MARCH, 1962
Page 3
NOTE TO AMERICAN LITERATURE
Waldo Miller, Jr.
Most American literature text
books contains a poem by Henry
Timrod entitled, “Charleston”. I
hope to acquaint you with the
people and some customs of the
city before you study the poem.
For the greatness of this city can
not be understood if the greatness
of its people is not known.
There are many things, to say
about the “Holy City” for it is a
different city, different from any
other city in America. If the
South had finished seceding from
the Union, South Carolina would
have seceded from the South, the
Low Country would have seceded
from South Carolina, and Charles
ton would have seceded from the
Low Country. Charleston is a
charmer and if you’ve ever been
there you always have a yen to
go again. But those who live
there . . . well, that’s a differ
ent story. I get amused every
time I recall the conversation I
heard several summers ago down
at the Post Office where the Negro
women bring their flowers to sell.
“For Lord’s sake, where is you
come from, ‘Becca darlin’? I ain’t
know that you is in town; some
body is tell me you is not Nort’
to lib wid your daughter,” shout
ed one of the flower women as
Rebecca pushed her fully loaded
produce cart to the curb.
“I done bin gone and I come
back”, she answered, with a shake
of the head. “I don’t like it up
dere”.
“Dat’s so? Well, I ain’t gone
away myself,” said her friend, “so
I don’t know.”
“You best stay right here where
you is belong, sister,” Rebecca ad
vised. “Chas’n ain’t no place for
lebe. Seem like Chas’n keep all
de odder place I see from seem
natchel. I suits dis place ’cause
it don’t change non.”
Of course Charleston had not
changed! Rebecca could peddle
her produce through the same
streets, ring the same doorbells
and sell her vegetables to the
same families that she had known
as a little barefoot girl. At
Christmas she could exchange
presents with her buyers and
come home with her cart piled
high with goodies while her hand-
woven palmetto baskets would be
gifts prized by any Charlestonian.
Charleston streets were Rebecca’s
life and they satisfied her crav
ing for the continuing of exist
ence.
There is something in Charles
ton that transcends time. Indeed,
she makes time conform to her
pattern for if the clock on St.
Michael’s spire is five minutes
slow, the world is five minutes
fast. Every time I go back to
her, no matter whether I enter
down old Meeting Street Road or
by crossing either the Ashley or
the Cooper River, everytime, I
have a feeling of rest for I real
ize that I am Home. When I
set my foot upon her soil I stand
on precious soil, soil worth keep
ing; for it is home.
There’s a story my uncle used
to tell me about the red-caps in
Grand Central Station. It seems
that he was waiting for the train
to Charleston when a redcap grab-
Poefs Corner
WHO DO YOU PUT
YOUR TRUST IN?
By Nancy Whittemore
I put my trust in people.
People were my life,
But I failed them;
And they failed me;
And all ended in strife.
I put my trust in God. ’
To the ever failure end.
I see no failure now.
Because God is my friend.
TO SAMMY GOLDEN
'There is faint reproach and a
hint of disbelief in your eyes, my
hurt child, when I tell you that
there is no reason for tears to
fall on your sun-kissed cheeks.
You utter something that re
sembles an explanation for your
hurt, incomprehensible feelings.
Well, perhaps you, in your tender
years, have tripped upon a jagged
rock and a wound has been in
flicted. I tell you this, my dear,
dear child: it is not the last
time you will feel that pain.
What’s that? You say life isn’t
so pretty anymore? Oh Sammy,
how wrong you are! Life would
be boring routine if it were not
for the challenge of sorrowful
emotions as well as joyous ones.
Remember my words when I say
that you should smile and fling
your heart to the heavens to be
mended. God understands many
times when no one else does . . .
* * * *
Sammy Golden was a character
in the movie “Dark At The Top
of the Stairs”. He was a young,
persecuted Jewish boy who kill
ed himself in the end of the
story because people cruelly
judged him by his religion. I
had sympathy for this boy be
cause I found that this situation
was so pitifully true in our real
world of today.
PRAYER ROOM
By Nancy Whittemore
This is a place of quiet rest,
A place where God shows us His
best,
A place where sounds are all God’s
words,
A place where all our prayers are
heard.
In this little world within a world
All our heartaches to God are hurl
ed.
He catches them and says. Have
peace.
And then right here we find re
lease.
WHAT IS MY PURPOSE
FOR LIVING
By Nancy Whittemore
As I sit here on the brink of life
Trouble and sorrow are not in
strife.
For I have a Savior to lead me on
And help me to bear the grief of
wrong.
As I sit here on my earthly throne
I wonder how long ‘till I'll go home.
I know I must live my life to it’s
fullest
Then I’ll enjoy the heavenly cool
ness.
Life is a challenge, despite its
fret
Made by working and good honest
sweat.
My life has in the short while
Made me look back and smile.
I have been so foolish and yet
I have my Savior to help me forget
All my troubles and pains
And who will be up there
To help me make my claim.
0, Lord make me a mountain
In this flat earthly world
That I may be helpful
To another girl.
bed his bags and asked him what
train.
“Chas’n, Sah? Mis’a, you set
right here ’til I come back. I
gwine to git de Chas’n boys.”
With that the news galloped
across Grand Central Station and
the redcaps on nimble legs start
ed gathering. As my uncle sat
surrounded by redcaps giving him
messages to take home, he heard
a lady across the aisle remark,
“How very strange!” “Mis’a, you
know my brudder, he wuk to de
Liberty Cleanin’ Company; if you
is see um, please tell um I cornin’
home on my holiday.” All want
ed to go home. My uncle re
members the embarrassment he
felt when they scuffled to see
who would carry his bags.
One of the redcaps proudly
blared out, “Dis ain’t nothin’,
mis’a, to de Grand Central Sta
tion. When you comes again, just
say ‘Chas’n’ and you watch dem
boys step ’cause de big boss of
all de whole crowd is Poinsett
of Chasi’n’.”
I wondered if Joel Poinsett, for
whom the scarlet flower was nam
ed, would not be happy to know
that one Poinsett would some day
be in the esteemed position of
head redcap at the Grand Central
Station in the world’s biggest
metropolis bestowing hospitality
upon stray Charlestonians.
Charleston is more than a city;
it is people, it is custom and
tradition, and so Charleston is also
rice, for in Charleston rice is an
institution. Foreigners (for if
you’re not a Charlestonian you’re
a foreigner) will tell you that
Charlestonians spend their lives
eating rice and worshipping their
ancestors. On every proper
Charleston dinner table you find
the rice-spoon. Of massive silver,
about fifteen inches long and very
broad, it is laid on the cloth with
something of the reverential dis
tinction that surrounds the mace
in the House of Commons at
Westminster. Their functions are
not dissimilar, for if you take
away the bauble, as did Cromwell,
the Commons of England are a
mob without authority, and if you
take away the rice-spoon from the
Charleston dinner table, the meal
that follows is not really dinner.
In fact, it’s hardly worth calling
a meal; so little worthy of notice
one family would never ask a
grace before a meal without rice,
thinking it hardly worth thanking
the Lord for. Whistle “Marching
Through Georgia” in St. Michael’s
Churchyard, proclaim on the steps
of City Hall your admiration for
John Brown or General Sherman,
but don’t ask for sugar when
you’ve helped yourself to rice.
The Charlestonian when not
aroused is a courteous creature
and often inclined to make allow
ances, but there are limits be
yond which he will not go. And,
anyway, there is little excuse for
not eating rice as the Charles
tonians do when it is cooked as
they want it. There was nothing
in the other North American col
onies that had the status of rice
in and around Charleston. The
most zealous of Bostonians ate
fishballs but once a week. Un
doubtedly there were some Vir
ginians who never used tobacco.
But in the Carolina Low Country
there are extra-pious people who
could eat rice thrice in every
twenty-four hours, year in and
year out.
Henry Timrod lived in Charles
ton at a time when a great page
in U. S. history was being written,
but Charleston had written much
previous history. The streets of
Charleston reflect some of her
history. Being loyal to the Crown
the City has a King, a Queen, a
Princess, and a Hanover Street.
She had a Union Street in com
memoration of the union of Scot
land and England, but when South
Carolina became a state the name
was changed to State Street.
The growth of Charleston can
also be seen in its streets’ names.
George Street and Anson Street
still mark Ansonboro, a fashion
able section of town now being
restored. Wraggsboro is identi
fiable by John, Elizabeth and
Judith Streets—the Wragg child
ren. Glebe Street, St. Philip
Street, and Coming Street together
tell the story of Mrs. Affra Com
ing’s gift of a globe to St. Phil
ip’s Parish.
Of course, everyone knows that
Charleston speech is unusual.
Generally the mention of Charles
ton to a person familiar with it
brings quite often some sort of
joke about “the Bott’ry”. The in
habitants of this Athens of the
South insist they say the Battery
when they mean the Battery.
Charleston speech at its best is
clear, rapid, and smooth. Charles
tonians speak lip-speech, not the
hideous garglings of New York
and Philadelphia. Some of the
old-timers used to say “cyart” and
“gyarden” and “gyirl” and “cy-
ards” and no doubt a few of the
younger generation still do —- if
English teachers haven’t made
them self-conscious. This is simp
ly an exaggeration of the liquid
sound of g and c as in “c(y)arry”,
“c(y)andy”, characteristic of all
educated English.
And if Charlestonians want to
say, “Cooper River”, pronouncing
the 00 as in “book”, well, it’s
their river! Their way of saying
‘•dear”, “fear”, and “ear” has
been traced back to Chaucer. And
if the folk of the Carolina Low
Country make a long o in “glory”
and “story”, that sounds better
than “glawry” and “stawry”.
There is no Gibraltar in Charles
ton but there is something there.
As one looks at the city from the
harbor entrance, the skyline shows
the gleam of St. Philip’s cross, St.
Michael’s white spire, the copper
domes of the First (Scots) Pres
byterian Church and far up’town
the slender steeple of St. Matthews
—these are the Holy City’s sky
scrapers. Fort Moultrie is on one
side of the harbor and Fort Sum
ter on the other, a narrow chan
nel between, but yet they split a
nation. So small a' city, so com
fined by rivers, but yet, it has
become an essence of itself.
Why does the smell of pluff
mud and fertilizer plants smell
good to a Charlestonian’s nostrils?
Why does the salt flatness of
artesian water quench his thirst?
Why do houses on narrow streets
with no place to park seem pre
ferable to boulevards? Why does
he enjoy being awakened by the
raucous and unintelligible voice
of the shrimp vender? He knows
that life is not perfect there, but
he knows he has a friend in
Charleston — Time.
As Rebecca told her friend,
“Chas’n don’t change none and
it keep all de odder place on earth
from seem natchel”.
‘ We know not: in the temple of
the Fates
God has inscribed her doom;
And, all untroubled in her faith,
she waits
the triumph or the tomb.”
Can any Charlestonian go else
where and say, “This is where I
want to live; this is where I wish
I had been born,” or “This is
where I wish to end my days”?
No, he cannot. No Charlestonian
ever says that he is from any
where but Charleston. Charles
tonians are scattered across the
globe. But they come back—to
be married, to bring out their
daughters, to christen their grand-
Sports At
Montreat
by Ronnie Morris
The varsity basketball team con
cluded its season by absorbing a
defeat at the hands of the War
ren Wilson Cagers in McAllister
Hall. The high scorer for Mon-
treat-Anderson was Bud Haney
who hit for a total of 23 points.
The lack of height was quite evi
dent as time after time Warren
Wilson cleared the backboard and
either tapped the ball in or start
ed a fast break down count. The
final score was 81-45.
Blue-Gold
Tournament
On the night of February 23,
1962, the WRA Blue team won
the basketball tournament by beat
ing the Gold team by a score
of 29 to 24. This game climaxed
four previous games, two of which
were won by the sophomores and
two by the freshmen.
The first game ended with a
25 to 20 victory for the Blue
team. This was followed by two
straight triumphs for the Gold
team by the too close scores of
19 to 18 and 24 to 23. The fresh
men heroine of the second game
was Judy Hardin, whose two foul
shots in the few remaining min
utes gave the victory to the fresh
men. The third game ended even
more dramatically with a two-min
ute extra period to break a 22
to 22 tie. The sophomores bound
ed back in the fourth game and
massacred the freshmen with a
49 to 12 victory. In this game,
Peggy Hennessee accumulated 3()
points to become the leading
scorer of the tournament.
Our special congratulations are
extended to the victorious Blue
team. The players on this team
Were Fran Black, Peggy Hennessee,
Daphne Jolly, Gloria Leach, Frosty
Moore, Sandy Scott, Georgiana
Swan, and Judy Wildermuth.
The Gold team, consisting of
Tomiko Arimura, Jo Bost, Jean
Clark, Elizabeth Ellis, Margo Fra
ser, Margaret Gentry, Judy Hard
in, Carole Holder, Martha Johns
ton, Judy Nave, Shirley Pound,
Susie Smith, Sue Sutton, and Ann
West, gave the Blue team a run
for their money.
All of the girls played with good
sportsmanship and fair play and
are commended for it.
Our thanks go out to those who
helped to officiate in the games;
some of them were Coach Stewart,
Mrs. Harvey, Bud Haney, Dickie
Player, Bob Jai-man, Hilda Fergu
son, and Bill Rhodes.
WRA Board
Members Elected
The Women’s Recreation Associ
ation is happy to welcome to the
board three new members.
Judy Nave of Bristol, Virginia,
is replacing Lynn Gouner as Head
of Individual Sports. Jean Clark
of Asheville, North Carolina, is
the new head of volleyball. Susie
Smith of Florence, South Carolina,
is the new head of softball.
The W. R. A. Board is very glad
to have these new members and
feel that they will be an asset in
promoting W. R. A. activities.
children—it is the Mecca, the Holy
City. It is the place that, “ . . .
Keep all de odder place on earth
from seem natchel”. It is home.