A Tale of Land, Politics and Bubba-Logic

Gather 'round the campfire, kiddies. I've got a wonderful little story to tell you about how the good people of Walhalla, South Carolina almost got taken for a nasty little boondawgle by their City Council. Bless their hearts, them folks didn't know they was dealin' with criminals!

Actually, I'll let Buzz Williams, Director of The Chattooga Conservancy, tell the story as he's a fabulous writer and committed conservationist. This whole saga-for-the-times reads like a crime novel! Here's a sample. Click at bottom for the full tale.

Nonetheless, Mayor Bailes (of Walhalla) showed up the following Saturday at the Community Center in Mountain Rest, SC, to answer questions about the proposed land sale and made a patronizing attempt to justify the sale. The mayor preached to the crowd about the benefits of the proposed development, predicting prosperity for Walhalla as a result of the projected tax revenue that the development would bring. Many left feeling that the dye had been cast.

It was about this time that the Chattooga Conservancy stepped into an important role in the effort to save the Walhalla watershed property. Everyone to this point had been asking questions about just who the mysterious developer was that had made the offer to buy the watershed property. An anonymous tip lead us to a Joe Simmons, who we reached by telephone. In an extended conversation, Simmons declared that he loved the property and promised to develop it to the highest environmental standards. He also revealed significant clues about his identify that would later become very important.

Read full story from the beginning here. (This cross-posted at Peach Pundit too.)

Lost Point Tour Again

Since YouTube just destroys gorgeous video, I'll post this one again from MetaCafe. (Pardon any porn that appears on their banner ad when you embed a video.) Not that their quality is that much better, but like Blip.tv, it's somewhat better quality. Then again, compression simply creates a compromised product any 'ole way you chop it up. And silly me, Joey was saying "DeLoss Point" all along; his genuine Geechee (White Gullah, if that makes any cultural soup sense) accent has become so thick again, now that he's moved back to Da Lowcountry, I misinterpreted!


The Lost Point Tour - Click here for more free videos

Lowcountry History Tour

Cap'n JoeBob, seen here on his boat narrating this short South Carolina history doc from the S.C. Intercoastal Waterways, and I used to work together for years in small dark rooms all day long editing corporate videos for The Home Depot. We never got a whole lot of corporate-y work done for all our chronic Lowcountry daydreaming and reminiscing. Bless our hearts, we tried though. Kinda.

Needless to say, Joey made it out of the ATL and back to Paradise faster'n I did. I do get to visit when time/life permit though; Joe and his wife Annie's southern hospitality is as rich and plentiful as their kindness and friendship. Here's a recent outing... in what is now Joey's backyard.

Home

I am so happy here. Coastal SC. It's my home, my heritage, my history. I don't want to go back to Atlanta. Ever. One day I plan to do just that -- never leave home.

Power Down South

I'm going off the grid, moreorless, for a couple of weeks. I want to reconnect and commune with the beach, the mountains, my daughter, and friends and family outside of Georgia. If I can't incorporate such extreme basics of my existence into what I do as I move forward in business and media endeavors, then what's the point? I want to do some serious thinking-on about The South too, about where do southerners come into the Big Picture of a transforming media landscape? And for what purpose?

I woke-up thinking some oddly positive thoughts about one day not prefacing everything regarding The South with those catch-all phrases trotted out in the news about us, such as "lagging behind", "catch-up to the rest of the country", "dead last"... you get the point.

The sobering reality was that I turned on the morning radio news and was immediately blasted a national news story about the soaring infant mortality rate among blacks in Mississippi. This after having just read a long piece in the excellent Southern Cultures Magazine about South Carolina chronically "lagging" (there's that annoying word again) in economic development due to its chronically undereducated populace.

S.C., as futurist at least, seems to be unable to envision an educated populace; thus state government continues to cut education funding for the sake of low taxes. For instance, less than a quarter of the adult population holds any kind of higher education degree, undergrad and beyond. On the other hand, S.C. does have one of the lowest taxation rates in the country. Around 10% paid to the state per resident.

Then there's always race... In a recent interview with the Charleston paper, The Post and Courier, as she departs for Seattle's school system, Charleston's school superintendent, Ms. Goodloe-Johnson, a black woman, spoke frankly about race and the legacy of slavery on the education process in the South.

Q: You've lived in Texas, Colorado and Nebraska. How does Charleston compare?

A: It's by far the most segregated and racist, and I think that's a function of the South, too.

Q: How would you say the legacy of slavery, particularly in this community, affects the school district?

A: I think it had a dramatic impact that sometimes isn't seen. Because there's a lot of times I would say to my husband, 'That is plantation mentality.' And by that I mean that people tend to be too complacent. They sit back and allow things to happen to them, and that's slavery. I would tell people all the time, 'Slavery is over. Nobody is controlling you. Nobody is telling you what you can't have. Don't allow people to disrespect you and tell you what you can't have.' That's plantation mentality, and it's so obvious here. But I don't think people see it.

Q: What's an example?

A: Let's talk about failing schools. We should not be in a situation anywhere where kids are not given what they need because they don't have parents who have voice or who have political clout or come to school board meetings and make noise. We have a responsibility to ensure that poor kids, that black kids are educated well. We shouldn't have the kinds of divides that we do. And that's all about people not having voice. Just think about, if everybody had voice, how different the school district would be. Because people would not have sat back and settled for things. Or, people wouldn't allow for schools — why do we allow schools to fail for 10 years and then fight to keep the structure? Help! I just want to scream! Don't fight for failure. Fight for what's right for kids. Fight for excellence. Fight to be at the table to be a part of the conversation. Nobody is enslaved anymore. This is 2007. You can go and do anything you want to.

The complete interview with Ms. Goodloe-Johnson is here.

With so many regionalized, crushing issues coming into play for The South, who's to say where we go next? Backwards or forwards? I just know it all needs thinking-on from those who can and from those who do -- think about The South that is, and from the social media perspective while we're at it.

Let The Great SC Dissing Begin

Trust the NYT's Alessandra Stanley to fire an opening shot at my ye 'olde home state. As if I could possibly have expected otherwise. I've been totally intimidated, dissed too, by seemingly scores of Ivy League women, given my dubious education credentials and pronounced accent.

It's really rather pathetic, in a Bridget Jones way. Those Ivy Leaguers of all genders could be so haughty and dismissive, and just kinda mean-girl when we used to rub shoulders in network news.

Then again, I could always drink their lipflapping, snotty, privileged, toned butts way under the table... in my day of course. And dissing SC is my territory, Alessandra. Not yours. Nobody really can do it better, if I do say so myself.

Least I can still go out drinking here in Georgia with whomever, wearing whatever, whenever I damn well feel like it, wearing only a comforter and a push-up bra maybe! Lord knows what the women of Iran won't be allowed to do next. This is sickening here. Just sickening. It knots my stomach in a billion different ways for the hell it implies. No need to wonder why I have always been an unapologetic feminist.

Bombing back to the stone age to free women from religious, nonsensical oppression? Sounds plausible, initially; but if I was for that, we'd have to start here in Georgia, given our own religion-inspired nonsensical legislation.

One other thing before you run away... congratulations to Mara Shalhoup at Creative Loafing for her Best Journalist in Atlanta award last night at the APC awards gala. She really deserves that recognition for being the hardest working, lowest-paid reporter in this city. I hope the NYT comes a'callin' for her kinda talent soon.

Sigh... I fear a total Bridget Jones kinda afternoon coming-on here for real. Bloggers must have so many self-esteem issues. Sigh... Know what could really pick me up though? Anyone got ANY good gossip from last night's APC soiree? Did anything remotely resembling monkey biz transpire without me there to blog it? Come on. The SGR needs some good 'ole schadenfreude-dirt right about now.

Careful What You Ask For -- #872

While surely the best of the political editorialista we have going in Georgia, I must take exception, as does Panda's Keeper, to Bill Shipp praising Maynard Jackson's backroom wheelings and dealings to get South Carolina on the early Presidential primary map. I wonder how Maynard could seriously have felt that South Carolina had much to offer (other than George W. Bush) to the future of the American political process?

But hey, I'm only from S.C. What would I know about who really runs the show 'round there? (Hint: it's certainly not African-American Democrats, most of whom live pretty darn meagerly, and at the very bottom of virtually any national ranking -- be it economics, education, health, etc. So do most of the the white folk, for that matter. Not a power to be reckoned with, needless to say. But you don't need me to tell you that.)

Republicans love 'em a good & paranoid, white, under-educated, manipulatable (is that even a word?) voter base though! How do you think we got all up in the W mess we're in now? Not without SC to get us there in the first place.


HT: PS

Morning Chortle

Thanks for the snapshot, Bernita. I can only imagine how such a sight would have made my (SC) friends and family squirm. Lordy, how I wish I'd been there to YouTube 'em all furiously burying the silver! Now that is a delightful chortle for the entire day.

I Am A Pine Tree

Classic Classism

In the course of my Lowcountry holidays, amidst a quicky pullover to an ancestral grave site, that of Thomas Heyward, Signer from South Carolina, I pondered history devoid of progress. (Note trailer.)


Then again, there is the inherent comfort of a dear Carolina home -- where the beer grows on Palmetto trees:

Colbert's Big Wiki Thing

Since Stephen Colbert is likely the only Charlestonian who knows what a wiki is, or has a staff that can operate a computer, he's of course got his own "challenge" to Wikipedi now. It's Wikiality: The Internets Tubes Dedicated To Truthiness. Hilarious. Give it a whirl.

Now switching to Yo La Tengo, in keeping with my Bands Beloved By NPR Listeners (that's urban code for "smart liberal geeks with glasses" of course) theme this am.

Southern Denial

I have a confession to make... I miss my rural roots and the South Carolina countryside I grew-up in. Having lived in Atlanta's urban clusterfest for so long now I foolishly believed I'd evolved (de-volved) beyond all-things-agrarian. Talk about being in denial. But reading the evocative, achingly southern Memory's Keep, by UGA professor and novelist James Everett Kibler, is just about to break my heart.

I want to go home. At least for the holidays.

Governor of SC Turned Away At Polls!

Oh Jeez! CNN is reporting that the freakin' Governor of South Carolina was turned away at his Sullivan's Island (Elementary School) polling place because he couldn't find his voter registration card in his wallet.

Things are off to a great start for that place, eh?

Take This Grit And Shove It

Oh Lordy, here we go again. Another Charleston, S.C. foody piece by the word-stuffed R.W. Apple. He's the Pat Conroy of the culinary world, all puffed up on ludicrous, flowery verbage of every flavor. Apple writes about the South only to name-drop at a furious pace and announce, again, that he just happens to be married to a bona fide Charleston blue blood from the such-and-such line of so-in-so's. As if he picked a spouse from a horse auction catalog.

I'd no sooner announce I was married to a Charlestonian than I'd, uh, attend a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (Say Gag) show. It's nothing to go around bragging about.

In my considerable experience, Charlestonians are some of the most dangerous, secretive, alcoholic, paranoid, provincial, repressed, repressive, conservative wackos on the planet. After all, who started one of the bloodiest, costliest wars this world has ever seen because a few Yankees pissed the blow-hards off? Wasn't exactly a bunch of dudes from New Orleans. No, it was a bunch of the stubbornest men the world has ever known -- ones straight outta South Carolina. I'd know a little something about them too, as would John McCain.

But don't take my word. I just grew up there. So did Stephen Colbert; here's what he has to say on the subject. Don't say I didn't warn you.

One true confession, the Hominy Grill Apple writes about in today's NYT is really quite fabulous. The food is mouth-watering and the notable locals-watching superb. Also, an authentic Charleston relative sent, at my request, the Hominy Grill's pickled shrimp recipe. Wouldn't dream of going to a pot-luck, steeplechase, tent revival, Cocks game, fox hunt or visitor day at the State Pen without a big 'ole tub of it. Smack Your Lips Say Yum. Now don't you wish you had that recipe? If you're nice to me and link to my blog a lot, well maybe just maybe I'll post it here.

tags: R.W. Apple, Charleston, SC, Stephen Colbert

The Long Road Home

I took the whole day today to drive I-20 East and back again to Columbia, SC, for the funeral of one of the most lovely and memorable and inspiring person I ever knew, and likely ever will -- Mrs. Elizabeth Carrison Waite Manning.

Mrs. Manning, or Betty as she was fondly called, died a terrible, lingering death from Alzheimer's. To witness such a vibrant, original life utterly crippled by such an awful disease is another blog altogether.

What was beautiful and forceful and fascinating was the life Betty Manning lived with zeal and wit and fascinating aplomb, and so was the immeasurable influence she had on the host of people who trooped in and out of her divinely welcoming life and home.

I was the beneficiary of Mrs. Manning's wordly presence and grace due to my friendship with her only child, Elizabeth Carrison Manning Dorn. Here is Elizabeth with her mother, just as the Alzheimer's was setting in for Betty. I wish I had a picture from long ago, with a display of the fiery red hair Mrs. Manning always had set to perfection.

I met Elizabeth on the day my family moved from Charleston to Columbia, to the apartment near USC on Green Street. Upon arrival at Green Street, mid-sixties or so, I promptly set off down the new street to make a new friend, where I ran promptly right in to Elizabeth. We were five or six-years old. We've been friends ever since.

Elizabeth cared for her mother ceaselessly and with complete compassion until the moment she died, all the while being a devoted wife and mother herself to three young children. She was never far from her mother's side most of the time, so it seemed. We can only wish for our own daughters to grow up to be just a tiny bit like Elizabeth. Chances are they will, as long as we make certain they have her kind and always on the sunny-side perspective in their young lives as they grow and learn.

Elizabeth's loyalty and devotion to her many friends, weird ones or not, is legendary. She learned from a master, after all. Her mother immediately welcomed me and all of my rather freakish family into her grand home at 1828 Green Street. Mrs. Manning was a bona fide Grande Dame, and that's just what Grande Dames do. Elizabeth's father, Bernard, was much more imposing, but welcoming too in his own glaring, towering way. I doubt he muttered "dirty hippies" more than four or five times, although he was surrounded by a university full of them at the time.

Another childhood friend, whom I was delightfully reunited with after a nineteen-year absence today at the funeral, Dorothy Fowles Kendall, happens to be a fellow blogger -- a wonderful writer with almost perfect recall of every event and and every absurdity and every person from our childhood in downtown Columbia during the turbulent sixties.

Dorothy blogs today's funeral, cherished tidbits and many dusty memories of our shared history with the Mannings here. But don't believe everything she says! Particularly the bit about how I started the infamous birthday Barbie incident. (She started it.)

Jeff Calder's Vest

Every now and then, I get to thinking on whatever happened to all of my favorite rock tee shirts of yesteryear. My true love was a Swimming Pool Q's one that I wore until my (lack of) bra showed through.


And that was way before lingerie became outerware - a nifty trend I don't mind stealing from the younger set on occasion. Another was an Album 88 number, which I'm convinced was stolen - by whom I have no idea, or I'd go back and get the darn thing even 20 years later.

And then there was the Black Flag Tour In My Head one, which to this day never ceases to crack me up. Kinda like a Python line that floats through your brain during a mindnumbing corporate meet-a-thon.

THEM:
"We've got to redirect the paradigm to reflect our inculturation within the upcoming fiscal cycle."
ME:
"Crucifixion?" "No, I'm to be set free."

I kinda miss the little buggers. So I got to thinking about an old timey band from 'round here, The Swimming Pool Q's, and Lordy if they aren't still going at it like the whippersnappers they used to be. The Pool Q's even played, yet again, one of my favorite venues on the planet recently, The Windjammer on Isle of Palms, S.C.

That place is an entire short story in itself. It was a slow night at the Windjammer unless a pack of Navy enlisted guys commenced to beatin' the crap out of a bunch of bat-eared Citadel cadets, or "Knobs" as they were relentlessly taunted. Fortunately, such a show of drunken stupor was an inevitability at the Windjammer, before they closed the Charleston Naval Base at least. I'll never forget some smarty-alekky djs cracking on Navy wives just after Hurricane Hugo. Saying stuff like, "They're going to riot (Navy wives) 'cause their shipment of Twinkies can't get through."

Lordy how I diverge! Back to the concept at hand... I used to sigh and avert my eyes when I'd see one of Jeff Calder's fine, brocade vests turn up at a show. Why was I so shy then? Now that I've got some semblance of nerve about me, I went and morphed into a soccer mom, where it all gets yelled out on the field.

Oh, but there was that fleeting, danceable moment not so long ago when 2004 shifted to '05 with the sound of Pylon at the 40 Watt blaring me right up against where I always wanted to be.

The chronic late bloomer can be a bitterly romantic wench...

The Unbearable Lightness of Summertime

I am greedy for summertime. Even in the midst of the hottest, most humid Southern day, when all desire seems tangled in the lushness of a grove of overrun Palmetto trees and magnolias set alive with the whine of afternoon cicadas I bicycle slowly by on the way to visit with ghosts wandering the fiery batteries of Ft. Moultrie, I am consumed with the inevitable - summer will come to an end. There is nothing I can do about this.

And so I throw myself into another summer. Or wish to, rather, when waking every morning to any day promising to be a really hot one. I want to feel baked concrete on the soles of my feet as I moreorless fall from the lounge chair into a heavily chlorinated pool. I sniff Coppertone like it was glue, high from the beach-as-a-child memory surge it powers in my nostalgia-ridden head.

I wish I was a painter so that I could paint the drops that rise up in my head that once rose up on the aqua-striped Tom Collins glasses with the little frayed wicker cozies around the bottom portion my grandfather would present to the guests, remarkable only for their dullness, who invariably stopped by the beachhouse late afternoons all through June, circa 1968. The country was on fire; Isle of Palms was not.

So I steal gardenias to fill the house with Eau De Blanche (DuBois), and to place in Ava's braids, from untended bushes laden with blossoms along Volberg Street in the city, no longer at the beach. This has been a prime year for gardenias; ignored, lovely shrubs of blooms just beckoning to be plundered, just like the purple, not blue, hydrangeas I covet from people's yards who never seem to gather them for themselves. Why not me.

So much wickedness just waiting to rise to the surface in summer, all in a state of air-conditioned arrestedness. I loath air conditioning. It forces Southerners to do way too much, to multi-task for instance. Southerners should never be forced to multi-task. That's not in our blood. What is in our blood is a desire to exist under huge rotating fans outdoors on porches near oceans, with mere ice-ridden glasses to cool our heated tendencies. We are hot blooded people. If only we could live that way.