games. " Dixie " is still played at a few limited events including some of the parade days. It ain't dead yet.

The Corps just as all other military colleges in the country had been all male until that policy was legally challenged some years back. During that controversy, a supporter of tradition printed up a batch of bumper stickers in blue which read: :"SAVE THE MALES" . It was wildly successful, but the Citadel's defense against the admission of females was not. That, as they say, is history and the corps soldiers on.

It is a beautiful campus and home to a proud corps of cadets. We are grateful to them for not being present since explaining this blog and our reasons for taking these pictures to anyone takes a long time and makes us look both suspicious and ....kind of crazy. We'd have been run out of the gates at bayonet point, but in viewing the account of our visit, we hope that they will know that our hat's off to them for the job they do, for the sacrifices they make for their country.

Navy Hymn

2009-09-11T19:03:00.000-04:00

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

Rockville Regatta: Lull Before the Storm

2009-09-06T02:04:00.000-04:00

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What is not sky, land or Windveil Blue Mustang is the historic Sea Island Yacht Club located on the bank of the Bohickett Creek at Wadmalaw Island, SC. In a few days, Saturday, August 5, these quiet empty spaces will be invaded by sailors, their boats, trailers and equipment. There will also be wall-to-wall spectators, drunk and wild and very loud. There will be hundreds of little bimbettes trying to fill out or perhaps fall out of their abbreviated bathing suits. Every parent cringes in hopes that it will not be their daughter who lifts her top and twirls them for the camera. They live in dread of seeing a TV commercial in the wee hours for, " BABES OF THE ROCKVILLE REGATTA : GIRLS GONE WILD VOL. 50 "

Thus will begin the annual Rockville Regatta. A regatta is a race between sailboats in this case. Every summer there is a series of regattas held at each of the local yacht clubs in the Charleston area and as far north as Wrightsville Beach, NC, and as far south as Savannah. Rockville has hosted a regatta for well over one hundred years. There is some sort of legend that it began as a rivalry between two friends or family members, but such legends are usually created by a two or more drunks who tell some sober person, but later forget that they made it up in the first place.

Different class boats will race at the regatta. The Y-Flyer, Sunfish, E and C Scow series boats, Lasers and many others including the indigenous Sea Island One Design ( SIOD ). The SIOD is a sailboat somewhat boxy in design, but is a sentimental favorite. These are not computer designed esoteric hulls such as Ted Turner might skipper in a stupor, but more home grown in its lines and a great deal less expensive to make. Competition to take home the silver is certainly the objective, but tradition will fill their sails as much as the wind.

The Rockville Regatta is the last race of the series each year. You can be assured that by Sunday evening when all, but a few residual young drunks will have been swept up, the good citizens of tiny, secluded Rockville will feel human once again as life returns to what it seems in the photograph.

SLEAHEAD, IRELAND

2009-09-05T19:45:00.000-04:00

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We have made our way across Ireland from Shannon to Sleahead on the Dingle Peninsula. We are seven days into the Emerald Isle. Here at Sleahead, these dramatic geological formations behind the GT had inspired David Lean to make the film, " RYAN'S DAUGHTER ". On the beach below this point, Irish partisans in the film had caused a merchant vessel to wreck on the treacherous rocks after which they gathered arms and ammunition from that wreckage for their cause.

The " struggle " is never far beneath any historical account or late night pub tirade in Ireland. It is as ever-present and abiding as the rocky coast itself. Rugged is the very history of Ireland itself. Never ending are feelings engendered in conflict and passed down ahead of all other traditions, save the Cross. Fatalistic are these people in their curious blend of resistance to their enemy and their grudging surrender to an inequitable fate. They have dug such holes that we dare not look down upon them lest we tumble in after them. The fall is easier than one might imagine. We come to this and not as strangers.

We are in fact four old boys, sons of the South, making our way through this oddly beautiful land. Today in our wandering through the town of Killarney we saw all of the usual tourist traps, the grizzled old boys just a few steps behind the next pint, a juggling fool looking for coins and a tiny boy playing a discordant tune on an accordion, but with neither hope nor container for money. Sometimes we want to spit on the able young deadbeats who shake us down for fun money, but often those who take our hearts in honest ways give us no way to save them. This is an Irish norm.

By and by we ran into " Mustang Sally's " seen in the second photo. There is a fair representation of an early GT in the sign, but the more recognizable ensign is the "Stars and Bars", that not genuine flag of the Confederacy, the victim of every redneck misappropriation from Klan rallies to stock car racing. We would ignore this, but for the fact that it is clear that this version of the Flag is all they know of our "struggle". In sadder study it becomes clear that they feel a kinship perhaps in rebellion, but mostly to the " Lost Cause ". In many foreign countries, young people use the Confederate Flag as an in-your-face revolt against cultural norms, that is, they hate their parents and use this to make the point. In Ireland, however, it's more the kinship to that " Lost Cause " which makes the link.

Few tablets read as truly as the Irishman's face. During a minor cattle stampede yesterday, we spoke to the cattleman as one of our numbers holds cattle back home. When the cattleman found out that we were not English, but citizens of the southern US, his smile was broad and welcoming. He took time out to talk of his cattle, ask after ours, and tell us all about his trips to the US. Some of the men we meet know a bit of Charleston, the seat of Rebellion, and when we tell them that the Mayor of our town is The Honorable Joseph Patrick Riley, Jr., they smile with a pride there is no mistaking.

This evening, our last in the current digs, we had a large table for the evening meal. For the first time in our visit a lady was playing an upright piano, mostly well known show tunes from a printed music book. After a few pops, you know what our boys so often wish to hear which we may not hear back home. It's that very song, that forbidden one. Your humble correspondent took up the dare and went over to the lady who had never asked for requests. When the request was made, she turned with blazing eyes and asked, " So..you're rebels, are you now ? " to which the only honest answer was " Yes, Ma'am, that we are !"

When you're more than a few sheets to the wind and ever so far from home and a dear old gal plays " DIXIE " on the piano slowly and develops the tune progressively, it's no shame to shed a few tears in land which loves the " Lost Cause " as much if not more the we.

KING RICHARD

2009-09-05T13:07:00.001-04:00

There's a well worn adage to the effect that a man will drive endlessly when lost before stopping to ask directions. That is a form of surrender to which no self respecting male driver willingly submits this side of a life and death event. It's OK of he's looking for a hospital to deliver someone else in need of medical attention. It's humiliating if he's just looking for some point of interest on a weekend lark. It just isn't done.

Bound for Ridgeway, SC, we found ourselves breaking new ground on S.C. Hwy. 34 out of Kershaw County. By and by there seemed no evidence that Ridgeway was in our future. As the miles slipped by it became obvious that we were on the wrong end of Hwy 34. Even the most inconsequential hamlets sooner or later show up on a road sign. The big boys: Charleston, Columbia, Greenville, get a hundred miles advance notice, but you're lucky to get a three mile warning of the tiny towns. No sign of the Ridgeway sign.

Suddenly we saw a sign which immediately brought to our mind's ear a rousing song by Bruce Springsteen: " Coming into Darlington County....". Bam! There we were in Darlington. We figured that we'd salvage our time and fuel by finding the famous Darlington Speedway. It was one of the very first and came at a time when those who were making big names at Darlington had already made big names with the Treasury Department. Many a good driver's skills were honed on the back roads running bootleg booze and evading Federal Agents or " Revenuers ". These weren't boys who'd been sent to expensive racing schools on weekends to be instructed in piloting Porsches. These were kids lived to drive and drove to life in the most literal and dangerous way.

In our youth we admired these daring rebels with criminal records and complete disregard for safety. It was everything a boy of that time wanted: fast driving, dangerous thrills and a complete disregard for authority. That was the heart of what became NASCAR which has today become a sophisticated corporate entity. Once the race cars were sponsored by manufacturers of spark plugs, motor oil and tires. Today it's software vendors, soft drink makers and laundry detergents. Can a Summer's Eve car be far behind ? Oh, how the mighty have fallen !

When we rolled up to the speedway a very nice security agent offered to let us walk into the stands to photograph the track from a restricted point. We were apparently not the first to wonder whether we might drive on to the track and are certainly not the last to have our request politely declined.

Upon leaving we noticed a series of large photos of the Hall of Fame drivers. How young these fellows seemed today. One in particular radiated both youth and optimism and had won in his day the largest group of devoted fans. We had to stop and pay homage to one of the all time greats: Good King Richard. He no longer pushes the throttle of #43, but promotes headache powders. But, like Clark Gable, no matter what he will always be the king. Long live the King.

IN LIEU OF CHURCH ATTENDANCE

2009-08-30T21:18:00.002-04:00

This could be titled "IN LIEU OF A CHURCH", but fear not as a very real church lives within the covers. We are at 120 Broad Street near the corner of Legare, Charleston, SC. We found a place in front of the church while the service was being conducted. We arrived a bit late so we decided to enjoy the church from the exterior.
Under the wraps is The Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. John the Baptist

The Cathedral Parish was established by Bishop John England, the first Bishop of Charleston. The actual date of construction varies depending upon the source referenced, but it may be generally considered to have begun in the early part of the nineteenth century. It was and is the Mother Church of the Roman Catholic Diocese
in Charleston. It was named The Cathedral of Saint John and Saint Finbar.

That church burned in 1861. The rebuilding began in 1890 and the church as we know it today was completed in 1907. Unlike the design of churches of many denominations, The Cathedral had no steeple upon completion. Those unfamiliar with the sacraments may think that the shroud which now covers the church represents a holy season. Actually, it is massive netting intended to prevent debris from falling upon passers by during construction of a steeple which is to finally grace The Cathedral.

This type of netting is used on many buildings. It is one of the steps which even builders of secular structures take in order to avoid the civil sacrament of litigation. Peace be with you.

Ridgeway's Anti Crime Kiosk

2009-08-19T00:09:00.001-04:00

We are parked in front of the Ridgeway Law Enforcement Complex on the main street of that small town in Fairfield County, S.C. This is actually the former home of Ridgeway's police department which served the town from 1940 through 1990. I doesn't quite fit into the Mustang's trunk, but was for those fifty years more than sufficient quarters for Ridgeway's one police officer who reportedly served without an automobile.

It does seem odd that a town which was the site of a very successful gold mine wouldn't need a larger police force. For almost 12 years Kennecot Minerals harvested 28 tons of silver and 46 tons of gold from their Ridgeway mine site. Our experience with Western movies suggests that bandits loved to rob the trains which brought the payroll money to miners as well as those which carted off the mined gold. There was profit in either direction for robbers who cared enough to feast upon the easy pickings. We were disappointed in not finding accounts of daring robberies and bloody shootouts over so much gold and silver.

While it was not a result of gold fever, Ridgeway did eventually hire a second police officer. The 2000 Census plotted Ridgeway's population at 328. That gave each officer 164 citizens to serve and protect, a ratio which would (further) bankrupt most major metro areas, but it has worked well for Ridgeway. The only problem with the second officer was that the station house was not large enough for two people. The town then took yet another timely step and purchased a police cruiser in which to place the second officer. Such are the demands of never ending municipal growth.

THE GOOD EARTH

2009-08-06T02:48:00.002-04:00

Please pardon the mud on our quarter panels, but we love the feel of the Good Earth under our feet. We love the sound it makes when our tires sling it up into the wheel wells. There's a rewarding feeling when it gives way to the car. When we slide the car or spin the rear wheels in the dirt there is only pleasure. There is no horrible tire squeal, no stinking rubber smoke, no horrified slack jawed onlookers. Unlike costly cracking and crumbling pavement which falls apart, someone (no us) just puts the dirt back more or less where it belongs so that we can scatter it all to hell the next time we've a mind to do so. It's a gift that keeps on giving.

Our love of the soil and working it in our special way is the main reason why we never paved our driveway. Now, your suburbanite can't very well come flying down his street and suddenly cut the wheel to slide the car sideways up to the door. Every set of pink foam rubber hair curlers would be overloading the police switch board. Those broad black skid marks in the drive would have his Yard of the Month sign revoked on the spot. The TV people would be show up, canvas the neighbors, find one with a grim facial wart, another missing some teeth and maybe a third spilling out of her Mu Mu and put the lot of them on the evening news. " First time we seen that car in the neighborhood, we knew nothin' good would come of it", or words to that effect would spill out of the TV set.

We just love our little place in the country and welcome visitors, but maybe that old canon keeps some folks away. Perhaps a pineapple would help, but that's a nickname for a hand grenade. While it was once considered a symbol of hospitality, we never much liked the old cast iron groom holding out a hitching ring which people used to have by their mailboxes. So, we got two old boys to dress up in the red coat and put them on horses so that they can watch out for guests, tie up their horses and put the dirt back in place when necessary. They both flunked the entrance exam to become Civil War reenactors so we just let 'em think that they're practicing for roles in the remake of "The Patriot".

As can be seen, this IS horse country and what better place for a Mustang ? Now, just because our boys wear the red coat, that does not mean that they participate in the fox hunt. Fox hunting these days is a bit different than most imagine. First, there's no fox just the urine of a fox is used. How this is obtained, we do not wish to guess. In horse country things are not always as they seem. The untutored often refer to "horse racing," but around here it's called the Steeplechase. However, just as no fox is hunted in a fox hunt, no steeple is being chased by the riders. Being a faith based community, we thought this the best policy.

Crown O' Thorns ?

2009-07-26T13:53:00.000-04:00

We had set out to visit Ridgeway, South Carolina this afternoon, but a curveball in Camden sent us in the opposite direction. We don't use Map Quest or Google mapping because it is so often misleading for the out of the way places we seek to visit and the big towns with which they have somewhat better luck are already known to all. Our actual map showed a Hwy 34 so we took the only one we saw which went in one direction. Mile after mile after mile and no Ridgeway, not even a sign to Ridgeway. How one can go so wrong for so many miles is not something we can explain, but that's what happened as many miles were covered.

Where we ultimately went and what we there saw will be shared in a subsequent posting. For the moment we want to begin at the end of our long and misdirected adventure. At the point where the towel was tossed we resolved to find our way home by means of a more direct route. In short order an array of highway signs presented in a cluster much as every hamlet welcomes one with a host of civic club and church signs at the city limit. In the midst of all this we saw good old US Highway 52, an almost straight shot cutting through the Pee Dee and terminating at the fabled Dual Lane which is the southern end of Rivers Avenue.

Making our way down 52 and taking care to avoid the many speed traps of the many hamlets along the way, our slower pace gave us a more in depth view of the sights along our path. Next to and a very close second behind auto racing related interests we saw a great number of signs directing motorists in matters of faith. Many signs evoked the saving grace of specific denominations while others drew the viewer to that one church as a specific location which could do for you what others might not. Other signs were less specific, but more instructive by invoking damnation which overcomes the wicked, a general warning to those who don't follow the Scriptures and, by implication, those who fall behind in their tithing.

We could never figure out which specific church or denomination looked best from the road, but the one billboard which said the most with the least wording was an eye catcher. It showed a very humble faucet or spigot, the type which most rural kitchens had over their sinks many years ago. From this common "spiket", as it's often called in these parts, flowed a stream of clear water which suddenly turned into red wine once it splashed into finely cut crystal clearly intended only for a very special Cabernet. This, of course, demonstrates the First Miracle: the turning of water into wine. In this image we found the suggestion that the even lowest sinner can become a premium Christian with the proper application of faith. It seams reasonable. We also wondered if this suggested that with the proper faith one could turn their recession degraded investments into consecrated profits. Less reasonable, but with faith who can say ?

Close to home on 52 between Moncks Corner and Goose Creek we spotted what appeared to be a serious OSHA violation off the road. Turning into a side road we were confronted with is seen in the photo. It seems a very dangerous way to store one's gardening implements, but maybe this was a means of theft prevention. With hundreds of acres of valuable plants it must take many of these to work the gardens. We first thought this to be a very powerful electromagnet which held all the tools securely over the weekend which then fell into the arms of waiting workers when the boss threw the switch on Monday. We feared that it could suck our radiator clean through the grille.

Upon closer inspection it took on a decidedly Bolshevik aura. Did the workers of the world throw down their tools? We can't recall. Was this a Collective in Berkeley County ? Or, could this be a Crown of Thorns fashioned by fate for those who travel the state roads and poke fun at Holy messages? If so, it would have fallen like an avalanche upon our disrespectful head. Thankfully, it did not.

When the scales fell from our windshield it became quite clear that this is what many wounded veterans of Spoleto festivals know to be site specific art or " SSA " in our book. SSA is anything which anyone puts anywhere as long as it evokes something, but means nothing. This, however, means something is linked logically to their corporate calling. We find it quite dazzling, but wonder why it's not on the highway side or at the customer entrance where it might sell some plants. This dramatic work hangs over the service entrance where only deliveries are made and workers may pass. Perhaps it is a gift to those to work the fields for the nursery or might this just be a bit of corporate ego? Is this for those who till the soil or did this just soil the till?

Of a Moses in Berkeley County

2009-07-17T01:16:00.003-04:00

This is Lake Moultrie, the last link in the Catawba Chain, a series of seven lakes formed and controlled by hydroelectric electric plants along the way. On the other end of this chain is the Catawba River which begins in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina. The Catawba finds its way to South Carolina through Lake Wylie on the border with North Carolina. It takes a circuitous route to find its way into Lake Moultrie in Berkeley County, South Carolina It has run through 9 sub-basins and 3,000 stream miles by the time it arrives. This time it did not arrive.

In the first photo we were at Lyons Beach viewing a critical drought. Not since 1951 had the lake level been this low. We called it a Martian Landscape, but scampering across the dry lake beds had been an assortment of Earthlings as astonished as if they had just landed upon Mars. We were told by a lady at the landing that there had been considerable mischief visited upon the land where the lake usually lived. She said that it had been necessary to call in the authorities to dispatch the troublemakers. From the foot prints and All Terrain Vehicle tire tracks we could pretty well determine the paths of the troublesome ones. Without our Lake Bed Tires we were unable to follow those tracks to our own mischief making. We later found that would not wish to follow each footstep.

In the second photo it is clear that the drought has passed. Those who had scampered about the dry lake bed buggering around with things which Lake Moultrie had once revealed now skim upon its surface with abandon. The lady at the landing had also alleged that there had been some tampering with grave sites accessible during the drought. This act we remove from the category of mischief and place it in dark hole of dirty deeds. We figure that if you don't get your share of bothering a person while they are above ground, you may not further trouble them once they are below. With this in mind we day dreamed that perhaps some Berkeley County Moses came upon their crimes and bid the lake to return with a vengeance.

EXISTENTIAL ERRANDS or Who Done It ?

2009-07-10T22:05:00.000-04:00

While pleasantly cruising River Road on Johns Island, SC, were were not expecting the head on collision between rival philosophies. We came upon, but thankfully not into this, the most annoying of all philosophical metaphors. " If a tree falls...," well, you know how it goes.

The Primacy of Existence is the theory that existence obtains independent of consciousness. Things are what they are and are thus classified, understood, accepted. You go out into the world, you find, see and learn by looking outward rather than inward. We hold the steering wheel, shift the gears, work the clutch and apply the throttle knowing from experience what is happening and the good and bad consequences of these acts. We didn't conjure this process by meditating upon our belly button lint.

The other side of the coin is the Primacy of Consciousness wherein one looks inward for reality and to define existence without regard or respect for that which they actually experience, hear, see, feel or smell. In short, one is unwilling to witness or permit a reality which does not come from within and the hell with the existent outside world. This is theology over technology, accepted beliefs over proven facts. It is often the path of greater convenience and lesser effort. This fog shrouds more than religion, it unfocusses everything. You fiddle around with this and pretty soon you don't exist.

This is all very interesting, but along the road to our existential errands that old fallen tree business is around every corner. It's one of those often repeated quotations which becomes woven into the fabric of the collective consciousness. Any concept when promoted through repetition soon becomes accepted as truth. The Big Lie theory is generally considered to have come from Hitler's "Mein Kampf," but in fact it is timeless. The idea is that little people tell little lies. If you are a figure of consequence in a position of power, the little lies just won't do. You must use the big lies and repeat them constantly. They will then become fact in the minds of those who dig not too deeply for the truth. This includes the majority of TV viewers who naturally evolve into internet believers. This tool is neither the property of the Left nor Right wings of public policy as it well fits both with the same glove.

Someone cooked up this nice little ditty along the way:

"To be is to do" - Socrates.
"To do is to be" - Jean-Paul Sartre.
"Do be do be do" - Frank Sinatra.

The question should always be: 1) Is it true? and 2) Does it matter? We didn't hear this tree when it fell but, 1) It's down and 2) It's this guy's yard and it certainly matters to him. We can credit neither Socrates nor Sartre for this fallen tree. We're going with Old Blue Eyes on this one: " The summer wind came blowing in...."

This Train is Bound For Glory

2009-06-24T01:05:00.001-04:00

"This train is bound for glory,
Don't carry nothing but the righteous and the holy.
This train don't carry no gamblers,
Liars, thieves, nor big shot ramblers,
This train don't carry no con men,
No wheeler dealers, here and gone men..."

We're at track side on the CSX right of way in the Neck Area of the Charleston peninsula. CSX Railroad owns the track, but leases use of it to Norfolk-Southern. The trains just amble along this section of the system moving ever so slowly. They tend to block traffic for an inordinate amount of time in the view of most motorists. The train in the photo is just about to break to its left and cross the road right were we are perched. It will continue to wend its way south on the peninsula until it reaches the S.C. Port Authority's Union Pier.

When it reaches Union Pier it will both discharge and take aboard Porsche automobiles. We manufacture certain Porsche models in South Carolina and export them abroad. Porsche also ships some of their European made models into the U.S. via Charleston.
This train is bound for glory and the show room.

Old Woody Guthrie might well have been right about the train itself, but he'd be more than a little surprised to see that Tom Joad hobo types have been replaced by brand new Porsches for cargo. The American freight train was a central metaphor for Guthrie's Populist, arguably Socialist, pitch. Woody had written on his guitar a warning: "This Machine Kills Fascists ". The last Porsche model Woody could ever have seen was in 1967 when Huntington's Disease killed him.

The Grapes of Wrath have gone to vinegar as bitter as this irony would be for Old Woody to swallow. We'd have to agree that a few of the new Porsches might soon be carrying some of what the train to glory would not. Woody probably had to take a different train as well.

Bridging the Gap in Your Armani Blazer

2009-06-19T01:10:00.001-04:00

Having circulated within the South Carolina lowcountry for more than a few model years, we've become familiar with and enchanted by bridges of all sizes and types. The dramatic ones such as the new Arthur Ravenel, Jr., bridge which connects peninsula Charleston with Mt. Pleasant, SC and the two remarkable ones which it replaced get all the notice. We like to find small interesting bridges which are either old enough to be quaint and dangerous or new ones of intriguing design.

We found two in Beaufort County near Bluffton, SC, recently. The first one has a coated steel decking with openings wide enough to swallow an average sized foot. Certainly this aids in the immediate draining of the deck, but it may also be helpful in preventing deer and perhaps other creatures from wandering into the town center of an exclusive and very expensive gated community. It acts in the same way the old cattle guards would prevent the wandering off of livestock This is the bridge into Palmetto Bluff, a community so well planned that it may have bred its very own animals and thus wish to prevent their escape.

Our second find was a wooden decked bridge with rather elaborate steel superstructure. It is certainly functional, but it is decidedly form as well. What we noticed were the two separate decks outboard of the vehicle thoroughfare of the bridge. One deck appears to be for bikes and pedestrians while the other seems more like a gazing platform from which people might observe the natural beauty of the site. It may also be for fishing of all things. We notice now that almost every nice short bridge which had raised paved sidewalks no longer allows fishing from those area for which it was designed. Perhaps it's fear of litigation. After a few fisherfolk get launched from these bridges by careless drivers, the TV lawyers cannot be far behind.

We don't exactly see Tom Sawyer types fishing from this bridge with old cane poles. Considering the high tone of this gated community it's possible that there's a dress code required for fishing. There well may be an Armani Fishing Blazer fitted with the club brassard which is specified for this area, who knows? There does, however, seem to be some concession to the humble pastime of fishing from a bridge. Even if that's not openly admitted or may require membership, it is at least a step in the right direction

DOG TAGS

2009-06-14T05:05:00.001-04:00

We've always been fascinated by automobile license tags which were formerly called license plates. That transition, like so many, was made without our advice or consent. It just happened one day in much the same way that meaningful words become hijacked, altered in pronunciation or meaning or are simply banned. One may no longer be fat, crazy or stupid. The person is unchanged, but they are now tagged by more...sensitive terms.

Such a change may be made by someone on some network on perhaps a Monday. If by Wednesday you have not complied with the new tag, people in the street will look at you as if your face was one big running sore.

We have been very pleased by the manner in which the South Carolina DMV, once called the "Highway Department" in the less advanced days, had tagged us. Until May 31, 2009, we were graced by a beautiful plate with a baby blue field and a white cloud center to offset the alpha-numerics by which we are known to the motoring world. The slogan, "Smiling Faces - Beautiful Places," was nice, but fortunately lost in the blue peaks atop the plate which symbolize the mountains we almost have in S.C. . Well, the Palmetto tree did look a bit too much like a feather duster, but the overall beauty of the plate made us proud to have state's name also in blue below.

When the DMV or KGB to our way of thinking, sent the new license plate to our door we thought it was a cheap joke done up on an ink jet printer by a deranged friend. It has the dreadful color scheme of a New Mexico tag and by no mean enchanting in these parts. Now the letters precede the numbers, but you can't read them anyway. When we tore through some hamlet scaring chickens and children, a good citizen would tell the police that it was Blue Mustang with 322 on the tag. Now, they'll probably report the first three characters as " F 7 J ". We looked closely at the packing in which it arrived to see if it was also an air sick bag. How can you have any respect for something which looks like a place mat from a taco joint?

First of all it came not from Columbia, our State Capital, but from ...Blythewood, SC. How can anything official which you must by state law pay for and post upon your car not come from Columbia? Next, it's not really metal or any other known material and totally flat, NOT embossed, no raised lettering. The guy who stole our last car should be in prison, in Columbia hand stamping the tag for our next car. Now, that would be not only justice, but sustainability.

No Talking Our Way Out of This !

2009-06-10T04:44:00.000-04:00

Our Number One Priority, well, after highway safety, combating litter, cultural preservation, raising awareness of very minor, but exceedingly embarrassing personal medical problems, sustainable speeding and, of course, World Peace....is keeping a sharp eye out for the Police. We like to see them before they see us. We wish to conduct no official business with the sworn persons who enforce the traffic laws of the lower 48 States. We strive to be their one unwritten ticket or at least the one that got away.

We don't follow the coward's path of using a radar detector nor do we listen out for truckers on CB. We follow our instincts. On the interstates we tend to raft up with the herd so that our predators will sack a weak elder or stray calf trailing behind. We like having the road behind us clogged with easy pickings and thus keep the carnage in our rearview. On the back roads we are careful to select those stretches with easy escape routes for our zoom-zooming. If we stay a curve ahead and find a confusing intersection then we'll likely toss in some extra coal and take no less than a 50/50 chance in bolting.

When, however, we are had, nailed, caught dead to rights with no way out, then we put on our Gandhi face and turn pacifist. When they've got you cold the best thing to do is to pull off quickly, safely and run up the white flag post haste. It's eyes forward (no nervous gawking in the rearview), hands high on the wheel, window down, motor off and pulled over far enough off the roadway to give the Trooper a wide and safe place to plant his feet. This was our immediate plan when zipping down Hwy. 78 just a few clicks out of Branchville, SC. We're stepping right along when, BAM, there's the St. George Police on the side of the road and about to eat us for supper. Trapped like a rat we pulled off before the officer could start his cruiser. You must wait for the officer to come to YOUR window not the reverse.

We waited so long that we began to think that the officer expected us to come to his vehicle. So, once at his window what did we find? There in the second photo, a little foggy, but you can see that our conversation was a bit one sided. Was this just a dummy set up to scare us into lawful driving or was it the hand of fate reminding us that both genders are out there now and that we must not presume that it is "he" who seeks our scalp. It well may be a "she" who is our tormentor, but that does not strike us as news. This, of course, may also be the way that municipality is meeting the guidelines for hiring women. No maternity leave for this gal.

Deporting the Port from Port Royal

2009-06-09T04:02:00.000-04:00

Port Royal, SC, is a wonderful small town which is removed from the mainstream of tourist attractions. We have always enjoyed the true feeling of a village which Port Royal provides the visitor both visually and in terms of the cordial nature of its people. Port Royal is very close to Beaufort, SC and is the location of a small facility of the S.C. Ports Authority. Port Royal has not been a cash cow for the Ports Authority so the state is closing that facility and may offer the very choice waterfront land for sale. It has not, however, been a heavy loser for the state either.

It should be noted that the original charter of the South Carolina Ports Authority made very clear that its various terminals were not simply a revenue generator as should be the case in a private corporate structure. They exist to encourage economic growth, support local businesses and to provide jobs. In recent years the Ports Authority has come under the influence of bottom liners who embrace the Authority as corporate playing field on which the sole mission is profit. Their scoreboard has little room for the chartered mission of the Authority..

The SCPA Port Royal facility has coexisted nicely with the recreational opportunities enjoyed by its citizens. If that facility is sold, what is likely to land on that prime waterfront property? On a recent visit we encountered a sign of what might well be on the way. Only the current recession is holding the line against the tide of on rushing condos. We have posted two photographs of that immediate area of Port Royal. Which do you think is the better path?

The Riddle of the Hump

2009-06-05T04:21:00.001-04:00

We are again on one of the sets for the television series Army Wives which is being shot in Charleston, SC. We provide a bit of background by quoting JUST PRESS PLAY (http://www.justpressplay.net):

** "Bordering dangerously close to soap opera..., Army Wives caters to the patriotic female crowd. Yes, it’s Lifetime, so the more discerning TV audiences need not apply.... The basic premise of the show sees Roxy (Sally Pressman) moving to a nearby army post after marrying an enlisted soldier. On the base she finds herself bound to a group of women affectionately known as Army Wives. The first season ends with a soldier on the post, suffering from psychosis, going into the Hump Bar and detonating a bomb strapped to his chest. After the dust settles... Roxy takes in Betty, the cancer-stricken owner of the Hump Bar, and finds herself charged with reopening it using the insurance money." **

Well, the good things in life such as Dewar's Scotch and commercial television never really change. We'd bet that this series has fallen completely into the suds of soap opera. There's precious little chance that the medium will ever climb high enough out of the bowl to look down on any viewers, discerning or otherwise.

While it sounds much like random TV offerings, we did wonder how the word "Hump" applied. We know that the Himalayan Mountains were called "The Hump", a formidable impediment over which US planes flew supplies to Burma during WWII. Perhaps it suggests that with the heavy confusion the crew has trouble getting past Wednesdays, the official "hump" day of the week. It might also suggest the challenges which the cast and crew face in navigating over the endless speed humps on Charleston streets. The set sits smack dab on a railroad siding and we know "humps" in that context are small artificial hills over which rail cars are pushed, one by one and uncoupled so that the car may be rerouted to other tracks. We much more suspect that the word refers to the troubles which come with so much cross pollination betwixt the characters in the series.

Apparently, the "DO NOT HUMP" directives apply only to railroad cars

Welcome to East Berlin...no the Lost City of Chernobyl

2009-06-03T03:56:00.001-04:00

SPECIAL NOTE: Since we first ran these photos East Berlin has, with Western aid and freedom, has experienced massive rebuilding, renovation and renewal. The comparison is outdated. The AMTRAK station at North Charleston, S.C., more closely resembles what has been left behind in the lost city of Chernobyl. The difference, of course, is that Chernobyl had to be abandoned and is going rapidly to seed. This AMTRAK station did not have to be abandoned, but was and has already gone to seed.

Unlike Chernobyl, it took no such drama to bring the AMTRAK station to its current state of disgrace. It required only total neglect. Countless billions were wasted by federal mismanagement of a deteriorated passenger rail system. What follows was our first impression of the site:

It is 4:00PM on a Saturday and we've come to snoop around the Charleston Amtrak Terminal. Through this palatial facility must pass all who depart from and arrive at Charleston, SC, by train. In the hard light of day it is a bit this side of eye candy. It reminds us of nothing so much as the photos of East Berlin when the Soviets held their tightest grip on their captive countries.

East Berlin became a metaphor for the failing corruption of the Soviet Union. The Amtrak Terminal could have been slipped right into East Berlin past Checkpoint Charlie and no one would have noticed. Every published photo from that dreadful sector was a reminder to Americans of how very fortunate we were by comparison. Just look at this place today.

The side facing oncoming visitors has several broken windows some of which are crudely patched, some left open. Several old and uninviting mattresses rest against one of the first floor windows. We'd feel safer sleeping on the tracks. A battered garage door stands slightly ajar. Notice the heavy rust on the interior of the rail siding roof. One must feel very special when gliding down this concourse. There is barbed wire strung everywhere further reminding us of the danger which is at hand. It looks like one of those war torn stations from which the movie hero narrowly makes his escape.

It is the classic movies from the 1930s and 1940s which remind us of how far the mighty have fallen. Travel by train was elegant, timely and safe in those days. It is an iron horse of a different color today. Comparing the Amtrak Terminal to the Charleston International Airport is shocking, but not entirely fair. The airport is operated by Charleston County Aviation Authority and Amtrak is run more or less by the US Government which bailed out Amtrak many years ago. Are we not then shareholders in Amtrak ? It appears that we or those we hired have not been good shepherds of our physical plant if that is the case.

We saw no one around the place at all. We wondered if the staff had left to help run General Motors.
ALL ABOARD !

Nothing Becomes Them So Much As Their Leaving

2009-06-01T03:53:00.003-04:00

35 years ago this THING was the most shocking piece of new architecture in the City of Charleston. For those who sipped the traditional tea of grace and beauty in the Holy City, this was a Jolt Cola. Some dropped dead on the spot at first sight of the new bank. There was widespread wringing of hands and much hell to pay in the matter. Actually, we grew to like this odd looking building over the years, but we're not sad to see the current tenant leave before their lease is up. Nothing becomes them so much as their leaving.

Bank of America is shutting down its Charleston Medical Center Branch at 281 Calhoun on the corner of Gadsden Street for good on Aug. 21. That leaves, but one location in the Charleston, SC, peninsula: 200 Meeting Street. It would require special planning to find a more inconvenient location which suggests that B of A must want more privacy from its annoying smaller customers. We'd suggest an unlisted phone number to maintain a proper level of contempt. How about "SORRY, WE'RE OPEN" on the door?

In 2004 B of A showed award winning contempt for our area by luring the Johnson and Wales culinary institution out of Charleston and up to Charlotte, NC. That move was expected to generate nearly $60 million in annual economic activity for Charlotte. It was also quite a threat to Charleston's restaurant and hospitality industry upon which we heavily depend for the tourist dollar. But, the heck with them as it's the building which interests us.

Perhaps the building grew on us because it was first occupied in 1974 by the old Bankers Trust. It was a nice bank staffed and run by nice people. No deposit was too small and no customer unworthy of their full attention. Perhaps the courtesy and accommodation which they showed all customers created such good will as to gradually soften the community's view of the building. If Frankenstein's monster had been a nice cheerful Rotary Club sort of fellow, he, too, would have grown on his community. It's all in how you treat people.

Frankly it reminded us more of a Department of Corrections gun tower than a bank, but we began to admire the place. We secretly wondered what it might be like to live there. It's very secure and perfect for the flood prone area in which it sits. There's adequate parking for entertaining and we'd have a built in carport for the Mustang. Deliveries would be assured since no one could possibly fail to find the place. It never needs painting and the vault is roach proof.

The best feature of this dramatic structure is that you would never have to worry about the place losing its good looks.

INSIDE INFORMATION

2009-05-31T03:20:00.000-04:00

While Sunday is the fun day, church signs are out there 24 / 7 to keep members on point, passers by alert and the curious, curious. But, for those most restrictive residential areas where even divine self promotion by signage is disallowed, they're everywhere. These marquee signs are the ammunition with which the battle for motorists' souls is waged.

We love these things and never fail to read one on our back road travels. Perhaps the copy reflects the sentiments of the congregation or the passion of the pastor. They run the gamut from the early stages of mouth breathing to the upper room of wit. Our favorite to date, however, is the Anti-Sign sign, perhaps the End of Signs or at least a sign of the end of sign wars courtesy of the First Baptist Church of North Charleston (SC).

Our favorite suggestion for church sign copy is a quotation from Oscar Wilde. “Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.”

There are church sign generators on the internet with which you can make your own gag church signs. We wanted to do something goofy, but the one we tried ( http://www.says-it.com/churchsigns/sign01.php ) says that they just got a Cease and Desist Order from a from a firm in Florida accusing them of fraud and intellectual property infringement. Apparently, the business of church sings is pretty much the rough trade rather than the happy glow of faithful mom and pop shops. You could lose your soul by buggering around with these signs. Even worse you could get sued.

No More Mr. Nice Car

2009-05-18T02:19:00.001-04:00

We tread on no one and nothing, but the road which our rubber meets. We love nothing so much as rolling past green cultivated fields on the vacant country roads which we ply with care and caution. As a general rule the smell of death wafts into the car roughly every fifteen minutes. There's always some dead thing decomposing just off the road, but today we smell it in urban areas as well.

We pulled into Santee, SC, this weekend with high hopes, but found low living and decay. When I-95 effectively closed all business activity on Hwy. 301, Santee simply shifted a few hundred yards east to the new interstate highway. Now, even that Superior Vena Cava cannot sustain life in Santee. The happy images promoting golf, seafood and oversized Bass have been replaced with a grim graphics. During an economy in which only guns and booze show growth, it pays to see what sort of art is imitating life

That's our new mascot, our new flag. The old Gadsden Flag's warning: " Don't 'Tread on Me " seems redundant for our new standard. The recession has pulled many teeth, but this seems like a perfectly fitted set of new dentures. That old social fabric has begun to rot like those unsold towels down at Santee's Outlet Hell. We saw this stunning mural painted upon a run of the mill juke joint just past a burned down motel. We found it captivating much as the werewolf is charmed by his new hair. Old Zevon fans will remember how " Patty Hurst heard the burst of Roland's Thompson's gun...and bought it. So have we. We like it, love, it, yes we do.

Experiment becomes Yard Art

2009-04-22T00:36:00.001-04:00

Travelers along US Highway 17 north of Charleston frequently wonder about an abandoned hull which sits on land close to the marsh at a small creek between Awendaw and McClellanville. There seems to be a need to come up with an explanation for everything we see which is not immediately obvious at first sight. Objects found out of place seem to disturb the order and balance we require as we move through the day.

We often delight in the misplaced objects we find, but tend fill in the blanks were facts are not present. Along this stretch of the coast the memory of Hurricane Hugo looms large and is the most likely filler of blanks. Anything twisted, bent, smashed, unfastened, rusted, busted or dead became such at the hand of Hugo. Most folks passing this way just figure that Hugo washed this trawler ashore, but that's not the way it went.

Around 1980 fuel costs were already well above the pre embargo days of the early 70s. It was a jolt which had begun to raise the cost of living and brought about a run on the small car market. Suddenly you couldn't give away a full sized American sedan. The demand for fuel economy brought a plague upon the American muscle car from which only the Chevrolet Camaro and the Ford Mustang survived and just barely. Of course, now that gasoline is far more expensive we've just tossed out any idea of fuel economy, a misplacement of priorities for which no one seems to have a good explanation. We haven't yet filled in that blank.

People passing the trawler often make up interesting stories to explain its presence. The trawler was actually a response to the energy crisis.

Our research indicates that a man came up with an idea for a lighter shrimp trawler around 1979. His plan was to use fiberglass for the hull to reduce weight and thus save Diesel fuel which become more expensive than gasoline. Fuel cost was the first major attack upon the heart of the shrimping industry in the lowcountry. He obtained some sort of loan perhaps a Small Business Loan and began construction of the trawler. This appears to have been a one man operation so it must have taken quite a while. Why it was not completed by September 21, 1989, the date when Hugo stuck, we do not know and won't speculate. The hurricane only moved the hull a few yards from its original position and time has taken care of the decaying process. It's nothing more than by-catch of the energy crisis now.

So, this project was one man's attempt to respond to a crisis and help save an industry. Our national response to the runaway cost of fuel is in pretty much the same shape as this abandoned trawler. When the next embargo comes as come it will, we'll be looking a lot worse than the trawler. "Happy Motoring," as they used to say at Esso before it became Exxon.

Happy Rosin from Easterville

2009-04-12T14:06:00.001-04:00

One of our favorite characteristics of small towns is the way in which they celebrate both the changing of seasons as well as spiritual and sacred days. Some towns promote a message of faith in a decidedly religious context. Others take the more secular approach in which the celebration plays out on a safer commercial ground. At the intersection of Hwy 15 and Hwy 178 at the town of Rosinville, S.C., a local group of women have erected both.

On one corner they have portrayed the Crusifixation in stark three dimensional figures. We felt that it would be inappropriate to pose the car before such a sacred symbol of faith. On the other corner they have gone for the secular and commercially appealing image which is seen above. It is this with which we feel more comfortable intruding upon.

Whichever view one prefers we hope that Easter has been enjoyable for all.

Nostalgia Leaves the Station

2009-04-07T01:50:00.002-04:00

There are those who zero in on trains with a maniacal zeal. We've met some wonderful fellows in North Charleston who maintain what they call a railroad museum inside of which they operate hundreds of scale miles of tracks over which they dispatch their colorful authentic electric trains. They've done the research and embrace the lore in order to present a pageant for the railroad buff and an homage to the classic trains which are passing into history. The joy of nostalgia is part of the sadness of loss in this way.

We're drawn to trains, rail cars and old railroad equipment in the way most people find them interesting. The older and more eccentric the equipment, the more we enjoy such relics. Trains are central to our history and speak to the days of promise which seem behind us now.

When we encountered the red rail car at Port Royal, SC, we thought it an amusing bit of fun. Notice the window air conditioner in the side of the car. We figured that it was empty and perhaps available to explore. What we discovered inside was a retired Cantor who has become curator of a Jewish life exhibit. He is making of the railcar a memorial to Jews killed in concentration camps of World War II.

Sheldon Feinberg had retired as a cantor at Beth Israel Congregation in Beaufort. He received the railcar and associated buildings as a gift from a non-Jewish developer. Feinberg is in the process of expanding the display into a facility for the teaching of a very bleak chapter in the history of the Jewish people. This bit of hard reality sits still upon the tracks, but nostalgia has clearly left the station.

Spring Break: "Drunk on a beach in Florida": HOUSE PARTY !

2009-03-25T18:56:00.005-04:00

In an article for the Charleston (SC) daily newspaper, The POST AND COURIER, Ken Burger tells us that " Most American students spend spring break drunk on a beach in Florida." Many do as did we, but here in South Carolina during the carefree college years. Thoughtful readers are as tired of the sanctimony and self loathing of reformed booze artists as Florida residents are fatigued by annual onset of artful boozing by college kids on spring break. Was the writer's generation doing then what out of state college volunteers are shown doing here ?

Is this another wild house party full of drunken college kids? No, actually this very attractive new house which is seen behind the Mustang was built by college students on spring break. We didn't bring our portable Breathalyzer, but we know drunks when we see them and this is one happy, but sober group of people.

The second photo shows a close up of the volunteers who did most of the heavy lifting and hard work. They subcontract the critical segments which require licensed technicians for electrical and plumbing work, but these young people have put their hearts and backs into building this house. They built this house in a neighborhood which may be called challenged or disadvantaged or said to be in transition. The plan fact is that it's the nicest house by far at an area in which it took courage to build and to live. This could well inspire others to make a similar effort as builders and as new neighbors.

So, rather than tearing up a rental house, these college folks have built a home for a family who will never forget their unselfish gesture. The smiling lady in the white hat is the new owner of the house. The volunteers are smiling from the joy which helping others has brought them. It is reasonable to presume that they will leave a trail of smiles in their wake as the donate their spring break to those in need in South Carolina.

"Drunk on a beach in Florida" Part 2: The ILLINI rock !

2009-03-25T18:54:00.000-04:00

We came away from the house party with a good feeling about and toward the college students. They had literally made a new home for a family in a distressed neighborhood at North Charleston, S.C. We wondered what else was on their agenda.

The next day we found them repairing and repainting an old building which serves as the headquarters for Habitat for Humanity in Charleston. The place had begun to look long in the tooth and very short on appearance. These college volunteers have painted the entire exterior of the building. They have also repainted the sign on the front of the building and were busy applying siding to the exterior of the second story. This old place on upper Meeting Street needs all the work which the students are providing.

We noticed quite a few Illinois license tags on vehicles clustered around the building. Many of these students are from the University of Illinois. When it comes to lending a helping had to humanity, the ILLINI rock !

One Year Later: Disaster Relief in Branchville ?

2009-03-17T03:28:00.001-04:00

On March 15, one year, one day ago, a tornado touched down at Branchville, SC, visiting damage upon that small town as seen in the photos. These few buildings were badly damaged, but most were not including structures very close to the vortex. Torandos are like that: selective, narrow, arbitrary.

Unlike our coastal hurricanes, tornados do not get named, cannot be planned for and you don't know that they're coming until they are gone. Hurricanes are like large armies massed and marching across someone's country. A tornado is like a stinger missile out of nowhere. Another difference is that tornados do not unite people as the hurricane usually does. One family loses their house, but the one across the street hasn't a scratch. The immediate neighbors all pull together, but beyond that narrow radius, few people really give much of a hoot.

If there is not a uniform blanket of photogenic devastation, it's not exciting enough for network news and fails to gain notice, it didn't happen. The big question, of course, is who or what agency will clean up this mess. Some buildings are likely under insured if they insured at all. Declaring this a "disaster area" is a bit complicated.

A law called the Stafford Act defines the process that triggers most federal disaster assistance other than assistance for crop losses. A big news splash is very helpful because the criteria for disaster declarations are vague. The law defines only two categories of presidentially declared disasters: "emergencies" and "major disasters".

Where the costs of a damage exceeds the resources of state and local government, a governor can ask the President to declare a major disaster. If the President determines that the damage is severe enough, the affected area then becomes eligible for FEMA assistance.

One year and one day ago we predicted that was unlikely to happen. To date we seem to be have been correct.

Hunkered Down in our Hacienda Hideout

2009-03-02T01:53:00.001-05:00

Where does the rolling Mustang come to a rest? Most of our posted photos are in the field, off the road or on the move. One must wonder. Batman has a cave in which to store his Batmobile and a great mansion in which to read his newspaper. We seem to deserve a nice little hacienda hideout, a bit this side of Bruce Wayne, but comfortable and functional.

We have a great view of the waterfront from our private perch. In that comfy white chair we spend hours in reflective repose. We snatched that table from the set where a Corona ad was being shot. We keep the same such bottles on it so the table will feel comfortable in captivity. Just over our chair can be seen our trophy Blue Marlin nearly half the length of the car and almost as blue. When the urge to roll strikes us we leap from the chair, bounce off the red awning and land gracefully on the Mustang's trunk. We're not as good as J.T. Hooker in "The Big Chill," but then we're not on TV.

Where exactly is this place? Well, it's nowhere that Map Quest can find us and no amount of Googling will yield our coordinates. It's not that we're anti social, but we'd just as soon not have any Amway sales callers or Jehovah's Witnesses knocking on our door.

The Light Air of Lent Meets the Heavy Hand

2009-02-23T01:21:00.000-05:00

As we approach the light air of Lent we encounter a hand hewn likeness of Christ's Crucifixion. This dramatic display seems to have been carved out of tree which fell at this spot. We are at Mepkin Abbey, a Trappist Monastery in Berkeley County, S.C. The Abbey, once a prosperous plantation, is a pastoral retreat from the chaos of a declining civilization. The Monks within have retreated from that secular world and so have we for the moment.

While the Abbey is a reservation clearly dedicated to the practice of a Christian faith, one need not embrace the Sacraments to enjoy the peace which settles upon the visitor. The magnificent view of the upper reaches of the Cooper River is seen past a series of sacred statuary which blend smoothly with natural surroundings. The panorama presents a calming sense of grace. Most of the icons of faith are weathered and have taken on a patina which blends them with the land. They present no conflict and demand nothing of the viewer.

The Crucifixion in wood, however, is rendered in hard, sharply edged features which is unsettling and a bit difficult to view. It seems glossy and still new. It blends with nothing and stands decidedly apart from the placid surroundings. The discomfort one feels is no accident and the suffering it portrays is its message. Perhaps it speaks to both the child of faith and the secular citizen. It more than suggests that nothing of value comes easily nor without sacrifice.

Leave Your Blood at the Red Cross - Not on the Highway

2009-02-05T02:27:00.001-05:00

Yes, by all means, but don't bring it here.

The wall bearing the Red Cross surrounds a very old building which is now a private residence at the corner of Wentworth and Smith Streets in Charleston, SC. Built in the late 1700s, it became the local headquarters of the American Red Cross during World War I. It housed not only the administrative services of the Red Cross, but was the Blood Bank as well.

It was to this very place where donors would come to roll up their sleeves and make the priceless gift of blood so that others might live or recover from serious surgery. It was an act of caring rather than a fashionable charity. There was no Bloodmobile in the early days to round up donors. This was well before the days of commercial plasma vendors who draw anyone from the streets with a few bucks for their blood.

The Red Cross decamped from this location in 1988. In the month before Hurricane Hugo struck Charleston in 1989 the building was returned to private habitation. A native Charleston couple fixed up the house, raised a family and remains there today. They retained the Red Cross on the wall as a matter of historical integrity. It is not the fanciful invention of some decorator. It may also be a reminder that our blood runneth red as it does in the rest of the Union.

The notion that Charlestonians have forever lived at ease, in splendor within endless rows of beautiful mansions is the unrelieved bunk of hack tour guides and Hollywood's corruption of history. Our buildings had not been simply the idle trophies of today's bored and fortunate. Like the people they were pressed into service to meet the needs of our times. The bold Red Cross on this wall is a reminder that the hopes and fears of every generation have played out on a working stage by actual people facing the very daunting challenges of real life.

WHICH WAY ?

2009-01-26T11:53:00.001-05:00

We love to go out into the hinterlands and find new roads, get lost, lose our way. This weekend we were able to do all three in one run. We eschew the crutches of those so crippled of spirit that they must know at every given moment just where in this world they might be. We want to lose or find our own way in our own good time.

We have no GPS much less one which shoots off it's artificial mouth. Why in the name of radial tires would one pay money for a squawk box which yammers endlessly at the driver often giving bad advice which it scolds the driver for not following. One might as well hire a hooker, put her in the back seat and have her pretend to be a mother-in-law.

We don't put much stock in the widely worshiped Map Quest. We've seen that program knock geometry out of the ball park. Sometimes it presumes that the user is a drug dealer trying to shake tailing cops. It can send you in such a circuitous route as to trigger vertigo. No thanks, none for us please.

When a ship is launched, She is said to have gone "down the ways." In this case we're 'twixt the ways, halfway between the Ways as it were. How would the GPS work here ? What would the mother-in-law say now ? Not since the ever popular blog WALK THIS WAY lost its way when Journal Space lost its way, has there been greater confusion.

Well, just a half mile, not two drag strips away, we did find our way or the way to Halfway at least. We are parked at Halfway Gut Road. It sounds like painful and incomplete surgery or slipshod deer processing. If anyone knows what this means, we're all ears. Now, if there was some device, some gadget which could lead us to such oddly named places we might be willing to cave in a bit and buy one.

Liberty's Horizon

2009-01-20T03:16:00.002-05:00

Even our low scholarship in Botany is enough to suggest that the flag did not by nature emerge from the tree's limb. It strikes us as a gesture of independence from or opposition to accepted mainstream thought. This took some thought and effort toward visibility and permenance

We love the open road, the uncluttered winding paths of both the old and familiar, the new and exciting. These are the roads less taken along which no two houses are identical nor are the families inside of them. As mass culture takes us for that last ride it will be upon the interstate highway system upon which every one in every car and every mile is about the same.

"We have it in our power to begin the world over again." Those words first spoken not by whom you think, but by Thomas Paine. There is a great movement upon the land, a single minded tidal wave of following which overruns the levies today. There isn't much room for independent thinking or varied voice in such an elemental force. It has gone from polemics to physics so those cards are no longer in the deck. As Dickens begins, these may be "the best of times, the worst of times ."

Paine again warns, "When men yield up the privilege of thinking, the last shadow of liberty quits the horizon." This we post on a large regulation DOT yellow warning sign along the way.

Yet again Paine instructs, " Lead, follow or get out of the way ." To lead suggests that one must take charge, perhaps alter or oppose the movement. The second choice is to fall in and follow the mob. We choose door number three: we're getting off at the next exit. We're neither for it nor agin' it, but getting out of its way and hoping against hope that it will work.

Our Star in Hollywood

2009-01-03T23:23:00.007-05:00

Kneeling at our left forward wheel well is Mrs. Miriam Morrison Green, the star player at Morrison's Burger Hut in Hollywood, SC. We came upon this, "The smallest eatery in town...with the biggest taste!!!", on the way to somewhere else.

Our friendly and outgoing hostess is a lady of faith. Devotional reminders appear on the building and she quotes Proverbs 3:5, "Put God First," on her business card. In the matter of faith she is unequivocal.

Mrs. Green is making it in Hollywood with her hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries and other fast food. She gets far more bang for her square foot buck than any dining establishment in our experience. She invites all to, " Stop By..Ketch-Up and You'll Relish the Flavor ." She may be saving up some mustard gas for the Health Department inspector who awarded the Hut a "B" rating. What do those guys know? It was probably the wrong wattage bulb somewhere or an unapproved salt shaker. We give Morrison's an "A" rating for their individuality, colorful building and especially for their friendly welcome to the hungry of the highway.

A Clean Start for 2009

2009-01-01T18:46:00.001-05:00

This is January 1, 2009. As we wash off the dust of 2008, we recall that not all trails we've traveled have been happy ones for others. We're lucky. We're still on the road and in one piece (after some mid-year mending). Gasoline is a little cheaper and the times a little stranger. We find that the cost of optimism is still a relative bargain as opposed to the sad song of defeatists. We paraphrase the state motto of South Caroline: While we roll, we hope

Happy New Year

In Lieu of "IN LIEU OF ATTENDANCE"

2008-12-21T22:30:00.002-05:00

For those who usually get their weekly "IN LIEU OF ATTENDANCE" church photos, here's one to tide you over. Journal Space is down probably through the Christmas week so we decided to lend a hand. Here's a nice little church we found in Beaufort, South Carolina. It doesn't appear to be in full operation at least not as a church. It seems that it's currently an art studio, but once a church, always a church we feel.

Hopefully, Walk This Way will return when Journal Space recovers from a double drive failure of their system. That's about like our losing all 8 cylinders on top of 4 flat tires so are pulling for a quick recovery.

Myrtle Wilson, we presume ?

2008-12-12T03:57:00.002-05:00

We seek and find all sorts of large outdoor murals. Some are beautiful, some are snappy, sneaky promotional art, others are just plain strange. We find them in major metro areas adorning the otherwise dead flat walls of commercial structures. We find them sharply painted upon the fading brick walls of abandoned public places. They jump out at us in the most unexpected spots in rural communities. One place we do not see them is within the confines of the Charleston peninsula where carefully managed historic facades neither need nor are allowed such aftermarket adornments.

We are on Liberty Street which runs the one block between King and St.Philip Streets. This one jumps out at you. Where all shops in the area are at ground level this images looks down upon them. It reminds us of the billboard advertising Dr. T.J. Eckelburg's Optometry Practice in F. Scott Fitzgeald's "THE GREAT GATSBY." In that book the all seeing eyes on the billboard seemed to lord over the " valley of ashes " observing all of the sordid coming and goings of the wealthy libertine summer people.

Myrtle Wilson is the attractive wife of a simple compliant garage mechanic. They live at his garage and under Eckelburg's all seeing billboard. She spits on their honest, but dreadfully boring life as she drops her dignity and lifts her skirt for a taste of the fast and glamorous life of Tom Buchanan. Buchanan later runs her over with Gatsby's automobile and leaves her behind as just so much roadkill. In his despair Mr. Wilson looks up at Eckelburg's billboard and says, " God sees all ."

We doubt that the artist (aerosolart.com) had intended the woman with her chin on our roof to be God. To our way of thinking she could well be a Myrtle Wilson looking out over the breathtaking jewelry, high fashion dresses and other keys to luxury which she craved so desperately in life. Far too dead to possess any of these things she's condemned for eternity to watch others shopping for, buying and enjoying those material objects for which she seems to have discarded her life.

Octane Booster

2008-12-02T19:27:00.000-05:00

As we drove aimlessly around downtown Charleston in a light rain we wondered how things had gone so very wrong in every way and getting worse by the hour. It was that kind of overcast day during which the sun is not seen so time stands still. The combined effects of weather and events drew us slowly into the blue funk of despair. The real danger of such times is that you don't truly feel sorry for others, but for yourself. That's a can of Drano for the soul.

Everything runs together under these circumstances. Clearly events were controlling us rather than the other way around. The pointlessness of passing shop after shop which we were not going to enter, from which we would purchase nothing was numbing. Suddenly we came upon the two folks you see in the photo above. That put the sunshine back in our day, boosted our octane and made us again happy to be alive.

A Royal Port in the Storm

2008-11-25T01:24:00.000-05:00

We're parked by the water's edge at Port Royal, South Carolina. This may not be the exact spot, but we're close to the point where French explorer and passionate Huguenot Jean Ribault made landfall in 1562. That puts Port Royal on the map some 108 years before the founding of Charleston, SC, our point of departure en route to this idyllic township.

The tempest tossed Captain Ribault narrowly survived a hurricane shortly before he landed at Port Royal. Before we landed there we had navigated the narrow channel of Highway 17 with its treacherous shoals and sustained a two point hit from a Sergeant of the SC Highway Patrol. Upon his arrival Ribault was inspired by the breadth and depth of the harbor at Port Royal and the beauty of its coastline. We arrived with the same assessment.

It was a bright day, mild and so still that the water lay without a wind driven ripple. We made our way along a deeply rutted stretch of hard damp sand to a patch of sand dry enough to stick to the wet tires though the tires did not stick well to the sand. The town had seemed in suspended animation, vacant and quiet. When we got to the bank we found two fellows on Jet Skis cavorting like porpoises jumping deep swells which each was churning for the other. There was absolutely no utility to the moment, no purpose or point beyond pure uncomplicated fun. With everything going to hell in the country, in the world, all around us, two pals had decided to simply enjoy this fine day. That light moment lifted the weight of a wretched week from our shoulders and reminded us to be grateful for what we still have.

The Choice is Yours

2008-09-28T23:23:00.001-04:00

Forget Highways or Dieways. The choice here is Livers or Gizzards. We're in the Chicora-Cherokee neighborhood of North Charleston, SC, where choices are few and far between. This is the epicenter of the city's criminal culture and the habitat of its prey. It is a solid barrier to the regentrification which the city seeks.

The only source of cooked food in the immediate area comes from this place the name of which is uncertain. Such places tend to take on a decidedly generic image. Perhaps ownership shifts too frequently for any one name to long remain on the door. We just call it the Liver or Gizzards place.

It is unlikely that any four star restaurants are going to take the first step into this new market. Setting up shop here on Spruill Avenue is an adventure more of the quick and the dead rather than of profit and loss. The convenience store across the street has bars at every window and door. A half block south of here the soft drink vending machine lives in its own cage. Even the American Legion post is encamped behind a ten foot high chain link fence dressed in barbed wire. We are amazed that the traffic light has not been carried off in the night.

Note that the choice between liver or gizzards is made at separate windows where the goods are passed through protective bars behind which plywood baffles close between orders. We don't expect any of the downtown food service entrepreneurs to try to move in on this operation.

Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott

2008-09-26T03:42:00.000-04:00

We see many things from the sundry roads we travel, but few are as recurrent as places of worship. Churches come on all sizes, shapes and levels of grandeur. Some are grander than others as the splendor index varies considerably. For some churches the snap, crackle and pop comes from the curb appeal of its building, some magnetic stroke of architecture which draws one right off the road and into the spirit. Then there are congregations which generate joyful noises of living faith within plainest of humble structures.

The faithful are often defined by the hymns the offer up on Sundays. Some church buildings remind us of specific hymns. There is the little chapel on the former Navy Base at Charleston which bears the first line of the Navy Hymn. Then there is the small locked down church in our photo which we spotted on Hwy. 601 which reminds us of one hymn in particular: "A Mighty Fortress is Our God", a hymn written by Martin Luther sometime in the late 1520s has been translated many time into many languages. It has been called the Battle Hymn of the Reformation.

The first line of the original hymn in German goes this way, " Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott, Ein' gute Wehr und Waffen ." In English it says, " A Mighty Fortress is our God, A trusty Shield and Weapon ." The wording has been toned down by Fredrick Hedge in the 1850s to be a bit less strident, but the message is quite clear. "For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe ."

Of course, the bars on this church are for practical purposes in that it's a small fortress in a bad neighborhood. It suggests a bulwark protecting the faithful from Lucifer's personal representatives in the hood as much as blocking his burglary of the soul.

Sacrificial Art and Sins in the Cathedral of Pork

2008-09-07T01:08:00.004-04:00

We are in the "Olde Business District" of East Montague Avenue, North Charleston, SC. This is the center of creation for what became the City of North Charleston. The artwork is painted on sheets of plywood in an accordion pattern. It seems to have been done as an artistic exercise and assuredly with permission. We wondered if it had been offered as something of a sacraficial anode in hopes of forstalling grafitti vandals from spoiling the renovated storefronts along this avenue. Someone has already scralled some chicken scratch on the painting so maybe it's working toward that end. It's the very first thing which greets one on entering the district.

Unseen, but very much alive are several new business ventures which have taken over abandoned commercial spaces joining old favorites in the section of East Montague from Spruill to Virginia Avenues. There is a very enjoyable Irish pub just above Johnny's hamburger joint which is a long time favorite of long term locals. The Idle Hour is a great place for a grilled cheese and gossip. Evo's pizza restaurant has lots of interesting dishes and is the favorite of the thirtyish professional crowd. Across the street is an ice cream parlor occupying a portion of what once was Port City Drugs. These are all enjoyable places among which we can only report one dud: the BBQ restaurant which we will neither name nor revisit. We didn't think it merited a photo, but we couldn't let it pass unchallenged. It is seriously lacking in proper BBQ ambiance, the service was indifferent, but worst of all the food was dull. The pork was without flavor and the side dishes seemed a bit below a Swanson's frozen meal.

BBQ spots along our back road travels are prized finds. We've been to more than we can immediately recall. To be certain BBQ is many things to many people. Each place seems to have a slightly different tilt on the meat and sauce. All have been enjoyable each in their own way, but this one on East Montague was our first experience in flavor free BBQ and side dishes. A BBQ enterprise is often a family business or at least it's undertaken with pride, determination and hospitality. Some are humble and some are grand presentations of this classic Southern specialty, but indifference is something we are not used to seeing. We feel that whoever runs the place should remove all references to Barbecue from the building. They could easily rename everything they sell using any description they wished and still make a go of it. After all, the dining public has come to expect to pay more for less wherever they eat, but in the South, Cathedral of Pork, barbecue is something of a religion in which passing off tasteless food is considered a sin.

Dog and Pony Show, II - That Dog Will BITE YOU !

2008-09-02T02:58:00.002-04:00

We have drawn up worshipfully at the feet or ratherpaws of the Citadel's brand new statue of their beloved mascot: the Bulldog. This artist's model for this statue was a living Bulldog named "Boo" which happens to be the nickname of one of the Citadel's most beloved humans, Lt. Col.. Thomas Nugent Courvoisie, Citadel Alumnus and author Pat Conroy blended fact and fiction in his books about The Citadel and especially Courvoisie. So, casting a statute from a dog model named after " The Boo " was certainly no slight against the icon which Courvoisie had become to his "lambs" well before the books and movies.

This work of art is rendered in bronze by a former football player, Michael Hamby, who played pro ball for the Buffalo Bills until sidelined by surgery for an injury in 1989. Hamby, no relation to the local sandwich maven, is quoted by the POST-COURIER as having taken his aggression out of football and infused it into his art. We'd agree. In fact, a walk around the statue reveals that it is more than vaguely anatomically correct.

That reminded us of story about the University of Georgia's mascot, Uga, also a Bulldog. Some years back a football game in which Georgia was playing was being telecast live. There were two commentators providing the usual fill chatter between plays. The roaming camera found its way around to Uga who was equally bored with the game and was licking himself in a way, in a place which dogs are given to doing when not otherwise occupied. One commentator said without thinking, " Man, I wish I could do that..." to which the other fellow replied, " That dog would BITE YOU ! ".

Shark Steak Don't Need No Gravy

2008-08-18T01:26:00.000-04:00

Back in the days before the shark became an icon of film horror, it was food. Certainly no one ever underestimated the predator, but plenty of other creatures in the water would sting, cut, gnaw or eat one. The ideas was to eat them before they ate you. He who caught then sold or ate them was ahead of the game in the far leaner periods of Charleston's history.

Long before fishing became a sport in our local and off shore waters, it was a means of making a living even one of survival. Throughout our history continuing into the 1950s, the streets of Charleston would ring out with the cries of vendors hawking their fish, shrimp and crabs. They called out, " shrimp man " or " shrimp raw " or otherwise broadcast their catches of that day. They pushed weathered wooden carts through which melting ice dripped to the street. At one corner of the cart would be a davit which suspended a scale and beneath that was the weighing pan. This was their only Point of Sale device. The fish you bought from these fellows was a bit this side of Sashimi grade. Charleston had not yet mounted that high epicurean horse which it rides today.

One of the well known promotional jingles held that:
"Shark steak don't need no gravy,
Put 'em in the pot,
They make they own.."

Fashion often shifts the trends in our preferred foods, but in some neighborhoods old tastes endure. In the photo C&J Pantry on Spruill Avenue still keeps the faith. Consider CJ's as one of the last outposts.

Dragging Anchor

2008-08-12T00:58:00.003-04:00

The top photo was taken in May of 2006, the lower one was taken today. This is the old Anchor night club at 2700 Spruill Avenue in North Charleston,SC. We had high hopes that the club would be renovated into something which would provide a safe and enjoyable place for folks to drink and dance.

We were particularly fond of their classic sign. It has become fashionable to renovate industrial and commercial buildings for restaurants and art galleries,but to keep the original signs and exterior decoration. This could have worked well at the old Anchor. We thought that this was to be a success when it was
briefly turned into a nightclub with a decidedly Latin accent. We had hoped that the place would not be made too fancy nor overly gentrified. Those fears were clearly unfounded.

Unfortunately, the building has been drawn into anonymity with a coat of extra dull gray paint, the sign has been destroyed and someone has cordoned off what was the grand entrance with chain link fencing. We thought, well, maybe it's to be the new Navy brig and we'd at least get to see some terrorists paraded through the salleyport.

That, too, was not to be. We now have yet another scrap metal yard in the Charleston Neck area of our peninsula. Presumably, they buy scrap metal rather than selling it to the general public. You probably won't see any terrorists passing through here, but you might see some of your missing copper guttering being dragged in this direction.

The Mustang is in the Corn, but why is the Corn in the Mustang ?

2008-08-03T02:39:00.003-04:00

As we emerge from a stand of corn we are given to wonder what in the world is corn doing in our fuel tank? It make more sense for the car to be in the corn field. By the way we used 5th gear for economy to get to the corn field and traveled within the posted speed limit for...most of the trip during which we thought the greenest of thoughts.

If you build it, they will come. We refer not to the movie line, but the construction of a farce as big as the Ritz and far more costly. It is a lie wrapped in false science and propelled by the "ethanol lobby." This is actually the "corn lobby" with a few extra bandits along for the ride.

Producing a gallon of ethanol costs 57 cents more than making a gallon of gasoline yet it has less than 2/3 the energy (BTU) value of gasoline. You're losing in both directions. Your mileage goes down, but your costs go up. Production of ethanol when blended in gasoline is an energy loss and it requires fossil fuels not solar power or windmills to produce. The ethanol used in the US to dilute our gasoline is produced by corn, the most heavily subsidized crop in the US. On top of that the ethanol producers, not individual farmers but corporate agri-businesses and blenders get a 51 cents-per-gallon tax credit which costs you an additional two billion Yankee dollars a year.

Ethanol from sugar cane contains a far greater BTU value than the relatively low energy from corn. The climate in the major agricultural acreage which now supports corn or wheat is not favorable toward sugar cane. The boys from Brazil have done a masterful job of producing ethanol from sugar cane and would sell us plenty, but....

The Ethanol Import Tariff of 1980 imposed a duty of 54 cents for EVERY gallon imported into the United States. Recent attempts to lower or remove this import penalty have been heavily opposed by lobbyists for the corn and ethanol producers. This was another put up job on behalf of the early ethanol speculators following the oil embargo which we also ignored in the early 1970s. Measures this absurd required bipartisan support.

Ethanol is more volatile than gasoline so it presents the need for more complex and expensive seasonal blending yet another excuse to bend you over at the pump. It also contributes a bit more to smog in major metro areas like LA, but not so much as you'd notice or care for that matter.

So, what the heck IS corn doing in our tank. Far from a fuel supplement, corn ethanol is siphoning away gasoline from our tanks and money from our pockets. We are not unlike chronic alcoholics who have matriculated to the level where we truly NEED Old Everclear 190 proof grain to stave off the DTs, but have been required by our government to purchase 80 proof Old Mr. Boston from Tiffany's and have it delivered by FedEx Priority Overnight.

On the set of 'ARMY WIVES"

2008-08-01T02:02:00.001-04:00

We've been checking out the growth in Charleston's "Neck Area," that track of land laying between the Ashley and Cooper Rivers to its west and east at the peninsula's narrowest portion. It's bordered at the south by Mt. Pleasant Street, the old city line and the beginning of Spruill Avenue which is the new city line between Charleston and North Charleston, SC.

This is a former industrial area which is being transformed into lighter industries and general businesses. There are only two streets which run up the "Neck": King Street Extension and Meeting Street Road. We're on upper Meeting across from the Pepsi Cola plant in the 1500 to 1600 block stretch. We saw this new construction underway several weeks ago, but were taken by the rather small size and somewhat ticky tacky appearance. Once completed it was never open. We know that condos are poison in today's economy, but could a business fold before opening its doors? We pulled into the place yesterday for some answers.

Little did we realize that we'd stumbled on to the set of the Lifetime Network television series "Army Wives" being shot on location in Charleston. The series which we've read about, but never seen takes place in fictitious Fort Marshall. This spot is a cafe where some of the more colorful action is shot. From the road it appears to be a brick structure, but upon closer inspection it is simply plywood with an embossed design to make it resemble brick. We were drawn to a small poster attached to a telephone pole. It looked pretty real, but the telephone number gave it away. Anytime you see the exchange 555 , it's for TV or movies. That's probably so drunks won't dial the number late at night hoping to find one of the less formal Army wives who frequent the place in the series.

While it's a fake building the location is genuine being almost equidistant between two of the best known strip joints in the region. So, if the dialogue and action are as seedy as some critics claim, they're coming by it honestly.

Mustang Racing

2008-07-28T01:29:00.000-04:00

Mustang Racing
Originally uploaded by PALMETT0.

We are at the starting gates of Elloree Training Center (Track Code: ELL) at Elloree, SC, a recognized equine evacuation center, one of a number of places to which horses may be evacuated prior to a hurricane or other emergency. They will also stable, groom, break in or train your horse. From what we saw of that impressive facility today it would appear that they are fully capable of these services.

Horseracing in South Carolina is not a new sport, but it has held a very low profile for decades. If you ask any native of SC or a college student who has been here for a year about horseracing in the state, they will both likely mention the Carolina Cup. It's a long standing steplechace held annually at the Springdale Course near Camden, SC. That's the only one most folks know and younger ones will often add that having been to the "Cup", they had not seen one horse all day. This is a reference to the predominantly social, decidedly boozey nature of the event. No one knows the exact ratio of serious devotees of sanctioned horse racing to the drunks, but the ethanol side out paces the equine side by better than a hundred to one.

One doesn't just saddle up and trot on over to the races like Bubba 1 and Bubba 2 drive out on Old Hwy #6 for a spot of drag racing. These races are overseen by the South Carolina Thoroughbred Owners and Breeders Association (SCTOBA). Their mission is to promote the thoroughbred horse industry in S.C. and throughout the region. The SCTOBA works to create awareness of the tremendous economic impact the thoroughbred horse industry has in S.C.

WHERE DO FIRE BUGS COME FROM ?

2008-06-25T03:35:00.008-04:00

We're at the Cypress Campground, a Methodist retreat in Dorchester County, SC, before the remnants of several wooden cabins which were destroyed by arson in the small hours of June 21. This is the second set fire at the campground within 30 days.

The cabins which they call tents are owned individually by members. There is no electricity or gas connected to these (formerly) 53 buildings. They have very little cash value and can't be insured. There are no visible religious icons and nothing provocative to the amateur anti-Christs who might happen by. These humble cabins are incapable of inspiring envy. It could as easily be the abandoned village of early Secular Humanists delivered by covered wagons. It's too Amish for the Amish.

The Methodist missionary Francis Asbury came to this site in 1794 after which this ground was consecrated and dedicated to the application which continues today. Each October they conduct a week long retreat which seems enhanced by the absence of modern conveniences including indoor bathrooms. They have a row of outhouses. A week in these spare quarters would tend to unsaddle one from the high horse of the material world. They don't get much brie and biscotti out here and very little Buerre Blanc Sauce for the beans.

Does arson come from the mind, the heart or further south in the body of low living types? Who would burn a place like this? Who does such thing? Well, according to SC law enforcement agencies and the FBI:

White males, aged 17-26, with the following credentials:

#1 Product of a disruptive, harsh, or unstable rearing environment ( a common apologia for a wide range of bad acts )
#2 Poor relationship with father, overprotective mother ( not exactly rare )
#3 Poor marital adjustment ( the group widens )
#4 Lacking in social and interpersonal skills ( wider yet, check out a singles bar )
#5 Poor occupational adjustment, employed in low-paying jobs ( consult the South Carolina public school system for further details )
#6 Fascinated with fire service and its trappings ( Oh, should this be #1 ? )

The South Carolina Forestry Commission began investigating arson by firefighters in 1993 when they found 33 volunteer firemen charged with arson, 47 in 1994. 40% of southern woods fires are causes by arson says the Commission and these boys tend to matriculate from random arson in the impersonal woods to targeting wood structures. Whose woods these are he may not know, but every building belongs to somebody. Fortunately for you when they pick your building to burn, you're not there or at least they don't mean for you to be. In his next stage of advancement, he knows you're home, fires up your place, but wants to dash in and save you. If you're lucky, Mr. #6 plays the hero, but if not you, too, become a number.

CONELRAD: RADIO ACTIVE MUSTANG

2008-06-17T00:52:00.006-04:00

This we believe is the Reevesville, South Carolina, town hall. It's one of our smaller small towns located in Dorchester County and about which we are little moved to write. Almost every hamlet has managed to insert itself into the footnotes of our history via some central web site which never heard of the place, but posts sentimental notations as if it had. We didn't bother looking it up.

What caught our eye was the decal, a triangle within a blue circle, on the window. The CD within the triangle stands for Civil Defense. If you were not old enough to drive the original Mustang then you may be puzzled by that term. Civil Defense was a sweeping program designed not to prevent, but react to a preemptive nuclear strike by the Soviet Union. We feared this attack more as a when rather than an if proposition and with considerable justification at the time. Included in these measures were bomb shelters, survival supplies and the famous "Duck and Cover" imperative in which school children would get under their desks when the bomb hit. We were to avert our eyes from the bomb's flash and remain covered until we got the all clear signal according the public service announcement. There were no further instructions.

No one with even the faintest understanding of nuclear war ever believed that any such measures would a block one Curie Unit much less save a single life. No responsible person sought to rob us of this fantasy because it was all we had. We children of the Cold War were protected from knowing the certainty of our annihilation as we were protected from most cruel and aberrant realities of our time.

The Civil Defense decal struck us as the most significant artifact in the town. That same logo survives in many classic automobiles. The AM radios in our kitchens, in our cars bore that same logo at the tuning positions of 640 and 1240 Kilohertz on the dial. They were the CONELRAD stations established just after 1950 to which we were to tune in the event of a national emergency. They were on the radios of the original Mustangs. A long ominous tone would sound in the middle of a Chuck Berry song then a stern voice would remind us that had this been an actual emergency (Atomic Bomb), we'd be directed to the CONELRAD stations. Had it been the bomb, we'd never have heard the end of "Johnny Be Good." We'd all be off the charts.

Ironically, we have today two positions on the AM radio not very far from the old CONELRAD frequencies to which we are to turn for information on traffic conditions, travel advisories, bumps in the road.

MUSTANG RUTLEDGE

2008-06-01T22:57:00.005-04:00

We are at Hampton Plantation near McClellanville, SC. This was the ancestral home of Archibald Hamilton Rutledge ( 1883-1973 ), a Poet Laureate of SC. Here President George Washington had been fed and to whom the large oak in front of the house is dedicated. General Francis Marion had used Hampton as a hiding place from the British during the Revolutionary war. Hampton inspired both Rutledge's writing and his way of living.

Rutledge was a naturalist as well as an accomplished and honored man of letters. "My formula," said Rutledge, " is to find a subject worth writing about and then to make it simple, and then to make it clear and then to make it reach the heart and then to make it beautiful." What a fine technique this would be to master.

Our thanks to Don Rutledge for his kind permission to place the Mustang on the grounds of his ancestral home at a point which is not normally open to automobiles.

THE PASSIVE PARK

2008-05-21T23:40:00.001-04:00

Upon any given ground different people see different uses for the land. It is natural to project one's values and desires on to that which the eyes behold. The moss in these oaks is bending to a gentle breeze off the adjacent salt marsh. This is open public land on to which one may step without a pass or fee. It's just there for the enjoying. It has no theme, structure of declared purpose.

Kids will see climbing opportunities in these trees. Their parents will enjoy the shelter of the shade as they watch them. A young couple might find this the ideal picnic spot while it's perfect for someone to toss a Frisbee to their leaping dog. To campers this is a tempting target for their Airstream and a sweet spot to watch the stars from a sleeping bag.

This looks like a great place for a retired couple to build their dream home. Of course, to others it's just where they want to put many homes and close together. We can already see a meandering road snaking around the trees each lit up at night near cute wooden cut out signs posting a 13 MPH speed limit. That was a novelty 25 years ago when Kiawah and Seabrook Island seemed fresh adventures in convenient island living rather than the expensive subdivisions which they have become.

Of course, this would make a good amusement park or go kart track or a marina since water of a practical depth is less than fifty yards forward of this point. Many greedy hands fairly tremble at the prospect of grabbing this land. This property is, however, held by Charleston County as a public park and recreational area. The County has not always been the best shepherd of public land or the best protector from exploitation of private land, but there is hope that a rising voice to conserve Wadmalaw Island is being heard by County Council. If not, let's give them hearing aids before November.

You really can't improve this spot in any decent or meaningful way. The best plan will be to just leave it alone, to neither add nor subtract anything and allow this to remain a free public place. Nothing is all you need to make this place just right.

Don't lead, don't follow, JUST GET OUT OF THE WAY !

2008-05-17T02:03:00.003-04:00

Here's a mockup of a plan which we should have put into practice before our recent collision. It looks like a good idea for the post-restoration period of the Mustang.

Simply put, we'll install a rhino tusk, a sort of metallic dorsal fang, which is to be used to gouge and cut our way through aggressive opposing vehicles. Since it's quite visible from a great distance it should serve as a potent deterrent to willful misconduct in our path. To those drivers who might try to run the light, cut us off with an unsignalled lane change or beat us through the intersection, the warning is clear. We might lose a headlight, but you will lose your entire vehicle. It will be cut into two separate, but equal pieces and towed to different junkyards. The destruction is assured, but it won't be mutual.

To compensate for the visual obstruction of the dorsal fang, we've created something of a flying bridge just aft of the rear windshield. We shall hire a navigator-spotter to help route us safely through traffic and provide the coordinates in case, heaven forbid, we must attack.

We promise not to use it against City of Charleston Police checkpoints, but in other jurisdictions, well it would depend upon the situation. We want to live and let live, we come in peace, but we think that our front tag should be a likeness of the Gadsden Flag: a yellow field with a coiled serpent and the motto, " Don't Tread On Me ." We also pledge to make no preemptive or unprovoked attack except in the case where fuel prices leave us no choice.

Don't lead, don't follow, just get out of the way!

CONFEDERATE MEMORIAL DAY !

2008-05-10T02:16:00.000-04:00

[ May 10: Confederate Memorial Day ]

This is Hwy 217 in Colleton County, South Carolina, somewhere between Williams and Ruffin, SC. We were rolling up that road and suddenly encountered the Stars and Bars planted firmly on a very straight staff in the limb of good sized pine tree. This wasn't just a lucky toss or some drive by gesture, but a scheduled installation. It probably took someone with a cherry picker working from, say, a utilities truck to get this display in place. It is, as urban lizards would say, in the middle of nowhere. By design it is to be within the sight of all, but within the reach of none. We believe that this gesture is both art and science in a site specific application.

Most people call this THE Confederate Flag, but it's not. It's not even the real Stars and Bars. The Confederate States of America had several national flags, many battle flags, navy jacks and ensigns of different designs. This is the flag of the Army of Tennessee, the Western Army, adopted in very late 1863. It has, unfortunately, become an image upon beach towels, bumper stickers, whisky jiggers, and a host other low purposes. The majority of Americans absorbed this misconception in the same way they have bought into many distortions of history: from the movies.

Only a person kidnapped to Mongolia before 1860 would not be aware of the great conflagration which was the American Civil War or of the matrix of sectional, political conflict which settled upon the land through the present. If, by some miracle of macrobiotic diet replete with ancient Chinese secret herbal potions administered by an Asian Mystic Master of Vegan VooDoo, that person made their way back to American soil, it would take hours not years for them to take a side. Perhaps King Tut was dug up expressly to get his take on this. Everyone gets a turn at the microphone.

In the 140 odd years since Lee's surrender we have still not fully resolved the differences which the divergent parties seem unwilling to release. These mutually vexing factions insist upon gathering under this, the alleged flag of the Confederacy, to continue their fretting and fussing. The man or woman who installed this flag upon the straight staff in the pine tree has given those combatants plenty of room to mix it up below. All parties can see it, but none can reach it. It's a kind of reverse mistletoe.

MARTIAN LANDSCAPE

2008-05-08T01:01:00.000-04:00

We hit the road on this first day of 2008 to finally have a look at the what's left of Lake Moultrie following a very long drought. Taking Steed Creek Road put us on Hwy 402 through Huger then to Hwy 52 across the Tail Race Canal. While the canal was clearly low, it was free flowing and unremarkable.

We cut through Moncks Corner to Hwy 6 then eased over to Lyons Beach, an interesting stretch of lake front property which has not yet fallen to development. It's a combination of fish camp, boat landing, recreational facility with an array of small funky lake homes. The place was completely deserted. When we pulled to the boat landing, what had been a great expanse of water now looked more like a Martian Landscape. If not that, it would certainly do nicely for ground zero of a nuclear attack. The complete absence of people, pets and vehicles gave the place a haunted quality. The posted sign forbidding wake and swimming had a mocking quality consistent with irony of old "Twilight Zone" episodes.

Not since 1951 has the lake level been this low. This is Lake Moultrie, the last link in the Catawba Chain, a series of seven lakes formed and controlled by hydro electric plants along the way. On the other end of this chain is the Catawba River which begins in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina. The Catawba finds its way to South Carolina through Lake Wylie on the border with North Carolina. It takes a circuitous route to find its way into Lake Moultrie in Berkeley County. It has run through 9 sub-basins and 3,000 stream miles by the time it arrives.

Out on the dry lake bed we could see few faint tracks where an all terrain vehicle had passed, the only evidence of any living presence. The tiny trace of water seen at the foot of the boat ramp is only rainwater collected at the sump from yesterday's heavy showers. It will have evaporated by tomorrow. During good times the landing operator only asks two bucks a boat for a launching fee, but has no takers these days. All told it's a very grim sight out here. Not many folks want to sit and gaze at the stump field of a dead lake bed so it's quiet at the landing store as well. Neither a tour bus stop nor lover's lane are these mud pastures.

Looking closely at the photo which shows the dock, the signs and two birdhouses on poles, you can see a bird peeking out of one of the openings. They seemed mildly curious at the movement of a human life form outside, but quite content to be domiciled in a sturdy birdhouse suspended by a length of PVC pipe which was swinging in the wind. On that blustery day the bird probably felt he had it made.

You're the Cream in my Coffee...

2008-05-08T01:00:00.000-04:00

[ While the Mustang is in recovery we will be posting some previous entries ]

You’re the cream in my coffee,
You’re the salt in my stew
You’re the starch in my collar,
You’re the lace in my shoe

So goes a popular song published in 1923 and recorded by Ruth Etling in 1929. It's been featured in several movies including, IT'S A COCKEYED WORLD, a proposition which we believe to be quite true. Passers by must have thought this a cockeyed idea at first, but it seems to have caught on. It's a bit removed from the Bedlam of the college student radius which civilizes the atmosphere.

While our sentiments about the featured building aren't quite that strong, we are pleased to see an old dog doing new tricks. The structure on the corner of Rutledge Avenue at Nunan Street is pretty old. We can't be too assured of its long term survival, but the fact that it seems to be generating some bit of prosperity and gaining popularity are good signs. If you want to be seen, this is the spot. There must several thousands of cars passing this spot daily. Drivers west bound on the Crosstown must exit here to wend their way downtown via Rutledge Avenue.

The neighbors of long standing in this neighborhood look in on the place with a combination of curiosity and wonder. New neighbors have found the place and appear to enjoy not having to go further down into the rowdy regions of the peninsula for designer coffee. The reuse of old buildings is encouraging as is the adaptation of new neighbors to the old neighborhoods.

Strange Things Done in the Midnight Sun

2008-04-14T03:56:00.002-04:00

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold...

If you slice off the top portion of the photograph, it looks as if we could be on the marge of Lake LaBarge, the very spot where we cremated Sam McGee. So convincing is the artwork upon the Seafood and Rib Shack at Roebuck, South Carolina, that we are fairly drawn to confirm by touch that it's only paint upon a commonplace structure.

Not only is the painting very good, but it is made all the more riveting by the colorlessness and sheer desolation of the area surrounding the building. On this bright sunny day, the gradations of cold blue color present as much mood as illustration. The artist's brush seems to have been dipped in Freon.

Beyond the contrast of the building against the land is the paradox of the artwork against itself. The bottom portion reminds one of a wide screen Technicolor film while the top owes everything to a Loony Tunes cartoon. Often such impressive murals are interrupted by some discordant element such as a window air conditioner. In this case the intruder is the white aluminum gutter downspout. Then upstairs we have a cow cooking beef over a fire and a fish fishing for fish. The longer you confront this building, the more bizarre it becomes.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold

Of Human Baggage: The Pony Car is 44

2008-04-11T02:14:00.002-04:00

On April 17, 1964, the Ford Mustang was introduced. It was the first and by 2005 the last "Pony" car in constant production. Its closest competitor, the Chevrolet Camaro was born in 1967 and died in 2002. During these 44 years the "Pony" class cars included Pontiac Firebird, Mercury Cougar, the AMC Javelin, Dodge Challenger and Plymouth Barracuda which got the official jump on the Mustang by two weeks.

We should be very clear on one point: the pony kink has nothing to do with a Pony car. They didn't have young women with stick on tails harnessed up to pull these things around. The only fetish involved was that of putting rubber to the road.

We were still a nation of full sized four door sedans during the peak of "Pony" car popularity. There's no legal definition for a Pony car, but in generally accepted terms it was smaller, though decidedly not a compact car. It was far less utilitarian and a more personal car for the better funded younger buyer. It was far lighter than sedans and increasingly more powerful than compact cars. It was comfortable for two people, but eschewed the interior opulence of the luxury sedans.

It hit the freedom note with the sporty casual look, but even more because it just was neither practical nor comfortable for riders in the back seat. So, dead weight was shed both by the use of lighter materials as well as nixing human baggage. In a nutshell, the Pony car allowed one to escape the gravity of family and unwanted passengers. That was and is the essence of freedom.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

2008-04-08T01:02:00.002-04:00

We've stopped at a spot along a road which forms the back door geographically and perhaps anatomically to Santee, SC. Much of Highway 15 cuts though cultivated land, gently aging country homes, but there's a seedy stretch. "Seedy" is not to be considered in agricultural terms. In the section running north from Highway 176, this part of the road was once home to several prosperous truck stops.

As we've several times observed, nothing stanches the flow of economic blood from a road more than having an interstate highway placed in parallel to the affected section. Business evaporated like ether in August from these truck stops once I-95 opened in Orangeburg County. When such businesses die the buzzards which come along do not eat the buildings, but move into them. Those shiny new Peterbuilts no longer stop at these places. You're more likely to see rusted pickups or dinged up Datsuns among the uninsured vehicles parked in these lots. Vice can be nice, stylish, avant guard, but along here it has settled to the bottom rung. You know you've got something special when the plate glass is spray painted from the inside.

Random debris has been swept to the rear of the lot and the building seems empty and dormant. Even if this is the limit of advances by the new management, it's a great step upward. Here at the back door to Santee this is the yard of the month.

Disaster in Branchville ?

2008-03-31T01:18:00.001-04:00

On March 15 a tornado touched down at Branchville, SC, visiting damage upon that small town as seen in the photos. These few buildings were badly damaged, but most were not including structures very close to the vortex. Torandos are like that: selective, narrow, arbitrary.

Unlike our coastal hurricanes, tornados do not get named, cannot be planned for and you don't know that they're coming until they are gone. Hurricanes are like large armies massed and marching across someone's country. A tornado is like a stinger missile out of nowhere. Another difference is that tornados do not unite people as the hurricane usually does. One family loses their house, but the one across the street hasn't a scratch. The immediate neighbors all pull together, but beyond that narrow radius, few people really give much of a hoot.

If there is not a uniform blanket of photogenic devastation, it's not exciting enough for network news and fails to gain notice, it didn't happen. The big question, of course, is who or what agency will clean up this mess. Some buildings are likely under insured if they insured at all. Declaring this a "disaster area" is a bit complicated.

A law called the Stafford Act defines the process that triggers most federal disaster assistance other than assistance for crop losses. A big news splash is very helpful because the criteria for disaster declarations are vague. The law defines only two categories of presidentially declared disasters: "emergencies" and "major disasters".

Where the costs of a damage exceeds the resources of state and local government, a governor can ask the President to declare a major disaster. If the President determines that the damage is severe enough, the affected area then becomes eligible for FEMA assistance.

That's not likely to happen here

Air Fare

2008-03-17T00:29:00.001-04:00

Soon gasoline will be as expensive as air at Harmon's Service Center in Holly Hill, SC. Fortunately they're closed on Sunday or we may have been charged rent while taking this photo. Yes, as the sign says, air is five dollars. We're uncertain whether that's per tire or covers all four. Perhaps the air is imported from the Middle East, but we seem to have an ample supply of nice hot domestic air at the ready.

This sounds a little steep, but it just might be that Harmon's had been giving away its air to motorists who then went elsewhere to buy their gas. Maybe one too many beach bound travelers copped free air for their floats. Maybe the local kook was filling his inflatable dolls here. Whatever the case, it's no more Mr. Nice Guy for Harmon's.

At a time when marketing has come right down to the point of kissing the customer between his back pockets with greeters in his face and a host of allegedly free gifts at his feet, it's almost nice to see a curmudgeon in a carload. We're reminded of a country lawyer of our acquaintance who was told by a storekeeper that if he bought two items the third one was free. He replied, "Mr, I can't afford anymore free stuff." Harmon's must have come to a similar conclusion.

No Beltone for Bowser

2008-03-14T03:16:00.003-04:00

We love to cruise the crumbling stretches of tarmac in the forgotten rural areas. These secondary roads have potholes, loose stones, water intrusion cracks and a host of other problems consistent with their senior status. As bad as they are we figure that the people along these pitted paths consider it a fair swap to live apart from metro areas, the interstates and clustered subdivisions. What they lack in snappy fashions or municipally sponsored objets d'art, they gain in peace, quiet and self reliance.

We've learned from someone's experiment that caged rats do funny things when crowded. People are a lot like rats and are likewise odd when crowded. When you give people too little space, too much money and not enough to do, they become mutants with a human form, an imitation of life as it were. Once they amass a wealth of worthless goods they suddenly wake up, freak out and get a dog. Then, of course, they try to turn the dog into a human through which they can live vicariously. Eagerly awaiting every dog owner is chiropractic care, aroma therapy, psychiatrists, pedicures, MRIs, special music, perhaps a K-9 Summer's Eve and countless other imitations of human indulgence for the poor dog.

In the photo we've run pretty much out of road and ended up at modest little house with a clean, neat yard, but no evidence of rat people about the place. Take note of the yellow sign on the post. They have a Deaf Dog. We doubt that they took the dog up to Duke, but probably figured this out on their own. They just nailed up a sign and gave the dog a nice big area in which to enjoy the quiet. We know that such a thing is available, but with these folks there will be no Beltone for bowser. Out here people are people, dogs are dogs and rats remain rats

Meet the New Ford Hybrid

2008-02-23T03:53:00.002-05:00

The marketing boys up in Dearborn, Michigan, were fond of the phrase, "The Ford Family of Fine Cars." As is often the case in more recent times some diversity has come to the family.

At the junction of Old State ( Hwy.176 ) and Jedberg Roads we encountered a family member which had undergone a bit of makeover. The venerable Ford Crown Victoria, the last rear wheel drive full sized 4 door sedan extant, the nation's police car and the choice of older, less agile Americans, had obviously gone through some ch-ch-ch-changes.

The car has been painted what are decidedly the school colors of the University of Michigan, but we don't recall Bart Simpson ever coaching the Wolverines. He is portrayed on the left rear quarter panel of the car either confounded by or coveting the "26's". This is a reference to the diameter of the wheel rims: 26 inches! The Crown Vic comes with 16 inch wheels and the Mustang is fitted with 17 inchers. In addition to promoting an element of style, these much larger wheels have the effect of causing slower acceleration, even slower braking, speedometer error, but increased fuel economy. We would expect larger wheels to cost more, but this class of wheel is exponentially more expensive. Many are in fact leased rather than sold outright. Those baloon payments can be pretty tough. When the FED recently lowered interest rates, we're certain that may sets were refinanced. Talk about reinventing the wheel !

They have elsewhere been suggested as the perfect configuration for navigating the low lying streets of the Charleston peninsula. When most SUVs are stalled and flooded out in the high water on the Crosstown, one would still be charging ahead and gleefully spraying them with the impounded brown tide which collects on those wet days.

The customizing is done locally so it amounts to a form of native art. We spoke with the friendly fellow who had actually done the work himself. Across the top of the windshield is marked, " 843-KUSTOMS " which in no way computes with the telephone he gave us, but that's the artist's privilege we feel. Why make it too easy?

So, it protects our drivers from the regularly rising waters, saves fuel and enables revenge upon trucks and SUVs. There's not doubt about it, this is a hybrid in its own right.

Fertilizer

2008-02-15T23:57:00.003-05:00

Hey, graffiti bums, this Bond's for YOU

2008-02-11T01:18:00.000-05:00

Here's some artwork painted on a building which we dedicate to the bums who paint graffiti on City of Charleston equipment and on private property against the wishes of the owner.

We love all sorts of crazy, eccentric, beautiful, profane paintings on buildings....which the owner wanted on their building. We recognize uninvited graffiti, however, as a criminal act.

Through a failure of character and an absence of decency the defacing of property has been committed by tiny clusters of dolts who don't really matter, but wish they did. In a few local tabloids, blogs, on posters it is celebrated by people who would like to be arbiters of art and opinion, but are not.

Are those who deface property with graffiti rebels? No, they're retards. Are these blows against the empire? No, these are bums blowing paint on the property of other people. There's nothing heroic or artful or creative about these criminal acts. There is no native art at work, no expressions of ethnicity, no exercise of freedom in these self embarrassments. The idiots who do this are petty thieves because they steal from us all. They are not master criminals, but lower life forms.

So, for the vandals who damage our property and foul our view, this bond is for you. We hope it's a high one. The City of Charleston Police Department sends officers to paint over the graffiti in the same way we have to scoop up what the doggie leaves behind. It's one in the same. They are also looking to arrest you and we hope they do and we will help the police any way we can.

The Oaks Plantation....once

2008-02-08T01:02:00.000-05:00

In the photograph we are at The Oaks Plantation house which had most recently served as the clubhouse for The Oaks Country Club. The house sat on about 1,600 acres of land at Goose Creek in Berkeley County, South Carolina.

This building was constructed around 1892 to replace the previous structure of 1840 which had burned. Around 1930 the place was sold and much of the elaborate Georgian woodwork was stripped along with other significant appointments. Between the Civil War and the onset of the Great Depression of 1929, many fine old plantation houses were badly ransacked.

The Lowcountry did not recover from either tragic period until World War II production brought many jobs and much cash to the Charleston area. Hard times starved a lot of people, but it certainly saved some wonderful old buildings.

The well worn adjective, stately, seems appropriate when placed in any description of The Oaks. This is how it looked in November of 2005. When it burned down last night the fire took some two hundred years of history away forever. It's gone and no modern replication of the structure would rise above the level of poor imitation.

We lose these grand old buildings to developers, neglect, hurricanes and fires. They don't come back like your wrecked Jaguar from the body shop. The just don't come back.

McClure-less at the Pump

2008-02-05T02:25:00.000-05:00

In their previous life Exxon was Esso which had been Standard Oil many years before that. We've pulled up to the pump at McClure's Esso station outside of Tryon, North Carolina. The posted price of Esso (regular) is 19.9 cents and Esso Extra (premium) is 23.3 cents per gallon. A second sign says " No Gas Today " and it will say the same tomorrow.

McClure's is a well preserved example of the classic country filling stations which were posted less than a tank of gas between each other along the nations highways. This is how gas was priced and the stations looked a little more than 45 years ago. In those days one never pumped their own gas.

Had McClure's been in business when we rolled up there would have been a man checking the oil, one wiping the windshield, another checking the air pressure in the tires in the time it took yet another to fill up the tank. Being that we were in the mountains, all readings would be carefully made and conditions reported to the driver. Any failure on their part to be courteous and efficient might well get back to Mr. McClure or perhaps the widow McClure as these were almost always family businesses. There was accountability up and down the line.

We would be using Esso Extra in this car so that filling the tank from nearly empty would have come to $3.24 with a little running down the fender. When we took on that same volume of fuel just down the road, the tab was $41.17 with our taking great care not to spill on drop. That was at a convenience store at which the cashier would have little noticed if the car had caught fire as long as we'd paid in advance. They couldn't give you directions to anywhere from there, but would sell you a map for around five bucks. If you needed help with car trouble, you'd get a shrug at no extra charge. If you were offended by any of this, just try to get the name and address of a managing person to write. If it gets written, imagine the horse laughter your letter will receive as it gets tossed into the can by low level corporate indoor help.

Exxon, now Exxon-Mobil, again reported record earnings for the previous quarter last week. It was stunning news in a tanking economy. For the year they hauled in $77,213 per MINUTE. During the short time it took to fill up the Mustang's tank, Exxon-Mobil gobbled down $111,959.

Loathing the high gasoline prices as much if not more than most, we still find it a bargain in our way of thinking. The dollar to BTU ratio is highway robbery, but the intangible value of finding our way to places of character, mystery and beauty is something on which we cannot place a price. Exxon Mobil, however, can and does. Happy Motoring !

" If you are looking for the perfect church...

2008-01-14T03:04:00.000-05:00

Prowling about Georgetown, SC, we spotted the Love Chapel at 1645 Front Street. It was difficult to pass this without a second look. The colorful bus caught our eye, but its main message brought us to the door.

We often encounter formidable cathedrals which present as mighty fortresses of faith with inspiring, often scolding architecture. These are fearsome forbidding structures which evoke awe in the faithful, but fear in the sinner by design. The message is not literally articulated, but it might as well be considered as property posted against entry by all, but the righteous. Venial, mortal and fashion sins stay many from the door.

One cannot presume that these formal places of worship do not inside offer the words and acts of forgiveness. They just don't show it on the cover.

Many years ago banks began to realize that the dignity and formality of the classic bank environment felt threatening to both depositors and loan applicants in the lower and middle income brackets. The lower one was in the pecking order of purchasing power, the less welcome one felt, the less bold one was in seeking or confident in receiving a loan. The message strongly implied that pea pickers need not apply. Many, however, had picked enough peas to draw the bankers' envy so formality declined. Banks established informal branches, provided drive through service so one could bank nearly naked, and dress down Fridays unstarched the executive collar. Banks became ever so democratic in offering loans with more creative interest structures and have thereby managed to more effectively pick the pockets of the pea pickers.

The Love Chapel not only allows sinners within their doors, but recruits them. Banks, as we all know, only loan money to people who don't need it. Love Chapel takes the opposite approach. They further dismount the high horse by the slogan posted on their marquee. That photo also shows a reserved parking sign for "First Lady." Making a snap judgment we figure that this is not a space saved for Mrs. Bush.

Cycle Therapy

2007-12-31T03:22:00.000-05:00

When we saw the sign which read, "Cycle Therapy," we figured that it was a facility for the treatment of road rash. Drawing up beside the building, the attractive mural suggests something different.

This is instead a place which advises that the avenue to therapy is traveled via motorcycle. There is no list of the maladies from which the motorcycle delivers one, but there's an old fashioned shop in a remote and rural setting in their mural which looks a pleasant pause in that process. A rider rests under a shade tree, against his motorcycle, by himself.

I appears that one need escape not only from the trappings of busy modern urban pressures, but from other people as well. Wherever that road leads, it seems to be a solo flight which is prescribed.

Black and White and Read All Over

2007-12-17T00:13:00.000-05:00

In Winnsboro, South Carolina, the seat of Fairfield County, we recently came upon two of our favorite things rolled into one: a mural and a locomotive. We don't pitch from the same mound as a legitimate art critic, but do we admire the creative masking of dull flat walls with clever colorful images. Whether these things are art or craft we couldn't care less. We know what we like.

The artist called Blue Sky gets our vote for the most clever use of color in the stunning "Tunnel Vision" ( other photo ) mural on a wall off Taylor Street in Columbia, SC. This one's in black and white. Looking back at our album of murals we find that they are usually, if not always, in color. We've seen shockingly rich colors, balanced moderate tones, pastels which fairly sink into the pores of brick walls. The use of black painting on a bright white wall is an eye catcher and a new one on us. Not only has the artist sent a painfully drab wall packing, but he's produced an unavoidable message for the South Carolina Railroad Museum. It's such a nice illustration that you're almost grateful that the drab white wall was there in the first place.

One might look down a critical nose at this as little more than technical drawing, but how else would you render a locomotive? If you do it in color or with a cute twisted smiling rubber face then you've got goofy kid stuff. It's like John Wayne riding side saddle. Blasphemy! It is, after all, not just the symbol, but the literal engine of Manifest Destiny in American history. Here it gets dignity consistent with that role while the trailing smoke of copy attracts even the light of heart. A lesser treatment would be not unlike using the odious expression of "choo-choo" before the serious railroad buff. It just isn't done.

So the museum says,"thank you for smoking" and we say thanks for a mural worth driving to see.

This Side of Paradise

2007-12-11T03:16:00.000-05:00

Ah, Pringletown, South Carolina, 60 feet above sea level, 53 klicks northwest of Charleston and just this side of Paradise. Paradise, the lounge, that is. Perhaps they had meant Pair-of-Dice because life in Pringletown is something of a crap shoot. Here are three cases where the dice came up snake eyes.

This past July a girl who was visiting from out of state, accepted the offer of a ride from a passing stranger at about 3 a.m. as she walked along U.S. Highway 78. The girl was found several hours later near Pringletown in Berkeley County. She had been held and robbed at knifepoint, authorities said. This little lapse in judgement is somewhere high on the top ten list of things we are born knowing not to do, but you've got to feel sorry for the girl in any event. After all that suffering she ends up in Pringletown.

In June a 13-year-old boy shot and killed his 23-year-old cousin in the doorway to his bedroom of the mobile home which they share in Pringletown. The shooting was apparently the last word in an argument over juice. The Deputy Coroner said the boy had used a "household weapon" to dispatch his cousin. Please pass the double ought.

A bit further back opponents of a proposed racetrack in Pringletown, SC, had appealed a decision by the state Department of Health and Environmental Control that the track's noise level will not adversely affect Francis Beidler Forest. Naw, that shouldn't be any problem at all. We were up that way just the other day when an Ivory Billed Woodpecker landed on the trunk clearly drawn to the seductive resonance of the Mustang's dual exhaust system. Many's the time little birds chortle with delight in our slipstream as we blast past them on our way through Pringletown. "Gentlemen, start your kayaks ? "...no way.

Color us gone from or at least many miles this side of that paradise.

Grand Slam-burg

2007-12-04T03:51:00.000-05:00

Back in June we found our way to Bamberg, South Carlolina and got a look an ambitious renovation of what had been their downtown business district. Bamberg's old commercial center had gone to hell, but not yet back, at the dawn of the twenty-first century.

Does anyone remember the raving national panic over Y2K in which a clueless public came to believe that at the stroke of 01/01/00 all computers would crash and life would end? Well, Bamberg's business district crashed long before computers were invented. 01/01/00 was just another dead day on Main Street. In fact, the first day of 1900 might have seen more prosperity.

The reasons for the decline of small towns are well known and the road to their decline is well worn. What is new and of considerable interest is the effort to revive them and the citizens who might make this possible. An increasing disenchantment with crime, taxes and the invasive bureaucracy of urban life is turning more eyes toward the greener pastures or rural and small town living. Some have moved, more will follow, but there is, as always, a catch.

Postcards from the edge indicate that the placid life can also be a dull one. It is less a generational thing and more a bloc of people of all ages who want a simpler life. Those unwilling to till the land, chew tobacco or sit on the front porch all day were likely to go mad within the first trimester. This meant that folks would either become something like Eddie Albert and ZaZa Gabor of "Green Acres" or their children would all wind up looking like the Alman Brothers.

The newly paved streets and buffed up buildings might not become Grand Slam-berg, but it's a good start. It is the new attitude of people who want a richer life of greater opportunity in the greener pastures which might make it work. Otherwise, we will have a string of little boutique towns which will be nice places to visit, but...

Thinking Outside of the Pipeline

2007-11-18T02:00:00.000-05:00

Along the way through Orangeburg County on Hwy. 301 the oversized coffee pot caught our eye as it might have some fifty years ago. Before the franchisees, the Inns of Hampton, the outlet stores, the El Cheapos at every ramp and the very interstate highways which feed them, there were places like this. These were the mom and pop businesses neither supported nor controlled by some distant corporate center.

At the time when Interstate 95 opened many of these little operations were on their way toward closing. A lot of them didn't see the end coming, but those who did had few alternatives but to perish in place. There were neither funds for nor the will to relocate because most proprietors lived at or near their places of business.

Back in the 1950s a couple bought this land and built a little diner on the site and living quarters further from the road. The Mr. fashioned that eye catching coffee pot from sheet metal in his shop behind the building. The Mrs. fashioned a very popular pecan pie from those which dropped from the trees about the place. His big coffee pot drew people in and her pecan pies made them popular. There had the gimmick, but they delivered the goods. When you wanted a large coffee to go, they did not require you to ask for a "grande".

The interstate highways are long pipelines across the land through which the country rushes and from which sights like the coffee pot pecan pie shop are never seen. We enjoy picking through the unburied corpses of these long gone independent enterprises. We don't suggest that these were exciting undertakings, but we think they may have been fulfilling in ways which most of us no longer understand.

By-Catch of the Energy Crisis

2007-11-08T04:43:00.000-05:00

The Highway to Hell Hole

2007-10-30T00:18:00.000-04:00

We pulled into Jamestown, SC, three weeks ago and four months too late to make the Hell Hole Swamp Festival. We are parked in front of the festival headquarters, a little building donated by Seaboard Coast Line Railroad. We seem to have missed quite a bit.

In early May the festival was held to observe it's 36th anniversary. The shindig included the Miss, Mrs. ( no Ms it seems ) and Mr. Hell Hole Beauty Pageants, a Bar-B-Que Cook-Off, Whiskey Still display,10K Gator Run, parade, a talent show, a Tobacco Spitting Contest, Horseshoe Pitching Contest and the Moonshine Ball. We don't know whether the festival has an official car, but we're not in the running.

Running is a feature of this festival. The Hell Hole Gator Trot is the oldest 10 Kilometer race in the state. You must always stipulate that it is a people race rather than a NASCAR sanctioned event in these parts. Only the first and last mile is paved. The rest is run on crushed-rock logging roads that, depending on rainfall the days before the race, can range anywhere between hard and dusty to shoe-swallowing mush. May is springtime in many places, but it's pretty close to summer here. It's no Alpine retreat, but it draws runners from far and wide.

Everyone in South Carolina knows the name of this place, but few know the origin of that name. During the Revolutionary War in a letter to King George, General Cornwallis called the swamp—from which Francis Marion and his band of guerrillas mounted their attacks upon the British troops and then vanished—"one hell of a hole of a swamp." So it is the derision of the British Empire rather than the Chamber of Commerce which hatched the name.

Not everyone knows where the festival is held nor do they know how to get to Jamestown. You just get on the Ocean Highway, US 17 North, out of Charleston to McClellanville. There take a left on Hwy 45 which intersects with Hwy 41 at Jamestown. It's the highway to Hell Hole.

The Empire Strikes Back

2007-10-25T01:43:00.000-04:00

It looks as if we've stumbled upon one of the abandoned movie sets of "Star Wars." That's not one of the Empire's robots behind us, but the remnants of a water tank behind the Awendaw, SC, Town Hall.

Awendaw is a small village just north of Mt. Pleasant, SC. It has been something of a fire break in the inferno of development which has largely finished off Mt. Pleasant and the undeveloped land north up to McClellanville and into the Francis Marion National Forest. As many little coastal villages have awakened to the threat of development, they have taken steps to preserve their unspoiled lands, their way of life, their sanity.

Awendaw is not an affluent community. Much of the land is occupied by families which have owned their lots and tracts for generations. If development is allowed into the community the values will skyrocket as will their property taxes. They would be taxed off of their own land. It is a lesson learned over 30 years ago when Kiawah and Seabrook Island brought high taxes to Johns and Wadmalaw Islands and drove many families off their land. We figured that the folks in Awendaw had learned from that lesson, but apparently not.

Awendaw has voted to allow municipal water lines to come into their community. Development had been waiting at this door for quite a while. To what extent developers have influenced the candidates in the upcoming election we cannot say, but logic suggests that no all are unmoved by the promise of "progress." The Empire has indeed struck back.

A Mount Pleasant Moment

2007-10-17T22:24:00.000-04:00

We're tempted to go out on Halloween for Trick or Treating disguised as a convertible. We found one which is also Windveil Blue and thought of simply stealing the thing, but the owner was watching so we pretended to be friendly. That would save a lot of cosmetic surgery just for one night's fun. Of course, many have done much more to themselves for much less.

We spotted that GT convertible at an open air market at the intersection of Highways 61 and 165. This looked like no more than another roadside vendor pushing pumpkins, but at least he's not pushing the season. Some chain retailers we've had the necessary misfortune to visit were hawking Halloween back in early September. We were just glad that they didn't have a large lighted Styrofoam Santa to greet us here at Pumpkin World.

On leaving we realized that we were in the middle of yet another land use controversy in Dorchester County not far from Summerville. There is a large convenience store gas station on one corner, something just like it on the other corner and on the third corner the leavings of another nationwide drug store chain. This forth, more or less north west corner of 61 and 165, is in the sights of a developer. We're not sure what they're up to or how this could conceivably affect them, but we know that someone down 61 on Plantation row is grumbling about the plans.

Many unspoiled spaces are worth whatever effort is required to save them. This spot, however, is what we call a Mt. Pleasant Moment: nothing left to save. Finishing off this corner will give the intersection a sense of fully balanced anonymity. A uniform dullness will obtain and be thus enhanced by the routine landscaping which numbs the scene sufficiently to pass muster.

The complainant should have called this one in three constructions ago. Now, it's just something for the medical examiner to ponder.

Three Faces of Dillon County

2007-10-12T00:44:00.000-04:00

Dillon County, South Carolina was created in 1910, a neoplasm excised from the upper torso of Marion County. One year later the Dillon County Courthouse was built. It is a massive Neo-Classical styled building designed by William Augustus Edwards. The SC Department of Archives and History says that "The elevations are unified by the discipline of the Ionic portico, which imposes its order on all elements of each elevation." The imposition of order seems an appropriate role of a courthouse. We were surprised to discover that every sixth brick course is recessed to simulate rustication.

In our survey of Dillon County, it did not seem necessary to cultivate rustication. We've included a picture of South of the Border which we discussed in detail last July. While it is dramatically less inspiring and attractive, it is the far better known wonder of Dillon County. Not very many students of architecture pull off of I-95 at this point.

Price's (new and used) Furniture sports the classic Coca-Cola ad, bears the official "Antiques" crest and was unable to resist posting, "Prices are Right at Price's" on the brick face of their store. In addition to appliances they've got a little something extra for the shopper. You will also see guns, "Long and Hand," offered at Price's. Would you like a Kalashnikov with that Kelvinator, a Magnum with your Maytag ?

At this elevation of human endeavor a building which imposes a sense of order seems meet and right.

Nothing Could Be Finer to Be With Petrofina

2007-10-04T02:01:00.000-04:00

If you look very closely just behind the Mustang you can make out the logo of FINA on both of the old gas pumps. They've probably been dry since before gasoline prices hit the third digit.

The Belgian petroleum conglomerate, Petrofina, moved into the U.S. market in 1956 when it purchased Panhandle Oil Co. They gobbled up one group after another and gained significant market share. Petrofina began marketing its gasoline under the FINA brand name in 1958.

Gasoline advertising, incapable of shame, took considerable artistic license. By 1961 FINA introduced its "Pink Air" campaign. "Pink Air" was available FINA stations and when introduced into the customer's tires it would prevent them from deteriorating. FINA gasoline went more than one better. It's special additive, PFLASH, was said to improve mileage, smooth out bumpy roads and turn red lights green. We'd certainly love to have a tank full of that stuff.

It is unclear whether the FINA dealer pictured above ever used "Pink Air" to promote the product. Likely as not the dealer would have been laughed out of the county and left such strategies to his counterparts in the more gullible urban areas. "Pink Air" didn't prevent the FINA brand from deteriorating in South Carolina nor did it long extend the mileage of this little country store.

This is probably an eyesore to those who dash along this road from the midlands to the coast or the reverse. How many times has someone in a passing car said, "They ought to tear that thing down?" We like them. There seems to be a tendency in the country where land may be cheaper and space more plentiful to leave things alone after they quit working. We see all sorts of little out buildings, stores, small houses, large equipment and a good many automobiles which have been allowed to die in place. At the end of the service lives of these many things the country folks just let them be. We'd like to spray our own variety of "Pink Air" on them and thus preserve these relics we've come to treasure.

Hump Warning Sign Corrected

2007-09-23T23:47:00.000-04:00

We're never reluctant about calling the City's hand when they deal us a bad card. We recently found a Speed Hump warning sign facing sideways where no approaching vehicle could see it. Not until a car busted an oil pan and the motor burned up would one be the wiser.

Not two days after we posted that picture the sign vanished from the post to which it had been fastened. We figured that was probably hanging in a dorm room or frat house just up the street.

Then less than a week later, bingo, new post, new sign and all as it should be. We're certain that it's mostly citizens who steal or deface road signs, but it seems clear that the City of Charleston is the one who has to put them right again.

Now, if we could encourage someone from the College, the Project, the neighborhood to dig up the blasted speed hump then all things would again be in their places.

To protect us from reprisals we found a vandal who agreed to spray paint our license tag. By chance, he happened to have a can of Windveil Blue in his possession.

The BIG CRICKET

2007-09-17T01:58:00.000-04:00

In our foraging for old fashioned country stores we seldom strike out when rounding the bases on South Carolina's rural roads. Certainly it's a prize when we discover an ongoing multigenerational country store still in operation. When we find one of those it is decidedly a home run. Today we got a base hit with Barwick's Variety Shop.

We made a run up U.S. Highway 17 North and took a left at Highway 45 which is an official "Evacuation Route." Depending upon the weather, Highway 45 either begins or ends at McClellanville, SC. Anyone hanging around McClellanville when the hurricane horn goes off knows which way to run so the "Evacuation Route" signs seem unnecessary. They do, however, help one avoid enjoying their day too much by keeping weather terror in our daily thoughts.

We're all familiar with animals named after people. Kemp's Ridley Sea Turtle, Wilson's Snipe and Pel's Fishing Owl are three of our favorites. Today at Barwick's in charming, but unassuming Shulervlle we have discovered Ghann's Cricket, "Top Quality Fish Gettters!" (see the faint print on the sign). Notice how he's looking to see just where you're going to put that hook before he goes to get those fish for you.

Barwick's Variety Shop may have gone extinct, but Ghann's Cricket has just moved down the road a bit. We doubt that he's made it all the way to WalMart, but he's probably still out their getting fish for some lucky angler.

The Business Section: Cottageville SC

2007-09-11T02:36:00.000-04:00

We had a yarn concocted along the lines of having broken down in a remote area of the state only to be rescued by the featured wrecker. After having a good look at both vehicles it seemed more likely that we had found the wrecker disabled and gave it a push to its present berth.

This is Cottageville in Colleton County, South Carolina. We're having to watch our P's and Q's these days out on the open road. Not long ago the Mayor of Cottageville had got himself into hot water over some alleged violation of the posted speed limits. They, the newspaper, said that he had been rather fleet of foot, but had received several free passes on speeding tickets when stopped. We did not feel that such same luck would attach to us while breezing through this little town. We made a slow and deliberate debut.

No riddle of commerce has confounded us more than the rural sacrament of the yard sale. We were drawn to one being held in a semicircular driveway by a man who never made eye contact with us nor we with him as we idled past his array of puzzling goods. The man sat in a chair under a tent and concentrated on his cigarette seeming to hope that we'd steal some of his stuff which would allow him to vacate the unappealing site sooner than later. After this wasted moment we pulled away and then our eyes fell upon J.W.'s Tire Station.

J.W. has taken over a nice old concrete block structure in the heart of town. It seemed welcoming in a frighteningly friendly sort of way. He has a collection of hubcaps of which none match. These are probably just loosely fastened mementos from cars passing through. The tires look fresher. The truck is dreamboat.

The wrecker seems a composite of several different trucks' previous lives. There is a set of canine teeth painted into the grille. Some kind of metal hat is attached to the hood. The interior is a clutter of items which one might expect to build up in such a vehicle over time. When one fancies a set of wheels it becomes a personalized possession which often is given a name. J.W. has painted this truck's name on the door: " Red Hot Tow-mater " ! The tire market in Cottageville may ebb and flow, but this looks like a long term relationship.

The Once and Future Bamberg

2007-09-03T02:32:00.000-04:00

Here at the confluence of Highways 301, 601 and 78 is the Town of Bamberg, South Carolina, founded 1897. It is yet another small town which lost its downtown businesses to the national brands which clustered in shopping malls over thirty years ago. An entire generation never knew the proud and friendly local stores run by their neighbors on these few streets. No one under fifty knows the term "dry goods" or has a notion about Notions.

As local merchants began closing up downtown an increasingly lower trade was moving in. Frequently, the opening of a wig shop, that harbinger buzzard, signals the closing of viable business for that block. It was a slow and painful process with an obvious outcome. This unhappy commercial decline was as well marked and traceable as the downward tumble of a human's health. You might have found a Western Auto Associate store on Main Street, but J.C. Penny wasn't moving in next door.

Bamberg's commercial downtown descendeth into hell, but is rising again to sit on the right hand of urban renewal. We eased up to Bamberg recently to collect pictures of the decayed infrastructure. We were surprised to find not just piecemeal renovation, but a concerted effort at rebuilding an entire business district. This is what we had hoped for: the remnants of the last gasps of desperate, bawdy, funky enterprises with the rebuilders close behind. It is exactly what's happening in Bamberg.

In our photos the old Main Street has been dug up, regraded and repaved in part. Many old signs and decorated plate glass windows mark the last round up of failed efforts which seem to be giving way to promising new ones. We shot photos at both ends of the street to show the breadth of the undertaking. There is a strong sense of positive redirection in the air there.

This renewal is happening because Bamberg's the political center of gravity in the county and because of an infusion of funds from a mixture of sources. You just don't have a block full of boutiques moving into Skid Row for fun. It takes a lot of money, political power and a concessus within the business community to reanimate our small towns' downtowns. We are in great need of that combination in the other 45 counties.

ZOMBIES STEAL SPEED HUMP SIGN !

2007-08-31T22:17:00.000-04:00

Barely 24 hours after posting our photos of the Speed Hump we returned to the scene of the sign, but it was gone. Gone, gone, gone...really gone.

We stopped dead, got out, looked everywhere, but no sign of the sign did we see. The nice tall green solid steel channel post to which the large yellow sign had been bolted was still there and naked as a jaywalker in San Francisco. There had been no attempt to twist, relocate or otherwise cause the post to present the warning sign to oncoming vehicles. This was no corrective measure, no vigilantee righting of public wrong, but a cold and calculated blow against the empire.

Bring out your UV light tonight, but you won't find any funny fluids. Call in Crime Scene, but they'll find no latent prints here. You can forget all about DNA because Zombies don't have any. The only clue to this crime is tucked away in our glove box right next to the expired proof of insurance card. The whole mystery is explained in the note we found at the scene bearing the following lyrics:

Well no one told me about her,
The way she lied
Well no one told me about her,
Oh how that Speed Hump sign did hide,
But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care
Please don't bother tryin' to find her,
She's not there !

Stupid is as Stupid Does

2007-08-28T01:50:00.001-04:00

The City of Charleston's peninsula is its most historic section, the site of its oldest buildings and its most challenged and challenging thoroughfares. It is geological pranks rather than neglect by the City which more often challenges the surfaces of our paved roadways.

The keyword is "city" for that's what we are, an urban complex of commercial and residential structures the access to which is not always an easy task. We are a very old city, but a fully functioning one and not a museum or theme park. People live and work here and need to connect their lives. Between us and our appointed rounds are slow moving horse drawn carriages which often ignore stop signs and the cars blocked behind them. Ditto for tour busses. We have much needed infrastructure repairs in progress all over town and we have a lot of tourists who are as stuck as the locals by these annoyances.

The new challenge is neither geological nor deferred maintenance, but part of the process of "suburbanization" of Charleston. The city has many new residents who are either unaware of what urban life is about or are simply hard core suburbanites. If they could erect cute little wooden signs reading " 13 MPH " such as found at Kiawah Island, they'd feel more at home.

The favorite scheme of the not-ready-for-peninsula-Charleston set is the speed hump. We used to call them "speed bumps," but they prefer the term "hump," a verb more accurately describing their effect upon orderly transit in our city. This is suburbanization in action. It is a staple of the Nanny Statists, but mostly it's the self-centered who are humping the rest of us. They are usually the squeaky wheel which the City must oil. It's a dunce of a plan which creates additional contempt for traffic control devices. The fool who wants one in front of his house gets what he deserves: frequent squealing of tires from cars slamming on breaks due to poor warning and, of course, the absurdity of the hump being there in the first place.

Check out this useful warning sign in front on the west side of Logan Street just slightly south of Broad. It appears that the same level of intelligence which demanded the installation of the hump also designed the placement of the warning sign. As Mr. Gump says, "Stupid is as stupid does."

Little Tara

2007-08-16T22:31:00.000-04:00

The American Civil War is the seminal event in Southern history. It created, defined and fertilized the history of the South as we now know or believe it today. The academic factual study of that war is the work of many scholars. What lives in our Southern hearts is the unequal blend of fact and legend. The way the nation looks at this period is the work of one movie: "GONE WITH THE WIND".

The 1939 release of "GWTW" was met by a review in "The New Yorker" magazine with, "Margaret Mitchell's bomb of a book has been made into a bomb of a film ." It did not, of course, bomb, but became the most popular movie of all time. It has endured every bump in the rocky road of race relations in the South from that moment forward. It uses expressions and honors emotions which are no longer allowed in popular entertainment. And it is popular throughout the length and breadth of the United States. We can't get enough of it.

Central to the movie is the character of Scarlet O'Hara and central to her character is Tara, the family plantation. She draws her strength from the red earth of Tara as we are told by Ashley Wilkes. Her father holds that land is the only thing which endures and that Tara must never fall from the family's grasp. It is to Tara that Scarlet returns to rebuild her life. Tara is all that separates her from the landless hordes. Tara is not about the oppression of Reconstruction nor the villainy of Carpetbaggers nor does it come to celebrate the grace and beauty of the old South nor does it excuse slavery. Tara is about land, the holding and working of one's land, the sense land having something akin to a soul. It suggests that land may define a person's point and purpose in living. To that end it is one of the film's few concepts which still has a place in American life.

On the sign which proclaims the grounds with to be " Little Tara " there are the unmistakable trappings of Johnny Reb, but the implied message is more like "this is our property." If asked in we would not expect to find a suburban mansion or the garish appointments of faux plantation decor, but a house of normal proportions, a home to landed folks who may themselves draw strength and purpose from their piece of Johns Island earth.