Dear Boo and Bubble,
We’ve talked some about your great, great, great grandmother
Mamie Peninah Robinson Bryant. (If you
remember in an earlier post, she’s the one who told Bertha to bring the
biscuits.) Mamie set many things in
motion that have lasted over six generations now. With eight children and 28
grandchildren, her familial tentacles reach far and wide even today.
The tap root of our family tree, her legacy remains legendary.
Of the many treasures Mamie endowed to her extended clan,
none was more significant than The
Bullfrog Blues. This very special
place provided the venue for the making of countless memories long after she
departed this earth. Until the late
1960’s, it served as a gathering spot for brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and
cousins of all delineations.
The Blues (as we
affectionately called it) was a wood-hewn cabin that sat on the banks of the
South Saluda River just below Table Rock reservoir about an hour north of
Greenville. When Mamie bought the
property before the Great Depression, it originally served as her summer
retreat. Although it was in the
foothills and not the high mountains, the location nonetheless offered a cool
respite from the July and August heat in Greenville.
To call The Blues rustic
would be a compliment. Rudimentary fits
better. Its floor plan consisted of four
rooms – one large living space filled with multiple sets of bunk beds, two
smaller bedrooms off of that, and a kitchen in the back connected to the main
body of the house by a screened-in porch.
There was no electricity. All
illumination came from kerosene lanterns.
There was no plumbing. The
accommodation to bodily functions lay with a one-hole outhouse dubbed
allegorically Little Egypt because of
the 100-foot trek one had to make down a foot path to its moss-covered niche on
the river’s edge.
The cast iron kitchen stove had a firebox which required a
constant stash of wood once it caught flame.
A metal tong lifted the burners so that coals could be evenly
distributed underneath. And the ice box was just that – a white ceramic box
with several shelves kept cold with a block of ice.
The huge covered front porch served as the gathering area.
Numbers of rocking chairs rested lazily underneath the extended roof. The view from the porch looked out across a
sandy stretch to the South Saluda where the river made a sharp bend to the left
exposing two large rocks.
As to the name Bullfrog
Blues - that came about by the fact that in the evening after the sun set,
the bullfrogs began their bellowing croaks, louder and louder until it became
like some woeful orchestrated piece of music.
The song was sad, full of blues.
Sitting on the porch, rocking to this nightly ritual became one of the
allures of the place.
Times are so different now it will be hard for you to
understand just how exhilarating a trip to The
Blues could be for a child. We had
no electronics to consume our attention or numb us to our surroundings. Adventures weren’t carried out in some
virtual world with an avatar. Our entertainment
came from romps around the yard on imaginary horses with imaginary friends
executing some spirited plot hatched in our heads about the world around
us. In my youth, The Blues played a major role in defining those attributes of fun
and family that sustain me now.
When I recall The
Blues, I am reminded of so many simple pleasures. On the way up we stopped at the ice house in
the town of Travelers Rest (isn’t that a pleasant sounding name) to buy the 25
pound block of ice for the icebox that would last us for a weekend.
Somewhere on the side of the road, we found a produce stand
where we bought fresh corn, tomatoes and most importantly watermelons. There was a frigid stream running behind The Blues and as soon as we had unloaded
the car, we carried the watermelons out and nestled them into the cold water
where they stayed overnight. The next afternoon, we donned our bathing
suits and took the watermelons down to the big rock in the crook of the river
and split them open. All of the children
ate the sweet, red fruit with abandon, letting the sticky juice slide down the
chin onto the neck and chest until they became so gummy the only solution was a
purposeful leap into the chilly water of the Saluda (which could really take
your breath away on that first jump).
Across the yard from the front porch of The Blues stood a tall hardwood tree rooted in the bank of the
river. One stalwart, large branch
extended out over the flowing green water almost to the center. A thick rope with a holding knot at the
bottom hung from the branch far enough out that it took a long stick to
reach. The natural erosion under the
tree exposed a root system that looked like steps going up the bank. We could take our pick as to which step might
be our start as we grabbed the rope and swung out over the water. There was safety in the lower ones – you
wouldn’t go out as far and if you decided not to drop, you could come back to
the bank. The higher steps demanded more
commitment. You better drop off at the
apex of the outward reach of the rope or you would come crashing back into the
tree. Over the years, there were many a
dare made under that tree.
At night, The Blues
could become a scary place to little ones.
The flickering kerosene lamps exaggerated shadows as they were cast
against the walls. A howling wind could
conjure all sorts of creaks and frightful noises in the wooden walls. It became the perfect setting for Great
Granddaddy Schaefer to tell the tales of “Hooker,” a dangerous madman
supposedly roaming the mountains in search of the person who cut off his hand,
leaving him to wear a hook. Many a
night, we huddled in the bunk beds of the great room wrapped in blankets as the
story unfolded, our eyes widening to a climax that always culminated in an ominous
scratch on the screen of one of the windows.
The collective scream was deafening.
I never knew for sure who really was outside at that window.
I remember waking to the smell of bacon sizzling in the cast
iron skillet on the wood burning stove.
I remember endless games of Up Jinks at the picnic table on the screened
porch. I remember bon fires in the front
yard cooking marshmallows on wire coat hangers and singing “Turnip Greens,” “Skinnemarenk Da Dink Da
Dink,” and “John Jacob Jinker Heimer
Schmidt” – DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH! I remember catching lightening
bugs in Mason jars. I remember being
apprehensive about my first visits to Little
Egypt and learning to use a “thunder mug” in order to avoid trips in the
middle of the night.
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