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.

Post #2: Waking Up with the Neighbors

You never know what’s going to inspire your next (or in this case-- first real post), but it hit me like a locomotive as I was heading out the door on the way to work this morning.

My lease ended on my Columbia townhome this past August, and I decided it was time to quit renting and start looking to buy. Homeless I am not, due to our family farm being 30 minutes from downtown Columbia. I haven’t bought anything yet, this setup is too good to be true and I am the spoiled, youngest child in my family.

Mt. Hope Plantation

Mount Hope Plantation is an antebellum plantation, built in the mosquito cottage style by Dr. John Peyre Thomas in the 1830-40s. My grandfather was lucky enough to buy it from a Thomas descendant, Judge Alex Sanders in the 1980s.  It was in rough shape, none of the Thomas’ had lived in it for quite some time, so we restored it to the shape it is in today. Now, I’m calling living out there my “Walden Moment,” but I digress, enough about the house.

Per usual, I was off to a hectic start this morning – I left my freshly dry-cleaned pants in the car, along with my shoes, so living in the middle of nowhere and the closest neighbor being a half-mile away, I finished getting dressed in the front yard. Just that extra five minutes was enough to remind me how fortunate I am to live in this state.

In that brief period of time, two geese took flight from the pond down the hill and flew overhead, making anyone within earshot aware of their departure. Pollen covered my car, now my bare feet and everything else I touched. Finally, there was a slight movement that caught my eye: of course, it’s a flock of turkeys crossing the field in front of the house, moving from west to east through a food plot. I say “of course” because it’s opening week of turkey season and it is only appropriate to see turkeys when I’m getting in the car to go to the office. I’m sure they won’t be seen again until June, but the memory of this morning will be frozen in my mind for quite some time.

Post #1: Break Rules (About this blog)

A covey of quail being released at our farm in Ridgeway, South Carolina.

"If you can say it, don't write it; if you can wink it, don't say it."

That is a top ten rule in the world of politics, but fortunately, the world of politics is one I am trying my hardest to escape. With that, I'm taking to writing about things that mean something to me: people, religion, food, travel, and yes, from time to time, even politics.
 
A friend of mine, and recovering Georgia state lawmaker used his local newspaper in a similar way to express his views and thoughts on the world, and this will be a similar compilation of ramblings. I've been blessed in my short time here on God's earth to have been able to experience many things, all of which have helped shape my life, both in good ways and bad. I'm going to share them with you, and hopefully it will shed a little light on the person I strive to be on a daily basis. I hope you'll visit often.