Frogmore and stew

I live on Lady’s Island, adjacent to Beaufort across the Beaufort River. On the other side, across a bit of salt marsh, is St. Helena, a somewhat larger island which, before the Civil War, was a slave plantation.

The main, not to say only, town on St. Helena is Frogmore. Everyone here is very proud of Frogmore. The local (though very small) airport is affectionately called “Frogmore International”, and several local businesses give Frogmore as their address. Not many years ago you could have addressed a letter via Frogmore, SC, but no more. Now the post office is just St. Helena.

There are a couple of explanations for that.

My brother says that because St. Helena was a slave island, the Gulllah population there felt “Frogmore” was demeaning and asked that it be changed.

I recently heard another explanation, which frankly, I think is the more likely. Just off the coast of St. Helena is Dawtaw Island, a comparatively new community for rich people. Not as well known as Hilton Head, but posh nevertheless. According to my friends at Hardee’s, the residents of Dawtaw felt uncomfortable having their mail addressed to Frogmore. Not elegant enough. So, it was they who pressed for the name change.

That really makes more sense to me. The Gullahs are actually very proud of their heritage, whereas I knew some nouveau-riche in Owen County who objected to having their rural address “Dog Kennel Road.”

One of the culinary delights of this area is “Frogmore Stew”, utilizing the shrimp for which the area is known, corn on the cob, sausage and depending on who is doing the cooking, potatoes. It takes about 15 minutes to cook. It is also known as Low Country Boil, and has made its way onto menus at such places as Cracker Barrel. If you have ever eaten it there, don’t be put off. Frogmore Stew/Low Country Boil is made to be eaten as soon as it cools.

The author of some very good mysteries set in this area apparently didn’t know that, as at one point she has her heroine make Frogmore stew and cook it for hours. It would actually be inedible at that point. She was probably misled by the word “stew”.

My nephews make great Frogmore stew. I wish you all could taste it!

Alligators and me

When I first came here, I was terrified of alligators, which seemed sensible. However, I have learned a lot about them in the last three years and now have developed a sort of wary affection for them.

For one thing, except in mating season they are not all that aggressive, and if you leave them alone, they will leave you alone. Also, they are freshwater creatures, and so around here they are not to be found in brackish or salty waters. That limits them quite a bit.

When my brother and nephew realized I was spending my days photographing wildlife with my little digital camera, they gave me a camera with a long lens. When I take photos of the alligators and post them on Facebook, people think I am right next to them, and beg me to stay away. In reality I am up on a screened, elevated walkway at least 200-300 feet away.

However, there is a small freshwater pond where I often take bird photos, and I know there is a large alligator in it. He has always stayed on the far side, however, so I just keep an eye out and largely ignore him. A few days ago I was at the edge of the pond taking photos of nesting herons where I noticed something in the water! Near where I was standing!

I am nearly 81 and have arthritis in my knees. I am not at all sure I could outrun an alligator, even the short distance to the car, so from now on I am going to be very careful.

My affection for them is going to be more wary than ever.

Nativity twist, part two

Several years ago, at a flea market in Brussels ,I bought a Nativity set for my daughter.

It was one of those miscalculations to which I am prone: it represented nostalgia for me, but not for her. It was a 1940s-’50s set made in Western Germany and sold by the piece in 10-cent stores. I well remember that there were bins of shepherds, bins of Marys, bins of Josephs, etc. And, of course, bins of Wise Men.

This was as complete as one would expect for a set that was roughly 50 years old, except that one of the Wise Men was damaged. The dealer was again selling by the piece, and did not insist on me taking all three.

I apologized to my Bible-savvy daughter for the missing piece, and she replied, “That’s okay. You know the Bible doesn’t actually say there were three of them.”

Now, some of you may know this, but I am guessing that many (if there are many) will be was surprised as I was. After all, we have sung “We Three Kings of Orient Are” every Christmas since childhood. The three have names, for goodness sake: Belthazzer, Melchoir and somebody else. They brought three gifts.

And apparently, that’s where the misconception lies. Feel free to Google this, or look it up in the King James Bible as I did, but nowhere are three wise men specifically numbered. And they are certainly not named. According to one source, it’s those three gifts that made later interpreters think there were three gifters.

The photo attached to this is a modern, driftwood version of the Nativity, of course–I don’t presently have access to the older one. But I think it demonstrates that the Nativity is what we make of it, not what popular culture dictates. Even though I do like to sing “We Three Kings”.

Nativity twist, part one

Nativity scenes are one of my favorites parts of Christmas. Our family scene was inherited from my husband’s mother in 1970. It was a 1950s inexpensive set made in West Germany, with fairly realistic animals, to which she had added a camel which was only slightly “off” from the rest.

Every year I would put the Nativity scene out before any other decorations; I felt I then had things more or less in perspective.

When my daughter was in high school and playing clarinet in the school band, a friend gave her a little figure of a sad clown playing the clarinet for Christmas. My husband, who has never been concerned with keeping things in perspective, put it in the Nativity scene. I took it out. But somehow it kept finding its way back in, although I informed everyone in the house I considered it disrespectful. Finally I allowed it at the edge, although not in, the scene.

In subsequent years, it occurred to me that if the Little Drummer Boy with his pah rums was acceptable, why not a sad clown? So if the little clown, who at least is playing silently, gets mixed in with the shepherds and wise men and donkey and sheep and cows and one camel, I accept it.

Last Sunday at Port Royal United Methodist, a very extensive and quite nice small Nativity was set up on a piano top at the back of the sanctuary. I was delighted to see that it, too, had some extras. Being familiar with farms, I could readily accept that in addition to cows and sheep, the manger probably also was night time home to chicks, ducks, and geese. But the real stopper was a very American-looking turkey!

Could have wandered in from Thanksgiving, I suppose, but after all, we are all God’s creatures. Even American turkeys and clowns with clarinets.

Sandhill Cranes

I well remember my first experience with sandhill cranes. I didn’t see them, but I heard them flying far overhead on a warm fall day when I was out pulling grapevine for wreaths. I was used to hearing and seeing Canada geese on their way south, and it ran through my mind, “that doesn’t sound like geese”. I continued pulling grapevine and it wasn’t until evening a friend told us that the cranes had gone over. Until then I had no idea our farm was in their flyway.

In the years since, I became pretty good at hearing, and telling the difference between the two migrating species. Canada geese have a hard way to go, and I read that the leader takes a beating, flapping at the head of the V, so he will drop back and another drake takes over.

I have watched the geese circle low, waiting for laggards to catch up, then they all spiral higher and higher until they reach cruising height, then all take off, north or south, depending on the season. Always accompanied, of course, by that mournful honking, the stuff of song and story.

Since coming to live in South Carolina, I have become enamoured of several kinds of big birds, most notably Great Blue Herons. Visiting my older brother in central Florida recently, I glanced out his living room window and a couple of great big blue-ish birds walked past. Of course at first I thought they were Great Blues, but my brother casually said, “Oh, are the sandhills out there?”

And of course I grabbed my camera and went a little bit crazy.

I had seen sandhills before. A flock of them landed once in the field behind our field in Hendricks County, Again, I had grabbed my camera–a little one but the best I had–and headed out. I had to traipse across a cornfield even to get to a fence and they were still pretty far away. I think my readers had to take my word for it they were sandhills. (This was when I was writing a blog for The Star.)

So when I got a good look at them in my brother’s neighbourhood I was blown away. Talk about gorgeous! This pair was not exactly tame, but they let me get close.

I looked them up on Wikipedia, and learned that they are indigenous Florida sandhill cranes of which there are only about 7,000, so they are well protected. I also learned that unlike geese, migrating sandhills ride on wind currents, so can go farther with less effort. In other words, the head guy doesn’t take a beating! Maybe that’s why their cries aren’t so mournful.

I think I now have a new favorite bird! Sorry, Great Blue.

Finding Forrest

A couple of evenings ago, I watched “Forrest Gump”. Of course I had seen it before, several times, but this time it had special meaning for me. Much of it was filmed here in the Beaufort area, at places I recognize. At least, I recognize them now. Before, I believed what the movie said.

The movie is set in Alabama, but evidently film-making at the time was easier here, thanks in part, I’m sure to Pat Conroy. I can point out the house where “The Great Santani” was filmed. I hear the tour guides talking about “The Prince of Tides” too, but mostly they are saying what a pain Barbra Streisand was.

But “Forrest Gump” was kind of all over the place, according to a booklet that explains Beaufort’s movie settings. For instance, I never doubted it when he said he crossed the Mississippi three times, but after reading the booklet I could plainly see it was the Beaufort River, and the bridge is the same one I cross, either on foot or in a car, several times a week.

Facebook friends know full well that I am in love with the nearby town of Port Royal. That’s where the shrimp boat scenes were shot.

A close friend of my nephew’s owned the house where Bubba’s family lived and where he was buried. The friend’s wife was a stand-in for Sally Field and in one scene, with her back to the camera, it actually is her instead of Sally.

And speaking of stand-ins, nearby Fripp Island, which is now an exclusive gated community, was Viet Nam. I thought at first Hunting Island State Park might have been the site, because it is lush with tropical vegetation, but apparently at the time, Fripp was even shaggier.

And when Forrest made his fortunes from shrimp, he donated a medical center, which is actually the University of South Carolina at Beaufort Performing Arts Center. I walk past it frequently on the way to one of my favorite restaurants.

There are lots of other sites in the area, but these are the ones familiar to me, and why I enjoyed “Forrest Gump” more the third or maybe fourth time I saw it.

Kind of like being back in Hendricks County and watching “Hoosiers”.

Pigeon Point

I thought I should say a few words about Pigeon Point, especially since I just learned that Martha, who has lived here for years longer than I have didn’t know where it was, and Hal, although he knew its location, has not been there in years. He still remembers it was a rough waterfront area.

Others, who are familiar with Pigeon Point, cannot understand why I like it so much.

That, I understand, because, frankly, there isn’t much there. Not a tourist spot. And that’s why I like it.

I have no objection to tourists in town; in fact I am glad to see them as they represent income for the area. But Pigeon Point is kind of like a cozy little secret, except on weekends when the fishing boats overrun it.

Around here, a point is a tip of land sticking out into the river, or a creek, or maybe just a marsh, but usually where a boat can be launched. THE Point in Beaufort is an area of fantastic, historic homes, the original McMansions, and that’s what the tourists come to see. I walk there frequently. But when I want to relax and just enjoy being here, I drive a little bit farther and go to Pigeon Point.

As I said, there isn’t much there. A boat launch, pier, a crabbing dock and a bench. Recently the town added a swing facing the river. This is all on the beautiful Beaufort River, where there is often a lot of boat traffic, which is fun to watch. Occasionally there are dolphins and as noted earlier, I love to see them and rarely get a photograph. Some birds, though not as many as at the Wetlands.

Other people are often there to eat their lunches and enjoy the peace and beauty of the place. The other day the swing and crabbing dock were occupied but I wanted the bench anyway as it is closer to the water, where I can sometimes watch little scenarios play out.

There’s a commercial fisherman in a small boat who puts in with his catch and often sells some of it to the leisure fishermen on the pier who haven’t been having much luck.

Just across the river is MCAS–Marine Corps Air Station–a lesser known military installation. Planes take off over the river, or come in for landings, usually four in a group. Makes for great watching.

In bad weather I just don’t go there, but otherwise there is almost always a nice breeze blowing.

In short, I go there because it just soothes my soul.

Goldenrod

Coming from Indiana, I don’t expect much from autumn in South Carolina. And that’s fine. I’m a reasonable human being, and not being cold as opposed to being cold suits me. So, although I love the glorious fall colors that friends post on Facebook, I’m not interested in trading them for the current temperature–which is about 77.

Therefore, goldenrod has been a pleasant surprise.

From my earliest memories, goldenrod has represented fall. When we went to the first grade, the one important school supply was a Goldenrod tablet. It was a cheapie version of today’s legal pad, but for a 6-year-old it was the key to writing things down, something I’ve been doing ever since.

And then there was the bouquets of goldenrod that kids from the country brought in to the teacher. I particularly remember Miss Trimble, our second grade teacher, graciously accepting them, explaining that they made some people sneeze, and putting them outside on a broad ledge.

Indeed, I am told that some families in that era headed for northern Michigan when goldenrod bloomed, because of allergies. Now there is much doubt (or even fact) that goldenrod was the culprit. The more likely villain is ragweed, which “blooms” at the same time, only not so spectacularly.

When I was making all-natural wreaths, fellow crafters agreed, and showed me how to dry sprigs of goldenrod for touches of color. I don’t think anyone ever sneezed at my wreaths.

Then I started looking at goldenrod with a new eye when my friend Jean told me the English consider it a garden plant. She pointed it out in a particularly lovely planting on the grounds of Oxford University. After that, friend Sarah, who used to order plants for Cox’s Plant Farm said. “A salesman was touting the beauty of “Solidago”; I looked at him and said ‘No one in Indiana will buy goldenrod!’ Now that there are so many varieties (and if people believe it is not the cause of their allergies) some just might buy it.  It is certainly beautiful.”

Well, I don’t know if anyone in South Carolina would buy it either, if they knew what the name meant, but Sarah is sure right about its beauty. It brightens the roadsides here and warms the heart of this Hoosier.

Pure gold.

Not gone fishin’

It’s been years since I’ve gone fishing, but lately I’ve been thinking I might like to try it again, surrounded as I am here with fishing of all sorts. I remember fondly the thrill of a tug on the fishing line and the excitement of bringing it in. Don has lots of tackle, so that wouldn’t be a problem.

Then I stop and remember the worst that could happen: I might catch something.

I was fairly young back in my fishing years, and I usually went with my family or occasionally some kid friends. My brothers cleaned the fish. They taught me how to scrape off scales, or peel off catfish skin,  but mostly they did it. And when I did go alone or with friends, if we did catch anything worth keeping, we brought it home as a string, and Dad would clean it.

The fish around here are serious fish, and the prospect of having to clean one of them cools my ardor immediately. My old boss used to “catch and release”. At the time I thought it was a little silly, considering all he did to catch bass, but now it makes perfect sense.

I’ve been trying to recall my fishing years. I well remember digging for worms. I was pretty good at baiting the hook. I could take bluegill or sunfish off the hook, though someone else removed the catfish—I was scared to death of getting “horned”. But did I or didn’t I ever clean a fish?

My usual fishing companion other than family was my friend Janet. I lived in town, and she lived on a farm within easy biking distance. As a rule we fished in a pond near the road, but there was a bigger pond deep in a woods at the back of her father’s farm. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t all that big, and it was only across a couple of pastures, just inside a copse of trees.  But her brother used to bring in magnificent strings of fish from it.

One summer day when we were 10 or 12 we decided to camp out all night by the big pond, and for supper we would eat the fish we would catch. Besides our blankets, we took an iron skillet, matches, utensils, and bacon and cornmeal for frying the fish. Gathering up all that stuff took time, of course, so it was getting late when we started.

The woods really were kind of dark. I think we did get a fire started; Janet and I were pretty good at that. I can’t remember if we ever caught any fish or not, but when evening fell, her brother came out and to our immense relief (though we protested) brought us back to the house.

Now, about 70 years later, I think I’ll once again let cooler heads prevail. I can go a little longer without cleaning a fish.

Big white birds

As most of my friends probably realize by now, I am a sucker for big white birds.

In the past 50-plus years, we did not take many vacation trips, while we were amassing what proved not to be a fortune. But, when we did go somewhere it was usually to Florida. The closer we got to tropical air, the excitement mounted, and the first sure sign we weren’t in Indiana any more was seeing big white birds in the fields along the highway. I loved seeing those birds.

I know there are egrets and herons in Indiana at times, but I am never in a place to see them, and now the arthritic condition of my hips and knees pretty much precludes my visiting those sites. I’ve never even been to the Goose Pond by Linton, and that’s not far from where I used to live.

But now I am here in South Carolina where big white birds are part of the landscape for most–though not quite all–of the year. I never get tired of seeing them.

I was so thrilled when I saw my first ibis. Not being familiar with them, I thought it was rare and special, but my friend Susan Freeman said that on golf courses in Florida they are considered nuisances. I couldn’t imagine such a thing. But when they started moving in by the dozens and then possibly by the hundreds, I saw what she meant. The main problem was that such numbers tend to drive other birds out.

This spring, however, when the egrets and herons started to arrive in the Cyprus Wetlands and set up their nests, two other things happened to drive them out. One was a huge rain storm, but (to my mind, anyway) the worst was the very noisy construction of a gas station across the street. Overnight, most of the birds decamped to a private preserve.

I was heartbroken. There were still a few big birds here, but by no means the numbers that had been here before. This is supposed to be a protected rookery, but no one can protect from storms, and apparently no one can protect from humans who don’t give a damn.

Family celebrations took me back to Indiana for more than a month, and when I returned, on the Fourth of July weekend, we went to the Wetlands almost immediately. There, I was delighted to see, the ibises had moved in! Big white birds! After the near-silence of the month before, their chatter was music to my ears!

Over the course of the summer, more egrets, herons and wood storks returned, and now they are drifting away again, seeking some winter warmth. With any luck, they’ll be back in the spring. Can’t predict no storms, but the gas station is up and running now, and the birds don’t seem to mind it.

And even the ibises will be welcome!