Sunday in the South

Magnificent ruins as hallowed as those in faraway places.

Photographer Brenda Newman Bancroft

Spring afternoons in the South aren’t just a time of day; they are a heavy, sometimes humid invitation to head toward the sea islands, crossing over the Woods Memorial swing bridge. Once you leave the sterile hum of the interstate, the air changes. It carries the sharp, briny signature of the Lowcountry—the scent of pluff mud and ancient salt. You follow the lean of the fence lines until the solid earth begins to dissolve into the shimmering expanse of the marsh.

These old farms exist on the edge of two worlds. You see it in the scorch of the South Carolina sun that has bleached the wooden barns to a silver-grey, their silhouettes mirrored in the tidal creeks that snake through the tall grass. Some of these outbuildings teeter on foundations of mismatched brick, held together less by engineering and more by whatever materials were on hand. Live oaks covered in resurrection fern spread their branches wide across this land, standing guard over the good earth, providing shade and solace for all who enter.

Frost on the field of collard greens in January - always tastier after a frost.

I know battles have been fought here by men on tractors wearing bib overalls and wide-brimmed straw hats. Year after year, they have waged war against the elements of Mother Nature. In the many years that have passed, these farms have witnessed hurricanes, torrential rains, tornadoes, and parching droughts. Passersby headed to the beach on Hwy. 21 may never stop to notice.

Tons of fertile soil have been turned again and again to face the torrid sun and time. Each season, crops such as tomatoes, potatoes, strawberries, watermelons, cucumbers, and peppers have been planted with great faith and promise, harvested with love and hope. Davey Dempsey runs his vegetable stand here most days - he can read a watermelon better than anyone in Beaufort County. After all, he grew up on this land as did the generations before him. He knows firsthand the struggle to earn a good living in the sandy soil of this island.

Tired timbers may be rotting as they sway in the breeze. These outbuildings and barns will forever stand because they were built by men of an era when men had integrity and were as strong and mighty as the substructures of their buildings.

Wisteria trails its woody vines as it climbs around abandoned machinery, disabled, rusted tractors, and broken-down trucks. Each spring, its fragrant lavender blossoms perfume the air and reveal large, velvety leguminous pods. Even amongst the decay, beauty and signs of life carry on.

To me, these are magnificent ruins, every bit as hallowed as the stone temples of faraway lands. This is a landscape of endurance, a battlefield where men on tractors have spent lifetimes negotiating with the moon and the tides.

This land is for patient viewing. It asks you to stop, kick off your shoes, and feel the transition of the earth—from the dry, sandy grit of the tomato rows to the cool, silk-slicked edges of the field beneath the trees. There is a quiet, sacred geometry in the connection between the sun, the soil, and the darkening water.

As the great blue herons take flight and the chorus of songbirds rises to meet the incoming tide, you realize you aren’t just looking at a landscape. This is a place of long-held tradition. Will future generations know the simple joys of foraging for wild pokeweed in the spring, its vibrant purple berries a stark contrast against the lush green landscape? Will they experience the delight of picking strawberries, their fingers stained red from the sun-ripened fruit, the sweet aroma filling the air? Will they understand the deep connection to the land, and the reverence for nature's bounty that has shaped our lives?

In writing, we create a bridge to the future, a way for those who come after us to know the things we held dear, the traditions we cherished, and the land we loved fiercely.

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With love and best wishes, Pat xoxo