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Mother Nature's Gift

 

Daufuskie Island received a beautiful gift from Mother Nature on Christmas. It is the "object" shown in the pic on the right. I have been walking the beaches of Bloody Point for fourteen (14) years and never have seen such a sight. I thought it was a piece of fine victorian glass at first, but a closer look proved that it was alive. Jelly Fish you say....no tenacles.....maybe some kind of mysterious sea urchin. ​Colors blend from deep purple to "dark and then light blues" with pink outlining a daintely crimpted top. Whatever it is, it represents a true gift to all mortals....one to gaze at in awe....to wonder about God's many miracles as a new year is about to be born on "The Isle of Fuskie".

Dive to the jungle

Dive To The Jungle

The Camouflaged dark green C-130 circles high somewhere over the dense jungles of Viet Nam. Bright foliage nurtured by abundant rains stretch far into the horizon and seem to meet and touch the cloudless clear blue sky. To the untrained eye this vision would be one of beauty, the kind that is captured by a skilled painter that selects just the right color to portray the rising steamy mist. To the young pilot listening to a crackling radio and looking through his dark aviator glasses for a smoke flare, however, this vision means danger. He reacts instinctively putting the big steel bird into a steep dive. My heart begins to race….the tires hit a just built airstrip…the deafening sound of engines reversing replace the monotonous drone and the once clear sweet air fills with dust. On command the rear door drops open, sweltering heat and humidity engulf the cabin and within minutes our cargo is loaded. This work horse of a plane lunges forward and like an F-14 in an air show we go straight up, harnesses tight against my chest. Soon we are out of reach of the inevitable ground fire and with mission complete we make our way to the relative comfort and safety of Naha, Okinawa.

It’s memorial day thirty nine years later and the festivities have just begun at Marshside Mama’s. An extra bar has been set up outside to accommodate the revelers and boats from Hilton Head and Savannah “raft up” on the small County dock. The aroma of Beth’s incredible gumbo wafts from the confines of her small kitchen and the sound of Budweiser snap tops blend in with the singing of the tree crickets. An industrious local has already started the obligatory campfire and I make the decision to spend part of my early evening just hanging out , roasting a few marshmallows, watching the sunset and talking about the Island’s History with curious guests. I’m right in the middle of the Yemmassee Indian uprising when the sound of an approaching low flying aircraft diverts our attention. One of the fire worshippers comment that it’s just the Coast Guard Helicopter doing their usual training run but once you have heard the drone of a C-130 you never forget it. Sure enough, direct overhead flies the workhorse of our military, probably from the Charleston Air Base, not painted green but camouflaged in timely shades of brown.

Now I have seen these C-130’s fly over before….once there were ten in formation…and I rushed inside yelling to my Bride, Mary….”You got to see this”. But the sight of this lone aircraft on Memorial Day from my past that I had spent so much time in and always admired was just a bit to much to bear. Excusing myself I leaned up against an ancient live oak tree and recalled that day so many years ago as a pimple faced eighteen year old when I experienced my first “dive to the jungle”. You see, that was not just ordinary cargo we were picking up. It was green body bags of young guys just like me. They had dreams of the future and waited anxiously at mail call for that precious letter from home. I remember that seamlessly never ending trip to Naha shivering at high altitude from the cold and sharing that cargo hold with the lifeless bodies that gave their all and the ultimate sacrifice for their beloved country.

Someone puts a dollar in the jukebox and a song Jimmy Buffet wrote about Daufuskie blends in with chatter of the fun loving merrymakers. I make my way to the relative quietness of the dock adorned with an American flag tattered and torn since its unceremonious 9/11 hanging. My harmonica which I had planned to play for fun now is held in trembling hands. The sound of taps drifts over the stillness of the marsh as a tribute to my unknown comrades and to the pimple faced kids of today that are still giving it “their all”.

Health Department Closes Daufuskie Oyster Beds

Health Department closes Daufuskie Oyster Beds I know it is hard to believe but the headline above is exactly what happened in the late Fall of 1959. A once flourishing business built by the Maggioni family and hiring thousands of Daufuskie residents was history. Raw sewage dumped into the Savannah River along with waste from Savannah's flourishing companies flowed by Daufuskie's Cooper River and Mongin Creek and choked the life out of quality oysters that were renowned world wide.

Today these waters are again pristine and I wait patiently each year for months ending in an R to harvest a  few of the tasty morsels. I pontificate about Daufuskie's past history as a result of a front page article and picture in last years Island Packet. It shows two bike riders in some city in China....or should I say the photographer was attempting to show two bike riders. You see, there was a profound brown haze surrounded them accentuated by an ugly brownish yellow sky. It kind of reminded me of a Sci Fi movie but this was for real. The U.N. Environment Program just released a report called "Atmospheric Brown Clouds" which are a mile thick that cover thirteen cities from the Arabian Peninsula to the Yellow Sea and drift as far East as California. This report made me feel very lucky to live on an Island like Daufuskie where the air is pure and the water from deep well aquifers is fresh.

But one does not have to travel far from our beautiful Lowcountry to experience serious air pollution. A trip to the North Carolina Mountains in Summer will reveal thousands of trees killed by acid rain. And recent reports show Asheville Tennessee, Knoxville and Atlanta as extremely high with airborne particulates. And to my dismay that same recent report cites my hometown of Pittsburgh as being the most highly polluted in the USA with Los Angeles winning the second spot. Now the clean air and water we are blessed with does not come by accident. Some one or some agency not long ago fought hard to keep a steel mill from being erected at what is now Colleton River Plantation just over the bridge from Hilton Head. A short trip north to the historic coastal town of Georgetown will show that they definitely were not that lucky. The acrid smell of burning steel permeates the air and a fine dust attaches itself to sailboats in the picturesque marina.

 I usually have a moral to my writings but today is different. I guess I am just attempting to pass on to folks out there that ...there are still places on God's good earth that are sweet and pure. I am just trying to pass these written words to folks that are searching for places like Daufuskie Island and still do not know it exists. I am attempting to reach out to folks that won't complain about a boat ride to get groceries and revel being surrounded by magnificent nature at every turn. I am attempting to reach out to people that enjoy a clear glass of water fresh from a well and dine on oysters, shrimp, crabs, flounder and sea trout just caught at the county dock. I am attempting to reach out to folks that are now searching for a refreshing new life, where walks on pristine beaches are the norm and where dreams still come true. See ya on the high tide. LowCountry Joe

Papy's Posies

Light gray clouds seem to be the "norm" today for the Carolina Lowcountry. I find myself alone in the Lighthouse....Mary said she had "Too Much Joe" and hopped the 8:15 ferry to the mainland.  A thoughtful blown kiss was accepted  as she made her departure by golf cart and disappeared up the oak canopied road like a rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.  Geeze....I miss her already.

Its not often I get to spend a day at the old Bloody Point Light alone. Normally I too would be on the mainland doing my thing, whiling away the day in my makeshift office. With the economy the way it is, that has all changed and now the historic  Silver Dew Winery is where I go,  all set up with new-fangled computers with things sticking out of them that let my words travel the Fuskie winds into the sky.

Now if I was one of those guys that get depressed easily, this surely would be the day. No Mary, no tourists stopping by to say hello and when you get right down to it...no people period..just the bald headed eagles soaring high above.  Actually its a typical late February for any given year but the overshadowing of  bankrupt resort proceedings plies away at my psychie.   And....the normally over seeded green fairways and greens of the Bloody Point golf course don't help much,  completing the puzzle with "mental  brownness" that psychiatrists would portray as perpetual doom as gloom.

But do not fear, my inner self says, remember the words of Mary..."You Make your own reality". "Buck up...."Life is in the living....in the tissue of every hour of every day"....and then there is the old Scottish proverb...."Live today and forget tomorrow....for you are a long time dead". Ok Ok....enough already inner self, I get the picture. Lets get my butt in gear.... lets make some real "funky ass" reality.

Now the best way I know of to make positive reality is to take a long  walk. So off I go, down to the beach, power walkin' big time....gettin' those endorphins movin'....struttin my stuff....The world is my oyster, and even though the clouds turn the shimmering waves grey....they look blue to me. And now I'm talkin' my trash....yes sir re: Bob...sayin' good morning to the pelicans....waving with delight to a passing Coast Guard helicopter....chasing frenzied shore birds, and even stopping and talking to my favorite tree...."Well trees are alive like dogs, aren't they....and you talk to your dog".....

A steady gait, and well trained legs, push me onward and a check of my sub mariner shows fifty minutes has somehow flown by.  The lighthouse steps welcomes me for some "porch sittin", a flock of red winged blackbirds chatter and cheet as if to welcome my arrival and bionic eyes  are enticed by a little patch of green in an otherwise bleak lawn.

A big smile comes over my face and a feeling of true well being envelops my inner soul. That patch of green is Papy's  doing!!!!!  Missed this morning because my eyes were "fixed" on my Brides departure, snow drop flowers, planted by a former Lighthouse Keeper "Papy"  in the early fifties have drivin' their little heads through the sandy earth overnight and will soon grace me with their blooms. Their snow white beauty have welcomed my Bride and I to Spring for ten (10) years and 2011 will be no exception. Soon the lawn will be covered with their glory, my pecan tree will come alive and a new "freshness" will permeate the Carolina Lowcountry. A spirit of rebirth will grace all Daufuskie humans and a spirit of well being will help embrace positive reality. Endless days of sunlight will soon be the norm and my Bride Mary will soon be back from the mainland. Life is Good.

"Gut fish not houses"....... Charleston Preservation Society

Received my copy of "Preservation" The Magazine of the National Trust for Historic Preservation in Washington. Instinctively I sought out Dwight Young's "Back Page" column. Mr. Young has been with the National Trust for thirty three (33) years and his articles focused on the hard work of archeology, disappearing historic courthouses,  drive ins and the true love of historic properties. But this time the "Back Page" column would have none of that. It was a farewell message....He was finally "packing it in" and by the time the article was printed he  would be eating shrimp and grits at his new home in the historic Holy City of Charleston.

Now his move to the "Holy City" did not  surprise me one bit. Charleston is the epitome of Historic renovated structures and that is what he was all about. Quite franky I can not imagine him living anywhere else.....but that is because we are "like minded".  When I attempted to visit a three generation family department store in Beaufort a few years ago and found it to be closed forever I felt seriously dismayed just like he would. When the old general store down the street shut its doors forever he would he would have vented deep felt regrets just like I did. We are both "historic souls" that for some unknown reason are affected very deeply about seeing the past disappear. For us each time a piece of history is lost its like cutting out a part of ones heart. Its a hard thing to explain but not unlike the heartache of the loss of a teenager's  first love.

Now I understand that many folks just don't have a care about history. That surely does not make them bad people but for them history simply does not resonate the same. Its like the bumper sticker I found in the Charleston Preservation Society store..... It reads "Gut fish, not houses".  When I asked about it the bespeckled aging attendant went on a passionate tirade about how young Charlestonians were buying up the old homes and ripping out bead board, facades, and eight inch wide carved moldings. Then she dismissed herself quietly  and in futile dismay went back to cataloguing the days sales.

If you have been following my writings over the years you know I am at my best when I begin a pontification and end it in one page. Dwight Young obviously had the same talent. But as I pen these last lines I ask one favor.  Please help me find a buyer that embraces the true history for my CIRCA 1883 Bloody Point Lighthouse. Please help me find a buyer that has the passion in their lives and feels the presense of past Lighthouse Keepers, wives and children. Please help me find that  "like minded" soul that embraces the epitomy of South Carolina maritime History. Please help me find me the spitited soul that can still smell the kerosene from the light. Please help me find that person that will "Gut fish, not houses.

LowCountry Joe

Owner Keeper Bloody Point Light

 

South Carolina's First Licensed Winery

SILVER DEW WINERY 1953

“The beach road began about a quarter of a mile from the school. It was a
dark and brooding part of the Island, very wild and uninhabited. Purple
and yellow wildflowers grew in profusion. The first time I walked the road
I was shocked to find two odd-looking brick structures on a curve in the
road. There was a sign on one of the buildings that read SILVER DEW WINERY
1953.” Pat Conroy “The Water is Wide”

You didn’t know Daufuskie Island had a winery….imagine that!….But neither  
did Pat Conroy as he was taking a walk one day to get a little private
time away from the kids. Now if he would have been there just a few years
prior he may have made another entry into his book that may have read
something like this. “Upon approaching the building I was  surprised to
meet a fine gentleman by the name of Papy Burn. He was a welcoming sort of
character with a spirited twinkle in his eye. He offered me a taste of his
scuppernong wine and before long I forgot why I was taking a walk in the
first place“.

Yes folks…Daufuskie Island has a winery and it just happens to be the
first licensed winery in the state of South Carolina. Papy Burn,  Keeper
of the Bloody Point Lighthouse, had long passed by the time of Conroy’s
visit but surely would have been the topic in a chapter of his book. You
see….Papy made wine from anything that would ferment and gave it away to
his friends. Why he licensed the winery with the state is still in
question but it may have been due to the fact he was also the Island’s
magistrate and close friends with frequent visitor Strom Thurmond.

Anyone that has ever taken a tour of Daufuskie probably has captured a
picture of this fine unique brick structure. It seems to call to you like
many National Register of Historic Places Properties do. “The Winery”
building  was built in 1883 as the base of a tall standing metal
lighthouse structure. The Bloody Point Lighthouse three quarters (¾) of a
mile out to sea performed as a front light and the Winery building served
as a back light. The lights were aligned by mariners and assisted them in
entering the Savannah River. The other building mentioned by Conroy was
the oil house. Its thick brick walls and dark confines provided a fine
place for Papy to age his wine. Pencil markings are still visible to this
day.

After purchasing the Bloody Point Lighthouse in 1999 I was approached by
Papy’s Grandson to purchase the adjacent winery buildings as well. At  the
time it put a strain on my budget but I just knew I was destined  to own
those buildings. That became evident when restoration of the building
began and the entire roof structure was found to be beyond repair. Only
with high school Shop 101  as a guide,  an entire blistering hot  Summer
was spent on that roof.  Huge timbers from North Carolina were hand cut
and pegged. Miraculously,  the SILVER DEW WINERY was back to its original
1883 splendor and historic charm.

So now I have a winery building with no wine. That was taken care of in
short order as a marketing plan was developed, labels designed and South
Carolina wine take out license and Federal trademark obtained. I then
contacted Bob Sabatini at Ben Arnold Sunbelt. We chose a fine wine from
California that would be labeled “Silver Dew Winery” under my
specifications and marketed as a “Commemorative Wine” in honor of Papy. 
Bob’s professional choice proved “right on”  and Silver Medals from Hilton
Head’s past Winefest celebrations hang proudly in the winery as a result.

So the next time you are on Daufuskie search out  those two brick
structures noted by Conroy “on a curve in the road”  and sit a spell. We
will spin a few yarns and maybe….just maybe I will break out my harmonica
and blow a few tunes. But one thing is for sure….. prior to your departure
we will lift our glasses and give a cordial toast “To Papy”.

LowCountry Joe

1884 New Years Eve .... A Daufuskie Island Story

Happy New Year from  Daufuskie Island and the South Carolina Lowcountry.  

Another year has passed quickly. It seems that just yesterday Mary and I went to Bloody Point’s beach to join with friends, toast smores and bring in the New Year. Distant Tybee Island fireworks lit up the old tall-standing Lighthouse and the smell of bonfire smoke mingled with the salty air.  

  

Yes,  New Years Eve somehow brings folks together….by the masses in Times Square and in small intimate social groups on Daufuskie Island.  But as one might expect, this is not a new phenomenon. Way back on December 31, 1883 a fine  Gentleman by the name of John Michael Doyle wrote in his diary vivid and colorful mental images of a New Years Eve past on Daufuskie  and his desire to have "true meaning" social interludes.  Mr. Doyle has won a special place in my heart even though he is long passed. You see,  he lived with his wonderful Family in what is now my home, the Bloody Point Lighthouse.  He originally was commissioned to build the back tower that once stood proud over what is now the Silver Dew Winery  but shortly thereafter moved his wife Phoebe and children  “Down South” and became Bloody Point’s  first Keeper. His writings reflected below show a lonely man…he truly missed his family back in Ohio but had to be “away” for the important task of finishing the light.  

So without further ado, I present to you pages from the diary of John Michael Doyle. May the new year bring you health and happiness and may your presence be surrounded by white light. 

 

See Ya on the high tide.... 

 

LowCountry Joe, Bloody Point Lighthouse

***************************************************************************

Sunday December 31, 1883 

This date I write for the last time..... 

I resolve to compensate myself some what for the lonely week I had passed, made my bed with more care than usual this morning, saddled up the old mule and struck out for Hagues Point Lighthouse. The day was very fine and I enjoyed the ride very much. Was very kindly received by Mr and Mrs. Comer and after we sat and talked for some little time, I was most pleasantly surprised by the entrance of a young Lady, Miss Maggie, the daughter of the old folks. On my visits to the Point before I had not met the young Lady and heard of Comer's daughters in only a vague sort of way and the pleasure  of meeting her was rather increased by the surprise. Well the day sped away only too soon and I was late getting to my quarters and feeling much better and happier for my visit by the sight of that young girls bright face. They asked me to come down and spend the New Year with them and though I wanted to awful bad I had to excuse myself for the flat was coming in with her cargo of shells and I thought it best to be on hand when she was unloaded. The men came up from the flat and spent the evening with me and we sat up till after midnight and as soon as the New Year was born we went out with tin pans and horns and gave some of the natives a serenade. After which the boys returned to their flat and I retired. 

Monday Jan. 1, 1884

 

The day was beautiful and bright and clear with just a nice breeze blowing and the sun so warm that I went all day without a coat. The men discharged the flat of her load of shell and I was putting in the time as best when we had the pleasure of a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard.  The Lady was very gratious to me and I had her to chat to all by myself for a little while too. She very kindly invited me to visit them at Melrose and asked me in my surprise why I had not called on them before.....and I told her that I had only been waiting for an invitation well said she had given a general invitation for all us Gentlemen on this work to call which was meant for me as well as Mr. Lacoste and Mr. Comers. Well I promised to visit Melrose soon and meant to keep my promise. Auntie said it was a good omen that I should have such a pleasant caller on the first day of the year and I was disposed to regard the matter in that light myself.

 

Merry Christmas from the Bloody Point Lighthouse, Daufuskie Island

The shrimp boat looked like a Currier and Ives print with a single strand of white lights outlining the fifty three year old hull. The bulbs sparkled and reflected in the calm waters of Skull Creek and the beams of a mostly full moon silhouetted this soulful white vessel against the weather beaten dock. All was quiet on this special Christmas Eve, but that wasn’t the case earlier. 

 

During the day all sorts of items were being delivered to Hudson’s dock…..sacks of corn, bushels of apples, bags of assorted nuts and even blocks of salt. The Captain was taking on special cargo under the request of a very special guy, St. Nick. It seems that over the years the “Rotund One’s” sleigh had been overloaded because of a larger Island population. Golf clubs had squeezed out goodies for his special friends, “The Island Critters” and he felt guilty. So this year was “make up” time.

 

 

Santa’s arrival was shaky at best, as Rudolph’s crew banked left and made a precarious landing in the tiny parking lot. The “old boy” made a bee line to the oyster bar for a quick bowl of his favorite chowder….and with Rudolph along for the ride, they were off. 

 

 

 

Escorted by a family of smiling dolphins by water and a flock of gulls by air the entourage began their Intra-Coastal Holiday voyage. Santa rode at the bow looking like a masthead of an eighteenth century schooner. What a sight he was, with salt air blowing through his long white locks and laughing heartily as a gull made a circus type shrimp catch. Even brown pelicans got into the act showing off their dare devil dives, resulting in a hearty applause. 

 

 

 

At every stop he was greeted by families of masked raccoons, possums, squirrels and deer. Proud parents would provide loving encouragement as the little ones shyly accepted their precious gifts. Loving hugs were also plentiful, even to a cute baby skunk. 

 

 

 

The hold was empty, the makeshift sleigh headed for home and a bright star suddenly appeared above. It illuminated Santa’s face and guided them through the tricky waters of Calibogue Sound. Santa’s deeds, it seems, had been appreciated by more than the Island Creatures he loved so much. 

 

 

 

May God’s light shine on you this Christmas and throughout the New Year. 

 

Joe and Mary

Keepers Bloody Point Light

 

Here, Have One......

Here, have one…. Steamed Oysters…..just the thought of them make some folks lip curl up. “Yuck” ….has also been uttered as I eagerly invade the oyster’s shell in search of that fine and usually slimy juicy morsel. So, with that remark in mind, I proudly display my next find as if to taunt the unbeliever, before I down another small sample of the ocean’s salt laced bounty. Now I have to admit that I, over forty years ago, also turned my head in disgust as my Uncle John said “Here, have one…at Pittsburghs once famous Down-Town Oyster House. It was always our last stop, making the daily rounds at the cities best restaurants picking up the used produce and foodstuffs for his nearby hog farm. Well, after being taunted with remarks like “don’t be a little wimp….real men eat them” did I finally succumb…..keeping a manly smile on the outside , but soon after, making an unnoticed but hasty retreat to the ‘Men’s Room”. It wasn’t until many years later, when my Bride Mary and I “found” the Lowcountry did I again run into my old nemesis, the lowly oyster. We were invited “the invitation said casual” by one of my BEST clients to what I was later to find out, was a South Carolina Lowcountry tradition. ….an oyster roast. “Surely they will also have some Southern fried chicken” I anxiously commented to Mary as I navigated my trusty 74 Chevy pickup down the narrow live oak canopied dirt roads to the May River. Upon arrival we were quickly directed to the main attraction “the roast”. People of all descriptions, dressed in their Levis and sweatshirts congregated around this big old table with steaming oysters piled high in the center. Smoke from the wood fire permeated the cool Spring air and a truly festival mood was prevalent. Right in the middle of all this merriment was Moultrie our host and he didn’t waste any time making room for us. After a few short pleasantries he picked up one of the biggest oysters on the pile and uttered those ominous words “Here, have one…..” It was Pittsburgh’s old Oyster House all over again but this time there could be no excuses…..no place to run. So with unbridled confidence I grabbed that old oyster and with the skill of a surgeon, inserted that oyster knife, cracked open that shell and displayed one of the finest, juiciest oysters I have ever seen. Without dipping it into the available drawn butter I drew it to my lips and with no hesitation, it was down the hatch. What happened in the next few moments, it is said, is when I was truly transformed into Lowcountry Joe®. For some unknown reason, I actually like it....my childhood memories were only a dream and with Mary looking at me as if I had lost it all grabbed another one from the pile. “These May River oysters are the saltiest and best I have ever had”, I told an appreciate Moultrie. I had somehow been reborn. Since then I have been on one of the largest supporters of the camaraderie and hospitality of the traditional Lowcountry oyster roast. Up North I used to crave that first glass of Spring Bock beer….now I crave that first steaming hot oyster washed down with a cold Budweiser in the fellowship of my neighbors and friends. And I am not the only one. Noted writer Pat Conroy, of “Prince of Tides” fame wrote a marvelous article about the “South Carolina Oyster Roast” in a recent edition of Gourmet Magazine. He’s quoted as telling a Daufuskie Island “Local” that “eating a Lowcountry oyster is like tasting heaven”. I wholeheartedly second that Pat, and “Here have one…..”

Living with Eagles

Two young hawks were frolicking in my yard at Daufuskie Island's  Bloody Point Lighthouse....picking up a piece of paper discarded by a passing golfer, and taking turns tossing it into the air. At least I thought they were hawks until their antics brought them literally to my front porch. Then there was no doubt...they were baby eagles,  unceremoniously kicked out of their nest  by Mom a few days earlier. Like all children they just wanted to play and I was blessed to be able to observe up close the Symbol of America at its youth.

In those days.....over ten years ago, this vision experienced by only a chosen few naturalists was viewed by my total self, set aside in my pyschie as fodder for making me seem interesting in further human interaction and dismissed. Over the years the eagles came and went....to me it simply was a result of passing seasons.  But to  locals and bird lovers alike it seemed I was somehow being associated with these massive feathered creatures.  It seemed to humans I was becoming the Eagle Man of Daufuskie. A day didn't pass when I wasn't queried about their mating...about their Bloody Point existance...but curiously to the eagles..... I was to find out they seemed to have a different plan for me.

What I didnt realize at the time the eagles were not just coming and going, they were somehow passing on their spirituality.  American Indians knew that eagles had the capability to see hidden spiritual truths. To them the eagle had the ability to see the overall pattern in life. To them the eagle had the ability to connect to "spirit guides".....to a physical human....to a shaman...that would be blessed with their great intuitive powers and creative spirit grace.  

Like Radar O'Reilley in the classic Mash Series I seemed over the years to be able to know things in advance.  The exact time of their winter arrival was never questioned. I was drawn that particular day each December to the thunderous nest full of anticipation ....never to be discouraged and always awarded with these massive birds of pray peering down in approval. It was if to say "we are back to bring you in balance with heaven and earth".  

My encounters over the years also seemed to be more intense. Their classic shrill "cheee cheee cheee" became precious music. My space seemed to becoming their space. Circling and hovering so low over the lighthouse  I could see their talons, to be awed by their flight, to be blessed in ways I just could not perceive or understand. And their "cheee" always seemed to be timed with my thoughts.  Even in the darkness of night when the necessities of old age awakened me,  their serenade would blend in with the hoots of a barn owl and give me solace.....deep solace dropping me  into intense sleep. And they would be with me in  the morning,  secured  on precarious perch,  preparing to soar to new heights over the marshes, ocean and firs.

It was on one of those crystal clear chilled December mornings while I sipped on a fresh hot cup of peppermint tea welcoming the morning in a Carolina rocker that I would be summoned by the grand spirit of Eagle Gods. But I knew upon departing the cozy confines of my kitchen that something was amiss. It was simular to that  strange feeling many of us get that one has done this before. But the tall loblolly pines were swaying normally on southern breezes....all was well in the heavens.  And then I heard an abnormal "cheee". My heart fell. An eagle was in distress. Dropping from a symmetrical circle my longtime friend somehow was dieing in mid air. The circle turned to a death spiral. Outstretched talons made a last ditch grasp for a bough. The weight forced a crack and the eagle was summoned violently to the earth. 

I really cannot portray in words my movement from rocker to tree. Everything was in a blurr.  But I do remember picking up that distressed eagle, cradling  her lovingly in my arms and feeling a sence of pure despair......it was like having a nearby friend and soldier killed mortally in a foxhole.  It wasn't until  later, after I buried her on the banks of the Cooper River, however, that I felt my wounds. Even in death my brave comrad fought to stay alive, dug her talons through my jacket, let her pain release in throbbing pulses......and then there was that final shudder.

It would be a few years later that I would once again feel the full spiritual essence of an eagle.  One morning as I walked the "low kept" tunneled oak canopied presence that is true Daufuskie I was startled beyond all belief. An unlucky blue jay had been chosen for breakfast and making a desperate struggle to survive, whizzed past my ear. As I instinctively ducked  the predator made its presence known. At eye level all I could see was white...All I could see was eagle....all I could feel in that instant was a flash of beaten wind....all I could hear was the whooshing of feathers. As I looked back I instinctively felt the prey had been forgotten and with its neck turned the eagle slowed, flared its tail, looked over its wing, met my eye and like an F-14 in an air show found an open hole and triumphantly shot straight up into the heavens.

It is knowning,  that American Indians believed that as mortals they were spiritually and physically connected to eagles.... that gives me complete comfort. Like the Cherokee that lived on Daufuskie in days past, their "cheee cheee cheee" gives me solice. I feel blessed to be one with them....and to some day soar over the horizons on outstreched mighty wings.