Post #16: Challenge the Orthodoxies

Bobby Kennedy campaigning for President in 1968

I'm the first to admit it: I reacted too often in the Legislature to things I never should have concerned myself with. Bouts with Governors Sanford and Haley... squabbles with colleagues... a cheap quip when I should have kept my mouth shut. The lesson has been learned.

Those reactionary characteristics of my time in the Legislature overshadow what I am most proud of, and that was thinking in an outside-of-the-box, proactive manner when it came to crafting legislation. It's what led to my casino legislation (which creates jobs and revenue to fix roads), but it also led to things such as my ethics plan, my conservation proposals and my call for stronger domestic violence laws.

I often said South Carolina had all the tools needed to be successful, but we lacked leadership and vision. One of the key components to being a visionary is the ability to challenge the orthodoxy.

One of my favorite movies is Moneyball-- not because of the acting, but because the theme of the movie is to challenge the way the world does things. Near the end of the movie, Billy Beane (played by Brad Pitt) goes to Boston to entertain a job offer from the Red Sox owner, John Henry. This is how Henry pitched the offer to Beane:

"I know you are taking it in the teeth, but the first guy through the wall... he always gets bloody... always. This is threatening not just a way of doing business... but in their minds, it's threatening the game. Really what it's threatening is their livelihood, their jobs. It's threatening the way they do things... and every time that happens, whether it's the government, a way of doing business, whatever, the people who are holding the reins - they have their hands on the switch - they go batshit crazy."

What a quote! I have watched that clip so many times that I can nearly recite it verbatim. When I ruffled feathers for introducing casino legislation, I knew it was coming. When I introduced what was called the strongest ethics reform legislation in a generation, I knew I was going to take it on the chin, but I always drew inspiration from Robert Kennedy's famous speech in Cape Town, South Africa. Maybe my favorite part of the speech is this excerpt:

"'There is,' said an Italian philosopher, 'nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.' Yet this is the measure of the task of your generation, and the road is strewn with many dangers.
        First, is the danger of futility: the belief there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array of the world's ills-against misery and ignorance, injustice and violence. Yet many of the world's greatest movements, of thought and action, have flowed from the work of a single man. A young monk began the Protestant Reformation, a young general extended an empire from Macedonia to the borders of the earth, and a young woman reclaimed the territory of France. It was a young Italian explorer who discovered the New World, and the thirty-two-year-old Thomas Jefferson who proclaimed that all men are created equal. 'Give me a place to stand,' said Archimedes, 'and I will move the world.' These men moved the world, and so can we all."

With all of this said though, I realized how hard it is to change even one's hometown. I often remark, "I got elected thinking I could change the world, but then found out I couldn't even change my own county."  It is frustrating, but change doesn't come easily. So whatever it is, your business, your view on your community, something that you think needs to be challenged, I encourage you to saddle up and take it on. It's exhausting, but it's fun... and if you don't, you'll always regret it.

Post #15: Clowns, Circuses and the General Assembly

"Look around you. We are the winners! We are the best our communities have to offer!"
-The late John Graham Altman (R-Charleston)

Yesterday, I ventured over to "Importantville" (aka The Statehouse) to catch up with a former colleague. Not because I wanted to be there, but because something about holding the title of "Representative" blocks one from returning phone calls, and I had to talk (not the people's) business.

I only work a block and half away from the place, so I walked over just before noon. As a former member, I still retain floor privileges in both the House and Senate. Since the House had not yet convened, I ventured over to the Senate to see some old friends: McGill, Peeler, O'Dell, Coleman, Cromer, Sheheen and Larry Martin. These guys "get it." They know what their job is, and they do it. The Senate really is the firewall that protects South Carolina from what happens in the House.

Speaking of the House, at about 12:15, I ventured over to the House floor. Of course, being a quarter past noon, the House had not yet convened... they run about 15-30 minutes behind on a fairly regular basis (unless food, drink or fundraisers are involved). Anyway, as I stood at the back of the Chamber talking to the Sergeant and my good friend, Rep. Derham Cole, I couldn't help but think of the quote at the top of this page that Rep. Altman would use sarcastically. These are the best that communities could offer up. These people, the General Assembly, is a collective representation of the Palmetto State. Sure, it may be true, but I refuse to believe that.

House Chamber

As the members filed in one by one, it was as though I was watching the opening act in the Ringling Bros. "Big Tent." You had the one-eyed man, the bearded lady, the fire-eater... the list goes on.

Now, before you say it, allow me: Yes, I know I was once a member of that clown car, but I learned quickly that I did not need to be there, so I left. As I told one reporter upon leaving the Legislature:

 "They're losing their juggler, but the show will go on!"

Leadership is a privilege to better the lives of others. It is not an opportunity to satisfy personal greed.
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Leadership is a privilege to better the lives of others. It is not an opportunity to satisfy personal greed.
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Post #14: Pung Waden, M.D.

Pung Waden at home

He didn't have a medical degree, but Pung Waden was certainly a doctor. He could heal diseases with homemade remedies. He could cure the cough with a swig of pot liquor. And he could heal a broken soul just by listening to the old man's wise advice through his deep drawl.

Pung was a herb doctor, so they say, a big difference between that profession and one of a root doctor. He didn't practice voo-doo, he just knew that every plant in the ground had a reason for being there, and he oftentimes knew that reason-- like making soot from burning broom straw, then rubbing it on a case of shingles to keep it from burning.

Maybe Pung's favorite ingredient was corn. He fed the hogs he ate with corn; he ate corn just like all of us do, but most importantly, Pung made his most famous potion out of corn: moonshine. On one occasion, deputies from SLED busted Pung's still. Fortunately for Pung, one of Chief J.P. Strom's favorite fishing holes was right below Pung's house and the Chief had known Pung for quite some time. I won't go into details, but that moonshine still was operational again about a week after it was busted up.

Some who knew Pung may tell you that moonshine was his secret ingredient to all of his other cures. That a little bit of moonshine goes a long way. I won't argue with that... a little alcohol has cured several ailments of mine on occasion. But I can recall the visitors Pung would have from places as far away as Michigan and New Jersey, and I would wonder if they were there for the 'shine or the herbal remedies. There had to be something more.

Pung Waden was born on the same piece of property he would later die on, a piece of land that members of my family still own today. My grandfather was an only child, and just growing up a poke from Pung, he would often say that Pung was the closest thing he ever had to a brother. He was like a family member to all of us, and was larger than life to all of my grandfather's friends. (I can still remember his old hound "Fish Head"-- given that name because he ate the fish heads and guts of caught and cleaned bream!)

Shortly before Pung passed away, The State newspaper in Columbia did several stories on him. With the help of former political reporter John O'Connor, I dug up those articles a few years ago, here they are:
 

FOLK REMEDY PUT FLU BUG ON THE RUN Bill McDonald, State Columnist The last time I talked to William "Pung" Waden was six months ago, when I visited his rural home in Blythewood to talk about his folk medicine and cures. "Pung" is 83. Among the things he learned long ago was the exercise of charm. He's a great teller of stories and can sit for hours spinning tales of his successes. A few weeks ago I called to tell him I was sick. Maybe even needed a folk remedy. "So you want to cure the flu?" he said over the telephone, his voice as slow and deep as a bend in the Mississippi River. "Now, if you really sick, you need to go to the doctor. But I can go to the woods and make some herb medicine. I cured a heap of folks that way."

Pung doesn't charge for his folk remedies. So I won't charge for passing along his RX for flu. You simply gather some horehound and devil shoestring and mix it with the sap from some sweet gum, maple and pine trees. "Boil it all down," Pung says, then add a pinch of soda and a couple of teaspoons of turpentine. After a few swallows you'll be able to run the Boston Marathon (and probably even win). Want to try it?

Go ahead, try it next time you get the flu! I bet you don't know where to begin looking for devil shoestring or horehound though.

Then there was this profile by Mr. McDonald.

HERB DOCTOR BILL McDONALD, Staff Writer Down a dirt road a poke from the stoplight in Blythewood, a dilapidated old clapboard house sits in a forest clearing dotted with chinaberry trees. The occupants of the house and land are William "Pung" Waden, two tick hounds, a roisterous old rooster and a half dozen Duroc hogs that break out from their wooden pens once or twice a year and run loose over the rural landscape. Off and on for 40 years now, Waden, 84, has treated a variety of stomach pains, migraine headaches, rheumatism and arthritis with herbs.

"Pung, I got me a bad hurtin'," one visitor moaned one cool spring morning. Another praised a liniment and asked if Waden could give her a jar for an arthritic aunt in Orangeburg. The clapboard shack is Waden's house, his office, and, on occasion, the community's alternative drugstore. Some call Waden a medicine man. Waden calls himself an "herb doctor." Whatever he is called, Waden says he's not a "root doctor" or practitioner of African voodoo: "I don't hurt nobody," he said. "You can't pay me to put a spell on people." Some days the stream of visitors arriving at Waden's shack in their late- model Cadillacs or two-tone Thunderbirds or asthmatic trucks, bearing license tags from as far away as Florida and Maryland, are not welcomed with open arms. Such was the case one recent morning. Slumped down in a chair on his front porch, Waden gazed glumly out on the grassless yard while a rooster scurried past a chinaberry tree, flapping its wings: "I wish I felt as spry as that rooster," he said, bundled up in a pile of shirts and sweaters and wearing a tweed hat over his graying head -- an appearance which gave him the look of a gnome. In a slow, rumbling voice, which gave no sign of the pain behind his words, Waden described his present state of "de-crep-i-ta-tion." He recently broke an ankle climbing over the fence of his hog pen while trying to mend a hole his hogs had used as an escape route. "A piece of board kicked back on me and broke the bone loose from here," he said, reaching down and placing a thumb and index finger on the shinbone leading to his ankle. "I couldn't hardly walk." The bone is knitting slowly, he said, but the pain has now jumped into his right shoulder, and it's excruciating. He can't sleep at night. "Can't lift nothing, either. Can't even go to the woods and get my herbs." Thus it is that life's vexations, the ones afflicting most ordinary mortals, also can harry someone as exalted as an "herb doctor." But Waden would never consider going to a doctor. He broke into laughter at the very thought: "Why I need to do that? I ain't never been under a doctor in my life. I know what's wrong with me. I'm trying to kill myself. If I had went, the doctor woulda ripped me open. I'm doing my own remedy and curing myself." The ankle is soaked each day in a mix of turpentine, apple cider and epsom salts. Waden also massages it, feeling and pushing the bone gently with hands that look as practised as a surgeon's. By some miracle of healing, the bone is mending. Unlike some fad herb healers, Waden does not promise cures or push some miracle plant. (And he only doctors on broken bones when he's the patient, he said.) While he believes he can relieve minor aches and pains, he doesn't do any diagnosing or consider himself a substitute for a doctor. "Some folks I advise to go to the doctor right off," he said. "But a heapa times the doctor can't find it. So they come back to me." One lady came to see him because she hadn't been able to retain food for days. Everything she ate, she regurgitated. He suspected the source of the trouble right off:"A twisted gut." "I've seen it in cows, too," said Waden, who also treats livestock. "I told the lady to go to a special doctor, not an ordinary doctor." Waden's confidence in his remedies comes from experience and religious faith. "God'll cure every pain in your body. All you gotta do is trust him. He'll let you get up and travel again." He started learning about herbs when he was a young boy. His mother and his grandmother, a former slave, showed him how to gather the "lady five finger" and "ginger root" and boil them to make a broth. "It'll cure the blind staggers and high blood in a minute," he said. "It'll rush that blood down. It'll thin it out." For treating rheumatism, he gathers "the pokeweed root, the angle berry root, the slip elder root, and boil them down" to make a liniment. For treating an upset stomach, the "slip elder root works everytime," he said. In decades of healing, Waden, a first-grade dropout, has never charged anyone. If he helps someone, and the person feels grateful, "then they can make a small donation. I don't want the name of robbing a man and woman, taking their money and telling lies. A lot of people want me to put a price on it, but I can't do it." Armed as he is with his encyclopedic knowledge of herbs, Waden said he has little fear of disease or being carried away in a plague. The only thing he's ever feared is falling "over his head" into a pond of water. "That water don't know nobody," he said, "and you can't drink all of it."

Bill McDonald wrote this last one just after Pung passed away. The article includes an anecdote from my grandfather, who always claimed Pung cured him of Shingles. Missing from that story is the part where Pung and my grandfather had to chase down the rooster... climbing on top of Pung's tin roof to finally catch the chicken:

FOLK HEALER WAS SPECIAL BILL MCDONALD, Staff Writer Whatever the weather or time of day, visitors would respectfully wait outside his three-room, sharecropper house near Ridgeway. ``Mr. Pung,'' they would say to the 92-year-old folk healer who died last week in a nursing home, ``I got me a bad hurtin'.''

Pung Waden would serve the petitioners from a storehouse of herbs and roots mixed in pungent concoctions, his deep voice always rumbling with conviction. The clapboard house was his home, his office and the community's alternative drugstore. And one seldom visited when there weren't cars from as far away as Connecticut, New Jersey or Alabama. Herb doctor.Waden called himself ``a herb doctor.'' He also took pains to ensure that no one confused him with ``a root doctor'' or practitioner of ``voodoo.'' ``I never hurt anybody,'' he would say in a marvelously rich voice that sounded as if God were speaking from a clearing in the forest. ``You couldn't pay me to put a spell on people.'' Whatever he was called, Waden's advice was easily sought. Neighbors also would praise his liniments and wonder if Waden could send jars of it to an arthritic relative. ``What Pung tells you is true fact,'' a satisfied customer once told me. Cured of shingles. Waden's landlord and longtime friend, Walter B. Brown of Winnsboro, recalls the day Waden cured him of shingles with a nonherbal remedy. ``Pung cut the toe off a black chicken and rubbed the blood on my stomach. I haven't had shingles since,'' the retired vice president and lobbyist with Norfolk Southern Railroad says. A research team from the Medical University of South Carolina also visited Waden once. ``Pung knew every herb and root in the world, and he loved people to visit and talk with him about it,'' Brown recalls. Ginger root.Waden learned about herbs from his grandmother, a former slave. She taught Waden how to make a broth from the ``lady five finger'' and ``ginger root,'' for example, that cured ``the blind staggers and high blood.'' But the first-grade dropout never charged anyone. If he helped someone, and they felt grateful, ``they can make a small donation. But I don't want the name of robbing anyone.'' Armed as he was with an encyclopedic knowledge of herbs, Waden also had little fear of illness or ``being carried away by a plague.'' The only thing he feared, he told me once, was ``falling over my head'' into a fishing pond. ``The pond doesn't know me, and I can't drink all of it!'' Waden was a kind, gentle man, a friend and ``herb doctor'' whose reputation stretched across the Midlands. His healing sprang from the need of people living in poverty to make do with what they found on the land. And I, for one, will sorely miss him. Bill McDonald's column appears every Thursday and Sunday in The State.

We all miss Pung... He was a character, and one heckuva doctor!

Post #13: Betting on South Carolina

“Some men see things as they are and ask, ‘Why?’ I dream of things that have never been and ask, ‘Why not?’”

Often attributed to Robert Kennedy, it was another famous Irishman, George Bernard Shaw, who spoke those words. Hardly a day goes by that I am not reminded of this quote in some fashion, and during my time in the State House I reminded myself of this question in the form of a plaque on my desk. Read it again, and then think of South Carolina.

In my farewell address to the legislature, I remarked that South Carolina has all of the tools needed to be successful but we only lack two things: leadership and vision. I can join the chorus and complain about the leadership aspect of that, or I can build upon the vision aspect in this op-ed and offer a solution; I choose to do the latter.

As someone who served with the decision-makers in Columbia, I will be the first to admit that a tax is not going to be raised in South Carolina—nor should one be raised. As South Carolinians, we continue to hear about the horrible conditions of our roads and bridges—conditions that will cost an estimated $28 Billion to fix. That money is not going to raise itself, and it seems we only have two options: raising taxes to pay for it, or allowing senators with minds from the past to borrow it from future generations like mine.

But there is one alternative, and it ties back into the quote I began this opinion piece with—the idea of asking why not?

As I mentioned, South Carolina has all of the tools to be successful. One of those tools is our tourism hotspot, Myrtle Beach. Think about it, and then tell me what location is better suited in the southeastern United States for casino gaming.

I have seen numbers that show where highly-taxed and regulated gaming in South Carolina would generate $2.5 Billion per year in state revenue, a number that could, if I had my way, be put to fixing our roads and eliminating the vehicle property tax.

But surely the Legislature and Governor are already working on fixing roads, right? If putting a borrowed $600 Million in one-time money is fixing our $28 Billion problem, then yes, they’re working on it—but do not think they are going to lower your vehicle property tax for a second. They’re simply robbing Peter to pay Paul.

The monies generated from this proposal would be staggering, and would forever change South Carolina for the better. Casinos would create thousands of jobs in the deprived “Corridor of Shame” area of our state, and would help boost businesses across the Palmetto State: road contractors, food/beverage industry, general contractors, homebuilders, retail merchants, building suppliers, etc., all benefiting our state’s economy. What other idea takes thousands off of the unemployment rolls by giving them jobs that pay higher than the state average?

The reduction or elimination of the vehicle property tax would put hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars back in the pockets of working South Carolinians, money that could be spent on groceries and household goods, among other things.

We oftentimes hear that there is no silver bullet answer to fixing our problems, and oftentimes that is a true assessment. But I also believe in the idea that you miss 100 percent of the shots you never take.

So I’ll paraphrase Mr. Shaw in closing: “Some men see South Carolina’s problems and do nothing, I see South Carolina’s problems and offer a solution to do something about them.” Let’s take a gamble, and let’s bet on South Carolina’s future.

Post #12: David Brown's Hickory House

 This isn't as much about barbecue as it is about my dad, David Brown. Back in his early 30's, Dad decided he was going into the barbecue business. He learned the tricks of the trade from an elderly black man in eastern North Carolina, and used it to become one of the best barbecue "pitmasters" in the South.

In this 1981 article, The New York Times ran a story on his barbecue, and business boomed. It was hard work, lugging around dead pigs and cutting wood, and he kept awful hours, smoking pigs through the night, but it was rewarding.

A lot has changed in the barbecue business since, and now you see full-size restaurants instead of pits. But this article from the Times illustrates just what being in the barbecue business was all about three decades ago:

IN THE SOUTH, BARBECUE IS THE SPECIALTY

By PATRICIA WELLS

Published: March 25, 1981

"WINNSBORO, S.C. A YEAR and a half ago, David Brown quit his job as a sand salesman, bought an abandoned drive— in movie projection shack just off Highway 321 and opened David Brown's Hickory House Pit Bar-B-Q. Building his business by word of mouth, Mr. Brown now sells more than 1,000 pounds of hickory-smoked, vinegar- and pepper-spiced pork each week. When the restaurant is closed, he caters wedding dinners and banquets.

''People over 25 are fed up with hamburger, they want flavor, they want a change,'' said the 31-year-old South Carolinian, as he loaded a Chinette plate with cole slaw, french fries and pork barbecue slathered with sauce and warmed in a microwave oven.

David Brown's place is typical of the 100 or more pork barbecue houses that have been popular around the state since the 1940's, when ''eating out'' first became fashionable in rural areas.

Like most pork houses, Brown's is family-run, serves no liquor and offers a limited menu that includes pork barbecue sandwiches, Brunswick stew and pies baked each day by Mr. Brown's 81-year-old grandmother.

The pork houses - usually no more than cement block structures set off seldom-traveled roads - are an outgrowth of the traditional Southern family barbecue. As small farms died out and families scattered, these barbecue restaurants have served to keep a tradition alive and to satisfy the South Carolina appetite for this spicy, filling ritual.

Now, on a given weekend, more than 80,000 pounds of smoked pork is sold in places like Fat Willy's Hawg House in Fort Mill, or Maurice's Piggy Park in West Columbia. Over Pepsi-Cola and Mello Yello and healthy doses of Texas Pete hot sauce, barbecue fanciers fill the sparsely appointed houses arguing the merits of hickory vs. oaksmoked pork, chopped vs. sliced, the flavor of hams vs. shoulders.

Yet most connoisseurs agree that there's only one authentic way to smoke a pig: whole, in an outdoor pit, over snow-white hardwood coals. Ideally, the pork should cook a full 16 hours, first fat side, or back side up to keep the meat moist, then turned fat side down halfway through, to insure even cooking. However it's done, the pork must be cooked until the meat falls off the bone, then it's chopped or sliced and seasoned with a variety of sauces.

Mr. Brown cooks whole carcasses over hickory wood coals, burning up some four cords of wood each week. He chops the lean, moist pork finely, then sauces it with a low country-style sauce, a simple mixture of apple cider vinegar and red pepper.

''I don't believe in covering up my barbecue with ketchup or mustard; I want people to taste the meat,'' Mr. Brown said. Some sauces are tart and mustard-based, others sweet and tomatobased and still others are a combination of the two. Most South Carolinian barbecue lovers agree that the low country, or coast plains area of the state, produces the authentic sauce. When prepared in proper fiery proportions, it can make the eyes water.

At its best, pork barbecue is crusty on the outside, lean, chewy and finely chopped, and lightly dosed with an assertive vinegar and pepper sauce that brings out the sweet, smoked flavor of the meat.

As with many traditional foods, pork barbecue has come to represent more than just a dish. It is a folk ceremony, really, full of history, ritual and an etiquette all its own. When eating barbecue, there are a number of ''rules'' to follow:

- With pork barbecue, you drink Pepsi-Cola or Pabst Blue Ribbon, no other brands. Ladies drink iced tea, with plenty of sugar.

- The barbecue is eaten with lots of bland, starchy foods, such as white buns, white rice and candied sweet potatoes, to take the heat off the spicy pork.

- Chinette plates, not simple paper plates, are essential, for they absorb moisture better.

As if the stomach needed a space filler after this, one must have dessert, the sweeter the better. When barbecue is served at home, as it is traditionally in the low country on Thanksgiving and Christmas, it is followed by such typically American fare as red velvet cake or coconut cake.

After spending a long day sampling the fare at half a dozen barbecue houses around the state, it is safe to say that good barbecue is hard to find. But as a culinary exercise, it's worth the effort. It's authentically American, and inexpensive. A high-priced all-you-can-eat meal won't cost more than $4. (Be forewarned, however, that many of the family-run houses are really run for the extended family and friends, and if you're not known, you may just be turned away.)

Besides David Brown's (at the southern edge of Winnsboro, where Highway 321 Business and Highway 321 Bypass split), excellent authentic barbecue can be found at Country Cousin Bar-B-Que on Highway 52 South in Scranton, in northeastern South Carolina. (Most barbecue houses are open Thursday through Saturday.)

A book, ''Hog Heaven,'' a thorough and amusing guide to South Carolina barbecue houses, has recently been published. Written by two young South Carolinians, Allie Patricia Wall and Ron L. Layne, the book is available for $3.95, plus 75 cents for postage and handling, from the Sandlapper Store Inc., P.O. Box 841, Lexington, S.C. 29072.

As the authors say, it is the love of cooking, not the money, that keeps most barbecue houses going. And as they point out, the quality of the food can't always be gauged by the quality of the building - some of the most delectable barbecue in South Carolina can be found in the seediest surroundings."

Post #11: 2804 N. Ocean Blvd

"...My whole life has been bathed in these waters. I lived through a thousand undertows, ten thousand hush puppies, two honeymoons, five hurricanes, a never-ending sunburn, untold jellyfish stings, a dozen excellent drunks, two Coast Guard interventions, a hammerhead as long as a Boston Whaler, and one unfortunate misunderstanding in the Breaker’s Lounge. Here I saw the most beautiful mermaids God ever constructed, the ugliest oyster I ever ate, and a hermit crab with a Rebel flag painted on its back.  As a child I moved ten tons of sand, one plastic bucket at a time, and as a grown man I waited two hours outside Captain Anderson’s in Panama City for a piece of grouper and some French fried potatoes.

Now I wonder. I wonder if the only way I will see my Gulf in the future is through the open window of a dented Chevrolet Biscayne, Porter Wagoner on the radio, vinyl seats crammed with cousins, beach balls, fried chicken, cold biscuits, and a Coleman thermos full of sweet iced tea. We rush to it, slipping through speed traps, watching for the shrouds of Spanish moss, the first long bridge. And then there it is, the sand white, the water clean. I can keep it that way. I have the power, as long as memory holds.

The first time I saw it was 1965. My mother was convinced the sharks could crawl on shore and snatch us, so we darted in and out of the water like magpies, my brothers, my cousins, and me.  My grandmother wandered the shoreline, talking to herself and her dead husband under the brim of her bonnet, filling an apron pocket with shells. They found, him and her, some pretty ones. My mother and Aunt Juanita rolled up their blue jeans as if they might wade in, but just stood on the sand, looking. They rode a full day, changed a fan belt and a radiator hose, just to come down here and look. My big brother, Sam, unafraid of bull sharks, or sea monsters, waded in chest deep and did not cry when he stuck his hand in a jellyfish, a creature not of this world. We saw the remnants of sand castles, eroded ruins, but the bedtime stories our mother told did not involve keeps or castles, so we did not know for sure what they were. But we understood moving earth. The descendants of well diggers, we dug a hole almost five feet deep, buried Sam up to his neck, and caused my mother a small heart seizure, because she was convinced every trickling wave was the incoming tide. At dusk we sent cannonballs pounding into a swimming pool the size of a stock trough, the water spiked with so much chlorine it turned our hair green and our eyes the color of cherry cough drops. That night we wandered aisles of coconut monkey heads, embalmed baby sharks, and plastic grapefruit spoons, putted golf balls through the legs of a cement dinosaur, and begged to stay just one more day. Later, our sunburn slathered in Avon lotion, we ate tomato sandwiches and barbecued potato chips by a rolling television screen. Matt Dillon had yet to make an honest woman of Miss Kitty, and paradise cost fourteen dollars a night, if you remembered to drop off your key..."

Rick Bragg penned that for Garden & Gun magazine just a few weeks after the BP spill a few years back. I agreed with the purpose of his column, and I couldn't help but have flashbacks of my days at our beach house in Cherry Grove while reading some of the descriptions.

Anyone who knows anything about North Myrtle Beach knew it was far enough away from Dirty Myrtle that the roughnecks stayed away. North Myrtle was where the Pee Dee vacationed, which is why my great-grandparents from Bennettsville built this beach house after Hurricane Hazel. We had the Dairy Hut for ice cream that melted down your hand in the salt air; the Barnacle, where we became proud owners of hermit crabs, if only for a few days; the Cherry Grove Pier, home to the landing of the world record tiger shark.

2804 N. Ocean Blvd.

We built dripcastles, we crabbed the inlet, we fished off the seawall in front of the house before beach re-nourishment became a fad. At night we would play gin rummy or just sit in the yard and try to guess what type of boats were in front of the house. We'd leave the front house to go to Boulineau's IGA, Stevens Oyster Roast or Calabash. If we were lucky, we were taken to Barefoot Landing (to look, not buy) or to play putt-putt.

Life was simple. It wasn't until I had a drivers license that I made my first trip to Myrtle Beach. I wasn't impressed... it wasn't "the beach." After we sold our house a few years back, we tried the Edisto route, which I didn't mind, but it wasn't the same. Every year, we trek down to Hilton Head and a shaded pool suffices for the beach.

But every time I want to conjure up a good memory of family and friends, I can always think of Cherry Grove. The smell of salt air, the heat of a beach house that wasn't air-conditioned until the mid-90's, the coolness of sun burn, the taste of the grits cooked in local tap water and the sound of the waves crashing in front of the house. I go back to 2804 N. Ocean Boulevard every summer, even if I'm not there in person.

Post #10: "Hello, Hello, Hello"

The Andy Griffith Show, the embodiment of a small town

I didn't know the man, only met him once, but his son is a friend who married my first cousin. This past weekend I went to the funeral service for Judge "Rock" Rankin in Conway, and despite the pending bad weather, it was a beautiful funeral service.

That term almost sounds like an oxymoron, and it probably is in most places, but not here in South Carolina. Hymns are sung, stories are shared and a preacher, if the departed was pretty active in the church, is going to try his best to make one final plea to the Lord for his former parishioner. That was the case here..

As great a service as it was to Judge Rankin, the stories shed light on the man himself. For years, I have heard the term "people person," and this man may have had few rivals for that title. He embodied what I remember of my earliest years in Small Town, South Carolina-- before my view was jaded by politics, before everyone was classified as "supporter" or "non-supporter."

Judge Rankin greeted everyone he met with a hearty, "Hello, Hello, Hello." He may have been on the Conway Riverwalk or in chambers, but if you went to see Rock Rankin, that's the greeting you got.

What happened to those days? I'm just as guilty as the next person, that when it comes to time, I'm too consumed with my own to worry about how you're doing.

Not to sound like the crazies who constantly gripe about America's best days being behind us (I vehemently disagree with that notion), but what the Hell happened? Was it losing Cronkite? Opie Taylor grew up? Johnny Carson quit appearing through a curtain? People don't sit on front porches anymore. We don't greet one another in passing. Doors are no longer held open. I've long talked about the "dumbing down of America" due to the reality shows and cable news, but there is a self-absorption problem that exceeds even that. Even in business, phone calls and messages don't get returned. Who outside of the 20001 ZIP code is so important that they can't return a phone call?

I remember walking into the Economy Drug Store on Congress Street in Winnsboro with my parents. While Dr. Teal filled prescriptions, someone was going to give me a scoop of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, butter pecan or Superman ice cream. Why? Because that's what you did in a small town. It was as common as smelling like an ash tray when you left Gary Brown's barber shop, or feeding the chickens at Cedar Creek Feed-n-Seed. But that wasn't all-- we also respected one another. I don't care if you were the local banker or if you were from the rough side of town, you and your point of view were respected. There were very few raised voices, because there were more raised glasses. The smallest achievements were celebrated and the greatest insults were forgiven.

Maybe it was WalMart's arrival in Winnsboro that changed that way of life. Maybe it was just my growing up and seeing things as they always were, I don't know. But this I do know-- we need more "Hello, Hello, Hello's" and less Facebook rants and "selfies."

Post #9: Barbecue (n.): smoked pork

Scott's BBQ, Hemingway, S.C.

If you’re still reading this blog, you know me well enough to know I am a self-proclaimed barbecue know-it-all. Some of you would probably leave out that “barbecue” part, but for the purposes of this post, let’s leave it in there. South Carolina is world famous for our barbecue and we have been since the days of our earliest settlers who brought barbecoa from Spain.

Our barbecue tastes today are still influenced by our ancestors. Take mustard-based ‘cue in the Midlands as an example. The area was once called “Saxe Gotha,” founded by German settlers, who have a strong loyalty to mustard. Think of German foods, and while beers and brats come to mind, mustard is the condiment that accompanies it. So it was the German settlers of present-day Lexington, Newberry and parts of Richland County who have given us mustard-based ‘cue.

While many barbecue novices enjoy mustard sauce, I find it only edible on ribs or chicken. Chicken doesn’t hold a smoke flavor the way pork does, and ribs are good in damn near any form. The reason I refuse to eat mustard-based pork is simple though: if the pork is cooked right, you don’t want to cover up the flavor of the meat.

When it comes to mustard itself, you have very strong flavors, strong enough to cover the taste of hickory, apple or pecan smoked meat. So my opinion has always been that one doesn’t like mustard-based barbecue, they like mustard sauce… they may as well drink the stuff, and nine times out of ten, they’re just going to use Maurice’s straight off the shelf.

So let’s talk about real barbecue. The type of barbecue that takes skill to cook and a refined palette to appreciate: red pepper and vinegar-based. Some call it “Lowcountry style,” others call it “Eastern North Carolina,” I simply call it the best.

Sandwich from Scott's BBQ, Hemingway, S.C.

From the West Indies came spices to the Carolina coastal regions (already, you’re comparing German food to Caribbean… no contest!). Over open pits, the early settlers of the region would cook whole hogs over open pits, use vinegar to keep the meat moist, with salt and pepper added for flavor, then have large gatherings (now called a “pickin’”) to eat their slaughter. Over the centuries, the process has become refined, although in some parts of the state you can still find people who will cook hogs over an open pit dug out of the ground. However, in most cases these days, cooks will use raised pits, often times made out of cinder blocks, or they will use steel smokers. (I could go into the details of the many different ways to smoke a pig, and the benefits of using a dry rub, but there are certain tricks that some people don’t like to share… I’m one of those people.)

So, when I think about good barbecue in South Carolina, a certain region comes to my mind. Though I have had great barbecue from New Ellenton, Holly Hill and Walterboro, one region is a barbecue kingdom: the Pee Dee (most precisely, Florence and Williamsburg Counties). The reigning monarch of that BBQ Kingdom is Rodney Scott, of Scott’s B.B.Q. in Hemingway, and the Jack of all trades is Cooper’s Store in Salters (with sausage, bacon, and country ham to die for).

The Scotts and the Coopers have been in the barbecue business for generations, and it shows. You can taste the smoke, just before a little heat from the pepper creeps in. Some people (Brown’s BBQ in Kingstree) will kill the flavor by too much vinegar, but these two families get it just right. In the last few years, Scott’s has generated a cult-like following, with features in Esquire, Garden & Gun, The New York Times, The London Times, and other widely circulated newspapers. Cooper’s is known more regionally, but they too have seen their profile in Garden & Gun.

Cooper's Country Store, Salters, S.C.

Let’s leave it at this: some BBQ joints are known for racist politics, others are known for their food. I’ll let you figure out which is mustard and which is pepper-vinegar. (And for the hillbillies in the Upstate, your tomato-based sauce is not worth mentioning.)

Post #8: Nothing Could Be Finer

Singer Hank Snow famously told country music listeners in 1962 that "I've been everywhere man," then went on to list places such as "Boston, Charleston, Dayton, Louisiana, Washington, Houston, Kingston, Texarkana, Monterey, Ferriday, Santa Fe, Tallapoosa, Glen Rock, Black Rock, Little Rock, Oskaloosa, Tennessee, Hennessey, Chicopee, Spirit Lake, Grand Lake, Devils Lake and Crater Lake."

Unlike Mr. Snow, I haven't been everywhere, man. I haven't been to Dayton or Houston, and don't really care to go to Tallapoosa or Oskaloosa, wherever they are. But as a sales guy for a regional contractor I could probably rewrite this song with South Carolina places, towns and cities.

From the Pee Dee to the Savannah River, the Lowcountry to the Blue Ridge Foothills, I can mark every county off of my list, and chances are, I can locate a place on a map on my first try. But traveling around this state on both business and pleasure, you're only bound to see some things unique to South Carolina.

It's been a few days since my last post, but lunch today led to a discussion about tobacco in the Pee Dee. Man, I can remember stopping in Florence en route to Cherry Grove and seeing trucks full of it at gas stations. Some of my most vivid memories growing up are getting dizzy looking at the rows of tobacco in the Pee Dee, and now, that crop has all but disappeared in South Carolina.

While tobacco, Jimmy Carter's Peanuts and a few towns have disappeared from that road trip to the beach, one thing that hasn't:  Pedro.

South of the Border is one of those places unique to South Carolina. Thanks, for good or bad, to the Schaffer family in Dillon, the place is world famous. Fireworks, hermit crabs, hot dogs or adult "gifts," Pedro and the Schaffers had it all. As one of their famous billboards claimed: "You never sausage a place."

In its hey-day, cars were wall to wall in the parking lot, stopping off to buy fireworks, Blenheim Ginger Ale or pork rinds. Before the state decided to go into the gambling business, a lot of those folks came from North Carolina to play video poker. It was a sight to see, in both good ways and bad, and people loved it. They loved it then for what it offered, they love it now for what it stands for-- a bygone era of roadside Americana. They just don't make'em like they used to-- Enjoy your stop at the Flying J.

Post #7: Sibling Day

OK, I'm a day late and a dollar short, but yesterday was National Sibling Day.

If you're still reading this blog, you're a good enough friend to know that I'm one of two sets of twins. Yes, two pregnancies, four children. Needless to say, that called for some challenging times growing up, I'm sure my parents won't disagree.

Being a twin had its advantages-- shared responsibilities like homework assignments, we had twice the friends, always had someone to defend your position whether right or wrong, and there was always someone to split the chores with, although Meredith always seemed to dodge the dishes.

It certainly had its disadvantages-- the blackmail factor when you got in trouble at school, sharing birthday cakes, sharing a car, sharing most anything for that matter, and though we didn't, everyone else always wanted to compare us. Oh, and there's always the weirdos who think we can feel each others pain. Come on, people.

Anyway, there was never a dull moment growing up, because there was always someone there for us. And that became apparent in our small town. Campaigning, conversations would normally go along these lines:

Me: "Hey, I'm Boyd Brown, running for the State House."
Voter: "Brown. You one of (insert Belinda/Melissa/Melanie's) twins?"
Me: "Yes mam."
Voter: "You got a twin brother?"
Me: "No, that's Russ and Joe. I've got a twin sister, Meredith. She's out there in the car, making sure I get from one place to the other out here."
Voter: "Y'all are the babies. I remember when y'all were born."
Me: "Can I count on your vote?"
Voter: "Is she voting for you?"
Me: "She better."
Voter: "OK then, you got my vote."

That sort of thing happened for years, long before campaigning, and my mom was usually called by the wrong name, given the difficulty which is saying "Melinda." We were "the twins" to most anyone in town, and truth be told, I guess we still are. Happy (belated) Sibling Day, folks. If you're lucky enough to have brothers or sisters, then you're lucky enough.

Meredith, Joe, Jessica (Russ' wife), me, Russ on Lookout Mtn, Montreat

Post #6: A Tradition Unlike Any Other

Everyone has their Masters favorites: CBS Calls, Champions, Holes, Memories.

I was born just a few months shy of Jack Nicklaus winning his last, but I remember sitting in my grandparents' den and watching Tiger Woods win his first. That was 1997, I was eleven, and it is hardly my first or my last memory from the greatest week in sports: Masters week.

I feel as though those of us who grow up in South Carolina have a special relationship with that special place just across the Savannah River and right off of Washington Road. While our state has never produced a Masters champion, Sandlappers have certainly shaped the course of Augusta National... no pun intended.

Outside of Georgia, it's South Carolina who has had the most members join the prestigious club. Famously, "Hootie" Johnson, and now, Darla Moore have been forerunners within the Club's membership ranks. Johnson, a Columbia banker, was Chairman during the course renovation years and during Tiger Woods' earlier years, where the Masters went from the best competition in its sport to the best competition in all of sports. Of course, Darla Moore will forever be remembered as the first female member, and her astuteness will shape the course for years to come.

It's just a wedge shot down I-20 from Columbia, so many South Carolinians have had the fortune of seeing the azaleas and dogwoods in bloom. But it's not the flowers you go to see-- it's the golf.

The list of champions reads like a Who's Who-- Sarazen, Nelson, Hogan, Palmer, Nicklaus, Player, Watson, Ballesteros, Faldo, Couples, Woods, Mickelson... and many others. Personally, my favorite does not make that list of notables, he's the Spanish-speaking, cigarette-smoking Argentine, Angel Cabrera (known as "el Pato" due to his waddle). The guy has two American wins-- a US Open and a green jacket.

Seeing the course on television is great, but in person nothing rivals it. While folks are quick to claim Hole 12 as their favorite, or maybe the 16th, the easy answer for me is the Par 5 13th. If you're going to make a run on your way into the Clubhouse, this is where it has to start. Take a dunk into Rae's Creek, and you're looking at a long afternoon. Besides, who can forget Phil Mickelson's famous shot out of the pinestraw, leaving him with a short eagle putt (that he would of course miss)?

That shot, like so many others, led to a memorable call by the CBS crew. Most notably, Verne Lundquist and Jim Nantz have had their fair share of famous one-liners, but maybe none as memorable as Verne's call at the 18th in 1986: "YES SIR!!!!!!"

 So whether it's because it signals the arrival of spring, its a holdout in the fast-paced world of today, its the piano intro music to the CBS coverage, or just the golf itself; you can stop waiting-- Masters Week is finally here "OH MY!!!!!!!!!"

Post #5: King Sol

Judge Blatt and me, a picture I keep on my desk

"Guvnah," a soft voice starts out on the other end of the phone. It's Judge Solomon "Sol" Blatt, Jr., he's been calling me by that name for 20 years, and that specific day isn't going to get any better for me.

Long before I came along, the Judge has been a member of my family. He and my grandfather were roommates at the University of South Carolina; their fathers served in the Legislature together, his dad the legendary Speaker; his wife Carolyn and my grandmother were great friends; his son Greg and my uncle "B" were fraternity brothers and dear friends; his other son Brian was my grandfather's godson; his grandson Lee and I have now become friends, and my dog's name is "Sol"... you get the point. My grandfather was an only child, but he would never feel like an only child because of friends like Sol Blatt, and our family has always cherished the special relationship with the Blatts.

A post on Judge Blatt deserves much more deliberation than it is getting here, but I received a call earlier today from a mutual friend of ours, and he was calling to tell me how nice of a note he had received from Judge Blatt: "He certainly did not have to do that... He talked about my how much he loved my parents... It sure meant a lot."

That's the type of man Judge Blatt truly is-- a gentleman of the highest order. He found himself unable to help this certain individual and he felt just terrible about it, to the point where he sent the man a note explaining himself. How many federal judges, at any age, but at 93 for crying out loud, do you think feel as though they owe someone an explanation? One comes to my mind.

There is only one "Sol Jr."

(There will certainly be a longer post in the future about this great man.)

Post #4: Man's Best Friend

George Graham Vest was a Democratic U.S. Senator from Missouri in the late 19th Century. Before he ever served in what was once the world's most deliberative body, Mr. Vest was a country lawyer in the small Missouri town of Sedalia. Like other famous Missourians (Twain, Truman), Mr. Vest certainly had a flair for the dramatic. In a collection of "World's Greatest Speeches" that my father gave me a few years ago, I came across this speech that Mr. Vest gave to a Missouri jury after his client's dog was killed by another man:

"Gentlemen of the Jury: The best friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.

Senator G.G. Vest

The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer. He will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounters with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.

If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death."

Anyone who has owned a dog understands every inch of this wonderful speech. Mr. Vest must have given countless political speeches, an untold number of arguments in jury trials, but it was this speech about an obscure hunting dog that has won him lasting fame.

We have all had those dogs that mean something special to us, if you haven't, no offense, but you haven't truly lived... and you must not be from the South! Just this past weekend, I watched my own dog "Sol," use the broad side of his body to keep my toddler niece from leaving my parents' back porch. No matter how hard she tried, she was cut off by Sol. It drove home the fact that dogs really are smarter than we give them credit for, and it proves Mr. Vest right once again.

"Sol" at 10 weeks

Post #3: The Mountains are Calling...

Montreat Gate

"The mountains are calling and I must go." -John Muir

Muir knew the mountains, particularly the Sierra Nevadas, better than anyone else in American history and it is due in large part to his own efforts that many of our natural wonders are preserved today (see Yosemite). There's just something special about the higher elevations that I enjoy, especially during a summer in the South.

Winter is turning into spring here in South Carolina, and before long our temps and humidity will be reaching unbearable levels. In an effort to escape the heat and humidity, South Carolinians used to keep homes in the Upstate or in places like Flat Rock, North Carolina. Our family, being the Presbyterians that we are, have enjoyed our trips to Montreat for (now) four generations.

Montreat is known as the home of Billy Graham, but it's home to many more Presbyterians seeking relaxation and fellowship than it is to famous Baptist preachers! I've often called it the most relaxing place in the Carolinas and I haven't found a place that proves me wrong yet.

Each year for the Fourth of July during my childhood we would rent Kirkhaven from the Allen family, a tradition my aunt and uncle started. Prior to this, my grandparents rented the Bobwhite Cottage for their family. We would go up and spend a week with our Brown cousins, and take part in "clubs" with the other Montreat summer kids. It was fun for us, and it allowed the older folks in our family time to catch up, relax or run into Black Mountain on errands.

Kirkhaven, the house we rented, was built in 1900 and sits on the corner of Calvin and Greybeard Trails. It is uniquely sided and fronted by two creeks, so at night when the temps dip down into the 50s and 60s we sleep with the windows open to catch the sounds. It doesn't take long to fall asleep and you forget it is July in the South.

Anyway, this year we begin a new generation within my family of Montreat for the Fourth. It's Americana at its finest: parade, fireworks show, barbecue, ice cream, watermelon, etc. It's a rite of passage within our family and it brings us all back to our roots... roots that favor family, devotion, relaxation and fellowship.

Montreat is a state of mind, and when I've gotten burned out from work or politics, I've made the trek up Highway 9 to the Presbyterian Mecca and have found why they named it Montreat-- "mountain retreat." It's a retreat from the rat race and the hectic nature that we're constantly in down here on the flatlands.

"The mountains are calling..." and I can't wait to go.