The Second Question

Not long ago I was having coffee with some friends when one of the ladies at the table made an interesting comment. I was returning from the men’s room and was not in on the current conversation. It was our usual Friday morning gathering at the gym. After exercise we would gather for coffee. Janet was saying, “ and they never invited me to another meeting.” I did not hear the beginning of the discussion. 

Of course we wanted to know why. She said in a curt New England accent, “I think it was because I said we didn’t go to church.” 

“H-m-m,”  I thought to myself.  I could envision what had happened. A group of local ladies enjoying afternoon tea with my friend as the new kid on the block. She was probably the only one in the group that did not use the contraction ”y’all”. Janet was experiencing a clash of cultures. She couldn’t understand what had happened. I said, “I don’t know why, but in conversation with new members of the community, usually the second question asked is ''What church do you go to?’. But I don't think it is as common as it used to be.”

Rob wanted to know, “What is the first question?”

“Where do you live?” I responded. 

Janet asked me, “ You’ve lived here a long time.  What do you think about this obsession with church? These girls didn’t seem very religious to me.”

“You are right, Janet. I have lived here all my life. Admittedly, we Southerners are perceived of being a bit different. But about the church thing, let me say I don’t know. I remember my momma  usually knew what churches people went to. We were Baptists. But we knew some folks that were Methodists. Daddy’s folks were all ARPs.  I guess church was a big part of our lives. Daddy became a teetotaller after he had a fight with a State Trooper. And after that Daddy said that if you put your feet under his table, you went to church on Sunday morning. So I did. I don’t think most people are as religious as they used to be, though.  But I don’t have an answer to your question, Janet. Maybe the professor has an answer.”

The professor was retired from the University of South Carolina. Although he was not a native South Carolinian, he was respected in his field of early American history. He looked up from his coffee over the rimless glasses while stroking the imaginary hair of his bald head. He spoke in a rumbling baritone voice which probably evoked fear in college freshmen. “I believe such action is just another facet of Southern culture.”

 

John Bryson spoke up. “ Just what do you mean by another facet of Southern culture?”  John, with that slow drawl of someone conceived under a magnolia, could recount the heroic exploits of his ancestors in the War Between the States at a moment’s notice. And he exhibited a basic distrust of anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon line. John readily accepted deposits at his family's bank from our recent emigres but wouldn’t accept them into his foursome at the oceanfront links of his country club. 

“I think it has to do with the agrarian nature of the South. You see the South has always had an agricultural economy. At least up until the late nineteenth century. Until then there had been very little manufacturing in the South.”

Bryson spoke up. “I don’t see what farming had to do with it!”

“Let me tell you what I think,” Professor Bob said. “Back in the old days when everybody farmed, people didn’t see much of each other. They didn’t see each other often like people in the northern cities did. The only time they met others was at church. So it was very important to know what church people attended. There might be acquaintances in common.”

“That may very well be, Professor, but I still think they were just rude!” Janet said. 

Butt First

“You gotta get in butt first,” he said as he entered the automobile.  

“ Okay,” says I as I maneuvered  my seventy-eight-year-old body into the sleek machine. Flexibility is one of those things that fades away with age. 

I settled into the body hugging comfortable seats. It was a four passenger vehicle and I was riding shotgun. Tiny colored icons appeared on the glossy sections of the instrument panel bathing interior with another worldly light. Patrick touched some of these hieroglyphics as the Porsche moved into the street. There was a slight whine and motor sound from the engine. He maneuvered the machine through light traffic in the onset of evening. I felt the gear change which surprised me. He noticed my surprise and said unlike most vehicles of this type the Tayman had a transmission. There was also the sound of an internal combustion engine which I was told was included in the design primarily as a warning device for pedestrians. (Electric vehicles are silent.) The automobile accelerated quietly and moved deftly through light traffic until we turned into a wide street (I think all streets are wide in Phoenix.) and he stopped the car. I looked through the windshield over a slightly sloping hood of which Porsches are famous for a view of the desert sky. It was lit with fiery orange accented with streaks of purple against an advancing darkness. Patrick was tapping icons on the touch screen  putting the car into which I would learn was “launch mode”. “Are you ready?” he asked and added, “I always ask everyone this. They say they are, but usually aren’t. Are you ready?”  I answered in the affirmative and had a mental flashback to an event of nearly sixty years ago. The car seemed to be attempting to move but was being held back. In my youth I would watch Torqueflite equipped Dodges and Plymouths on the starting line at the local drag strip rev up their wedge head and hemi engines. The entire cars would twist due to the tremendous torque of their engines. But I wasn’t at a drag strip in the 1960s, I was on a street in Phoenix, Arizona. And then it happened. I was slammed into my seat as the low profile tires on twenty-one inch rims grabbed the asphalt like a bulldog grabbing a bone. I was one with a projectile shot from the cannon.  It has to do with eight hundred volts of electricity delivered from a battery to an electric motor driving the rear wheels. A perfect system developed and produced by the German company created by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche many years ago. I’m sure this launch had Dr. Porsche turning over in his grave.  Indeed the epitome of German automotive technology. Patrick continued to extol the features of  his electric four door sports car as we drove along. However, no other features compared to what I would call the “blinding acceleration” demonstrated. Patrick’s smile was bathed in the light of the instrument panel .

It was a  sho nuff electric hot rod. 

Who Was The Roadman?

 The Roadman was a guy from my younger days. Where I grew up there wasn’t a lot to do for entertainment. Just drive-in movies and drive-in restaurants. The drive-in restaurants were where the cool cars were. And dare I say cool kids too. The cars were usually Fords or Chevies with shiny paint and throbbing V-8 engines. And I liked the cool cars. I those days guys named their cars. Sometimes they were named for pop songs such as”The Wanderer”. Not too sure about the cool kids but some of those do stick in my memory. The one that really sticks in my mind was the Roadman. Some said he was from out of town somewhere. Maybe even the land we dreamed of, California. I never found out where. The girls seemed to like him though. There was always a good looking girl with him in his candy apple red ‘54 Chevy. Nobody, I mean nobody drove a candy apple red 54 Chevrolet two door sedan. And with a six cylinder motor. Most of the guys I knew wouldn’t be caught dead in a six cylinder powered car. But the Roadman drove one. Gotta admit the six banger sounded pretty good with a split manifold and a pair of glass packs. But his ride was not the most unusual thing about him. It was the way he talked. He didn’t have a funny accent or anything like a yankee or some other foreigner. It was not his voice but how he said what he said. He always spoke in rhymes!  It was an amazing thing. There was a rhyming disc jockey on the Augusta radio station, but he was nothing compared to Roadman. We didn’t see much of the Roadman except on Saturday nights. Nobody seemed to know where he worked either. We thought he worked in a cotton mill about twenty miles away or maybe that machine shop out on Fairlane  Flats. They had a lot of foreigners working at that shop making some kind of parts for Frieghtliner trucks. Sometimes he would circle back through the Dixie and Ranch Drive-ins after taking his date home. We usually hung out under that tree at the Ranch after taking our dates home. Sort of comparing notes, you might say. The truth was stretched a bit no doubt! But the Roadman didn’t talk a lot, but if you said something good about his ride he would talk. My cousin had given his name. (He had given everybody a nick name.) So we never got to know the Roadman very well. One day we realized he had just gone. No more rhymes…except on the radio. Not even the girls he left behind seemed to know much about him. If you asked them, they would just smile coyly and say, “he was just sweet”.

I don’t think anybody ever found out what happened to the Roadman.

No more rhymes from anyone. 

But I believe that somewhere out there there is a old man with a candy apple red Chevrolet mumbling rhymes. 

The Native American Called jack

Wateree Jack awoke and felt something wet on his face. His eyes blinked open and he looked into the face of Dog.  His faithful hunting companion was standing over him as he lay on the floor of his small cabin. The Native American arose and realized his dog had been licking his face. He donned his trousers and homespun shirt. Around his waist he put his belt with the large knife the old master had given him when he gave him his freedom. It was Jack’s most prized possession. He was never without it. Many deer had been relieved of their skin with that knife. Jack pulled his long hair back and tied it with a leather throng. His black hair was now streaked with gray. He put a hat on his head and stepped outside his small cabin. The hat was black like most farmers wore except his had a white egret’s feather in it. He had a small earring in his left ear and otherwise looked like most other men except that his skin was a bit darker, like one who had spent a lot of time in the bright Carolina sun. Wateree Jack was most likely the wealthiest Native American in the colonies. He had raised and trained horses and acted as guide and translator to those who ventured into the wilderness. As he walked beneath the tall live oaks he reflected on his years with the English.There had been many good years but the memory of his abduction from his tribe's flaming village still haunted him. And at night he could still hear the screams of his mother as the Englishman pulled him from her arms. That day seemed to be long ago, but was alive at night in his dreams.  

It was a fifteenth day of May in the year 1715 with an almost cloudless sky except for the hint of a thundercloud on the southern horizon. On a day like this years ago in 1697 he had gone to the north for old Master Moore to purchase horses. He and the two white men had been attacked by some Tuscarora Indians while they were crossing the great river of the white flowers. The river would later carry the name of the Catawba tribe. One of the white men was killed and he, Wateree Jack, and John Herne, a white man, had escaped. Herne escaped harm but Wateree Jack was wounded. His master, James Moore, had trusted him with a large amount of silver for purchasing horses but it was stolen by the attacking savages.  Jack had to live off the land when he escaped the attackers, recalling the skills learned in his youth with the native people. His people.  Eventually he reached a settlement in North Carolina and a local surgeon removed the musket ball from his leg.  And upon recuperation he led a trading party back to the Boochawee Plantation and his master.

The old master was quite an Indian fighter and hated the Spaniards too. Wateree Jack had accompanied him when he ventured into Florida to attack the Indians and Spaniards there. That was in the early 1700s. Most of these expeditions were successful but they were unable to capture Castillo de San Marco in Saint Augustine. But those adventures were long ago and much had changed since then. The old Master had made his fortune in raising horses, most of which were used by the traders who did business in the Carolina backcountry.  To Wateree Jack’s chagrin the old master, James Moore I, had come down with a fever in 1706 and never recovered. The young Master,  James Moore II, did not give Watereee Jack the responsibility and respect his father had. 

There seemed to be a lot of activity about the plantation on that day in May, 1715. Some of the local plantation owners  were gathering. Jack was curious about what was going on. Old Moses, the house slave, said all the plantation owners were gathering to decide what to do about the Indian uprisings. He heard that the Indians had attacked and killed some of the English. Although Jack lived at Boochawee, he continued to be aware of goings on in the Indian nation. It was true that he no longer had any relatives there, but as the provider of game for the master's table, he often met native Americans while hunting. Wateree Jack was an expert woodsman and hunter. He was an expert with his musket which was like those of the white men, not a poor quality musket like those sold to the Indians. From hunting he knew that the white tailed deer were not as plentiful as they once were. The white men had killed so many deer that there were hardly any left for the Indians. He had heard white men speak of ships loaded with deerskins shipped to England. The English had taken more of the Indians land for their rice plantations also. The land had once been promised to the Wateree and other native people for their hunting grounds. His people had become dependent on the white man. Once they had lived in harmony with the English, but no longer. They had become angry. They were on the warpath and had massacred some colonists which included John Herne and family. 

On this day the Englishmen were meeting to decide on where to attack the Indians.  The men of the militia were gathered. Thomas Barker was in command. The young captain had arrived at Boochawee the day before and brought his young wife with him. She was James Moore’s sister. Wateree Jack had watched Moore, his sister and Barker grow up together.  The Indian thought that Barker’s young wife was the prettiest white woman he had ever seen. Her hands were so small and soft, not large and rough like Indian women’s hands. And she smelled like spring flowers.  After the meeting was over his master, James Moore II, sought him out. Although he had been given his freedom by James Moore I, his son, James Moore II, treated Wateree Jack more like a slave than a free man.  He told Jack that he would be the guide for Captain Thomas Barker's cavalry. Jack said little and went about saddling his horse. He had a number of horses, but picked his favorite, a young chestnut gelding. Within an hour the one hundred well armed  cavalrymen were underway with Wateree Jack guiding them.

As men on horseback moved through the dense primeval forest of tall pines and scrub palmettos, Jack would scout ahead and return to report to Captain Barker what lay ahead.  About forty miles northwest of Boochawee Plantation and near the great river, Jack scouted ahead but did not return to report to Capt. Barker. Little did they know that as soon as he was out of sight he had removed his hat. His long hair fell to his shoulders and almost ceremonially he stripped to his loincloth. 

The militia reached a point where there were hundreds of fallen trees. A  hurricane the year before had decimated the forest. The roots of the giant pines and live oaks reached skyward like the hands of so many demons of hell. Within the hour Capt. Barker's men came under attack by a band of over four hundred armed Indians who lay in ambush. They were not just the Wateree, but the Catawba, Sarraw, and about seventy Cherokee from the Carolina hill country. The white men, though mounted and better armed, stood not a chance when outnumbered nearly six to one. Captain Barker did not survive the ambush. They say Wateree Jack shot the militia captain from his saddle. And the youngest daughter of James Moore I. became a widow. The battle was quick and decisive. 

Twenty-three of the militia fell to the native attackers. Without leadership the company was in disarray and retreated. The militia survivors returned, many of them wounded, to Booshawee and gave account of the battle. The settlers were terrified. The Goose Creek settlement was abandoned as the residents fled to Charles Town. The survivors of the battle told how Wateree Jack had led them into an ambush and joined the Indians. One man said he had seen Jack fighting alongside his red brothers. Another had seen Jack taking a cavalryman's scalp. Some say they saw Wateree Jack in other battles with the Indians. Although they say he was killed, his body was never found.

The local folk say that today on warm summer evenings in the loblolly pine and scrub palmetto forests of the land between Goose Creek and Eutauville you'll see a shadowy figure appearing among the trees. And that is Watteree Jack...and he still seeks revenge!

  

They Don't Grow on Trees

I like ‘em boiled, roasted, raw, green, or dry. Heck, I even like peanut hummus! Peanuts are a great food and source of nutrition. I guess it is that nutty taste that I really like. Interestingly enough the peanut is not a nut at all. It is classified as a legume. Our most common legumes are beans and peas. A peanut doesn’t look much like a lima bean does it? Or does it? Both have pods in which the seed matures but the nomenclature is different. The bean has a pod but the peanut has a shell. Maybe peanut hummus is not much of a stretch since hummus is normally made of chickpeas. 

I love peanut butter too. George Washington Carver is given credit for inventing peanut butter, although there is some question as to the validity of this claim. But, no one can deny the fact that Carver created dozens of new products to be made from peanuts. In doing so he created a new cash crop for southern farmers. 

The peanut plant itself is quite fascinating in the way it produces its fruit, or rather nuts. The plant is bright green and about a one foot and a half high when mature. Before I get into the growing and harvesting of peanuts I must proclaim from whence my knowledge comes. 

I grew up on a farm in the Piedmont part of South Carolina.  We grew peanuts. The soil was first prepared by plowing and harrowing. Then it was “laid off “ in rows for planting. The mule drawn planter made a furrow and placed a seed in the furrow and covered it up with soil. The peanut planter could be adjusted to vary the depth  and space at which the seeds were planted. Our seed we saved from a previous crop. Often we would coat the seed peanuts with a chemical to deter the crows. It was not unusual to have crows digging up the peanuts as fast as we would plant them. Given the chance, Daddy or I would shoot a crow. We would hang a dead crow up in the middle of the peanut patch to let the other crows know the fate of those that dug up our freshly planted peanuts.  We would hang string up criss-cross fashion over the patch too, and maybe add a shiny old pie tin. Once the plants pushed their green leaves through the soil the crows lost interest. 

We would cultivate the peanut plants twice. Soon the plants would be covered with tiny yellow flowers. These flowers would burrow into the soil and the peanuts would form.  At the proper time we would plow up the plants. I would follow Daddy piling up the plants after shaking the dirt off them. After Daddy had finished plowing up the crop, he would exchange the plow for a small sled to haul the peanuts on. The peanut plants would be piled high on the sled and I would get to ride right on top. During the days of late summer my sister and I could be found under a big oak tree picking off peanuts. We picked only the fully developed peanuts from the vines. A harvested plant would have nuts in all stages of growth. We looked rather like ragamuffins in our dirty clothes and dirty faces. After we removed all the peanuts from the plants we would wash and  put them out in the sun to dry a bit. Later that night with Daddy’s help we would weigh up five pound brown paper bags of peanuts. Daddy would then sell the peanuts where he worked. Harvesting the peanuts would take a whole week or longer. My sister and I were frequently the but of jokes as farm kids. But one day we got to laugh at the city kids when a family came to the farm to buy some peanuts. My sister and I nearly died of laughter when the boy wanted to know what kind of tree did peanuts grow on!