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Charleston: Sanctuary In The Holy City

Tribune photo by SHERRI ACKERMAN

This Magnolia Plantation house was built in the 19th century. It's open for tours and has a collection of John Audubon sketches.

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By SHERRI ACKERMAN | The Tampa Tribune

Published: March 13, 2009

CHARLESTON, S.C. - I let out a deep sigh as I wandered past the Virgin Mary standing over a bed of yellow pansies shaped like the Holy Cross.

"Finally," I thought to myself within the tranquil confines of Magnolia Plantation's Biblical Garden. "Finally, I feel like me again."

I had managed to survive the previous six weeks in Tampa on a newborn's standard operating schedule of sleep two hours, eat, sleep two hours, eat ... but I was exhausted and, worse I feared, on the brink of madness.

No matter how tired I was, my mind refused to relax into sleep, instead staying ever alert for baby Annabelle's inevitable wakeup call.

And I couldn't sit still.

At home, I had taken Annabelle for walks - three, sometimes four a day. Despite February's nippy weather, I could not stand to be shut up inside our small bungalow without an open door or window.

Occasionally, I piled the whole family, Grandma and all, into the Outback for sightseeing along Bayshore Boulevard. At night.

"Oh, that's very beautiful," my mother-in-law would say politely. Then, quietly, "If I could see it."

A midwife told me it sounded like post-partum anxiety. Did I want drugs?

I didn't, though I longed to feel normal again.

My patient husband tried to be supportive, but he didn't understand my behavior, either. So he did what any loving husband would do: He suggested a little vacation. Just baby and me.

At first I suspected my husband was trying to get rid of us so he and our 2-year-old son could sleep. Then I recalled the heady exhilaration of my first solo road trip more than a decade ago, a cross-country trek camping along the Blue Ridge Parkway and motoring down Route 66 to the Grand Canyon.

The monthlong journey was a life-changing experience, much like having a baby. Who won't sleep. So I called my little brother, who lived near Charleston. Two days later, I booked a hotel room in Mount Pleasant on the outskirts of the city.

Mid-March, before the spring break crush arrives, is an optimal time to visit Charleston, nicknamed the "Holy City" due to its many church steeples and, according to one tour guide, nearly 200 active churches.

Charleston also was among the first Colonial cities to allow Jews to practice their faith unrestricted, and it boasts two of the oldest Jewish congregations in the country.

Annabelle marked her 6-week birthday on our first day on the road. Camping gear from trips of yore was replaced with baby gear: a portable bassinet, bulky stroller, bottles, diapers, blankets, matching outfits to last a week and a few more to cover spit-up emergencies.

My car looked like a mobile Babies R Us.

By nightfall, we had crossed South Carolina's state line and settled into an affordable (read: rundown) Days Inn in Ridgeland. In our journal I wrote: "It's midnight and you've just fallen asleep after many times trying."

Sleep, or lack thereof, would be a recurring theme on this trip.

The next day, after a few hours of intermittent shut-eye, we took two-lane U.S. 17 north to Beaufort, where I ogled the Low Country's quaint antebellum houses from my car window while Annabelle selfishly snoozed away the morning in her car seat.

By midafternoon, Uncle Jeremy held Annabelle for the first time at the Folly Beach Crab Shack. The beach is a surfing hotspot wedged between the Folly River and the Atlantic Ocean, a wide swath of sand known as "The Edge of America," although it's only about 20 minutes from downtown Charleston. With arms free at last, I immediately ordered the dry sherry-infused she-crab soup, a must-have similar in geographical popularity to Key West's conch chowder, followed by a crab cake sandwich.

In the days to come, there would be more she-crab, the freshest fried shrimp and oysters, exquisitely grilled swordfish and a disappointing last-minute search for shrimp and grits.

Annabelle and I checked into our hotel room at another Days Inn, this one infinitely cleaner than the last with excellent maid service (something every mom with a new baby should have) just minutes from Charleston and at the foot of the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge.

The nearly three-mile bridge has a main cable span, touted as North America's longest, of 1,546 feet, and crosses the Cooper River into Mount Pleasant, a suburb with charming restaurants and stores, and less expensive hotels.

By comparison, our 51/2-mile Sunshine Skyway, the world's longest concrete cable bridge, has a main span of 1,200 feet.

The Ravenel bridge was built to withstand winds up to 300 mph, which is what it felt like as I white-knuckled Annabelle's stroller along the sidewalk past gaping joggers and walkers.

We never made it to the twin towers at the top. I wrestled baby and carriage against a ferocious wind all the way down. Annabelle, of course, slept like a baby.

Later, I drove over to the Shem Creek area and ate at the Boulevard Diner, a former Dairy Queen that may not boast a waterfront view but offered reasonably priced, creatively prepared seafood and an attentive staff.

I slipped a napping Annabelle into a booth and ordered the seared scallops served on a bed of greens splashed with balsamic dressing. As soon as the plate hit the table, Annabelle's big brown eyes popped open.

"I've spent much of the rest of the evening trying to keep you from crying and waking our neighbors," I jotted in our journal back at the hotel.

I prayed for sleep. At least five hours.

Annabelle complied, giving us plenty of energy to visit the famed Magnolia Plantation the next day. The historic homestead along the Ashley River is thought to be the only one in the state still owned by the original family, the Draytons, who have run it since 1676.

Apparently, I developed amnesia while toting Annabelle in her BabyBjorn and signed up for tours of the plantation's third house, a spectacular 19th century mansion, and the swamp garden named for the Draytons' friend and frequent visitor, John Audubon.

How did I ever think I could take along a baby?

Despite a few odd stares, most of my fellow tourists welcomed us. Annabelle and I didn't break anything in the perfectly preserved house that boasts original Audubon illustrations, and the tram didn't crash into the swamp, which looks exactly like it does here in Florida.

The highlight was walking the grounds, a former rice plantation now coveted for its 500 acres of gardens, most notably the camellias, flowers that produce no scent yet represent contentment, and live oaks so gnarly they surely shaded Civil War soldiers.

A special place for me was the Biblical Garden, which features flowers and plants mentioned in the Scriptures, and areas devoted to the Old and New testaments.

It was here I forgot how tired I was, how manic I felt. I breathed in the intoxicating scent of spring blooms and my sweet little Annabelle and realized we would both be just fine.

Reporter Sherri Ackerman can be reached at (813) 259-7144.

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