Four Mile Creek

The sound of rain bounces off my deck and fills the air with the steady hush of spring in the making. Sputtering cascades of water splash over the edge of my home's gutters, neglected and full of the leaves from winter past. It's a steady and welcomed rain after a long summer and fall drought.

The trouble with living in the same place all your life is that memories are a burden and I feel it necessary to tell everyone I know that the sprawling development and golf course where I live was once a farm, far removed from the traffic that now boarders it on all sides.

Years ago and only 200 yards from where my home is today, was a barn and not far from there a farm house which over looked a large green pasture, a hundred cows and a couple of never really happy to see you bulls that once roamed this place. A place that now for the last 15 years I've along with a dozen other homeowners have called home and that golfers know as a long par five over the creek and up the hill with a well protected green.

Behind my home, Four Mile Creek cuts across the emerald green second fairway and flows towards the number one tee, then it runs along the ribbon of grass that is number ten and darts across the narrow number 11 fairway before ducking into the woods and out of sight.


It is a creek that was once part of my childhood. During spring's heavy rains, my friends and my brother and I, would float a couple of canoes down the creek. We knew that if we kept going, stayed away from the dreaded diamond backed water moccasin copper headed cotton mouth snake that dangled from the tress and swam in the creek that we could make it all the way to the Atlantic ocean. Of course only once did we venture far down the creek but when we did we saw things we haven't seen before or since.

A week of rain had turned Four Mile creek into a Mississippi like muddy river. The four of us in our two canoes glided past cypress and pine trees, over rocks we'd normally have to portage around, over rapids and most important over the barbed wire fences that crossed the creek every few thousand yards.

In the Carolina's the standard farm fence is a combination of varmint wire (four feet of little squares on the bottom ever increasing in size) and two strands of barbed wire added to the top. Varmint wire is used to keep the varmints out, little ones on the bottom and bigger ones like fox on top. You have to run two strands of barbed wire to keep the cows from pushing the fence down, the whole thing was held in place by cedar posts unless there was a good sized tree handy.

These fences were our worst adversary, without the heavy rain and the flood, floating down Four Mile Creek was impossible. I still have the scars of a few entanglements with barbed wire fences to prove it.

When Four Mile ends it spills over a dam into another deeper and wider creek that also rises out of its banks when there's a heavy rain, if we were ever fearful it was probably when we realized we had simply floated over the dam that normally ended our leisurely trips down the creek in the past. This was the dam that in the past had always said go "home boys".

Realizing we had passed into the forbidden zone we kept going, amazed at our luck and the new perspective of our world. Everything looked different from the creek at well past flood stage. We passed cows and rusted tractors and suddenly became Louis and Clark ignoring the no trespassing signs presumably nailed by Indians to keep explorers out. We were enjoying our freedom and sense of adventure when our pristine world of spring sunshine and fresh air suddenly changed to a horrid stench as we passed the outlet for the county sewage treatment plant, but we pressed on.

Sometime late in the afternoon we decided we'd had enough of the Tom Sawyer Huck Finn lifestyle, tired and hungry we wanted to go home but as in real life sometimes you just have to keep going not knowing where you'll end up. Finally miles from home we came to road and a bridge that crossed over the swollen river and decided the water born life had lost its novelty and it was time to return to the civilized world.

We hiked a short way down the road to an small store with two old men right out of the movie deliverance, there we used a pay phone to call home. But the dime deposited into the slot marker 5-10-25 wasn't enough as to our great surprise it was a long distance call. A couple of quarters later, David's mother was on her way with the family Ford station wagon. Yes this was in the days before cell phones.

I can't even image what the men in the store or David's mother thought as she never said a word, but to us four Carolina boys exploring our world, it wasn't a big deal at all that we had traveled nearly 14 miles and into South Carolina by canoe in an afternoon.

The rain slows and then the warmth of the sun covers the pristine golf course where I live and the cows do not. From my deck and I can see that Four Mile Creek has once again slipped out of the banks that constrain her and I long for a simpler time, an old canoe and an entire day to explore the world.

Breakfast

A cool rain has come to Charleston this morning. The forecast that was calling for strong winds and thunderstorms has been down graded to a steady rain, perhaps the first of many spring showers to come.

Now in early morning darkness Charleston has slowly begun to waken, and traffic is still sparse for today is Presidents day. Banks are closed as is the Post Office and many government offices but everything else is up and running including the sprinklers at the Coastal Carolina Savings Bank despite the steady rain.

I’ve always found sprinklers running in the rain one of mankind’s oddest achievements, like stoplights that show red for a painfully long time without another car in sight.

Long before sprinkler systems and traffic lights a plenty, a day of steady Low Country rain was a day off from work in the fields. Rainy days meant a time to catch up on some tractor maintenance or pull that starter off the pickup and fix the front door that has been sticking since fall.

A Monday rain was even better since week long projects had yet to be started and some things could wait. Years ago breakfast on a farm was an amazing adventure and many times I witnessed this daily occurrence that was normal to my farm raised cousins.

By 5:30 a half a dozen pick-up trucks were parked in the yard of the main farm house. As headlights illuminated the down pour, rain coats dashed up the gravel drive and were left in a red and yellow pile of dripping wetness just outside the back door that was well lit by a single light under the covered porch.

As best I could tell half of the young men who dripped their way into the large farm house kitchen were true family the other half hired farms hands who might as well been adopted, as each gave my great aunt a quick good morning kiss on the cheek before sitting down to breakfast while outside the rain continued.

Of course this event happened on sunny mornings as well since tradition held that my great aunt fixed breakfast at the Coleman Farm every morning. Sons who lived down the road and next door came as did the hired help; all were treated like family, so for me it was sometimes hard to tell who was who.



Sausage, bacon, grits, scrambled eggs, coffee, biscuits and toast made the rounds. As a chair was pushed back and an empty plate removed, someone else would quickly fill the void. Most who departed did so with coffee in hand and a warm sausage biscuit wrapped in a paper napkin in the pocket, which went a long way to make working in the rain nearly enjoyable.

One by one or in pairs they left heading out the door after a quick hug from my great aunt, grabing their rain coat and then vanishing into the pre dawn darkness. The sounds of bacon frying subsided and rain came harder as the last of the pickup lights twisted around the drive and down the road, at just after six in the morning, signaling the end to one of mankind’s greatest inventions, breakfast.

May I Have the Beagle

And with those words a long standing injustice was finally corrected. America's favorite dog has at long last won "Best In Show" at the famous Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Major Congratulations to Snoopy and all of his breed, as well as Beagle lovers everywhere.

Watch Uno win "Best In Show"

More About Uno the Winning Beagle

Uno in case you didn't know it is from Lugoff, South Carolina and is expected to return to his counrty roots in the next few days, leaving the bright lights of the big city far behind. But while in New York Uno who normally dines on a strict diet of Purina Dog Chow was treated to a limo ride and steak dinner on Wednesday at the famed Times Square restaurant and bar Sardis. Patrons didn't seem to mind the furry celebrity canine who finished his meal in about 90 seconds to cheers and applause.

A trainer close to Uno the prize winning Beagle, stated on the condition of anonymity because she was not permitted to speak on the matter due to security concerns that Uno would ring the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange on Friday, morning February 15th 2008.

Other expected apperances are the Today Show and a gig with Martha Stewart. But you might catch Uno at the Greenville Kennel Club Dog Show and later in March the Hilton Head Island Dog Show.

More Thoughts on Dogs:

"Nothing can replicate the perpetual happiness of a dog".

I don't know if dogs have souls, therefore I have no reason for saying all dogs go to heaven. But if I trust God's kindness I know there's a provisions for that. The love dogs give to humans somehow cannot be lost into nothingness. The fact that God created a dog is very obviously part of His pattern and plan for our happiness.

The best dog is not one who permits you to train him to be part human ... the best dog is one that allows you to be part dog.

Know of a good dog quote? Share it with other readers by posting a comment.

Two Lane Black Top Highways

Two lane highways were once considered the lifeline of our country, but today people would rather drive the interstate. Most will go out of their way to avoid a two lane highway, which might explain why people have a hard time interpreting the yellow lines, that mark the no-passing zones and crisscross the Carolina Low Country.



Passing a tractor trailer full of pine logs is art form that few people seem to have mastered as well. Even so I prefer the deserted back roads of my Carolina countryside to the crowded and fast paced interstate.

I like to put the windows down, open the sun roof and let the country air swirl around me as I cruise past homes and businesses that time has forgotten. Old towns like Harleyville, Holly Hill and Union Crossroads that haven’t changed in fifty years.

I’ll take Highway 176 and 601 from Charleston to Columbia. Out there you’ll find the time honored courtesy of the two finger wave, the steering wheel salute and the tip of the hat. My God for all these people know, I could be a serial killer, yet they take the time to say hello before disappearing in the rear view mirror faster than I can say “have a nice day”.

Out there they have sign posts that point to towns I’ve never heard of, and roads that all end up at the same place. In our hurry up world back tracking is a sin, but in the countryside it’s a chance to repeat part of your life again, a do over, a mulligan and a chance to spot that 1957 Chevy on the North Side of a dilapidated old barn you just missed going in the opposite direction.

I once pulled over and watched two combines race a thunderstorm, with each turn at the end of the field the darkening squall line gained ground. Lighting flashed in the distance and its brightness reflected off the cab windows of each John Deer tractor as the thunder echoed across the field.

The air became silent and though they were nearly ¼ mile away I could hear the farm hands yell that the storm was coming on fast. Then dust started to spin in circles and the leaves danced across the two lane black top ahead of the green rolling mass of angry sky.

Out on I-26 traffic came to a halt as the rain came and with it the wind hard and fast as cars slowed to a crawl in both directions, perhaps a thousand cars in a mere ¼ mile of interstate. While down the two lane it was only my car, two combines and a truck against mother nature.

The combines slowed and pivoted to a stop in a low valley away from the tall tress and the far from the crest of the hill. While lighting jolted the ground, they emptied their loads one on each side of the truck and as the soybeans poured into the bed so did the rain.

And when the storm passed I moved back on to the open road with not a car in sight while over on the interstate the back log of traffic wouldn’t clear for another ten minutes.


Photo By The Author

The road twists and turns and then straightens for as far as the eye can see and at the top of the hill in my rear view mirror I can see a thunderstorm fading into the dusty redness of the late evening sky as another day comes to a close and I thank Henry Ford for cars and my South Carolina ancestors for two lane black top highways that time has forgotten.

Girl Scout Cookie Daze

The Girl Scouts came calling the other day. Just when I begin to make a dent in that holiday weight gain, it's Girl Scout cookie time.



Somewhere between now and March 10th I'll see their smiling faces, dressed in green or brown politely asking "do you want to buy some cookies?" Of course I do... Girl Scout cookies are an America icon of good stuff. Never mind the carbs, fat grams and calories. I love Do-Si-Dos, Thin Mints and Samoas.

I'll gladly hand over my cash to these friendly although sometimes very shy salesmen in front of Harris Teeter or some other local establishment. Always under the watchful eyes of concerned parents who keep their distance except to help close the sale. I take 2 boxes of well everything but the lemon coolers.

Admittedly, I don't need a lot of selling to convince me that I need/want to buy Girl Scout cookies.

But I can't help but ask the sweet cherub faced youngster:

"What do you do with all the money" And her reply will enviably be "I dunno" At the office or on my doorstep it seems the girls do not know what happens to the proceeds. The "official" Girl Scout web site provides part of the answer to where the profits go.

According to the Girl Scouts:

"All of the proceeds remain in the area where the cookies are sold. This revenue is used to benefit girls, some of it directly by remaining in the Girl Scout troop/group treasury and some of it indirectly by subsidizing the cost of providing the Girl Scout program in the local area."



In other words after paying the bakery, the balance supports the local council infrastructure, and what remains is given back to each troop who sold the cookies.

I friend of mine tells me how she got into trouble with the girl scouts and the parents of her local troop.

My friend, we'll call her Lynn, volunteered to chair the year's cookie sale. Being a savvy business woman and salesman, she schooled her girls in the art of closing the sale. Accordingly these selling machines were responsible for the most successful cookie drive ever.

Pleased with the girl's effort and being democratically minded she took a vote from the young smiling faces as what to do with the proceeds. The girls agreed to take all the money they earned and buy dog food and pet supplies for the local animal shelter. This Lynn felt was what Girl Scouting was all about; supporting the local animal shelter was a wonderful and worthy cause. Lynn was so proud of the girls that she immediately made the announcement to the parents.

The parents were aghast. It turns out that normally they used the funds to offset things like; pizza parties, trips to the movies and the local skating rink. If all the money raised was given to the shelter, the parents would be forced to pay for these "fun" Girl Scout activities out of their own pockets.

"You can't do that!" the shocked parents cried. "We've never given the money away" explained another. "I'm sorry" Lynn told the parents in a letter. "The girls took a vote and I've already sent the check to the shelter".

The parents were not happy, several were down right angry even calling for a full audit of the cookie sale receipts. Soon Lynn's voice mail box was over whelmed with unhappy mothers demanding that she step down as cookie drive chairperson.

The parents were so upset that Lynn resigned not only as chairperson but from the troop as well and now her young daughter goes to ballet on Tuesday's rather than Girl Scouts.
I'm not saying boycott the Girl Scout cookie sale this year. Hopefully Lynn's experience is not the norm.

But before you buy understand where the money goes. The use of each troop's proceeds, are completely up to each troop. This year you might want to ask: "so what does your troop do with all the money"?

Toads, Frogs and Crows

Its 2 AM when I step out my back door into the moist humid and nearly suffocating night air. The back yard is filled with the deafening sounds of crickets and cicadas. In the distance the sounds of frogs and their deep throated croaking is a reminder of summer nights long ago.

My grandparents had a "place in the country"… every city boy's dream. A pond, a corn field, just like one shoeless Joe might walk out of, and a place to shoot your BB gun with no one around to tell you not to shoot at anything.

My cousin Bill was "old enough" to have his own BB gun at a time when my BB gun was really my dad's. Gift wrapped and labeled from Santa somehow it was snatched from my hands right there in front of the family Christmas Tree, shortly after I pointed it at my brother, pulled the trigger and yelled POW!

Not much you can do with a BB gun living in the city anyways, but in the country everything is a target for mayhem and mischief.

My cousin Bill was the best shooter I ever met. He was a good shot at about 10 feet; a little better at 5 and damn fine marksmen at point blank range.

Bill's target of choice, was the cat across the gravel road. But the cat had wised up and didn't come across the road after the second time Bill walked up to it and pulled the trigger. Soon just the sight of my red haired cousin would send the cat running for cover.

Tin cans and paper targets were good things to shoot at but Bill prefered live things like cats and crows. But the darn crows were so high up on the telephone wires that even when you hit one they'd just shake their wings and sit there.

I asked Bill why he was shooting at the crows…. And he would just say "you saw the movie "The Birds" right?"

Then he'd go on to explain… "well them birds want to peck our eyes out so I got to teach them a lesson".



Seemed to me that shooting the crows was not a really good idea since they never bothered me before, and I'd never seen these crows attack anyone except the cat across the street. I didn't think pissing off these large black birds was all that bright an idea.

I think I related to the crows, because the one time Bill had shot me with the BB gun and I would have certianly pecked his eyes out had grandma let loose of my arm.

Now there's not much to do out in the country at night. Keep in mind this was way before Sony play stations and the internet.

So what do two young boys do out in the country at night???

Well if you have 3 acre yard with a bunch of mercury vapor lamps, that's what they used to call them, and a pond and you get a lot of bugs. Thousands of bugs flying around the yard and of course they are attracted to the light.

Well, guess what else is attracted to the light and the bugs?

Frogs!

Or more correctly toads and that's where sharpshooter Bill comes into the picture.

Yeap game warden, toad population control expert, hired gun and one hell of a good shot at point blank range, that would be my cousin Bill and I was part of the posse.

During those hot summer nights in the country Bill must have executed thousands of tresspassing frogs and toads. Frog guts all over the path to the pond and in the garden and on the driveway.

The next morning my grandfather would walk around the yard and garden and wonder why the aliens were killing the frogs and not leaving crop circles instead?

I suppose I busted a cap or two on a toad, don't know why but it just wasn't that much fun, and so I never stayed out that long when Bill was doing his night job.

Maybe it was because those crows, the ones in the movie... they always attacked at night!

Sounds of Spring

The sound of frogs and crickets has returned to my backyard. Well, really they are about a 1/4 mile away down at the tidal creek. But the open expanse of golf course fairway allows the soothing sound of clicks and chirps to travel to my bedroom window effortlessly.

I don't remember when they stopped, sometime around the first frost I'd guess, but their return is a wonderful reminder that spring is nearly here.

Which made me think about all the other sounds I think are awesome.

Rain at Augusta National during Masters Week.

The North Beach on Green Turtle Cay on any day. You just got to be there.

Blue Sky Basin Vail, CO at 4 PM in January. The wind against the spruce and fur trees and the snow under your skis.

LAX at Midnight the silence.

Times Square on New Year's Eve, the calliope of mankind's drunkenness.

Turn 4 at Lowes Motor Speedyway during the final lap of the 600 it's hard to say whether the crowd or the cars are louder.

The Freight Apron at Atlanta's Hartsfield International during the 2AM push. The rise and fall of jet engines on departing flights There is something symbolic about that sound. I don't what but symbolic just the same.

Breakfast at the Fairmont in New Orleans during an early morning thunderstorm in July. It's the sound, the feeling of the big easy, linen and china, a slower pace that's even slower when there no reason to hurry.

The arches at Union Station St. Louis at Mid Day Christmas week. If you don't know I'm not sure I can explain. If you do know I'll let you whisper it to me.

Sea Buoy at Bar Harbor Maine on a foggy night in October.

A 800 foot container ship passing under you while standing on the Ravenel Bridge Charleston at high tide.

That cat that moans and groans on the roof above my bedroom before an approaching storm.

I wonder if anyone else is listening?

Roe v Wade Year 34

Every year since 1973 protesters have stood in the rain, the cold and the snow, in front of the United States Supreme Court during the month of January.

I have always been pro-life for me and pro-choice for you.

The reason is simple despite all the ugly photos of fetuses, biblical quotes and constitutional arguments there are far too many children who are forced into this rather cruel world whose biological parents are not ready, not able or simply lack the skills to be good parents.

After all this time I would think the pro life forces would wake up and accept the right of every woman to safely terminate a pregnancy without fear of, incrimination, repercussion or stigma.

Having an abortion is a very difficult choice. But abortion is a choice that should remain as a legally protected, medically safe and private right.

Over the years the extreme faction has receded a bit as Pro life forces have begun to promote, safe sex, and contraception as a "good choice" but they can't help but continue to push abstinence and adoption as the true alternatives.

Without a doubt adoption is a wonderful alternative but the emotional scars are often worse that choosing an abortion.

Abstinence in an age of baby bumps and pretending to be a porn star makes no more sense that blowing up planned parenthood clinics.

According to the Internal Revenue Service there are over 20,000 Right to Life organizations with an estimated combined annual budget of more than a half a billion dollars.

While the efforts of these organizations are noble to a point, what if these individuals channeled their energy, time and money into helping the children we already have?

Every day hundreds of American children are abducted, and abused. Tens of thousands of our children grow up without the education necessary to succeed in our changing world. They suffer from lack of proper nutrition, medical care, adequate housing and real role models.

If you held a candle, stuck a cross in the ground or signed a petition this week protesting Roe v Wade you might consider yourself a good person.

But if you want to be better than just a good person then do good for real. Volunteer to help a kid. Give your time to the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, YMCA, Girls and Boys Clubs of American, even your local little league.

Instead of carrying an ugly sign, yelling out pointless slogans, making a spectacle or blocking traffic.

Make a real difference not a lot of noise, Volunteer!

The Waitress

I read this back in September and it made me smile.

HUTCHINSON, Kansas (AP) -- The regular customer eating dinner at the end of the bar always tipped well -- $15 or so on $30 tabs. The $100 tip two weeks ago was a nice surprise, but the amount he left bartender Cindy Kienow this week left her stunned. On the check, the tip read: $10,000.

"I couldn't move," said Kienow, who tends bar at Applebee's. "I didn't know what to say. He said, `This will buy you something kind of nice, huh?' And I said, `Yeah, it will." Kienow said the man, whom restaurant officials have declined to identify, comes in several times a month.

"He usually signs his ticket and flips it upside down," said Kienow, 35, who has worked at the restaurant for eight years. "But this time, he had it right-side up and said `I want you to know this is not a joke."'

The restaurant is verifying that the tip is a valid.

Kienow said that while she always talks with the man when he comes in -- usually about current events or the weather -- she can't think of anything that would have prompted the huge tip. His tab for the night was only $26.

"We'd just talk across the bar. He's a really nice guy. I hope he comes back in so I can tell him thank you, because the other day I was kind of dumbfounded," she said.

"I'd like to take care of my parents, since they always took care of me," she said. "But I feel like he wanted me to buy something for myself, and there's a Jeep that I've had my eye on for a while."

I know a little something about leaving a big tip. I've been that nice guy sometimes much to the ire of my date, even my parents and co workers. Though I haven't left 10 g's in the little American Express leatherette charge card holder yet.

I can tell you hottness will not get you a big tip. It takes something much more and considerably less tangible. I like to tip and I usually tip 20 percent, but about 1/2 the time I'll tip more.

If you are cute, personable and the service is good you can bet you'll have a more than respectable tip, as I've been there done that.... a lot. Yes, I've owned two restaurants, waited tables in college and I have two brothers who are still in the biz.

But if I sense a need, or maybe just a purpose I'll up the number, and add an extra 10, 20, or more.

The single mom..... most waitresses are young but there is just something about young moms that set them apart from their childless counterparts. They tend to work harder and smile just a little less so she gets extra.

And you don't have to be young, cute or even nice. The waitress in her 60's who was not really attractive and had the most horrid attitude earned herself a 42 dollar tip on an 8 dollar meal the other day.

If your backed up and it's all getting out of hand and you have a demanding customer I'll try to make it up to you with the tip.

It's just my way of saying I know.

I know I drink a lot of coffee.

I know it's a hard job.

I know life is not easy.

I know raising a child is your real full time job.

I know tires go flat the same week the insurance and the power bill are due.

I know what it's like to want to go home to see your parents but not have enough money for gas.

I know you miss your youth.

I know the jerk at the other table left you only pocket change.

I know you need a break and I know a guy in Hutchinson Kansas whose a better tipper than me.