Leaving Charleston
Those born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina apparently have a distinct and somewhat endangered accent which stands out in the South for its unique qualities. Among the various regional Southern accents, the Charleston accent utilizes a vowel sound that keeps the same quality for the whole syllable. Under certain conditions the letter “r” is not pronounced when it occurs after a vowel or at the end of a syllable (as in fah away). The features of this speech may be attributed to its early settlement by the the Huguenots and Sephardic Jews, both of which had major influences on the development of the area. It is more likely though that the speech patterns were considerably influenced by the dialect of the Gullah language of African American community in Charleston.
Charleston, has a reputation of being the ”The Holy City” in part because of the manner in which numerous church steeples stand out of the city skyline and partly because it was one of the few cities in the original colonies that allowed religious tolerance to the French Huguenot Church. Interestingly enough, it has been reported to be the only city in the United States that still has a French Huguenot Church. When I consider the Southern States I normally think of Baptist and Evangelist. However, Charleston was one of the first colonial cities that permitted Jews to practice their faith without any limitations. The American branch of the Reform Jewish movement was founded in Charleston in 1749 at the Synagogue Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim and happens to be the fourth oldest Jewish congregation in the continental United States. Brith Sholom Beth Israel in Charleston is the oldest Orthodox synagogue in the South and was established by german and central european jews in the mid 1800’s.
The earliest settlers to Charleston came from England but it was also home to a variety of religious and ethnic groups including the French, Germans, Irish and Scottish who migrated to the Charleston penninsula as Potestants, Jews, and Roman Catholics. St. Phillips Episcopal Church, the first Anglican Churfch in the Charleston was established there in 1682. Slaves who made up a large portion of the population were active in the city’s religious community. Free black Charlestonians and slaves helped establish the Old Bethel United Methodist Church 1797. The congregation of the Emanuel A.M.E. Church stemed from a religious group organized solely by African Americans in 1791. Currently it is the oldest A.M.E. church in the south, and the second oldest A.M.E. church in the country.
Charleston is the seat of the Episcopal Diocese of South Carolina as well as the seat of the Roman Catholic Diocese in the north western portion of South Carolina. It is also the home to the only African-American Seventh Day Baptist Church congregation in the Seventh Day Baptist General Conference of the United States and Canada. The First Baptist Church of Charleston is the oldest Baptist church in the South and the first Southern Baptist Church in existence.
Despite being referred to as “The Holy City”, Charleston has the distinction of being labeled as “one of America’s most dangerous cities” according to Morgan Quitno when compared to the national average crime rate . In 2007, the national crime rate averaged 320.9 crimes per 100,000 civilians, while the average crime rate in Charleston was 430.9, per 100,000 civilians. Charleston had a murder rate of 12.8 per 100,000, well above the national average of 6.9. The trend remains the same for every other major crime, including rape, robbery, assault, burglary, and automobile theft.
We had coffee from the Waffle house , left the city by 6:30 AM with no fanfare. Just before I entered the on ramp to Interstate 95, I saw a bumper sticker on the vehicle in front of me which read, ”Remember Jason Gadsden.” He was murdered on the outskirts of Charleston on 9/25/08. Jason Gadsden was twenty one at the time. His criminal history in South Carolina showed he had been charged with marijuana possession, manufacturing substances with intent to distribute, and breaking and entry, but he had no convictions. He was the eighth homicide of the year in Berkeley County area. His accused murder fled the area but was later caught in Massachusetts. What possible reasons could there be for such a tragedy?
We headed for Jacksonville, Florida on Interstate 95 until we passed Savannah.
We exited Interstate 95 near Southport and resumed our ride on Rt. 17 which parallelled the Interstate all the way into Brunswick and Jekyll Island Park in Southern Georgia. Riding on the Interstate has it’s advantages: you can ride a steady 70 to 75 miles an hour. It has it’s disadvantages: you can ride 70 to 75 miles an hour. The time spent riding can be shortened considerably on the interstate. The roads are straight, and the speed is constant. In good weather it’s probably safer on an expressway than on the back country roads, as everybody is moving at the same speed in the same direction. It’s unlikely that there there will be an abrupt stop, no one will be pulling out of a side street, and no one is going to make a left hand turn in front of you. The problem on most interstates is that the ride is sterile, and often devoid of any distinguishing features. The ride on interstate 95 in Georgia between Savannah and Southport may as well have been Interstate 90 between Syracuse and Utica. The center median and the trees on the sides all begin to look the same. Hence, the change the to Rt. 17. Along any state route, or local highway are the glimpse of times past. At the major intersections you might find the non-distinct strip malls and box stores, but between those intersections are the old farms, the small communities with the family run hardware store or body shop, the road side leather business or the community cemetary where all local history has been laid to rest. The ride off the interstate takes often takes twice as long even if there is no traffic. Its just natural to slow down to look at the those features that distinquish a community. The town hall, the children playing at a park, the clapboard sided church with small steeple, the hunched over old man walking with his cane, the young man negotiating a lower price with the owner of the auto repair business, all add to the spice of the small communities peppering the way along a state and local route.
There are some that prefer the fast ride on the interstates, moving along at seventy five miles an hour. I prefer the soft ride at fifty miles an hour where the bike engine is relaxed, purring at 2500 rpm. At that speed, the wind wraps gently around the bike, and my body, occasionally tugging at my pants or my shirt. I hear only the light roar of the engine, the air lightly snapping around my ears, the drone of tire against the pavement, the clicking of the transmission as I shift throught the gears, and mostly I hear the words within my own head. The only conversation I can have on the bike is with my self. With so much time spent on the road, I am find myself in a meditative state, aware of my surroundings, but also keenly aware of my own thoughts, my own ambivalence, my own limitations, my own strengths. As turbulent as it may appear to some, there is peace. The humming of the road, that low roar from the muffler, and the sedate ruffle from the wind, all act in unison as a mantra in helping my find the words of an inner tranquility that I have that I rarely been able to find. Its much like the hikes I have taken by my self in the Adirondacks High Peaks. Foolish perhaps, but very satsifying. A long hike to a peak, alone, with only my inner workings to engage with have typically left my in a euphoric state for weeks afterwards. It is more than simply reconnecting with my surroundings, it is reconnecting with myself. Albeit, I have earned a satsifactory living, but it has been easy to lose a grip of who I am, especially when I find myself doing the bidding of others, or following policies and procedures that I have no say in. It is in the moments of solitude that I have managed to dig up my own strength, my own self, those inescapable truths that have been buried so deeply in self protective behavior, trivial conversations, and repetitive worthless drivel.
On Rt. 17 we crossed over a bridge named after Harriet Tubman, also known as the conducter of the underground railroad. A short way down the road I spied a large and unique cyprus tree just outside an entrance to a private gravel road. Looking up the gravel path I observed numerous old cyprus trees acting as columns and the tops of the trees as roof into what appeared to be a plantation. I stopped to photograph the cyprus trees with the moss hanging on the branchs. As I stood there taking shots, a pick up truck approached me and I waved as the truck came up along my side. I introduced myself to the driver and asked if it was all right if I photographed the canopy of trees. He assured me that it was not a problem, but shared with me that when he first saw me he thought I was firing a gun, because saw the flash from my camera. His right hand was holding a shot gun that was placed on the passenger seat. He told me that the gravel road led to a plantation home and that he was employed as a grounds keeper. He was a friendly type and shared with me that the property was no longer a working plantation but an animal sanctuary. We joked about the shot gun and he offered to allow me to take a tour of the area. I declined.
As we left Brunswick, Georgia, the fourth largest automobile port on the east coast, we crossed over the Sidney Lanier Bridge. It is a cable-stayed bridge with a total length of 7,779 ft. It has a span of 1,250 feet and a clearance of 185 feet over the South Brunswick River. More impressive than the bridge is the expansive site of of the salt marshes south of the bridge, bordering Jekyll Island Park. As I crested over the highest point on the top of bridge, I was awestruck by the beauty of hundreds of acres of marshlands and the meandering waters. I want to stop on the bridge, and take in the view for a few minutes, but it would not have been a well advised decision. I could only enjoy the splender of the breathtaking view for a brief period as paced down the southern side of the bridge. I felt like I cheated myself not being unable to remain there. Such is life.
We made our way into Jacksonville, late that afternoon. It was hot and humid and inundated with travelers like my self and Ross.