Gumpa was our Weather Channel

My daddy’s old metal map of the Southeastern United States hangs with the magnets still in place from Hugo’s tract to Charleston some twenty one years ago. It is like a wall monument.

I recall constantly listening to the shrill sounds of the Charleston airport weather updates during tomato and cucumber season. This was our constant companion growing up on a Lowcountry vegetable farm.

The old weather radio is a far cry from the today’s sophisticated weather tracking. I imagine if we had had the Weather Channel back in the day, you may have heard something like this, “In 10 minutes, hail will hit Mr. George Hills’ farm and then the storm will ruin Harold Glover’s tomatoes down on Kiawah Island Parkway.” I think we would have all been half crazy.

I was religiously watching the Weather Channel this past week as South Carolina’s coast was threatened with Irene. My wheels started turning with what to do and when after seeing that category 3 hurricane make its way to the Southeastern coast. It has been heartbreaking to see the terrible damage done by that storm.

Before the storm made landfall, the weather channel folks interviewed brides whose weddings on the beach were postponed and stubborn residents who decided to weather the storm. So many people refused to leave their homes when warnings are issued. Just like my grandfather, Gumpa.

Cousin Bubba Walpole tells the story of Gumpa refusing to leave Johns Island as Hurricane David was well on its way to Charleston. Cousin Bubba had to place a shovel in the yard and make Gumpa promise if the water from Abbapoola Creek rose to the shovel, he would leave. I guess the shovel was considered his weather alert.

Gumpa, as always was right. His knowledge of the wind and Abbapoola tides proved the experts wrong. He could tell just by looking at the creek and the shifting winds where the hurricane was headed.

Although I am thankful to have today’s sophisticated technology, it does keep you glued to the radio and television. Much of the reporting drives me crazy as I try to understand what is hype and what is real.

Last week I wished I could have spoken with Gumpa about Hurricane Irene. He lived long enough to know all about storms and his words would have soothed my fears. I guess you could say that Gumpa was our family’s weather channel. The only difference was his reports where simple, to the point and he was hardly ever wrong.

Lowcountry Tides and the Changes in Life

Memorial Day weekend ushers in the official beginning of summer. Along with the obvious tribute to our brave men and women in the armed forces, the sun seems a little hotter and the water temperature is not as cool.

Sunscreen, bottles of water, bread, peanut butter, etc., are all on my list to take in the boat. My daddy, a seasoned Johns Island boater, always said to never leave the shore without food and water. So with the coolers packed and boat in good shape, off we went to Abbapoola Creek to join a ka-zillion other boaters in Charleston.

To catch a high tide in the late afternoon is the most desirable scenario. We explored creeks with million dollar homes and passed jon boats with folks fishing and casting.

When I was a child we always anchored off the shore of Bird Key. I could not contain my excitement as we rounded the bend in Stono River revealing two channel markers that framed this large lump of sand on the Atlantic Ocean. Folly Beach is on the left of this island paradise and Kiawah is on the right. We loved to explore the back of Bird Key since so many artifacts washed up on the beach. There were wading pools and the adventure of the ocean on one side of the island and the calmness of the Folly River on the other side. We collected dead men’s fingernails and mermaid’s pocketbooks. It was a perfect treasure Island for children complete with an occasional Jellyfish sting.

Hugo moved Bird Key to the left of Stono Inlet and completely restructured the island. It has been many years since Hurricane Hugo hit the coast and the island has never moved back to its original place. In fact on a very low tide, you can practically walk to Folly Beach. Unfortunately, Bird Key is no longer a place to explore ocean treasures since various birds now roost there and signs are posted proclaiming the island as a bird refuge.

However, across Stono Inlet, is what we call “The Poor Man’s Kiawah,” Sandy Point. Penny Creek runs on the side of the island. If you ride up the creek you will see the Ocean Course where the Rider Cup Golf Tournament was played several years ago. We always love cruising that quaint creek and decided to enjoy the ride once again.

The tide was high but we immediately knew there was a problem as the motor struggled. Penny Creek has fallen victim to the changing tides. The once deep creek is now a shallow body of water. My husband, Thomas was able to negotiate the boat into deeper water and head out into Stono Inlet.

I had no idea how shallow that creek was until the next day when my daughter, Caroline and I rode the jet ski to Penny Creek and realized we were stuck on a sandbar in about eight inches of water. We had to ask several strong men to lift the jet ski and place it in deeper water.

Many times, life changes as quickly as the tides reconstruct our beaches and creeks. Just like the pull of the flow of the saltwater, my heart is filled with cherished memories. I can still see my daddy’s pride and joy, the Never-No, anchored off the coast of Bird Key. I remember the Mako Shark he caught in Stono Inlet that is mounted above the mantel in the den. I can see my mother in her swimsuit on the beach as she worked on her golden tan. My best childhood friend, Leize and I are running on the beach without a care in the world. Little did we know that many years later, we would have the responsibilities caring for our aging parents and all the tears of family hurts.

Yes, life changes with the many tides in life. Thanks be to God that through it all, He is our anchor.

Jane Jenkins Herlong is a professional motivational humorist, professional singer and author. She can be reached at jane@janeherlong.com or www.janeherlong.com Follower her on Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, YouTube and iTunes.

If only the old kitchen table could talk

If only the old kitchen table could talk

“The more this table ages, the better it looks,” said the salesperson when Thomas and I bought our kitchen table. Years later that statement would have more meaning than the aging of the wood.

I dusted the kitchen table and saw the words, “Daniel C. Herlong” imprinted in the grain of the wood. I remember that was the time when Daddy Big John was teaching Holmes how to write cursive. The lesson was obviously repeated several times. Now we have an indelible memory of my father-in-law’s signature to cherish.

To the right of the signature is another memory from another Herlong brother. Uncle Frank came to visit and if you have ever had a Frank Herlong visit you have a story. Uncle Frank shared his track career at Clemson and used an oval place mat to simulate how he ran. By the time Uncle Frank finished running laps, we had an oval shape marked on the wood.

If only the old kitchen table could talk, it would tell stories.

It was a place of high chairs, Holmes and Caroline’s first words. The best facial expressions when new foods were tasted for the first time. There was contagious laughter that can only come from a baby. Our table is filled with milestones all parents love to experience.

Our kitchen table is a place of gathering. It was a place of fun that was decorated with Pocahontas themed birthday parties, cowboy round-ups and grown-up monumental birthdays. That table is where the Easter Bunny left jelly beans, chocolate bunnies and Thomas’ sock bunny that has returned every year since 1980.

There were failed meals, tears, laughter, and serious conversation. Countless drills of Wordly Wise, term papers and graduation thank you notes

My parents sat around that table with Thomas’ parents. They laughed and told stories about growing up, places they had seen and other tales. We laughed and learned with them.

I remember our past and miss family members who are no longer with us. My prayer is that the future holds more graduation notes, wedding invitations, and high chairs with grandbabies.

Our kitchen table is a storybook of a cherished past and a gathering place for tomorrow’s memories.