Want to time travel? In Charleston, here's how (offer valid through February 18, 2016)

Late in 2015, the amazing Liv Antonecchia, of Surface Craft Gallery, invited local artists to join in a project: draw, paint, write, create in whatever form, in a sketchbook for 30 days in January 2016. The challenge was accepted by 40 artists, representing a broad range of visual and literary arts, and the completed works of 27* of them are now on display at the gallery (49 John Street, downtown). The basic sketchbook, a creative work in itself, measures approximately 1"x 3", and each were handmade by Kris Westerson, an artist with an amazing array of talents (Go on: check her site out. I'll wait.)

And the completed books? Oh, wow. I loved my teeny, tiny blank book that kept me company during January. I tried to think of a theme (which many of the participants did) but my mind was too scattered. I decided instead to use my book as a testing ground for trying out new things, as well as incorporating some of my basic skill set. I let myself be inspired by other artists, and try some things I'd been too timid to approach. And in between new things, I let my pysanky brain roam free. You might say my book consists of some things old, some things new, some borrowed, and even a couple that are blue. Some I love, some wouldn't see the light of day had they not found a home in the book, but hey, it's about the journey, right?

Photo by of Liv Antonecchia

Last night, though, I stood in awe of what fellow artists had accomplished in that same space: stories, collections, dreams, fantasies, maps, cartoons, commentaries-- it is an incredible array of art and world views. We each took that same tiny book that Kris bound and Liv offered, and created things fantabulous. One artist even created a work out of pottery instead of using the pages. (There are some pictures below-- some of which I ganked from Facebook or Instagram because many of mine came out more blurry than I anticipated. I blame it on the wine Liv served. I apologize to the folks who I didn't identify, I should have taken notes to go with pictures.)  


So, that's all nice, but how is is time travel? The answer is simple, simple math that is: 27 artists x 30 days = 810 days. And for the price of admission (which is free) you can see it all in the time it takes you to meander through the display at Surface Gallery.

Art and photo by Kate Fortney

Art and photo by Heather Powers

Art and photo by Amy Romanczuk

photo and book by Elizabeth Porcher Jones

Art and photo by Karyn Healy

Art and photo by Alison Brynn Ross

Interconnectedness (photo and book)
by Kris Westerson

art (and photo) byTami Boyce

Art by Kris Westerson

   

What? You're still here? Get on over to Surface Gallery!

*the option existed for people to be able to take their art home after the show, so some may be gone. The other cool thing? Some are for sale!

Our Man in Charleston: Britain's Secret Agent in the Civil War South by Christopher Dickey

I live in Charleston. We've been famous for many things: birthplace of the Civil War, "that" dance, a wretched reality TV show, and, just a few short weeks ago, a horrible slaying of nine churchgoers at Mother Emmanuel AME Church. In the aftermath of that shooting, which was purported to be an attempt to start a race war, the citizens of Charleston rose together to say, "wrong church, wrong city, wrong people"; we took a stand together to fight hatred with the strength of love. We're healing still, and learning to reconcile the differences that do keep us apart as people, learning to, indeed, practice what we've proclaimed; to live the words "love over hate" and "Charleston strong". In that tender setting, I found it difficult to start to read Our Man in Charleston, because the Charleston of the pre Civil War days is not the Charleston I know; not the Charleston I love.

Yes, it was difficult, especially since I could not only picture the locations described, or walk past some of them, but because I know the descendants of many of the people mentioned in the book, some who actually bear the same names. We are a town of history and heritage, and names as well as genes are passed along the family tree. But the Charleston in the book, while I have no doubt is a realistic description of the time, is not the same town of today, thank God. We are not perfect, but we are building a bridge to unity of people.

What got me past my discomfort was the excellent writing of Christopher Dickey. It's safe to say his father, James Dickey, was not the only talented writer in the family. Mr Dickey crafted a window to take the reader back in time, to observe the mounting tensions and passions of the Confederacy. Though the view is predominantly of the upper echelons of white society, there is ample descriptions of the practice of slave trading. To be honest, I thought I knew a great deal about the Civil War, but this book brought me a new viewpoint to consider: that of Britain. Focused primarily on Robert Bunch, the British Counsel of the time, Dickey used correspondence, dispatches, and other documents of the time, to take the reader through the implications of the North/South conflict beyond the boundaries of our country. I'm embarrassed to admit that I hadn't fully comprehended how the volatility had nearly caused war again with Britain.

Beautifully written, complete, and fascinating, this is a grand book for anyone wanting to deepen their knowledge of the Civil War. It is not an easy read if you love the Charleston of today, but it certainly is an enlightening one. Many thanks to Blogging for Books and the publishers for sending me a copy.

Tags: charleston-sc, made-me-look-something-up, made-me-think, made-me-uncomfortable, nonfiction, read, set-in-my-stomping-grounds, taught-me-something

Home again

We've been away. It was hard to leave Charleston in the aftermath of the evil that visited out town. We were here for the first days, but had commitments that drew us out of town, to our home away from home in the mountains of Georgia. As we travelled, we saw how the state, the country , the world, responded to the brutal slaying of those nine beautiful souls at Mother Emanuel. I watched my city from afar, the love I carry for it only growing in the aftermath, love over hate visibly a way of life, a calling.

"We shall overcome", a song I sang in my childhood in the Washington DC area, during the birth of the Civil Rights Movement, was once again on my lips. I thought a lot about the path that movement has taken over the course of my life, and how grateful I was to be a part of a peaceful response to a heinous violence, a crime of racial hatred. This was the path my parents had taught me, the belief with which I was raised. To see it put into action, by thousands of Charlestonians around me, hand in hand, building a bridge to unity; flooding prayer services; standing vigil at Marion Square and Mother Emanuel AME Church; protecting against agitators "from off" bent on stirring violence; coming together to honor the slain, to send them off surrounded by love... it has been truly awe-inspiring. I hope those nine souls know that their deaths have had such a profound impact on so many, that they have set a course for healing a wrong that goes farther back than any of us alive now.

We drove home yesterday, across the state. There were flags lowered to half mast, and signs on churches, storefronts, and Main Streets saying "Pray for Charleston" and "Stand with Charleston". As we got to North Charleston, there were billboards on the highway proclaiming "Charleston Strong", but none was so sweet at the one on my own corner. I am home, where love is stronger than hate.

Darkness toward Light

My town is grieving. But, we are grieving together, trying to see past senseless slaughter. As our mayor said, "We're going to have to love ourselves out of this." And we will.

I cannot begin to imagine motive or thoughts in the gunman's head. That it was hatred is pretty obvious. I've heard all sorts of speculation: to create a racial division, instill fear, and even heard a news commentator suggest it was based on religious grounds, persecuting Christians. But what I saw in front of me, everywhere I went yesterday was Charlestonians pulling together, comforting each other. We prayed together, sang together, grieved together. We looked to ways to comfort the families of the victims and help Mother Emanuel AME Church. We remembered the lost, those nine marvelous souls. We were not strangers to each other. We did not fear. We did not hate. We loved.

The gunman failed. We are not divided. We are united. We are Charleston. We will get through this, though not over this. We are Charleston.

After the darkness, there is dawn. We are moving toward the light.

Darkness comes to Charleston

I am stunned. There are no words that can describe the true horror of man's inhumanity to man. I think that over and over when I hear news of war and strife. But to have it at my doorstep, a mere mile and a half from our home is truly chilling. 

My heart weeps for the people senselessly gunned down in last night's shooting, for their families and friends, and for our community. It is horrible. To put the word terrible before tragedy is an oxymoron, but that's what this is. We know people who attend Mother Emanuel A.M.E. Church; they are neighbors, friends, even just the smiling face we see when walking up Calhoun St to the library. They are God-loving people and these nine were just seeking fellowship and a chance to enrich their spiritual life. They were not looking for, or expecting to find, the bullet with their name on it. I hope they did not suffer greatly, but passed quickly into the arms of the God they loved -- safe in the arms of Jesus.

We often laugh that South Carolina can tend to seem like the butt of a lot of jokes:  our walk-about governor, Miss SC Teen USA's rambling discourse on maps, the guy who was hit in the head with a chair for belching at Taco Bell. But we have good stuff, and good people, here too. One native son recently just gave 800,000 to fund every single classroom project in SC. (And yes, Stephen Colbert is a Charleston native.) We've got other beautiful people, too, living in this beautiful place. So when something horrific happens, the contrast is even worse. But the response, the way people reach out, is beautiful.

While I was listening to the news, trying to absorb it all, praying for all impacted by this tragedy, I couldn't sit still.  I picked up my pen, and combined the Pysanky symbols of protection, safety, the Trinity, and strength with images of my Lowcountry, and representations for each of the nine victims. The hashtag #charlestonstrong covers it well. We will get through this, maybe not over it, ever, but we will overcome, once again. And in that growth, that wretched scar on our society, we will stay strong as a community with heart, that cares for each other.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to a community prayer service with my neighbors and fellow Charlestonians.

Lowcountry Love Letter

Dear Lowcountry,

I came to you determined not to love you, those many years ago. I accompanied my parents on a visit to Charleston, where my father was a candidate for a prestigious position at the Medical University. They were wined, they were dined; I was thrown collectively to the wolves known as the children of the faculty entertaining my parents. At least, that's how I saw it. I was the girl from off, (and from a northern "off" at that), injected into the adolescent South of Broad social scene at the insistence of parents.  Sitting on the side piazza, the balmy night air was a far cry from the air back home, frigid with the coming of winter. I don't know whether it was the cadence of the talk around me, or the scents of unfamiliar blossoms and sea tinged air that recalled joyful vacation days, but my heart softened. As the gathering shifted to another home, I got a guided tour of a small corner of the city. The cobbled stones of Church Street and the little beach revealed by the Ashley River at low tide enchanted me, though I confess, I don't recall the name of the boy that walked with me. When we flew back to winter and my old life, the scents and sights of Charleston clung to me, and have never let go.

It was here I learned to lure a crab from the creek behind our home into the cooking pot, to cast a shrimp net, marvel at the moods of the wetlands that embrace the coast. Here, I learned that a palmetto is a thing of pride, and definitely not a palm tree; how to tell a white heron from an snowy egret, and what a joggling board is. I became a girl of the beaches: Folly, Sullivan's Island, Isle of Palms: each had a separate joy and beauty. I memorized which house along Murray Blvd you pointed the bow of a boat toward if you were crossing the Ashley by water from James Island to the peninsula. I learned that pluff mud can get on your clothes, between your toes, and its distinct smell in your nose, but also in your soul. I lingered in Shell House at Ashley Hall, with my friends, girls who became women I still delight in being with and cherish as friends.

I left you, Lowcountry, for my studies at several universities and to travel the world, but when I decided to find a spot to call home as a young adult, out on my own, it was Charleston that again called me. I was welcomed back; the fathers of friends I knew in high school were now the physicians I worked with as I embarked on my nursing career. Their generosity giving supplies, medicines, and money to a small medical clinic in rural India where I spent a summer as a volunteer still warms my heart. And when I came back from that trip, and met the man of my dreams, I remember how several of these same physicians insisted on vetting him, since my own daddy had passed on.

Charleston was the city of our courtship and though I left you again to gather a graduate degree, we came back here to raise our family. Charleston embraced the return, and adopted daughter and the man from off, that she loved. We introduced our son to the beauties of Lowcountry living. His eyes would light up in wonder at the glory of the ACE basin from canoe, or the mysteries of Four Hole Swamp. Together, we would watch from the porch as thunderheads rolled across the sky, "better even than television", he once declared, and he was right. Our home in the historic district was our haven, a multigenerational family, for my mother came to live with us, and my siblings would tumble in for extended visits.

It was here that I found my stride as a pediatric clinical nurse specialist. When I developed an illness that nearly killed me, and forced me to give up my practice, it was in the arms of the Lowcountry, amidst the live oaks and wildlife, that I was able to find a balance.  Now in a stable health state, and able to be more active, I've tried to give back in the ways I can. My love of books and reading has lead me to volunteerism at school libraries, at Charleston Country Public Library, Charleston Library Society, Trident Literacy Association, and spreading free books via BookCrossing. I like to "live local" supporting the craftsmen and women of the Lowcountry. I've learned the names of the farmers whose bounty fills our bellies and the artists and artisans whose works grace our home, the coffee roasters and chefs whose establishments are the spots I take visitors to for refreshment. I have my favorite spots to show off on a tour of the city, some of which, like the Unitarian Church graveyard, I recently learned that our son, living now on the other coast, recommends to people he knows who visit Charleston. (Second generation pride makes me smile.) Here, my heart dances and my soul sings, each to many different tunes and melodies, as different as a sassy salsa to a Mozart motet. As I move into another phase of life, as an artist, I even know the names of the hens whose eggs I use to create pysanky (Ukrainian style eggs).

Ah Lowcountry, thank you.  Our romance has lasted nearly 45 years, and will go on until my last breath. You may not be the land of my birth, but you are the land of my heart.

The Joys of Friendship

Piccolo Spoleto 2015 pop up art event by Odeith

So, you know when a friend asks you to write something, and you ponder over it, thinking of the thousands of things you want to say, then cull it down to a select few, write it, send it off, and forget about it? It's a really nice feeling, right? To write about something you love, and share it.

I just want to tell you that it's really cool, too, to come online one day and find your words

 out there for others to read.

And, if you want to read my Lowcountry Love letter, visit the Lowcountry Love Letters blog of Emily Elizabeth Gildea and Angela Burney Wicke,  a fabulous new duo hitting the Charleston real estate world.

(I'll post the full content  of my letter here in a day or so, but think you should check these gals and their blog out. Or, simply read it here.)

The Art Of: The American South comes to Charleston

Yesterday, I got to tell stories.

I got to laugh.

I got to talk with four people I didn't know before, but am happy to add into my life.

It was a good day.

So what happened? Thanks to a referral from a friend, I was put in touch with four lovely folks who are on a road trip, heading to Art Basel in Miami (lucky stiffs!), gathering stories "about the art and objects southerners keep in their homes."

I won't spill the beans as to what we talked about, but the questions they asked tapped into some lovely memories and emotional recall for me. It refreshed the realization of the part art played in my life from very early in my childhood, and how it has grown and expanded, now opening into a world where I can shyly, but legitimately claim "artist" as part of who I am.

Our home is filled with stories, with art, with love. To be able to share those memories with these four lively, warm, and wonderful minds was an adventure. To send them on to meet others who I find inspiring in generosity of spirit, and world class creativity, was also a joy. And then to have them tumble back here to spend the evening in the czuk home, sipping local beer (or javaczuk's Negronis) just made it plain fun.

So, if you want to follow a visual trip through the south, click on over to The Art Of: The American South . You might even see one small bookczuk, curled up on the sofa, sharing memories. Thank you Bailey, Greg, Josh, and Erin. You're now a part of my story. And when I look at your tumblr, or instagrams, I see the heart of the American South, through the fresh eyes. Y'all come back, anytime.

Hurricanes and Rainbows

Last evening, we had a glorious double rainbow. It was only after it faded, that I realized it was the eve of the 25th anniversary of Hurricane Hugo coming to visit the City by the Sea (and the rest of the state.) That got me contemplating many things, including the "never again by flood" promise in a certain book. Whether you believe or not, a rainbow is a beautiful thing to behold. And a double rainbow/full bow is a true wonder.

Rather than rewrite, I decided to repost and entry from my old blog, from 5 years ago (September 20, 2009) which in turn is a repost from even earlier.:

It was 20 Years Ago Today (well tomorrow, really)

No, not Sargent Pepper teaching the band to play, but that Hurricane Hugo rolled into town. I was going to write my memories, but realized I did that when Katrina hit a few years back. So, instead, I lifted the earlier journal entry and am putting it here. Today is blustery, much like that day 20 years ago. Hugo came ashore right around midnight so the front end hit on the 21th and the back side on the 22st.


Hugo Memories 

With the horrible devastation brought on by Hurricane Katrina, I find myself remembering what, until Katrina, was one of the worst hurricanes to hit the US in recent history. What we went through was a piece of cake compared to what folks on the Gulf Coast experienced. And ours was bad enough.

We went about our business at the hospital that September, caring for the kids, teaching parents new skills to help so that they could take their recovering children home. There was occasional mention of a tropical depression, then tropical storm brewing out in the Atlantic, but we tended to ignore it. There were always tropical storms brewing in the summer and fall months. That's part of the routine here in coastal South Carolina. No biggie. We'd stock up on water, batteries, bread and toilet paper when the time came. If it looked bad enough we'd add bleach and beer to the list and maybe peanut butter. Life rolled on.

The storm grew-- gained a name, and seemed pointed our way. Voluntary evacuation orders were issued for the coast. The administration at the Medical Complex where I worked, kicked into high gear, in a way we'd never seen before. Staff was divided into 3 groups: Those who would be in the building when the storm hit, those who would be nearby for relief immediately, and those who were "non-essential" and could get the hell out of Dodge. I wanted to be of help and service- that's why I became a nurse, after all, but my application to be on the crew that stayed in the hospital was turned down. Even though my family could have come and stayed in the hospital with me, the fact that my family included a 4 month old baby(still nursing) and a disabled mother, I became a liability rather than an asset. I was assigned to the second group- the ones that would come immediately after.

The storm grew--and shifted slightly so that Charleston looked most likely to be the welcome mat for Bad Boy Hugo. The voluntary evacuation orders became mandatory. My supervisor called me and told me to move inland, out of the city. The storm was expected to hit at high tide and the storm surge would flood us. "Get out", she told me. "You're no good to us dead." 

My brother had actually flown in to Charleston to help us prepare for the storm and to evacuate my mother. What ended up happening is that the car loaded up with baby boyczuk, bumma and the few things we chose to take, plus relief supplies, made it a little ways inland, out of the city, while the duo of javaczuk and elder brother waited too long to leave had to ride the storm in Charleston. They had been so busy helping others batten down things, and taking care of our home, that the roads had closed.

Bumma and I had hoped to get to join some friends in the midlands of the state. That didn't happen. We never really made it out of the low country (the coastal region of the state). Our refuge was a hotel along the interstate. We got the last room, and settled in for the long night. I tried to make her as comfortable as possible- we'd brought a few things like an afghan she made and a picture of my father, but she was frantic with worry about javaczuk and elder brother. The winds had picked up, and the bands of rain were whipping in. "Call them," she begged, so I did. 

They were fine, having the time of their lives, a merry adventure. We kept in touch by telephone as the sky grew dark and the winds grew louder. The swearing from my mother grew louder, too, especially when it really sank in that they couldn't leave, the roads were closed. It was more dangerous be out trying to get out than to hunker down and stay. "If you die," my mother said to them, "I'll kill you."

My darling baby boy, just 4 months old, was a delight. He entertained us both and it calmed my mother to hold him. At times, I would see her weeping silently, while he nestled in her arms asleep. The winds howled. Bumma wept.

Outside, the rain beat against the flimsy hotel, battering, pounding, while the winds whipped around us. I filled the bathtub with water, so that we'd have clean drinking water afterward if necessary. The television reception and radio reception was fuzzy, but present- Charleston stations were falling by the wayside. Other stations reported that the eye of the storm was just at Charleston. The phone rang. It was elder brother and javaczuk, calling from the eye. They were high on having ridden the first half of the storm out, of boarding windows up as they blew out, of watching the walls shake and the roofs of neighbor's homes fly by. They told how they could see the water pouring through the streets and how they saw a neighbor's chimney fall, and how the roof slates from another home had sliced into ours, and one even flew in through a window, breaking the glass, and embedded itself in our kitchen. All I could think about was that it could have embedded in one of them, rather than the wall. Bumma was swearing at them again for making her so upset and terrified- I was wondering how they would do when the fiercer back half of the storm hit, they were saying "uh oh" when the line went dead. 

Bumma turned ghostly white, holding my baby boy, worrying about her baby boy. The wind, which had been impossibly strong where we were, got stronger. I could see the window of the hotel room buckling in and out. My mother, in her fear and worry, was making it hard for me to think straight. I did something I shouldn't have- well- two things I shouldn't have. The first was to venture out into the storm to get a soda from the soda machine. The second was to take said soda, mix it liberally with the scotch we had brought and give it to my mother to drink. Which she did, and promptly passed out. Bumma out cold was a whole lot easier to deal with than a frantic bumma. Trust me on this. 

When I had ventured out, I realized that the hotel was surrounded by trees. They were tall, beautiful pines, bending and swaying in the winds. They looked like ethereal dancers waving their arms in time to a hidden drummer. I was mesmerized- probably would have stayed to watch, had I not had a mother and child to care for. And had I stayed, I would have been crushed by the same trees, that twisted, broke, fell, and crushed the part of the hotel where I had been standing.

With bumma down for the count, I could do some more serious safety measures. I lined the bathroom floor with pillows, blankets, towels and anything soft I could find, to make a nest for my mother and son. The bathroom was the only room without a window, and I wanted them safe if the window in the main room blew. Bumma weighed all of 90 pounds at the time (to my whopping 125), and I managed to carry her in to her safe haven. Baby boyczuk went in too, as well as all the documents etc I had carried out of Charleston. I hefted the mattresses against the bulging window and threw my own force against them as well. I wedged the few towels I didn't use to soften the bathroom under the front door. In the morning, two things were true. Our window was one of the only ones on that side of the hotel that didn't blow in, and we were the only folks in the hotel with clean water, thanks to our tub-full.

There was a strange sound that I couldn't identify--and then I realized it was silence. We were in the eye of the storm. I couldn't resist- I went outside. Silence. Nothing. Void. All the trees which had so enchanted me, were matchsticks toppled and splintered. The rear side of the building was crumpled. Cars in the lot were bashed in from flying debris, though ours was still fine. I got my keys and with heart pounding because I knew the back wall was moving closer by the second, moved it to the clear center of the lot. In the morning, it was there, safe, while a large piece of hotel roof would be occupying the space where our car had ridden out the first half of the storm.

In the morning, we began the long drive back to Charleston- a drive that should have taken the blink of an eye, became a journey of hours. The landscape was totally unfamiliar. Everything was battered, bend or broken. Wires were down- though there was no way of telling which were live and which were dead. Roads were only cleared as people passed through. Sometimes a few folks could move the limbs and branches, sometimes, heavier machinery was needed for the trees. The National Guard was there at work before we even began our journey home. 

We headed back to Charleston, hoping for the best, but trying to prepare each other for the worst. My mother shrieked at every broken tree and toppled building (in other words, it was a continuous wail.) I gave her the task of watching for downed power lines so I could avoid driving over live ones. She wasn't really able to concentrate and be of much help, but the task gave her a purpose, and me some peace as I headed back to the coast and Charleston.

I had my medical ID and was repeatedly stopped on the way back in the city, only allowed through when I showed it. We wound our way through our familiar town that suddenly was strange- driving the wrong way down one way streets to avoid flooding and blocked roads. Finally, we turned onto our street- or what should have been our street, but now was a empty sketch of what had been lush tropical greenery. Our house still stood, but it was totally empty, devoid of husband and brother. Part of our tin roof was on the front steps, and one of our chimneys was in the street. Worriedly, I headed back to the car, unsure of what to tell my mother. I stood in the now unfamiliar street, trying to figure out what to say, and looked down the block, at the fallen oaks and broken houses. There walking towards us, were javaczuk and elder brother. They'd weathered the storm and were out surveying the calling card Hurricane Hugo had left.

They say that hurricanes have a voice- a particular sound. It is true. I have heard it. It is the sound of my mother, weeping.

Random Acts of Kindness blow me away: The Legend of #chuckformike

I have a friend who recently let it be known that he has acquired a rather significant tenant in his pancreas, who is not only a squatter there, but has staked claims elsewhere in his body. This is not Good News, but is being faced pragmatically, with humor, and with careful thought by Mike and his family.  Though he lives in Wales, and we've only seen each other in person a few times, Mike has been to Charleston, and by all appearances, loved the visit, even contemplated a return trip sometime.

Sitting at my computer an ocean away from my friend, I am reminded how nearly 5 years ago, I reached out to the same community through which Mike and I met, when my mother found herself host to the unwanted tenant of metastatic breast cancer.  She told me that she didn't mind dying; she'd lived a good life. Her big regret would be not being able to hear what people said about her at her funeral. I turned to the BookCrossing community,  and to friends and family.  In return, they flooded her with love. It meant a lot to her to know she'd touched so many lives. I looked down at my hands on the computer and knew that though I live an ocean away, maybe I can do something that makes Mike smile, or teases that fabulous brain of his. And so, I wrote him: "Mike, my friend, what are your favorite place memories from Charleston? Don't ask why. Just give me a few places.  PS Tell that tumor to go to hell. I'm mad at it."

He responded with some of his favorite memories, and then I told him my idea: to take a special tour of Mike's Charleston for him, and to send him pictures and videos along the way.

Mike, that big hearted man, recognized that he'd be helping me, while I'd be amusing him. "I'd love that!" he wrote. "Can we ride in one of those horse buggies?"

"You betcha!", I replied. "Anything goes as long as it doesn't involve a strip club or drugs". And with that, I was on a mission: to show Mike the town he visited and loved. He thought Facebook would be a good place for the pictures, though I've put some in a BookCrossing book I had which he'd started travelling. (Sacre Bleu, if anyone's interested. The pictures there are not ones that have appeared on FaceBook.) So, I've been documenting on FB with the hashtag #chuckformike and #miketravels. Mike has let me renew the pact I made with my mother, to face the days ahead with courage, caring, laughter and love. I normally devote my June to mitzvahs in her honor; now her memory is in good company with Mike.

Now, on to Random Acts of Kindness.  The other day, I went to the City Market to take pictures for Mike, and see about a carriage ride. As I got closer to the carriages, I thought about it: most of the fun for a local is seeing friends react to this beautiful city. Taking a carriage ride by myself, even with Mike in my mind, seemed like not as much fun, plus I couldn't be sure I'd hit a district he'd want to see. (For the uninitiated, the carriage tours are strictly regulated as to where they can go, how many can go to a certain area, etc. They're also regulated about temperatures and hydration for the horses and mules that pull the carriages. It's all pretty humane, for what it is.) Plus, my wallet was remarkably bare. I figured that I'd wait until my granddaughter was here at the end of the month, and get some footage then. But in the meantime, I had this idea that I'd document a carriage ride without actually going on one. First, I got a picture from the seat of a carriage of a horse named Montague, and of the poop catcher the horses are required to wear (though adventurous poop occasionally escapes the diaper, something with which any parent is familiar) 

Then I told the ladies who do the lottery for which area carriages can go about Mike, and one of them volunteered to show the sorter for tour-route selection, as long as I promised not to show her face in the picture. I'm pretty sure she rigged it though, because the ball she is holding up is for the prized tour of South of Broad and The Battery:

I continued taking photos and walking in the market, planning the route I'd take for the pseudo tour route. As I walked, I realized I didn't have a picture of a carriage. Montague was out on tour, so I stopped at Old South Carriage Company on Anson St. and explained the situation to the tour guide, and asked if he could take a picture of his horse from the carriage view as well (a la the Montague picture). He not only welcomed a photograph, but invited me aboard.

Then he asked, "You got a video on that thing (my phone)? And a few minutes to spare?" When I replied yes, he invited me on a private tour around the Market, just for Mike! Wowzer! So, meet tour guide Shawn, horse Freddy, and an extremely grateful czukie, on a private carriage tour, just for my friend Mike. To paraphrase and rephrase Tennessee Williams, I am often overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers. Blogger is having trouble uploading the video, so I will try an alternate route. It's a'coming, Mike, two items from your list: the Market and a carriage tour! (edited to add it is up on Facebook now, though my settings are for friends only, though I can change that if needed.)

Shawn did let me take one more picture, that of the markers used for escaped poop and piddle, dropped at the scene of the crime, and radioed into the persons with the worst job in the city: the horse brigade, who go out to clean up the waste. Wouldn't you just love to ride around scraping up excrement when it's 90+ degrees F?

What Shawn wouldn't do was take any gratuity, but I got him back. I left a tip with a co-worker and am wrote a 5 star review on Yelp. 

So Mike, know that not only your friends rooting for you, but strangers are, too. And you deserve it. Thank you, my friend, for travelling with me. Sit back and enjoy the ride!

Walking through memories

The afternoon light has just begun to take on the gleams of autumn, but not yet willing to release the intensity of summer. I love that time of September, when the balmy air wraps around like the softest cashmere, sliding like silk. As a girl, I dubbed it air bathing: when the air temperature and body temperature melded together like slipping into a glorious pool of water.

Walking around the city of my heart, which has been my home for many years, I found myself on a journey. Though I've lived roughly half of my days here in Charleston on James Island, the rest has been downtown, almost exclusively in Harleston Village. On this sultry afternoon, my steps wandered the streets of my past -- stopping at those places I had called home.

When I first relocated back to Charleston, it was shortly after my father had died. I searched for a place to make my nest which would allow me easy access to my work at the hospital, but, more important, it would be accessible to my mother, and would have a place for her to visit any time she wished. I packed up my car in St Louis, and, together with my cat, Tezra, began the journey that ended on Wentworth Street, in a 2 bedroom apartment, carved out of an old single family home. It was scruffy, definitely more student housing than that of a more permanent sort. Though it met my requirements, my neighbors were loud, and the cockroaches plentiful. I have some dreadful memories of living there, for with it came the end of a relationship, but I also have some wonderful ones. I recall making curtains for the bedroom with my mom. They matched the linens I'd purchased just after moving in.  (I still have the sheets we bought together. I use them up at the cabin, and they make me smile to remember the two of us sewing. Though we both loved to work with our hands, and were quite good at some things, we were terrible seamstresses. The only thing that kept those curtains from looking horrible was that the fabric was pretty.)  Or how we'd sit in the rather depressing living room, listening to "A Prarie Home Companion" on the radio. I tried to make that dark little apartment a home, but never was very successful.  When a wonderful little home a few blocks over came up for rent, I jumped at the chance, even though it meant I'd need to find a roommate.

It was just a slight tumble over to the cottage on Gadsden, but there was a world of difference between the two. Despite the street that floods in high tide, and the miniscule kitchen, I'd move back into that place in a skinny minute. Though the roommate situation turned out to be the stuff of stories (not fairy tale kind, but the kind where the roommate ended up with a man who married her for her fortune and then tried to kill her.  I knew the marriage was doomed when the song she danced with her father, where her groom cut in, was "The Tennessee Waltz.") it was a great place. I hosted my first oyster roast there, got a crush on the boy next door, tried my hand at gardening, and turned out some great supper parties for friends, despite the miniscule kitchen.  But alas, the landlord's son got married and wanted the cottage for himself, so I packed up the cat and moved yet again.

Luckily, there was a place around the corner, near a close friend. It was a comfortable duplex, and like its two predecessors, had a spot for my mother to visit, though she only came a time or two. It was the same shade of Pepto Bismol pink, but had lots of hard wood and deco interior elements. I was living there when I met Javaczuk. He was up in DC, but we managed to see each other regularly and talk daily. I would come home from the night shift at the hospital, and he would call every morning to wish me sweet dreams.  I remember standing up on the 7th floor of the hospital, watching Calhoun Street in the dawn hours, to see if I could find his car as he drove into town for a visit. My roommate of the time was a sweet, sincere young woman, who was studying to be a physician. Though she was skeptical about my sudden, passionate, long distance romance, she was a good sort, and feigned enthusiasm when he and I got engaged the second time we saw each other, 6 weeks after we'd met. She wished me well when I decided to follow my heart and move up to DC.

A few years later, we moved back to Charleston, this time with my mother. Together we purchased a home on Smith Street -- a glorious Queen Anne Victorian, where I thought I'd stay forever. Oh the memories from that house -- the laughter and love. It was a bountiful harbor for the family, and was there that our son was born. It weathered some losses, a hurricane or two, but still stood proud. My favorite spot was the curved portion of the front porch, where we set up a swing. I could sit there and listen to the sounds of the street, the birds in our garden, and the laughter of children playing. We had our reasons for moving, to numerous to list, but all valid and real. I was always sad that we left downtown, but it was something that had to be done at that time.

Life has its cycles. I feel the turn of another one for the two of us. We're beginning to shed ourselves of the possessions (both ours and others) that have built up in this lovely home by the lake we have here on the island. Our souls are yearning to find a spot in the city of our courtship again.  We are Charleston bound.

Gateway by Lee Robinson

This summer, I was talking to Harriet McDougal Rigney, who is not only a friend, but an editor I respect a great deal.  The subject was novels set in Charleston, written for a middle school/YA crowd.  Harriet asked if I'd read this book, which had somehow gone completely beneath my radar. I found a copy, and curled up on this rainy Sunday to read a book set in my beloved Charleston.

The author used her experience and familiarity with the Charleston legal system (she was a public defender here for many years, and very active in the legal aid program) and a keen eye for both the beauty and quirks of Charleston to good use. The book is the story of a custody battle told from a teenager's point of view. There is wisdom in these pages, and a true sense of Charleston. Part of the story (including the title) takes place in one of my favorite spots in all of Charleston: the gateway garden walk leading from King Street, behind the apartments and houses I have longed to live in, to the gloriously overgrown, ramshackle garden/graveyard of the Unitarian church.  Anyone I've taken on a walk around Charleston can testify to my love of that walk and graveyard. It's a must see on the private czukie tour, and a place where I can often be found on Sundays, curled up on a bench, reading before choir practice starts at the church I attend.

I particularly liked the end solution of this book.  Mac's experience of being shuttled between the homes of two warring parents is one I saw happen to friends whose parents divorced. I always thought custody considerations particularly unfair to kids, what with all the too-ing and fro-ing. I liked the way this worked out.

Walking England in America

I remember taking friends visiting from England on the czuk-walking tour of Charleston. So much of British and colonial history are intertwined, that it was kind of fun to joke about the what if's the Revolutionary War had gone differently. My friends insisted Americans would pronounce aluminum correctly and refer to the proper sport with the term "football". One of my friends melodramatically pronounced July 4 to be a day of mourning for him, rather than one of celebrations.

"Yes," countered his companion.  Think of all the souls who would be speaking proper English now.

We bantered back and forth.  They bemoaned being in such a barbaric country where beer was not served at the proper temperature.  They wailed that nowhere could they find proper cream, only "heavy" cream or something called half-and-half.  And the things called English Muffins? Pah!

We continued to walk around downtown, until I took them to one of the cobblestone streets that still are around. The stones had been ballast for ships coming to Charleston from around the world, a large number from England. We spent the next 15 minutes stepping from stone to stone, "walking on Mother England" and the precious ground of my hometown in with each footfall.

Silver and Gold

Somewhere in my early life I learned a little musical round with the words

Make new friends, but keep the old;

One is silver and the other gold.

This weekend was a lovely blending of the two. Does it matter that one just turned two? (He'd be the new friend) or that I haven't seen the other in probably 15 years? Nah. That's the beauty of some friendships. You pick up where you left off. And we did. It was splendiforous. 

 (That's Marco, the just turned two grandson of my friend Doris, playing hide and seek in the courtyard of Kudu, where we stopped for a beer (Don't fall over in shock because it wasn't a coffee!) Marco's mother is expecting Baby #2, a girl, and she's threatening to name her Dora, so her kids can be Marco Polo and Dora the Explorer.) 

It was hotter than Satan's armpit (as my friend Sarah described it. I was less descriptive and said hotter than stink), but we still rambled about Chucktown, explored the  Farmer's Market at Marion Square , cooled off in the Children's Museum, and even had time to introduce Marco to Diggity Doughnuts (the second to last day Amber'll be doughnutting it this summer. You can still get them July 4th at Whole Foods) and the Medway Park/Riverland Terrace Sunday Brunch  Farmer's Market (last official day, though there may be some renegade appearances by some of the merchants and food trucks over the summer). Doris fell in love with the art work by Andy of Artisan Tees and snagged a souvenir for herself.  Adding a bit of "how cool is that" to a stinking hot day, I was able to score some quail eggs from Bonnie of Lazy B Quail Farm. Plus for literal coolness, my freezer now holds a sweet treat of chocolate gelato from my favoritest pasta guy in the whole wide world, who has added new delights to his repertoire. As if fresh pasta and killer sauces, etc weren't enough. We're having Rio Bertolini's ravioli tonight, with a salad mixed greens, and a seeded baguette with its own brand of Magic.  Local goodness. Mmmm...

Anyhow, being with my silver and gold made for a wonderful weekend. In the slathering heat, and sticky afternoons, we found the laughter, love, and peace that can only be found in true friendship.

Defeating Darkness

Yesterday, I met with a couple of women who work for Darkness to Light, an amazing organization that is working to "empower people to prevent child sexual abuse." That's a huge and incredible mission, one that impacts the lives of so many people I know.

The reason we met was because of BookCrossing. D2L is seeking ways to get their message out into the community further, particularly during August, which is sort of their kick-off month each year for raising awareness and letting people know about resources and programs available. We had a great talk, in the courtyard of Kudu, and have come up with some ideas that might just work for them.

But the whole exercise got me thinking, which is a good thing, I suppose. I was not personally sexually abused, but two women, who I hold very dear, were, and by a perpetrator I actually knew when I was little. He was a man of contradictions, very gruff, but very devoted, and he scared the bejiggers out of me, enough so that I told my mother I didn't want to be alone with him.  I couldn't articulate why, but she seemed to understand, and told me that no one should ever have to be afraid to be with another person.

As I mulled over what I'd talked about with Liz and Sterling, an idea came to me.  We'd talked about ways to release books that had child sexual abuse as part of the story, to help raise awareness of the issue. D2L may be here in Charleston, but this organization has reached far beyond the local community, modifying  the advice to think globally; act locally. For them, local is global. They've got training sessions set up internationally to help raise awareness of the prevalence and consequences of child sexual abuse. My world, too, may be local, but thanks to the internet, I can easily and quickly communicate with friends and family thousands of miles away.

My idea, that is still being fine-tuned, is to create a book release challenge through BookCrossing, for members to release books that in some way reflect to the mission, purpose, or any way they can relate, of D2L. I would ask that each book have in a journal entry a blurb (which I could provide, with the assistance of D2L) and a link for further information. I think it could be an amazing challenge, promoting awareness of a cause that needs to be brought into the light, and totally extinguished.

Because, as Bumma said, no person should ever have to be afraid to be with someone else.

PS Today is the third anniversary of her passing. She is still with me, guiding, teaching, comforting, and making me smile.

There's something special about Sundays

Even though it's now Mondy, one more bit of Sunday summertime specialness for me:  The Sunday Brunch Farmer's Market at Medway Park in Riverland Terrace. It's been going on a few weeks, and has one more Sunday, as I think July 1 is the last market scheduled.

There's my friend Rena, the genius behind Happy Camper Snoballs. Whenever I see her or her vintage 1965 camper (not to mention the colorful and tasty snoballs, served in mini takeout food cartons), I can't help but smile.

I waved to her on my way to see Amber over at Diggity Doughnuts , where I was collecting an engagement gift for my friends Kiley and Jeff.  Kiley had written an article on Diggity a few months back, and was dreaming of picking up a few doughnuts when she's here in July. Unfortunately for Kiley, Diggity is going on vaycay for July and August, but I arranged to grab some goodness and park it in my freezer until Kiley gets here.


Yeah. Like they're gonna last.

I love the farmer's market on Saturdays at Marion Square, but in some ways, this smaller one on Sundays  is much more homey.  I get to see the lovely Meg from Dirthugger farm right here on James Island. I used her radishes in our farro salad last night. Mmmmm. Can't get more local than that, except in my own back yard.  Anyone as passionate about fruits and veggies as she is, is tops in my book. 

There's Andy from Artisan Tees (I'm wearing one of his original designs as I type),

Mary and Ron from Earth Maiden, Brian or someone from Rio Bertolinis, with fabulous pasta, and if you're lucky, fresh gelato, Bonnie from Lazy B Farm, who has fresh Japanese Quail eggs, the fine folks from Baguette Magic, a food truck or two, and some other vendors.

The thing is, though I'm not a farmer, or an artist, or a provider of fine local goods and taste treats, these people are all my friends.  They give their hearts and their talents to their community, and I give mine right back to them. 

Yes, it's special when I take a visitor from out of town to the market, and I'm greeted by name, but I've watched them greet total strangers who stop by, and those people receive the same warm and gracious attention I do. These vendors and purveyors of goods are part of the reason visitors to Charleston find our city so hospitable. They make me feel like one in a million, but mostly because that's part of their gift -- they share their bounty and their unique graces with the rest of us, and make the world a little better, one bit of deliciousness at a time. 

Thank y'all. See you next Sunday.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now

Driving home from choir and church (and my peaceful Sunday strolls around downtown Charleston) yesterday, my reverie was broken by a cloud formation. (Luckily Javaczuk was driving, so no cars or fishermen on the bridge were injured by my contemplative state or awakening from it.) I've always wanted to see rabbits, or puppies, or even dragons in the clouds.  I guess once a urology nurse, always a urology nurse, because the cloud I saw clearly only looked like one thing to me, and to everyone that I have showed the picture.

And for my medical friends, when the wind began to blow from the east, it developed hypospadias (which spell check wants to change to hypochondriacs, but I won't let it.)

I've heard it said that nature makes no mistakes, but clearly sometimes there's junk in the sky.

Keeping Time

There is a rhythm to life in Charleston that has soaked into my soul. It has to do with the way the marshes change from gold to green each year; how the angle of light changes as the seasons progress. The bright-hot colors of July are beginning to make an appearance, letting me know that soon, our mini monsoon time will become more pronounced -- afternoon thunderstorms chasing away the heat of summertime.  I watch the calendar for months with "R" in them, keeping track of oyster season by a rule that was in place here before refrigeration was common-place. Tides mean more than the rise and fall of water levels. Moon phases beat a pulse in the waters around our home. The migration of birds marks the spring and the fall. There's a time to plant, to collect the bounty of the sea, to gather the fruits of the earth.  Yesterday, we picked the first figs of the year, beating the birds to the luscious sweetness straight from the trees.

I had opportunity, recently, to reflect on time.  We flew to the west coast for an event that brought to a close something that has shaped our live with its rhythms and schedules for 21 years. As I listened to Cory Booker, the commencement speaker at Stanford University, I realized this marked the end (at least for now) of school days for our family.  I remember so clearly the start of pre-school and Montessori for our son; how our vacations and travels matched the calendar for the schools our son attended. How the events, ceremonies, celebrations, all shaped our lives. Last week, at Stanford, we attended the culmination of those years. While he may someday return for future studies, 21 years of continuous schooling were over, and a new phase of life was indeed commencing.

It was inevitable that my mother came to mind. She used to say that she had no intention of dying before she saw her eldest grandson graduate university. But obviously, the seasons of her life carried her a different path. I wondered if I would feel her presence on that day when her beloved grandson received his degrees, or if he would feel her or think of her. The answer to these musings is yes.  She was most definitively there, if not in spirit, then in memory. And she was smiling.  It's been a long time since she held her grandson in her lap, but her family held her in our hearts and carried her with us that day.

I've lived in cycles of 21 years with my mother -- the first 21 years of my life as I called her home mine; the last 21 years of hers as we once again shared a home after going separate ways for a bit.  Now, at the end of another cycle of 21, we've marked time as mother and daughter, mother and grandmother, in the seasons of our lives.  I miss you, Bumma.