Over Presidents’ Day Weekend, we trudged on up to the Vale of Humility to tour some colleges with our girls.

As one does with 11th graders in the house

Winter break indeed

Drive to Chapel Hill

Getting colder and colder

Rainy and windy

I95

I40

Lunch stop at Smithfield BBQ in Fuquay Varina around 12:30 just in time for the church crowd

Sunday dinnah for a lot of these folks

Overheard:

“I got us this here table”

“Jackson, go warsh your hands, Son”

“Tell your Diddy, I need some hep”

“How you coming along?”

“Good, Granddaddy’s living with us now. He’s 88 and don’t get around too good”

“Used to be a field tech at the John Deere, you know”

“Glad this Brunswick Stew is two for a dollah”

God, how I love North Carolina

Really

For years, the Sandlappers of South Carolina and the Cavaliers of Virginia have called the Old North State the Vale of Humility between the two Mountains of Conceit. Not sure which of the three is being satirized more.

Then it’s on to the Streets at Southpoint

We will stop at a Nordstrom

Screeching stop at a Nordstrom

And a Barnes & Noble

And an Anthropologie

Get out of here and on to Chapel Hill

Venerable and vaulted at The Carolina Inn

Check in

Cookies

So many cookies

Perfect room with sitting area

Go for a walk in the cold mist

Go to the Old Well

Pass the place where Silent Sam once stood

Not a shred of evidence he was ever there

As we tear down monuments, I am reminded of what David Sedaris said to the graduating class at Oberlin last May.  Really.  Oberlin. The height of political correctness:

“The goal is to have less in common with the Taliban, not more.”

Academia 2019: triggered all the time

Picking up the Daily Tar Heel

Read about more triggering

Pop into the Ackland Museum to escape the bone chilling weather

Amazing vine sculptures out front

Exhibit of Asian porcelain

So much Chinese Export that even David Sanctuary Howard himself might rise on up from the dead for a look see; love me some Lowestoft

Back to the Carolina Inn

Rest period

Supper at the Carolina Inn

Man showing plumber’s bum across the restaurant

We keep laughing

Don’t do crack

Asleep by 9 p.m.

Sleep of the just

The just exhausted

Warm bed under down duvet

Southern Part of Heaven

Breakfast at Ye Old Waffle Shoppe on Franklin Street

Same since 1972

Best coffee

With cousin Hampton

Walk through campus

Run in the Wilson Library just for old time’s sake

To Student Stores for UNC Swag

Back to Carolina Inn to deposit said Swag

Information session in the Student Union

“How many of you are little brothers or sisters being dragged along?”

At least one hand goes up in our row

Tour with guide who was a bit, well, spastic

Super nerdy but so into UNC

“So, if we beat dook or win a big game, we all rush up onto Franklin Street…it’s pretty cool…so one year..it’s called rushing Franklin…..like last year…I was running to Franklin Street and it’s called Chapel HILL for a reason…cause it’s actually a hill…. and it’s all up hill…and I was running…but I slowed way down…and this kid looked at me and said…eye of the tiger…eye of the tiger…and I started running again….and that gave me that last burst of energy…and I made it….and I love the Tar Heels”

Way into Policy…Social Justice…and…South Campus

May be on the spectrum?

“So, my friend made this cutting board in the makers’ space lab in Venables and I totally saw it on Instagram and said ‘Whoa, I would totally pay like $50.00 for that’ and she wrote me back, ‘I made this in the makers’ space in Venables’ and I came and made a box, y’all, a real box”

Speaking of which, she boxed her own ears when she was excited

Boxed

Hit the side of her head

Bless her heart

“Big interview on Wednesday….really really big”

Hope she got it

Standing near one building, I said, “The last time I saw this building, it was kind of a dump”

“What’s your connection to Chapel Hill?”

“I graduated in the Bicentennial class of 1994”

“Are you KIDDING?”

Boxed her ears

“No, ma’am”

Boxed her ears

“That’s SO cool”

Boxed her ears

Finally, she ends the tour at the Old Well

“I just want you to know, that the line to drink from Old Well [guess she has something against articles] stretches forever on first day  [no articles] of each semester because drinking from Old Well [again, she really despised articles] ensures you get A’s”

It actually doesn’t

I know

I tried most semesters

Walk to Woollen Gym to meet new best friend Brian Chacos who shows the girls athletic facilities all while riding in his Carolina Blue and White golf cart

He works for the football crowd

Tour of the new weight room and secret access to Keenan Stadium

Really amazing athletics at Chapel Hill

#beatdook

#dooksux

Thanks, Brian

Thanks, Hampton, for setting it up

Drives us in the golf cart all the way back to Franklin Street.

Ain’t y’all sumpin

To Sutton’s Drugstore for lunch

 

Pics of old favorite waitress, Jesse, on the wall

Stories of weekly lunches there at the same table

Burgers

Fries

Sweet tea

Stories of Jesse chasing shoplifter with scissors

“I’m gonna kill you!” she yelled as she ran at the perp

Walk to the Carolina Inn to get the car

On to Winston Salem

Stop off to look at Elon College

“Dad, I don’t think I want to go here.”

Really big red brick buildings with HUGE LETTERING

HUGE LETTERING IS EVERYWHERE THERE

SO BIG

LIKE THEY’RE SHOUTING

ALL THE TIME

Guess their students have bad eyesight

Turning right on N. O’Kelly Ave….should be O’Kelley…..

 

 

“We don’t need to stop,” says our Junior

“Thank you, next” quoting Ariana Grande, says our Sixth Grader

On to Winston Salem

The town that tobacco built

 They’re trying to revitalize the downtown

Hipster coffee shop on the corner

Condos in all the old tobacco buildings

Lots of ship lap

Lots of pickled wood

Lots of beards

Lots of railings made out of wires

Lots of AirPods

 

To the Cardinal Hotel, in the old Art Deco Style RJR Building that served as inspiration for the Empire State

Rec room in the basement with Ping Pong, pool table, basketball court, bowling alley

Crushed at Ping Pong by the 6th grader

Rest period in the room

Finally summon an Uber to take us to Roosters near the Krispy Kreme HQ

We love the one in Charlotte, NC

This is the one that started it all

For us Charleston folks, we’re always jaded when it comes to eating out in other towns; Roosters never disappoints

Our Uber driver was a major dook supporter

We discuss an upcoming basketball game to be played in Durham and our allegiance to the Tar Heels

“My brother played football for dook”

“I’m sorry”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll put your Tar Heel ass out on the side of the road”

“Y’all are going DOWN on Wednesday in Cameron”

“Zion’s gonna cream y’all, and I really might dump you right here”

I think he was kidding

“Well, the Heels play as a team, so we’ll see”

We won in Cameron, as you may know

And Zion blew his shoe

And is now going pro

So uber

At Rooster’s finally

Lovely waitress

Lovely meal

Back to the hotel and straight to sleep

Or attempt to sleep with the train passing by every hour

And trucks backing up in the middle of the night

Who needs sleep?

Up at 5:30 a.m.

Just like a regular school day

Walk in the cold to breakfast at Krankie’s

Chicken biscuits the size of a baby’s head

With Texas Pete and honey

And strong coffee shop coffee

With a side of hipster irony

Drive over to Wake Forest

Arrive super early and drive to Reynolda Village

Back to Wake where we drive around

Haven’t been there in 30 years since I toured

Beautiful campus

So much brick

So green

Check into the Admissions Office

“Last name is O’Kelley,” states my eldest

“First name, Margaret?” queries the Admissions Officer

“Yes, Sir.”

“You don’t have to ‘sir’ me,” comes his reply

“Oh, yes, she does,” comes mine

Into the auditorium with all manner of folks but without many Southern accents

Hour long info session with an impressive Admissions Officer

85% of the room from Up Nawth or Cali

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Before our tour Margaret remembers the man who came to Ashley Hall and goes back in to speak to him

Atta girl!

Hour long tour going all around the campus

Forgot how pretty Wake is

Where are all the Baptists?

Biggest denomination here, Roman Catholics

Such a big emphasis on foreign study

Wake owns a palazzo on the Grand Canal, a villa in Vienna, and a town house in London

I want to be Peggy Guggenheim’s neighbor for a semester

I want to walk the Ringstrasse

I want to take the Tube to class

I want to go back to college

Tour with Senior from Columbus, OH

Youngest of four who have gone to Wake Forest

Her poor parents; hope they like Alpo

Studied abroad

Impressive

Didn’t box her own ears or anything

“Where are most of your students from?”

“Twenty per cent of the students are from North Carolina.  Then New Jersey is the most represented State.”

Annoying Mom, most definitely from New Jersey, asking Annoying Questions and talking annoying loudly with her Annoying Son then announcing annoyingly grandiosely, “We have to go to catch a flight”

Ok

Go

No one cares

We won’t miss you

See all aspects of Wake

“Is this a jock school?” asks another parent

Um….it’s not Dennison…..

“No, ma’am.”

Super impressed by all Wake has to offer

Self-contained

Self-possessed

Guaranteed housing

Great library

Wanted to eat lunch in the dining hall myself

Sneak into Wait Chapel

 

Back to Admissions office with daffodils blooming in the cold

I40 to I77

Lunch at Chic Fil A in Mooresville, NC

Drive to Davidson with ice pellets falling on the car

Just a drive by at Davidson, since there had already been a tour

Another school we love

So love

Almae Matres everywhere

Or at least in Davidson and Chapel Hill

Driving home in the rain discussing endless possibilities 

 

 

 

 

 

As we wait for the Good News of Easter Sunday, I give you a memory of Easter past, present, and future.

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia.

The Holy Eucharist: Rite One I, The Word of God, Opening Sentences (To be said from Easter Day through the Day of Pentecost)  

The Book of Common Prayer (1979) 

 

My parents hosted a large friends group for Easter dinner for many years

All ages and stages of these dear friends whom we made into family

Their people are my people

We ate in the mid-afternoon after church

We had the same menu every year

Ham glazed with Dr. Peet’s pecan praline glaze – which deserves its own dissertation

More than one green vegetable of some sort

Biscuits from The Palms in Ridgeland, SC. See Palm Sunday, supra

Usually a seafood side dish because The Lowcountry

Deviled eggs

and

The Star of My Mother’s Buffet: Macaroni Pie

It’s what some refer to as macaroni and cheese

We call it macaroni pie

It’s super old fashioned to call it a pie

Back in the old days, anything baked was in a pie:

Chicken potted

Shrimp

Tomato

Oyster

Vidalia onion

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Our group would be super excited for my mother’s macaroni pie, which receipt came from Potluck from Pawleys, the old cookbook from the long-gone Cassena Inn on the north end of Pawley’s Island.

This is in the Vegetable Section of Potluck from Pawleys

Most old Southern cookbooks place macaroni pie squarely in the vegetable section

Most Southerners consider macaroni pie to be a vegetable

It should be under Meats or Eggs and Cheese or Pasta

But it isn’t

The ladies at the Cassena Inn put it in the vegetable section, so I will, too

The Cassena had amazing food

I have a super early memory of staying there with my parents and grandparents without a lick of air conditioning

My grandmother’s cousin, Ruth Turner, owned the Cassena years and years ago. Then, Mrs. Hope and Mrs. Hiott.  Then the Prioleau Family

The cookbook is by Mrs. Hope and Mrs. Hiott

This macaroni pie is their receipt

But, it’s really my mother’s at this point

It’s so good

Like SO damned good.

My mother-in-law asks me to make it for family gatherings

My mother always makes it for family gatherings

Mine is pretty good, but, really, my mother’s is much better

As a wedding present, my parents would often give the macaroni receipt to new brides along with a macaroni server in the couple’s silver pattern

We received a macaroni server when we got hitched

Stainless bowl that can’t be tarnished by the eggs in the macaroni.

Right here: Fairfax by Gorham

That was an awesome present

Years ago, my mother gave this receipt to a friend who called up after making it to ask what had been omitted as it couldn’t be the same as it wasn’t as good

It was

I recently sent it to a friend who sent back pictures of an empty casserole dish and smiling sated faces

My mother just has been making it so long that she has the touch for it these days

She’s not stingy with the receipt

She’s not stingy with the mountains of grated cheddar cheese that go into the dish

This goes really well with ham and pretty much everything

This is a double making

Just divide in half for a single

You’ll never make another version.  Promise

Serve it tomorrow with your ham or your lamb

 

Yancey O’Kelley’s Macaroni Pie

(or Potluck from Pawley’s Macaroni Pie)

 

16 oz. box macaroni noodles cooked according to package

1 lb. extra sharp cheddar cheese, grated by hand

6 eggs, beaten

3 c. milk

1 tsp. salt

Pinch of sugar

6 tablespoons melted butter

Heat oven to 350

Grease a 9×13 casserole/pyrex dish really well. With butter. Not with Pam. Butter. Not with margarine. Butter.  Not with olive oil. Butter.  Not with vegetable oil. Butter.  There’s a reason. The butter works on the edges of the pie.  (See below)

Layer half of the cooked noodles in the bottom of the dish. Spread half the grated cheese over the layer of noodles. Repeat. I probably use more than a single LB of cheese.

In a mixing bowl, beat the eggs, add the milk, salt and sugar, and, then, the melted butter which will solidify when it hits the cold egg and milk mixture, which is important.  The original receipt says 3 or 4 eggs.  More eggs makes it more custard like.

Slowly pour the milk and eggs over the cheese and noodles.  You’ll end up with butter on top of everything. That’s the magic right there.

Bake in a 350 oven for 45 minutes.  Often best to cook this on a rimmed baking sheet as it can bubble over and make a mess in the oven.  If it gets too dark on the top, cover with foil.

Let rest 5-10 minutes before serving.  It’s even better the next day, reheated in the same oven.

The crispy corners are my favorite and those one or two stray noodles on the top that can get a little char in the oven.  The crispy outside comes from the butter used to grease the dish. Butter liberally.  That’s good advice for a lot of cooking. Butter liberally.

My mother made this for Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and any time anyone requested it in our family.  She’ll be making it tomorrow.  So will I.

If you ever make this kind of macaroni, you’ll never go back to chemically mass produced boxes of mac-n-cheese, which, frankly, may be the bane of my culinary existence

 

Happy Easter to all of you

 

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia.

 

 

 

 

O who am I,
that for my sake
my Lord should take
frail flesh, and die?

Samuel Crossman, 1624-1683

All glory, laud, and honor
to thee, Redeemer, King!
to whom the lips of children
made sweet hosannas ring.

Theodulph of Orleans, 821

 

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
Hark! all the tribes hosanna cry;
thy humble beast pursues his road
with palms and scattered garments strowed

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die;
bow thy meek head to mortal pain,
then take, O God, thy power, and reign.

Henry Hart Milman, 1791-1868

 

 

 

The triumphal entry into Jerusalem

Christ commanding the disciples to bring the donkey and the colt

Many spread their cloaks on the road

Palms fronds waving in anticipation

Hosanna!

Hosanna!

Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!

Cleansing the Temple

Prayers and parables

Healing

Anointed with oil in the house of Simon the Leper

Mary, sister of Lazarus, let down her hair

The Last Supper in the Upper Room

One of you will betray me

One of you will deny me three times before the cock crows

This is my Body

This is my Blood

Do this in remembrance of me

Love one another as I have loved you

Then, it all turns

So quickly

So ugly

Agony in the Garden at Gethsemane

Let this cup pass

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak

Thirty pieces of silver

The kiss of Judas

The arrest of Jesus

Living by the sword and dying by the sword

Trial before the Sanhedrin

Suffered under Pontious Pilate

Pilate asking the crowd which man shall be freed

No stutter

No hesitation

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”

Mocked

Stripped

Scourged

Whipped

Carrying His own Cross

And then they came to Golgatha

The place of the skull

Nailed to the tree

Between the two thieves

A crown of thorns

Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews

Casting lots for His robes

Hours hanging on the hard wood

Arms outstretched for the love of the world

They pierced His side

Were you there when they crucified my Lord? (Were you there?)
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
O sometimes it causes me to tremble! tremble! tremble!
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Anon. African American Spiritual. 19th C.

 

O

sometimes

it

causes

me

to

tremble

tremble

tremble

 

 

O

sometimes

it

causes

me

to

tremble

tremble

tremble

 

Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended,
that we to judge thee have in hate pretended?
By foes derided, by thine own rejected,
O most afflicted!

Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee?
Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee!
‘Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee;
I crucified thee.

Johann Heermann, 1630, Herzliebster Jesu

 

Words from the Cross

“Look upon your Mother”

“Eli! Eli! Lama sabachthani?”

My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?

Then, Jesus cried again in a loud voice and gave up His spirit

It is finished

Ma’shelem

Tetelestai

Consummatum est

 

The earth quaked

Rocks split

Tombs opened

Darkness covered the land

The veil torn asunder

The centurion exclaimed

 

Then the burial

The descent into hell

The waiting

The sadness

The fear

 

We, too, wait for the Good News

The men fled

The women returned to care for the body

 

They, and we, will be told by the angel, “Do not be afraid!”

“Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

“He is not here!”

 

That third day will come

 

In the meantime, it causes me to

tremble

tremble

tremble

 

It’s too much

It’s just absolutely too much

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying by

from

“Sea Fever” by John Masefield

 

We LOVE the Florida Keys.

We just got back.

Third trip in four years.

When I was younger my father used to take me and my brothers all the way to Key West to fish. At one point, we ended up being closer to Cuba than to Key West.  A plane flew over, and it wasn’t one of ours.

Buzzed by a MiG in international waters as we watched hallucinogenic colored dolphins swirling around our baits remains a talking point among my father, brothers, and me.

Buzzed is a good word for the Keys.

It’s crazy down there.  In the best way.

I think every fourth person is in the federal witness protection program.

Three years ago, my intrepid bride decided we would go to the Keys for Spring Break with our faithful and now constant traveling companions, Anne Marie and Jimmy Hagood and their daughter, Catherine.

“You’ve been down there. You know what it’s like.”

“I haven’t been to the Keys since 1993.”

After a few phone calls to our pals, we decided we would hit up Islamorada with them. This Spring Breaks marks our fourth traveling with them. We’d go almost anywhere with Anne Marie, Jimmy, and their daughter Catherine.  Really.  Anywhere.

Any two families that can handle over twenty hours in a car together, well, ’nuff said.

Anne Marie and Jimmy had stayed at The Islander, a Guy Harvey Outpost, the year before and told us all about it. Count us in!

A converted late 1940’s Motor Lodge completed with louvered glass windows?

Sweet sporting art on the coverlet?

You know it.

Because we had children and gear and wanted to use The Islander’s kitchenettes to full capacity, we decided to drive in separate vehicles.

Not a miserable ride, but it’s a long haul best broken up somewhere along I95.

Three years ago, we stopped off in Jupiter, FL, and visited our pals Jen and John Smyth just down the road in Palm Beach. Jen is an Andover pal. We stick close together no matter where we are.

We woke up the next morning for an early mosey on down to Upper Matecumbe Key.

Plan you drive.

Drive your plan.

On they way, we stopped at the Key Largo Fish House upon the recommendation of a friend.

I swear that Carmela and Tony were at the next table.  Made men everywhere.

Fish Matecumbe is a game changer.

Our pals were eating lunch at Denny’s.  Denny’s Latin Cafe.  Not the one of Grand Slam breakfast fame based in SC, but the one of Cuban sandwich fame with bacon fried in peanut oil and the best homemade mojo criollo sauce south of Miami and north of Havana.

We met them there and decided we must come back there for lunch sometime.

Next stop, the Winn Dixie in Tavernier.

Basics supplies gathered.

While waiting in line, we were cutoff by two aggressive old women, one in a Lark/Rascal scooter.  Don’t mess with the elderly in the Keys as they pick up their light beer and laxatives.

Next stop was the Islander.

It has only just recently re-opened, updated for the modern crowd, after Hurricane Irma in September 2017.  We hear it’s way fancier having been injected with insurance money (N.B. Charleston, SC , 1989-1990)

We loved it.  Kitchenettes, large beach, pools, palm trees with iguanas and right across the highway from The Lorelei, beloved hangout of major drunks, tourists, locals.

In 2016, we booked tickets to the Theater of the Sea, a marine mammal park on Windley Key. Located in an old rock quarry used to build the Overseas Railroad, the old rock pits are now filled and used as lagoons for dolphin research and care and to allow the ever popular swimming with dolphins.

What’s behind those white vinyl gates?

Dolphins

Sea lions

Bottomless boat rides

A gajillion stray cats and enough Fabulosa to mask the smells but not really.

They don’t even close for Christmas.

Scooby Doo and crew solved many-a-mystery there. Those pesky, meddling kids. Or so it would seem by looking at the place.

Our girls swam with the dolphins. Goals. Dreams. Wishes fulfilled.

Our youngest came home and made an iMovie entitled “Dolphins are Boss.”

Want to know who else is boss?

Michael Trixx, the resident magician at the The Lorelei.

He’s performed for Presidents!

We love that dude, even if the word on the street is that he was cut from America’s Got Talent after a nanosecond.

The rest of the trip was sunning on the beach, swimming in the pool, trips to Bud & Mary’s for t-shirts, suppers at Morada Bay….typical Keys vacation…key lime pie from The Midway Cafe and Bakery.

Dessert at Mrs. G’s Ice Cream, which deserves its own story.

The place has got to be either a human trafficking front or a money launderer.

Straight out of Bloodline.

Don’t be a Kevin.

Our favorite supper was at Chef Michael’s where the fish jumps on your plate.  Best black bean soup ever. Hogfish Heaven.

On the second to last day there, our eldest burned herself good and hid under a large hat.

We did go back to the Lorelei on the last night.  We practically had our own table with our friendly waitress who told us the story of the tragic loss of a child when we asked about her new tattoo that seemed to be weeping.

Despite a 14 hour car ride back to Charleston, we promised ourselves we would return the following March for more fun in the sun.

Over Thanksgiving that year, the venerable old resort, the Cheeca Lodge sent out an email to a couple folks who lived in Charleston advising that they were having a 40% off special the following spring.

Our down the street neighbor, Libba Osborne, called and told MP and our pal Way Way Allen.

From there, things went viral faster than a silly cat video on the YouTube.

Half of Charleston was in the Keys for Spring Break at the Cheeca in 2017.

No.

Literally.

Half.

The same year, JetBlue had amazing deals.

Had those planes crashed, there would be no one left in Charleston to mourn.

So that we could have a suitable beach cooler, I packed myself in a Yeti Hopper to be checked through to the Fort Lauderdale airport.

High-tech-red-neck.

The same airport where a man had opened fire a week or two before our scheduled flights.

What are the chances of lightning striking twice?

Should we drive instead?

Hell no! Then the bastards win. Up yours Bin Laden.

So, we boarded the Fort Lauderdale flight at 6 a.m. with half the town.

Quick flight and then a rented MiniVan.

Down 95 and US1 straight to Denny’s Cuban and the likka store next door.

Again, the best Cubano with mojo criollo for all the adults

The children all had pancakes.

Another drive down US1 past our old pal the Islander into the lush privacy of The Cheeca Lodge with a security gate, a par 3, 9-hole golf course, and, like many venerable older hotels, pictures of the famous on its walls.

And, yet again, half of Charleston.

That year, no Theater of the Sea.

Just The Lorelei, Bud n Mary’s, Morada Bay, Midway Cafe, Chef Michael’s.

Chef Michael’s that year had a large Charleston contingent at one table, of which we were a part. What originally was a table of 8 became a table of 14.

The poor couple who sat near us kept looking over and staring at us all agog at our loudness, familiarity, congeniality. They were just jealous.

Charleston folks have a bad reputation for being aloof, snobbish, and insular.

That’s just crazy talk.

They just don’t make new friends easily, don’t really like outsiders, have no need for others, and travel in packs.

I’m from off, remember?

That night at Chef Michael’s remains as one of the best fish meals I have ever had, even if we did just go back a week or two ago.

That was the year that, being concerned about re-heating any leftovers, one of our intrepid Charleston travelers called The Cheeca Lodge and asked, “Hey…y’all got microwaves?”

Another year of parasailing, snorkeling with a jelly fish sting, going to the secret hot tub in the back of the resort, charging things to the room because, hell, it don’t cost nothing.

That was also the year where a group of us were at The Lorelei when the rains started and that same intrepid traveler called over to The Cheeca and asked, “Is this is the shuttle department? Can you pick us up at the Lorelei? It’s starting to rain!”

The shuttle arrived moments later to whisk us back to our rooms.

The next day, we all spent way too much time in Fort Lauderdale wandering around waiting for our return flight. Nothing like watching the NCAA b-ball tourney in an airport bar.

Go Tar Heels.

Last year, we went to L.A. with the Hagoods, but, that, my dear readers, is a tale for another day.

This year we jumped on The Cheeca Lodge’s deals once again.

This year, seventy five other Charleston folks jumped on the same deal.

Seventy-five!

A pal who works in the Keys said that folks from The Carolinas with quasi-disposal income are their bread and butter. Quasi-disposal. Classic.

So, with our quasi-disposable, we decided to rent a large SUV this year, loaded up and headed South.

Seven for the road.

Let’s do it.

“What’s the smell in here?”

“Are those old Cheetos under the seat?”

“This car smells bad.”

“If we ain’t got it; we can buy it.”

“How many of them Johnnie O shirts do you people own?”

Some of our friends flew down, some flew down private, some drove.

We laughed the whole way down and the whole way back, even with an occasional squabble.

Better manners with another family in the car.

I highly recommend the fried shrimp basket at B&J Steaks & Seafood in Darien, Georgia. They DO NOT accept check or debit from poor Jason Battle.

They DO have a buffet for $9.00 per person including salad bar and dessert.

You know the salad bar.

It has pepperoni, green olives, and bacon bits the color of convenience store pickled eggs.

From there we made it to St. Augustine.

I didn’t lose anything in the oldest European founded city on the North American continent.

As I told a friend, St. Augustine is like Myrtle Beach, if Myrtle Beach and New Orleans had a bastard child.

We had a lovely meal at The Floridian, but we were glad to be on the road in time to hit up Denny’s Latin for another Cuban sammich, mojo, and pancakes.

We were glad nothing changed there from the hurricanes. Same silk flowers on the table.

We pulled into the same lushness of The Cheeca with a renovations in full view.

Old place looked the same.

One thing that did change was the service at The Cheeca. It needs a little work.

Guess it’s too much to ask for full recovery in a year and a half.

Construction noise is a real thing.

So is a lack of water use on some days.

So is a fire alarm.

So is a malfunctioning elevator.

So is a surly bar staff.

But, it was great. Really. It was great. Again.

I’d go back tomorrow.

This year, we rented a boat, too.

Us, the Hagoods, our pals the Givens.

We met up with our friends the Braggs who pulled their own vessel down from S.C.

Oscar, the proprietor of A1A Boat Rentals, expressed great concern for us taking out the boat due to the wind blowing around 20 knots.

Guess Oscar has never crossed the Charleston Harbor on a good day.

We took out the boat and had a great time drifting around the Atlantic waters of Upper Matecumbe Key. It was too cold to go to the Islamorada sandbar, but not too cold to raft up with the Braggs, drink cold beer, eat fried chicken, and act the same way we do at home, just with much clearer water.

I win spring break.

I have my chairs staked by 7:30 a.m. and have my ubiquitous Yeti Hopper loaded and ready to go by 8:30 a.m.

There’s a section of the beach at The Cheeca that should be renamed Charleston South. It’s the section by the bent palm tree, supra, providing the social media backdrop for everyone, including me.

One of our pals speared a snapper and had the chef fry it up and bring it on out for everyone mid-afternoon one day.

I generally remained anchored in one spot with friends of all sorts drifting in and out after parasailing, fishing, snorkeling, shopping at the Publix nearby.

Unfortunately, The Lorelei proved a bust for me this year due to my getting a mess of sunscreen behind my contacts and not being able to see. No Michael Trixx.

That’s o.k. My Publix sub provided enough sustenance along with the liquid bread from the Miller brewing co.

Good meals at Morada Bay and Chef Michael’s again.

However, the revelation this trip was our grace and favor meal provided by the Islamorada Fishing Club. It seems that the yacht club to which I belong and a great number of the Charleston crew belongs has no reciprocity with anyone.

However, one of our number finagled our way into the private club for a meal due to his smooooooooooooooooooooooooooth talking.

The Hagoods, the O’Kelleys, Alice and Ron Givens and their girls, Austin and Walker…off we went to club.

As we waited for the shuttle department, a group of angry Midwesterners glared at us because the 12 year old and 13 year old in our party secured us the shuttle first.

Membership has its privileges. On that note, I highly suggest talking your way into someone else’s private club for a meal. It’s not tacky at all.  Not at all.  Charge it to the Underhills, of course.

Great spicy conch chowder with a touch of sherry.

Wonderful fish that night.

I also highly suggest going to Chef Michael’s before 8 p.m. as they do run out of fish.

“I’m sorry, we are out of triple tail due to the high number of orders at your table.”

“Well, what do you recommend as a substitute?”

“[Fill in name of fish]”

“What’s kind of fish is that?”

“Oh, a light flaky white fish”

Aren’t they all?

I had consumed a number of beers, a martini at the bar, and a glass of rose. Much to his credit, our waiter at Chef Michael’s asked if I would be driving.

“Nah, he just has to walk his drunk behind back to The Cheeca.”

“Oh, well, then, he can have as much wine as he wants.”

This year, no one really sunburned herself.

This year, no one really appeared drunk.

This year, no one got on my last nerve, which could have happened by virtue of the sheer numbers of Fellow Travelers.

This year, the trip to the Keys mirrored a trip to Vegas: what happens in the Keys stays in the Keys.

I omit much to protect the names of the not-so-innocent.

Roasting the guilty over and over again under the tropical sun.

Remember to re-apply sunscreen and disdain every 30 minutes.

The ride home was a 12 hour day after another breakfast at The Midway Cafe.

Stop and go traffic on the Florida Turnpike in Miami made a few of us a little car sick. No emergency but definitely needed a break or two from the misery of

stop

n

go

n stop n go n

stop n

go n stop

n

go n

stop n go.

Some of our crew who left earlier sent us a text advising to get on Waze as I95 turned into a parking lot somewhere around Daytona Beach.

One of us drivers said we did not trust Waze as it was definitely invented by Millennial Tricksters.

Thanks be to God for those little nattering navigator nabobs.

They got us through a closed part of I95 and through 5 p.m. traffic in Jacksonville.

We tried to go to the Chic Fil A in Kingsland, Georgia, but, the lady in the drive thru said they had a long line.

“We just got hit by a bus.”

Welcome to South Jawja.

Stopping at another Chic Fil A in South Jawja let us know we were truly back in the South.

“Hey, y’all, take your order?”

Yes, we’d like to go back to The Keys right now and get the hell out of this country ass place.

But, we didn’t let them know that.

Instead, we’ll call the Shuttle Department.

If you ever ate there, then you know how blessed you were.

If you ever ate there, then you know that Lowcountry cooking tops all others.

If you ever ate there, then you know that there were no other biscuits in the world that good.

I’m talking about The Palms in Ridgeland, South Carolina.

The restaurant affixed to The Palms Motel on the main drag, Jacob Smart Boulevard.

Thirty minutes from Beaufort, South Carolina.

We went there after church on Sundays.

All manner of Lowcountry folks from Beaufort, Bluffton, Hilton Head, Savannah, Hampton, Ridgeland, Estill, Yemassee, would converge on The Palms on Sundays for the most amazing buffet meals ever.

Situated in the restaurant area of the motel.

Outside there was a goldfish pond complete with lily pads and a small fountain.

To get to the restaurant, patrons walked through the office where Mrs. Patel held court nodding at diners as she chewed her fennel seeds and listened to soft Bollywood music.

The entrance to the dining room was by the end of the buffet.

The dining room glowed with incandescent bulbs dangling from faux bronze chandeliers in the shape of palm fronds.

“How many?” came the question upon walking into the room, followed by a quick, “Well, hey, how y’all been doin’?” from the waitress taking us to our table.

I adored those palm frond chandeliers.  I repeatedly told my parents that I would be stealing one if the restaurant ever closed.

We would go for Mothers’ Day, Fathers’ Day, or other big events.

My grandparents met us there a couple of times.

Our Savannah kinfolk met us there, too.

We loved the place, nicotine stained walls and all.

What was not to love about the white table clothed establishment in the middle of the county seat of Jasper County that served amazing Lowcountry cooking?

Was it fancy? No

Were we there for the ambiance? No

Would it have been #ThePalms? No

Would it have been highly Instragrammable? No

Was it perfectly cooked food in a homey, and somewhat so, homely atmosphere.  May be.

To this day, when I think of a perfect Sunday dinner, I think of the meals at The Palms after church.

The menu never changed.

The same waitresses for years and years.

“May I get you anything?” they would ask as they refilled tea glasses.

“More biscuits, please,” always came the reply from our table and every other table.

My youngest brother would smuggle in his own bottle of A-1 Sauce to douse his meats and, yes, his green beans.

Don’t judge.

What was so great about The Palms?

Everything.

In one corner of dining room was the cooled salad server that provided

Iceberg lettuce with small pieces of radish and cukes, and may be a couple of grated carrots and tomatoes and the rare sliver of purple cabbage;

Waldorf salad;

May be a few pickled beets from time to time;

Fruit salad;

French dressing, blue cheese, ranch.

Balsamic vinegar?

Never heard of it

Up at the front of the room, the main buffet consisted of

Fried chicken;

Roast Beef;

Turkey;

Ham;

Rice;

Shrimp and okra gumbo;

Cornbread dressing;

Giblet gravy with sliced eggs;

Cranberry sauce;

Macaroni pie;

Green beans;

Butter beans;

Stewed yellow squash with onions or squash casserole;

Broccoli casserole or asparagus casserole;

Sweet potato souffle in orange cups with toasted coconut.

In the center of the room on a round table underneath the largest of the palm frond chandeliers were the desserts of

Coconut cream pie with tons of meringue piled high;

Lemon meringue pie with tons of meringue piled high;

Cookies and cream pie from out of the freezer;

Pecan pie with a bop of whipped cream;

Sweet potato pie with a bop of whipped cream.

Each waitress brought her tables basket after basket of the world’s most amazing angel biscuits along with individual gold foil wrapped pats of butter.  The warm biscuit softened the butter pats to perfect spreading consistency.

Some of the older patrons were known to put the butter pats in their pockets to take home.

Channeling Strom Thurmond, all diners wrapped up extra biscuits in paper napkins to take home.

Those biscuits.

The perfect combination of flour, fat, buttermilk, leavening and just a touch of sugar.

Angel biscuits with yeast.

To paraphrase from “Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones,” these were More-glorious-than-the-Seraphim and O-higher-than-the-Cherubim biscuits.

Dominions, Princedoms, Powers, Virtues, Archangels, Angels’ choirs, would have all cried out for them.

Ye Patriarchs and Prophets blessed never knew such joy on a bread plate.

They were so amazing that my mother would order pie plates of the uncooked biscuits and deliver them to friends for Christmas.

We would make runs to Ridgeland to fill up a cooler or two close to the big day and deliver to our friends in Beaufort.

“These are NOT biscuits from The Palms?” recipients would facetiously ask.

They knew exactly what they were.

“Oh my Lawd! Y’all should not have,” was another popular retort upon receipt of the pie plate with uncooked biscuit dough.

In addition to the perfection of those flaky morsels, the main meal astounded.

Each Sunday, the fried chicken skin shattered on the first bite.

The beef melted around its cooked carrots and onions.

The gumbo teemed with fresh local shrimp and the perfect amount of okra, spicy but not too hot.

Cornbread dressing that I try to replicate every Thanksgiving served as another gravy delivery system.

Dadgum that gravy!

Perfect gravy with giblets and eggs and just enough salt.

Biscuits providing just that little sumpin to sop up the remnants on the edge of the plate.

Steamed rice with each grain separated awaiting to be covered in either gravy or gumbo.

The dark corners of the macaroni pie with a couple of noodles just a wee bit singed on top to become the tiniest bit crunchy.

Vegetables with pot likker and the piece of side meat to push out of the way with the slotted serving spoon.

The squash, broccoli, asparagus en casserole.  Straight out of the 1950s.  But, so damned good.

The sweet potato souffle in orange cups with the fresh orange juice, a first dessert during the main part of meal, remains my favorite thing about that menu.

No marshmallows here just old school toasted coconut.

All of the hot food heated with the soft glow and addictive smell of Sterno cups.

And to drink:

Water

Iced tea, either sweet or unsweet

Coffee

Soft drinks

The cooks had been there under several owners.

No surprise who the cooks were.

I wish I knew their names.

I wish I had gone back into the kitchen to watch their alchemy.

Who were these culinary Circe’s?

African American ladies who had cooked in the kitchen forever, under the supervision of a succession of owners.

Eventually, a small lady from Thailand ended up making all of the biscuits after taking over from the original biscuit baker.  The original baker’s lungs could no longer endure flour dust.  Baker’s lung is a thing.

Any time we went, immediately upon arrival, I ran for a slice of coconut cream pie on the dessert table as they were always the first to go.

Always.

Can you tell I love coconut?

Regulars had their usual tables for years.

Miss Essie and General Edwin Pollock sat on the left by the window overlooking the goldfish pond.  Miss Essie enveloped us in hugs with her turkey waddle arms flapping generously around our small frames.

“Boys, go speak to Miss Essie and The General,” our mother would say.

“Oh, Jawge, the boys are gettin’ so big!” Miss Essie would exclaim. “Yancey, I know you’re so proud of these young men.”

The Harpers from Estill, and whatever part of their family could join them, were always in the front room.

The Sauls from Ridgeland had that table across from the Harpers.

Always a smattering of Tutens, Clelands, Malphruses, and Lowthers. Jasper County woods are full of them.

We almost always sat near the Harpers’ table.

“Well, hey, how are y’all?” Mr. Harper would nod over to us.

A local lady named Esther Cooler took over the restaurant after a number of years.  She seemed to be always smoking herself a 100 length cigarette.

I would not have wanted to cross Miz Cooler. No, Sir. Never.

One time I made the mistake of asking her for two meets on a weekday. During the week, The Palms proprietors allowed only one choice of meat, which they put on the waiting china.

Miz Cooler just glared at me and said, “Well, Son, I’d have to charge you double for that.”

My mother once asked Miz Cooler about her favorite thing on her buffet.

“Oh, I get sick to death of this food,” she said, “I just like to get me a cheeseburger from Wendy’s.”

Not us.

For the life of me, I cannot remember the name of the man who ran the place before Miz Cooler.

One time my father was at The Palms during the week, and he heard that gentleman toss his head back into the kitchen and inquire loudly, “Ruby! Ruby!……..hey, yea, Ruby!…….is them po’k chops ready yet?”

You know those po’k chops were fried, of course, and only available during the week.

Is them ready yet?

We weren’t there for the grammar, either.

It was mostly on Sundays that we adored The Palms.

Some Sundays we would eat so much that we would have to stop for sodium bicarb at a gas station on the way home.

One time, our friend Hayes Williams laid himself out in the back of his parents’ car moaning in sybaritic satiation.

“Son, you o.k.?” asked his father

“No, Sir. I’m gonna die,” replied our pal.

“No, Son,” said his father. “You just ate too much. Guess we need some baking soda.”

Sometimes The Palms laid us all out flat.

I hate to report that The Palms restaurant closed almost two decades ago.  My children never had the opportunity to eat there.

Like all good things, it came to an end after Miz Cooler retired and the cooks ended up dying out without anyone to take over that old time cooking.

Those of us of a certain age remember well those Sunday dinners.

My pal Robyn Josselson Shirley bemoans the loss of those biscuits.

It has been ages since my family delivered them for Christmas presents; former recipients still complain.

Wish there were a few more to smuggle out in my napkin.

Mark my words: I’m still going to steal one of those chandeliers.

 

 

Martha Shannon, who worked for my great-grandparents, made the best according to my mother, my aunts, my cousin Manny Edmunds Salters.

Sharon Schwartz in Beaufort gave us the basis of what I think is the best as amalgamated by me right here.

Palmetto Cheese brand’s commercial variety works.  It’s from Pawley’s Island, so it’s got that going for it.

Ruth’s store brand contains too much mayonnaise and too much corn syrup and imitation cheese. It’s actually cheese product they use.  Not good.  Not at all.

Of course, I’m talking about the most beloved of spreads, Pimento Cheese.

Capitalized for effect.

All versions of Pimento Cheese amalgamate from other versions.

Hate to reveal what’s been revealed by many, but this ubiquitous Southern staple came from Up Nawth back in the 19th Century.

To quote Kurtz, “The horror. The horror.”

Since at least the mid-20th Century, Pimento Cheese has been as Southern as sweet tea, buttermilk biscuits, fried chicken, rice n gravy, barbecue, shrimp and hominy,  Hoppin’ John, tomato pie, chicken and dumplings, and, gulp, that abomination called banana pudding.

Robert Moss gives the full story right here:

https://www.seriouseats.com/2014/09/history-southern-food-pimento-cheese.html

I have taken various versions of the receipt and made the following my go-to for what Mr. Moss describes as the pâté  of the South.

I would contend that pâté is the pâté of the South, but, that’s just me living in the Lowcountry where there’s always been a strong French influence.

Anyway, here’s my version of Pimento Cheese.

I try to keep it on hand in the fridge as it’s an easy appetizer to pull out whenever there’s a pop-in from a neighbor who’s had a long day, a family member who just came by to drop something off, or a friend who invites themselves over for a spell.

Pour them a drink and put out some pimento cheese.

No one ever turns this down.

Like NO ONE.

EVER.

You’ll make their day.

I have served this to families, friends, and neighbors, and, to those who are alone.

I have taken this to the mountains, to the beach, to tailgates, to cocktail parties, to brunches, to suppers.

I have made obligatory tea sandwiches for events using this spread once it comes to room temperature.

Ever notice that we Southerners are death on bringing it to room temperature?

Usually that doesn’t take very long in our heat, even withe the a.c. cranking.

I have served this on Triscuits, Wheat Thins, Stoned Wheat crackers.

I have put this with celery sticks, much to everyone’s chagrin.

I have mixed this into grits and people think they have died off and gone straight to cheese grits heaven.

Make it your own.

There’s no right or wrong pimento cheese, except for Ruth’s store brand, supra.  It’s kind of wrong.  Kind of.

Enjoy, Kids.

With all my thanks to the late Martha Shannon and to Beaufort’s own Sharon Schwartz.

Pimento Cheese

1 7 oz. jar sliced pimientos – why we dropped that 2nd “i”, I’ll never know – drained and chopped fine

12-15 pimento stuffed green olives, drained and chopped fine

1 8 oz block cream cheese brought to room temperature – see – brought to room temp yet again

1 tbsp. yellow mustard – store brand is fine

2 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

1 tsp. garlic salt – yes – garlic salt – it rehydrates as it sits in the mixture and cuts back on the sodium content of which there is plenty with the other ingredients

1/2 tsp. fresh black pepper

1 tbsp. sherry (optional – but not really)

Dashes of Tabasco sauce to taste (optional – but not really)

1 jalapeno pepper seeded and chopped fine (optional – but not really)

2 lbs extra sharp cheddar cheese grated by hand – you’ll need all 2 lbs and may be more

Mayonnaise – preferably Duke’s – but that is a debate for another day

In a mixing bowl place the softened, room temperature cream cheese.  Add the chopped pimiento, olives, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, garlic salt, black pepper, sherry, Tabasco, and jalapeno pepper.  With a fork, mix by hand until all the lumps of the cream cheese are gone and the mixture is smooth and kind of runny and messy.  You’ll see what I mean the first time you make this.

By handfuls, add the cheddar cheese and mix by hand with the fork after each addition.  It eventually becomes kind of a workout for your mixing arm.

After all the cheese is added, assess if you want more cheese if you think the mixture is too runny.

Then, add mayonnaise until it becomes a consistency you like.  I usually add no more than two or three tbsps. of Mrs. Eugenia Dukes’ culinary excellence to the mix.

Store in an airtight container in the fridge; it kind of keeps indefinitely, which is awesome.

To serve, bring to, you got it, room temperature.

Serve with crackers, on hamburgers, with vegetables, on hot steaks out of a screaming hot cast iron skillet.

It makes a fine lunch served on lite bread.

There are a gajillion variations of this B T Dubs.  A gajillion.

Make it your own.  You won’t offend anyone by changing it up to suit your tastes.

Notes:

Don’t over mayonnaise the cheese.  You can always add.  You can’t take away.

If you don’t like spicy food, don’t use the Tabasco and don’t use the jalapeno.

If you’re like my pal Adam Barr and despise sherry, don’t use sherry.

If you want to have watery eyes, grate a little onion until it turns to liquid and add that to the mix

In the name of all that is good in this world, and, most importantly, whatever you do, don’t eat Ruth’s.  Yellow 5 and Yellow 6 have no bidness being in pimento cheese.  Neither does sodium benzoate, whatever that may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Isn’t there more than turning off the alarm?

Isn’t there more than brushing my teeth?

Isn’t there more than emptying the dishwasher?

Isn’t there more than checking the phone?

Isn’t there more than letting the dog out?

Isn’t there more than letting the dog in?

Isn’t there more than making the coffee?

Isn’t there more than getting the paper?

Isn’t there more than making the bed?

Isn’t there more than hopping in the shower?

Isn’t there more than filling the water bottles?

Isn’t there more than making their breakfasts?

Isn’t there more than locking the house?

Isn’t there more than dropping them off at school?

Isn’t there more than driving to work?

Isn’t there more than the radio station?

Isn’t there more than returning the call?

Isn’t there more than writing the brief?

Isn’t there more than drafting the report?

Isn’t there more than sending the letter?

Isn’t there more than taking the deposition?

Isn’t there more than filing the motion?

Isn’t there more than reading that decision?

Isn’t there more than checking the roster?

Isn’t there more than answering the emails?

Isn’t there more than setting up the conference call?

Isn’t there more than going to the courthouse?

Isn’t there more than typing all day?

Isn’t there more than paying the bills?

Isn’t there more than wondering how to pay the bills?

Isn’t there more than checking the mail?

Isn’t there more than dropping off the dry cleaning?

Isn’t there more than going to the store?

Isn’t there more than going to the doctor?

Isn’t there more than putting out the recycling?

Isn’t there more than doing the laundry?

Isn’t there more than picking up the carpool?

Isn’t there more than driving home?

Isn’t there more than washing the lunch boxes?

Isn’t there more than going to exercise?

Isn’t there more than arranging the babysitter?

Isn’t there more than meeting friends for a drink?

Isn’t there more than watching the news?

Isn’t there more than yelling at the news?

Isn’t there more than hearing the weather report?

Isn’t there more than Final Jeopardy?

Isn’t there more than running the errands?

Isn’t there more than clipping the coupons?

Isn’t there more than this one Saturday?

Isn’t there more than going to church?

Isn’t there more than lunch at the club?

Isn’t there more than going to the game?

Isn’t there more than our daily bread?

Isn’t there more than putting supper on the table?

Isn’t there more than turning on the lights?

Isn’t there more than helping with the homework?

Isn’t there more than loading the dishwasher?

Isn’t there more than cleaning the kitchen?

Isn’t there more than the three-day weekend?

Isn’t there more than driving down the Interstate?

Isn’t there more than mowing the lawn?

Isn’t there more than watering the plants?

Isn’t there more than spreading the pinestraw?

Isn’t there more than walking the dog?

Isn’t there more than texting a friend?

Isn’t there more than speaking to the neighbor?

Isn’t there more than sending them upstairs?

Isn’t there more than watching t.v.?

Isn’t there more than reading to them?

Isn’t there more than tucking them in?

Isn’t there more than the kiss goodnight?

Isn’t there more than twenty minutes to ourselves?

Isn’t there more than turning down the bed?

Isn’t there more than cutting off the lights?

Isn’t there more than brushing teeth?

Isn’t there more than reading the book?

Isn’t there more than turning on the alarm?

Isn’t there more than the other kiss goodnight?

Isn’t there more than watching the fan?

Isn’t there more than getting in their bed after the 3 a.m. nightmare?

Isn’t there more than these fitful naps?

Isn’t there more than turning off the alarm?

Isn’t there more?

Isn’t there?

No.

No there’s not.

Not at all.

Nothing more.

Nothing.

Thanks be to God.

 

One day tells its tale to another and one night imparts knowledge to another. Although they have no words or language, and their voices are not heard. Psalm 19:2-3

 

After twenty years and prayerful contemplation, we have switched churches.

Not the first time I have changed churches.

A door closing; a door opening.

It happens all the time.

Signs from God pointing the way.

As with any breakup, it can be painful.

Being told one is guilty of consumerism by one’s former Rector cements the decision to leave.

Really?

Really

Jesus wept.

So, now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.                  1 Corinthians 13:13

Lots of love from one church, its staff, its communicants.

Not much love from the other where we have been for two decades.

As one of my good friends says, “Oh, well, den.”

Christians are to be known by our love.

One day I want to be a Christian.

Feeling a lot of love at the new church.

Welcomed with open arms.

As the song says, “They shall know we are Christians by our love, by our love, yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.”

This being the South, most of my friends still go to church.

I don’t remember ever NOT going to church.

Growing up, we always went to church.

At Andover, I would attend the Protestant services with the Reverend Thayer Zader in the chapel. There weren’t many of us, but, wherever two or three are gathered, there He will be also.

In Chapel Hill, I went to church regularly at the Chapel of the Cross on Franklin Street.

When I lived in Kenya, I attended All Saints Cathedral in Nairobi.

In Law School, I joined Trinity Cathedral in Columbia.

When we married, we made picking a church home a priority.

Now we are in a new home after two decades of worship at the old one.

We were married at First (Scots) Presbyterian Church, my wife’s childhood church. During our counseling, Dr. Massie, then Senior Pastor there, told us that the only thing that mattered about where were went to church was that it was a place where we felt comfortable and where we could give comfort.

Well said, Dr. Massie.  Well said.

All the great events of my life have been in the shadow of the Cross: Baptisms, Confirmations, Weddings, Funerals.

I am related to Priests, Pastors, Bishops.

Part of my Virginia antecedents fled France to worship as they saw fit. Huguenots of Manakin, VA.

In honoring their legacy, we attend church.

In keeping the commandments of Jesus, we attend church.

My mother’s mother used to say that she drew strength from Communion.  The bread and wine fed her. The Body and The Blood.

Rock of Ages, cleft for me.

I, too, draw such strength.

It’s in my blood that I should be washed in His blood.

The O’Kelley family motto is “Turris fortis mihi Deus.”  A mighty fortress is my God.

One of my favorite hymns is Martin Luther’s own “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.”

Coincidence?  There are no coincidences in God.

That hymn will be the processional hymn at my funeral.

If any of you reading this attend, please know that I have planned this funeral to not be about me, but, instead, to be an Easter service.  All joy. All resurrection. All the beautiful language of the Bible, the Prayer Book.

I planned my funeral after attending the funeral of my across the street neighbor, Dr. Charles Aimar, back in 2012.  Sat down and planned the whole thing.

I know the hymns

I know the lessons.

I know the Psalm, the 23rd, will be sung as “The King of Love My Shepherd Is.”

The Lord is my Shepherd.  I shall not want.

There will be homily, not a sermon.

Short

Sweet

Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so.

There will be Communion.

There will be hymns during Communion.

Those who attend will recess to “Onward! Christian Soldiers!”  The Church Militant singing me on to The Church Triumphant.

The most traditional-Rite-One-old-time-religion-all-hymns-out-of-the-hymnal-funeral-you-ever-did-see-where-you-leave-feeling-good-about-yourself-and-not-crying-for-the-deceased

But, now at a different church.

As a priest recently told me, sticking with the old liturgy and the old hymns equals cutting edge worship these days.

We made the right decision.

Time to get back to the work of the people.

The work of the Lord.

I go to church because He hung on a cross for me.

I go to church to thank Him.

I to go church to sing. To sing badly, but to sing.

Christ for the world we sing. 

The world to Christ we bring 

With loving zeal.

The poor, and them that mourn

The faint and overborn, 

Sin sick and sorrow worn,

Whom Christ doth heal.

I am sorrow worn having left our old church family.

I know I take this stuff way more seriously than most of my friends, too.

I love that a lot of my friends openly discuss these issues and their faith.

That being said, I have several friends who have already stated that I will be directing all aspects of their funerals.

You want “How Great Thou Art.”  Done

You want “Blessed Assurance.” Done

You want “Amazing Grace” on bagpipes. Done

You want “Abide with Me” by a soloist. Done

You want “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God.” Done

When the late President George H.W. Bush died, the nation seemed to be in shock at the dignity of his funeral.

Felt completely familiar to me.

The President’s funeral felt like every funeral I have ever attended in Beaufort, Charleston, Columbia, Greenville, Savannah, Ridgeway, Blythewood, Bishopville, Camden.

Perfect hymns and readings

Unlike the late President, there will be no eulogizing of me.  None.

It ain’t about me.

It’s about Him.

I  go to church to gain strength.

I go to church to profess the faith as approved by the Council of Nicaea in 325 A.D.

Holy Holy Holy, blessed Trinity.

We Mainline Protestants forget to profess our faith from time to time.

It’s considered tacky to do so.

Don’t know why that is.

Guess if St. Peter could deny Jesus three times and have the church built upon him as the original rock, then it’s o.k. if we’re less than forthcoming about our faith.

We should be more comfortable with it.

My Aunt Em once told me this:

We should have Lutheran forgiveness, Episcopal liturgy, Presbyterian conviction, Methodist singing, and Southern Baptist food.

That would work for me, but, according to some, that would be consumerism.

 

 

Eons ago, the Lowcountry exported bounties of daffodils in the late winter and early spring.

Hands buried bulbs in Beaufort, Bluffton.

Acres and acres of golden goodness.

Workers picked the yellow flowers in bud by the bushel. The farmers then shipped them Up North and all over the nation.

We used to have a lot of truck farms.

Now, we have a lot of tourists.

In her 1991 book, Ebb Tide-Flood Tide Beaufort County…Jewel of the Low Country, Beaufort photographer Lynn McLaren captured Mary Owens and Rosa Green picking daffodils for sale and a little girl named Miranda bringing in her own crop. Each worker handpicked each stalk and flower. I have no idea what they were paid, but I am sure it was backbreaking work.

From Ebb-Tide Flood Tide, Beaufort County…Jewel of the Lowcountry, Lynn McLaren (University of South Carolina Press, 1991), p. 81

Ms. McLaren captured the waning days of large scale, for-profit daffodil farming in Beaufort County.

The Pinckney family in Bluffton owned one such daffodil farm. For years, their descendants, the Merricks, allowed folks to come pick, for a fee, after their harvest.

The family of John Trask, Sr., owned another such daffodil farm on Kane Island, just over the bridge from downtown Beaufort.

The Trasks invited schoolchildren to Kane Island to pick daffodils after the harvest. Blythewood Kindergarten and Beaufort Academy took literal field trips out to Kane to pick.

We have the pictures to prove it.

It was not unusual for Caroline Trask to call my parents’ house around my birthday and let us know we could go pick. We would load up buckets and boots and run out to Kane to pick.

The smell of clean yellow freshness reminds me of my birthday every year.

When my children were little, the Trask family had a daffodil day or two where they had a band, picking parties, refreshments. Glorious late winter days.  Cool but not cold. Waving stalks capped with yellow which, to quote Wordsworth, were “[f]luttering and dancing in the breeze.”

We have a painting of my girls in the daffodil fields when they were much younger from one those very days.

Here ’tis:

 

Those days of simple living and floral beauty contrast to one other day from twenty six years ago today.

Damn.

Getting old.

That day 180 degrees from those bucolic idylls.

Daffodilled drunken drugged debauchery.

The Daze in the Daffodils.

February 13, 1993, just a few days shy of my twenty-first birthday.

A bunch of friends from home decided we would all come for the party. We were all in college then.

In my contemporaneously scribbled journal, I noted ambivalence.

Going to that thing at the daffodil farm in a few weeks. Either way lame or way cool. Will see. Everyone coming home for it.

Way cool.

Waaaay.

Waaaaaaay too cool.

Organized by one of the Trask grandchildren and a friend, well, let’s just say it was our own little version of Woodstock.

But without the acid, or may be with the acid.

But without the pot, or may be with the pot.

There was a 1-800 number.

That’s how we knew it was a big deal.

Allgood, out of Athens, Georgia, headlined.

F/k/a Allgood Music Company.

Songs I remember of theirs were “Funky House”, “It’s All Right”, “Ride the Bee”, which was the name of their album. Our friends who went to Georgia knew them as a regular house band at parties. They, too, were coming home for the day of Daze.

Allgood played at Cat’s Cradle in Chapel Hill, the Music Farm in Charleston, and other great small venues where we experienced new music.

Southern bluesy rock with a penchant for touring and channeling the Allman Brothers.

Where are they now?

According to Mr. Gore’s Internet, they are still on tour.

Beek Webb’s bluegrass band opened for them. Who? Local band with fiddles? Get me some Allgood.

Admission $10.00.

If you remember it, you might not have been there.

College students descended upon Beaufort from all over the Southeast.

The Lady’s Island Food Lion ran out of beer.

I still have my t-shirt.

Poor Wordsworth.

He never thought his Lake District poem would inspire such a trippy, stoned, muddy, drunken mess.

It had rained and the daffodil fields were a bit wet.

Sheriff’s Deputies directed traffic over the thin causeways, the only way onto and off of Kane Island.  It’s amazing they did not arrest every last twenty-something there for public intoxication.

Local parent types arrived all decked out to drink their wine and listen to the music.  They did not stay long.  Most of them didn’t see what was coming. Most of them high tailed it back into town as the clouds of patchouli inflected smoke wafted over our heads.

For us Beaufort wastrels who showed up there that day from our various schools and colleges, we walked the fine line of speaking to our parents and their friends and partying with friends from college and friends of friends from other schools.

Half of the College of Charleston came down to Beaufort that day.

Half of them camped out at the Hunting Island State Park.  My pal Hayes Williams and I almost drove out to Hunting Island that night.  Praise the Lord that we did not. I would not be alive had we gotten behind the wheel on Highway 21.

Some of my current friends told me the story of being stranded on Hunting Island.

No cell phones.

Calls made at the park rangers’ station to no avail.

Turn around.

We have to go back, y’all.

All of the people on Kane Island that banner day between the ages of 20 and 26 were beyond messed up. Knee walking. Blind. D-r-u-n-k drunk. Wasted. Stoned. High as kites. Shi’fahss’d. Thick tongued. Seeing double. Seeing triple. Effed up nine ways to Sunday.

How’d they all get off of Kane Island?

They drove.

We all drove.

No one should have been driving.

We all did back then.

Terrible.

We’d seen our parents do it.

Lots of times.

We’d be fine, too.

How there were no wrecks, arrests, deaths, beyond comprehension.

Our youthful zeal made us indelible.  That and all the beer and cigarettes.

We did hear of one person turning over in a ditch. We did hear of another going off the causeway at that one bad turn leading up to Kane Island, but, that was not uncommon with our parents after a big night.

NBD

Hell, we had all pulled a couple cars out of the marsh on that one tricky turn.

Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against thee in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. (From the Confession of Sin, Book of Common Prayer)

“I drive better when I’m drunk.”

“I’ve seen you drive drunk, and you’re fine.”

“Puhlease…I’m not drunk.”

“Oh, gimme the keys…I’m fine.”

We did that all the time, beyond comprehension.

How more were not caught, beyond comprehension.

How more did not die, beyond comprehension.

There but for the Grace of God goes almost everyone I have ever known, me included.

As proven, supra, I still have my ticket from the Daze in the Daffodils.

I cherish it as a reminder of a wild time with wild friends.

Absolutely gloriously wild.

The glory of youth is wasted on the young and on the young who are wasted.

As it is daffodil season, I am reminded of that messy Saturday in 1993, on this the day’s anniversary.

I am also reminded of the man who wandered lonely as a cloud in the Lake District sometime in 1804. At one point, I had to memorize his Romantic lark and recite it to a bored classroom.

I flash upon the inward eye, too.  Then I remember being flashed in a daffodil field.

I smell burning rope and cheap boxed wine.

I see Marlboro Light and Camel Light butts thrown among the furrows.

I see the hippy shake, the high step, the Rubik’s cube dances.

I see the wind blowing the acres of daffodils under a partly cloudy sky.

Let us redeem the muddy debauchery of that bacchanal by turning to the ode to the Narcissus pseudonarcissus.

Let us think not of college girls hurling up their guts near the portable potties.

 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

William Wordsworth, 1807

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Today, in this vacant mood, I remain dazed by the daffodils.

 

 

Presidents’ Day approaches.

IMHO, the greatest of them all was the Father of our Country.

G Dubya his own self.

George Washington’s greatness began when he was young with his own daily catechism, 110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation.

In past years, I held him up as a model to my Godchildren.

I pray that one day they may say I contributed to their knowledge of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

Back in 2016, I updated a version of G Dubya’s catechism for their reference.

I pray that one day they will look back on these rules inspired by His Excellency and at least know a little something of my love for them, all seven of them.

Yes, seven Godchildren.

There are seven wonderful young people whose parents saw fit to entrust me with being responsible in some way for their spiritual well-being.

Solemn vows.

I will, with God’s help.

Growing in the knowledge, love, and fear of the The Lord.

Sacred trust.

Some live close by. Some live a bit a way. One lives in London. The eldest is in the 11th Grade.  The youngest in 4th.

My updated rules based on G Dubya are reprinted herein.

George Washington based his rules on those composed by French Jesuits in the 16th Century.

I based mine on my parents, my grandparents, my teachers, and Mrs. Post.

In 2016, I mailed a copy of them to my Godchildren.  Most of them wrote me back.   In thanking me, one of my Godchildren stated emphatically “I will live by the Rules.”

I like to think that they all are living by these edicts.

They’re just nice manners, really.

Apologies for redundancy for those who read them in 2016.

Apologies to His Excellency General Washington, too.

I shall not tell a lie; his were better.

 

Uncle Hammy’s One Hundred Rules

(For my Godchildren)

1. Whenever possible, hold the door open for someone else
2. Eat your vegetables
3. Drink lots of water
4. Use sunscreen liberally
5. Do one thing a day that would make your parents proud but tell no one about it
6. Always be kind to waiters and waitresses in restaurants
7. Never stop reading for pleasure
8. Learn something new every day
9. Travel
10. Put your napkin in your lap
11. If confused at table, always work from the outside in towards your plate, or, wait and see what your neighbor does
12. Sit up straight
13. Stretch
14. Park as far away from the store as possible and walk
15. Find friends that make you laugh and keep them close to you
16. Never ask for lemon and milk in hot tea at the same time
17. Make your bed every day
18. Floss your teeth
19. Learn to write a good thank you note
20. Learn to cook at least one thing better than anyone else you know
21. Never put sugar in your grits
22. Buy a good pair of shoes
23. Wear a belt if the pants have belt loops
24. Smile at strangers as you may be the only bright thing in their day
25. Go to church
26. Learn to shuck an oyster
27. Take your coffee black, if possible
28. Know the difference between Phillips head and flat head
29. Always eat breakfast
30. Take the tone of the company you are in – Lord Chesterfield said that, not I
31. Call a cab or an Uber or a Lyft or whatever
32. Put down the phone once in a while
33. Remember that salt water is a great cure for what may ail you
34. Mentholatum or Vicks Vapor Rub under your nose may help when you have a cold
35. Go to bed
36. Nothing good happens after midnight no matter what people may tell you
37. Put flowers in your house every once in a while
38. Pine straw hides a myriad of sins in your yard or garden
39. Plant bulbs such as daffodils, tulips, caladiums, or paperwhites
40. Set the table
41. Use the silver
42. Have a favorite sports team and be passionate about them
43. Put up a Christmas tree
44. Learn how to make a good steak
45. Call your parents
46. Read a Shakespeare play
47. Thank one of your teachers later in life
48. Dance at weddings and parties
49. Swing a hammer
50. Do some yard work; it never killed anybody
51. Whenever you can, get in the water
52. Take care of a houseplant
53. Have a dog
54. Wear sunglasses
55. Do pushups
56. Keep in touch with your childhood friends as best you can
57. But, feel free to say goodbye to people who are no good for you
58. Learn the words to one hymn; sing it often
59. Use family names
60. Put the butter out at least two hours before you serve the bread
61. Salt in a cellar, pepper in a shaker, ketchup in a bottle
62. Never salt or pepper your food before you taste it
63. Learn to say Mass-ah-chu-sets and Ill-ah-noy correctly
64. Always know that you are better than no one else but no one else is better than you
65. Know that you are LOVED
66. When your feelings are hurt, and I guarantee that will happen, remember that there are people who will always be jealous of you and who are unhappy regardless of what you do
67. Take a walk
68. Remember “anyways” is not a word
69. Learn stories about your family, your ancestors, and repeat them
70. Eat together as a family
71. Make an effort when a guest comes to your house
72. Learn to use an iron
73. Clean out your drawers and closet once a year
74. Wash your hands
75. Offer a drink
76. Put a napkin with that drink
77. Remember that invitations are to be accepted or refused, but if you always refuse, you may never receive another invitation to be accepted
78. Try to take people as you find them as you do not know what another person has been through that day
79. Meet your neighbors
80. Be happy for your friends when they succeed
81. Commiserate with your friends when they fail
82. Not everyone needs to know all you think
83. If you are ever fired from a job, then that job was not right for you, so be glad
84. Leafy greens should be part of your diet: collards, kale, spinach, cabbage, Brussels sprouts
85. Remember who you are and where you came from no matter where you go as you are all from amazing stock
86. Give up your seat for the elderly, new mothers, the sick
87. Get a haircut before you need a haircut
88. Do not spit on the street
89. Take your elbows off the table
90. Spoon your soup away from you
91. Offer to bring something and never show up empty handed
92. Give a compliment to your wife, husband, child, at least once a day
93. Do not be so hard on yourself
94. Speak to your friends so you can hear their voices, not just read the screen
95. Remember birthdays of your families, friends, and neighbors
96. Pray for your families, friends, and neighbors
97. Fear not!
98. An ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure
99. Keep the faith
100. And, lastly, remember “With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.” Max Ehrmann, Desiderata

All my love,

Uncle Hammy