Columbia :: FIELD REPORT :: ROUTE 1 PROJECT

Thursday, October 5, 2017
Columbia, South Carolina to Raleigh, North Carolina: God Country

I checked out of the Delta Motel. The thirty-five-dollar-a-night villa would be the last drop of depravity before I reached the North Carolina border. Along Route 1, each little town seemed to consist of a local café, a Dollar General, a gas station and a scattering of houses of worship—some with steeples, some on front porches and others tucked inconspicuously inside strip malls. The long runs between communities were never short of signs pointing the way to the Lord. This was God Country.

The farther I drove from Columbia, the more thrift shops appeared. They were sirens calling me toward their shores. I went straight for the vinyl, digging through the Barbra Streisand and Barry Manilow records until the treasure revealed itself: stacks of local gospel albums. Across several towns and several stops, the hits kept coming.

The biggest jackpot was in Cheraw, one of the last South Carolina stops before the North Carolina border. The shopkeeper repeatedly promised to take care of me—the more I wanted to spend, the more determined he became to save me money. I laughed at a Patch the Pirate record and told him that the Florida Boys appeared to be keeping up with the times. He pointed toward a more modern album cover and answered in a slow drawl, “Yup, it looks like they are really reaching out there.”

Before leaving, I found a handmade leather guitar strap crudely decorated with mushrooms, pies, lightning bolts and moons. He waved away the price and thanked me for doing business with him. Then his expression turned serious. Patch the Pirate, he explained, was a ministry. It had recently visited his daughter’s school and was a creative way of reaching children with the message.

“A pirate minister. Makes sense. I can see how that could work,” I replied.

We shook hands, and I carried my treasures back to the van. I turned on the air conditioning and strapped myself in when the passenger door suddenly opened. The shopkeeper leaned inside and handed me a booklet.

“If you don’t see how that could work, maybe you should give this a little read.”

I landed in Raleigh late that afternoon. My phone announced that the Red Sox were losing in the fifth inning. “Closest sports bar,” I instructed it, slowly and clearly. Time was of the essence.

Photos: Charles White - Columbia - 2017

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