Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?: Crossing the North Bridge the other day into what used to be the North Area, I began to ponder my hometown and it's name.To the TV news ...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?: Crossing the North Bridge the other day into what used to be the North Area, I began to ponder my hometown and it's name.To the TV news ...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?: Crossing the North Bridge the other day into what used to be the North Area, I began to ponder my hometown and it's name.To the TV news ...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: North Charleston, Wheres That?: Crossing the North Bridge the other day into what used to be the North Area, I began to ponder my hometown and it's name.To the TV news ...

North Charleston, Wheres That?

    Crossing the North Bridge the other day into what used to be the North Area, I began to ponder my hometown and it's name.To the TV news North Charleston is a place to go when they need a quick story on crime or poverty, same with the newspapers. To them were a city of wannabe's,should have been's of, or never was's. A place to collect the cast offs of downtown society, basically were the servant quarters to their plantation at the mouth of the Ashley and Cooper.     I don't see it that way.
     Even before the city was the city, when we were the first district, it was the North Area that did the heavy lifting.  While Downtown attracted the tourist and world wide acclaim, it was the dedicated folks from the other side of the tracks that drove the economic engine of the entire area. How many Parks Auto parts stores have you noticed on the Battery, or any of the other thousands of essential business's that form the backbone of the Charleston area. While the hotels and restaurants of the peninsula maybe world class, its the world class employees that make them tick. If you checked the personnel files of their employees I'd be willing to  bet you'd find alot more home address's from Montague and Spruill Ave's.  than Tradd St.  or  than East Bay. For 200 years we've cleaned up behind and fixed all the messes of our prima donna sister city to the south. Hour to hour and day to day it's our citizens that continue to this day to build both cities.
     Stepchild to the "City Of"(just sounds pretentious doesn't it?) North Charleston committed what amount to it's own version of "Original Sin" when it chose its name. Just like in the world of colleges football,  who can name a great directional city? North New York, West Chicago, South San Francisco? We might as well have been named Nowhere, or the City To Be Named Later, but even these names are recognizable compared to North Charleston. Was it a lack of effort, a shortage of time, or blind ignorance that guided our founders to give us this moniker?
    I've thought about  what I would name our area and I came up with a few suggestions,,,,Cooper River, Chicora, and Iron Dog come to mind right away.Noisette or Port City would also be good choices. All these names though describe where we are, but not who we are. When I think of my home town and its citizen its not the geography but the people that I think of. In that vane If given the choice of what the sign entering the city would say I would have to choose from the following list, HEART,SC, COURAGE,SC, HERO,SC, SACRIFICE,SC BLUE COLLAR,SC, INTEGRITY,SC, DETERMINATION,SC and of course SOUL,SC

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Ocean in my ear, drunks under my porch, while the ...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Ocean in my ear, drunks under my porch, while the ...: Atlantic House & OTO Bar Another great Picture Donnie Smith Photography I awoke to the sound of a storm brewing outside the windo...

Ocean in my ear, drunks under my porch, while the Atlantic House sways to the music

Atlantic House & OTO Bar   Another great  Picture Donnie Smith Photography

    I awoke to the sound of a storm brewing outside the window of my bedroom, the feel of salt spray on my face as it whistled through the house that I was renting on Folly Beach. The grey clouds of  a summer squall on the horizon visible from the window above my head. Even though it was late august the temperature had dropped to a cool 60 degrees, a far cry from the normal 90 + days that are our constant companion  during a carolina summer. I knew the coming storm was going to be a big one.
    Working at Kiawah Island in the early 80's as their bike shop manager, I had managed to squirrel away  a little money, with which I decided to  burn  on the rent of an ocean front house for a month. The minute I walked in the door I knew I was home and a month became two which turned into five years. Unbelievably the rent back then was only $300.00 a month, and equally unbelievable was the fact that I had convinced two female recreation interns to be my roommates. Life was GOOD!!!
    The house itself sat at 303 West Arctic, right in front of the Atlantic House Restaurant  and the OTO (Over the Ocean) Bar. Between me and the Atlantic House was nothing but beach and a volleyball court.A two story house, I rented the second floor which was comprised of one large central room with sliding glass doors facing the sea, three bedrooms  and a large wrap around deck. It was a typical Folly beach house and the perfect place to entertain.  About once a month we would pay for a party and bonfire licence, turn the speakers to my pride and joy stereo toward the beach set up a keg, a table with mixers and three blenders on the beach around the roaring fire. The manager of the OTO would close on these nights,because no one was going to pay for what they could get for free. One thing about living on the beach, you suddenly have alot of friends.
    The storm had intensified as I made my way into the main room and began battering down the hatches in anticipation of the gale to come. As I closed the sliding glass doors I heard a noise from under my deck so I went to investigate. In the sand, under the semi-protection of the wood above I found four Urban Outdoorsmen,(homeless drunks) that had slept off the previous nights libations. Caught by the storm they had built their own little seawall and along with a blue plastic tarp  they had created what amounted to a fallout shelter. Twice I offered them a place inside only to have my invitation turned down. Having been raised with manners, I did what any host would do and offered my not so invited guest a drink, this they accepted. Passing down a gallon of Gallo burgundy, I moved back to my rocking chair  in the relative safety of the great room to watch the light show. By eleven the wind had sheared off the tops of the waves turning the ocean into an angry froth that pounded into the pilings that the Atlantic House was built on. Wind whistled down the elevated boardwalk and onto the coast,  each gust increasing in its desire to remove the only link from land to man made  island.
    In the restaurant I could see the fair sized lunch crowd begin to regret their choice of eatery as bright flashes of lightning landed so close you could feel the heat as they made the hair on your arms stand up.The immediate  concussion of thunder so intense that  you not so much heard, but felt it. Gently at first, the enormous structure began to sway from side to side, not a lot at first, but enough that the people inside soon abandoned any hope of shrimp and grits for the promise of safety and land. To the drunken jeers of the foursome under my deck they staggered down the ramp grasping the rail hand over hand like seasick sailors through the torrential downpour. Each comment  from the wondering wino's funnier and cruder than the last, evoking mixed looks of wet anger and confusion. At some point momentum took over as the degree of sway increased with every change of direction as the pillars began to creak and groan with each new teeter. Like a child who can't decide which candy to choose, the building headed first east then west in its dance with the storm.
    With the REO Speedwagon singing "Riding the Storm Out" I watched as the crew finally  gave the call to abandoned ship. Like a true capt. at sea,last to leave was the owner, who locked up and stumbled his way to his lifeboat of a car, to safety, to home. The "Porchmen" too had left sometime during the final fury. The tide finally driving them from their ocean front accommodations, wine bottle headed seaward in the tide.
   All that day and into the night we watched, and waited for what we thought would come. Thinking that each new move would be her last. I awoke the next morning early as fog covered Folly in a white cloud of soft white mist. Out of my window I could just make out her shape, like a ghost ship in the haze, the old girl was still standing. No summer squall would ever take her away. She was waiting for a special someone, she waited for  a man named Hugo  and when the music played she danced her last dance.

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Christmas, Fireworks, and the holy t-shirt

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Christmas, Fireworks, and the holy t-shirt:     Am I completely crazy, or is South Carolina the only state that celebrates the birth of Christ by trying to set your neighbors house on ...

Christmas, Fireworks, and the holy t-shirt

    Am I completely crazy, or is South Carolina the only state that celebrates the birth of Christ by trying to set your neighbors house on fire with an arsenal of explosives that would make any terrorist cell drool with envy ? Without any licence or training you can walk up to a stand (there everywhere) and buy enough black powder to fill Fort Moultries armory.  One day someone with only $2.00 in his pocket  is going to buy a single Roman Candle and proceed to to shoot it back into the stand, then they'll sit down and watch the show.
   Last year in an attempt to compete with my neighbors and silence my teenage son I spent more  on fireworks for Christmas than I made for a week in my first job. Every conceivable form of sky munition was at my disposal and off we went to deploy them along with all my neighbors and their  fiery stores to our cul-de-sac  of hell. At the Pitch of the battle you could have filmed a scene from "Saving Private Ryan" with me in the Tom Hanks role dodging rockets and projectiles from every possible direction as I tried to strike a match to what amounted to a doomsday bomb of phosporetic joy. The pride and joy of my collection was a box the size of a suitcase filled with over 200 rounds of star burst shells  that were SUPPOSED  to fly high in the sky and light up the entire neighborhood with a celebration so bright that  everyone including Disney would envy me.  Best laid plans and all, That's not what happened.
   The first sign that something was wrong was when the shirt I was wearing caught fire as the bomb went off while I was still bent over it. The missile zinged past my ear the moment the match touched the fuse. I could hear the sound of laughter all the way from China in my head, or was it my neighbors? The next dozen rounds went off all at the same time, stopping the laughter and dispersing the crowd as they used each other as human shields or ducked for non existent cover. Streaks of light shot down the road, onto rooftops, and across yards on their hunter-killer missions. I turned in time to see my dog, a cat and two kids dive under the closest vehicle. All traces of the joy that had been there a minute  ago gone, replaced now by expressions ranging from excitement to terror(my dog) . Doors slammed from everywhere as friends and family deserted me, leaving a trail of iced tea glasses, purses, toys, and an elderly woman in a wheelchair behind. Suddenly I found myself  alone on an island with my own private Frankenstein. In a moment a thousand possible scenarios ran through my mind, all of them involving lawyers and lawsuits. As the barrage intensified I knew that I had to man up and find a way to stop the carnage.
    Turning I ran toward my house, past a couple of water hoses, a kids sandbox and a fire extinguisher that my wife knowing me, had brought out. None of these things  registered in my head as two explosions hit the bicycle in front of me, taking the garage from dark to flashbulb bright in a split second and filling it with little balls of burning joy. Frantically I stomped out the last few embers. Trashing the garage for anything to help I finally selected my weapon. Back I went, the smell of my burning hair filling my nostrils, trying hard to focus on the carnage going on in front of me. I once again entered the fray. Running toward the scene of the crime  I heard the old lady calling me names usually reserved for use by sailor's and longshoremen,till a round from the beast sliced past, stopping her in mid curse and putting her depends in the decidedly used category.
     I can tell you what,NOT to use on a burning block of flaming death. Whatever you you do, don't try to snuff out a rocket battery with the large bucket that you were using to clean parts in. All in one motion I covered the fiery pile with the container and  then proceeded to sit down on it. In my mind cutting off the oxygen, but in effect turning the last 50 rounds into one  badly placed bomb. Seems that fire, gun powder and gasoline are a bad idea.........who knew?
    I don't remember much about what happened next, but I heard more than once from those brave enough to watch from the safety of their living rooms that they were amazed at how high a bear sized man could get into the air.They say that afterward I was awake and babbling about space shuttles and burnt toast. My clothes shredded I stumbled back to my door, deaf, battered , and burnt, into the  amazed wide eyed arms of the family I love .


                 I began stockpiling for this year the very next day,,,,,,My Excuse, is that I was South Carolina educated
                    MERRY CHRISTMAS,,,,,,,,,,,,,,WOOOOOOOOOSHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   BANG!!!!

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Whats in a name

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Whats in a name: OK,where do I start? The Name. Gator HOoooo isn't about the U of Florida or any wild life preservation group,or even one of those grea...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Second Helping- Intro

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Second Helping- Intro: She was born off the west coast of Africa on a balmy Sunday evening in late September at the end of a long hot summer season that had s...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Questions And Answers From an Oyster Shell

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Questions And Answers From an Oyster Shell: Is there anything more perfect than an oyster roast on the beach with the sound of the surf in your ear? The warmth a bon fire warding ...

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Thoughts while waiting for the coffee

Diary of a Hurricane Blogger: Thoughts while waiting for the coffee: Its 5A.M. as you awake to the clock in your head. In the darkness your enveloped in a cocoon of warmth ,just big enough for you and her...

Thoughts while waiting for the coffee

    Its 5A.M. as you awake to the clock in your head. In the darkness your enveloped  in a cocoon of warmth ,just big enough for you and her. Silently you take in her gentle softness You kiss her neck with the touch of a butterfly as you slowly pull your arm from around her familiar form, her body setting off that snooze alarm in your head, beckoning you for you to share ten more minutes of your life with her in heaven.
You smile.
     Slipping downstairs as you dress, you cant help but to look in on your teenage son sleeping , after a night of video games and texting to his new girl friend. The one that your not that sure about yet. The thought enters your mind that these days are drawing to a close. You see in him all of the good things in your life and sometimes a little too much of yourself.His dog and best friend curled up at his side. The Little boy he was, now replaced by a man/child who knows everything and nothing ,all at the same time. As you look on at the man he's going to be, you can still see a little of the child he was in his face  as you quietly shut the door.
The smile is gone.
     Heading down, the boys  dog lazily follows, your joints creaking as you move. But each step brings back youth to the, too worn out to be this young body. With the smell of coffee promising clarity you make your way through the kitchen, the misty quiet of a cool December morning waiting for you as you open the door and step into the fog enveloping your backyard. Squirrels collecting breakfast make a break for the fence as the dog runs a victory lap around the yard, once again king of his domain.
The smiles back.
    Sitting on a bench you mind racing over yesterday and then ahead to what you have to do today. Another long day away from the ones you love. Another battle in that old trade off of time for money. Looking down at your hands you try to remember what they looked like at 18, the ones in front of your eyes seem more like your fathers then your own. Another day and a few more scars.
And you frown
     First light, ,,,the first warm pink rays peer over the oaks  bringing Gods on invitation to his new day.  You Look around and finally make out your surroundings.  It strikes you, not for the first time that your sitting in a garden created by the Angel you left sleeping. What was once dirt and weeds is now a garden of eden. Plants of every type and form surround her potting bench, half filled with her next project. In the rose garden you can just make out the yellow rose she planted in the spring to honor of your late father. Evergreens keep the promise of the coming spring, as the scent of rosemary wafts by on the breeze and it mixes with the smell of the coffee as the screen door behind you creaks and a familiar feminine  hand  touches my neck as she hands me a cup. I hear my sons sleepy call of "Dad" from somewhere inside the house.

                                                   I bow my head.

Questions And Answers From an Oyster Shell

     Is there anything more perfect than an oyster roast on the beach with the sound of the surf in your ear? The warmth a bon fire warding off the first attempt of the winters season. Your custimised oyster knife hanging from your jeans beltloop via leather strap. Jimmy Buffet playing in the background as you quietly sip on the coldest beer known to man as you prepare yourself for the next batch thats almost ready to hit the table. The smell of oyster steam rising up like a thank you smoke signal to heaven.
     How about old Bowens Island Resturaunt  B.H. (Before Hugo, as all time in Charleston seems to be measured) and rightly so. With its missing side wall and bi-valves so fresh that they were probably filtering their lives away, going about their own business in a pluff mud world  about the same time that you were parking the car. Brought to your rickety card table from the fire pit half inside the room  on a snow shovel. The ONLY true use for one of those damn things.
    Were there sweeter words ever written on the specials board at the Sandbar than "All you Can Eat" .
My wife and I had our first date there,  and once on my birthday I consumed 14 pans of the low country delicacies as the entire staff watched from the kitchen window. You could hear the groans everytime I started a fresh batch.Patiently they waited for the big bastard to leave so that they could close for the night.( God Bless You Darell)  Oysters will always make room for another one.

World Famous Sandbar...Picture by Donnie Smith Photography

    Living on Seabrook I once watched  from my balcony as a large cluster of the salty beauties grew into maturity in the creek behind my condo all that spring till fall.  I kept time sharpening my knife and waiting for the day, and by late November  they were ready. Putting on some old jeans and  a tightly tied pair of boots ,I waited for low tide to make my move. Wading hip deep in the tidal creek I soon attracted the attention of all the tourist in the condo, as I happily invaded the view that they had paid so much for. But my mind was set and my goal in reach and soon I sucked and sloshed my way to the long awaited treasure trove of salty-sweet redemption. Hammer in hand I  soon  had a burlap bag full and once I again returned home repeating a scene as old as time, the triumphant caveman with dinner in hand. As I washed and prepared tonight's guests of honor, my neighbors that week looked on in horror as I popped and ate the first raw one. Being raised with manners I offered all of our states most recent arrivals a sample but, it seemed no one liked oysters, or could it have been the mud covered person with a hammer and knife that turned them away,,,that's OK, more for me. I sat there that night watching them depart for Charlestons restaurant district, and I wondered how many of those very same folks were soon going to pay big bucks for what I was enjoying for free. I waved goodnight,threw another batch on the grill and covered them with a wet potato bag.
Lord sometimes life is so simple.
    Oysters were put on the earth to teach us some very basic things.
      1.How simple things can be, and simple is always good.
      2. Never judge anything by appearance, or man would have never eaten the first one.
      3. Never say theres nothing to eat until you've checked everywhere.
      4. Never eat oysters in a state with no ocean and alot of sheep.
      5. Never pay for a mud bath when you can get one AND a meal for free.
      6. One mans view is another mans grocery store.
      7. Other than Christmas eve Santa uses that big red bag to store a buschel or two.
      8. How blessed we are to be who we are,where we are, when we are, with what we have.....

         "Give me oysters and beer for dinner everyday of the year, and I'll be fine"  J. Buffet

Second Helping- Intro

   She was born off the west coast of Africa on a balmy Sunday  evening in late September at the end of a long hot summer season  that had seen drought cover much of the dark continent. As the cool wind from land moved over the warm dark waters of the mid Atlantic she looked to the west and her future. Few would know then that she would find her way into the homes some of the wealthiest families of Charleston, South Carolina. One day she would make her presence felt in every drawing room, church and office of that graceful  Queen of southern cities.  Fatherless she grew to be a strong and willful woman, but one without conscience or regret.She learned early that cruelty and destruction was her game and she played each and every card with the knowledge that she would always hold the winning hand. Even now her path was set as she left her home for a journey into the history books.
   Drew had followed in her siblings to the new world on her westward voyage but unlike the rest of her dysfunctional family she promised  to deliverer on her word.First up was Alvin who crossed in early September, a significant cat. 3  turned north as it grazed the Bahamas and Bermuda before taking an eastward tack as it went on to blanket the west coast of the south of France, bringing much needed water to the grapes that what would become a well remembered vintage. Bonnie a category 2  made a bee line for the gulf coast where she teased every town from Corpus Christie Tx. To Apalachicola Fl. each time corkscrewing back into the Gulf before coming ashore in Gulfport Mississippi as a tropical storm, Giving surfers their some of the best rides of the decade, before heading northeast to visit New England. Carl was the biggest bust of all as the cat 2 hurricane ran the corridor between the continents at Septembers close only to meet his fate in the cold waters of the north Atlantic ocean.
     Drew had no intention of letting anyone forget her.

Whats in a name

    OK,where do I start?   The Name. Gator HOoooo isn't about the U of Florida or any wild life preservation group,or even one of those great southern nicknames.  It's a nod to my hometown, but more specifically the men who built her from the post world war era , and continue that work today. The unknown blue collar hero's that work their whole life away for family,friends, city, state and country, expecting nothing and almost always rewarded with the same.
    I grew up in North Charleston, the blue collar backbone of the Carolina Lowcountry, A place of ship yards, air bases, and factories of every size,type and shape. Where the stench of the paper mill  fills the air with it's sickly sweet odor and the locals  describe it as the "smell of money". Everyone knows Charleston with its historic homes, and history, but North Charleston is the hired help, the manservant to its well bred sibling, a job its done quietly, suffering in silence since its inception.
    In North Charleston like every other town big and small across the south when World War II came, men lined up to defend what they loved. Many of these soldiers like my father  faked their birth certificates to get into the army early. At 15 he was inducted into the army and served in the last days of the war. They never got to be kids, manhood came quick and violently. After 1945 those who returned wanted to restart what was left of their lives.The GI bill seemed a natural place to start, problem was many,most hadn't graduated from high school and now returning from war they entered the work force. The only solution was night school at North Charleston, Then "Cooper River" High.

Old Garco Plant--Picture by Donnie Smith photography

    Many of these vets worked for the Garco asbestos plant just a stone throw away from the high school, at lunch they would amuse themselves by catching the alligators that inhabited creeks and inlets close to the plant on the Cooper river, but one of the favorite forms of recreation was football, and in 1946 if you went to school ,even night school you were eligible.  These were men who had faced the best the axis countries could throw at them, they worked 60 hour weeks in dangerous jobs,,,,football was a walk in the park.
     Story go's that the allegiance they felt was, like in war to their friends and team mates not so much to the school and soon  they began calling themselves the Garco Gators, even though the Cooper River mascot was a blue devil.  They would gather at one of the many bars on Montague Ave. in the old village and have a few beers before game time and come back at HALF TIME, but boy they could play. Soon friends, family and fans picked up on the Garco Gator designation as the team won more and more games, Soon the stands would resound with the call of  GAAAATTTOORRRR! HOOOOOOOooooo! after each touchdown or defensive stop.  The Team won State, once again finding a watering hole at halftime, then they stole the other teams bus and drove home from Columbia. I graduated with the last Blue Devil class in 1979, the school changed its mascot to cougars after several high schools were combined. North Charleston is a basketball school now but on nights when the gym is rockin you can still hear the old war cry.
     So for all the Garco Gators, or whatever name they go by in your hometown I proudly carry on their tradition. Jack Kerouac said
"Better to be anonymous on earth than a star in heaven". If that's the case then black starless nights must be Gods way of recognizing all the unknown working people of this world  who have made us what we are.   Take That Pat Conroy.

                                                                                                                              Gator HOoo!