I knew we’d landed in the south when a ‘southern gentleman’ put his cowboy booted foot in the only available seat preventing my wife with our 3 year old from sitting down.  Now,fully color conscious and concerned about the atmosphere on Kiawah Island where my in -laws had property, I couldn’t enjoy the beauty of an amazingly straight and narrow two lane road we were on.  I saw instead, the side roads without street lights or visible houses.  Roads that ran off seemingly into the dark green overgrown bush to nowhere.  The houses that were visible made me shudder imagining these same back country roads after dark.

The security guard at the entrance to the resort did little to make me feel welcome. Neither did the uniformed maintenance staff who knew I was not the kind of guest that usually stayed there. In hushed tones of quiet confidence they felt it was important to tell me the history of the island.

The warning signs of “Alligators…”  were everywhere.  So were the alligators.  Big ones.  Little ones.  Walking the paths around the undeveloped woods,there were no signs warning about the alligators,or the snakes.  Most tourist on Kiawah golf, play tennis.  Not many go out among the osprey, vultures and cottonmouths.  I could easily see why.

Renting a car should have given me some relief.  The country road signs were amusing.  The city was interesting from inside the car.  Out of the car, I walked into an interesting antique shop and was greeted with a cold: “can I help you,boy”?  It’s and old, odd city.  The cobblestone clearly visible where the layers of paving have worn away on long narrow streets with shuttered colorful multi storied houses.  The museums, carriages of tourists,ship yards and historical sites were seen. I still felt like an outsider.  LIke a foreigner visiting a country for the first time.  Out side a theatre that should have given a familiar warmth,some girls asked me to take their picture oblivious to the fact that they’d never see the result… but it was Boone Hall that got me.

More color conscious now that ever, it wasn’t the fields of flowers along the entrance drive.   It wasn’t the quaint chapel, the stables, the long, wide fields where crops once grew.  It certainly wasn’t the big house.  It was the slave quarters.

Standing inside that one room trying to imagine what it must have been like to come ‘home’ after working the fields all day to a family, food, a fire, a bed..all in the this one room.

I was still reeling when later while shopping at a Piggly-Wiggly, the check out girl gave me back my sense of self.  After staring at me for what seemed like an eternity and completely ignoring my outstretched hand and money she suddenly and loudly blurted…

“HEY!  DONT’ YOU BE THAT GUY WHAT DO TELEVISION?”