Entertaining with THE CHARLESTON SILVER LADY

Ispent many of my lowcountry summers with an aunt who had friends all over the barrier islands. It was commonplace for her to load up her car and “carry” me with her with an adventure in mind.

I am sure it is from her that I get my ability to transcend my zones of comfort and accept situations that others might not. I clearly recall when we went to the far end of John’s Island where the payment gives way to a sand and soil mixture that oozes water when wet and hurls dust when dry. I met a friend of hers that day that truly made my heart stop. I was a child of the 60s and 70s, so there was no judgment of his appearance, tie-dye and peace signs looked normal to me.  

 When I met the root man, time stood still. He lived in a 1930s-era wooden house on heir’s property that was bordered on all sides but one by water. His porch was painted light sky blue. His windows had no panes of glass and his door was held fast with a thick sailor’s rope. He stood on this porch wearing a nondescript outfit of cast off garments. His hair was deeply matted in a long length of dreadlocks. He spoke with few words and lots of gestures. He was unlike anyone I had seen before and I was not sure what to make of him. My aunt asked about his family. Apparently they knew each other as children as they began to talk of mutual times and experiences.

We sat on the porch. I amused myself watching his chickens peck away at nothing, sharpening their beaks in the sandy soil. Their conversation seemed to go on and on forever.

There was a part of me that was a little afraid of the root man. As time drug on, I grew tired of listening to them talk ( I couldn’t fully understand his odd inflection). I got up and wandered around. I was told to not wander off. There was no one around. The air was so still it would take the air out of your lungs if you let it. I drew many pictures in the soil with the end of a live oak twitch. I played tic-tac-toe and hang-man until I was delirious with boredom...how on earth could they talk this long?

That is when I heard it—music to my ears—the chiming of a clock. I hoped maybe this would jolt my aunt and her rasta friend into the reality that time was of the essence. Without any thoughts to the contrary, they continued to talk and I continued to mourn the passing of my youth.

I walked around to the far side of his house and walked up a few slanted, worn steps to the porch. The boards were loose in places and missing in others. I stepped over the line of salt poured out at the landing. I peeked in the one, low, wide window that gave me a full view of the interior.

There were many Ball jars of dried flower heads and leaves gathered on a dime store side table. There were bunches of flowers and plants fashioned into crude bouquets which were hung upside down to dry. There were several upholstered chairs, a floor lamp with a white glass shade and stacks and stacks of newspapers. There were feathers, skins and hides decorating the walls and a collection of chicken feet in a large, sweetgrass basket in one corner.