Downtown Summerville hosts fantastic events throughout the year, typically centered on the beautiful Hutchinson Square. Third Thursdays, held monthly, are a true social event for all ages. Each month, more than 2,000 people come out to shop, dine, and listen to live music at this celebratory street party.

The area is also home to the annual Sweet Tea Festival, a celebration of Summerville’s distinction as the “birthplace of sweet tea.” The festival is held over the third weekend of September and includes a competition to name the best sweet tea in town, along with contests for Mister and Miss Sweet Tea.

Downtown is the center of attention during the holidays as well. From Small Business Saturday on, it is decorated for the festivities to commence with the annual tree lighting and Christmas parade. The tree lighting is traditionally held on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, while the parade, held on the second Sunday in December, is among the largest in the state, with more than 20,000 attendees and over 100 entries.

Art aficionados will find more than 30 public sculptures throughout downtown. From life-sized birds to children playing “follow the leader” to our beloved Toby, celebrations of life are captured in bronze.

We’re also excited to tell you about a great new addition to our downtown, the Public Works Art Center. Public Works, as it is known, has repurposed the old town public works building and is creating artist studios, a reception gallery, teaching spaces, a concert sound stage, and much more. Downtown Summerville values the arts in all forms, and celebrates the value of creativity.

Make plans, too, to spend time in Azalea Park. With its winding paths, foot bridges, and lush flora, the park is a haven for nature lovers everywhere.

Finally, you’ll want to visit the newly renovated town square. Fresh off a multi-million dollar facelift, the square is a user-friendly space with nods to Summerville’s history. These elements include a concert stage/pavilion designed to resemble the town’s old railroad depot and a sign that recreates the “Welcome to Summerville” sign that once spanned Main Street.

Visit Summerville and check out our historically modern Southern downtown! You can find out more about downtown Summerville, including great places to shop, dine, play, and stay, at www.summervilledream.org.

“It really symbolizes Georgetown,” says Deputy Director Kim Leatherwood.

The activities are all the more special this year as they coincide with the 250th anniversary of the construction of the Kaminski House.

Sitting on the banks of the Sampit River, the Kaminski House was originally built in 1769 and has had 13 owners, including three Georgetown mayors. The last residents were Harold and Julia Kaminski. In 1972, Mrs. Kaminski willed the house to the City of Georgetown to be opened as a museum. Friends of the Kaminski contracted to manage it in 2013.

It’s a gift that continues to give to the Georgetown community, playing a role in educating local residents as well as their milestone celebrations.

New Beginnings

It’s become the place couples go to begin their lives together.

About five years ago, a handful of weddings had taken place on the grounds. Today, that number is up to about 100 between the lawn and its adjacent Kossove Terrace.

“We have Georgetown brides who get married here, but we also have a lot of destination weddings,” Leatherwood says. “A lot of the girls say the Kaminski House Museum and Georgetown are memorable for them because they grew up in the area and then went to college and moved away.  But this place is always special in their heart, and when they get married they come back to get married someplace special.”

Even those not getting married on the grounds may use the lawn as a backdrop for their engagement photos. Couples can schedule free time for the shoots.

Prom-goers, too, flock there for photos, a tradition that has spanned generations.

“You’ll hear stories from them about how their parents came out for their prom pictures,” Leatherwood says.

Fun Times

It’s been the scene of much joy for youngsters and families. One highlight is the annual Easter Egg Hunt that local residents have grown up attending to the fall Family Fun and Literacy Day in which every child attendee leaves with a free book after spending time in the pumpkin patch and healthy food tent. Another is the summer 4^th of July Concert on the Lawn, at which the Indigo Choral Society performs for the 23rd year this July.

“The house is special to the community in so many ways, and our programming reflects that,” Leatherwood says. “We work really hard to be inclusive of the entire community.”

Tourism

The museum draws people wanting to view the collection of 18th and 19th Century American and English furnishings, antiques and artifacts acquired by the globetrotting Kaminskis. It also promotes Georgetown in general, pointing visitors to other museums and activities, such as trolley tours, dining and shopping.

“We really act as a visitors’ center because we tell people everything that’s going on,” Leatherwood says.

Work to Do

The Kaminski House has been meticulously preserved, but is in need of some attention this year. The museum needs a new climate control system to keep the decorative arts and antiques — some dating back to the early 1700s — safe from moisture.Donations are being requested for a new HVAC system. Online donations received Tuesday, May 7^th, will be matched by the Frances P. Bunnelle Foundation for Palmetto Giving Day. Visit the Palmetto Giving Day website at palmettogivingday.org and type in Kaminski House Museum for more information.

Kaminski House Museum, 1003 Front St., is open Monday – Saturday, 10 am – 5 pm. Tours are at 11 a.m., 1 p.m. and 3 p.m. Admission is $12; seniors 65 and over, $10; children 6 to 17, $6. Children under 5 are admitted free. For additional information, visit KaminskiMuseum.org or call 843-546-7706.

The people here are amazing. The history and scenic beauty of Spartanburg County and South Carolina surprise and motivate me every day.   

2. What is the best thing about your job?

It’s never boring.  I get to promote our community to people who may not know anything about it, but love Spartanburg once they see, hear and/or visit.

3. What’s your go-to local restaurant?

Depends on my mood, but some of my favorites include: Willy Taco, Two Samuels and Wade’s.

4. Carolina or Clemson?

I’m still paying tuition for a daughter at Clemson, so better say GO TIGERS!

5. Sweet tea or unsweet?

We’re in the South, so it shouldn’t be a choice: sweet, all the way!

6. What is one thing that’s made in SC that you couldn’t live without?

A Spartanburg-made BMW x-series vehicle.  The Ultimate Driving Machine.

7. Where is the one place you must go when you have family or friends in town?

RJ Rockers Brewery

8. What’s on your play list right now (band, song or genre)?

Beyonce; Marshall Tucker Band; Jimmy Buffett; Kaskade; Bee Gees; Pharrell Williams; Prince; Hootie & the Blowfish

9. What would be your dream “staycation” in South Carolina?

Weekend outdoor adventures  (cycling, hiking, kayaking); visiting craft breweries, and eating local for every meal

10. What is your fondest memory of growing up/or living here?

Hosting the SC Governors Conference on Tourism and Travel in 2017 and showcasing the culture, history, agriculture, recreation and local products that make Spartanburg authentic and real.

While strict traditionalists claim steadfast adherence to the rule that states “no white after Labor Day,” one would be remiss to have not noticed recent skepticism of the Labor Day law and more people than ever breaking the rule.

Where exactly did the rule come from?

In the early 1900s, members of society’s elite spent their summer months at seaside homes. City clothes were left behind in exchange for lighter, whiter, summer outfits. When the well-to-do returned to the ‘real world,’ those summer clothes were put away and more formal city clothes donned once more. The signal to mark the change between wardrobes was summed up in the adage “No white after Labor Day.” And it stuck! By the 1950s, women’s magazines made it clear to even middle class America that white clothing came out on Memorial Day and went away on Labor Day.

But does the old adage still apply?

Known for bucking tradition, it is no surprise that the fashion industry abandoned the rule long ago in favor of embracing winter whites. More surprisingly, Emily Post’s Etiquette, 17th Edition, gives the go-ahead for wearing white after Labor Day. Gasp! The Emily Post Institute notes, “Of course you can wear white after Labor Day, and it makes perfect sense to do so in climates where September’s temperatures are hardly fall-like. It’s more about fabric choice today than color. Even in the dead of winter in northern New England the fashionable wear white wools, cashmeres, jeans, and down-filled parkas.”

With America’s foremost etiquette expert telling us that the rule is passé, this may explain why some who would typically abide by the custom are now willing to compromise.

Ultimately, the true aim is to wear what’s appropriate— for the weather, the season, or the occasion… color notwithstanding.

From down the winding road and over the railroad tracks, a high lonesome sound dances through the Francis Marion National Forest. A keen ear might be able to follow the music to the weathered wooden shack hidden at the end of a dirt lane, but we rely on the directions I’d written down before we left home. It is fortuitous, because my phone displays the ‘no service’ warning several miles before we turn off Bethera Road onto the dirt track of Pickin’ Parlor Lane. With a foil-wrapped covered dish in hand, we make our way to the sign announcing our successful arrival at Guy and Tina’s Bluegrass Pickin’ Parlor.

Guy Faulk, a tall, lanky man with a shock of white hair, warmly welcomes us to the music hall he hosts here in the woods, as he has for countless guests every Saturday night for forty years. From a covered area to the left, a group of musicians stand in a circle, strumming and picking songs that I have not heard since childhood. “Come on in,” says Guy. “You can set your dish right inside on that long table, but sign the book first – and put your address. I like to know where folks come from.”

Walking into the doors of the Pickin’ Parlor is much like stepping into a time machine that shoots me straight back to a family reunion in the late 1970s; with the same kind of sweet smiles and greetings from ladies with cheeks flushed by the wood stove, a long table covered with fried chicken and biscuits, coconut pie, and a simmering crockpot of lima beans with ham. Nearby, a huge coffee urn stands, and there are stacks of paper plates, plastic forks, Styrofoam cups, and funeral-type fans advertising everything from the electric co-op to eternal rest. It is a déjà vu that warms my soul.

Snapshots of smiling faces stapled end to end tell a story of lifelong friendships, and an eclectic assortment of black and white photographs and paintings running the gamut from seascapes to charging stallions to fox hunting scenes hang alongside a black sombrero and an impressive array of antlers.  From the rafters above the raised stage area, a dusty, circa 1962 bass swims languidly beside a terrifying stuffed black fox squirrel, with a huge set of steer horns that would have been at home on the front grille of a Cadillac with pointy fins.

Deeper into the room, an assortment of sofas, arranged in theater-style rows, draws us to soft seats, from which we will have a better vantage point to take in the surroundings. On the paneled back wall, Bill Monroe’s iconic white hat is a target that pulls the eye from his smiling poster toward the microphones, numbered 1 through 6, standing on the raised stage and awaiting the notes that will bring them to life.

Bluegrass is many things to many people, but as described by Elisabeth Burkett, editor of inTune, the string band style of music “combines elements of country/western, gospel, and blues music with the British, Irish, and Scottish music Appalachian mountain heritage.” For those new to the genre, think of music you’ve heard by The Avett Brothers, Alison Krauss and Union Station or Ricky Skaggs.

The fiddle, banjo, guitar, and mandolin are by far the most popular bluegrass instruments, along with the upright bass and dobro. Beyond the sofas, a group of six “pickers” gathers to get acquainted before their first set. Like a pick-up football game, each “band” is comprised of whoever shows up to play, and as is the case tonight, some have never played together before. Richard, on guitar, hasn’t been here in 18 years, and it is Dustin’s first time, but within minutes, they all pick and strum to the same rhythm.

No one feels like a stranger, and there isn’t an ounce of pretentiousness in the big room, as baseball caps and suspenders, flannel shirts soft with age, jeans that have earned their frayed pockets, and floral polyester sit comfortably beside khakis and golf shirts. Glancing around at the other patrons of the arts settling in for the night’s performance, I step across the shag-carpeted aisle toward a handsome, well-dressed gentleman to inquire how he found his way here. “Oh, I’m a regular,” says Mel Redford, a resident of North Charleston. “I came with some friends the first time, and I’ve been coming back every week for about 6 or 7 years. I just love this music.”

Before the music starts, I step back to the food table to see if anyone has cut the coconut pie. They haven’t, but when I replace the foil covering, my disappointment prompts a flurry of hands, all reaching to cut me a piece. I watch the seats fill and listen to the hum of friends catching up, and I’m struck by the fact that it feels a little like church. But when the musicians take the stage, instead of ‘Hallelujah,’ they call out requests, encouragement, and some good-natured heckling.

And then the music begins, and nothing exists but the pure sound of what is often called the truest form of American music. There are songs that make you ache with the longing in the singer’s voice, those that have you praying to the Lord for forgiveness, those that make you laugh right out loud, and of course, the ones that accuse lovers with “cheatin’ hearts.” Eyes grow damp when Guy Faulk’s son, Will, a gifted musician and the heir apparent to the rustic concert hall, dedicates a song to his mother, the original inspiration for the pickin’ parlor. Though she passed away several years ago, her essence lingers in the room.

“That’s Mr. Will Faulk on his mama’s guitar,” fiddle player David Brown points out to the applause of the crowd.

Over the course of two, hour-plus sets, the audience claps their hands and taps their toes to a delightful selection of tunes. In the second set, the bow of Brown’s fiddle draws notes from the antique instrument that alternately drenches the room with a sound like warm honey over biscuits, and makes you look around for an approaching train when the iconic tune of The Orange Blossom Special roars across the strings, while Jonathan Nabor’s and Linda Cockerill’s fingers fly across the strings of their mandolin and banjo to bring the train into the station.

You won’t stumble upon the Pickin’ Parlor by accident; it is purely a gathering of like-minded friends and only advertised via word-of-mouth. Chances are that if you find yourself here, you owe someone a thank you note of gratitude for pointing the way. There is no charge, but your covered dish is appreciated, and a dollar or two in the donation jar helps offset the cost of coffee and sodas.

With his dad, now in his eighties, slowing down a bit, Will Faulk has vowed to continue to honor the tradition his mother and father started so long ago.

“They started this right over there in a trailer,” he says. “My mom loved to play and sing, and there wasn’t any place to do that around here. It just kept growing, with people spilling out into the yard, until one day Dad decided to cut down the trees and build this place. I’ve promised him that as long as people keep coming and supporting it, I’ll do what I can to keep it going.”

As we bid goodnight to our new friends, I’m torn between telling everyone I know about this place, and selfishly keeping it a secret. But that would defy the spirit Guy and Tina intended when they founded Guy and Tina’s Pickin’ Parlor, and it is a gift too rich to be kept only on my plate, so I find myself already thinking of the friends I want to invite to hear the music we’ve discovered in the forest.

It’s obvious that bluegrass music virtually runs through the Faulk family’s veins, and as the night begins to wind down without him appearing on stage, I realize that I’ve forgotten to ask Guy Faulk if he plays.  Looking down the dirt road which so many appreciative pickers and listeners have come to enjoy the gift of bluegrass music that he and Tina have offered through the years, he replies, “Sure I do!” And with a twinkle in his eye, he adds, “I play the Big Shot!”

Guy and Tina’s Pickin’ Parlor can be found at the end of Pickin’ Parlor Lane, in Bethera, SC.  Shows are every Saturday night, 6-11 pm.

By Susan Frampton

 Josh Hoke paid attention in geometry class. In fact, it played a prominent role in his high school senior project. “We had to pick something to research and then create a final product based on what we learned, so I picked a surfboard,” he says. Noting the angles of surfboards and how they work with the movement of the waves, Hoke successfully shaped a board that he still rides today. He was awarded an ‘A’ for that first handcrafted board, and took his newfound skill with him to college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. There, in his student housing, he converted the basement into a workshop. Hoke figured he could add more boards to his collection for less money just by making them himself. “Once I started shaping my own boards, I never rode anything else.”

Hoke grew up in Pennsylvania, spending summers off the coast of New Jersey with his family. It was in the waters of the Northeast that he first got a taste for riding waves, attempting to stand on his boogie board and feeling exhilarated at being propelled by the sea. He finally got a real surfboard around age 10 and continued surfing throughout his summers in New Jersey and later while visiting his sister in Long Island. He claims those areas to be the best for surfing along the East Coast, if not the balmiest. “You just put everything on and go,” he says. “It’s cold, but it’s hardcore.”

After graduating from college, Hoke relocated to Beaufort for his job and met Emmy, now his wife of two years, while they were both surfing off of Hunting Island. A year later, he moved to Charleston to earn a master’s degree in environmental studies from the College of Charleston. Today,  Hoke remains in the Charleston area and spends his days along the South Carolina coast, working for the state’s Office of Ocean and Coastal Resource Management. If there is time left at the end of the day, he usually heads to his James Island workshop–which he also built himself–cranks up some music, and works on his latest project.

The workshop behind Hoke’s house is double-sided; one side is used strictly for shaping boards, and the other is for applying fiberglass. When he begins shaping a board, he glues a long, thin piece of wood lengthwise between two pieces of foam, usually EPS (expanded polystyrene). The thin wood is called a stringer, and it serves to give each board more strength. Once the stringer is set, Hoke uses hot wire cutters to remove the outer layer of the unshaped block of foam, called a blank. This process is called skinning. Once Hoke has finished skinning, he is left with a thinner, smoother blank that will soon become a board. For the shape of the board, he employs handmade templates that hang overhead; Hoke refers to the dangling patterns as his “hardware.” He uses different templates for different types of boards, and each board is customized for the rider and the waves where it will be used. While many people who shape their own surfboards use computer software for their designs, Hoke’s creations are all done by hand.

With the blank set, Hoke is ready to transform it into an elegant structure capable of carrying the human body across the ebbing and flowing moods of Mother Nature. He turns off the overhead light and uses waist-high lighting on either side of his stand for the shaping. The side lighting allows him to accurately see every contour of the board. When the shaping and sanding are complete, he takes the newly-formed board to the space next door for glassing. This is also where Hoke adds his original artwork to the board, using epoxy resin to create unique designs that complement the angles and curvature that will work in tandem with the South Carolina surf.

Hoke’s boards are different from those one might find in a standard surf shop for several reasons. First, his surfboards are designed to work specifically with the local waves. “Most [surfboard] companies are set up for better waves than we have around here,” he says. To maximize the local surfing, Hoke says he usually takes three or so boards with him for a day at the beach – often a longboard, a mini simmons and a fish. “If I get bored or the waves change, I’ll be ready,” Hoke says. Whatever waves the day may bring, Hoke’s boards are shaped with the Lowcountry beach in mind.

Secondly, Hoke applies more fiberglass to his boards than one will find on a typical surfboard. This ensures his boards last a long time. “I’ve never snapped one of my own,” he says. Thicker glass also adds weight to the boards, which often translates into a better ride on the local waves. “I like the way a heavier board surfs; you get more momentum.”

Finally, Hoke incorporates pigmented resin into his artwork rather than paint, explaining that paint bonds to the glass, but resin will bond with the foam, maintaining the integrity of the design. When he shapes a custom board for someone, he will often use colors, designs, or fabric that the customer requests. Once, he shaped a board of pink and purple glitter for a baby gender-reveal party. Most of the time, however, the artwork comes from Hoke’s own mind.

Visibly proud of her husband’s talent, Emmy explains that the design work is not as easy to create as it may appear. “There’s a real art and technique to get swirls to look like swirls,” says Emmy. “With resin, you only have around five minutes before it starts to stiffen. And keeping the colors separated so they don’t blend and turn brown also takes skill.” While Hoke does most of the work himself, Emmy occasionally lends her efforts to steps in the process that could use another set of hands. A physician’s assistant at a local hospital, Emmy says, “At the end of a long day in medicine, it’s nice to come home and spend time on a hobby – and with Josh.” She grabs the first board Hoke ever made for her and flips it over to reveal a short but sweet message of love inscribed for his then-future wife. “At the time, he was working like crazy, shaping and selling a ton of boards,” recalls Emmy. “It turned out he was making extra money to buy my wedding ring.” While full-time jobs keep the couple in the Charleston area most of the time, they try to take a big surf trip once a year, usually to Nicaragua or Costa Rica. “We just got back from Hawaii a few weeks ago,” she says with a smile.

Hoke points to the dozen or so boards he owns, telling stories about the shaping of each one like they are photographs of his life. He even has a few wooden boards, though he rarely makes those these days. “Wooden boards are more like building than shaping,” he says, and notes that the process takes months to complete compared to the weeks it takes to shape a board of foam. He pulls out some of his favorites, talking about each one like he’s visiting an old friend. Yet he downplays the beauty and performance of his one-of-a-kind boards that exude the professionalism of both an artist and craftsman. “You undersell yourself so much,” Emmy teases. Hoke looks down and grins.

Emmy is not his only cheerleader. “Everyone says to quit my job and just make boards, but when it’s one guy shaping and glassing, there’s only so much time,” he says. While he does take custom orders and sells a few boards at McKevlin’s at Folly Beach, Hoke considers himself more of a hobbyist. “I tell people who want custom boards, ‘you might have to wait a while,’” Hoke says.

The couple walks back to the house from their backyard, where flowers, vegetables, and a capering golden retriever complete the idyllic scene. Hoke points out a metal sign on the workshop that was a wedding gift, and Emmy stops to pulls some weeds. The workshop sits on the back of their property, a prominent part of the landscape but far from the primary focus. “Right now, I have the balance that I want,” Hoke says. He then looks toward the centerpiece of his life – the home he shares with Emmy.

For more information about Hoke Handcrafted Surfboards, search “Hoke Handcrafted Surfboards” on Facebook.

By Tara Bailey

 Three bearded faces watched from the door as we pulled out of the driveway. Before we were out of sight, two (of the small, four-legged variety) disappeared after being distracted by a squirrel, and I watched my husband sigh and walk away with a slight limp as he closed the door behind us.

Even though I knew that in short order, the house that I had left spotlessly clean and tidy would soon look like a frat house, with the volume of the television’s Western Channel at its maximum, all the toilet seats up, and an empty carton of butter pecan ice cream abandoned on the kitchen counter, I still felt bad about abandoning my husband to accompany our daughter to a conference in the sunshine state.

Adding to my guilt was the fact that my beloved was sporting a boot the size of a small child from foot surgery a couple of weeks prior, and would be on his own to wrangle the two wire-haired wiener dogs up and down a steep flight of stairs at least once a day. Although his practice run of the task, scooting up the stairs on his rear end while balancing the writhing miniature sausages had me laughing out loud, I had visions of arriving home to find him and the hot-dogs in a pile at the bottom.

I also worried that he’d be an emaciated sack of bones after four days. His survival skills could give Bear Grylls a run for his money in deepest, darkest Africa, and for most of his life he ran complicated multi-million dollar projects, but I knew that his mind turned to mush when trapped in a two story brick house. When I used to travel for work, I’d stock the pantry and pack the refrigerator with home-made dinners and desserts, only to return to find a full refrigerator and a trash can full of Burger King wrappers.

The following is a transcript of a real conversation:

“Why didn’t you heat up the casserole I left for you, or at least fix a sandwich?”

“I couldn’t find the bread.”

This time would be different. Without being able to drive, he was really trapped, and Burger King doesn’t deliver. This time, his life might truly depend on his ability to locate and prepare sustenance. When planning for his stint as a shut-in, I remembered one of the very few times in my childhood that my parents left my brother and me with a babysitter. We were devastated at being left, until my mother produced two magical TV dinners that were as unexpected and rare as a go-go dancer at a church social. Our eyes were still glued to the colorfully boxed aluminum trays of frozen cuisine as my parents quietly slipped out the door.

Using this same strategy, I had left the refrigerator loaded with exotic frozen selections like Salisbury steak and unnaturally yellow corn, and parmesan chicken pot pie with broccoli instead of the green peas I knew he disdained. Meatloaf with green beans, chicken fried steak with oddly unidentifiable vegetables, macaroni and cheese from the refrigerated section of the supermarket, and enough baked potatoes to last a week in Ireland rounded out the dinner selections.

When I laid out all these treasures and mapped out their location in the freezer, I was a little hurt by the way his eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas, but relieved to know that if he could find the microwave, he wouldn’t starve. I’m not sure whether it is the nurturer in me, or the bossy pants I wear that make me feel the need to cover all the bases when I’m not around. Either way, I’ve spoiled him, and have no one to blame but myself.

But who is really driving the bus here? I know that he could learn the sequence of the electronic controls on the washing machine if he wanted to, and that if he put his mind to it, he’d easily figure out all the buttons on the television’s remote controls. After all, he’s the one who taught me a lot of what I know about running things when he’s away.

It’s likely that I’ve been played, and if I’m honest, I have to admit that I’m wise to his game. He figured out a long time ago just how much I like think I’m in charge, and has very wisely let me think that I am.  When I look back at all the times I’ve smacked myself in the forehead and wondered how he finished kindergarten, I realize that by making me think that he can’t possibly live a normal, functioning life without me, he’s given me the illusion that I can do anything – the kind of job security that money can’t buy, the kind of success that can’t be guaranteed at any Fortune 500 company, and the kind of confidence that can’t be learned in any self-help course. Turns out, he’s a pretty smart guy.

We hear the television long before we see the three bearded faces at the door when we turn into the driveway four days later. The two four-legged owners bark their brains out for a minute before taking off after a squirrel, and the third limps a little as he throws open the door to greet us. Inside, just as I thought, the toilet seats are all up, and there are blobs of ice cream on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t look starved, and all the frozen dinners are gone from the freezer.

“Thank goodness you’re home,” he says. “I can’t get the TV to change channels.”

I wipe off the counters, turn on the washing machine, and smile. No matter which of us is fooling the other, it’s good to know that my job is secure for the long haul.

By Susan Frampton

The Town of Edgefield teems with history. It is embedded in the clay that forms its unique and famous pottery, and adds flavor to its soft, sweet peaches. It regales us with sensational stories of murder and mayhem, yet can claim ten South Carolina governors as native sons. For almost two hundred years, from its perch atop the ridge that runs along Buncombe Street, the house called Halcyon Grove has not only watched Edgefield’s history being made, it has played its own role in both town and state destinies.

From behind its unique lattice-columned porch, Halcyon Grove has listened to the laughter of generations of children at play and the soft voices of ladies serving afternoon tea. Its walls hold the thoughts and dreams of a man whose aspirations led him to South Carolina’s highest office, and a man who had already worn the mantle of Governor and borne its responsibilities. The property’s history sometimes circles back upon itself, and while it has known the peace and tranquility implied by its name, it has also known the deep valleys that run between prosperity and poverty, feast and famine, celebrations of new life and long, sad journeys into the good night.

While its auspicious past could have made it a candidate for reincarnation into a staged, museum-style package, when Tim and Beth Worth purchased the house and all its furnishings ten years ago, they felt the house speak to them in a different way.

“There was all this furniture, and all these books and photographs and documents dating back to the 1700s that had just been stuffed into drawers. The man we bought it from was in his seventies, and had three other houses. When he left, I don’t think he took anything with him but his toothbrush,” says Beth.  “I guess it’s lucky that a person obsessed with history bought this place. Anybody else would have probably thrown a lot of stuff out.”

The home was a goldmine of information about the connections between former owners. Simply keeping up with first, second, and third marriages, deaths (particularly of wives), children, and stepchildren must have required a spreadsheet, a tumbler of Maker’s Mark and a couple of aspirin. But with help from several historians, the couple pieced together the story and got to know the players – some who have apparently never moved on to their heavenly homes.

“Tim used to say I was crazy, but not anymore,” says Beth. “There are three different apparitions that people ‘see’ here – without any prompting from us. It’s usually when there is a lot of commotion in the house. That makes me even more interested in the history. They aren’t scary or spooky, and I want to know who these people are that I’m walking around with every day.”

While Beth can impressively recite the provenance of the property practically from memory, following the chain of ownership is complicated to say the least, and one might safely assume that eventually everyone was related to everyone else. An attempt to connect the dots of the first fifty years looks something like this:

The land on which Halcyon Grove sits was first granted to William Simkins, son of Arthur Simkins, “the Father of Edgefield,” in 1784. When he died, he willed ownership to his father, who in 1811 bequeathed it to another of his sons, Eldred Simkins – the “earliest and best friend” of famous Carolinian, John C. Calhoun.

In 1824, new owner and Clerk of Court, Daniel Bird (who had tragically lost his first wife and two daughters), and his second wife, Lucinda, built Halcyon Grove on a two-acre tract of land purchased for $135. With their three children, soon to be four, the Birds moved into the grand house, built with great attention to detail and no expense spared. But, sadly, as would happen all too often over the house’s history, Daniel Bird lost his second wife in 1826. However, he married her sister, Behethland Simkins, in 1827. They had four more (rounding out his number of progeny to ten) and forever merged the Simkins and Bird families.

When Bird sold the property to Francis W. Pickens for $3,000 in 1829, he had no idea it would become home to both former and future South Carolina Governors. Pickens was married to Margaret Eliza Simkins, the eldest daughter of Eldred Simkins, bringing the property’s ties to the original family full circle. When they left, Pickens’ father, former Governor Andrew Pickens (serving 1816-1818) and his second wife moved to Halcyon Grove. While it isn’t clear, records indicate that Andrew Pickens eventually purchased the house from his son, who went on to serve in the SC House of Representatives, marry twice more, become Ambassador to Russia, and be elected Governor of South Carolina.

Over the next century and a half, the house changed hands more than a half dozen times. While it is hard to keep up with the number of occupants, it is safe to say that this cast of characters endured the triumphs and travails of wars, reconstruction, the great depression, and the ravages of time. By the time the Worths purchased the property in 2008, it had largely been unoccupied for several years, watched over by trusted caretakers. Beth had always had an affinity for old homes, and was delighted when Tim expressed his interest in finding and restoring an aging, plantation-style home.

There is an air of contentment under the roof of Halcyon Grove today, and much like that of its owner, the home wears the comfortable elegance of a Southern lady at ease in her own skin. Under the Worths’ stewardship, the grand house has been returned to a home in every sense – where one can easily envision the light of a thousand fires dancing beneath intricately carved mantels, generations of leather boots and delicate slippered feet polishing heart pine floors to the color of honey, and conversations of consequence held in out-of-plumb corners.

Incorporating her own style into the décor, Beth nestles modern touches alongside antiques. She also pays homage to the previous occupants by scattering their art and furnishings throughout, and portraits of Civil War generals stand alongside those of her own family. Tim’s woodworking skills have seamlessly blended custom kitchen cabinets and other updates with those of the original craftsmen. Their selection of light, airy colors brings life to rooms that were once dark and dreary. The result is a delightful balance that would no doubt still feel like home if the Birds or Pickenses were to visit today.

“I found an 1870 inventory of the house in the drawer of one of the secretaries in the living room,” Beth says.  “I could not believe the things on that list that I could check off as still being here. I don’t think that anyone realized what was here. There were cannon balls in the attic, and there are trunks that I have yet to open. It has all really helped me to get to know this house. It is a jewel.”

Beth’s recent retirement from the fashion industry, and Tim’s retirement as an engineer has given them a bit more time to ponder the property’s never ending to-do list, and despite the time and expense required, it is obvious that each task is a labor of love. Though they rewired and re-plumbed and added a few modern conveniences, from the start they felt strongly about maintaining the home’s character.

“We really haven’t changed much,” says Beth. “I just never have felt that was the right thing to do.”  It is an attitude that is aptly described in a 1941 quote by Archibald Rutledge that hangs on the sleeping porch, and reads ,“I am but a visitor here in this stately home. I am therefore trying to be a considerate guest.”

By definition, the word ‘halcyon’ denotes a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful. Thanks to Tim and Beth Worth, for the house called Halcyon Grove, the happy days are most definitely here again.

To find more detailed information about Halcyon Grove and its place in the history of Edgefield County, visit Edgefield County Historical Society at www.historicedgefield.com.

By Susan Frampton

Ingredients

 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar

1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

4 tbsp freshly squeezed orange juice

2 tbsp brown sugar

1/4 tsp salt

ground pepper to taste

8 cups mixed green lettuce

1/2 small red onion, sliced thin

1 cup dried cranberries

2 ripe pears, sliced

1 cup seedless red grapes

1 cup candied pecans

1/4 cup crumbled feta cheese

Preparation

Combine the balsamic vinegar, olive oil, freshly squeezed orange juice, brown sugar, salt, and pepper in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Heat for 5 minutes while stirring to dissolve the sugar.

Remove from heat and let the vinaigrette cool to room temperature.

Wash the salad greens and place them in a large salad bowl.

Top with sliced onions, grapes, cranberries, sliced pears and pecans. Add crumbled feta cheese.

Serve with vinaigrette.

Ingredients

3 medium beets, peeled and sliced

1 tbsp olive oil

3 tbsp balsamic vinegar

1/4 tsp freshly-ground black pepper

1/2 cup red onion, sliced thin

aluminum foil

1 1/2 cup tortellini pasta, cooked

1/4 cup sun dried tomatoes, chopped

1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped

1/3 cup pesto sauce

1/4 cup goat cheese, crumbled

Preparation

Preheat oven to 450°.

Cut beet slices in half. Add beets, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, pepper,

and red onion in a bowl and mix gently.

Make an aluminum foil bowl and pour in beet and onion mixture.

Fold over the sides of the foil bowl to seal closed. Cook in oven for 1 hour.

Remove from heat and cool for 15 minutes.

Place cooked tortellini pasta in large bowl.

Add sun dried tomatoes and basil.

Empty contents of the foil bowl into the mixing bowl.

Add the pesto and mix well. Chill for 1 hour in the refrigerator.

Sprinkle on crumbled goat cheese before serving.