A look at The Best of the Pluff Mud Chronicles A reminder to ‘cherish the treasures life gave me’
By Missy Craver Izard
For the last week I’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading our editor’s newest publication, The Best of the Pluff Mud Chronicles. The collection has been particularly endearing to read after the recent unexpected death of my sister, Ginny Good. There is something about a trip down memory lane that brings home the adventures and events that occurred in life. It has reminded me of many moments I shared with my sister and to cherish the treasures life gave me.
David Farrow was a contemporary of mine. He was a class ahead of me at Charleston Day School and we moved in the same circles. His mother, “Em” was the godmother of my former husband, Bru Izard and a kind and caring friend to our family. I vividly remember David, his family, his childhood home and many of his stories. Editor and author Charles Waring was a former student of mine at Charleston Day School — the boys in his class were some of the most mischievous boys I ever taught (they were fun, too). I was young, naïve and inexperienced and those boys knew it. We all survived, and somehow, they turned out alright.
David Farrow had an amazing sense of wit and timing. It showed in his writing. His love of Lowcountry history made his historic tours of the Holy City legendary, and his columns shared with Charles were an effort to preserve a time in his life that was near and dear to his Charleston heritage. Charles is cut from a similar cloth, making him a perfect match for David in their Pluff Mud Chronicles column.
When the Mercury launched David and Charles’ column, it was my first go-to read in each edition. Often, I would pick up the paper from the Flat Rock post office and sit in the parking lot just to read what the guys had to say. Many times, I would write a female perspective. Their column served as a catalyst for me to write memoir-like stories of my own Charleston youth.
Charleston went through a transformation following Hugo — it’s never been the same. The changes that occurred included the end of some of the traditions of our youth and a bittersweet goodbye to a time we thought would never change. David’s columns were his long farewell and a perfect way to preserve these memories.
One story that I always wanted to offer David and Charles was that of the Question Mark Club. My mother’s sister, Anne McDonald Bell, was one of the founding members of the club. After I became president of the organization in 1970, my aunt shared with me the story behind the name of the club. When planning their first ball, the young ladies wrote out their invitation to take to the printers. They didn’t have a name for the club at this point, so in the space allotted for the name of the organization, they wrote a question mark. When they delivered the copy to the printers, they conveyed that they would call within a couple of days to let them know the name of the club. In the process of production, the information shared with the front of the house at the printers, failed to get to the back of the house and the invitations were printed with the name of The Question Mark Club. When the printers called to say the invitations were ready, the young ladies were surprised and wondered how they could be completed without a name. When they saw the invitations, they decided to leave them that way and the rest as they say is history.
There are many stories of the day school, East Bay Playground, Sullivan’s Island and the first kiss and more that spoke to me. Mr. Pete and Mr. Harry’s store on the corner of Meeting and Tradd was the hold out for the boys in my dancing school class. They were always late for class or never showed up and by the eighth grade, Mrs. Whaley had had it with these boys. She called all our parents at Christmas and told them our class was finished. She was not putting up with these boys and their behavior anymore. I was always disappointed our class never had our eighth-grade final recital. After that year, dancing school ended with the seventh grade. It was on one of those Wednesday nights of dancing school that a young lad tried to kiss me while standing by his bicycle outside of Mr. Pete’s. I punched him in the face, sending him over his bike onto the pavement (this was the fifth grade!).
My family had a house on Station 28 of Sullivan’s Island, and the minute school let out for the summer, we made the trek to the island and stayed there until Labor Day. Charles’ cousins Kacky Salmons and Rosamond Lawson were classmates of mine at CDS and island playmates. Life at the beach was simple and easy — there were very few commercial enterprises, and our days were filled with island adventures from sunup to sundown and sometimes even into the night. The Thornhills, Hollings, Jones, Pauls, Allens, Andersons, Bonners, Scarboroughs, Gregories, Rosens, Poulnots, Simons and Stenders were our immediate neighbors and our mothers all congregated close to the water’s edge to smoke cigarettes and talk while we had the run of the beach.
Surfing came to the beach in the 60s, and my father bought a surfboard for my brother and I to share. It weighed a ton and took both of us to haul it to the beach, but we were cool and hanging ten was our ultimate goal. As teenagers we all congregated at the Old Side and had bonfires on the beach. Our summers were truly magical and there are so many more stories I could share just on Sullivan’s Island and the independence we had.
Thank you, Charles, for putting these wonderful columns into a book. It is such a fun read and one that I know I will reread and write from for a long time.
Missy Craver Izard was born and raised in Charleston, S.C. and resides in Flat Rock, N.C. A retired Summer Camp Director and art teacher, Missy is an entrepreneur, speaker, author, journalist, community leader, and the recipient of several awards including the White House Champions of Change.
