CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: A DAY OF REFLECTION UPON LEAVING “THE JEWEL”

I’ve just reread Chapters Fifteen and Sixteen. I’m blessed with readers who are engaged enough in the content to note my mistakes and kind enough to offer corrections in a most gentle manner. So let’s get started: It’s Thomas Heyward, Jr. of Beaufort, South Carolina, (not William Heyward, Jr.) who signed the Declaration of Independence. And I really tied myself up in the definition of “knots”, which are a measure of speed, not distance. Knots are like miles per hour. Actually, I am told, a knot is a nautical mile per hour, or 1.15 statute miles per hour. And a nautical mile is the distance of 1 minute of latitude. A knot is speed, not distance. This is my new mantra, until I get it right.  One nautical mile equals about 1.15 statute miles. So if we are going 7 knots, we are going about 8 miles per hour. And about the “toilets” on Slow Motion, I will henceforth refer to them as “heads” or “loos”. Those are the three most egregious errors which have been pointed out in the last two chapters. Help me find others. This is sort of like finding Waldo. Really, it can be fun. And anyone who finds a mistake and corrects it will get recognition in the preface to both the book and movie versions.  

We left Charleston this morning around 10 a.m. to travel a mere 14 miles to our next marina at Isle of Palms. This short jaunt was not without its perilous moments, as we observed a small, very small, boat aground on a sandy shoal right next to the ICW channel. Our own depth recorder measured shallow areas of 4 feet, 5 feet, off and on, most of the way. So just when you think you’re going to have a nice, easy, short, worry-free jaunt, the ICW rears up and bites you in the stern. The dreaded “shallows” threaten you if you deviate from the channel. But sometimes, the channel becomes shallower than the water outside the channel, and our electronic navigator does not carry that information. Trust in the Admiral in these moments; he searches for the deep water and usually finds it within seconds of getting a “4” on our screen. He would be a great dowser too, I bet.

The photos that accompany this Blog are coming. Promise. It’s a slow process of emailing them from the camera roll to my email, then from the email to the computer. And the Blog photo editor, namely the Admiral, has been too busy cleaning out the bilge – that’s a very big yuck! I wish that none of you ever has to pump out bilge water, unless you are in a NASA suit (charcoal or black) and fully masked and gloved. Afterwards, you have to go to a sterilization chamber – sorry, no more kids either. But sex is still okay – if you wash yourself really, really well and get rid of the stench before entering the bedroom. This is horrible – so sorry. But, as you can tell, not everything about boating is romantic, or even remotely desirable. Pump out day is a red letter day, when for a few hours after pump out, you feel that a maid has just cleaned all your bathrooms, and you can use them again or even invite guests to stay overnight again.

On to a much more enlightening subject, and one you can read immediately before, during or immediately after a meal. Yesterday, as Art was still working on his computer programming gig for Pennsylvania rates, I roamed the streets of Charleston – not aimlessly. I headed straight for Rainbow Row and took a zillion photos. Why, I don’t know, but these few Georgian style homes of various colors are very attractive, especially in the early morning sun and shade. I kept thinking of the photos of the “rainbow streets” in San Francisco, with perhaps ten times as many brightly painted houses right next to each other. But Charleston was first, and there’s no getting around the grace of the Georgian architecture. Plus, the temps were in the 70’s, with a breeze, something I haven’t experienced since hitting Florida in early May. We had to pay for that “normal” weather the day before, as you may recall from my description of the thunder and lightning storm in Chapter Sixteen. That made the relief from the heat especially delightful. I knew I was going to enjoy my traipsing around Charleston that morning. After Rainbow Row, I walked out to the Waterfront Park, which has a number of distinctive fountains. Two little girls were sloshing around in one of them (photo please). And there are four-bench talking areas, so a book club could meet out there with everyone facing each other, and all but one bench of clubbers gazing out upon the Cooper River. Shade – did I mention that this entire area is very shady? Mmm, hard place to leave yesterday morning.

But I went back to East Bay, with the intention of going to the City Market again – it’s addictive – and the Post Office again – it’s not. Since the Post Office does not open until 11:30 a.m., I had plenty of time, nearly two hours to explore AND go to the City Market. Nephew Dwight had told me about S.N.O.B., a restaurant he likes called Slightly North of Broad. I knew it was not far, but wanted to lunch there to recover from the Post Office frustrations. This was a delicious moment – lots of time and Charleston waiting to be discovered. The area I was in was full of art galleries and little shops that did not cry out “Chain Store”. I decided these small businesses could have the present I would send to Barbara to celebrate her 70^th in August. Suddenly, my visits became purposeful and altruistic at the same time. I looked around the gallery that specialized in “lowcountry” art – lovely, but no bells going off. I went to Graffito and looked at all the jewelry, but jewelry’s so personal. Then I saw the Artists Guild Gallery for local Charleston artists – be still my heart. I walked inside and Linda and Andrea, two of the artists greeted me. As I walked through the rooms, I didn’t hear the bells until I approached the art works of Addelle Sanders. I have never seen anything like what she does. She uses different, rich fabrics to form “dolls”, and then she frames them – either one doll in a frame, or many dolls with the same theme in a frame. It’s really cool. You have to see her work.

So an Addelle Sanders original is on its way to California. Happy Birthday, Barbara! What did I learn about Addelle Sanders? Andrea filled me in. Addelle lived in New York most of her life, but moved to Charleston about 4 years ago to care for her 90 year old mother, who is still alive and doing well. She joined the Artists Guild when she moved, and she has become a good friend of Andrea. Moving right along to Andrea. After arranging for the shipment of Addelle’s work, Andrea started telling me about her family history. She is a native South Carolinian, whose family has been in Charleston for generations. Here’s where it gets interesting. She has traced her family back to “Betsy”, her great, great, great grandmother (there may be a 4^th great), who was about 20 years old, when she went on to a ship that had tied up in a harbor in Africa (most likely what  is now Sierra Leone). She went on to this ship to sell something to the sailors. The captain, who was French, had a 20 year old son, who took an immediate liking to Betsy, so he kidnapped her. Oh yes, father and son were slave traders. I bet you saw this coming. In the courtship tradition of the time, the European slave trader enslaved the African woman he loved and took her to Charleston. They set up a household and had four children. The Frenchman insisted that all four kids be freed men and women, but never freed Betsy from slavery. However, he wrote in his will, which is in the South Carolina book of wills, that none of his children could sell Betsy as a slave to another owner. How thoughtful! Andrea says that, according to the memoirs of the descendants of Betsy, while Betsy remained a slave in the outside world, she ruled at home.

Andrea mesmerized me with her family story, and I should have taken notes. She says that many Charleston natives are a mixture of African and European DNA. One of her ancestors had his/her DNA analyzed, and it indicated he was African and about 10 different European groups, including France, Spain, Norway. She has at least one relative in Norway. And through the internet, she has located relatives all over the world, many of whom are in correspondence with her or have visited Charleston. Andrea’s mother, who is 86, still lives in her family home on Sullivan’s Island (the very same that I mentioned before, where most slaves were brought from Africa). Her mother tells her she doesn’t know why “you young people are so interested in your past history”. Her mother lives for the present and has no curiosity about distant relatives. Andrea has received all kinds of responses to her contacts of family members from different branches of the family. She refers to her “white relatives”, most of whom have been very friendly, but at least one has expressed total disbelief that he would have any Black relative anywhere. As Andrea points out, that’s totally unrealistic if your lineage is Southern – everybody in the South has mixed blood, not just Black and White, but also Native American.

Sitting next to me, as I was enthralled by Andrea’s tale of discovery, was the other local artist, Linda. She was very quiet. And when Andrea had to take a breath, Linda explained why. She was adopted, and since she was 27 years old (she’s in her 50’s or 60’s now), she has been the “head” of her family. The adoption was private – maybe not even legal. A lawyer arranged to give her as an infant to her adoptive parents. There may not even be records of the adoption. Here’s the thing – Linda has never tried to explore her roots. She does not care. She is red haired with green eyes. Her adoptive parents were dark haired with brown eyes. People assume Linda is Irish. She doesn’t know, and at this point, she doesn’t care. She has her own children, who are now grown, and they have not asked any questions either. What a stark contrast to Andrea’s quest for her family’s roots! You have to wonder why Linda doesn’t at least want to know about her biological family’s history of disease, if any. But she’s fatalistic. She says she can have her entire family sit around one small table at dinner time and that’s fine with her. She is not interested in a DNA analysis or in delving into adoption records, if any exist.

Charleston, thank you for introducing me to Andrea and Linda. Some day I may be able to afford one of their art works. In the meantime, I have their stories to share.

Okay, that felt good, buying a present for a friend. So I thought, “Why not get more presents for more friends?” That would make my return to the City Market even more rewarding. As I headed in the direction of the Market, I saw the S.N.O.B. sign. It was too early to eat. Besides, I had discovered a bakery, which had one cinnamon roll with icing left. Needing the energy to carry on, I had to stop there about 10:30. S.N.O.B. was going to have to wait until 1 p.m. As I spied the East Bay end of City Market, I also saw a large, columned building – the Customs House (photo please). If you want some history on it, check it out on the internet. I’ve got gift buying to do. City Market was a hard nut to crack yesterday. I strolled through every building looking for South Carolina products. The sweet grass basket weavers were there, and I couldn’t resist getting some more sweet grass woven roses. Other than that, my eyes glazed over at the sight of German doilies and tons of stuff made in China. Until, until I came upon a very modest stall with a lovely young African American woman, who actually made the goods she sold. She and her mother are Geechee, and they stand behind their products – for life. So she made me very happy, and I hope she makes Brenda and Olivia, my California neighbors, very happy with her mother/daughter handiwork.

Next stop the Post Office – no bulk mailer in front of me today, so I got in and out in 15 minutes. And then I was getting hungry. Back to S.N.O.B. Rather than put me at a “table for one”, the waitperson led me to the back of the restaurant, where there is a semi-circle of chairs at a long table, directly in front of the working kitchen. There are boxes of fresh fruits and vegetables that prevent you from reaching out and touching a chef. But you can pretty much see what they’re preparing and watch the platters fly out of there. If you are ever in Charleston, and if you are ever at S.N.O.B., go there for lunch and order chicken gumbo. My Lord, that was all killer, no filler – chicken galore, fresh okra, fresh sausage, just enough broth to spread the flavors evenly. And with the soup, fresh squares of corn bread. I don’t know what anyone else ordered that day at this restaurant, but they really missed out if their orders did not include chicken gumbo.

Art called, so I left gumbo heaven and headed back to the boat. We were expecting another storm. Oh, the Southern climate in the summertime. Just when you think it’s getting bearable, the storm clouds appear again. And I had to do the laundry – our sheets start smelling after about 4 humid days and nights. Just one night I would like to sleep through the night without turning my pillow case all wet. You may remember the constant state of my hair – wet, stringy, matted. I get a reprieve for about the first fifteen minutes after I shower. But put on the hat for sun protection and it’s back to the Phyllis Diller look or the fresh from the pool look. After countless treks to and from the laundry room, which is beyond the ¼ mile Megadock, I can tell you the thunderstorm would have been greatly appreciated. No cooperation – just brutal sunlight.

So that was Charleston. One more story. The fellow who took 50 minutes to pick me up in the rain after the Ft. Sumter adventure – Robert – was near our boat yesterday morning. I greeted him like an old friend. He looked at me with absolutely no recognition. He had not only driven me back to the marina, but had also driven me and Art to CVS to get my medicine and waited for us and then drove us a second time back to the marina. All the time he was chatty about living with his mother and being so grateful for the torrential downpour, because he would not have to water his mother’s flowers. I thought perhaps Robert was “slow”, but I didn’t realize he had no memory.  After not recognizing me near Slow Motion, he ended up driving me to Charleston (Rainbow Row) about 15 minutes later. I called him “Robert”, and he still made no sign of recognition. So I dropped it – maybe he just wanted to forget driving the courtesy van through the flood the day before. Or maybe he got chewed out for taking me on a personal errand. No matter. A different marina worker picked me up in Charleston after S.N.O.B. The courtesy van started backfiring. At first, the driver thought they might be gunshots, but the backfiring followed us back to the marina. The driver said “Damn the guy who drove the van this morning. He didn’t say anything about this problem.” I said “You mean Robert?” The driver said “Yeah, he’s an idiot.” I asked “Is he slow?” The driver said “No, he’s an idiot.” I asked if perhaps Robert was on loan from a sheltered workshop, and the driver said “Look, he went to college. He’s a college graduate, but he’s just an idiot!” So much for trying to gild the lily.

Tonight as I write this Blog, we are ensconced at the Isle of Palm marina, with live music from mediocre talent wafting down to the dock. This marina took 14 miles off of our travel to Georgetown marina tomorrow, so we don’t a hellishly long day in the ICW. I stocked up on noodles for a few days at less than exorbitant prices. And the shower had about 5 hooks to hang things – and soap (a first!) – and two separate faucets, one hot and one cold. No bath tub yet, but things are looking up. Note to self: Bob’s Marina book lists the cost at $1.50 per foot at this marina, but the dock personnel insisted they charge $2.00 per foot in June, July and August, because they’re a “resort.” They have one parasailing boat and a few jet skis. That must be the definition of a “resort.” Charleston, I can see $2.00 per foot, not Isle of Palms, especially with loud noise coming from the dockside restaurant till late in the night. I knew something would be screwed up on Friday the 13^th, and this marina obliged my superstition. Oh, what’s that? It’s the sound of another live mediocre musician blasting out from the restaurant. And a loud cheer just went up. It’s going to be a long night. Hope it is calm, serene and quiet wherever you are tonight.