Walhalla

November 16, 2020

At the ten-day mark in Greenville, last Thursday, it was time to get out of town again. We aimed for Walhalla, about 50 miles west and minutes from the Blue Ridge, because of the odd name and because on the internet it looked like a serene retirement spot. We’re not serious about buying way out in the sticks, but we thought we’d take a look. Maybe it is serene, we didn’t stay long enough to decide.

Walhalla is on U.S. 123, due west of Greenville, tucked up in the corner of the state between Georgia and North Carolina. The hour-long drive out is a disappointing two-thirds commercial wasteland, the usual suburban miles of stop lights, fast food, used-car lots, gas stations, and more fast food. You turn right at Clemson, home of the big football school, which is concealed somewhere within the commercial desert. The highway skirts giant Lake Keowee, then opens up for a few miles. Then you’re in Walhalla.

As is often the case with small towns, the primary U.S. highway through it is the town’s main street, usually, as in Walhalla, named “Main Street.” We cruised a bit through the side streets looking at the old homes, most modestly well-kept, others not, many still decorated with Trump-Pence signs. I noticed a sign for a Performing Arts Center.

We parked on Main, grabbed our masks and stretched our legs a bit, then ventured into “Mountain Mocha” for coffee (me) and hot cocoa (Sandy). It’s a locally owned version of Starbucks with young folks staring at their laptops, and a gang of kids apparently doing their online school assignments, None were eating, none wore masks. The young woman who mixed the cocoa wore one, the guy who fetched the coffee did not. The tab for the coffee, cocoa, and two tiny muffins came to about 12 bucks. The premium for local ownership, I guessed.

We sat for a while looking around the place, listening to Christmas music. A large fir, decked out cheerfully in white lights, stood in the corner. For a few moments we felt the nearness of Christmas, and the peace and consolation Christmas brings. We enjoyed the sense of our separation from the big congested city, although Greenville isn’t all that big or congested. We sipped our coffee and cocoa and talked about the future. We didn’t think about covid-19 or the Trump pathology or my chest biopsy, set for early Monday morning.

We finished and ambled down the block past a barbershop with the old-fashioned spinning candy-cane poles outside and an unusual name, for a barbershop, “Memories on Main.” I needed a haircut and jumped at the chance. Two women were cutting hair, but as it was noon they were about to take a 90-minute lunch break. I said I’d be back. We then browsed at an outdoors-camping supplies place that offered freeze-dried food, mountain footwear, the works. I bought a map of the Foothills Trail, which runs 76 miles through western North and South Carolina. Actually using the map in the near future is a big maybe. 

We killed some time visiting Walhalla’s three, yes, three museums, the largest covering the history of Oconee County. There I learned that “Walhalla” is a Norse term meaning “Garden of the Gods,” although the town was settled by Germans. The museum provided information on settlement of the area early in the 18th century, local Revolutionary War operations, and surprisingly frank commentary on local slaveowners and post-Civil War Ku Klux Klan activity.

The smaller Museum of the Cherokee offered interesting exhibits on the area’s Native American heritage. The briefings made the point that South Carolina did not participate in creating the tragic stain on American history known as the Trail of Tears—the forced relocation of Southeastern native peoples by the federal government to western reservations between 1830 and 1850. 

The third museum, the still-smaller Oconee Military Museum at Patriot’s Hall, puzzled me, in that it featured an assortment of vintage World War II weapons, equipment, and uniforms, but nothing unique to Walhalla or South Carolina. It did show a brief video of a local veteran making some comments. Fortunately, the three museums asked only for donations.

All the history made us hungry. We stopped at one nice-looking restaurant, it had closed five minutes earlier.

Back at the barbershop I waited while one of the two barbers cut a little boy’s hair, the other a young man’s. I was the only one in the place with a mask. I was preparing to ask the barber to put on a mask when she called me, but she grabbed one and strapped it on. She may have pegged me for one of those Yankee liberals. I mentioned we’d only just arrived in the state and were looking to buy. “I’ve lived here all my life,” she said cheerfully. “Take a look at Seneca.”

She snipped away slowly, chatting. Eventually she held up a mirror to show her work, I thanked her. “Thanks for coming back,” she said with a smile.

We were by now a bit worn down by the tourist routine, even in this tiny, out-of-the-way place.  We got on the highway out of town, knowing we had skipped some vaguely interesting sites, the nearby state park, the Stumphouse Tunnel, a never-finished railroad tunnel, and Issaqueena Falls. That’s always the way it is for us. We never quite finish the tour.

We’re still not over tearing ourselves away from our home of 33 years, but we’re getting there. Things have worked out so far. My oncologist in Virginia, after seeing my last scan, called a colleague in Greenville, who looked at the scan report and scheduled the biopsy. Today’s the day. In a day or two we’ll know if I’m heading back to surgery, the chemo pen, or home free. I’m banking on good news. It’s almost Thanksgiving.