A FOOTPRINT IN TIME

PUBLICATION OF THIS ARTICLE IS PROHIBITED WITHOUT THE WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR.

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PROLOGUE

In 1996, after nearly a century of service, the once-bustling Charleston Naval Complex wrote its final chapter.

During a visit to Charleston in 2010, a friend who is well-aware of my adventurous spirit suggested I pay the old navy base a visit.  Although it was not a sight charted on Charleston’s history trail like downtown Charleston, or a place that could arouse that part of me that loves to walk into the past, I decided it worthy of a quick stop since it was on the way to my planned destination.

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PART I

      I recognized the entrance to the base by the familiar brick guard station marking the entrance. In the absence of uniformed guards with white gloved hands held up in a halt, I felt the pervading emptiness commingle with an uninviting scene in the foreground. I stopped the car beside the empty station in contemplation, Do I really want to waste my time? I'm here. Why not.

       I made a left turn and drove along the same road where government-issued vehicles used to claim the pavement.  Row after row of vacant and neglected industrial-type buildings that once echoed with the sound of noisy typewriters and upper-ranking officers issuing orders was all that marked the depressed landscape. 

       Although the scene was ghostly, there was no denying a lingering ambience that was exaggerated by the abandoned hunks of rusting steel, towering shipyard cranes, and

crisscrossed railroad tracks that seemed to go nowhere. And there were those buildings with the big bold numbers that suggested they once housed something Top Secret, and were meant for Security Personnel Only. These buildings all ran into another, leaving little doubt that there was anything in the way of interesting architecture. Maybe my friend's recommendation isn't a fit for this "intrepid" traveler as she suggested.

      Just as I was about to exit the complex and head downtown a massive building standing alone on a corner - identified as the POWER HOUSE - diverted my attention from the traffic light where I was about to exit.  Even in its neglected state, an appearance of ageless grandeur suggested that the building had found its roots in European architecture. Being a lover of Europe and a descendant of Venetians, the building sparked my interest. 
     The light turned green. I checked the rear view mirror for cars and hesitated. Hmm, maybe I should explore a little more and see what's at the end of the road.   

  

       An eighth of a mile down that monotonous road I crossed over the same railroad tracks, which trailed off in another direction and disappeared from sight. Ahead, the boring and cold landscape that had nearly caused my hasty exit softened to a meandering lane lined on either side with graceful moss-laden crepe myrtle trees and old live oaks. Interesting.  Is this still part of the base?    

       Since the  scene warranted it-- and no one objected when I pulled the car onto a lawn behind the crepe myrtles-- I took the liberty of shooting several pictures and named the street Crepe Myrtle Lane.     

     The only inkling that I might have come to another area of the base, possibly residential, was the old white house with an awning-covered screened porch that seemed to creep out of the WWII era.  In the absence of any signage I could only venture a guess as to what lie beyond Crepe Myrtle Lane. Suddenly that did not seem important, for I was immensely gratified by the rays of light shooting through the avenue of crepe myrtle trees creating elongated shadows across the lane and tinting the Spanish moss in soft shades of silver.   I can always return and follow the railroad tracks if Crepe Myrtle Lane leads to nothing illuminating.

 

      At the end of the lane I stopped at a sign with a painted red arrow directing cars around an island of live oaks boasting a century or more of growth. WOW! 
     There was no guessing then that I had just entered the naval military residential area, an area  that could easily have been inspiration for an artist's canvas depicting the old south. This is incredible! The only thing missing is a plantation house.

       I paused in silent reverence, staring through the windshield at curled moss swaying like long strands of hair in the breeze, while splashes of sunlight settled in soft patterns on the ground.  It was as if Mother Nature had smiled upon that special place, leaving it for someone to ponder its past. And in the empty silence, it seemed that someone was me.   

      My curiosity was peaked.  I drove around the island of giant oaks and parked the car on a grassy spot, answering an urgent call to set out on foot and explore my surroundings. I strapped the camera around my neck (meant some serious photo shooting)and began the trek over a narrow sandy roadway, paved with the fallen oak leaves.

     Military-like housing was scattered about the landscape.  My attention was drawn to two desperately weathered houses. First, and most impressive, was the two-story home that boasted upper and lower sprawling porches, a copper roof turned green, and an impeccably manicured landscape; I likened the house's appearance to a polished fingernail with a rough cuticle. 

Off in the distance I could see that the leafy roadway ended in a cul-de-sac encircled in more of those splendid live oaks. Another empty house with boarded windows--much simpler in design than its neighbor--sat nestled beneath tentacle-like oak limbs that crawled through the space overhead.  

Beyond that house an opening in the trees revealed a continuation of the railroad tracks that led to nowhere - because that somewhere was long gone. While I captured the images, I realized  that both homes had housed those of different rank, and belonged to a bygone era.

    

I felt inexplicably drawn to the place.  At the same time I thought, I am privileged to be a witness to another time. But the sight of all these homes that are slowly being lost to the elements, time, and man’s indifference, leave me sad.  I quickly dismissed those thoughts for my imagination was tuned up for more, and the adventurer in me would not have it any other way.      

    

        Continuing on foot, the mature old-south landscape was nothing short of spectacular, at the same time inviting thoughts of a hammock and a gentle breeze.

In no time it became apparent to me that the early-century homes spoke to their creators understanding of the intimate relationship between nature and architecture.  Even a century later the landscape afforded the weathered and decaying homes privacy from critical eyes.

Drifting peacefully on its path behind was the historic Cooper River--a river synonymous with the Civil War; the same river where battle ships and submarines and air craft carriers once stood in waiting to transport men and women to major conflicts and two world wars. 

 

        As I continued to explore on foot, the narrow roadway lent itself to a leisurely stroll along quiet lanes where an even finer set of porches than before shown from the trees and called to "that part of me that loves to walk into the past."  A new-found commitment had me thinking, Downtown Charleston will have to wait 'til another day.  

      In the absence of NO TRESPASSING signs, police, or residents with disapproving eyes, I was left to wander the grounds of my new-found discovery, unimpeded.   All sense of time was lost to beckoning gardens, windows inviting a peek, vacant porches lit with an afternoon sun, and trodden paths that offered an empty concrete bench calling me to rest and clean the sand from between my toes.

        I was immersed in my discovery, looking through a window of time (96 years worth) at  chandeliers, curved staircases, and smoke-stained fireplaces. It was no ordinary military base.  No, it was unique.  And the camera lens and I were partnered to capture it in perpetuity were it to be lost to the likes of another hurricane Hugo,  termites, or.....

     Wherever my feet took me, left-over relics scattered about the landscape gave a hint to its former residents. 

 And because I looked down at my feet as much as I looked up, the reminders were everywhere. 

Even the rusted clothesline, concrete bench, broken bird bath, and misplaced grill grate had a story to tell. And nothing captures a story more vividly than a photograph.

      
     The day was drawing to a close. I was weary, hungry, and my feet hurt.  Despite all I'd seen, and felt abundantly rewarded for, something was urging me to go just a little farther.  And like a moth drawn to the flame I followed the urge.  

     Then I saw IT, rising majestically from a landscape of sprawling oaks, flowering red camellias that sounded of clamoring bees, and azalea bushes heavy with their flowery burden.  What an image.  I was stunned, tripping over those earlier old south scenes and skipping blithely into a scene from Gone With The Wind.    

      It looked like an old plantation house with its multi-stories, dormer windows, and massive white columns that supported the elegant wide porch.  Since it seemed to demand such, I  named it THE MANSION, thinking it the perfect centerpiece to an already stunning area.

 

       The Mansion was perfectly situated near the banks of the Cooper River, affording it splendid views. It suggested a style of architecture dating it to the early 1900’s, and spoke to a class of  former residents who held high-ranking positions. Questions fanned out of control in my mind. Who really lived there?  What stories lie within its walls? What major decisions were made by dignitaries smoking cigars and sipping Cognac? Did a First Lady sit with the Lady of the House on that elegant wide porch?

     

ARE THESE FIGURES TO THE RIGHT OF THE MAN WITH THE CIGAR NOT WILL ROGERS & PRESIDENT HARRY S. TRUMAN? 

      I thought the Mansion a copycat of the plantation house, Tara, ( from Gone with the Wind) allowing for an easy visual of ladies and gentlemen of the day enjoying polite conversation at a lawn party hosted by the plantation owner.  I was convinced that it had hosted some of America’s finest. 

       Owing to its proximity to the Cooper River it was a perfect breeding place for the mosquitoes, relentlessly in pursuit of my flesh-the only impediment I had experienced throughout my discovery that day. Even the breeze that sent dying oak leaves to the ground could not deter the mosquitoes from their fevered frenzy. It was as if they were warning me to leave alone what they had claimed.  Determined to see more I moved closer for a better look at the exterior, one hand ready for the camera, the other busy swatting and scratching. 

       What a shame! Disappointment set in at the sight of the massive front door entrance secured by the chain and padlock to keep out unwanted visitors.  The orange band sprawling the sagging front porch bore a Keep Out sign. That once-beautiful porch above, now rotted and sagging, threatened to drop on my head should I venture closer. And the massive columns with their rotting base had all they could do to hold it all in place.

     

From a distance the Mansion had stood proud, maintaining its distinctive style and character
-that Gone with the Wind look. But viewing it close up revealed years of neglect and the need for a major renovation. It was a beautiful but decaying piece of history, driving me to think the impossible, I'd love to own it and bring it back to life.

     

It's going to take a boatload of money to fix this Mansion. The siding and overhangs revealed rotting wood. Sections of glass were missing from their decorative lead casings, and the window supporting them was overgrown with vines that threatened entry through the broken panes. An ugly, obsolete pipe trailed the exterior over tired paint that curled away from the siding in large sheets, suggesting it had not seen a fresh coat in recent history.  A second story window with tattered curtains felt, eerily,  like someone was lurking behind. I shivered as a scene from the old house in the movie, PSYCHO came to mind.

      What better finale could I have experienced than to wander the Mansion's interior, fix my gaze on its stunning appointments, grand staircases, and the rooms that once felt the warmth from the marble-faced fireplaces.  Tempted though I was to step cautiously on the rotting porch and look behind the giant front door, I knew better for,  “Keep Out” meant just that.  Decidedly, I had to be content to leave the interior to my imagination.

Walking the path that led back to the road I turned, taking one final look before leaving the Mansion behind.  It was then that I made a firm promise to  praise my friend over a glass of wine for her spot-on recommendation. I vowed I would return one day soon, armed with more information about the base's history. 

     I strapped the camera back around my neck, leaving it to sway as I made the long walk back to my car.   Rewarded by all that I had experienced that day, I felt a bounce in my stride and let out a huge sigh of appreciation as my parked vehicle came into view. 

     Back at Crepe Myrtle Lane I was left to ponder the fate of all I had seen, drifting back briefly to that earlier feeling of sadness that now lay heavy on my heart.  Despite that emotion, I held firm to the hope that one day an entity with a vision would rescue this piece of naval history from its inevitable fate and return the Mansion to its former grandeur.  Why not send that wish into the Universe?  Someone just might come along one day and claim it! 

1906 Photograph of "THE MANSION"

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EPILOGUE

       It is now 2019, some 9 years hence of my first encounter. 

I am pleased beyond words to say that the Charleston Naval Base’s "Officers' Quarters Historic District" is hardly a forgotten piece of naval history.  In fact, it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and the process of restoration is well underway.

     In addition, and since I am not a full-time resident of Charleston, I have, on recent visits, been privileged to be a witness to the current restoration project of the “ADMIRAL’S"  house (MANSION) where I’ve been able to go inside and satisfy that earlier desire to explore its corridors, climb the three stories of stairs, look across the lawn from that sprawling second story porch, and press my ear to its walls.  SORRY,  I'M AFRAID IT HAS TOLD ME TO KEEP ITS SECRETS TO MYSELF!

     

    Is it any wonder I was drawn that day in 2010 to what has since been classified as: "Late 19<sup>th</sup> and 20<sup>th</sup> Century revivals. An IMPRESSIVE mix of Colonial Revival, Neo-Colonial, Brick Classical Revival, Neo-Classical Revival, Italian Renaissance, Mixed, Concrete Panama, Prarie School, International and Italian Revival Architecture." 

        I am a frequent visitor to the historic naval base, forever discovering more of its mysteries.  It is my wish  to spend a night in the Admiral’s house which, I'm told, is earmarked as a Bed and Breakfast upon its completion.  And if I am fortunate, perhaps that person that I hoped for with a “VISION” -- who did, indeed, come along--might afford me the honor of being the first person to spend a night there.   And I repeat: "There’s certainly no harm in putting it out there."

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 PART II

IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO SERVED OUR COUNTRY

      I dedicate this piece to all those military families who were stationed at the Charleston Naval Base from its inception in 1901 to its closure in 1996.   

     

      To those men and women who went to war from its port, gave their lives for this great country, stayed behind to shed their tears in loss, gained pride in their accomplishments, and made decisions that forever changed the course of history, I thank YOU for your service. 

I feel you each time I travel through that avenue of crepe myrtles (Crepe Myrtle Lane) and walk beneath the sea of live oaks, staring again in wonder at ALL you left behind.  There may be newly applied coats of paint, but the feeling is always the same.

     If you, or someone you know, left their footprint on the old base, I'd love to hear their story.  There's a comment section for you to leave your contact information.

Nanine Case, Author/Photographer