Southern Legend

Southern Legend
Somewhere between highway 17 and 17A, where the points of longitude and latitude meet, lies a small, southern town called, Moncks Corner.

I resided in the moist, deep south for well over two decades. Being a Yankee or rather a damn Yankee- (the difference between the two - the first visits and the second stays), allowed for me endless solitude. At times the years take their toll on a person being lonely and one is grateful for company and the learned art of observance.

Standing back and hearing stories of ghostly, rebel soldiers waking living residents with the sound of pounding horse huffs just before dawn, becomes a regular tale of intrique. Hand dug wells hold the crying of small children, and can be heard, if you listen carefully at the hour of dusk - that time of day when fog fills the dirt roads and shadows are long.

Root doctors - preferably of the male persuasion, can be seen feeding small mounds of dirt,which contain fire ants, with fierce ritual, just before noon. Fire ants are used, talked to, and stirred up with a short, oak stick for casting spells upon bothersome neighbors and the occassional relative who persists in borrowing items and not returning them or paying a small fee for the geniousity of the root man.

Sitting on the flower, filled porches - (stoops, being the proper southern term), perhaps on the edge of a cushion and rocking back and forth in a white - washed wicker chair to sip an iced coke, I learned to absorb the art of story telling with the added advantages that comes with southern hospitality from my charming neighbors.

There comes a time when we all will meet our maker. This is not to be taken lightly where grape vine wreaths are heavily laiden with magnolia blooms placed upon the graves of their dearly departed family members. Southern wakes are an extradinary journey and not for the weak or sickly as they can last up to and not exceeding five days.

Twenty years allows one to attend sadly, many funerals. The south still deeply divided by color and race separates heaven into three catorigies - black, white and other. I have had the honor of experiencing all three. The most extraordinary funeral of all was that of a much loved Grandmother, mother, and my friend.

I stood outside the small, white church, peering through the painted red doors. There wasn't room inside to stand. The music and song filled my ears with great sorrow and my eyes with uncontrollable tears. The service ended within a couple of hours as the family members left first, in long black cars with curtained windows.

As the day progessed, I felt as though I was watching and yet a part of a slow motion of spinning centuries in deep respect and tradition. All the adults and close family members are dressed completely in black, while the great grandchildren and grandchildren are dressed in white.

Any child below the age of accountability to required to form a line beside the open grave after the casket is ceremoniously lowered within the confines of the plot. Two men stand on each side of the open ground, where each tiny child is passed from one man to the other across the grave.

Astounded, I stood frozen.
A kind woman must have felt some sort of embrassment for me as she felt the need to come to my side and gave an explanation as to what was taking
place.

Evil spirits awake during death, causing mass confusion for the dearly departed before reaching their heavenly destination. The process really can become confused if the destination is not in heavenly territory. The new spirit can easily enter into a small child due to a lack of acceptance on the child's part. By passing the child over the open grave the spirits of the dead cannot enter that child. The acceptance is taken by the 'passers' as they are the accountable adults.

I thought of my friend and her stories shared with me on her stoop. I know she had no wish to stay in her earthly dwelling and especially among her grandchildren.

We really as a whole know so much less about our different customs, or where they come from. I am grateful to the woman who I will call the 'funeral whisperer' with all do respect, for sharing her knowledge.

I now have grandchildren of my own. I feel their venerability and we often have discussions of life and death. I have asked them to scatter my ashes on the fast moving Sante River, the points of longitude and latitude being, where I met my dear friend while fishing on a hot humid day when magolias were in bloom.

My days in the south are heavily missed - my need to return to my own roots brought about this absence, but a part of my heart and perhaps a piece of my soul belongs south. I would now call myself part Yankee and part Rebel. Better are the two parts combined, than being either / or.