RAISING BELL AND BUSTIN’ GRAPES IN HOLLYWOOD

 

What began as a simple request resulted in another adventure. One day a hundred years from now people will come from near and far and for reasons not explained, find themselves in the low country of South Carolina, at a wonderful home called Westervelt... 

About a dozen years ago the four of us— by us, I mean Clint, Randy, Steve, and George, high school friends for life, reunited for a long weekend to dust off memories of our not so misspent youth; automobiles, girls, classic rock music played via  turntables or filtered through our cars’ Jensen Coax speakers— when nothing hurt--before bifocals, hearing aids and prostate induced night patrols. When the biggest problem any of us had was where to get the case of longnecks for the weekend trips to the power lines or the banks of the Ocmulgee River. 

Our annual get togethers have been wonderful, the food good, and the fellowship providential.

Our recent weekend was spent in the glorious low country of South Carolina, in the hamlet of Meggett (part of greater metropolitan Hollywood, SC), approximately a half hour south of Charleston. 

The weekends festivities were centered around meals, ball games, shrimping on Saturday with the balance of the schedule based on sleep plans, medications and lower GI functions. Adult libations were not only available but highly recommended. 

Our leader, Steve Sides, whose role in the movie will be played by Harrison Ford, had made one request a few days prior to our arrival. He was given a bell from the previous owner that had belonged with the house, and subsequently had gotten the yoke and pole  refurbished; thus, would it be entirely possible during our assemblage to re-paint and erect the bell in a prominent spot on the estate? 

“Verily! Most assuredly!” Was our response. 

And so it came to pass on Friday morning after breakfast that we began a survey of the land. Steve said “I was thinking about right in here”, pointing to a spot just outside the gate, from which, when the bell tolled, would send its sounds towards the water and beyond, which surely would be appropriate to summon, alert or otherwise notify those on the dock or in a boat of impending doom, armistice, or dinner being served. Consensus was garnered and the spot duly marked, whereupon Steve consulted the CEO of Westervelt, Beth (Steve’s lovely wife and gracious hostess), who gave final authorization. 

Our foursome piled in the car and traveled to Hollywood Hardware, an iconic landmark and one stop shopping for a kajillion items, not the least of which was 1 can of spray paint, some sandpaper, a bag of concrete, a couple of Slim Jim’s, a Cheerwine, Zagnut bar, and the crown jewel of our task—post hole diggers. We were in and out with Chic Fil- A efficiency, and wasted no time congratulating ourselves in the victory. 

“It usually takes me 2 trips!” Clint said. 

“TO ARMS!” We shouted to no one in particular, and headed back to Westervelt. 

We unloaded the car and set about our work. Randy and Steve drew the short straw,thus were given the post hole diggers. Clint and myself were left with pole and bell sanding and painting.

 Actually, no straws were drawn, but Clint took the initiative for which I remain grateful. Post hole diggers are hell on earth, and cost more than my first sofa. 

Randy and Steve began digging the hole. The PTSD I still have from my own mailbox post hole from hell archaeological dig years ago kicked in. I was just before going over there to help when they announced the hole was complete. As it turns out only the first couple of jabs in the ground were tuff; the low country’s sandy soil was just below the grass and in a manner of a couple shakes had a hole about 4 feet deep. They both became observers/supervisors of our sanding and painting operation. After sanding everything, I began applying paint. Randy, who has better than perfect eyesight and the ability to distinguish craters on the moon advised me where I had “missed a spot”. 

The bell clapper, the thing that dongs the bell, needed some adjustment in order that it strike the sound bow properly. (Full disclosure: I had to google ‘parts of a bell’ to learn sound bow). Clint, very much mechanically inclined and who works on his own airplane, began adjusting the clapper. It was during this adjustment that the bolt securing the clapper in place was determined to be inoperable. 

Inoperable is a technical term that means we broke it. 

About the same time, both my index fingers were numb from pressing down on the spray button on the can of paint. Alas, we were also out of paint.

Thus began our second trip to the iconic landmark and local gathering spot called Hollywood Hardware.

We finished painting and made the clapper adjustments upon our return. I stooped over to pick up the freshly painted bell and move it to the pole. It was a lot heavier than it appeared. “Don’t bust a grape!”, said Steve, at exactly the same time I grunted and heaved-ho. Immediately I began laughing hysterically because the term busting a grape is hysterical. I laughed until I had tears in my eyes and pee in my pants. Even now, just thinking the phrase sends me into hysterics. 

We deliberately turned the raising of the bell into a documented sanctioned event.. The entire operation had taken on a Monty Python-esque flare and we embraced it. Using my phone, I quickly qued up the Holy Hand grenade requiem (Pie lesu domine, dona es requiem)and we played it as the four of us carried the pole (as if they were the alter sacraments) to its final resting place in pallbearer fashion. We then recreated the flag raising on Iwo Jima. We removed our headgear and somewhere between Python and Hemingway we gave a recitation to commemorate the day :

“To the spirit of Lord Tintinnabulum,  we beseech thy blessing of  The sacred bell of Westervelt of St Pauls parish. Not in Ravenel, nor shall It be in Adams Run, or Yonge’s Island or even at the road of Gibson and Church Flats, nor busted grapes shall prevent the completion of this holy mission. 

"And we raise this bell up on high, O Lord, and ask to bless this thy Westervelt bell that with it thou mayst ring thine neighbors eardrums to tiny bits, in thy mercy.' And the Lord did grin. And the people did feast upon the redfish, and trout, and mussels, and shrimp, and grits, and sloths, and carp, and anchovies, and orangutans, and breakfast cereals, and fruit bats, and large chulapas...”

And the Lord spake, saying, ''First shalt thou take two trips to thy Hollywood Hardware. Then thou shalt thou count to two—no more, no less. Two shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be two. Three shalt thou not count, neither count thou one, excepting that thou then proceed to two. Four is right out. Once the number two, being the second number, be reached, then diggeth thou thy most sacred post hole of Westervelt  towards thy water which, being rang in thy face of friend or foe, shall righty be summoned.”

We all responded with “Ahhhhhh- meeeennnn!”

So now,  firmly planted in the low country of Meggett, South Carolina, the sacred bell of Westervelt, looks towards the Wadmalaw river as it flows into the North Edisto and eventually coursing its way to the Atlantic. 

Long may it dong, I mean clap, I mean rang. 

RING. 

And FOR WHOM does it toll?

For thee. 

Indeed. 

EPILOGUE: We all took turns ringing the bell, we caught enough shrimp to have a fantastic low county boil on Saturday night, (even though I can’t throw a casting net to save me), we watched and cussed the Braves, but the absolute best thing was that for 3 days we were all 18 again. 

P.S. Nobody busted a grape.