This morning here in my little space on the edge of the Blue
Ridge, it was 15o with a wind-chill of
1o. Tomorrow morning it is
supposed to be 8o. This is not supposed to happen here! NEVER!
And it has happened already four
times in the past thirty days. We
southerners are not used to this type of weather. Oh, we can put on all the clothes we own and maybe
take 25 – 30o for a very
short time, as long as the sun comes out and it warms up by 11:00 o’clock in
the morning. And the discussions are
going around as to whether we are experiencing global warming, or are we really
entering another mini ice age like what happened in the 6th century
when all of Europe nearly froze!
I’m in the process of making a huge pot of soup, which I
will enjoy tonight, wrapped in a blanket, in front of my fireplace.
It causes me to think of our ancestors, huddled around the
fireplace, trying to survive. And I feel
so sorry for them and what they went through to enable us to be here today.
So..o..o.. I think I
will digress today and let my mind loose to find an entertaining and pleasant subject. A
warm, sunny subject.
Let’s see . . . .
The minute my foot steps onto the well-worn sidewalks and cobblestone alleyways; the past assails my eyes, my nose, all my senses. The warm sunlight trickles through the canopy of acacia branches and tickles the hairs on my arm. The fragrance of jasmine and wisteria rise to delight my nose and the soft breeze wafting in from the harbor touches my cheek with a coolness and leaves a hint of salt on my lips. I am in Charleston.
An ancient aura hangs over this city like a humming,
shimmering, vibrating light, and I feel as if I could blink my eyes and step
into another time, a long ago time, that still permeates every stone, every
pathway, everything in my view. I am in
Charleston, and I love it.
Charleston is a beautiful, elegant city vibrating with its modern
life, but soaked in its past the way cherries are soaked in brandy. You cannot lose that deep, rich flavor.
The woman I may meet in the shop, the hotel, or in the
various businesses about town may look very modern in her trendy casual
clothes, but with her gracious manners and soft lilting drawl, in my mind I can
see her descending the grand staircase at Tara, adorned in the draperies from her
window, to welcome her guests even though the larder is empty and Sherman has
stolen all the silver.
The striking gentleman in Bermuda shorts holding the door
for me has about him an essence of a frock coat and tall silk hat as if he’d
just stepped into town from his rice plantation on the Ashley River. And when he directs me through the door with
an exquisite wave of his hand, and responds to my “Thank You” with a slow smile
and a soft “Yes, Ma’am,” I know I am
back in Charleston, and it never changes, never disappoints. And I feel at home.
The old South is alive and well in the Low Country of South Carolina and this is especially true in Charleston. All of our ideas of how a gracious life should be led with elegant manners, romantic flirtations, noble dignity, and above all, plentiful hospitality, are daily evident, along with all the quirky characters and rogues and modern pirates, making it real and alive.
Come and enjoy!
