The Moment

There was that time when I was going to the Junior Prom back in the days of yore. I remember it well, just like it was yesterday. It was on a Saturday night, and I was all slicked up.  I checked myself out in the mirror.  I was smooth shaven.  It had taken a year or two to get the hang of the Gillette double-edged safety razor, but I had managed. My hair, which I spent a bunch of time on, was looking good.  Just the right amount of Butch wax in front. I used BrylCreem on the back and sides to get that perfect duck tail. My hair was squared off on the neck, Elvis style. When I was about fourteen I had squared it off myself with a hunting knife using a mirror to see the back. It hadn't gone over too well with my parents though.   Yes, I did look good in a white dinner jacket. I wore my regular penny loafers with a shine that you could see yourself in. Of course, I still had the taps on the heels so that when I drug my feet on the sidewalk they would make sparks at night. The girls thought that was very cool.

Lionel Hampton 
Wikipedia photo

This was my first big date, and everything had to be perfect. I'd spent half the day getting the family Ford all clean and shiny. At seven-thirty I picked up Linda, the Lutheran preacher's daughter. After a quick inspection by the reverend and my promise to have his daughter home by eleven we were on our way. No problems with the Lutheran household except maybe the problem with the corsage.  Who would have thought a preacher's daughter would have worn a strapless evening dress? Although I would  have loved, and I mean LOVED, to have attached it to her bosom, which was rather ample for a teenaged girl, I did not. Her mother devised a way to attach said flowers to her wrist. In about 15 minutes we would be at the dance.  Not much on the car radio.  The big stations didn't come in clear until nighttime.  Then we could hear WLS from Chicago and John Orr advertising Randy's Record Shop in Memphis. That was some good music. Our parents weren't too fond of Rhythm and Blues.  Some called it "colored music". Hardly anything but static on the radio.  Sure wish I had one of those car record players, but soon we'd dancing to the good stuff at the prom.

Everybody always looks better in formal wear. The girls are so much prettier. We made our way through the receiving line in the grand ballroom of the Oregon Hotel and met our friends. We were in the grandest hotel in downtown Greenwood, South Carolina. The music was a big let-down. The faculty had picked the band. It was Lionel Hampton's band.  I can't imagine anyone dancing to the music of the Vibes. It was a bust. Soon people were leaving, after they had the crowning of the King and Queen of the prom, and we followed suit. We rode through the Dixie Drive-In and the Ranch Drive-In on the way to Linda's and only stopped a few minutes to talk with friends.

By the time we were going down the road to Linda's house they were really playing some good music on the radio. Tunes like "Earth Angel" and "Run Around Sue".  And those great songs of the Platters.

I pulled the Ford up into Linda's driveway, and we sat and talked for a few minutes. We sat close together and were thankful that the government had not made seat belts mandatory in cars. It sounded like a dumb idea. I mean, how could a guy carry his girl out on a date with her sitting way on the other side of the car?  I walked her to the door.  I decided that I would kiss her goodnight even though it was our first date. The porch light was on.  I'm thinking that the preacher must still be up. Linda opened the screen door and stuck her hand inside and turned off the porch light. Things were looking better! She seemed to melt into my arms. The moonlight danced across the lawn, and I could hear the Platters on the car radio. "Heavenly shades of night are falling.  It's  twilight time..."  Things were perfect...almost. We kinda banged our glasses together.  Mine were black rimmed and hers were those cat-eyed shaped ones, but I deftly grabbed hers and mine and stuck them in my jacket pocket. Much better. She  looked up into my eyes and closed hers while tilting her head back. Her lips slightly parted. I looked down into the face of the most beautiful girl in the world and puckered my lips.

A loud yelp, bark, snarl came from near my left foot, as I had stepped on the foot of Linda's Yorkie. The little dog had slipped out of the house when she had opened the door to turn off the light. The moment was spoiled.

I never did get that kiss, but I did cultivate quite a dislike for Yorkshire Terriers!

The Dirt Church

"Let's go see a dirt church," I said after lunch one Sunday afternoon last year.

"What?" she asked, but added, "We need to get out of the house this afternoon instead keeping our noses in the TV."

Many have heard the term "common as dirt" and then there was the movie "Joe Dirt". The term "dirt" refers to unclean matter. But, when used as a building material it is soil. The correct term for dirt, i.e. soil construction is rammed earth. This construction method was first used in China as long ago as 5000 BC and is used on virtually every continent except Antarctica. The process is actually very simple: forms are made of wood, and earth is packed inside the forms. The form is removed, and the wall remains standing.  The earth is sometimes a mixture of clay, sand, and gravel and is lightly damp. It is compacted to one half its original size. For example, if earth is piled into a form to the four foot level, it is then damped down (compacted) to the two foot level.
This type of construction has many advantages, particularly in the low cost of building material. Several pages were allotted to this in  The Whole Earth Catalogue and The Last Whole Earth Catalogue.  These publications were popular with communes in the '60s. In the 1930s the Department of Agriculture and Clemson College did research into the method of construction as well.

There are two prominent structures of rammed earth construction in South Carolina, and it was our intent to see one of them. We knew that the Church of the Holy Cross in Sumter County near the town of Stateburg was one of them.  Instead of following I-26 and I-95 for the bulk of the trip, we avoided the interstate highways and took the backroads through the open country and small towns.  The church was at 335 North Kings Highway.  The original wooden church was built on land donated by General Thomas Sumter, the "Gamecock" of the American Revolution, from whom Sumter County gets its name. The current church built in 1850-51 is a National Historic Landmark. It is of Victorian High Gothic Revival Style and constructed using the aforementioned Pise’ de Terre  method.  One method of financing was to sell pews, as was the custom, with premium pews demanding higher prices. 

Although we were unable to enter this active Anglican church we were able to enjoy its exterior beauty. As is our custom we did scout the cemetery for notables. We saw the burial places for veterans of all wars from the American Civil War to more current conflicts. 

"Claudette, I've found a grave that will make you think of Christmas," I announced.

"What? You have found a grave that will make me think of Christmas?" she asked, "What is it some more sheep carved of stone like the shepherds had in the Christmas story?"

"No," I said laughingly, "It's nothing to do with the Christmas story."

She joined me at the headstone of the grave of  Joel Roberts Poinsett. "Could the poinsettia have been named for him?" She asked.

"You're absolutely right!  When the physician, botanist, and statesman was in Mexico he brought the plant back to the U.S.A."

Soon we would leave South Carolina's only dirt church without realizing that the plantation house we saw across from the church was constructed of rammed earth also. As we were driving home, Claudette mused, "Who would believe that dirt could be so beautiful?"

"Yes, but government building codes don't allow it to be used as a building material now. No more dirt churches"

I Was Expecting Animals

It was on a quiet street just off Interstate 20 in Bishopville, South Carolina that we found the garden.  Some friends we met at the gym had told us about it.  It sounded like a good place to spend a Saturday afternoon.  The street was quiet, with ranch-style houses of "70's" vintage. Some of the houses had some strange looking landscaping shrubs. We parked across the street from 145 Broad Acres Road, being careful of the soft earth from a late summer rain.

As we walked across the street, which had no sidewalks, we entered the garden through an arch of some evergreen shrubs. There seemed to be some sort of pattern to the layout of the plants.

"Where are the animals?" Claudette asked.

"The shrubs don't have to be shaped like animals," I said.

"Remember the big bird we saw in Chipping Campden?" she queried.

"Yes, I do.  It had a bird's nest in it. That thing was big; about twenty feet tall I'd guess."

"And Mickey and Donald and the other cartoon characters at Disney World?" she continued.

"Yes, but did you know that Pliney wrote about topiary, the art of shaping shrubs or trees by pruning, in the first century?" I always try to impress her with my knowledge.

"Yes, the Romans had topiaries in their gardens."

We continued to stroll through the garden. The shrubs were shaped into abstract forms.  There were no images of animals or creatures. There were some geometric shapes, cubes, spheres, and unusual shapes but no animals. The plants were seemingly pruned with definiteness of purpose.  No whimsey here.  In the center of this area, which is about 1/2 acre, are eight foot tall letters, filled in with flowers, spelling out: LOVE PEACE + GOODWILL. It would have been awesome from the air.  Intermingled with the topiaries are sculptures.  Here again the creations are almost completely abstract. 

We crossed through a row of sculpted hedges to the next lot upon which sat the owner's modest ranch style house. As we wandered through his backyard we were enamored by a sculpture of musical instruments, horns actually. From behind  a row of high shrubs I heard a voice saying, "Don't get many people from Texas. Y'all come back now!" As we walked through an arch in the wall of shrubs we saw a man on a Gator utility vehicle. He was a big man dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans.  Much to my chagrin he wore a Carolina Gamecocks baseball cap! Approaching him I asked, "You must be the man?"

"I am, and where are you folks from?"he asked.

"Goose Creek, near Charleston," I said.

"Thank you for coming," he said. 

He was Pearl Fryar the creator of the topiary garden. We talked with him and found out that he began the garden in 1981 in what was once a corn field. Almost all of the shrubs and plants were discards from nurseries.  He said that he just has a general idea about what he wants the plant to look like when he begins pruning. The image or work evolves as he works. He explained that he had been on television and that the garden was internationally known. Pearl Fryar Topiary Garden, Inc. is a nonprofit organization in support of the garden. He said the organization provides scholarships.

1. As a former teacher this caught Claudette's interest. He said he wanted to help the "C" students. Pearl said that everyone looks out for the good students who test well, but he's concerned about those students who don't do well on tests. The topiary artist is very passionate about this. We chatted a bit longer and were joined by some folks from Ohio. As we excused ourselves, he asked if we had brochures. At our negative response he threw the Gator into gear and was gone. He returned quickly with brochures for us. We left the man named Pearl in the hands of some folks from Ohio and exited through the driveway to his house.  We had a "Eureka moment" and realized that we had entered the garden without going through the entrance. 

The Pearl Fryar Topiary Garden is a delight to behold and well worth a visit, if you go don't go to the address on the website, 145 Broad Acres Road Bishopville, SC, because that is incorrect. It is 165 Broad Acres Road. Don't fret, though, because you can't miss it.  Also, it is best enjoyed on a day without the temperature hovering around ninety degrees, or so I would believe. 

He Poked a Knife in my Eye

The sun seemed to be rather lazy about rising, but we made it to the Charleston Surgery Center for my 7 a.m. appointment. It was the day of my second cataract surgery and lense implant. I was excited but had a bit of angst as well.  I get anxious when someone is going to cut on me. I believe it is a natural reaction. The waiting room was almost empty, only one other soul there.  The receptionist was entirely too cheerful for  seven in the morning. There were a bunch of forms to be read and signed. I was surprised, since we had filled out several online in order to "speed up" the process. Some of the questions are quite nonsensical. I must indicate that I don't want them to file for benefits with my insurance company, although the form states that my insurance company will not honor such a claim. Bear in mind that I was reading though one relatively good eye.  After finishing these forms, I paid the lady and awaited for my turn to go under the knife. Soon I was ushered into a large room with cubby holes down one side.  The cubbies have a small bed, two chairs and some wall mounted medical equipment. There is a curtain that is used to insure privacy. There were a few women walking around in blue scrub trousers and multicolored smock tops. An attractive blonde lady told me to sit in a chair and said she would check my vitals and ask some questions. Questions? I couldn't believe there was anything else they would need to know about me after all the forms I had filled out. First she asked my name and I answered as she checked my wrist band. Why was I there? To remove a cataract from my right eye, the same side as the wrist band. She said that they always put the wristband on the right wrist.

 "Oh, really," I said, "at the other place they placed the wristband on the side indicating where the surgery would be."

"We don't do it that way here, she advised."

She checked my blood pressure and attached a clothes pin type thing to my index finger to check my pulse.  I wondered if it worked like my cellphone app did by measuring the translucency of the skin.  And then she started with the questions. What diseases and ailments had I had? I told her I had congestive heart failure.

"Has it ever failed?" she asked.

"Nope," I answered, " if it had I probably wouldn't be here."

There were more medical questions. I had to relate my combo surgery I had as a two-year-old, a tonsillectomy and circumcision.  And, of course, I was not pregnant and never had been. She asked my name again. I responded the same.

"Strip to the waist and put on this gown," she ordered.

"You know I'm here for cataract surgery?" I queried. She walked away.

I followed orders and was soon lying on the bed covered with a blanket.  They placed a hairnet on my head which was sort of unnecessary, since my head is hairless. A woman is blue was hovering over me and of course asking me my name. She said that she was the anesthetist and was going to use a topical anesthetic on  my hand, so I would not feel the needle she would implant there to feed me the anesthetic during surgery. She asked my name again and asked if I was allergic to any particular drugs or latex. I don't think I've ever tasted latex. By now my wife had joined us as well as another nurse and the surgeon.  It was getting crowded and I was feeling claustrophobic.

The doctor had me sit on the bedside and look into this machine while he used a Sharpie to make marks around my eye. I was confident he was marking the correct eye. After this I started getting a bit woozy, and they wheeled me into another room, the operating room. The last question asked was "Do you have to use the bathroom?  "They secured me to the bed. There was even a strap over my forehead.  The bright light of the microscope shined in my right eye.  I did not feel the scalpel. I did not see the implant, as it was inserted through a small incision and unfurled inside my eye. The operation was painless. They rolled me out of the operating room, and nobody asked my name. Soon Claudette and I were on our way home.  I was famished and quickly consumed leftover biscuits with homemade syrup.

I can now see better than anytime in my life after he poked a knife in my eye.

Clarence

Anchorage Bed and Breakfast

One of the most interesting things about travel is the people you meet. Some of them just stick in your mind forever.  Fortunately for me, these are good memories.  And so it was with Clarence.

We were staying at a bed and breakfast in Anchorage, Alaska.  We prefer bed and breakfasts to the usual hotels when we travel. At the bed and breakfasts we find that you are more likely to meet interesting people, travelers as well as the locals. Particularly when you gather around the breakfast table for a communal meal. The bed and breakfast in Anchorage was different than what we were used to. Instead of being one building, it was made of several.  Our abode was like an apartment a few doors down from where we would meet for breakfast. We managed a good night's sleep after landing  at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport, picking up our rental PT Cruiser, and grabbing  a bite to eat before finding the bed and breakfast.  The weather was a cool drizzle.

At morning breakfast we met our hosts, or rather the son of the owners of the bed and breakfast.  The son, his wife, and two-year-old were from  Mexico and had come to help out his mother  in

It's not real! But don't I wish!

the tourist season. He ran some sort of internet business, which he could maintain from Alaska via a laptop. The other guests were from Minnesota and near the Arctic Circle area of Alaska.  I tend to enjoy breakfasts with other guests. We have met some very interesting people this way.   The breakfast was delicious with bacon, sausages, pancakes, pastries, cereals, and various local jellies and jams.  I rarely have a problem starting conversations with strangers, and before long I felt like the Andersens of Minnesota and I had been friends forever. We had visited their home state a few years earlier and knew some native Minnesotans back home. Also, we had almost frozen to death, or so it seemed, on the shores of Lake Superior when camping across the country.

The Andersens, husband, wife, and teenaged daughter, were in Anchorage to meet their son. He lived in the far north and would see them the next day. As a matter of fact the other two guests were his wife and son. She was a Native American of the frozen north and her son looked a great deal like her.  He had her jet-black hair, slightly turned-up nose, and Asian-shaped eyes. But in those Asian-shaped eyes was the ice-blue color of Grandpa Andersen's.  He said his name was Clarence, and he was sitting next to me.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Ten," he said, while stabbing a piece of sausage.

"Like video games?"

"No, never play 'em."

"What's your favorite TV show?"

"I do not watch very much television. Don't have time..."

"Clarence would rather not be here," his mother interjected.

"Where would you rather be, Clarence?"  I queried.

"Home."

"Why?"

"I've got work to do!"

"What?  You're only ten-years-old!"

"I have a trap line."

"And what do you trap?"

"Whatever gets in the traps.  I look at them once a day.  My friend is checking them while I'm here. I need to check them myself."

"You trap animals? Why?"

"For their pelts," he said, "mostly fox."  I thought I detected a condescending tone in his voice.

We had all finished breakfast and it was time to pack up and leave.  I waved "goodbye" to Clarence as we pulled out of the driveway. I'll always remember my conversation with Clarence, a ten-year-old trapping animals for fur in 2005.  And, he didn't watch television or play video games.  However, if my memory serves me well, I set rabbit boxes to catch ole Peter when I was ten.

Wal-Mikes