The pendulum bob of this blog seems to swing between “life is good” narratives and “things could be better” plaints — for the most part, this one is the former.
I had an eye appointment in Charleston, South Carolina, last week. I had hoped that my eyes would have recovered from the dilation drops quickly enough to let me drive home after the appointment, but I was still seeing starry lights well after dinner. So I decided to get a hotel room and drive home the next day.
My wife encouraged me to have a nice breakfast, see some sights while I was there, and take my time coming home. I followed the spirit, if not the letter, of her advice. Instead of a “nice” breakfast, I decided to have what the hotel offered: a hard-boiled egg, one of those not-really-a-bagel bagels, and a hot beverage called “premium roast” delivered in spurts and gooshes from a pump dispenser. (It always surprises me how ratings on TripAdvisor focus on the quality of a hotel’s breakfast bar, as if getting to make a waffle for yourself is like having breakfast at Tiffany’s.*)
Anyway, my focus that morning was on lunch. Back in 2009, the New York Times ran a mouth-watering feature article on Scott’s Bar-B-Que in Hemingway, South Carolina. I had saved the link, noted the location and promised I would visit it when I was in the area. Today would be the day.
Charleston to Asheville via Hemingway
Well, I was sort of in the area. The map at left (click to zoom) shows my detour to Scott’s Bar-B-Que. Google Maps said my lunch destination would add a little over two hours to my trip home. Hours, schmours, it was a nice day for a drive.
South Carolina 41 starts in the suburbs of Charleston and heads into the middle of the Francis Marion National Forest. Loblolly pines line most of the 30-mile route through the forest, though I did see a few stands of deciduous trees clinging onto bunches of red and yellow leaves.
There was little traffic on the road. I opened the sun roof of the car to bring more of the beauty outdoors inside. When I was about halfway through the forest, a tractor-trailer pulled out from a side road and in front of me. I followed it a few miles, regretting how my vista had disappeared behind a pair of steel doors and a row of tail lights, when it occurred to me that the easiest way to solve this problem was to pull over for a minute or so and let the truck get some distance.
So I turned off at the next intersection, a narrow road leading into the woods to who knows where, and I stopped the car. I was gazing up at the tall pines for a moment when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. Really? Way out here? Was that aimed toward me? Am I trespassing on someone’s property? I looked deep into the woods but could not see any signs or structures. Another shot! Hey, it’s been a minute now, time to get moving! As I got back into the car, three or four more shots cracked — what the hell was going on? While turning the car around, I saw a sign and got my answer: I had stumbled upon the Boggy Head Rifle Range. I laughed to myself. If only I had brought my AK-47, I could have joined the fun.
The rest of my drive through the forest was pleasant and peaceful. I hardly ever listen to classical music, but I found a public radio station that played a fitting accompaniment to the march of the pines. (Yes, there is public radio in South Carolina. The Soviet Union stopped jamming NPR radio signals in 1988, and the Republican Party of South Carolina followed suit in 2010, although I understand they are reconsidering.)
Continuing my drive northward on South Carolina 41, I soon entered the town of Andrews, population 2,831, and birthplace of Chubby Checker. At the main crossroads, I noted these fine establishments: Andrews Insurance Associates; Twice as Nice – New & Used; Andrews Cleaners; and The Faith Life Ministries Center, painted a vibrant combination of sea green and robin egg blue, with turquoise trim.
Willie's Machine Shop
But my favorite place in Andrews was Willie’s Machine Shop. I liked the sign lettering and the interesting roof line. Sadly, I did not get a look inside, but I hope there were metal shavings on the floor, an oily rag on the counter, and a Ridgid Tool calendar on the wall above the sink. This appears to be a going concern, so if you need machine work, do call Willie at (843) 264-5823.
It wasn’t until I entered the outskirts of Hemingway (population 446) that I saw my GPS had somehow lost my destination and caused me to miss the shortcut to Scott’s. But no big deal — I knew it was on the main road heading west out of town, so it could not be terribly hard to find. I turned left at Hemingway’s one traffic light, crossed the railroad tracks and got there in a couple of minutes.
Scott's Bar-B-Que, Hemingway, SC
I walked into Scott’s ten minutes after twelve. Some people call it lunchtime. But I called it — oh, stop, this is starting to sound like an episode of Guy Noir.
The order counter was to my right, and I headed that way as if I were a regular and knew exactly what I wanted. But when I saw the menu (taped to a pole in front of the counter) I was a little disappointed. Ribs: Saturday only.
So, pulled pork it would be. I ordered the barbecue plate with coleslaw and baked beans, to get the full experience. While I waited, I walked over to the cooler to figure out what to drink. There was no beer, unfortunately — but among the bottles of sweetened iced tea, Coke, and Dr. Pepper were two rows of Red Rock Strawberry Soda. I took the cue and decided to do as the locals must do — I carried my bottle of strawberry soda to the counter and paid for my meal.
Moments later, the woman behind the counter walked out to the eating area (comprised of three 30-inch square formica-top tables and nine or ten chairs) and put my lunch plate on the table along with two slices of plain white bread in a sandwich bag. On the tabletop were salt, pepper, paper towels and a plastic squeeze-bottle of sauce. So here we go.
I had to try the barbecue without sauce first. My first impression: the pork had a kick to it, on the peppery side, and parts of it were a bit crispy. (It reminded me how my mom would put a tray of heavily salted-and-peppered roast pork pieces in the oven on New Year’s Day, to make them crisp and chewy, the perfect accompaniment to her sauerkraut.)
But back to Scott’s. I liked the pork on its own — the peppery tang was great, it left some heat on the palate, and I enjoyed the mix of tender and crisp parts. The sauce, however… it tasted like a pleasant but uninspiring blend of vinegar, tomato, sugar and some pepper. I prefer our own mixture of sauces from Asheville’s own 12 Bones Restaurant: 3 parts of Sweet Tomato to 1 part of Spicy Vinegar. But to Scott’s credit, the pork hardly needed a sauce. Its beans and its slaw, meh, not distinctive or memorable. Scott’s might want to do some work on their sides in their spare time.
After lunch, I put my empty plate in the barrel to the right of the counter, bought a pound of pork to go, grabbed my bottle of Red Rock soda (goes very nicely with BBQ by the way) and got back on the road, heading west to Sumter and eventually home.
From Hemingway to Sumter along the back roads of South Carolina, I saw cotton plants in bloom for the first time. I understand that cotton fields are nothing special to locals, just as cornfields in Pennsylvania and grapevines in New York barely turned my head when I lived there. Nonetheless, the tufts of cotton in the roadside gullies, blown there by breezes and held there by entanglement, tempted me to stop and gather some. But I kept driving. I enjoyed the day, but it was time to bring this three-hour tour through gun-and-barbecue country to a close. There will be other adventures.
______________
Thanksgiving is upon us. Time for Americans to name all the things we are thankful for. (This is so much effort, Americans need a holiday for it.) But consider, what is this ritual really about? For example, I am glad I live in America (as opposed to Congo, say) but who should I be thanking for this? Why don’t the Congolese get to live in a place like America, with plentiful fresh food and peaceful streets? Are they not thankful enough?
For one to give thanks for having something (like the ability to eat barbecue on a whim) that others cannot enjoy, through no fault of their own, strikes me as self-absorbed.
I am able to enjoy life as I do, not because I did anything others have not done, and not because some higher power decided to bestow blessings upon me while neglecting others. If you follow this reasoning to the end, you see that “life is good” only by dint of chance, and chance is neither kind nor just nor equitable. Chance should not be thanked. To wit, I suggest that Thanksgiving Day should be renamed, Try Not To Be So Arrogant Day.
Happy TNTBSA Day to all my readers.
____________________________________________________________
* I know. They do not serve breakfast at Tiffany’s. Only lunch. And no barbecue.
The pendulum bob of this blog seems to swing between “life is good” narratives and “things could be better” plaints — for the most part, this one is the former.
I had an eye appointment in Charleston, South Carolina, last week. I had hoped that my eyes would have recovered from the dilation drops quickly enough to let me drive home after the appointment, but I was still seeing starry lights well after dinner. So I decided to get a hotel room and drive home the next day.
My wife encouraged me to have a nice breakfast, see some sights while I was there, and take my time coming home. I followed the spirit, if not the letter, of her advice. Instead of a “nice” breakfast, I decided to have what the hotel offered: a hard-boiled egg, one of those not-really-a-bagel bagels, and a hot beverage called “premium roast” delivered in spurts and gooshes from a pump dispenser. (It always surprises me how ratings on TripAdvisor focus on the quality of a hotel’s breakfast bar, as if getting to make a waffle for yourself is like having breakfast at Tiffany’s.*)
Anyway, my focus that morning was on lunch. Back in 2009, the New York Times ran a mouth-watering feature article on Scott’s Bar-B-Que in Hemingway, South Carolina. I had saved the link, noted the location and promised I would visit it when I was in the area. Today would be the day.
Charleston to Asheville via Hemingway
Well, I was sort of in the area. The map at left (click to zoom) shows my detour to Scott’s Bar-B-Que. Google Maps said my lunch destination would add a little over two hours to my trip home. Hours, schmours, it was a nice day for a drive.
South Carolina 41 starts in the suburbs of Charleston and heads into the middle of the Francis Marion National Forest. Loblolly pines line most of the 30-mile route through the forest, though I did see a few stands of deciduous trees clinging onto bunches of red and yellow leaves.
There was little traffic on the road. I opened the sun roof of the car to bring more of the beauty outdoors inside. When I was about halfway through the forest, a tractor-trailer pulled out from a side road and in front of me. I followed it a few miles, regretting how my vista had disappeared behind a pair of steel doors and a row of tail lights, when it occurred to me that the easiest way to solve this problem was to pull over for a minute or so and let the truck get some distance.
So I turned off at the next intersection, a narrow road leading into the woods to who knows where, and I stopped the car. I was gazing up at the tall pines for a moment when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. Really? Way out here? Was that aimed toward me? Am I trespassing on someone’s property? I looked deep into the woods but could not see any signs or structures. Another shot! Hey, it’s been a minute now, time to get moving! As I got back into the car, three or four more shots cracked — what the hell was going on? While turning the car around, I saw a sign and got my answer: I had stumbled upon the Boggy Head Rifle Range. I laughed to myself. If only I had brought my AK-47, I could have joined the fun.
The rest of my drive through the forest was pleasant and peaceful. I hardly ever listen to classical music, but I found a public radio station that played a fitting accompaniment to the march of the pines. (Yes, there is public radio in South Carolina. The Soviet Union stopped jamming NPR radio signals in 1988, and the Republican Party of South Carolina followed suit in 2010, although I understand they are reconsidering.)
Continuing my drive northward on South Carolina 41, I soon entered the town of Andrews, population 2,831, and birthplace of Chubby Checker. At the main crossroads, I noted these fine establishments: Andrews Insurance Associates; Twice as Nice – New & Used; Andrews Cleaners; and The Faith Life Ministries Center, painted a vibrant combination of sea green and robin egg blue, with turquoise trim.
Willie's Machine Shop
But my favorite place in Andrews was Willie’s Machine Shop. I liked the sign lettering and the interesting roof line. Sadly, I did not get a look inside, but I hope there were metal shavings on the floor, an oily rag on the counter, and a Ridgid Tool calendar on the wall above the sink. This appears to be a going concern, so if you need machine work, do call Willie at (843) 264-5823.
It wasn’t until I entered the outskirts of Hemingway (population 446) that I saw my GPS had somehow lost my destination and caused me to miss the shortcut to Scott’s. But no big deal — I knew it was on the main road heading west out of town, so it could not be terribly hard to find. I turned left at Hemingway’s one traffic light, crossed the railroad tracks and got there in a couple of minutes.
Scott's Bar-B-Que, Hemingway, SC
I walked into Scott’s ten minutes after twelve. Some people call it lunchtime. But I called it — oh, stop, this is starting to sound like an episode of Guy Noir.
The order counter was to my right, and I headed that way as if I were a regular and knew exactly what I wanted. But when I saw the menu (taped to a pole in front of the counter) I was a little disappointed. Ribs: Saturday only.
So, pulled pork it would be. I ordered the barbecue plate with coleslaw and baked beans, to get the full experience. While I waited, I walked over to the cooler to figure out what to drink. There was no beer, unfortunately — but among the bottles of sweetened iced tea, Coke, and Dr. Pepper were two rows of Red Rock Strawberry Soda. I took the cue and decided to do as the locals must do — I carried my bottle of strawberry soda to the counter and paid for my meal.
Moments later, the woman behind the counter walked out to the eating area (comprised of three 30-inch square formica-top tables and nine or ten chairs) and put my lunch plate on the table along with two slices of plain white bread in a sandwich bag. On the tabletop were salt, pepper, paper towels and a plastic squeeze-bottle of sauce. So here we go.
I had to try the barbecue without sauce first. My first impression: the pork had a kick to it, on the peppery side, and parts of it were a bit crispy. (It reminded me how my mom would put a tray of heavily salted-and-peppered roast pork pieces in the oven on New Year’s Day, to make them crisp and chewy, the perfect accompaniment to her sauerkraut.)
But back to Scott’s. I liked the pork on its own — the peppery tang was great, it left some heat on the palate, and I enjoyed the mix of tender and crisp parts. The sauce, however… it tasted like a pleasant but uninspiring blend of vinegar, tomato, sugar and some pepper. I prefer our own mixture of sauces from Asheville’s own 12 Bones Restaurant: 3 parts of Sweet Tomato to 1 part of Spicy Vinegar. But to Scott’s credit, the pork hardly needed a sauce. Its beans and its slaw, meh, not distinctive or memorable. Scott’s might want to do some work on their sides in their spare time.
After lunch, I put my empty plate in the barrel to the right of the counter, bought a pound of pork to go, grabbed my bottle of Red Rock soda (goes very nicely with BBQ by the way) and got back on the road, heading west to Sumter and eventually home.
From Hemingway to Sumter along the back roads of South Carolina, I saw cotton plants in bloom for the first time. I understand that cotton fields are nothing special to locals, just as cornfields in Pennsylvania and grapevines in New York barely turned my head when I lived there. Nonetheless, the tufts of cotton in the roadside gullies, blown there by breezes and held there by entanglement, tempted me to stop and gather some. But I kept driving. I enjoyed the day, but it was time to bring this three-hour tour through gun-and-barbecue country to a close. There will be other adventures.
______________
Thanksgiving is upon us. Time for Americans to name all the things we are thankful for. (This is so much effort, Americans need a holiday for it.) But consider, what is this ritual really about? For example, I am glad I live in America (as opposed to Congo, say) but who should I be thanking for this? Why don’t the Congolese get to live in a place like America, with plentiful fresh food and peaceful streets? Are they not thankful enough?
For one to give thanks for having something (like the ability to eat barbecue on a whim) that others cannot enjoy, through no fault of their own, strikes me as self-absorbed.
I am able to enjoy life as I do, not because I did anything others have not done, and not because some higher power decided to bestow blessings upon me while neglecting others. If you follow this reasoning to the end, you see that “life is good” only by dint of chance, and chance is neither kind nor just nor equitable. Chance should not be thanked. To wit, I suggest that Thanksgiving Day should be renamed, Try Not To Be So Arrogant Day.
Happy TNTBSA Day to all my readers.
____________________________________________________________
* I know. They do not serve breakfast at Tiffany’s. Only lunch. And no barbecue.