I stepped out onto my piazza and the weight of the air was suffocating. I hurried out my gate and down towards the Battery. I was already running late for tea with Ms. Davis, but I've not yet mastered getting from my house to hers without showing up windblown and perspiring. Perhaps the fall would change that for me.
I set off at a quick pace in her direction and hoped I wouldn't be winded when I arrived. She greeted me at the door and invited me in. There, in her parlor, were three other lovely women whom I had never seen. She introduced me to them: Ms. Pinkney, Ms. Gadsden, and Ms. Legare. Of course, I already knew who they were. They had been in all the papers when they came out to society last spring.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
the first few pages
Her skyscrapers are the spires of her churches. Her residents loyal, protective, and loving. For to them, this city is not just Charleston. In all her glory and the turmoil of her past, she is their Mecca, their holy city.
I came to Charleston in early fall. The bustle of summer was drawing to a close. Summer, you see, draws crowds from the far corners of the world to marvel at her history and beauty. A beauty that her citizens have gone to great pains to ensure it stayed the same as it was an hundred years ago.
When I arrived, the summer heat had begun to wane and the crowds to dwindle. The ones who really loved the city are the ones I would meet now. They're the ones who wintered here and endured the sultry summers. I moved into a tiny apartment on the city's loveliest street. There wasn't room for much, but I had a place to lay my head after a long day of exploring the quiet streets and somehow managed to find room to have a meal with a friend from time to time. But mostly, I made the city my home. I spent my days learning her every nuance.
A corner grocery was my kitchen. My wine cabinet was stellar thanks to them. They knew me by name and that's the way I liked it.
I found my entire life had slowed to a rhythmic and relaxing pace. I rose in the mornings not too long after the sun and enjoyed my coffee on the piazza with Ms. Davis. She lived three houses down from me now but had lived alone for the better part of the last forty years or so. We drank coffee and she told me stories about the various characters that passed by on my little street. Some tipped their hats, others said "morning", and some simply stared at the sidewalk and pretended they did not see us. She always said that those were the ones to whom Charleston was not home. They did not know or understand the culture here and did not love the city enough to learn. They were the ones who were here against their will and would leave as soon as they had the chance.
Then, oh, then there were the ones we only saw late in the evenings while we sipped cocktails on that same piazza where we'd had our coffee. They were the ones with the real stories. Their stories sometimes so sordid that remarks were not necessary. I just sat and listened to the words Ms. Davis seemed to have had hidden away for years and years.
Oh, yes, Ms. Davis knew the characters in this city and if I was her willing student, she would introduce me to every last one.
She gave me books. Lots of books. Books by ladies who had lived on the next block sixty years ago. She gave me books about the war and about the gardens in Charleston. She told me the stories her mother and grandmother had told her about life on the plantations up the Ashley River and along the Kings Highway.
In these times, I didn't just feel the slower pace of the city, but felt I had been taken back in time. I walked the streets and I saw the places mentioned in Ms. Davis' books. I heard the sounds. The sounds of cargo ships in the harbor and the splash of the Ashley River against the battery wall at high tide. The sounds that marked out time today are the same ones that had been marking out time when Charleston's first citizens made their homes here.
I came to Charleston in early fall. The bustle of summer was drawing to a close. Summer, you see, draws crowds from the far corners of the world to marvel at her history and beauty. A beauty that her citizens have gone to great pains to ensure it stayed the same as it was an hundred years ago.
When I arrived, the summer heat had begun to wane and the crowds to dwindle. The ones who really loved the city are the ones I would meet now. They're the ones who wintered here and endured the sultry summers. I moved into a tiny apartment on the city's loveliest street. There wasn't room for much, but I had a place to lay my head after a long day of exploring the quiet streets and somehow managed to find room to have a meal with a friend from time to time. But mostly, I made the city my home. I spent my days learning her every nuance.
A corner grocery was my kitchen. My wine cabinet was stellar thanks to them. They knew me by name and that's the way I liked it.
I found my entire life had slowed to a rhythmic and relaxing pace. I rose in the mornings not too long after the sun and enjoyed my coffee on the piazza with Ms. Davis. She lived three houses down from me now but had lived alone for the better part of the last forty years or so. We drank coffee and she told me stories about the various characters that passed by on my little street. Some tipped their hats, others said "morning", and some simply stared at the sidewalk and pretended they did not see us. She always said that those were the ones to whom Charleston was not home. They did not know or understand the culture here and did not love the city enough to learn. They were the ones who were here against their will and would leave as soon as they had the chance.
Then, oh, then there were the ones we only saw late in the evenings while we sipped cocktails on that same piazza where we'd had our coffee. They were the ones with the real stories. Their stories sometimes so sordid that remarks were not necessary. I just sat and listened to the words Ms. Davis seemed to have had hidden away for years and years.
Oh, yes, Ms. Davis knew the characters in this city and if I was her willing student, she would introduce me to every last one.
She gave me books. Lots of books. Books by ladies who had lived on the next block sixty years ago. She gave me books about the war and about the gardens in Charleston. She told me the stories her mother and grandmother had told her about life on the plantations up the Ashley River and along the Kings Highway.
In these times, I didn't just feel the slower pace of the city, but felt I had been taken back in time. I walked the streets and I saw the places mentioned in Ms. Davis' books. I heard the sounds. The sounds of cargo ships in the harbor and the splash of the Ashley River against the battery wall at high tide. The sounds that marked out time today are the same ones that had been marking out time when Charleston's first citizens made their homes here.
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