One thing I love about doing this column over all the other stuff I do is people’s memories. It’s somewhat like painting a fully-textured picture without having any clue as what the end image will be. Each memory is but another brush stroke.
Last week I used a story by Walker Coleman that spoke of the origins or rock and roll in Charleston. Others have joined the fray.
Author Ben Moise penned, “I liked to listen to WPAL radio with Frankie the Big Bopper, Spindarella and Sir Jamalot. Real early when I was leaving to hit the river for a patrol, there was the Reverend Brother Pastor Deacon Doctor Doug from the fire baptized, dipped in the blood of the Lamb AME church who always began his program with the song, “Are You Ready?” Back when I was “off” at military school in the mid 50s we used to go wild over John Lee Hooker, Jimmy Reed and Fats Domino. There was a lot of home grown talent then like Josh White (I think from Spartanburg) who played the best “St. James Infirmary” ever and Drink Small. I fondly remember all the beach music bands like the Hearts, The Tams and The Chairman of the Board. They used to be regulars at the Folly Pavilion and the famous ‘Beach Club’ up in North Myrtle Beach. Talk about purple haze…!!!”
Jean Townsend remarks, “I remember being at Matt Roberts’ Patio drive in (Spring and Cannon streets)and listening to a DJ play “Maybelline” over, and over and over again. Don’t know which station it was.”
John (name withheld by request) from Wadmalaw responded to Ms. Townsend, “That was, I think, WTMA. We used to listen to those golden oldies whilst cruising down King St, half-pint in hand, and running into parked cars. Did I do such things?”
Well, if you didn’t John, I did. I often want to write about stuff from my youth, but I live under a huge constraint. No, it’s not my kids, I have none. It’s not my wife. Don’t have any of those that I know of. It’s not my family for in a sea of eccentrics, I am thought to be certifiable.
However, I was not alone during the escapades of my youth. I was with many who are now respected in their chosen fields, lawyers, doctors, politicians and Indian chiefs. You see they do have wives, they do have children. I would like to live free.
One my four essential rules in life includes, “Never deliberately poke a bear in the eye with a stick.”
That said, I remember the Patio all too well. Many of the stories would fall under the aforementioned constraint, but I do remember Francis.
This was a tableau that I doubt many from chillier climes could understand (this falls under the rubric of explaining Charleston back in the day is explaining how a coffeemaker works to a dog). By the time I started hanging out at the Patio in the late 1960s, the drive-in was a bit of a DMZ, black and white mixed during a time of high tension.
Three factors contributed to this: cheap PBR (sold after hours), pulley-bone specials and a killer jukebox. The parking slots and the booths had the small jukeboxes that featured every song from “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” to “Shotgun, Shoot ‘im fo he run, now!”
The late Stuart Barnwell and I would sit and romance young girls when besottedness and loud laughter was an aphrodisiac of sorts. That soon changed quickly, but sitting flipping through the song selections with Ashley Hall girls at two in the morning, we were heroes for all the wrong reasons.
The woman who served us was somehow deified later, as “Good Ole Francis” when she was nothing of the sort. Be that as it may, she was indelibly etched into our memories. Probably because what she lacked in sense or social graces, she made up for it by brooking absolutely no nonsense.
The Castle Pinckney Motel was across the street. I have two great memories of that place. The first was the swimming pool. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, the motel was roughly across from Hardees where the medical helicopters land today.
The swimming pool was raised and had windows along the side. One could stand and watch the swimmers as they dove under water. It was a teen-age boy’s delight.
The other memory personifies the cruelty of youth. Many times, we would tell our parents we were going to spend the night at a friend’s. We would then get three rooms at the Castle Pinckney and party until dawn. There are some good stories here, but refer back to aforesaid lawyers and doctors, etc.
One thing we used to do is call somebody we considered a geek and tell him that there was a big party in room 123 at the Castle Pinckney. We made sure he would get a date.
Well, of course, the couple would arrive with anticipation to run with the big dogs. They’d knock on the door expecting to find hedonism. Imagine their dismay when a retired couple from Delaware opened the door at 10 pm with snarls and the promise of jail.
Well, they could always go across the street for a pulleybone special.
What about you? Perhaps you don’t possess the reticence I do. What are your memories as a teenager in Charleston?
