I grew up a Charleston expatriate. I was born in Roper Hospital and then, while still in diapers, I toddled my way to North Carolina to live among the Tar Heels. Charleston was always my home away from home. The town I came to visit. My vacation spot. My family would drive down I-95, pass South of Border, and cloverleaf onto I-26. Riding into town, I always looked forward to crossing the Cooper River Bridge. Looking down at the Yorktown meant I was almost there - to the Old Village in Mount Pleasant where Spanish Moss, Pitt Street Pharmacy, and pluff mud awaited my arrival.
Now that I live here - 25 years later - I know that I’m home. As much as I enjoyed the hardwood forests and rolling hills of North Carolina, it didn’t have salt air or boiled peanuts. I still follow UNC basketball and think the sky Carolina blue, but Chapel Hill is not Charleston.
Sometimes I forget I’m here, and think I’m back up north, but the sounds of gulls and boat-tailed grackles always bring me back. The remembered sounds of youth have become my occasional epiphany.
In a town where I once went fishing with my grandfather – my Poppa – I now go fishing with my cousin. We take out my uncle’s boat on the same water my parents grew up on - we never catch much, but that’s not the point. Bouncing through the chop with salt spray in our faces, drinking beer and bullshitting, throwing a cast net and hauling up mud, watching birds arc overhead while dolphins break the surf – that’s what it’s all about.
And remembering.
Remembering Poppa fishing off a rickety dock. Going on hilarious boating trips with my great uncle. Listening to stories about my Mom’s youth in Mount Pleasant or my Dad’s on Sullivan’s Island. Catching crabs with chicken necks. Watching fireworks across the harbor. Eating Popsicles on the porch - leaning over the rail to keep sticky drips off green-painted wood. Sleeping in a hammock, being rocked by the breeze. Eating Granny’s ‘elegant’ pot roast, listening to her contagious laughter. Getting big hugs. Catching fiddler crabs in the marsh. Hearing Poppa snore on the couch. Playing Connect Four on the floor and watching cartoons. Seeing Dad and Granny dancing – cheeks red and smiling. Being part of my sister’s marriage in Saint Phillip’s Episcopal. Watching my nieces enjoy the ocean. Watching the cycle start over.
All of my relatives – more than I can count - create a tapestry of memory and a future of immeasurable possibility. My family is Charleston. More Charleston than Charleston itself. They are unsurpassed hospitality. They are open arms. They are unconditional understanding. They are home.
The old lanes, marsh grass, and Southern antiquity are nothing without Charleston's people. The slow Lowcountry drawl is more important than 100 Hunleys. The basket-weavers create art more valuable than anything in an art gallery, and the Gullah language is Lowcountry music. Charleston is made of mothers, daughters, fathers, and sons, who grace an old city with life. In time, however, lives fade and Charleston is passed on to new generations.
New generations become Charleston.
The ‘Greatest Generation’ is leaving us now. Grandmothers and grandfathers. The salt of the earth and the salt of our city. They have seen world wars and times of peace, The Roaring 20’s and The Great Depression, the good years and the bad. They tell stories of old times and old friends and possess boundless wisdom and understanding. They are everything that is good about Charleston. Everything that is good about life. And they will be missed.
In the wake of loss, the future is wrapped around my ankles. My nieces and cousins hang on. I stumble forward, trying to reach a table overflowing with food. Dragging one leg at a time, I spill my drink on a white-ribboned head. The wet hair looks up and turns into a face. She laughs her great-grandmother’s laugh, drying her hair on my khaki kneecap.
I look around and see a room filled with Charleston hospitality. I hear comforting accents fill an old house. An old home full of memories.
On the stairs, I would ride down the banister and play with Slinkies. On the old pine floors, I would run and sock-slide, daring the splinters. On the porch, I would watch the harbor with old binoculars kept in a top drawer. In the kitchen, I would eat boiled shrimp and spin the lazy Susan. Plastic saltshakers flew. In this house, I came home.
In this house, I am home.
My three-year-old cousin, holding onto a chair and smiling, steals my attention. She says, “Look, Charleston. I can hop on one foot.”
...
*Originally published in the Charleston City Paper (2000)
Now that I live here - 25 years later - I know that I’m home. As much as I enjoyed the hardwood forests and rolling hills of North Carolina, it didn’t have salt air or boiled peanuts. I still follow UNC basketball and think the sky Carolina blue, but Chapel Hill is not Charleston.
Sometimes I forget I’m here, and think I’m back up north, but the sounds of gulls and boat-tailed grackles always bring me back. The remembered sounds of youth have become my occasional epiphany.
In a town where I once went fishing with my grandfather – my Poppa – I now go fishing with my cousin. We take out my uncle’s boat on the same water my parents grew up on - we never catch much, but that’s not the point. Bouncing through the chop with salt spray in our faces, drinking beer and bullshitting, throwing a cast net and hauling up mud, watching birds arc overhead while dolphins break the surf – that’s what it’s all about.
And remembering.
Remembering Poppa fishing off a rickety dock. Going on hilarious boating trips with my great uncle. Listening to stories about my Mom’s youth in Mount Pleasant or my Dad’s on Sullivan’s Island. Catching crabs with chicken necks. Watching fireworks across the harbor. Eating Popsicles on the porch - leaning over the rail to keep sticky drips off green-painted wood. Sleeping in a hammock, being rocked by the breeze. Eating Granny’s ‘elegant’ pot roast, listening to her contagious laughter. Getting big hugs. Catching fiddler crabs in the marsh. Hearing Poppa snore on the couch. Playing Connect Four on the floor and watching cartoons. Seeing Dad and Granny dancing – cheeks red and smiling. Being part of my sister’s marriage in Saint Phillip’s Episcopal. Watching my nieces enjoy the ocean. Watching the cycle start over.
All of my relatives – more than I can count - create a tapestry of memory and a future of immeasurable possibility. My family is Charleston. More Charleston than Charleston itself. They are unsurpassed hospitality. They are open arms. They are unconditional understanding. They are home.
The old lanes, marsh grass, and Southern antiquity are nothing without Charleston's people. The slow Lowcountry drawl is more important than 100 Hunleys. The basket-weavers create art more valuable than anything in an art gallery, and the Gullah language is Lowcountry music. Charleston is made of mothers, daughters, fathers, and sons, who grace an old city with life. In time, however, lives fade and Charleston is passed on to new generations.
New generations become Charleston.
The ‘Greatest Generation’ is leaving us now. Grandmothers and grandfathers. The salt of the earth and the salt of our city. They have seen world wars and times of peace, The Roaring 20’s and The Great Depression, the good years and the bad. They tell stories of old times and old friends and possess boundless wisdom and understanding. They are everything that is good about Charleston. Everything that is good about life. And they will be missed.
In the wake of loss, the future is wrapped around my ankles. My nieces and cousins hang on. I stumble forward, trying to reach a table overflowing with food. Dragging one leg at a time, I spill my drink on a white-ribboned head. The wet hair looks up and turns into a face. She laughs her great-grandmother’s laugh, drying her hair on my khaki kneecap.
I look around and see a room filled with Charleston hospitality. I hear comforting accents fill an old house. An old home full of memories.
On the stairs, I would ride down the banister and play with Slinkies. On the old pine floors, I would run and sock-slide, daring the splinters. On the porch, I would watch the harbor with old binoculars kept in a top drawer. In the kitchen, I would eat boiled shrimp and spin the lazy Susan. Plastic saltshakers flew. In this house, I came home.
In this house, I am home.
My three-year-old cousin, holding onto a chair and smiling, steals my attention. She says, “Look, Charleston. I can hop on one foot.”
...
*Originally published in the Charleston City Paper (2000)
