Civil War Harley Tour: 2012

The Ride Through the Smokey Mountains

When you ride 400 miles in one day, even if you're just the one on the back taking pictures, all you want to do when you get to the hotel is take a shower, eat dinner, and sleep. We've done the first two.
It was a great day, and I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy the pictures!

Savannaaahhhhhhh....

When you’re sitting on a wrought iron balcony overlooking the Savannah River, sipping Malibu rum and pineapple, watching people saunter along the brick paved river walk and the water ferry shuttle others, blogging really doesn’t seem very important.

That pretty much sums up our Monday and Tuesday nights.

Tuesday was our second night in Savannah, and the River Walk beckoned again. After the invention of the cotton gin, Savannah experienced a financial renaissance, and its port and wealth rivaled Charleston. Cotton prices were set at Savannah’s Cotton Exchange building, the center of the city’s activity, and stored in the cotton warehouses on the river. More than two million bales of cotton moved annually through Savannah, making it the second largest cotton seaport in the world. The warehouses along the river have been renovated and restored into The River Walk, a wonderfully colorful and walkable row of restaurants, shops, hotels and nightlife.

When we arrived on Monday, we settled into our hotel, the Hampton Inn on Bay Street, directly across from the river and the old cotton warehouses. There are several trolley tours you can take to acquaint yourself with the beautiful historic district. We choose the Old Town Trolley, a 90-minute narrated tour with fifteen stops. Not only did we get a great sense of where everything was, but we had a terrific history lesson as well. James Oglethorpe and 120 settlers established the colony of Georgia, named for King George II, in 1733; Savannah became its first city. Savannah was designed with a series of grids with wide streets and public squares and parks. Twenty-two of the twenty-four original squares exist today.

On Tuesday morning, we set out with map in hand to visit some of the historic homes, cemeteries and squares that make up Savannah’s historic district. First was Colonial Park Cemetery, opened in 1750 and the final resting place for many of Savannah’s early citizens, including Button Gwinett, a signer of the Declaration of Independence and 700 victims of the 1820 Yellow Fever epidemic. Like many of Savannah’s houses, Colonial Park Cemetery is said to be haunted.

The cemetery was closed to burials in 1853, but Sherman bivouacked his troops there on his march to Atlanta, solders looting and destroying many of the headstones. I found two things very interesting here – the above ground brick crypts and the wall of headstones at the back of the yard. I’d never seen brick crypts before – each with an embedded limestone headstone, identifying the interred. More interesting is the back wall, where dozens of headstones are mounted, markers, I assume, that had been broken or otherwise desecrated. I got an eerie chill as I walked past this silent tribute to the Savannah’s dead.

Colonial Park Cemetery

We visited the Mercer-Williams home, made famous by the book and movie of the same name, “The Garden of Good and Evil”. John Norris designed the home for General Hugh Mercer, but the Civil War interrupted construction. The second owner, John Wilder, finished the magnificent home. Jim Williams, one of Savannah’s foremost private restorationists, purchased the vacant home in 1969 and brought it back to its original splendor. The opportunity to see the beautiful detail and impressive artwork is something not to be missed.

The Owens-Thomas house, designed by William Jay for cotton merchant Richard Richardson, is a distinctive example of Federal architecture, with tremendous symmetry and balance. It was completed in 1819 and was the first house in Savannah to boast in door plumbing. The architectural elements are astounding, including curved walls and doors, Greek revival columns and a bridge connecting the landings on the second floor. After Richardson’s financial losses caused him to sell the home, Mary Maxwell ran it as an exclusive boarding house for eight years. The Marquis de Lafayette, a hero of the Revolutionary War, stayed there in 1825.

In 1830, George Welshman Owens purchased the home and it remained in the Owens family until 1951, when it was bequeathed to the Telefair Museum of Art.

The Sorrel-Weed house has the distinction of being Savannah’s largest (16,000 square feet) and most haunted home. While paranormal activity draws me like a magnet, I was totally unaware of the history and mystery of this home. The Greek Revival home was built between 1839-1840 for Francis Sorrel and was the toast of the town. Many famous guests walked its halls, including William T. Sherman and Robert E. Lee. Like many of Savannah’s grand homes, it too fell into disrepair. When it was purchased in 1996, the present owner made an unbelievable discovery while renovating – an original, hand-written draft of Order Number 9, Robert E. Lee’s surrender of the Confederate troops at Appomattox.

The home’s hauntings are said to be by two women – Francis Sorrel’s wife, Matilda and a female slave named Molly. The story goes that Francis was having an affair (if one can actually have an “affair” with a slave) with Molly, the 18-year old slave who cared for the Sorrel children. Matilda found out about the liaison and in 1861, jumped to her death from the home’s second floor balcony. Two weeks later, Molly was found dead in her room in the carriage house, hanging from the rafters. It was said to be a suicide, but there are tales that her body was badly beaten, which would indicate the “suicide” was staged.

Davenport House

Finally, we visited the Davenport House, built by Master carpenter Isaac Davenport, a native of Rhode Island, one of Savannah’s most prominent and prosperous builders. When Isaac died in 1827, he left a young widow with seven children to raise. To make money, Sarah Clark Davenport converted the home into a boarding house. In 1840, the home was sold to the Bayard family, who kept it for the next 109 years. By the 1930’s, like many of the other grand homes in Savannah, it too fell into disrepair, and for many years, was a rundown tenement building. In 1955, it was scheduled for demolition to make way for a parking lot for the Kehoe House, but a group of seven Savannah women raised the money to save the home. This was the first home saved by The Historic Savannah Foundation and began the preservation movement in town. It was opened as a museum in 1963.

Savannah was once, and is again, a beautiful historic city. We didn’t experience the often oppressive humidity, but the impressive architecture by day and a stroll on the river walk at night will make even the muggiest weather quite tolerable.

See the Savannah Photo Album!

Fort Sumter

Sunday was actually a bonus day in Charleston. We arrived a day ahead of schedule (luckily, they had a room) and in reviewing our reservations, Jason realized everything after Charleston was off a day. So, rather than try to reschedule everything, we left things as is (We’ll still be back on Friday, Kaila!).

Since we knew we had an extra day, we spent Saturday at the plantations and saved Sunday for Fort Sumter, where the opening shots of the Civil War were fired on April 12, 1861. Since the fort, or more specifically what remains of it, is on an island, the only way to get to it is by boat. The trolley took us to Liberty Park (next to the South Carolina aquarium) where we spent about 45 minutes in the Visitor Center reading more about the fort and its part in the Civil War before boarding the ship. We enjoyed top tier seats during the 45-minute narrated ride to the island.

As you approach the Fort, even in its ruined state, it is easy to imagine the imposing structure it once was. The building began in 1829, as one of many coastal fortifications built after the War of 1812. It was still incomplete when the first shots were fired in 1861.

Despite the crowd of visitors wandering about, walking among the ruins was eerily silent. The Fort was defended by Union troops for less than two days before Major Anderson agreed to a truce and surrendered. Confederate forces, despite desultory fire from Federal troops, occupied the fort, which was in ruins, until January 1865. The fort withstood more than seven million pounds of artillery, yet through the 20-month siege, Confederates losses (52 killed; 267 wounded) were minimal.

Attempts were made at refortification after the Civil War; giving some uniformity to the jagged and damaged walls, constructing storage magazines, arming it with Parrott guns. It served mainly as a lighthouse station until World War I and was used again during World War II until custodianship was transferred to the National Park Service and Fort Sumter became a national monument.

As we sailed back to Liberty Island, Fort Sumter gradually faded in the distance, but the significant and center stage role it played in our nation's history will never be forgotten.

Walking Back in Time: Drayton Hall and Middleton Place

The ride to Savannah took a scant three hours, and in the sojourn between the trolley tour and dinner, we’ve escaped the heat and are relaxing in our room. Time to blog.

I guess I should catch up where I left off.

Saturday was Plantation Day. There were two plantations in included in our Charleston Heritage pass - Drayton Hall and Middleton Place, both on the Ashley River, a 25 minute drive from the downtown historic area.

Drayton Hall

Drayton Hall is the oldest surviving and intact plantation home on the Ashley River, and has not been changed since its last full time inhabitants left in the late 1800’s. It has no electricity, no plumbing, and no running water. It stands, remarkably and with minimal modification, as John Drayton built it in 1738. This stately Georgian manor house has survived the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and national disaster. Like many of the other homes we’ve been in during this trip, it too is managed by an agency well adept at maintaining such treasures, the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

From the moment you being down the path to the home, canopied by live oaks , you can feel yourself slowly drift back to a time of grace and gentility, when a wealthy few lived lives beyond imagination. Seven generations of Draytons have owned Drayton Hall, and seven generations of Bowens, African-Americans, lived and worked there. The home is a magnificent example of a colonial architecture, beautifully and uniquely unrestored. Visitors can awe the detail of the plaster ceiling art, the ornate hand-carved wood moldings and cornice work, cypress paneled walls, the fireplaces and over-mantles and more. I know we did.

From the second floor piazzas, you can see the Ashley River and imagine a time of grand balls, with music wafting throughout the rooms, doors and windows thrown opened to a beautiful backdrop of landscaped English gardens and cool river breezes. Even the basement is remarkable for its time.

If you get to Charleston, I highly recommend a trip to Drayton Hall.

Middleton Place

A few miles down the road is Middleton Place, also a historic landmark and home to some of the most beautiful and oldest landscaped gardens in America. Like Drayton Hall, the property has remained with the Middleton family for generations.

The house and lands that became known as Middleton Place were part of Mary Williams dowry when she married Henry Middleton in 1741. Henry, a wealthy plantation owner in his own right, decided he and his bride would live here, and as part of his grand design, added the English gardens and two unattached flanker buildings. After Mary Williams Middleton died in 1761, Henry moved to The Oaks, his birthplace. Middleton Place to Arthur Middleton in 1763 when he returned from school in Europe.

Williams Middleton, the great-great grandson of Henry and Mary, inherited Middleton Place in 1846. A rice planter, he was avid about South Carolina’s secession from the Union. Unlike Drayton Hall, Middleton Place was occupied, and ransacked. Only the left flanker building survived enough to be rebuilt after the Civil War, which Williams did with the help of monies from his sister, Eliza.

The home, while not as grand as the original three-story brick main home, served the family well. The earthquake of 1886 leveled what remained of the main house and right flanker building, but the left flanker survived.

The grounds and gardens of Middleton Place were and remain its most precious commodity. It took nearly decade and almost 100 slaves to complete the gardens, a majestic example of geometry and design. They fell into disrepair after the Civil War, until direct descendant J.J. Pringle Smith and his wife undertook the process to restore them to their original grandeur.

You can walk the paths though the gardens and along the river and see the centuries old trees and flowers that continue to grow and thrive. If you close you eyes, you can almost hear the rustling of petticoats and taffeta. It is breathtaking.

Enjoy lunch at the restaurant on the grounds at Middleton Place, a three-course menu of Low Country favorites, including sweet tea, southern fried chicken and shrimp and grits (which I had and thoroughly enjoyed!). Like Drayton Hall, Middleton Place is a must see. Plan to spend an entire day to fully experience both plantations. It is a well spent, relaxing walk back in time.

A Few Days Behind...

It's Monday morning and we're in a bit of a scramble to get packed and head out to Savannah.

There's so much to tell about our Saturday at Drayton Hall and Middleton Place, two very different, but very magnificent plantations on the Ashley River, and our visit to Fort Sumter, where the first shots of the Civil War were fired, on Sunday. So much to tell, yes, but last night's decision to watch the US Open, from Tiger's tee-off to Beau Hossler's unfortunate amateur meltdown to Webb Simpson's club house victory, from as many bars as we could got in the way. It was a blast - we walked all over downtown Charleston, stopped in lots of cool bars/restaurants, including Boone's Bar, T-Bonz (that was a repeat performance; we'd had lunch there earlier in the week) and Mac's Pub. We went into Squeeze, the tightest bar in Charleston, but their two televisions were tuned to the NBA finals at an earlier customer's request and both sets worked simultaneously, so we squeezed our way back out (It really IS that tight in there!). and We talked to lots of interesting bartenders, and had an awesome late night dinner and final toast at The Charleston Crab House.

I've posted pictures from Drayton Hall and Middleton Place in the interim. I'll tell the tales tonight.

Homes of History: Our Walking Tour of Charleston

Now I know why people love Charleston.

After breakfast on Friday morning, Jason and I strolled across the street to the Visitor’s Center. Rather than shuffle pamphlets, we decided to talk to the folks there and see what ticket packages they had to help us best spend our time here. The decision was easy – the Heritage Pass, two days to visit key museum homes, the Gibbes Art Museum and The Charleston Museum. Our only concern was would we actually be able to do it all.

We planned to visit the five tourable homes on Friday and save the plantations – Drayton Hall and Middleton Place, for Saturday. With passes and map in hand, we boarded the trolley and headed downtown.

View from the Edmondston-Alston house
second floor piazza

Our first stop was the Edmondston-Alston house, built in 1825 by Charles Edmondston, a successful Charleston merchant. It is located on what is known as the High Battery, a row of magnificent antebellum homes with a front row view of Charleston harbor. Unfortunately, the same piazzas that offer stunning views of the harbor also offered unobstructed views of the bombardment of Fort Sumter.

The Panic of 1837 depleted Edmondston’s financial resources and he was forced to sell his beautiful home. Charles Alston, one of the wealthiest rice planters in the Low Country, purchased it in 1838. He made several renovations to the home, including a third floor piazza, to reflect the popular Greek Revival style. Like others of the wealthy planter class, the Charleston home was Alston’s urban plantation, a place to bring his family, and of course, their enslaved servants, to escape the heat of the summers and enjoy the city’s social season. Alston would receive business guests on the first floor, but the entertaining would be done on the second floor, above the noise and smells of the street.

The home survived the Civil War, the earthquake of 1886 and numerous hurricanes, including Hugo in 1989, and has remained in the Alston family since 1838.

The Heyward-Washington House

The Heyward-Washington house, second on our route, is a double brick home (another term for the Georgian center hall style) inside the walls of the original city, known as The Grand Modell.

The structure was built in 1772 by Daniel Heyward, one of South Carolina’s wealthy rice planters, as a town home for his son, Thomas. Thomas Heyward was a man of prestige and influence in South Carolina. He was a Revolutionary patriot and a signer of the Declaration of Independence. The house, which was used by General George Washington while he was in South Carolina for week in May 1791, was opened as Charleston’s first historic house museum in 1930.

Our guide, Beverly, had a drawl as sweet as honey and a genuine gentility that personified southern hospitality. I could have listened to her all day long. She told us about the priceless furniture in the home and the preserved outbuildings on the site, including the kitchen building, built in 1740.

The Nathaniel Russell home

Nathaniel Russell’s home, a grand Federal style townhouse on Meeting Street, was built in 1808. It is well known for its grandeur and its “flying staircase”, a spiral staircase that winds to the third floor seemingly untethered to anything. Unlike Heyward and Alston, Nathaniel Russell was not born in the south and was not a rice planter. He was born in Rhode Island and came to Charleston at the age of 27 as an agent for Providence merchants. In 1788, Russell married heiress Sarah Hopton. He was fifty; she thirty-six. They lived in the home with their two daughters, Alicia and Sarah, and over time, their husbands and grandchildren.

The home remained with the Russell family until 1857, when Sarah, who inherited it from her mother after her death, sold it to South Carolina Governor R.W. Allston. The home, like the Heyward-Washington house, was eventually purchased by the Historic Charleston Foundation and helped lead the preservation movement in the city.

The Joseph Manigault house

Gabriel Manigault designed the Manigault home, a three-story brick townhouse, for his brother, Joseph. Like other homes in the Historic District, the Manigault house, with its high ceilings, ornamental plaster, numerous windows and curving central staircase, is reflective of the lifestyle enjoyed by wealthy rice planters of the era.

The home was built in 1803, but by the early 1920’s, stood close to ruin. Recognizing the historical significance of the home, two Charleston women purchased it and established The Society for the Preservation of Old Dwellings to help keep it from destruction. With funds donated by Mrs. Henrietta Politzer, widow of Edward Hartford, heir to the A&P fortune, the home was purchased by the Charleston Museum and opened as a historic house museum in 1949.

Our guide, Rosemary, was a wonderful woman who knew so much about the family, the home and their history. Her excellent imageries and descriptions brought the people and the home to life for us.

Finally, we went to the Aiken-Rhett house, one of the most stunning examples of an intact mansion and outbuildings in the historic district. A brick wall surrounds the work yard, the domain of the slaves who supported the household and its families; the two–story laundry kitchen building, privy and stable remain standing. It’s an excellent opportunity to see where some of the slaves lived and worked on this urban plantation.

Aiken-Rhett House piazza

The home was built by John Robinson, a shipping merchant, in the typical style of the day – a center hall with two rooms on either side. After losing 5 shops at sea, Robinson was forced to sell the home, and in 1827, it became the property of William Aiken, an Irish immigrant who had amassed a huge fortune. When he died in a carriage accident, the home passed to his widow and son, William Aiken, Jr., a successful rice planter, politician and eventual Governor of South Carolina. Aiken expanded in the 1830’s and again in the 1850’s. The three-story home, with beautiful and spacious piazzas on its first two floors, was one of the most impressive in Charleston.

After the deaths of Aiken and his wife, the home became the property of their daughter, Henrietta and her husband, Major A.B. Rhett. Aiken family descendants continued to live in the home until the 1975 when it was donated to The Charleston Museum, however little was done in the way of alterations or changes.

Sadly, the Aiken-Rhett house sustained extensive damage as a result of Hurricane Hugo. The home, as we were told, is being kept in conservatorship, rather than being restored.

Even in the Aiken-Rhett house, it was easy to imagine the lives of the gentry who lived in these magnificent structures. I had whet my appetite for Saturday's sojourn to Drayton Hall and Middleton Place.

A Sneak Peek at Charleston

After we settled into our room Thursday night, Jason and I took our inaugural trolley ride downtown to get a sense of what there was to do and see in Charleston. My original agenda included Boone Hall Plantation, Drayton Hall and Fort Sumter, where the Civil War began. Having grabbed so many interesting pamphlets from the lobby, I knew we could do and see so much more. Given our time here, the question was how.

Charleston hustles and bustles, but with a politeness I’ve not seen in any other big city. It began as a seaport, like so many other big cities of our country’s youth, and by the late 1770’s, it was the largest and wealthiest city in America. For 300 years, it has survived war, earthquakes, hurricanes and fire, and remains a monument to civility and true to its southern heritage.

The city was originally called Charles Town, adopting Charleston in 1783. It is also known as The Holy City, due to the number of churches and prominent steeples that dot its skyline. Preservation and conservation are paramount in this city, evidenced by the strong and influential presence of organizations like The Charleston Museum, The Charleston Historical Society, The Charleston Heritage Federation and the fierce dedication of The Charleston Preservation Society.

Charleston Harbor

We wandered down to Charleston Harbor and enjoyed the quiet serenity of watching the whitecaps gently roll and crest and the magnificent masted ship sail slowly by. A few of children squealed that they saw dolphins, but we didn't see them. In the distance, are the remains of Fort Sumter, silent now, but once the spark that ignited the Civil War.

We had dinner at Coast Bar and Grill, a wonderful seafood restaurant housed in what was once an old indigo warehouse. The food was awesome, the atmosphere perfect and it was the great end to a great day.

I suggested we both get a good night sleep, because Friday was going to be a busy day!

Wilmington, North Carolina was a stopover, a place to hang our helmets for the night before the ride to Charleston. On our way to Route 17 we drove through the historic downtown district, with block after block of beautiful and elegant Victorian-era homes and historical markers touting the celebrated people and events. Unfortunately, I couldn’t read or take pictures fast enough.

When we left Wilmington, it was under the bluest and brightest skies we’ve seen this week. The sun was radiant and the few clouds that floated lazily above were whisper thin. While it was a perfect day weather-wise, the ride to Charleston wasn’t distinguished by any breathtaking landscapes, rolling hills or perfectly manicured farms. The ride along the Carolina coast is low, straight and occasionally marshy.

And then we got to Myrtle Beach.

Route 17 through North Myrtle Beach is a two lane highway traversing mile after mile of retail repertoire included any number of elaborate miniature golf establishments, all-you-can-eat seafood buffets, pancake houses, golf gear outlets and bargain price beachwear superstores. It reminded me of Branson, Missouri without the tacky glitz.

We stopped at the first of four Harley stores we knew were in the area just to stop the madness.

As we neared the fork that determined if our route would continue on 17 through Myrtle Beach (proper) or via the bypass, Jason leaned back and said more than asked, “By-pass?” to which I heartily agreed. I’ve never been to or through Myrtle Beach before, but after the visual assault of its sister city, I was afraid my credit cards would simply melt in my wallet, and I just couldn’t take that chance.

The Boys of Summer are out in force in the south, or so it seems, as much of the ride from Myrtle Beach to Charleston was lined with orange cones and white hard hats. It creates a bit of tension and stress for Jason to stop, idle and go on a regular basis, and at ninety plus degrees, it can feel a bit like sitting in a baking pan in a hot oven.

Our hotel is located in Charleston’s historic district, a different and much more pleasant sensory overload for me. I had planned a few things for our two days here, but as Jason handled the check-in process, I wandered to the wall o’advertisements, and pulled a dozen colorful brochures.

Decisions. Decisions.

The Experience vs. The Ride

There is one main difference between Jason and I when it comes to doing anything on the Harley, especially these two-week vacations. For him, the experience is the ride. For me, the ride is the experience. When I announced my observations to him last night, he looked at me, laughed and then dared, “ Explain THAT in your blog!”

It’s really quite simple.

For Jason, the essence of the trip is about the ride itself – rocketing the bike down straight roads, coaxing it through sharp turns, cajoling it around gentle twists and curves. It’s about man versus machine and being in control, literally and figuratively, of more than 900 pounds of metal and steel in motion.

For me, it’s about the experience – the changing landscape, the places we visit, the things we see, the pictures I can take and the stories I can tell. The perspective on the back of the bike is unlike anything else.

Today was more about the ride than the experience. We headed off to Wilmington, North Carolina and made another unexpected stop on Roanoke Island, part of the infamous Outer Banks, and the location of The Lost Colony, the first English settlement here in America. Over 100 men, women and children settled here in 1587. A few days after the colonists arrived, Virginia Dare, the daughter of Ananias and Eleanor White Dare, became the first English child born in America. The initial attempt at colonization was a disaster and within three years, the settlement vanished with hardly a trace. To this day, archaeologists and historians have theories, but no definitive answers as to what really happened.

We headed west on Route 264, which traverses through miles and miles and miles of thick and protected marshlands, including the more than 152,000 acre Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge. Despite careful scrutiny, little wildlife was observed, except for a few turtles and a few circling birds of prey. The monotony of the black swampy water paralleling the road, the thick clusters of pine trees and bushes, native grasses and other vegetation gave way to a whisper of civilization carved into acres of cornfields - houses of all varieties, from farmhouses well maintained and proudly generational to trailers perched on cement blocks to ramshackle dwellings one strong wind away from destruction. The landscape returned to marshlands and I thought I might scream, except there was no one around to hear me.

The most exciting event of the day was the siting of a young bear lumbering across the road about 100 yards ahead of us. I was able to snap a few pictures, more to verify it was a bear, and not a really big dog!

We eventually exited the refuge without the need for screaming and continued on to Wilmington under blue skies and teasing sunshine, stopping at three Harley dealers along the way.

Tomorrow we head to Charleston, and hopefully the experience will be as exciting as the ride.

First Flight: The Ride (Really) Begins

Finally. The Ride begins.

The day we’ve been waiting for since January has arrived.

We climbed aboard the newly polished and waxed Harley and headed out of Toano under graying skies. Jason instructed me not to think about the weather and I nodded in agreement, silently bargaining with any Angel who would listen, and hopefully help.

Luckily, they did. Despite an air heavy and thick with moisture, the silver clouds that threaded themselves through the faint blue skies eventually unraveled, offering glimpses of sunshine and dissipating the threat of rain.

I’d forgotten the exhilaration of riding on the back of the bike, the rush of the wind around me, flying without ever leaving the ground. The landscape rolled past like images projected from the reel of a favorite silent movie; the familiar acres of budding corn, magnolia blossoms bursting brilliantly white against their backdrop of glossy green black leaves, stoic barns weathered and worn, cows meandering through tall grasses, a church spire reaching towards heaven itself.

James B. Norfleet, Confederate Soldier

Today’s ride would take us to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, but a spontaneous u-turn in Suffolk, Virginia took us to Cedar Hill Cemetery. As we pulled up to the gates, I leaned into Jason and asked with obvious skepticism in my voice, “You’re taking me to a cemetery?” “Yes,” he answered matter-of-factly, “I saw something about a Confederate grave as we passed it and I thought you’d like to see it.” I couldn't contain my smile.

I love old cemeteries and the stories they inaudibly tell, but more, I am filled with curiosity about who these people were and the lives they led. We’ve been to numerous National cemeteries along our ride routes, some planned, others not, and I am always sobered by the rows and rows of uniformly marked headstones marking the final resting places of the fathers, brothers and husbands who died in the Civil War. But the National cemeteries are for Union soldiers; the vast majority of those who died fighting for the South are buried where they fell, or by the benevolence of societies like the Daughters of the Confederacy or Sons of Confederate Veterans, buried namelessly in small confederate cemeteries.

Confederate Monument

Cedar Hill Cemetery contains a monument to all Confederate soldiers that served and died during the Civil War. The memorial, erected in 1899, is cased in bronze and was designed by John P. Hall of Norfolk, Virginia. The graves of Confederate soldiers are interspersed among the other interments, some identified, others not. With thousands of interments, there wasn’t time to look around with the intensity I normally would, but it was a nice surprise nonetheless.

We rolled into Kitty Hawk around 2:00 and checked into our hotel, right on the ocean. I’m actually sitting on our balcony now, watching giggling children romp on the beach, waves crest in the shore, fishermen with lines cast off the distant pier, and the occasional pelican dive headlong into the surf looking for its dinner.

We wandered across the street to The Rundown for lunch, a multi-leveled, decked restaurant featuring a menu with a Caribbean flair. I zeroed in on the steamed shrimp and ordered that with a side of coconut rice. Jason had the chicken taco supremo, not your traditional tacos, and he was thrilled to find they had Bass on tap.

View from the balcony

After lunch, we decided to skip the Wright Brothers National Park and opted instead to sit on the Adirondack rockers outside the hotel and listen to the gulls and ocean, with a few adult beverages, of course. It was a great way to wind down.

Every weather report called for 80% chance of rain, so we were 100% certain that we weren’t going to take the bike out again tonight and wandered across the street again, this time to High Cotton, where all they do is barbeque. With an interior reminiscent of Colonel Poole’s in East Ellijay, Georgia, we were seated at tables covered in red and white gingham and served root beer in Styrofoam cups. I had the pulled chicken plate with hush puppies and Jason had the brisket plate with (real) macaroni and cheese. It was a tangy, spicy, sloppy, delicious, lick your fingers clean mess. We thoroughly enjoyed it!

Now we’re just waiting for that 80% chance of rain to 100% materialize, looking forward to a good night sleep and tomorrow’s ride to Wilmington.

Ready to Ride

Day Four- Part II

A view from the back deck.... also known s the 13th fairway

We arrived in Toano a little after one this afternoon, the trip east on Route 64 alternating between drizzle, downpour and beautiful blue skies. Every time we come down here, when I see the first signs for Williamsburg, I feel like I’m home. There’s just something about being here in Virginia that makes everything seem better. My ancestry, on my father's side, can be traced to colonial Virginia and Maryland, and the families of Richard Huffington, William Coulbourne, Jonathan Cottingham and Randall Revell, but that's more a story for my other blog, Plymouth Brock.

There was a lot to do this afternoon – (junk) food shopping for my niece, repacking, making sure we had the right sunglasses, gloves and jackets, repacking again, charging laptops, Kindles and cameras, repacking one more time, and of course, washing and waxing the Harley.

We headed down to the Aberdeen Barn in Williamsburg to meet BJ, his fiancé, Jessica and her parents – mom Sherri and stepdad Mike, dad Shayne and stepmom Lori - for dinner. Even though I had spoken to Sherri on the phone, it was the first time we were meeting the new in-laws face to face. Dinner was pleasant and we shared a lot of laughs. It was good to see my baby boy, although I should probably stop referring to him that way.

And now we’re buttoning up the last minute details – Jason’s checking the directions and the locations of the Harley dealers in Kitty Hawk, NC, Kaila’s settling in, and I’ve repacked for the last time (it has to be… Jason put my bag in the bike). We’re planning a 9:00 am start, so I’ll probably be up at 5:00….

PS. I haven’t told Jason that the Devils lost the Cup….

Heading East on Route 64

Day Four

June 11, 2012

Monday mornings are always difficult, even on vacation, especially when it means saying goodbye.

By 8:30 am, Jason and I were packed and heading back towards Virginia. The dog and cat were comfortably curled around each other in the back seat and the GPS alerted us to a four hour and seven minute trip to Toano. The magnificent spectrum of greens coloring the hills was a stark contrast to the gray that blanketed the skies, and as random raindrops hit the windshield, sometimes with more ferocity than randomness, I was happy to be in the truck and not on the bike.

Sunday was a lazy, normal day spent with Courtney, Becky and the kids. Joey and Jason headed off to the golf course, but not before the pot of gravy (if it's got meat in it, it's gravy) was on the stove slowing simmering and filling the house with wonderful scents and the mouthwatering anticipation of dinner.

A brightly sunny but muggy day, Courtney dragged out the blow-up pool and the kids took turns splashing each other and on occasion, us, as we sat courtside to their antics. Boomer decided the pool was not for him, so he toddled around the perimeter, filling his shoes with water and dumping it on his siblings, himself and once on an unsuspecting Ajax.

We laughed and talked the afternoon away, and after Jason and Joey returned, got the breezeway set up for dinner. They’re a great combination, my daughter and son-in-law. She’s the baker and he’s the chef, so meals at their house are always a delightful presentation and taste.

True to form, Joey outdid himself…again. The table was lined with a feast of eggplant parmigiana, chicken parmigiana, a heaping bowl of spaghetti, meatballs, sausage, salad and bread. It was awesome. Courtney’s apple pie prompted Jason to quip, “Baked Alaska AND apple pie in the same weekend! I’m never leaving!”

But leave we did, and once again, I find myself typing in the truck, only this time it’s not with the exhilaration of seeing my daughter, but the sadness of having to leave her again.

A Day in Coal Miner's Country

Day Two

June 9, 2012

We’re watching the Devils play the LA Kings in Game 5 of the Stanley Cup. Being a Devil's fan by marriage, it's an anxious night and the end of a great day. Boomer’s in bed, Zan’s reading (inspired, he said, by the fact that I told him I’m writing a story) and Lia is on the couch drifting quietly into Fairy Princess dreams.

Boomer (Joey)

Lia

It was a beautiful day, weather-wise, and a great day with the kids. Boomer, at just 17 months old, is solid as a rock, and certainly not a baby any longer. He kept up with his sister and brother all day long; playing in the yard, swinging on the swings and climbing fearlessly to the top of the slide before zooming down, arms flailing and uproariously laughing.

My son-in-law, Joey, a magician with a grill, made an awesome dinner of bbq ribs, corn on the cob and baked potatoes. And just to remind us of our Italian roots, there was a colorful plate of ruby red tomato slices topped with mozzarella cheese, fresh basil leaves and sprinkled with balsamic vinegar. We ate like royalty. And to top it off, Courtney made a perfectly toasted Baked Alaska, Jason’s favorite dessert. He couldn’t be happier.

Zander

My niece, Becky is also here this weekend. Her sister, Kaila, is pet-sitting with Ajax and Getty while we're gone on The Ride. The girls aren't nieces by blood or marriage, but by lifelong friendship. Their parents, Steve and Beth, and I have been friends for more than 32 years. The six kids – Courtney, Becky, Jarrod, Carrie (the third sister), BJ and Kaila, have known each other all their lives. It’s a full house here in Beckley, and a fuller house when both families get together.

Tomorrow, Jason and Joey are golfing; Courtney, Becky and I are gabbing. And I’m definitely looking forward to the eggplant parmigiana Joey has planned for dinner!!

The Ride Begins... Sort Of...

Day One: June 8, 2012

There’s something strange about writing this blog from the front seat of the Silverado. While it’s efficient to write while we drive, it seems a bit like cheating.

The first few days of The Ride are actually happening in the truck with trailer in tow. Before we get to the Harley, we’re going to West Virginia to see Courtney, Joey and the three kids, who we haven’t seen since Christmas. We left at 9:00am this morning (I’ve been up since 5:30) and headed down to Beckley, West Virginia. Why coal miner country? It wasn’t their choice. Their new address is courtesy of the United States Air Force. It’s the furthest my daughter has ever lived from me in her 32 years (oops.. she probably won’t appreciate that) and the longest it’s been between visits.

The drive was simple; 84 to 81 and make a right at 64. Okay, maybe that’s a little oversimplified, but it was a fairly straight shot. Unfortunately, it took 13 hours thanks to a lot of single lane construction traffic through Pennsylvania.

Despite the excessive windshield time, traveling through Virginia and West Virginia was quietly picturesque with lush green hills rolling on either side of the highway. It really was a pleasant ride, except for the Deliverance-like gas station we stopped at somewhere in The Middle of Nowhere, West Virginia.

It was great to see and hug my Baby Girl, and two of the kids, Zander and Lia, were still up when we got here. Six months is a long time when you’re 3 and 8 and they’ve both gotten so big, but Boomer has gone from a baby to a happy bruiser of a little boy. I’ve seen pictures and videos on a regular basis, but all I could do tonight was peak in at him sleeping in his big boy bed.

It’s late and the effects of the coffee and 5 Hour Energy have wained. More, including pictures, tomorrow.

And So It Begins

The third annual Civil War Harley Tour gets rolling on Friday. Unlike years past, I am totally unprepared to spend two weeks on a bike. It's not that I'm unprepared to soar down open roads, sample local cuisine and see more of this beautiful county, it's that I'm completely disorganized. And Jason, the World's Last Boy Scout, is worse off than I am.

This time last year, we had the route mapped, down to the time we would leave our first destination and arrive at the next. We've got our route, but the time details are missing. Last year, I had a site seeing itinerary, where we'd go and what we'd do at each stop, including the website for the location, hours of operation and prices. This year, I've got a few thoughts and ideas. We were packed a good five days before we left last year - clothes, toiletries, electronics and associated power cords, camera, rain gear, on and on. This year, I think I know where the rain gear is, and I hope I'm right.

Somehow, The Ride snuck up on us this year. Not in a stealth, Spider Man kind of way, but more like a blissful ignorance that June was far enough away to still plan, and silly us, here it is. We knew where we were heading in January, but I guess when you juggle a new job, a new boss, a new house, the sale of not one, but two houses, a kitchen demolition and redesign, and which John Deere tractor you need to purchase to mow the two acres you now live on, a vacation is a dream. But now the alarm clock is ringing wildly.

We're heading to West Virginia first, to see Courtney, Joey and the kids. The it's off to Virginia to see Bryan and his new fiance, and meet her parents. Ajax the Wonder dog and Getty Getty Thundercat will make the trip too, but they'll be staying in Virginia with my niece, Kaila. The bike gets revved up on Tuesday morning and we head to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, then Charleston, Savannah, and back to Virginia via the Smokey Mountains. Honestly, I'm really looking forward to this trip and can't wait until Friday.

I think I'll stop writing and start packing.