One Hundred Ninety Two

Tomorrow will be nineteen years since my first post on this blog.  By coincidence, this past weekend I returned to the same place I first wrote about here: Ninety Six National Historic Site.  They were celebrating the 245th anniversary of the siege of the Star Fort, and, since activities were promised and I hadn't been there in a while and I actually didn't have to work this Saturday for the first time this month and I thought it would be appropriate to visit a Revolutionary War-related site in this the 250th year of our nation, I went.  It was a longer drive this time than last time, and alas, the activities, particularly the musket demonstration, were curtailed by the humidity and threat of rain.  But I did get a guided tour with a ranger, which improved my understanding of the site.  I was impressed to hear that the tunnel begun by Kościuszko and his men in an attempt to undermine the fort's walls was, by virtue of being dug into thick clay, still intact when the federal government took over the site in the '70s; and, somewhat meanly, I chuckled as the ranger said that the reinforcements that the British army intended to bolster defense of the fort, previously held by American Loyalist militiamen, came directly from fighting in Ireland and were kitted out in uniforms suited for that environment and not for marching the approximately 170 miles as the crow flies from Charleston to Ninety Six in June.  It all reminded me of what a miracle it is that we won.

the Black Swan Tavern in the Logan Log House

Wordless Wednesday: Woods Bay State Park, April 21, 2018

Wordless Wednesday: Brookgreen Gardens, October 1, 2017

Sancho Panza by Carl Jennewein

Amphitrite by Wheeler Williams

Wordless Wednesday: Myrtle Beach, September 30-October 1, 2017

St John the Baptist Greek Orthodox Church

Birthday Weekend in Beaufort

I'd originally hoped to go to Savannah for birthday weekend a fortnight past, but it turns out they start their St. Patrick's Day festivities a whole week in advance.  I wasn't feeling too keen on facing the gathering crowds, so instead we stayed in-state to visit Beaufort.  (Despite there once being a French settlement near the city, the first syllable rhymes with hue, not hoe.)

On I-95 south we saw a lot of Canadian cars.  Apparently it was spring break for them up there.  It was certainly the beginning of the Canadian-American Days Festival in Myrtle Beach.

Beaufort is the second-oldest city in South Carolina.  Right on the coast, it's connected by bridges to several of the state's Sea Islands, including Hunting Island, Lady's Island, and Parris Island.  At the latter there was a short-lived French settlement, Charlesfort, in 1562, and later a Spanish one, Santa Elena.  The islands have long been home to the Gullah community; the Penn School (now Penn Center) on St. Helena Island was one of the nation's first schools for freed slaves.  The whole area has a rich and varied history, and distinctive Southern atmosphere.

Not far from Beaufort are the ruins of Old Sheldon Church, formerly the Prince William Parish Church.  Surrounded by trees dripping with Spanish moss, the brick walls and columns could not be more picturesque if they had been planned.  The first building was finished by the 1750s and burned by British troops during the Revolution.  It was rebuilt around 1824, though in the 1860s it was again damaged, allegedly by Union troops, though the extent of the damage is in question.  Whatever the case, the church was never restored, and stands among scattered tombs.  It is gorgeous.  Though there are no major signs marking the site, it's visible from the road, and opposite it is a dirt parking lot.  It's worth stopping if you're passing, and I'd say it's worth driving out of the way to see.

Meanwhile, in the midst of Beaufort itself is the Parish Church of St. Helena.  Established as a Church of England parish in 1712, its sanctuary was built twelve years later and enlarged in 1842; it's now one of the oldest churches in America.  During the Civil War, the church's interior furnishings were nearly all destroyed, so Union troops stationed in Beaufort passed their time carving a new altar, which is still in use today.  The churchyard is not predominantly grass, as I expected, and contains some historically and architecturally interesting graves.

One of those buried is Colonel John Barnwell, also known as Tuscarora Jack.  Though he got his nickname by fighting Native Americans, it still sounds flippin' cool.  Also cool is that Jack was born in Dublin in 1671 and came to the colonies in 1701; he died here in 1724.  Imagine that: spend the first 30 years of your life in a city in Ireland, and then, reportedly "out of a humor to goe and travel but for no other Reasson," move to the wild New World.  The chutzpah of our early colonists is so astounding and inspiring. 

If plain old sweet tea just isn't cutting it anymore, you can always try a sweet tea float at Scout Southern Market.  The float is made with sweet tea and a few scoops of sorbet; Mom had mango, while I went with the classic lemon.  On a warm day the float would be a perfect way to cool off as you strolled Bay Street.

The Visitors' Center and Museum are located in the old arsenal.  The arsenal was built in the late 18th century, rebuilt in 1852, and renovated in 1934.  The building's crenellations and pale yellow paint job vaguely reminded me of the Alcazar in Sevilla; given that a Spanish colony, Santa Elena, was established nearby in 1566, the architectural style is not as terribly out of place as it might otherwise seem.

On Saturday evening one of us was really invested in having seafood for dinner--which makes sense, as we were in fact quite close to where sea creatures live.  My crab cakes were good, but the she-crab soup was really excellent, so thanks, Dad.

There are lots of lovely old homes in Beaufort.  Around the city there are little plots of undeveloped land, many with views of the Harbor River (though a few of them seem to be people's backyards...they must be used to visitors gawking, though).  One house had a particularly fine gate, with ivy growing on the posts and real gas lanterns lit.  With azaleas in bloom, Spanish moss hanging off everything, and grand little houses with porch ceilings painted pale blue, Beaufort really does exude that stereotypical elegance and charm that Southern cities are so known for.  Though Saturday was clear and bright, Sunday was overcast; and the grey sky lent an otherworldly aura to the sights.

Parris Island is the site of the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot.  Male recruits from east of the Mississippi and all female recruits train at Parris Island.  It's a really pretty island--likely less pretty for those whose stay includes slogging through mud and getting yelled at by drill instructors--and I couldn't help but wonder how much the land would go for if it were to be sold.  Millions, definitely.  Though there weren't many people around when we visited, we did see recruits being trained, marching and jogging around the base.

Visitors are welcome, and the depot is home to a good museum on the area and its use by the Corps.  In one section visitors learn about the training that recruits go through, from arrival on the island to graduation; in another there are displays of uniforms and equipment from the wars in which Marines have fought, from the 18th century through the present.  I would recommend the museum to any visitor to the area, regardless of whether they have ties to the Marine Corps or not.

Also scattered around the island are statues related to Marine history.  One, known as Iron Mike, depicts a Marine from World War I, and is a memorial to fighters of that war.  Out past the golf course is another, the Santa Elena memorial, which has something to do with the island's early use as a Spanish fort; unfortunately, the road to that was closed due to storm damage.  The statue I got the best look at was the monument to the flag-raising at Iwo Jima, located right in front of the parade ground.  A few years ago I learned that one of the Marines who helped raise the flag, Sergeant Michael Strank, was born in Slovakia (then Czechoslovakia) on November 10, the Marine Corps' birthday.  By all accounts Sgt. Strank, who died not long after the iconic moment, was admired for his leadership and devotion to his men.  That a Marine who shared the Corps' birthday was so highly regarded seems fitting, and his willingness to work in and fight for his new country typifies the immigrant experience.  I'm very proud to share some of my background with such a hero.

While Beaufort hadn't been on my radar, much less my first choice, it was a satisfying trip.  It may not have the cachet of its older sibling, but there's not much reason for that, in my opinion, and I'd certainly recommend Beaufort as a destination to visitors.

Old St David's Church and Cemetery

We begin with a brief programming note: I'm back in South Carolina for the time being, so expect to see more posts on the Southeast.

Somebody actually gave me the keys to a historic church.

Said key is kept at the Chamber of Commerce in Cheraw, South Carolina, a few blocks away from Old St David’s Church.  This information was posted online, as were the Chamber’s opening hours; though I arrived pretty much smack dab in the middle of those hours, no one was at the Chamber and the door was locked.  As I’ve had problems with doors in the past, I did put some effort into trying to open it several ways before realizing that it wasn’t just me.  I was about to call the office’s number to see if someone was hiding in the back when a woman appeared from the adjoining insurance office and let me in.  She was able to let me in and told me the staff had a meeting and would probably be back in an hour—this after I’d driven half an hour specifically to visit this church and cemetery.  If the entire staff leaves during your scheduled opening hours, maybe put a sign on the door.

Fortunately, the kind non-Chamber-employee was also able to give me the key.  Now, when I’d read online that you could pick up the key, I expected to have to sign for it, at least, and probably to have to produce my driver’s license and have them make a copy until I brought the key back.  Given those expectations, I was a little surprised to be handed the key, no further questions asked, and told that if no one was in the office when I came to return it that I should just slip it in the mail slot.  Obviously I of all people would never purposefully do anything to damage a place of worship, but they didn’t know that.  Apparently I look trustworthy and benign (though in reality I am more the former than the latter).  Anyway, the greater danger was that I would decide to live there and never return the key.

(Spoiler alert: I did not.  And there wasn’t that much that looked valuable that could be easily stolen, so I suppose that curtailed many concerns.  Still.  One hopes that normal operating procedure entails a bit more circumspection.)

Old St David's predates the Revolution, and was the last Anglican church built in the state while it was still under George III's rule.  As is common with churches of the time, it features box pews.  The interior is whitewashed, with wood accents; there isn't a painting or lick of gold to be seen.  Keyholders enter through the door on the east side.  Once inside, the raised pulpit is directly opposite the door.  The entry at the front of the church is only used when ceremonies take place there, but the stairs to the small balcony are found there.  At the other end of the church, past the altar, is the vestry, with shelves full of hymnals and information on the area during the war.  The interior door in the vestry does not lead to a bathroom; if there is one in the church, it's well hidden.  There is, however, a quality Union Jack near the back door.

Though I'm not much interested in the Civil War, I neither can nor will ignore the fact that it happened.  The monument to Confederate soldiers in Old St David’s is interesting in that it was erected in 1867, quite soon after the war ended, and while the area was still occupied by Union troops.

Despite its long history, the cemetery does not have an overabundance of Revolutionary era graves.  Of those that do exist, the most notable are not of patriots.  In June 1780 the 71^st Highlanders arrived in Cheraw.  Against advice from local Loyalists, they camped near the Pee Dee River, itself not far from the church.  According to the regimental surgeon some two-thirds of the 300 soldiers suffered from fever, and several died, though their names were never recorded, even by their own officers.  In fact, a large plaque in the churchyard says that “The official Muster Rolls for this Regiment are some of the most incomplete of all the Public Records of the British Military in the 18^th Century.”  There are three sites at Old St David’s where Highlanders were buried: one near the entrance, one near the vestry door, and one on the west side of the churchyard.  This last has the biggest marker, and the aforementioned plaque is nearby.  I can't help but feel a little sorry for the soldiers who died so far away from their homes and families, even if those soldiers were enemies.

Other interments of note include that of the first Bishop of Texas (who was born in Society Hill, South Carolina, not far from Cheraw), and one-half of Laurence Lempriere Prince.  Perhaps this is not as unusual a situation as it seems at first glance; one assumes that the halves are in the form of cremains, and families often split up their loved ones.  And there are bits of saints divided up all over Europe, and Shelley's heart is buried in his plot in the English Cemetery in Rome.  Still, this was unexpected, to say the least, and a bit puzzling.  An Internet search revealed no obituary that might help explain Mr. Prince's motivations, but it did return a picture of the other half.  I must say, I was somewhat let down that it was so similar to the one in Cheraw.  I was hoping that it would be different, at least, or that there would be some further scavenger-hunt aspect to it.  Which gives me ideas...

First Games of the Summer

It occured to me after the fact that something like "The Transient" would be a much less poncy title for this blog. While "The Transient" does have a certain je ne sais quoi, it's just not Old Norse.

Also speaking of things that occured to me after the fact, it turns out that the letters that correspond to 1-8-1-2 can spell Ahab. This was entirely coincidental, but highly amusing. It's quite apt, as I think of my car as The White Whale, even though said vehicle is silver. So in the future I may well refer to myself as Ahab.^*

In May I went to the Aiken Highland Games. I've been to a few Highland games/Celtic festivals; my favorites are the San Diego Highland Games, which took place this past weekend and which was the site of the infamous Rogue Sheep incident a few years ago, and the Chicago Celtic Fest, which takes place mid-September in Grant Park. The Chicago event celebrates the culture and heritage of the seven Celtic nations: Brittany, Galicia, Cornwall, the Isle of Man, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. Most Highland games celebrate Scotland, and, usually and to a lesser extent, Ireland.

Some of you may be saying, "We're not the least bit Scottish, Ahab, so we have no idea what actually happens at these 'games' you keep going on about." Although each Highland games differs, there are several common features that occur at most games. One is the clan booths. Many major clan organizations have booths at games where they offer information about genealogy and clan history. Some clan organizations provide refreshments for their members at their booths as well. There are, of course, vendors, selling everything from souvenir event t-shirts to swords, shortbread to meat pies. There are usually musicians, aside from pipe bands. There is Highland dancing and Scottish country dancing. There are often sheep and sheepherding dogs demonstrating their skill or competing in trials. There are heavy athletics, including but by no means limited to the caber toss. There are people in various modes of "Scottish" dress, from reenactment military kilted uniforms to the popular Utilikilt-wifebeater-and-combat-boots (tattoos mandatory) outfit. And there are pipe bands.

Perhaps you have seen Disney's wonderful movie Bedknobs and Broomsticks. If you haven't consider this my recommendation that you should. In the "Portobello Road" sequence, Carrie gazes adoringly at the leader of the Scottish soldiers, walking beside him after they dance. That is a good indication of my own feelings much of the time I'm at a games.

The Aiken Highland Games had all the usual stuff listed above. A band whose name I can't remember played the Proclaimers' "500 Miles" at least three times while I was there, and Scottish singer Alex Beaton performed. There was a brief opening ceremony that included a parade of the clan organizations, prayer, and the national anthems of the United States ("The Star-Spangled Banner"), Canada ("O Canada"), England ("God Save the Queen"), and Scotland ("Flower of Scotland," not "Scotland the Brave"). I, knowing most of the words and being myself, sang them all quietly. I am of the opinion that the people should sing their national anthem, not listen to one person sing it.

I enjoy watching the heavy athletics.










They remind me of being on the track team. Heavy athletics include weight for height (right picture), the clachneart, and the sheaf toss (left picture). In weight for height competitors toss a weight over a bar like a pole vault bar. The clachneart is the stone put--like shot put but with larger, heavier, irregularly-shaped stones. In sheaf toss the athlete uses a pitchfork to throw a burlap bag of hay over a bar. As if the throwing itself isn't hard enough, the competitors have to wear kilts. If anyone had ever asked me or any of my thrower teammates to throw in a kilt, we would have fallen down a lot, especially since we all fell down a lot in shorts. The implements in heavy athletics are also heavier than in NCAA track and field events. According to the emcee at the Aiken games, the original "games" in Scotland included races; a very few Highland games have running events as well as heavy athletics.

The Aiken Highland Games had one thing that I'd not seen at any other event before: the Society for Creative Anachronism. I have mixed feelings on the SCA, but suffice it to say that some of them do pretty good research (like the Viking Answer Lady (don't get me started on the word "Viking," though)). Anyway, some members of the SCA had a little village set up, with huts and tents, and displays of icons and fancy woodcarving, with notebooks of research and historical examples of the same arts. And a few members held combat demonstrations. Beat each other with sticks, they did. They also explained their weapons and armor and how points are awarded for fights. It was rather amusing, even if one of the members did insist on talking about Vikings. Okay, the term "Viking" was first used in the 18th century; it was a Norse word that meant going across the sea, for trading or raiding. Norsemen wouldn't have called themselves Vikings, and so members of the SCA, whose personas are all pre-1600, should not use the term Viking to refer to a person. The problem is that everyone calls them Vikings, and most people wouldn't care to have the etymology explained to them. All that aside, I enjoyed seeing the combat. Afterward the fighters let kids try on their helmets and hold their shields. That, I think, is the big appeal of the SCA: at some point in our lives we all want to be knights or ladies (or both).

The dining choices were limited to a funnel cake and snow cone cart and a Scottish foods vendor. Disdaining the generic festival food, I had a sausage roll and an Irn Bru, a meal the Tartan Specials would fully support. The vendors also sold meat pies, "haggis pockets," Scotch eggs, and some kind of meat popover whose name I forget. The sausage roll was a link sausage in a pastry-crust roll, quite delectable; Irn Bru is a Scottish soft drink whose flavor is reminiscent of a creamsicle. It's something that I'd heard about before, so I was glad of the chance to try it. A bit later I also bought from a baker from Tennessee a piece of shortbread with chocolate on top, something called "Eccles cakes" that are little pastries with raisins and spices in them, and cranberry-orange scones. Mmm, baked goods.

I have a theory that there are three kinds of people: those who like bagpipes, those who hate them, and those who would follow the sound of bagpipes anywhere. There weren't too many pipers at these games; I think the massed band had maybe twenty people in it total. Even so, I followed them around as they played, and called home and left a message on my parents' answering machine that was just the band playing. The best part was when the band marched into the long barn-like area where most of the vendors were. It was out of the sun for one, and it sounded good in there. I do have to admit that I was a little disappointed with the tenor drum player, who didn't twirl his mallets at all. But overall I was pleased with the pipes and drums.

So while the Aiken Highland Games weren't the best games I've ever been to, they were quite pleasant. I had a good time, even though I got a sunburn which is still plaguing me today. Until next time, keep your bagpipe radar on.


*"Okay, Ted, George Washington..."
"Had wooden teeth, chased Moby Dick."
"That's Captain Ahab, dude."
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure

I had to get it in here somewhere.

Under the Crown

For this post I traveled only about five miles, but over 220 years. (Not literally, though. The whole world definitely would have heard about it before now if I had.) Beginning in 1780, this area was occupied by British forces. This town and the next one over on a decent-size river, and rivers are always strategically important. "Colonial Times: Under the Crown" was held last weekend at the Living History Park, and I went, despite the rain. Reenactors set up camp in the park to show what life was like under British rule. The park has a few permanent buildings: a small cabin, a tavern, a meeting house (pictured below), a hunter's cabin, and a schoolroom-type building. Oh, and a blacksmith's forge. In real life, the blacksmith lives a few streets away from me.

The reenactors/artisans set up lots of canvas tents around the park. There were people demonstrating carpentry and woodcarving, hornsmithing (I don't believe that's a word, but the sign said "Hornsmith," and they were doing things with cow horns), blacksmithing, chandlery, calligraphy, music, butter churning, and tape-weaving. The last was pretty cool; a woman was using a small notched board and a shuttle to weave threads into patterned tape that was used like ribbon, to fasten and decorate clothing. All of the craftspersons explained what they were doing and answered questions and wore period-style clothing. My favorite was the blacksmith, in large part, I think, because it's so dynamic. The smith was also very affable and interacted well with observers. He explained that "smith" is related to the word "smite," and asked some kids if they ever heard the word smite in church. They didn't say anything, but he said that some denominations, like Lutherans, are more into smiting. Yay Lutherans and smiting! Anyway, I hung out watching him for a while, and he made some nails, and a hook like you nail to the wall and hang your clothes from, and in the picture he's working on making a cooking rig. There are two end posts, and a piece that lies across the top and from which one can suspend one's cauldron. At least that's the impression that I got. The reenactors actually cook their meals in cauldrons and on spits and stuff. I liked when the smith made the hook, because he twisted the stem, as wrought iron often is. I've always kind of wondered how they do that, but all you have to do is heat up the iron and then twist it around. It's one of those things I take for granted. It's easy to take things for granted.

Among the reenactors, there were some kids, from about six to teenaged. I always wonder when I see kids at reenactments whether they're there because their parents are making them, or whether they like dressing up and acting old-fashioned. There was a kid with one of the carpenters who came up to me with a piece of cedar wood and said, "Would you like to see some cedar wood?" like a little cedar salesman. It smelled just like cedar. I did not know that only the middle part of cedar is red. I thought it was red all through, but apparently only the heart is red and the outside is whitish. This girl at left was following around her older brother, also in costume. As someone who used to follow her older brother around, I found it very cute.

I don't know about you, but when it comes to nationalities in the colonial South, the first I think of is not German. But when you recall that Hessian soldiers fought for the British in the Revolutionary War, it makes more sense. Some of the "British" soldiers portrayed by reenactors were in fact Hessians, or, as they called themselves, Jägers/Jaegers/Jagers. Yes, like Jägermeister. I wonder how I made it all the way through college without ever having tried Jägermeister. Jäger, for those of us who don't speak German, means "hunter," and the Jäger Korps wore green jackets as part of their uniform. The reenactors were from the Second Company of the Hesse-Kassel Jäger Korps. One of the soldiers explained that "Hessian" is a geographical term, whereas "Jäger" describes their profession. Luckily somebody else asked the question of what the difference between the two was, and I was saved from having to look stupid. I happened upon two of the Jägers when they were explaining their weapons to some kids and their parents. They had rifles, pistols, knives, and swords, and one rather large thing that looked like a baby cannon. It was, we learned, a shoulder-fired mortar--a grenade launcher. The reenactor built it based on a weapon from the late 1500s in the Vatican, although he purposely made the barrel too small for an actual explosive, so as to curb temptation. He did say that it shoots tennis balls quite nicely, though. It has a little receptacle for the powder, and then the projectile itself (it's in the man on the left's left hand) is loaded in the barrel and its fuse is lit. Then the thing is fired, and you don't want to be within five yards of where it explodes. The launcher was quite heavy, and with a mortar in would have been even worse.

There were a few staged disputes to show justice in action in the colonial context. They "shot" one of the woodcarvers for something or other, and two women had an argument over a slave they had both allegedly bought. One woman claimed she bought the slave woman in the morning for eight pounds, and the other claimed she bought the same woman later that day for ten pounds. The slave, for her part, said she was free. The man who supposedly sold the woman feigned ignorance of English and also of both purchasers. The magistrate and some other dudes decided to hire the slave woman as a servant in town, and ordered the seller drummed out of town. There were no actual drums involved, though.

Even though it rained most of the time, wandering around with colonial people was a pleasant way to spend a few hours. I leave you with some various pictures.