Through Charleston, SC

"Byewfert", (Beaufort) South Carolina. I woke up there on August 13, 2006. I knew from my attempted shower the night before that a hot water shower was not on the menu that morning. I woke up and, in spite of the cold shower, needed caffeine. There is a coffee shop hidden away in Beaufort, SC. I spied it the night before so I knew where to go for my fix. Once again, I was struck by the contrast between where I was (Beaufort, South Carolina) and where I was not (New Orleans, Louisiana... specifically Cafe Nicaud on Frenchmen Street ) I was overhearing conversations about "my baby, this" and "my baby, that" versus conversations about how to fund a music program for the children of the community or how they can engage the remaining residents in a neighborhood to be more involved in community activities. Ah, boomers, late bloomers.

Anyhow, I hit the road again. When I was driving in the previous day, I noticed a sign at a fruit stand. They were offering "Hot Boiled Peanuts." I saw it again on the way out. A few miles later, I saw another produce stand with "Fresh Boiled Peanuts." Again I passed it by. There was a third one. People learn off of each other. This is how regional things become regional I suppose. Somebody has a great idea and it works... Their neighbor down the road tries the same thing and it works for both. No one is hurt. I passed the third one and my curiosity was so piqued that I vowed to stop at the next place that offered boiled peanuts and buy some.

It never happened. This is a lesson: when you are driving around the country and see something that interests you, investigate. Don't worry about where else you might end up at the close of the day. The choice is basic: end your day, wherever it may turn out, following the scent of something that interests you, something that you love... or end your day following a predetermined script, knowing in advance where you will be, knowing every element of how you will spend your evening. Practice randomness now and then. You don't have to wander the country as I am right now. You might be set off by something you read in the newspaper, or an overheard conversation. Maybe you might follow up on the urge to compliment someone, or do a favor with nothing expected in return. The adventure is not necessarily a physical one, it is an adventure of experience. Within your life, where you are right now. You can read a different book, listen to an different CD, ask a different question of a loved one. There is a risk and a prize. The prize is a simple one and its value is whatever you assess it to be. It is the prize of a new moment found. Singular and unique it is a moment in time of your own creation. Add a bit of brightness to someone else's life and you will be adding the same to your own.

But I missed out on the peanuts. It was a regional thing of maybe 20 miles. Perhaps if I had a better map and could traverse that gossamer web of country roads with confidence I might have found hot boiled peanuts all over South Carolina. Ah, for want of a good map....

Once again I was headed North. I had the vague idea that I might drive all of the way to Beaufort, North Carolina (pronounced bow-fort) but first I had to actually start driving and so I did. I passed through Charleston without too much effort. The bridge North of Charleston is a gorgeous suspension bridge. It looked to be made by the same designers as the two I crossed in Georgia, but this time the designers went all of the way and ended up with a bridge that was dynamic and more beautiful than their previous efforts. It is breathtaking.

Once you cross over the bridge you quickly drive into an area that is almost rural. I was driving through on a Sunday which, I think affected what I passed. I was passing many crudely constructed booths along the side of the road. Perhaps one in every fifteen would have baskets hanging on it and a woman sitting keeping an eye on things. I passed one that had a woman wearing purple pants and thought. "I need to stop and talk to that woman." But the moment had passed. I vowed to stop at the next one. But the next one never came. Five miles further I had a quick conversation with myself.

"There aren't going to be any more basket weavers, are there?"

"No, there aren't."

"I should go back and talk to that woman in purple pants."

"Yes, you should."

So I turned around and drove back. Unfortunately, it was 12 noon. My woman in purple had gone in for lunch, so I drove a little further to "Jack's Cosmic Dogs" a hot dog joint and passed a half-hour eating a hot dog accompanied by exceedingly greasy fries. I left with an extra cup of tea and hoped my purple princess would be back in her booth. Fortune was with me, she was.



She was a deeply black woman , wearing her purple sweatpants surmounted by a blue T-shirt that read "Love is Ageless." She was shod in pink slippers that contrasted nicely with the grass underfoot. Silly boy that I am, I didn't ask her name.

"How did you learn to make all of these different baskets?"

"I taught them myself," her accent was thick, almost Gullah. (The dialect, so different and new to me, I can't replicate it accurately here in text.) "I use my 'ma gination and make thems up."

"What do you make them out of? Do you pick the grass yourself?"

"Well the most of the inside is sweetgrass. See that?" she pointed to a bark brown pattern in a basket. "I use pine needles for the dark brown parts. See that there?" pointing to a medium brown stripe. "That's bullrush. We get it from the swamp. The wrap 'round the outside is something called 'palmetto.' We used to get it ourselves but now we have to travel too far to get it so we send the men to get it. The men get it now and bring it to us."

"When did you first learn to weave the baskets?"

"Nineteen-forty-seven. I was fourteen." She named an African woman's name, "came over from Africa and brought the skill with her. She taught my mother and I learned from my mother. I've been weaving since I was fourteen."

We talked further, how the art form was not being passed on. She didn't seem to mind. "Nowadays the young folk can get educated and get into a career where they can make a decent living. This is alright for us old folk to supplement our retirement, but it ain't no way to make a living."

She was glad that the art form was being taught in the local schools but knew that it was dieing out.

We talked about the pace of life and how changes are inevitable. Many people when they age become resistant to change. Change becomes something bad. Something that will never be as good as what once was. This woman was positive about everything. Even the road before her house being turned into a six lane expressway had a positive aspect.

"Look, they are bringing everything closer to me. I don't even have to cross the street no more. I got KFC right over there and the pharmacy is just down the street. I don't know how they do it all so well"

I picked out a basket that I wanted. It was a covered basket with pine needles and bulrush in the design. At the end of our conversation I asked if I could take her picture. "You're going to buy a basket aren't you?" At once my place in her experience crystallized. The guy who stops by talks and takes a picture. Of course there is a basket involved too. I hadn't closed the transaction earlier in the conversation so it was still up in the air in her mind. Once the money was in her hand pictures were allowed. Fair is fair, I paid for the basket and was able to take the pictures with both of our consciences clear.

And it is a beautiful basket.