Saying Goodbye to Charleston

Pam and I will reluctantly leave Charleston today after three days of high culture and Low Country food that leaves me wondering how on earth the people of this city aren’t all 300 pounds. Here is a partial list of the types of cuisine visited upon my gastro-intestinal system since I’ve been here:

#shrimp and pepper jack grits

#collard greens that have steeped all day in a huge pot full of ham

# she-crab soup with sherry

# Jambalaya

# fried okra

# boiled peanuts

# pecan pie

# gallons upon gallons of sweet tea

# mint juleps

Although we basically had great weather, it’s been way too humid for the month of May. There is absolutely no wonder why southerners walk so sloooowly. If you walk at a normal Richmond pace, not to mention a New York City pace, you would be reduced to a pool of sweat in a matter of minutes. So, you find yourself, for lack of a better term…ambling along, almost zombie-like while trying to imagine how Charlestonians ever lived in these gorgeous homes before the invention of air conditioning.

This city took two direct hits in its history, first during the revolution, then during the Civil War. It has also dealt with numerous fires and hurricanes, and yet, it endures. Charleston is simply too beautiful to die.

I will be back.

From Agony to Ecstacy

Yesterday afternoon at 4:30 Pam and I left our hotel for a five block walk to the St. John’s and St. Peter’s church to hear the Westminster Choir in concert. 4:30 being the hottest time of the day in Charleston, by the time we arrived at the church we were covered in sweat. We handed over our tickets to the extremely tanned lady at the door and were told to walk up to the balcony, whereupon we were shocked to discover that we had no assigned seats. It was first come, first served and the only seats left were in tortuous wooden booths with seat backs at 90 degree angles complete with a sharp rail along the top that cut directly into your back. Even this would have been semi-tolerable if these seats had afforded us a decent view of the proceedings, but no…when seated we could see approximately zero percent of the choir. However, when standing we could catch brief glimpses of the top of Patrick’s head. Needless to say, having paid real money for these tickets, our anger gauge was rising along with the temperature in the building as the place became standing room only by the time the choir began their first number.

The choir began in the stairwells at the back of the auditorium, singing as if walled up in a tower. It required extra effort to hear the beautiful harmonies so everyone became silent, straining to hear. Then suddenly one of the most moronic ringtones in a universe full of such annoyances began blaring in the hall. (Think, computerized Barnum and Bailey circus music!) This despite an impassioned plea for all of us to silence our cell phones a mere five minutes before by a speaker trying to avoid this very type of thing. Anyway, it took this insufferably self-absorbed idiot an eternity to find and silence the phone, sending my already high blood pressure soaring.

Then something amazing happened. About the time I was prepared to storm the box office and castigate them for selling me a bogus seat and demanding restitution, the choir began to perform a song called “Alleluia” composed by a former member of this storied choir. The textured harmonies flowed through the building like a balm. I began to feel the muscles in my neck relax. The tension in my arms and back began to slowly uncoil. By the end of this beautifully performed piece, all was forgiven.

At the end of their magnificent performance, Joe Miller’s fabulous choir began an encore with the Sammy Fain classic, “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Many of the oldest members in the audience were crying. I was mesmerized. Once again, I bear witness to the power of music to transform the human spirit, in my case from surly anger and frustration to a place of peace and beauty.

Well done, Westminster. Well done.

I'm out.

Heading down to Charleston, South Carolina today. This is the sort of trip you take to celebrate your 30^th wedding anniversary when you’re trying to pay for your daughter’s wedding. I mean, your 30^th doesn’t come around every day. Some of our friends have gone to Greece or Italy or some other exotic place. No, we’re driving down to Charleston for four days because our son is down there so we’ll get to see him. A two-fer!

Of course, Charleston is no slouch. I have always wanted to go there and, from everything I’ve heard, it’s gorgeous. Patrick has fallen in love with the place.

Getting away from Richmond has become an obsession of late. Leaving Dad for four days brings a mixture of guilt and relief. Last night he knew who I was but spent most of our time together telling me about how the nurses were trying to beat him up.

Leaving Richmond will be easier than leaving everything behind. I will still have one eye trained on the stock market. My heart will jump every time I see the nursing home’s number pop up on my cell phone. Pam will still have wedding planning details and loose ends swimming around in her brain.

But here’s the plan. To the best of my ability, I’m going to concentrate on the beauty of this charming southern treasure. I’m going to enjoy the Spoleto festival atmosphere. I’m going to spend some time with my talented son and watch him perform in an opera and a choral concert and celebrate his 25^th birthday. I’m going to sightsee and eat fabulous food. I’m going to be eternally grateful for the privilege I’ve had to be Pam’s husband for 30 years.

I will leave it to the rest of you to sort out who’s to blame for Elliot Rodger’s murderous rampage, why the Veteran’s Administration treats our soldiers worse than the terrorists at Gitmo, and why the City of Richmond can’t agree on a new baseball stadium.

I’m out.