Sorry about gushing on over Charleston; I did find it to be a marvelous city. On an early Friday morning walk, I observed/participated in one of the oldest rituals of the Deep South—in a good sized city, strangers saying good morning to one another. (Nice.) On a late-morning walk I discovered, among the numerous cultural artifacts, little St Michael’s church—and in the courtyard, buried without ado, two signers of the Constitution, Charles Pinckney and John Rutledge. On the street I met—a first for me—two lovely older women, wearing appropriately garish headwear, who are members of the Red Hat Club! In a Walden Books I stood in line in front of a well-to-do (can you still use that term—my PC dictionary’s been misplaced) woman who in conversation explained that she was from New Orleans, staying with her daughter’s family in Charleston. The reason: She and her husband lost, in its entirety, their house of 35 years. I simply said that I had no idea what to say beyond, “I’m sorry.” She replied that a simple “I’m sorry” was exactly right and exactly enough.
