The Dedalus Log

Dark and silent late last night
I think I might have heard the highway calling.
Geese in flight and dogs that bite,
Signs that might be omens say,
I’m going, going.I’m goin’ to Carolina in my mind.

In my mind I’m goin’ to Carolina.
Can’t you see the sunshine?
Can’t you just feel the moonshine?
Ain’t it just like a friend of mine
To hit me from behind?
Yes, I’m goin’ to Carolina in my mind.
(Carolina in my Mind – James Taylor: 1968)

Despite a pretty comprehensive private and public education in California, an undergraduate degree in history, and having taught U.S. History in high school, I’ve always considered myself a novice to the story and geography of the South. The cities and battles sites of the Revolutionary and Civil Wars were simply names that added color and accent to what I considered the real issues of American History: Independence, Manifest Destiny, and Slavery. My first concrete experience with “The South” was in 2001, when we attended the graduation of Ed Killmond, a longtime friend and ex-officio family member, from the Savannah College of Art and Design in Georgia. Although we only stayed two days, I was enchanted by the languid pace of this sophisticated city with its antebellum homes, elegant plazas, and oak trees, garlanded with haunting, Spanish moss. I loved hearing the low pitched, rhythmic Georgian accents that greeted, questioned, and offered advice to tourists from California. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience and decided that “the South” as a place and a culture was tremendously overlooked and underestimated by the rest of the nation. In some ways it was like going to a foreign territory within the United States. It was a land with a history that paralleled the other states in the Union, but remained remarkably aloof in its values and attitudes. I thought no more of that romantic land until our friends Ken and Kathy Horton actualized their long-time dream of building a house and retiring to Belfair, a golfing plantation in Bluffton, South Carolina this year.

At first, I thought I knew very little about either of the Carolinas, North or South. I remembered that Revolutionary War battles were fought there, and the first shots of the Civil War were fired at Fort Sumter, in one of the Carolinas. But I didn’t have a clear picture of the ecology, geography, or the people of these states. In fact I wasn’t even sure in which state Kathy and Ken had moved to, North or South Carolina. I was initially confused when my wife Kathy said they lived near Hilton Head, because I thought the name sounded like a part of Hawaii. I probably would have remained blissfully ignorant of these states if not for our ties with these two old and dear friends. We have known Kathy and Ken since the births of our second children (in Kathy’s case twin girls, Kate and Andrea). Ken and my wife, Kathy, met while enrolling our 2-year old sons, Toñito and Marshall in pre-school, in 1980. That encounter evolved into a friendship between two moms and their growing children. Discovering a non-blood-related family with young children who shared common interests, parenting practices, and family values was rare. We spent the next 30 years raising children, involving them in sports and artistic endeavors, sending them to high school and college, and worrying about their jobs, relationships, and careers. The two Kathy’s always made sure that we got together at least every month or two, and the Horton’s hosted an annual Christmas Adam party on December 23 (see Christmas Adam). Although our children were the initial reason for our friendship, it lasted without them. When Kathy and Ken finally sold their home in Hidden Hills, they made the move they had talked about for years to South Carolina. On March 3, 2010, Kathy and Ken boarded their SUV and began their cross-country journey to the house they were building in Beaufort County. It didn’t take Kathy long to realize that she missed her best friend Kathy, and that phone calls could not replace the proximity they had shared for so many years. As a Christmas present to ourselves, we decided to visit them. On December 27, we boarded the 6:15 am flight to Savannah, with a stopover at Atlanta, Georgia. Six hours later we landed in Savannah.

At the Savannah Airport, we arrived in time to catch Kathy and Ken seeing off their twin daughters, Kate and Andrea, who were flying back to Chicago and Los Angeles. The twins had flown in to stay in the new house, and celebrate Christmas with their parents and Marshall, a lawyer who lived near them. Kate had established a mid-western life and career, and was now planning a June wedding in South Carolina. Andrea was the sole remaining Californian in the family, working for a Los Angeles security firm while living in the South Bay area. After saying goodbye and watching the girls saunter off to their respective boarding gates, our sojourn in South Carolina began. I thought, at first, that we would be spending the trip catching up on personal stories and exploring a strange land, but it was more than that. Sometimes an event occurs that stitches everything together. A loose collection of lifelong, mental images and pictures, and bits of information gathered from textbooks, novels, histories, movies, and television programs, finally serves its purpose and connects you with a new part of the country. This cohesion took place as we drove through the beautiful, rural countryside of South Carolina to Kathy and Ken’s new home, and over the course of our visit. The sunsets, locales, and scenery we saw, and the stories we heard from Ken and Marshall over the next 4 days and 5 nights about Bluffton, Beaufort, and Charleston quickly unearthed forgotten scenes, songs, pictures, and facts I already knew about South Carolina. The first words to come to my lips on the road to Belfair were from Walt Disney’s 1959 television series about South Carolina’s Revolutionary hero Francis Marion, called The Swamp Fox:

“Swamp Fox, Swamp Fox, tail on his hat.
Nobody knows where the Swamp Fox at.
Swamp Fox, Swamp Fox hiding in the glen,
He’ll ride away to fight again.”

From that moment on everything I saw in South Carolina looked new but felt familiar. We were near Port Royale and the waters sailed by Blackbeard, and other famous pirates. We visited historical cities besieged and occupied by famous Revolutionary and Civil War generals and admirals. We traveled through the low country region that I’d seen in movies like The Patriot, Glory, The Legend of Bagger Vance, and The Big Chill, and read about in novels by Flannery O’Connor, John Jakes, and Pat Conroy. During this visit Kathy and I experienced the exotic terrain and ecology of this tidewater area; the juxtaposition of its past with the present, in the sites and reminders of long-ago wars, battles, and defeats; and the seemingly continuing struggle for liberty and individual rights that intrudes into conversations and the local media. Yet in many ways, we were also at home in this new place with two old friends.

Ken is a golfer, and he and Kathy built their home in Belfair, a private, two-course, golf club located in Bluffton, S.C. It is a historic, 1000-acre plantation which was originally founded in 1811, and contains 33-acres of protected wetlands, natural preserves, and a rookery. The mixture of landscaped homes, fairways, and greens, meshed remarkably well with the natural scenery and the vast variety of wildlife that abounded there. We saw and were told of the many species of birds, such as egrets, ibis, eagles, and osprey, which inhabited the area, along with other animals like the white-tailed deer, wild turkeys, red foxes, and alligators. Since the game of golf had no special attraction for me, I was more interested in the scenery around their new house, throughout the plantation, and along the countryside. Gazing out from every window, porch, and balcony along the northeasterly broadside of the house, I was amazed at the vistas of breathtaking beauty. The Colleton River, a wide ribbon of blue salt water, flowed up from Port Royal Sound, and it ebbed and flooded over a golden harvest of marsh reeds that edged right up to the house and surrounded the spit of land on which it was built. The view was never the same, changing with the tides, the time of day, and the positioning of the sun. In the distance, we could also see the lush, green forest of oak trees that lined the far side of the river. Ken told us that Parris Island, the US Marine Base was located beyond that forest, and on still days one could hear cannon fire. These were the magical sights that greeted us each morning, and the last we saw before nightfall.

 As I said, Belfair is located in the town of Bluffton, which is situated near three quintessential, tidewater cities - Savannah, Georgia, Beaufort, South Carolina, and only 90 minutes away from historic Charleston. It is also just down the highway from the Hilton Head Island resorts, and 10 minutes away from the home and work of their son, Marshall. So, the next morning, we visited him at his new law offices, to drop off Jake, Ken and Kathy’s new dog, and review our plans for the day and dinner with him that night. It was there I realized that although Ken talked about the South like a well-trained historian who loved his subject, Marshall described it like an enamored, native-born, troubadour. I’ve known Marshall all his life. Born in Los Angeles, he was raised, played sports, and attended school in the west San Fernando Valley. I always considered him to be a dyed-in-the-wool, California boy. Until we drove up to his law offices, off a dusty, gravel road on Lawton Street, I never realized how natural and comfortable he was in this low country setting. When he completed his degree at Rutgers Law School in 2004, I assumed he was returning home to practice in Los Angeles. Instead he passed the bar in South Carolina, clerked for a judge in Charleston, and began a private practice in Beaufort and Bluffton. I could only guess that his summer visits to his uncle’s homes in Bluffton and Beaufort, and his crucial decision to attend The Military College of South Carolina (The Citadel) affected the trajectory of his life. When we discussed our plans with Marshall of visiting Beaufort, he made some recommendations, encouraging us to visit Old Sheldon Church, a burnt out relic of the Revolutionary and Civil War. As we were leaving he also pointed out a lone chimney down the road. The house had burnt down long ago, but the owner was inclined to leave the solitary artifact standing. When I chuckled at this predilection for burnt offerings, Marshall smiled ruefully, saying that Southerners had long memories and there was even a street called Burnt Church Road in Bluffton.

 

Revolutionary and Civil War houses, churches, and cemeteries permeated the city of Beaufort. Three sites left the biggest impression. We first visited the white, colonnaded Thomas Heyworth Mansion, built in the 1720’s on the grassy waterfront of the Beaufort River. It is reputed to be one of the oldest houses in Beaufort, and Gene Roe, Kathy’s oldest brother, once owned it. There we heard again the story of how General Sherman’s invading Union army occupied this elegant, antebellum estate during the war, and how the Confederate owners, being in such great haste to leave, simply tossed their luggage trunks from second windows onto the marble porch stairway below. The cracked steps were still visible on our visit, testament to fear engendered during Sherman’s march to the sea. We also walked around St. Helena’s Episcopal Church and Cemetery on Church Street. This restored church was built in 1724, and used as a stable by the British during the Revolutionary War and as a hospital during the Civil War. Among those buried in its surrounding cemetery were two British officers, three American generals, and 17 ministers of the gospel. Finally, on our way home we took Marshall’s advice and stopped at Old Sheldon Church. The towering remains of this church and cemetery, surrounded by the mossy woods outside of Beaufort were the most haunting of our trip. The church was originally built in 1755, burnt by the British in 1779, rebuilt in 1826, and finally burnt again by the Union Army in 1865. The brick skeleton of the structure still hosts religious ceremonies on special occasions, and the interior contains the remains of William Bull, one of the founding members of the church and Lieutenant Governor of South Carolina from 1737-1744.

 The following day we drove to Hilton Head Island, to inspect this luxurious residential and resort community containing 20 world class golf courses, an endless number of tennis courts, 9 marinas, 7 beach parks, and forests filled with palmettos, pines, and oak trees. It was while strolling along the walkways of Harbour Town that I saw the Carpetbagger presence in South Carolina. Residents and tourist from Michigan, Illinois, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and other mid-west, and northeastern states surrounded us, and I saw where the Palmetto state was finding its sources of income and picking up new congressional seats. However, of greater interest to us was our search for Mitchelville and Fort Howell, two more sites recommended by Marshall. After a meandering hunt through various plantations on the island, we tripped upon their locations just as we were ready to give up. We found a road sign next to an open tract of fenced-in ground identifying Mitchelville. It was a freedmen’s town created by General Ormsby Mitchel in 1862, and used to house the Hilton Head slaves who had been emancipated by the Union Army. Up the road from this sign we found the remains of Fort Howell, a defensive earthworks fortress, built by the 32^nd U.S. Colored Infantry Volunteers in 1864 to protect the freedmen’s town. It was hidden beneath a thick cover of vegetation, canopied by a lush grove of oak trees with Spanish moss. As I fell behind Ken and Kathy taking pictures of the forest, a whispering hush seemed to rise up from the steaming mulch of fallen leaves and vines. I imagined I could hear ancient echoes of arduous labor and anxious vigilance from the construction and manning of this fort. It was like walking back into a time when freedom and the protection of civil rights were embryonic realities in America. The rest of the day was spent with food and hospitality: eating at Hudson’s Seafood on the Docks, catching high tide on Colleton River, and visiting Kathy’s family on the May River in Bluffton.

Despite having known Kathy for over 30 years we had never met all of her South Carolinian family. Over time, we had met and befriended her mother, Kathleen, and eldest brother Gene, before they passed away, but never her brother Bill, or his wife Nancy. Kathy and I had heard that they lived in Bluffton, and were part of the local political and cultural scene in Beaufort, so we were anxious to finally meet them and see their riverfront home. While Ken and Kathy’s backyard vista of the Colleton River marsh was stunning, I have to admit that Bill and Nancy’s view of the May River was spectacular. The scene looked like it was scanned out of a travel book or an illustration from Pat Conroy’s novel, Prince of Tides. Kathy and I were so awed by the picture, we felt compelled to inspect the shore, walk by the boathouse, cross the gangplank, and stand on the docking pier, before admitting that it was real. The hosts were very gracious and equally eager to learn about us, and to describe their family’s history in the area. That night Marshall came to dinner with arms and head full of maps and ideas for our final outing to Charleston.

Charleston was of major interest to Kathy and me because it was the oldest city of the United States, the site of the opening shots of the Civil War, and home to the Citadel, the military college I had read about and heard so much about while Marshall was a cadet there. Since we were only spending one day there, Marshall suggested three stops: The Citadel, at the Northwestern end of the city, then crossing Charleston Bay to Sullivan’s Island to see Fort Moultrie, and finally returning to the French Quarter for a walking tour of the city.

Strangely enough, the Citadel was one sight that did not call up the ghosts of the South’s past. One knew immediately we were in a military college from the martial-look of everything. The vast rectangular parade ground was dotted with cannons and tanks, and surrounded by functional, beige-colored, buildings and barracks that looked like castles. The only exceptions to this design were the chapel and bell tower on the southern end. However, these buildings told no stories, the way other South Carolinian structures did. The eerie quiet and emptiness of campus signaled the absence of its most important feature, the Corps of Cadets. I realized then that they were the story, and the storytellers, of this place, but they were on holiday break for Christmas. From there we traveled across the bay where I learned two new lessons about American history.

Fort Moultrie is part of the Fort Sumter National Monument, and from its parapets on the western shore of Sullivan’s Island, we clearly saw Fort Sumter in the middle of the Charleston Bay and the city of Charleston on the other side. It was there I learned that the first shots of the Civil War were actually fired, after the Union commander at Fort Moultrie moved his garrison to the stronger Fort Sumter. In April of 1861, Confederate troops in Fort Moultrie shelled Fort Sumter into submission and the Civil War began. Besides its role of protecting Charleston Bay, the garrison also guarded Sullivan’s Island and the Africans who were quarantined there before being sold as slaves. We learned that this island was the disembarkation point for over 40% (over 200,000) of the slaves traded in America, and it was estimated that nearly half of all African Americans had ancestors who passed through Sullivan’s Island. The rest of the day was spent in Charleston, following the home and church walking tour marked out by Marshall.

Charleston was beautiful! Savannah and Beaufort had given me a sense of walking back into time, but I had never been in a major cosmopolitan American city where so many vestiges of the past were visible and in use. We walked along Bay Street and the Battery, inspecting the waterfront homes with their unique Charleston porches and cobblestone streets, and then back up Kings Street to find the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, St. Philip’s Church, and the Circular Congregational Church. The city reminded me of Mexico City with its multitude of ancient buildings, walkways, churches, and homes.

On our last morning with Kathy and Ken, we had a leisurely breakfast in their new kitchen, spoke about Kate’s upcoming nuptial in June, and gazed a final time on their backyard vista. Even then I was struggling to process all that I had seen and heard over the last 4 days. It wasn’t until the long flight home that an idea began forming. South Carolina was a fabulous visual experience, but there was something more to see and admire than just landscape, architecture, and scenery.  I found myself reading deeper messages in all the homes, burnt-out churches, and forts we saw in South Carolina. Those structures, and the stories surrounding them, were much more powerful symbols than say, the Confederate flag we saw one day, spread out on a billboard along a country road. Those Stars and Bars called for memories of defiance and resistance, but the preserved and restored artifacts of past wars and defeats in Bluffton, Beaufort, Hilton Head, and Charleston, reminded the observer to Never Forget. It was as if the stones themselves were calling out to us.
“Never forget your heritage and history,” the ruined forts and burnt out churches seemed to say. “Remember what we suffered, and build a better today.”
Maybe that was why The Citadel didn’t feel old when we walked upon its grassy parade ground and inspected its barracks. The military college was a living vehicle for this canon of never forgetting.  While teaching the stories and lessons of the past, the Citadel was also instilling a promise for the present and the future. It was a promise of hope, and we had heard it expressed clearly in the words and actions of Marshall, one of the Citadel’s graduates, and Ken and Kathy’s son. It had been a fine trip.

Words are always poor substitutes for a visual experience. If you are interested in a pictorial essay of our visit to the low country of South Carolina, see the following Flickr albums:

2010-12-27 Belfair Plantation S.C.

2010-12-28 Bluffton & Beaufort S.C.

2010-12-29 Hilton Head & May River S.C.

2010-12-30 Citadel & Charleston S.C.