The Cure

This afternoon, after attending church and having a light lunch at the condo, we went to Beaufort to attend the Beaufort Historical Association's (BHA) Annual Valentine Party.  Martha had spotted this free event in the local newspaper (a good way to find out what is going on), and the warm and sunny afternoon was perfect for mingling with locals in the BHA.  There was a great deal of delicious food under the big tent set up at the Historic Site on Turner Street, and we soon regretted having had even a "light" lunch.

We toured the Old Jail, with its stock outside the front door, circa 1829 and in operation until the 1950s.  A costumed BHA docent showed us around the old building.

The brick floors inside were laid down by the same brick masons who built Fort Mason, she said.  "A man was hanged here in 1875," she confided, as if imparting a sinister secret to us; then she pointed up the staircase to an ominous noose suspended from the rafters.

The old courthouse next door looked as if it was ready for court to be in session at any moment and prepared to send convicted wrongdoers to the Jail.  The judge's bench was at a table behind the handrail, or "bar;" thus, attorneys were permitted to "pass the bar" when a trial was underway.

The apothecary was open for business, too, its glass bottles of lotions and potions lined up neatly behind glass-doored cabinets.

We love learning about the history of this area, and the Historic Site is well-maintained and carefully preserved by the Association.  It felt like a little slice of Williamsburg, or Old Salem, here under the shade of live oak trees.  Martha sat on a bench and chatted with a local woman, who said she and her sister had planted a nearby tree in memory of her mother in 2013.  The tree was called a "popcorn tree," and it bloomed in tiny white flowers that look exactly like popcorn.

I heard the sound of oyster-shells being thrown into a metal pail across the lawn, and on a long table two men were shucking the delicacies as soon as they emerged from the steam-pot behind them.  I watched one of them expertly shuck one after another, not even using a towel or glove for his hand.  "Oyster on the table!" he would call out, and plop an opened oyster in front of him.  "Three oysters on the table!  Four oysters on the table!"  They did not remain on the table for very long.

We sat in rocking chairs on the wide porch of the Josiah Bell house (1825), which reminded Martha of her Mamah's house in Raleigh with its high ceilings.  We went inside and I tried to play a little on this old piano, which I found was more out-of-tune than any piano I have ever played!

"They say it can't be tuned," a young woman said, but she nevertheless recognized the first two or three bars of Bach's Prelude in C from the Well Tempered Clavier.  We chatted for awhile, and then she and her friend went into the adjoining room and played a beautiful flute duet by a French composer of the same period, Jean de Bonmarché.

In the last house we visited, two women offered us sweet cakes, cookies, and punch, which we declined.  "The punch is called 'The Cure,'" one woman said, and poured some out into a little glass cup.  "It's made with mulling spices, sugar, and rum, and it cures everything, including a bad attitude.  We also have some without rum if you like.  And the cups are from St. Paul's Episcopal Church and they have been blessed."  

"Well, in that case, I can't refuse," I said.  I sipped a little of the warm, sweet, amber-colored concoction.  "I'm not sure what I had that was ailing me, but I feel that I have been cured!"  And indeed we both felt cured, sitting in the sunshine on a Sunday afternoon, thankful for the miracle of healing.