This past weekend, we were in Charleston and loved the way history spoke to us at every turn.  There were 17th and 18th century  homes punctuated by elaborate plaster moldings, outlined in 18-ct. gold and whose drawing rooms dripped chandeliers.  They had creaking wooden floors and smelled of ancient oak, old parchment and mold.  Signs around town advertised Ghost and Horse-drawn Carriage tours.  We did not go on the ghost tours, although the history of long-deceased residents whispered to all who passed through the 1808 neoclassical Nathaniel Russell House.  If you closed your eyes and thought about it, you could see women in miles of blue or pink satin floating up the free-flying staircase on their way to the drawing room to needlepoint and gossip over a cup of black South Carolina tea.  Downstairs, you could almost hear children dropping spoons on the floor and fussing over finding cabbage and shell beans on their plates.  Strains of "I want another drumstick, please ,or Mother, Jenny is touching my arm.  Make her quit! ", filter from the family room table where they're being fed their evening meal around 3:30 in the afternoon.  Eating early was the custom, probably due to daylight and the necessity of getting chores done before nightfall. The house was splendid in its historical garb, but a tad creepy.  You could not bribe me to stay there overnight—not even with a whole bushel of caramel apples.

On Sunday, we attended the 10:30 a.m. service at St. Michael's, the oldest church building in Charleston.  We loved it!  The worn, squeaky pews were waist-high boxes that had to be locked so their doors would not swing open.  George Washington had visited that church.  I could almost see him there, removing his tricorn hat and sitting razor straight in the pew.  He stares intently at the priest in the raised pulpit, trying to ignore the nobleman snoring in the seat next to him.  Yes, even then the Society of the Frozen Chosen was alive and well. 

These buildings and others all managed to survive the ravages of war, hurricane, and time.  They are revered in the city of Charleston—and like  a favorite grandparent, treated kindly lest they suffer injury.  It is city bountifully blessed by its historical treasures in a young nation where newness and youth have become an obsession.