I saw a statue of a young, slim Elvis in a gold lame suit, hips swiveled in the direction of the mic stand he was holding onto, right down the street from a wedding chapel. So of course I was in…York? That does not mean anyone should mistake York for Las Vegas. I didn’t see any card tables, free drinks or, you know, other less wholesome stuff they have in Las Vegas. It does mean York is interesting and different than you might think. I headed out last Saturday with Tucker and Gracie to mark York off the county walk list. Even thought the city shares its name with the county, that likely isn’t the first place people think of when it comes to that neck of the woods. Rock Hill and Fort Mill likely top that list. I worked in Rock Hill briefly and have some relatives there. No offense intended here, some parts of Rock Hill are beautiful and there’s a lot to do, but some parts of it feel like the product of a giant people explosion no one saw coming. In places it’s stuff, next to things, on top of whatever, across from more stuff, things and whatever. And the stuff, things and whatever are constantly changing and expanding. I don’t know a ton about Fort Mill and didn’t particularly feel like driving that far, so I decided downtown York is where we’d head. Our path there went through Lockhart and up Highway 49. The thing you forget about, what with the county booming and growing and teeming with people and businesses (and soon the Carolina Panthers) is that a pretty big chunk of it isn’t developed at all. I drove for many miles without seeing much in the way of businesses other than a few farms and a place that purports to sell (or maybe train) German Shepherds. There were a few signs, so worn and faded by the elements they almost couldn’t be read, dotting the roadside here and there, one of which I believe was for an engine repair shop. I don’t know why, but I like those old, barely readable signs. Nobody should tear them down…they are as much a part of the natural scenery and at this point as the trees and fields and as much a reminder of what once was as historic markers chiseled in granite. Before we got to York, we passed through, Sharon, which I have to admit I’ve either never visited or haven’t paid attention to if I did. If a Hollywood director said “build me a set of a textbook, old, Southern town” it would probably look like Sharon. The main drag, if you want to call it that, had about six adjoining brick buildings, only one of which appeared to still be home to a functioning business. The paint had all but peeled off those buildings, probably robbing me of the chance to see an old Coca-Cola or Adluh Flour ad. I passed a cotton gim (pretty sure that’s not still a thing), a tiny post office and a multi-story brick building. I was intrigued enough by it to snap a pic through the windshield, mainly because I can’t figure out what it used to be. It had the look of a mill building, but wasn’t quite big enough. There were some pretty churches, one of which featured a cemetery tucked behind a white, picket fence. It was as quaint and lovely as a cemetery can be, really. There was a nice little park on the edge of town and a house flying state and Confederate flags. Right out of central casting. All of it. We finally got to York, parked and I released the hounds for our stroll. Ashley recently recommended that perhaps I should consider walking them before I walk them. That’s probably not a bad idea, because the minute they hit the pavement they went barreling down the street and I could barely hold on or keep up. It wasn’t super busy, but I still decided to cut down some side streets to burn a little energy out of them. As I did, we passed a dry cleaners. Gracie, never broke stride as she turned and trotted right into their open front door…like she had a blouse to pick up or something. There was really young kid in there who could not have been more thrilled, saying “y’all, look at that dog.” I gave her leash a tug, though, to summon her out because, you know, not every dry cleaner necessarily welcomes animals inside. After a few minutes we went back up to Congress Street. The first time we had to stop and wait for traffic, a waiting car rolled down its windows. “Oh my! You have great dogs!” the lady driving the car said. “Thank you. I also have wild crazy dogs with too much energy,” I said, as Tucker tried to take off running. Before checking out what the downtown area had to offer, we actually ventured a bit further down the road to a residential area. There were a lot of nice, big, older houses. I’ve detailed for you before that I am equipped to explain architecture and building design about as well as I am to perform an emergency appendectomy on a marmot or pilot a space shuttle. Old, two-story, some columns and wrought iron fences is about the best I can do. As we turned to walk back toward the business district, we passed a park, though I couldn’t actually tell if it was a park at first. It was so close to a nearby house, separated only by a very short wall covered in kudzu, I thought it might be someone’s yard. I finally saw a small sign denoting that it was a park. I tried to get a pic of the dogs in the gazebo, Tucker cooperated, Gracie did not as usual, and we got back to our walk. Then came the Elvis statue. When I was a kid, before I sought out my own music and just heard whatever my parents listened to, it was a steady diet of soul and oldies. Elvis fits both descriptions and even once I started making my own listening choices, The King stayed in the rotation. On top of that, he’s a monumental figure in the history of our country both musically (how many people actually create something new) and in terms of popular culture impact…and shot TV sets in lieu of changing the channels. How can you not love Elvis? The statue was an awesome (and kind of odd) thing to see, so I investigated. It makes a lot more sense when you figure out that the statue is in front of a music store. I REALLY wanted to get Tucker and Gracie’s pic in front of it because the “Hound Dog” jokes write themselves, but Gracie couldn’t be bothered and Tucker wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, unfortunately. He would not sit close enough for a good pic. Maybe he thought that statue was the Devil in Disguise. Maybe they both had Suspicious Minds about what was going on…I’ll stop now. We hadn’t encountered a lot of people up to that point, the few that we did mainly smiled and waved, but we were approached by a tall fellow who asked if he could pet my dogs. I made them sit and they sat and soaked up the additional attention. “Have you taken them to the dog store?” he asked. I hadn’t seen a dog store, but he pointed it out to me. It was just a few doors up. That shop “Dogma and Fetch” looked very inviting. They had a chalkboard sign on an easel outside noting that they had organic dog treats and there were lots of colorful signs in the window. They apparently sell dog accessories and do washing and grooming. On the chance that there might be an animal inside, I decided to pass. Nothing sets my dogs off like other animals they think are on “their” turf and man do they get loud. I will go inside the next time I come through. There was an equine store, so my horse-loving wife now wants to visit. There were a lot of other cool shops, a place selling vegetables on a folding table and, sadly, some classic businesses no longer in operation (a trading post and old-school drug store/soda fountain). “The Sylvia” is still open, though, a theater with a stunning art deco look (I had to look that up) built in the early 1900s that operated as a movie theater until 1968. It now plays host to musical and theatrical performances and still shows movies on occasion. I had a chance to go see Allison Moorer there many years ago, didn’t, and am still a little salty about that. Oh, there’s also a wedding chapel, which seemed just a hair out of place. I can’t recall every hearing anyone say “we ran off to York and got hitched.” I did a little research, though, and found it isn’t THAT kind of wedding chapel. It’s a gorgeous old building, made of English red bricks delivered from Charleston by wagon and built in 1824. It just happens to be a space that people rent for weddings There is a courtyard adjacent the building (maybe the nuptial-izing takes place there?) that has grass so lush and green, it almost looks like someone painted it. The 105-year-old courthouse looks about like you’d expect an old southern courthouse to look (which is timeless and amazing) and from its front yard you get a stunning view of First Presbyterian Church. This is where my failings in the architecture description department become a problem. The place looks like a castle and with its steeple and peaks embraced by a brilliant blue sky, it was quite a sight. York features a nice little bakery/coffee shop with outdoor seating and I almost had a seat. The only thing that stopped me was the fear that one of the dogs might hear the call of nature. They generally only go on the grass, but if they really have to go they’ll go wherever and I don’t want them dropping a hot pile to put somebody off their apple fritter and latte. By this time, the dogs were tiring out and the cool, cloudy conditions of the morning had given way to the July blast furnace we are accustomed to in South Carolina. So, we headed back to the car. Right as we go there we encountered an older couple. The lady had a brace on her leg and was using a cane, so I had the dogs sit on the off chance they might get excited and jump in her direction. “You’ve got some mighty big puppies,” the man said. “Yes sir, I do,.” The lady went by slowly but stopped for a second to add “pretty too.” I loaded the dogs up and headed home. I’m glad I picked York for our walk. It’s bigger than I remembered, but not so big it doesn’t retain a smaller-town vibe. It’s been too long and won’t be long until I come back. There’s nice houses, nice people, nice stores… And Elvis.
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"How about that fighting Clemson Tiger Football Team?" That's technically a question but my dad never presented it to me as such and never expected an answer. It was rhetorical, there was a short pause between "tiger" and "football" and it was delivered with something between an unemotional monotone and resigned exasperation right after any Clemson football loss. After they lost their opener to Virginia Tech in 1986, after they didn't show up against Georgia Tech in 1989, after they suffered letdowns and head-scratchers in the '90s and 2000s that made “Clemsoning” a dumb pejorative for a time… "How about that fighting Clemson Tiger Football Team?" Now, the Tigers have nearly always won more than they've lost and when I was young, losses were actually few and far between. When they came, though, they made for terribly grim Saturdays and sometimes Sundays if it was a particularly bad loss or came at the hands of a hated rival like South Carolina or Georgia Tech. Dad went to Clemson, loved Clemson and losses by the boys in orange hurt. They hurt and lingered and wrecked him (and by extension, me) for days. When I was a kid, on fall Saturday mornings we frequently got up early, packed up some ham biscuits and fried chicken and made the drive to Tiger Town. With "The Tiger Tailgate Show" blaring from the radios of nearly every parked car, we'd toss a football around in the parking lot until it was time to head inside with 80,000 or so other orange-clad fans. The cannon would fire, the band would strike up "Tiger Rag" and the Tigers would rub the rock and run down the hill. It was often so loud you couldn't hear yourself yell. All that overwhelms the senses of a 10-year-old kid and makes quite an impression. So does seeing your dad hanging on every play, erupting with excitement at every touchdown, cussing referees for every bad call and just kind of sighing painfully and sitting on his hands when things weren't going so well. Whether I realized it or not at the time, it was also a full-family bonding experience. The experience was different, though just as enjoyable as I got older. Like the time a friend and I tried to nonchalantly walk through the entrance gate carrying a duffle bag full of beer and ice. Needless to say, the duffle bag had to stay outside, but with Clemson fans being a genteel, southern lot, our bag of beer was still waiting on us when we left the game…a game where I screamed and cussed and left 50 shades of pissed off after the Tigers lost one to Georgia Tech they shouldn’t have on a Thursday night. That beer came in mighty handy. You also have to understand that when I was growing up, there weren't multiple all-sports channels that allowed you to watch every game in the country every weekend. If you wanted to see your team play, you often HAD to do so in-person because it wasn't going to be televised. So it was like a pilgrimage you made six or seven times a year. For faraway road games that weren't going to be aired, you had to sit and listen to the game on the radio. When that was the case, whatever we were doing, we stopped at game time, cut on the radio and often listened as we sat in the kitchen or played ping-pong once we got a table. Longtime voice of the Tigers Jim Phillips was the soundtrack for many a Saturday afternoon for me. There were times, again when I got a bit older, where I didn’t necessarily want to talk to my dad about the things you’d normally talk to a parent about, like school or your job or personal life because those might have been veering into dumpster fire territory at the time. I could always use Clemson football as a conversation topic, however. Football is just a game, but to us it was an important one. It was one that bonded us. I give you that backstory to explain why, when it came time to walk in Pickens County, there was no doubt we’d be doing so in Clemson. We arrived early on a Saturday morning, not unlike my family would’ve done on game day long ago and parked in downtown. As I got the dogs out and started the walk, I was reminded of something I already knew. Clemson, in the truest sense, is a college town. This has nothing to do with rivalry, but Columbia is not one. If you could pick up the University of South Carolina and move it to another city, Columbia would still exist. It would still be centrally located, it would still be accessible from almost everywhere in the state via interstate, it would still be a hub for lots of businesses and residential development and the state government would still be there. If you moved Clemson University out of Clemson it would basically be, to borrow a quote from my dad, Whitmire with a less exciting nightlife. Most everything that’s there, is so because the school is there. It’s somewhat isolated up in the corner of the state and you don’t go through there headed to much of anywhere. As such, with it being early July (dead in the middle of summer break for students), there weren’t many people about at all. We walked around what qualifies as the business district for a bit, but with not much happening, I didn’t see any reason not to go ahead and make our way toward the football stadium. When we got there, I went around to the side to look down the famous hill. We were standing about where the football team exits the bus to rub the rock and run down the hill to enter the field. I could see Howard’s Rock on a small pedestal under protective glass, I could see the field and stands and the oculus in the distance. We weren’t alone, though. There was a family there, two young parents and a kid who was probably seven or eight. I didn’t actually see the kid’s face at first, but he was pressed against the bars, peering into the stadium. It’s hard to describe the wide eyes and giant smile present on that kid’s face when he turned around. Maybe he’d only viewed the exploits of Dabo, Deshaun Watson and Hunter Renfrow on TV and actually getting to see it in person was the equivalent of me having gotten to drive the General Lee when I was his age. Maybe his dad, who was almost glowing as he watched his son’s excitement, went to Clemson and this was the first time he’d gotten to bring him to see Death Valley in person. A father and son bonding over Clemson football is pretty cool. It’s something that lasts a lifetime, I’ve learned. “That is a future Clemson Tiger right there,” the dad said to me, motioning to his son. The family had taken note of Tucker and Gracie by this time and were fairly enthralled. “Are those both Goldendoodles?” the mother asked. I explained I had one Labradoodle and one Goldendoodle. They told me they actually had a Goldendoodle at home. I then got a reply that is fairly common when I encounter other doodle owners. “But ours isn’t nearly that big,” the dad said. The son seemed a little shy (or scared) at first, but by the time we parted company, he was just sort of marveling at how fluffy Tucker was. Another family, this one with a daughter of toddler age pulled up, got out of their car and came over to take some pictures. It’s funny, it’s almost like Death Valley is a tourist destination now because of all the recent success the team has had. It’s the kind of place you stop and take pictures of because it’s sort of famous and kind of a big deal. It’s hard to think of a place that’s been a regular part of your life since you were a child in those terms, but there it was on display in front of me. They too found Tucker and Gracie irresistible. “DOG!” the little girl said as she petted them both (after her parents were reassured they didn’t bite). As we started to walk back, Gracie had to poop. That was no big deal, except she’d already gone once as we walked toward the stadium. Then came a third one, which is never good news. Gracie has some digestive problems and while putting her on special, stomach sensitive food has helped, issues still arise occasionally. If she goes for a third time, it’s probably going to be unpleasant. I’ll spare you specific details, but it was, um, messy back there. When this happens, we actually have to use little doggie wipes, so I called Ashley (who was in the car) and asked if we had brought those. We had not, so I instructed her to find a drug store and buy some baby wipes. So, what had been a lovely walk down memory lane in a place I love was not going to end in especially inspiring fashion. I was sitting in the downtown area of Clemson, with my dogs, one of whom had poop all over her hind end and back legs. It was getting close to lunchtime, so there were more people starting to mill around. One guy, an older gentleman, came up to ask what kind of dogs I had. “Looks like that one had a little accident,” he said. “Kind of a blowout. Yeah,” I said. He managed to overlook that, though. He was obviously impressed with them. “Pretty dogs,” he said. “Are those good water dogs? I’m thinking about getting a new dog myself.” I told him that, yes, Tucker craves time in the water more than a fish flopping on a shoreline. Gracie, not so much. “I wonder if that’s because she doesn’t have a tail,” he wondered. “That tail is a big part of their ability to swim.” I’d honestly never thought about that. I always thought Gracie was skittish around water because of some bad experience she had before we got her (she was a rescue dog shifted around to multiple homes before we got her). Maybe standing on a street corner waiting for a baby wipe delivery had been a worthwhile experience after all. Ashley finally came back, having found a CVS or something, I cleaned Gracie up and put both dogs back in the car. As we headed out of Clemson, we passed a sign denoting the 2016 and 2018 national football championships the Tigers had won. I was glad I got to be there that day with my wife and dogs. The family spending Saturdays in Clemson is a tradition, of course. My dad, unfortunately, didn’t live to see those two championships, events that would have thrilled him to no end. If he had, he wouldn’t have to ask "How about that fighting Clemson Tiger Football Team?” I actually could answer that question now, though. “Pretty good, dad. Pretty, pretty good.” “Little-known fact,” I said, channeling Cliff Clavin for a second. “Western Union was actually founded right here in West Union.”
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TravisI am Travis, the king 0f SC 1A Football Archives
November 2021
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