by Shawn Inmon
Jim Williams continued to live in the house (which he had restored in meticulous detail) until his death by heart attack in 1990. It is a magnificent, if odd, home, and I will say that it was restored to the very specific tastes of Mr. Williams. The interior of the house was decorated in a completely over-the-top manner that couldn’t be further from my own taste, so I am not the right person to award style points.
There were a lot of old paintings in gold frames hanging as if in a museum, and a lot of no doubt very expensive furniture and knickknacks, but beyond the perspective of the story, the house didn’t do much for me. Because of the age of the house (built during the Civil War) there weren’t typical kitchens or bathrooms, so Williams had a bathroom put in just off the main hall. I so wish I could show you a picture of it, but they don’t allow photography inside. I will just say that everyone in the tour gasped at the garishness of the red and gold wallpaper and seventies-era fixtures. Clint Eastwood chose to film the movie right there in the house, so if you’ve seen it, you’ve already seen the interior, anyway, although I don’t remember shots of that bathroom.
It’s always interesting to walk around what is essentially the main set of a movie, and the Mercer House is no exception. If you’re ever in Savannah, it’s only ten dollars to take a tour of the place, worth every penny.
Mercer House
We had a couple of delish Cuban sandwiches for a late lunch, then continued our Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil tour by driving to Bonaventure Cemetery. Bonaventure was also featured in several scenes in the movie, but as soon as we got to the cemetery, we forgot all about the film. Massive oaks scattered throughout the graveyard, dripping with Spanish moss, somehow give the place a proper Southern Gothic vibe. Naturalist John Muir described that moss beautifully: “It drapes all the branches from top to bottom, hanging in long silvery-gray skeins, reaching a length of not less than eight or ten feet, and when slowly waving in the wind they produce a solemn funereal effect singularly impressive.”
We walked through as much of the cemetery as we could. I’m sure we didn’t see more than a small percentage of its 160 acres. It’s a place we would very much like to return to and spend an entire day.
We left Bonaventure and lit out for South Carolina. As usual, we stuck to the back roads. Late-afternoon drives like this were among my favorite parts of the trip. We’d so often find ourselves on quiet, twisty back roads in that golden hour before the sun set. We’d be tired, and even I was usually talked out, so we’d just listen to our music and let the miles slowly roll under our wheels. I’d watch the wheat or cotton fields, or the winding river, and wait for the sun to dip below the hills. Dawn was beside me. Life was good.
This day, midway between Savannah, Georgia, and Aiken, South Carolina, we saw a small, abandoned church and cemetery off to the side of the road. The church wasn’t much to look at, but we paid in blood to see the cemetery. More accurately, Dawn paid in blood sacrifice to the mosquitoes, but they ignored me. She’s much sweeter-tasting than I am.
The abandoned graves looked like the opening shot of a horror movie, just before the zombies rise to eat the spleens of the interlopers. It was an old cemetery—many graves dating to the 1780s or 1790s— with typically heartbreaking stories in evidence. It’s easy to forget how common child and infant mortality was just a century or two ago, but such cemeteries bring it back into focus.
We made it to Aiken just as darkness was falling. I’d lived in Aiken for a little less than a year back in 1990. Twenty-six years later, I recognized nothing. I honestly don’t have many memories of Aiken, and the two places I worked when I lived there are out of business now.
I do have one offbeat memory of it, though. In the summer of 1990, I was working for Blockbuster Video and legendary singer James Brown was serving a six-year sentence for leading police on a two-state chase. I passed the prison every day on my way to work, and after months of looking, I finally spotted Mr. Brown in his prison jumpsuit, out in the yard. That was probably the highlight of my year in Aiken, which may tell you something about my life at that time.
Day Thirty-Three
It felt odd to be waking up in a roadside hotel in Aiken, South Carolina. I had lived there for a year, but there was really nothing I cared to go and check out for old time’s sake. No favorite restaurant or hangout, no cherished piece of scenery. My only good memories of living there were playing with my daughters, who had been two and four years old at the time. The funny thing was, although I had lived in Aiken in 1990, and Dayton, Washington, twenty-two years earlier, my memory of Dayton was so much sharper than what I remembered here. Memory is a funny thing.
We gassed up the Silver Bullet and Dawn said, “Okay, this is your town, so where do you want to go?”
I had a one-word answer: “Away.”
So, away we went. Sorry, Aiken. I’m sure you’re a lovely town.
Since we were in the South, I thought it was important that we visit a plantation and get a feel for what that life was like. Of the several options, we chose Redcliffe, which had been a well-known, working plantation for many years, until the fortunes of the family that owned it declined over the decades. When the fourth generation inherited it, they couldn’t afford the upkeep or taxes and donated it to South Carolina. The state took ownership in the 1970s and has maintained it as a historic site ever since.
The plantation was originally owned by James Henry Hammond, famous for his “Cotton is King” speech to Congress in 1858, in the lead-up to the Civil War. What he said was, “Cotton is king.” What he meant was, “Don’t mess with our right to own slaves.” Hammond was one of the most vocal of all the pro-slavery Southerners. Oh, and he seemed unashamed to have had sexual relationships with his four nieces. He nonetheless went on to be elected a U.S. Senator, a position he resigned as soon as Abraham Lincoln was elected. Meanwhile, those four teenage girls were thought to be “tarnished,” and never married. Hammond goes on the list of people karma seems to have missed, at least in public view. Knowing his history, and the fact that he owned 300 slaves at one time, put a dark cloud over the whole plantation for us, but we took the tour nonetheless.
Though it was only mid-morning, it was already above 90 degrees again, so the interior of the house was sweltering. From a historic standpoint, I was glad to have seen it. Knowing that every floorboard, painting and vase was bought and paid for through the labor of slaves made the whole tour uncomfortable for me. Well, that and the three incredibly unruly little boys who ran amok while the ranger tried to control them and their mother ignored them. Wait. That’s not quite right. She would say, “Boys! Don’t do that.” Then, she would turn her back on them and let them do whatever they wanted. I felt sorry for the ranger who was trying to protect the many artifacts in easy reach throughout the house.
When we had finished the tour of the huge main house, we walked through a two-room house where slaves once lived. Twenty people lived in a house better suited to four. It was dark and cramped, and we were glad when we walked back into the beautiful sunshine.
When we got back in the car, Dawn turned the air-conditioning on high, then said, “I think that’s enough plantation culture for me.”
I agreed.
We set out to see what the back roads of South Carolina had to offer. The answer was a lot of small towns and 45-mph roads, which suited us fine. We stopped for lunch in a wide spot in the road called Johnston, South Carolina.
It was the kind of small-town café that caters almost exclusively to locals and rarely sees a stranger walk through the door. We caused a bit of a turning of heads and a few murmurs just by being strangers.
One thing Dawn had been commenting on was that she hadn’t heard much in the way of the famous Southern drawl. That was about to change.
A pretty young waitress brought us ice water and menus, then looked at Dawn and said, “Do you want anything else to drink?” Dawn just stared at her, as though she might be speaking a foreign language.
“I’m
sorry, what?”
The young girl smiled broadly and said, “Do you want anything to drink other than water?” I understood her, but as I mentioned, I had lived in the South on several occasions. This girl’s drawl was so broad and pronounced that Dawn couldn’t make out what she was saying.
I tried not to smile while I ordered for both of us, serving as interpreter for Dawn for the rest of the meal. Dawn kept focusing on what the waitress was saying, but all the extra, drawn-out syllables and y’alls were just too much for her.
I paid our bill and thanked the young girl. On the way to the car, I asked Dawn, “Still feeling like you’re not getting enough Southern accents?”
“I need to be careful what I wish for.”
We drove north, switching roads so often I could barely keep up on the atlas. In late afternoon, we crossed over into North Carolina. The first thing we saw was what I can only assume was a piece of roadside art. There was a white toilet, lid up, sitting beneath a sign that read: NO TRESPASSING.
Because I knew you wouldn’t believe me
I’ve never been good at following orders, or signs, so, risking a load of birdshot over my head, I asked Dawn to pull over. I hopped out and ran back to the potty. I had to know if it was functioning or just for display.
There was a bit of rainwater collected in the bottom, but, aside from that and a few empty beer cans, it was thankfully empty. And now you know.
Day Thirty-Four
We’d had thirty consecutive days with temperatures at least into the upper eighties, and we were ready for cool weather. Each night, I lay across our motel bed, opened the atlas and looked longingly at Maine, Vermont, Upstate New York, or the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. By the time we got there, I was sure, it would finally be cooler.
This was mostly a day for driving. We were tempted to drive out to the Atlantic coast again, but since we were in the middle of North Carolina, it would have added another day or two to the trip to get over there. I had promised Dawn I would have her home in time to decorate our new house for Halloween. So, it was a matter of making choices, every day.
To take a trip where tough choices and prioritizing weren’t needed would probably have demanded four or five months. Maybe when we were twenty we could have done that, but we’re too old to spend that many consecutive days on the road. We missed our dogs and cat, not to mention the comfortable bed awaiting us at home.
This day, then, rather than scoot to the coast, we drove straight up through North Carolina and Virginia. Our one tourist stop was in Richmond, Virginia, where we investigated the Edgar Allan Poe Museum. Poe is most closely associated with Baltimore, but he spent his formative years in Richmond, and when you are as famous and accomplished as Poe was, cities end up fighting over your legacy.
I’ve been a big Edgar Allan Poe fan since I was very young. One day in junior high, I was home sick with the flu. At least I think it was the flu. It might have been one of those “I didn’t do my map of South America that was due today” illnesses. In any case, I was desperate for something to read and grabbed a book off the coffee table. It had “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” in it. I was hooked. I haven’t read everything Poe wrote, but a good chunk of his works, including, of course, “The Raven,” “The Telltale Heart, and ”The Pit and the Pendulum.” I also saw The Oblong Box, based on his story, at the drive-in in Baker City, Oregon, in 1970, and it scared the heck out of me, if that counts.
One of the cool things about the museum is that it’s centered in a house built in 1740, the oldest standing house in Richmond. It’s called, fittingly, the Old Stone House, and for its age, it’s holding up pretty well. The Old Stone House and surrounding buildings contain a rich array of Poe memorabilia, including rare first editions, Poe’s writing chair, a lock of his hair, and his childhood bed. Everything is clearly presented, so it’s possible to get a good feel for Poe’s life even if you don’t know much about him going in.
One oddity is that, because of the age of the building, the rooms arranged into a museum aren’t very big but all have closing doors, like bedrooms. So you end up touring these very small rooms in close quarters with strangers. A slightly surreal experience.
Poe’s greatest works are macabre, of course, but the museum offers a sense of how justified his morbid nature was. He was effectively orphaned at a young age—his father abandoned the family, and his mother died when he was two years old. His foster mother, who was kind to him, died when he was still a young man, but he didn’t learn of her death until he returned for a visit. His brother died of alcoholism at a young age. His first wife died of tuberculosis in her early thirties. If ever a writer had a pool of horror to draw on, it was Poe. Out of death and tragedy, he created genius.
The Poe museum is in an old area of Richmond, and the surrounding environs were not welcoming. Once we finished our tour, we were happy to get into the Silver Bullet and head north to historic Fredericksburg for the night. I do have to note, though, that when you are driving through this particular corridor of the United States, almost every town deserves the title historic.
Day Thirty-Five
I’ve mentioned how seat-of-the-pants my planning has been on this trip, right? This day was the perfect example. Sitting in our hotel room in the morning, I worked out three great stops for us. Then, we got to the first one and I didn’t want to leave. So, everything else was pushed to the next day.
Today, we drove to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, which was endlessly fascinating to me. First, about that name: My instinct is to write it as Harper’s Ferry, with the apostrophe. That shows ownership (the ferry at one time belonged to Harper, so it was Harper’s ferry) and it was the correct way to spell it for many years. Of late, however, the town itself has dropped the apostrophe and proclaimed itself to be simply Harpers Ferry. If Prince could decide, once upon a time, to be known as an unpronounceable symbol, then Harpers Ferry can certainly shed its apostrophe.
Harpers Ferry has been part of my imagination since I was a young boy. Around age 10, I found an Illustrated Classics book that told the story of what happened there, and it has stuck in my mind ever since. I don’t remember what slant that comic book took on the story—whether it presented John Brown as a sinner or a saint—but it has stayed with me for four decades plus.
Our first effort at finding the historic part of Harpers Ferry did not go well. We entered something like “Harpers Ferry Historical Site” into Google Maps, and it confidently gave us directions, which we followed. Eventually, it told us we had arrived at our destination. It didn’t look right to me, but we went into the big building anyway. When we asked if this was where a tour of the Harpers Ferry historic site might start, a very understanding lady said, “Google Maps? Yeah, we’ve been trying to get them to change that for years now, but they never do.”
The directions had led us to an administrative building for the park service, but nowhere close to the Harpers Ferry historic area. Luckily, this seems to happen pretty regularly, and the woman gave us good directions to get where we wanted to go. So, Shawn’s Safety Tip of the Day is, don’t trust Google to help you find Harpers Ferry Historic District.
Harpers Ferry is named after one Robert Harper who came through the area in 1747, saw what he believed to be an opportunity, and bought his way in. History is full of interesting footnotes, and here’s one: Harper “bought” his property from a man named Peter Stephens. The problem was, Stephens didn’t own the property; he was just a squatter with no legal right to sell it. They weren’t as careful about title searches in the eighteenth century as we are today. When he discovered he had been bilked, Harper negotiated with the rightful owner, Lord Fairfax, and purchased the property a second time.
What Harper saw was the place where two rivers—the Potomac and the Shenandoah—came together. He began running a ferry between their banks. Thus, the name.
Another historical tidbit that ultimately played a large role in the uprising that would take place there: In 1784, a young man named Geo
rge Washington spent time in the area, working as a surveyor for that same Lord Fairfax. He was impressed by the possibilities presented by the location—the confluence of two rivers and a convenient pass through the Blue Ridge Mountains. When Washington became our first president, he selected Harpers Ferry as the site of a national armory—a place to store armaments the young nation would need in case of war.
Before we get to the consequence of that decision, I want to tell you what the historical part of Harpers Ferry looks like. To get there, you can either hike a mile or two down from the visitors center or hop on one of the buses that run on a loop. We opted for the bus.
Locating a town at the confluence of two rivers was great for trade and shipping, but of course there are downsides, too, such as flooding. Harpers Ferry has been flooded so often that the lower part of the town was mostly abandoned years ago, and the modern-day Harpers Ferry town sits on a hill high above. A 1936 flood brought waters up to just below second-story windows on some of the buildings.
The old town’s architecture puts you in the mood for a historical drama. St. Peter’s Roman Catholic Church looms over the town and properly prepares you for what is to come. There are no new buildings to take you out of the mood and, after just a few minutes of wandering through the town, you can start to feel as though you have stepped back in time a couple of centuries.
Follow the road all the way through town, and you come to the point where the rivers come together. It is a breathtaking vista, and you can see three states—Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland—at the same time. You can also see that passage through the mountains that so entranced young Mr. Harper that he was willing to buy the same real estate twice.