Tumbling down
The Queen of England, kings of rock, and shagging at Sewanee - our second September digital offering
“I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down.” If you’re old enough, you likely remember every word of Carole King’s hit tune, “I Feel the Earth Move,” from her sensational Tapestry album. While ticking and swaying to King’s song while embracing the intensity of first love, we didn’t have a care in the world.
Today, it is an all-too familiar sensation to feel the sand shifting beneath our feet. As we move forward in this uncertain world, we instinctively keep our eyes upward, comforted by the constant presence of the sun, moon and stars shining down on us from exactly where God placed them in the sky. The Mercury team predicts that the sky won’t come tumbling down, and that we, as a community and a nation, will push through our current difficulties to become a better place to live and work … to be that guiding light for people around the world. If you doubt it, read the words of our Mercury historians such as Peg Eastman, Doug Bostick, Larry Freudenberg and others. In their stories, you’ll quickly remember just how difficult tough times can really be. You’ll remember that our blessed Charleston Lowcountry was birthed from a diverse population of our ancestors, all struggling to live free.
Yes, there is a method to our madness. The Mercury team has brought you more than two decades-worth of stories about our history, heritage and culture as a reminder of the travails our ancestors endured to leave us the legacy of our incredible Lowcountry. Our history, heritage and culture create the glue that holds us together in times such as these. We’re here to remind you of that every month. And yes, we love to inform, opine and entertain; and if we happen to inspire you along the way, all the better. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”
In this issue of the Charleston Mercury Newsletter, we hear from a regular contributor, Bill Connor, who had boots on the ground in the United Kingdom when Queen Elizabeth passed; he fondly recalls his days growing up with so many British friends. Then, Tim Askins relates his memories of two summers growing up in Myrtle Beach, and how the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. changed his world. Taking his lead from Prioleau Alexander, Charles W. Waring III adds his memories about “moveable music.” Naturally, we’ll wrap with our popular Lowcountry Rambler.
As always, we appreciate your support through your readership, subscriptions and advertising. Be sure to share this page with friends and family. Mercury team out.
Thoughts on the death of Queen Elizabeth while traveling in the UK
By Bill Connor
On September 10, while traveling in Scotland off a cruise ship with primarily British passengers, I received a text from my brother about the death of Queen Elizabeth II. Though the text turned out to be correct, it was followed with another report claiming the death was “unverified,” so I didn’t know. Then, on board the ship at supper while leaving port near Glasgow, the cruise director informed the passengers of the death of the Queen. Shortly thereafter, the Italian ship captain made that announcement with words honoring her and the impact on the world and in respect of the Queen played the British national anthem.
For probably the last time, the British used the refrain “God Save the Queen,” as it will be “God Save the King” for the new British Monarch, King Charles III. The Queen is dead, long live the King will be something all living United Kingdom citizens will never have experienced. Though American, I have had a lump in my throat since learning of Elizabeth’s death and have experienced a profound sadness. It goes beyond the death of the truly amazing woman “servant leader” to what I and many see as the passing of an era. Let me explain.
First, I thought back to when I felt this same emotion associated with the United Kingdom. After the attacks of September 11, 2001, when America was in shock and mourning, Queen Elizabeth ordered her famous Guards Band to play the American National Anthem at Buckingham Palace. I can remember feeling that same lump in the throat, but due to feelings of gratefulness to the British. My own life story relates to the British. I grew up as a military dependent (aka “brat) and spent five of my formative teenage years living at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE, the military arm of NATO). That being the case, I grew up around British officers and their children. Additionally, my grandfather was an Army officer during World War II and had been a Rhodes Scholar after he graduated West Point before the war. Our family visited Oxford while overseas and we grew up in the shadow of that strong bond with the United Kingdom, a bond that had defeated Nazi Germany and then defeated the Soviet Union during the Cold War.
In adulthood, I had the unique experience of serving directly with the British in Helmand, Afghanistan from 2007-2008, which included service with Prince Harry. As I have mentioned previously, though Harry was the grandson of Queen Elizabeth, he served in some of the most dangerous places in arguably the most dangerous province at the time and without special protection. We joked that the term “an heir and a spare” was beyond applicable to Harry, as far as that spare being dispensable in Helmand. His grandmother would have known the dangers her grandson faced, and yet did nothing to seek special treatment of protection for him. This was her same path when her son flew helicopters during the Falkland Islands war. She and her family showed the attribute and philosophy I saw of many officers from “elite” families in the British military of “Nobless Oblige.” To whom much has been given, much is expected. That is something I believe America showed much more during the World Wars but being lost today. Queen Elizabeth put on a uniform before the end of World War II (Woman’s Auxiliary Corps) and throughout her life has shown self-sacrifice for her nation. Ironically, while the British military revered the Queen, they did not show special treatment to the Royal family serving there.
For the British around me, I see sincere and passionate, yet reserved, emotion about the death. As amazing as Elizabeth was to all, I believe the sadness goes beyond her person. She stood for something connecting current generations to a past we don’t want to lose. Queen Elizabeth embodied the ethos of Nobless Oblige and was unabashedly Christian in belief and life. She promoted Jesus Christ as not only her Savior, but the example to follow in life. When taking the throne, Elizabeth passionately requested prayers of her people that she could serve accountably to God and serve her people faithfully for the rest of her life. The Queen took seriously her constitutional role of “Defender of the Faith” of the Christian religion. My favorite quote was from later in life when Elizabeth told the world what guided her as such a successful as the longest serving Monarch: “Throughout my life, the message and teachings of Christ have been my guide, and in them I find hope.”
We have seen Nobless Oblige of her era in other leaders, like Winston Churchill, Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan, but they are gone. The passing of Queen Elizabeth seems to be the end of an era of high standards most of us know we need to keep. We ask: Will other leaders live with Elizabeth’s belief and accountability to God in the service of those they lead? Will the concept of Nobless Oblige die with Elizabeth? This, even more than sadness of the passing of this great woman, is what has put that lump in my throat. I think it’s what many in the UK are feeling today. On this day, I will stand with the British as they stood with us and proclaim, “God Save The King,” and may he follow Queen Elizabeth’s example of Nobless Oblige and exampling Christ.
Bill Connor is a 1990 Citadel graduate, 30-year Army infantry colonel (ret.) and combat veteran. He is a writer and attorney and lives in the Charleston area.
Image courtesy of GuysWithRides.com.
Two summers at the beach
By Tim Askins
1967 — The summer of love
If there had been a lottery in South Carolina in 1965, I would have won it. My dad informed us that spring we would be moving to Myrtle Beach in June. A pudgy eighth grader from Society Hill who played the tuba in band suddenly found all the pretty girls in my class wanted to be my friend. Overwhelming visions of cruising the boulevard with the top down, a surfboard out the back and a can of PBR clouded the last weeks of the eighth grade.
In 1965 Myrtle Beach High School became one of the first public high schools in South Carolina to integrate both black and white students. All our Southern schools were conflicted with the federal dictate to integrate, some just dragged their collective feet longer.
As the summer of ’67 rolled around, California Girls topped the charts. “Shotgun! Shoot ’em ’fore they run now” blasted from the open doors at the Beach Club and Carolina Girls cruised the boulevard with the top down. The first surfboards started appearing at Myrtle, Folly and everywhere between.
Like everyone else growing up in Myrtle Beach, having a job was part of the allure. Money to burn. I bought that surfboard and a car to cruise the boulevard. The car also took me to Lonnie. He needed a ride.
It might be 98 degrees in the shade, but he lounged on his front porch, cool and dark like a Saturday night, not even breaking a sweat. His white long-sleeved, double-breasted chef’s jacket contrasted with his dark complexion. Partially unbuttoned, it revealed the white t-shirt underneath atop his starched white pants, stove pipe britches stacked on black shoes. He would unfold himself from the aqua colored, scalloped back Schott “spring leg” chair and be standing by my car when it came to a stop.
“Afternoon”
“Hey, Lonnie. Ready to go?”
“You know it kid, I was born ready, I suppose,” Lonnie would drawl out. “I need to stop by Jay-rome’s.”
“OK. No problem.”
My ’63 VW Squareback was a tight fit for Lonnie’s 6-foot 4-inch frame. We rounded the corner from Dunbar Street to Carver Street pulling into Friendly Barber and Lonnie headed into the pool hall next door. I played WTGR or WAPE “Big Ape” on the radio as I waited for him in the car.
In 1958, Jerome Thomas opened the Bamboo Barber, later renamed the Friendly Barber Shop, which locals claim was due to Jerome’s positive attitude, encouraging words and ever-present smile. The small barber shop served as the epicenter of a thriving black-owned retail center that flourished because of — and simultaneously — despite racial segregation. Since it was right across the street from Charlie’s Place, many black musicians of the day found their way to the “Friendly.”
In June Marvin Gaye would hang out long enough to play a game of basketball on that court behind the shop after Jerome finished his conk. Samuel David Moore and David Prater of the soul pair Sam & Dave got their conks, too. Conks were particularly popular with performers in the 50s and early 60s to straighten kinky hair using a toxic concoction of Congolese, lye, eggs and potatoes.
Malcom X never did arrive in our sleepy beach town on the Carolina coast but during the next few years, the conk would all but disappear. Relatively unknown Jimi Hendrix abandoned his conk and his paying gig with Junior Walker and the Allstars before playing an incendiary set following The Who at Monterey Pop Festival. His influence would find its way on the skirts of the new West coast music infiltrating the East coast that summer of ’67.
When Lonnie emerged from the basketball court, there were two obvious bulges in his front pockets. When he came along beside the window, he would toss two brown paper bags on the front seat and climb in after them.
“Hit the road, Jack.”
And we were on our way to work at White Point Seafood Restaurant in Windy Hill at White Point Swash. It’s rumored that Windy Hill got its name when George Washington lost his hat while strolling the beach. Blackbeard used White Point Swash as a landing spot during his travels to blockade Charleston before having his head skewered on the bowsprit of his sloop, Adventure, at Ocracoke Inlet.
As we drove north on Highway 17 towards Windy Hill, Lonnie pulled out the bottle with Four Roses on the label. He would crack the cap and take a long drag off the neck of the pint bottle and smack his lips a little. With a slight snicker he would say, “I don’t care if your glass is half full or half empty, long as there’s whiskey in it,” and then laugh and pat his thigh. “How ‘bout a nip?”
I never got the bottle. Lonnie was too smart for that. He had grown up in the Jim Crow South and knew he wasn’t giving a white kid a bottle to drink out of after he had already drunk from it. He’d pour me a half-a-cap full and hand it over. The cheap whiskey burned from my lips to my groin, my eyes welled up and I tried not to cry, then, just like Lonnie, I’d smack my lips and pat my thigh. He’d grin like hell and look out the side window amused by the irony of the situation.
In the 60s, White Point was reputed to be the “Best on the Beach” serving 500 or more guests every night during “The Season.” “I can tell you what they're going to eat before they even order,” Lonnie assured us as he scanned the first groups of lobster-colored tourist filtering into the dining room.
He ran the back kitchen all decked out in his whites and stove top chef’s hat looking for all in the world like a New York chef. The German manager, Yeargin. never referred to him as “chef.” I don’t recall him ever calling him by his name, only “cook” or “cookie.” They would have us white kids on the serving line so the guests would not see “the darkies in the back,” as Yeargin called them, touching the food.
In the slow season when we were not so busy, Lonnie would bring me to the back kitchen to cook the steaks on the big grill or make hush puppies, coleslaw or prep the shrimp and oysters for frying. He would show me how to check the steaks for doneness by touching the pad of my hand then the steak, then he would sit on his stool and watch as I touched the steaks.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I met Little Richard?’ he asked one day. “Richard Penniman was his real name. You know he stayed at Charlie’s Place before he was famous and after, too. After he became ‘Little Richard’ he had his own personal room at Charlie and Sarah’s motel next to the club on Carver Street. He lived there a couple of months during the time of segregation because nowhere else would have him.”
Of course, Lonnie and I both knew that just because they said segregation had ended, it really hadn’t. It was a taboo subject during our rides back and forth to the restaurant on the swash at Windy Hill. There were even a handful of black kids going to Myrtle Beach High School, but all the colored folks on the beach still lived on “The Hill” as the Booker T. Washington neighborhood was known to all the locals.
“We’d have Muddy Waters and Marvin Gaye and Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Billie Holliday, Lena Horne, Fats Domino, Cab Calloway, Ray Charles and James Brown. Man, we had them all back in the day, everybody who was anybody played Charlie’s,” he continued. “Charlie’s was so successful that the KKK came a calling and shot the place up one Saturday night. It was never quite the same after that. They cut Charlie up pretty good. I was just a young buck, ’bout your age, and my mama didn’t want me working there either. I was bussing tables and helping out in the kitchen. And I was taking my fun where I could find it.
“I used to see Mr. Cooter in there too. I know you know Mr. Cooter’s boys. Once I saw Charlie hand Mr. Cooter a cigarette box full of cash, bustin’ at the seams. I can’t begin to tell you how much cash was in that box. I’m guessing some of that money made it to Sheriff Sasser too, least that’s what Pork Chop said.”
Cooter Johnson was a local legend. Many imagined he was affiliated with the Mafia, but that was more fiction than fact. He had been affiliated with some whiskey running in North Wilkesboro before moving to the beach. Cooter’s bootlegging background reputedly went back seven generations to the Rev. Daniel Call, who, because of pressure from his congregation, sold his still to whiskey enthusiast and burgeoning entrepreneur Jack Daniel.
Cooter’s crown jewel was the Sanctuary on Hwy 501. Built on the site of the old Seminole Indian Village renowned for ’gator wrestling, the Sanctuary was best known as a burlesque club and piano bar. The sheriff and many local and state politicians all frequented the Sanctuary. Thus, Cooter often found the ear of many a law officer on Saturday night before the judge set bonds on Monday morning. Charlie would’ve been needing those connections.
The good times and many of the big acts faded after Charlie’s death in 1955 but Lonnie learned to cook, and he stayed right there until the last year, 1965, when Charlie’s Place closed for good. By then it had become known as Whispering Pines. Most folks attributed the name change to the KKK, but Lonnie remembered it differently. “When Billie Holiday sang at Charlie’s Place, the pine trees whispered along with the music and the ocean breezes. That’s where the name came from right there.
“That was some kinda juke joint music. The new crap they playing now is not hardly music anyways.” Lonnie would attest. “It's just some college be-bop.”
After work on the way back from White Point we listened to the late-night AM shows on WLAC out of Nashville. The Deejays John R., Nobles, and Hoss would spin R&B classics by many of the Charlie’s Place veterans. Lonnie reveled in recognizing the many acts he’d seen there: Little Richard, Ray Charles, Fats Domino, Jackie Wilson and the Drifters.
“I shore wish you couda heard what I seen.”
Between the crazy ad pitches with slogans that lent themselves to sexual double-entendres, there were cuts by Aretha Franklin, B.B. King, James Brown and Otis Redding. An occasional gospel tune came on late on Saturday nights, just before slipping into Sunday morning. The roots of soul music and R&B streaming across the airwaves drowning out the air-cooled VW while we cruised down the Kings Highway with the windows down and the music blaring. Performers of later years, such as Robbie Robertson, Johnny Winter and Duane Allman, would credit WLAC out of Nashville as a source of inspiration for their artistic development. Lonnie nipped at the second little bottle with the four roses on the label before I dropped him off at the pool hall on Dunbar Street.
When I got home, I would take my transistor radio and hide it under the covers so my mama wouldn’t hear it. It wasn’t really portable — it plugged in. She didn’t much mind in the summer.
Life was good on the beach.
1968 — The summer of strife and the death of idealism
In 1968 there were 15 black kids enrolled to attend Myrtle Beach High School, but all the “colored folks” still lived on The Hill. At this point in time, respectable folks of both races used “Negro” in favor of “colored” to denote African Americans. Like I said, Malcom X had not made it to our town, yet.
As much of the rest of the U.S. was torn over civil rights and desegregation, Myrtle Beach was somewhat removed from the intense struggle. Many locals attributed this phenomenon to the fact that Myrtle Beach was a racial/ethnic melting pot despite being attached to Horry County. Horry County, of course, had a long and storied history of Klan activity beginning in the 20s. Not so much on the beach but the outlying rural communities harbored many souls bent on perpetuating white supremacy and moral authority. Conversely, at the beach there was a large Jewish community as well as Lebanese, Greek and Italian immigrants and a well established and prosperous black community. Added to this mixture many people moved in from “up north” set up shop and became accepted members of the community.
Though racial tensions were surely present throughout the era, the area remained a family summer vacation spot — a place to get away from the worries of the world. Plus, our black community had the “Black Pearl” – Atlantic Beach. This idyllic perception was perpetuated by Myrtle Beach Sun publisher Mark Garner.
Prior to the first five black students’ appearance on the steps of MBHS in 1965, the black students were bussed 15 miles to Conway and attended the Whittemore High School. This separate, kind-a-sort-a equal arrangement satisfied the local church deacons. Everyone worked together at the restaurants, hotels and amusements and everyone had their place and the colored folks stayed off the sand — until now.
Had I thought to ask any of my black classmates how they liked going to MBHS, I might have learned they were not so enamored with the experiment either. Besides unfriendly scowls and some thoughtless pranks, they were forced to leave most of their friends at Whittemore only to be blocked from taking honors classes at their new school. Few of them got into the clubs or on the varsity teams before 1968.
When I picked up Lonnie the week before Easter in 1968, the first thing I noticed was he, like many others, had abandoned his conk in favor of a tight natural, not quite a “fro.”
I thought, “Oh, hell. What is Yeargin gonna say?”
The non-conforming hairstyles being adapted by most African Americans met a backlash, like many other aspects of the Civil Rights Movement, and were deemed “unprofessional” or “radical.” I sensed a tense shift in Lonnie’s easy-going attitude, but we stopped by Jay-rome’s same as always.
On the way home that night, we got the news on WLAC — Reverend King was dead. Lonnie took a long slow drag off the little bottle with the four roses.
“Black folks have permanent enemies, no permanent friends,” was all he said, staring resolutely out the window.
The news was shocking, and my first thought was what Dr. King’s death meant for Lonnie, to all his friends and neighbors on The Hill. However, there was little time to think of that as we took a left on to Carver Street, heading toward “The Friendly Barbershop.” People were in the streets weeping, waving their hands in despair. A single gunshot cut into that Thursday night air. Then another and another. Not aimed with intention but slung vainly into the night air. Chicago and Washington burned, along with many other cities across the United States. Many died. The racial ghetto created by segregation, poverty and LBJ’s Great Society had ignited with Dr. King’s assignation.
I did not feel in danger but quickly found myself diverted by a police car and being directed away with a few other white people. Lonnie jumped out of the VW and waved good-bye. It would the last time I saw him. On Friday when I pulled up to the white block house on Dunbar Street there, was no one in the aqua colored, scalloped back Schott spring leg chair.
Tim Askins is a USCG Master Mariner and has been a licensed captain since 1980. He continues to operate his real estate development and construction business while devoting time to his farm, children, and wife, Karen. He is an advocate for wildlife habitat with Quail Forever and returning ex-convicts to the workplace with the Turning Leaf Project.
Princess Di backstage with Genesis, date unknown. Image courtesy Pinterest.
Crab Pot
Dancing with Princess Diana and other concert adventures
By Charles W. Waring III
Mr. Alexander has stuck with musical concerts in his earlier column, so I’ll take movable music for $500. When I was 15 and working at Mr. Burbage’s and cutting grass to make summer spending money, a few of us were floating around late one afternoon on South Battery in the swimming pool that belonged to Dr. and Mrs. Bowles; their son, Robert, was hosting his pals for one of our regular gatherings. Sometimes girls were brave and joined us but often we were just a rough and ready bunch of chaps enjoying groovy tunes on the stereo and sipping cold beer or perhaps a daiquiri. (Remember, this was a different Charleston and era.)
As best I can recall, we were listening to the erstwhile Super 95 Soul and heard a promotion for an upcoming Commodores concert at the Coliseum in Columbia. We all decided we had to go. I thought it might be a good opportunity to spend a few days with my first cousins in our state’s capital, and my mother rang her sister-in-law and made it happen. Cousin Harry was away at some soccer camp and Cousin Fran was at Pawley’s Island, leaving J. Carlisle Oxner III — now CEO of Arthur State Bank — as my host. He purchased a ticket for me, and I arranged for how we would meet.
To protect my cohorts, I will not get into the legal infractions on I-26, but let’s just say that certain events diverted us temporarily to St. George, where the jailor happened to be a distant cousin of my mother, so Mom was helpful in springing the unnamed driver who was briefly in the clinker. We were way ahead of schedule, so the show got back on the road, and I was in Columbia in good time for the concert. The young wretch was in the very place where I had seen “B&B’s Greatest Show on Earth” just a few years earlier with my siblings and now I was listening to all the great dancing tunes from one of my favorite soul groups. Isn’t growing up grand? I had no date, so there was no slow dancing to “Easy,” but I was mentally transported to those magic moments the East Bay Playground where a bear hug was the best a chap could do. I remember the excitement that filled the Coliseum and the frustration of no dance floor or date. It was still fun and a great warm up for a week of waterskiing and keg parties on Lake Katherine.
I did not make any effort to see another big concert until I got to college. Other than the regional shagging bands that came to Sewanee, I saw one memorable concert off campus, and it was Billy Joel in Nashville during his “An Innocent Man Tour” in 1984. Looking back, I am surprised the tour was not named after his “Goodnight Saigon” song because the concert opened with the sounds of helicopters behind the curtains, and then, he went into the sad tune about the Vietnam War. Joel is quite a showman, and he is still on tour; go, if you are able.
Toward the end of my college career, I was in London before I was to take two classes at Oxford’s St. John’s College at a special summer program; this would give me enough hours to graduate, as I had withdrawn after a car accident in my junior year. No one wishes to have a car accident, but this one allowed me to do a whole lot of interesting things that I would have otherwise missed. Upon my arrival at my fraternity brother’s flat in London, I learned that several other SAE brothers were in the city and sleeping on Fenner French’s floor to attend a concert and that they had purchased a ticket for me. We were going to see Phil Collins and his Genesis at Wembley Stadium. This sounded like a fine idea, but I had no idea that I would later be able to say that I was dancing with Princess Diana at a Genesis concert. Well, of course she was way up high in a VIP box with the current King Charles III. The spotlight went over to Princess Di throughout the concert, and she blew kisses at the audience. Naturally, I am sure I caught one.
Speaking of “royalty,” I wish I could repeat another concert experience, but Prince is no longer with us. Susu and I had media tickets and were under the “purple rain” when the confetti fell. Seems he was just a few feet below us, and he delivered something extraordinary and played several encores; he “owned” the audience at the North Charleston Coliseum. In that same location, we later went with friends to see Garth Brooks, and that was no disappointment.
My favorite concert of all time was seven years ago and with Earth, Wind and Fire at the stadium on Daniel Island. We went with longtime friends, and I remember feeling the need to catch the breeze up high. It was a bit warm and the breeze at sunset was just the remedy. Before I knew it, I was on my feet and swaying to “September” in September. The temps continued to mellow, and the sky was full of pink and orange clouds, and one of the grooviest bands of all time was bringing on the boogie fest. I think there is a video of the wretch dancing, but I’ll be derned if I am releasing it. With a nod to Manchester, Vermont’s most Interesting Man in the World, keep dancing, my friends.
Charles W. Waring III is publisher and editor-in-chief of the Charleston Mercury. He is a graduate of Porter Gaud, The University of the South, and the higher education one gets attentively listening to older gents on long car rides and happy hunting trips.
Newsletter Rambler
Ciao, Nancy
Economic indicators point to a major surge in Italian wine sales during the first quarter of 2023. In other news, the Washington, D.C. grapevine is abuzz with rumors that Nancy Pelosi is looking for the nod to be ambassador to Italy if she loses the coveted House speakership and the lavish office with the I-own-this-town views that go with it. If the GOP runs the table and takes the Senate, we expect to witness the fastest confirmation process known to Capitol Hill. Meanwhile, other spies suggest that the fact that Uncle Sam’s prized staycation on the Boot remains vacant says a lot about the GOP’s fall fortunes.
Flood me, no trickle
Meanwhile, President Biden said at a recent rally that he is no fan of trickle-down economics. Instead, we know from Hunter Biden’s laptop, confirmed as being a real deal by The Washington Post, CNN and the New York Times, the “Big Man” has a history of being impatient for a return on his time in office; he reportedly sends his son — the “smartest guy he knows” — to get a flood of cash from Chinese business interests.
Three score tiger turns on the taps?
While we are talking about the Chinese, we finally have determined what has produced all the precipitation we have experienced in the last three months. Climate change? No, this is the Year of Water Tiger, which only happens every 60 years. Spies from the Upstate report that Clemson fans are looking to corner the market on orange umbrellas.
Happy Rosh Hashanah
Thinking in ancient cultures reminds us that, although it may say 2022 on the calendar, we are actually in year 5782 according to the Jewish calendar. At the end of next week, Jews will celebrate Rosh Hashanah, which begins Sunday, September 25, and ends in the evening of Tuesday, September 27. As our educated readers well know, the Hebrew calendar is a lunar/solar calendar and is the official calendar in Israel. The years count up from the “calculation” of when the Earth was created. Sporting sorts should not confuse the Hebrew calendar with the solunar table that suggests the best days and times to pursue your quarry.
Floridization of Lowcountry
We first saw development around every marina known to the Lowcountry. Then, we had roseate spoonbills relocate by the hundreds to the Palmetto State. In the most recent news, the once rare tarpon seems to be caught and released daily for those chasing them and posting photos on Facebook. What’s next, planting orange groves along our roadsides? Slip on those flip-flops, Lowcountry, and put on your relax.
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Warm regards,
Team Mercury