Like Christianity, the Islamic religion has been plagued with extremists and cruel practitioners who use “religion” as a pretext and justification for their crimes against humanity. In the early days of my intensive reading, I read many religious texts. I’ve read the Koran (English translation), the Book of Mormon (along with several of their other sacred texts—Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price, etc.) and I’ve read the complete Bible (old and new testaments in several different translations) and I’ve translated the New Testament from Greek into English. Reverence for one’s sacred book as a guide seems to be an essential element for a meaningful religious experience, and surprisingly, the organized (often very disorganized) form of the religion differs from the picture given in the sacred book.

However, like Christians who fail to read and follow the spirit of the Bible, many followers of Islam have gotten off track. In fact, it’s so extreme that it’s gotten weird. I think one reason I so enjoyed the movie, Kingdom of Heaven, was because of the theme of possible harmony between the religions. Now, I know that we have hardly proved ourselves innocent in this conflict. Yet, the car bombs and the suicide bombers and the injury and destruction that results does not help world opinion. The intense violence only seems to be escalating. I read, or perhaps heard on NPR, one writer who described suicide bombing as the crack cocaine of terrorism.

Even in the 18th century, some of our poets (who are the true prophets of society) sensed that the Islam of the extremists is not the same Islam that helped bring Europe out of the dark ages through its accumulated and developed arts, texts, and sciences. For example, Thomas Moore (1779-1852), an Irish poet and friend and biographer of Byron, wrote some lines that are fitting on this topic. The lines come from a narrative poem of Moore’s entitled, Lalla Rookh: an Oriental Romance (1817).

“One of that Saintly, murd’rous brood
To Carnage and the Koran giv’n,
Who think that through unbelievers’ blood
Lies their directed path to heaven.
. . . .
Just Allah, what must be thy look,
When such a wretch before thee stands
Unblushing with thy sacred book
Turning the leaves with blood-stained hands
And Wresting from its page sublime
Creed of lust, and hate, and crime.”

As it turned out, Monday, July 31 was my last night in Charleston. My daughter, Rachel, had rented a room at a beach hotel. I drove through the Isle of Palms to that Holiday Inn on Ocean Blvd., and I noticed the island has had explosive growth since I had lived there. I literally didn’t recognize it. As I looked at row after row of very expensive houses, I had to ask myself, “Is there really that man people in America with so much money?” Erica Jong points out that most writers can’t make a living without teaching or editing, etc. I guess I must get used to the disparity of my meager living to that of others. It wasn’t that I envied the folks in those fine houses, I’m just truly surprised there are so many of them. Jong says that writers can only be “people who can live in cold-water flats and like it.”

After we found my daughter’s room, I walked the beach with my grandson, Mason Alexander Shelby. I was proud of the fact that my daughter married into a family with blood ties to Robert E. Lee and the Jefferson Davis family both. When he was born, I felt like my daughter had borne a Confederate Messiah. We are the only members of our extended family with curly hair, and we both returned from our walk on the wind-blown beach with wild hair. It was an interesting experience to have the whole family laughing at our looks!

We gathered the crew together and went to Coconut Joes for food and drinks. As we waited on the restaurant’s upper deck, I had a banana daiquiri, then I switched to Coronas. My eyes traced the ocean’s horizon. The ocean has a hypnotic effect upon me. It made me want to drag out my Jimmy Buffet books (yes, he does write) and sing “A Pirate looks at 40.”

There was a musician that night. He sang mostly crowd tunes with a sincere but nondescript voice. After the meal of course was when I received the phone call from my mother saying I needed to get to Oklahoma. With that phone call, my Charleston trip and euphoria effectively ended.

Monday, July 31 in Charleston, SC: My Civil War Tour

Today, I went on the Civil War Walking Tour, conducted by Jack Thomson, Civil War historian and author of Charleston at War: The Photographic Record. This little expedition was one of my best adventures on my Charleston trip. Charleston is a symbol of the heart of the South. When one learns of this city, he learns much more than he or she intended to about the War Between the States, or as some Southerners phrased it, “The War of Northern Aggression” or “The Late Unpleasantness.”

I found parking around 8:00 am near the Mills House Hotel where the tour was to start at 9:00. (It was a fancy place as my redneck ancestors would say. Room rates range from $99.00 a night to $350.00 depending. It first opened around 1853. You can see and read about the hotel here: http://www.millshouse.com/) Slightly depressed that my vacation was nearly over, I sat in the hotel courtyard by a fountain. The couryard was filled with lush plants. I brought my camera this time, and I intend to have a link to the photos posted soon.

We gathered in the hotel lobby. The tour began with a lecture and a viewing of photos. Our tour guide was Jeff Zimmerman, a co-worker of Thomson. I found him to be civil and knowledgeable, just as Thomson had assured me he would be. We had about twenty people in our tour group. Thankfully, all were civil and interested in the tour. I managed to strike up a conversation with a few of them during slow moments. Some were from up north. Jeff picked up on the fact I knew some things about the Civil War and we had some interesting exchanges. The fact I was a gifted English teacher interested some of my fellow walkers, and I was able to share some things I teach my students that they won’t learn from the history books. By the end of the tour, I had converted some to not liking Lincoln and appreciating the South more. The walk was said to take two hours—it actually was two and a half. I guestimate that we walked three miles in that time.

I was refreshed by the tour, I received many ideas for stories, and I was surprised the time passed so quickly. I would highly recommend Thomson’s tour if you visit Charleston.

You can read a little of this tour at www.civilwartours.com. Thomson’s email is thomsonj@bellsouth.net if you want to write him. During our phone conversation, I found him friendly and anxious to talk about Charleston. If you’re looking to learn about the War Between the States in Charleston, you will find him a very knowledgeable fellow. The tour is $17.00 per adult, and children under twelve are free.

Next entry will be on my last night in Charleston.

Well, I’m on the road to Oklahoma to do my sonly duties and help my parents out some. I’ve heard a couple of metereologists talk of the heat wave and the “dog days” of summer. I decided to try a poem about the dog days and how they affected two crazed lovers. Let me know if this first draft is working. I SHOULD be able to post again Friday night.

Even Lovers are affected by these dog days,
Those hot and sultry Canicular weeks
Between July and September,
When Sirius, the Dog Star,
Rises and sets with the sun.
The Romans whispered its brightness
Heated the earth, and drew out our madness,
Causing men to sweat at midnight
Broiling bodies by day,
Boiling their blood by night,
Scarring sensitive souls
Stirring languid, listless libidos.
Lives stall in discomfort,
Stagnation and inactivity,
The earth tilts strangely,
The air is thick with moisture,
And venomous, agitated serpents creep about.
The sun’s rays pierce us
Like Eros’ poisoned arrows,
And we stumble onward with a
Crazed look in our eyes.
At the great council,
Our body language is specific and clear,
Someone should muzzle us in these hot days,
Like the Ancients did their dogs.

This morning I was on the road by 7:15 Eastern Standard Time. After a thirteen-hour drive, I returned to Monroe. The drive was a no-brainer, I-26 to I-20, then straight to Monroe, arriving at 8:30 p.m. Central Time. According to my trip odometer, I drove a total of 1809 miles on my Charleston trip. It was a great vacation/business trip. Unfortunately, I also spent a lot of money enjoying it. We Louisiana school teachers can’t do things like that too often.

While in Charleston, I pitched my book to several individuals, museums, and stores, as well as the Charleston Public Library. Most I talked to seemed interested in Stories of the Confederate South, but they all seemed more interested in my children’s book that Pelican will publish next spring, Jim Limber Davis: A Confederate Orphan in the Confederate White House. I think I’ll have a very busy year promoting that one. As far as Charleston goes, I fell in love with the area again. I think I’ll save a few dollars and stay there for a whole month next summer. I want to continue talking of Charleston in this blog for a couple of entries. Yet, for now, I’m tired from my trip and I want to read some more of Erica Jong’s, Seducing the Demon: Writing for my Life. I’ll be in Oklahoma with my parents tomorrow and won’t return until Friday night if all goes well, so nothing more will be posted till then.

Well, it seems my Charleston trip has suddenly been cut short. My mother is going into the hospital for a test that requires her to be knocked out for a while. Obviously she’ll be too loopy to drive and take care of my diabetic father who just had a stroke a while back, so I’m leaving my beloved Charleston tomorrow morning at first light for Monroe. (12-14 hour drive). Then I’ll spend the night there, wash some clothes and be off to Oklahoma sometime Wednesday. I’ll take Mother to the doctor for this inpatient business, spend the night, make sure she’s okay, and then be back on my way back to Monroe on Friday. Ah, the duties (and as Jong says, “the perils”) of primogeniture.

I plan on returning Friday because this Saturday I have some out of town band business I must attend to in Mississippi, so I’ll have a short drive and will spend the night in a hotel. Must figure out how I can contact my friends in the area so we can get together for a couple of hours. I’ve learned that while traveling there’s no guarrantee of having wireless service, thus I can’t promise when I’ll post on my blog again. I still have much I want to say about my Charleston trip.

Fort Sumter II

When we docked at the island fort, after receiving behavior from the rangers, we disembarked. I meandered through the fort, poking my head through the gun-holes and sighting down the barrel toward the detained Egyptian ship we had passed. I know the detained Egyptian sailors on board may be pissed, for they are truly victims of legal issues beyond their control, but imagine how the hundreds of arrested Northerners felt during the War Between the States when Lincoln suspended the right of Habeas Corpus. (Shades of Patriot Laws!) He really did that. In all, Lincoln arrested about 13,000 IN THE NORTH under martial law. It seems he was not open-minded about some things. I think 200 of them were newspaper editors who criticized him. Here’s a site where you can read Lincoln’s and Secretary of State Seward’s proclamation of that sad decision:
http://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/index.asp?document=425

Of course, my view from the fort could only be partial. Fort Sumter was once much higher, with three levels—now it has only one. A good bit remains considering it was first pounded by the Confederates, followed by an extended pounding by the Federals, then by years of neglect, then remodeled a bit when it served as a WWII fort. I thought about the 400 or so Confederates stationed here during the war, and wondered how they stood it. I strolled through the museum, found a water fountain, then climbed as high as I could legally. I studied the sailboat regatta/beach party. I wandered through the tiring tourists. Within ten minutes of disembarking, some had already made their way back to the ferry. I stepped outside the fort to the smoking area, then because it was low tide, I strolled the beach. Returning inside the fort, I pestered the ranger with more questions. He seemed eager to talk, and as I said, was fairly knowledgeable. Five minutes before departure time, I joined the other passengers on the ferry. As we sailed back to the National Monument dock, I reflected on the trip, and I noticed that I hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the Tennessee worker and the rangers. That’s really not like me. I tend to be more gregarious and initiate conversations, but I guess at times I need introspective days like that, returning to that solitude that a writer must have.

I’ve got more words than I can put down tonight, more things I want to say about my Charleston trip. I’ve had a good bit of solitude the past few days. Maybe it worked.

Here is the first draft of a new poem I wrote this trip.

Allusions

Allusions . . .
Points of reference to the past
To literature and art, to people and places.
Allusions are essential to create meaning,
Enhancing symbolism, setting a tone or theme,
Some are obtuse, literary dead ends,
Others are ambiguous,
Subject to supposition, requiring
Knowledge or investigation of the source
To feel or understand their purpose.

Women are like good books,
Full of complex allusions,
Requiring a close, and
Sometimes, a second reading.
Yesterday, I saw a stream,
A collage of beautiful women—
The freckle-faced lady with
Long strawberry blonde hair,
The olive-skinned ingénue
Showing legs and cleavage,
The Siren in a halter shirt
With the beautiful bare back,
The slim beauty with the long flowing skirt
That the wind twice teased up to her thong—
In the past, I would have studied them individually,
Now I look only to find points of reference,
To form mental images of comparison,
I read them as I read allusions,
The true meaning behind my noticing them is
Found somewhere else.
I think only of you,
You are the point of reference.

Fort Sumter

I found a parking lot near the Charleston aquarium and walked to the Fort Sumter National Monument. I purchased my fourteen-dollar ticket and strolled through the facility. I was pleasantly surprised to find a quote of Abraham Lincoln clearly stating his racial prejudice. It must be puzzling to recent generations who have incorrectly been taught that prejudice existed only in the South and did not exist in the North. And from Saint Lincoln, of all people! Well, I digress—back to my subject.

I waited for the ferry, The Spirit of Charleston, and chatted with a young, cute, and vibrant female park worker from Tennessee. She had only been working there a month and had not learned much about the fort or the Civil War yet. After I boarded, she waved to me. I returned her wave, thinking I would have liked to have known what brought her here. School? Work? Wanderlust?

I found the straw-hat wearing rangers more conversant and knowledgeable. I asked many questions, and refrained from expressing my opinion on Southern issues as I asked them.
The rangers were sympathetic to the city’s suffering during the war, but not exactly pro-South. But then, how could you even get a job as a National Parks interpreter if you were pro-South?

From the bow of the ferry, I could see the fort—3.2 miles out in the harbor. The Charleston peninsula is bordered by the Ashley River on one side and the Cooper on the other (the Park’s side). I had my writing pad and my binoculars—the only pair I saw—but I had forgotten my camera, so I scribbled everything down I could notice. With my ten-power binoculars, I studied the island fort that I had not seen in nearly twenty years. The island the fort rested on was manmade, from 70,000 tons of granite imported from either New England or England. The fort itself was constructed with 7-10 million bricks made on local plantations.

According to the Ranger, we had about 350 passengers on this one trip. At fourteen dollars a head, I can see how this little ferry trip to this piece of history had become a money cow to the government. Not all the passengers were as excited as I was. I heard more than one passenter say, “Is this really going to take two hours?” It seemed like simple math to me. One half-hour ferry trip there, one hour on the island, and another half-hour back. There would be water and bathrooms, and it was a nice day. The trip seemed like a bargain to me. What’s a couple of hours when you can learn and walk on history? Oddly, the foreigners on board seemed most excited.

The ferry ride alone was worth the trip. It was the first time I had been on seawater since 1990 (another story). We were told to sit. As I had seen passengers at the bow on the incoming ferry, I didn’t. I stood alone at the bow at first, but after a few minutes found myself surrounded with other passengers. The wind increased, and I had to fasten my ball cap to my wrist with its Velcro strap. The wind tore at the pages of my notebook so hard I had to stop writing. I have LONG hair, and soon it was flying out of the ponytail holder and going wild. I must have looked like a madman, which I admit to being on occasion.

As the ferry chugged its way across the bay, I saw several porpoises and flocks of floating and flying gulls. Occasionally a gull would crash dive into the water like a kamikaze pilot. For all that trouble, I hope it got a fish. There was a herd of sailboats anchored around Morris Island, where the soldiers in the earth and log Fort Wagner (subject of the movie Glory) had annihilated the 54th Mass. The flotilla was too far out for me to observe in detail even with my binoculars, but it looked like they had a giant beach party going. Behind us was the new Cooper River Bridge, a cable stay bridge designed to last for a hundred years. The supporting cables are hung from diamond design towers, and from a distance in the sunlight, the bridge looks like its supporting two giant sails. You can see and read about the bridge here: http://www.cooperriverbridge.org/index.asp

We also passed the Edco, an Egyptian cargo ship that is being held prisoner in Charleston Harbor over some legal matters. The government is not allowing any of the more than two-dozen crewmembers to come ashore since they do not have visas. I think they cargo they came in with was salt from Chile. They’ve been there since June, but they may have a long wait. The last time this happened to a ship and crew in Charleston Harbor was in the 90’s. They sat there for about two years. You can read about the Edco’s predicament here: http://www.shiptalk.com/index.asp?ItemID=712&rcid=160&pcid=139&cid=160′

After a wonderful thirty-minute choreographed ride listening to the recorded lecture, we docked at Fort Sumter. I’ll give part two of this soon. Tomorrow morning I’m going on a walking Civil War tour. I’ll let you know about that little walk too.

Yesterday morning I rose at 6 am and drove to Folly Island. I was looking for a place to metal detect, but I found none—the island was much more built up than when I lived here in the 80’s. Incredible. Charleston was one of the richest cities in the New World, and it still has signs of having a rather healthy economy.

Then I went to C.S.A. galleries in North Charleston. A fantastic store—full of artwork and a wide array of Southern clothing, souvenirs, and Confederate items. They agreed to carry my book, Stories of the Confederate South. They are in the process of moving, but if you’re in Charleston you should look them up. I bought a South Carolina flag, a ball cap with the crescent moon and palm tree on it, and a Wales flag bumper sticker. I’ll place the sticker on my Toyota truck next to my Real Men Wear Kilts sticker.

From that store, I moved on to downtown Charleston. I spent twenty minutes searching for a parking place. I finally found a pay lot near the market. Charleston is full of tourists this time of year it seems. I walked up to Calhoun Street and left materials at the Charleston library, then moved on to the Confederate Museum, then to The Old Heritage Shop below in the market area, presenting my book and getting them to take orders. Though I saw a lot of neat stuff—like the baskets woven by the Gullah from palmetto and sweet grass—I settled for a tee shirt that read, SC Standing Alone Against Northern Aggression Since 1861.

After strolling through the market, I drove to another parking lot at Liberty Square so I could take the Fort Sumter tour (the rates are higher than the meters where you can only park for an hour, but they are not New York City parking rates for sure). I’ll write about the Fort Sumter trip next entry.