37: charlie walker, a story at last, the big pentecostal, garmin gremlin, windright, the dog count, reverse psychology

April 23, 2025

Kingstree to Timmonsville

I pass a lot of old houses like this and I always wonder what kind of stories they could tell. Did farmers live here? A mercantile owner? How did they end up here? When did they die, and where are their children now? Were they generous, mean-spirited, lucky, starry-eyed, cross-eyed?

Were there kids who always forgot to close the front door? Who played with farm animals, naming them "Bessie," and "Tulip?" Were there childhood deaths?

A feeling of wistfulness sometimes accompanies the thoughts, and I've never found out about the history of any of them.

Until today, when my wish was granted.

As I was eating a banana under the tree pictured above, Charles rolled up.

He was a little stiff at first, and when he asked if everything is okay it was said with an authority firming up the question, and I sensed the underlying: "Who are you?" behind it.

"Hi. Just stopping here in the shade to cool off a minute, and to have some water."

"Where you headin'?"

From there I let him know about the trip and he loosened up. I also learned the reason for the questions. He owns the place, and lives next door. I've seen exactly one vehicle in the past fifteen minutes... his. And the reason I sensed an authoritative air: he was a police officer over in Lake City until his retirement a few years ago. When he spelled out his last name, it was the same one I'd seen on a quarter of the headstones at the last cemetery I passed, and the name of one of the towns in the area.

I asked him about the house, and he said it was his granddaddy's.

"He died when I was one year old. Sixty nine years ago now."

Although you can't see him in this hipshot with my cellphone, Charles doesn't look a day older than fifty, and certainly not seventy. I couldn't believe it, and told him so.

He said his grandmother remained in the house until her death, his parents having built a house next door after leaving home to get married. He told me a bit more about the place before he headed out.

"You be safe. There's a lotta crazy people out there."

As a police officer in rural South Carolina, I can imagine he's met a number of them.

Every single Pentecostal Church I've ever seen in my entire life, and we're talking a number equivalent to the number of "Amens!" in one of their services, has been a single small building, and usually just a single room where they worship. I was amazed at the size of this church.

where there's no road, just someone's driveway

ooof.... not today. It was all headwind.

another house with a thousand stories, but this one wasn't sharing

I've been surprised at the number of dogs I've seen along the way. Here's the dog count:
Florida: Zero. I honestly don't think I heard a single bark then entire length of the state.
Georgia: One, and it was fenced. This is a bit shocking, especially after hearing horror stories about rabid, red-eyed, renegade dogs that ended bike trips. And wasn't that place where I found the underwear waistband in Georgia?
South Carolina: One. Yesterday I saw an old, tired-looking relic who could barely keep up with the person he was with.

The reason I bring this up now, in the middle of South Carolina instead of at the border, is that today I saw six. Of the six, two were behind a fence and four were loose. All of them were wagging their tails as they barked, and none came within fifty feet of me.

I wonder if there's a correlation between Pentecostal churches and dogs.

I arrived at the hotel just south of Timmonsville a little before noon but was still able to check in. The only place to get something to eat was across the street at the Mobil station, and staffed by people I'm convinced are using reverse psychology in an attempt to attract more customers.

the cigarette isn't lit, and never was while in the store, but she was in a hurry to get outside to light it up

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Today's ride: 31 miles (50 km)
Total: 1,028 miles (1,654 km)

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