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Charleston Firsts

In 1952, the First Federal Savings and Loan Association in Charleston published a small booklet called Famous Charleston Firsts. I found a copy of it in my parents’ memorabilia and thought you might enjoy some of them, too.
1. First book jackets in America were made in Charleston by Issac Hammond in 1890. He opened a book store at 10 Broad Street and designed the jackets to protect rare editions. A salesman from Harper Brothers took the idea back to his New York City publishing house.
2. First woman artist in America was Henrietta Johnson, who worked in Charleston between 1707 and 1720. Her subjects were mainly women, but her best work is a portrait of Robert Johnson, Governor-general of His Majesty’s Province of Carolina.
3. First weather observations ever to be recorded were made in Charleston by Dr. John Lining in 1738. He took a daily reading from his home at Broad Street and King Street. As a physician, Dr. Lining studied the effect of weather on the human body, seeking to find out how a rising thermometer affected people.
4. First fire insurance company was organized in 1736. Known as “The Friendly Society for the Mutual Insurance of Houses Against Fire,” the company maintained its own fire fighters, who carried buckets and ladders. After 4 years, the huge Charleston fire of 1740 consumed half the city and ruined the insurance company.
5. First American cotton exported to England was shipped from Charleston in 1748. The shipment consisted of 7 bags and was valued at roughly $875.
6. First submarine to sink a man-of-war in actual warfare took place in Charleston harbor in 1864.The Confederate submarine Hunley sank the USS Housatonic by exploding a torpedo under her. The wave thrown up swamped the submarine.
7. First railroad in America was built in 1830 from Charleston to Hamburg, SC. The first passenger train, “The Best Friend,” made its initial trip in 1831. Newspaper report said, “The passengers flew on wings of the wind, annihilating space and leaving all the world behind at the fantastic speed of 15 mph.”
8. First building in America of fireproof construction was the “Fireproof Building” overlooking Charleston’s Washington Park. It was designed in 1826 by Robert Mills, designer of the US Treasury Building and the Washington Monument. (It is now the home of the SC Historical Society.)
9. First independent government in SC, and the second in America, was formed in Charleston in 1776 in what is now the Exchange Building on Broad Street. The assembly authorized the issue of $600,000 for start-up.

Our state has much to be proud of. Its history has spanned centuries, and South Carolinians still choose to remember its influence.

At a writing conference yesterday, I read part of this list to teachers and encouraged them to look for the stories in research. Dry facts do give us information, but it is the people who make those facts come alive.

“Charleston is an extraordinary place. There is a deep connection between the residents and nearly three hundred and fifty years of history, and those ties between daily life and the distant past are strengthened by the occasional glimpse beyond the veil.”
― James Caskey, Charleston’s Ghosts: Hauntings in the Holy City

National Angel Food Cake Day

Who knew that this delicious cake had its own special day? Truly, Facebook is full of information.

This is John’s favorite cake, and I enjoy making them for him. A slice with strawberries and ice cream would be his preference. This is always his birthday cake.

It is light, soft, and virtually fat-free. A knife isn’t necessary, because it can be torn apart. I have seen children mix it in a bowl with ice cream. (Yes, I admit I was one of those children.)

Here is one recipe.

1 1/2 cups powdered sugar

1 cup cake flour

12 egg whites

1 1/2 teaspoons cream of tartar

1 cup granulated sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

1/2 teaspoon almond extract

1/2 teaspoon salt

Directions:

1 Move oven rack to lowest position. Heat oven to 375ºF.
2 Mix powdered sugar and flour; set aside. Beat egg whites and cream of tartar in large bowl with electric mixer on medium speed until foamy. Beat in granulated sugar, 2 tablespoons at a time, on high speed, adding vanilla, almond extract and salt with the last addition of sugar. Continue beating until stiff and glossy meringue forms. Do not underbeat.
3 Sprinkle sugar-flour mixture, 1/4 cup at a time, over meringue, folding in just until sugar-flour mixture disappears. Push batter into ungreased angel food cake pan (tube pan), 10×4 inches. Cut gently through batter with metal spatula.
4 Bake 30 to 35 minutes or until cracks feel dry and top springs back when touched lightly. Immediately turn pan upside down onto heatproof funnel or bottle. Let hang about 2 hours or until cake is completely cool. Loosen side of cake with knife or long, metal spatula; remove from pan.

This cake can be a secret weapon when it comes to dessert ideas. Even if you buy one from a grocery bakery, a showy homemade dessert is yours in no time .

Here are Pinterest boards with more ideas on how to serve this cake. http://www.pinterest.com/grammiebear47/angel-food-cakes-desserts/ and http://www.pinterest.com/cclopez1022/recipes-angel-food-cake/. They are all finger-licking good to me.

Enjoy your angel food cake. I do believe I have those twelve needed eggs in the refrigerator!

Pumpkin Bread

Ten more minutes before I take out my first two loaves of pumpkin bread. It is such an easy recipe, and now my whole house smells like a bakery.

The wind is sweeping the branches in the back yard. Would you believe I have the little heater on in the sun porch and the back door is open. I guess I want our backyard to smell the bread, too.

My recipe makes two loaves, one to keep and one to share, I enjoy that kind of baking, don’t you?

Toasted pumpkin bread with butter is on the breakfast menu for tomorrow, and we will enjoy those smells once again.

It’s the rhythm of this season, just as there is natural rhythm in this poem written during the Victorian era.

“When the Frost is on the Punkin”
By James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! …
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

No, we haven’t had that first frost yet, and the apples are still a’plenty, but it won’t be long before “…the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”

“The Gingerbread Boy”

Some of the Appalachian stories have become well known as folk tales and are even taught in schools. They are usually quite short, except for the Jack tales. The Scots-Irish brought them into our country in the 18th. century.

The calendar says it’s fall, and the clear blue skies and color-changing leaves attest to the truth. Pumpkin patches are open for business, pansies are for sale, and mothers hunt packed up sweaters for their children.

My grandmother passed on her gingerbread recipe to my mother, and it was a favorite whenever it was served. It is different in the additions, and I thought you might want to try it. Using your own favorite gingerbread recipe, serve it in a bowl topped with sliced bananas, a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and then several spoonfuls of brown sugar sauce. Not only does it make a picture presentation, but its sweetness will be remembered. In my opinion, it is worth every calorie!

Here is “The Gingerbread Boy” written in dialect.

One time there was an old woman and old man. They had a little boy and a little girl.  The old woman decided to bake some gingerbread. She made out one gingercake in form of a boy an’ put it in the baker an’ put the led on it an’ some coals on the led an’ went out in the garden to he’p her ol’ man do sump’n an’ told the boy an’ girl to watch it.

            She hadn’t been out of the house long till the baker led jumped off an’ the gingerbread boy jumped out o’ the baker an’ took out o’ the door an’ right down the road. The little boy an’ girl took after it an’ the old man an’ woman seein’ them a-goin’ took after them.

            They run an’ run, but the gingerbread boy just kicked up his heels and run off an’ left them. He run an’ he run till he passed by a field where some men was workin’. “Where’ye goin’ Gingerbread boy they said. Stop an’ we’ll eat ye. “No ye won’t,” said the gingerbread boy, “I’ve outrun a little boy an’ girl an’ an old man an’ woman an’ I’ll outrun you.” An’ he just kicked up his heels an’ run off an’ left ‘em.

            He run an’ he run till he come to dog trottin’ down the road. “Where ye goin’, gingerbread boy,” asked the dog. “Stop an’ let me eat ye.” No you won’t,” said the gingerbread boy, “I’ve outrun a little boy an’ girl, an’ old man an’ woman, an’ some men an’ I’ll outrun you.” An’ he kicked up his heels an’ run off an’ left the dog.

            So he run an’ he run till he come to a cow feedin’ in a pasture. “Hey,” said the cow, “where ye goin’, gingerbread boy?  Stop an’ let me eat ye.” “No ye won’t” said the gingerbread boy, I’ve out run a little boy an’ girl, an’ old man an’ woman, some men, a dog an’ I’ll outrun you.” An’ he kicked up his heels an’ run off an’ left the cow.

            So he run an’ he run till he come to a fox comin’ out of his den in a cliff. “Ha, ha,” said the fox, “where ye goin’, gingerbread boy, stop an’ let me eat ye” No ye won’t” said the gingerbread boy, I’ve outrun a little boy an’ girl, an’ old man an’ woman, some men in a field, a dog in the road, a cow in the pasture, an’ I’ll out run you.”   

        “Wait a minute,” said the fox, “I didn’t hear what ye said, I’m almost deaf. Come a little nearer.” The gingerbread boy went closer an’ said “I’ve outrun a little boy an’ girl, an old man an’ woman, some men in the field, a dog in the road, an’ a cow in the pasture, an’ I’ll outrun you.” “Can’t hear a thing you say,” said the fox, “come a little closer.  The gingerbread boy walked right up to the fox an’ the fox grabbed him an’ eat him up.

I had the privilege of teaching kindergarten for several years, and this was one of my favorites to share with them. We even went on a hunt to find the gingerbread boy who had been carefully hidden ahead of time. They loved the repeating line of “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me. I’m the gingerbread man.” There were clues to follow, and he was always found. Then we brought him back to a gingerbread feast.

So run, run  to the kitchen as fast as you can to bake some gingerbread. The smell will fill your house, and you will know it is fall.

“Shall We Gather at the River?”

My husband John was baptized in a lake in Union when he was 13. After he was baptized, he struck off across the lake to the other side.

His mother stood on the bank hollering “John William, get back here.” Finally deciding that this was not swim time, John turned and swam back to the shore where he started. Mom’s hissy fit subsided, and all was well.

I have a picture in my mind of this adventure that always causes me to laugh. Mother and son had a word of prayer later, and the other adults in the congregation must have had a good laugh, too. They were also probably quite content that their children had not chosen to swim after their baptism.

Robert Lowry (1826-1899) was a professor of literature, a Baptist pastor of several large churches, and a music editor at Bigelow Publishing Company.

One hot afternoon in July, 1864, as he was resting on his sofa, visions of heaven pervaded his senses. There was an epidemic in the city causing many deaths. In his imagination, he saw the bright golden throne room and a multitude of saints gathered around the beautiful, cool, crystal, river of life. He began to wonder why there seemed to be many hymns that referenced the river of death, but very few that mentioned the river of life. As he mused, the words and music to “Shall We Gather at the River” came to his heart and mind.

“Shall We Gather at the River” became a favorite song of camp meetings, water baptismal services and funerals.

We used to drive to Hendersonville to visit my great-grandmother. Sitting out under the trees beside her house, her sons, daughters, grands, and great grands would gather for visiting on those Sunday afternoons. There was a lot of storytelling and singing; that family loved to sing. We, children, would often march around to those old gospel songs; “Shall We Gather at the River” was one of them.

Shall We Gather at the River

Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?M

Refrain:
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.

On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will talk and worship ever,
All the happy golden day.

Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.

At the smiling of the river,
Mirror of the Savior’s face,
Saints, whom death will never sever,
Lift their songs of saving grace.

Soon we’ll reach the silver river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease;
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace.

This song brings smiles to both singers’ and listeners’ faces. The rhythm is catchy, and I know it can easily sweep children into a march.

Victor Hugo said, “Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.”

Whether singing in the shower, loading the dishwasher, or with a group, singing is a good thing.

“The Last Leaf” by O. Henry

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a “colony.”

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d’hôte of an Eighth Street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.”

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.

“She has one chance in – let us say, ten,” he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. ” And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?”

“She – she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day.” said Sue.

“Paint? – bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice – a man for instance?”

“A man?” said Sue, with a jew’s-harp twang in her voice. “Is a man worth – but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.”

“Well, it is the weakness, then,” said the doctor. “I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten.”

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy’s room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting – counting backward.

“Twelve,” she said, and little later “eleven”; and then “ten,” and “nine”; and then “eight” and “seven”, almost together.

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

“What is it, dear?” asked Sue.

“Six,” said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. “They’re falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it’s easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.”

“Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie.”

“Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I’ve known that for three days. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

“Oh, I never heard of such nonsense,” complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. “What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don’t be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were – let’s see exactly what he said – he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that’s almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self.”

“You needn’t get any more wine,” said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. “There goes another. No, I don’t want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go, too.”

“Johnsy, dear,” said Sue, bending over her, “will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down.”

“Couldn’t you draw in the other room?” asked Johnsy, coldly.

“I’d rather be here by you,” said Sue. “Beside, I don’t want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.”

“Tell me as soon as you have finished,” said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, “because I want to see the last one fall. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves.”

“Try to sleep,” said Sue. “I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone a minute. Don’t try to move ’til I come back.”

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo’s Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress’s robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy’s fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

“Vass!” he cried. “Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy.”

“She is very ill and weak,” said Sue, “and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn’t. But I think you are a horrid old – old flibbertigibbet.”

“You are just like a woman!” yelled Behrman. “Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes.”

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

“Pull it up; I want to see,” she ordered, in a whisper.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

“It is the last one,” said Johnsy. “I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time.”

“Dear, dear!” said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, “think of me, if you won’t think of yourself. What would I do?”

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

“I’ve been a bad girl, Sudie,” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and – no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.”

And hour later she said:

“Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

“Even chances,” said the doctor, taking Sue’s thin, shaking hand in his. “With good nursing you’ll win.” And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is – some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.”

The next day the doctor said to Sue: “She’s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now – that’s all.”

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

“I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and – look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece – he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”

Happy birthday, Constitution!

Constitution Day
Constitution Day falls on September 17th of each year; this year it is on Wednesday of this week. This day commemorates the formation and signing of the U.S. Constitution by thirty-nine men on September 17, 1787 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
The delegates to the Constitutional Convention met for the last time to sign this document they had created. Pierce Butler, C. Cotesworth Pinckney, Charles Pinckney, and John Rutledge were the four signers from South Carolina.
For over two centuries, the United States Constitution has stood as a testament to the tenacity of Americans throughout history to maintain their liberties, freedoms, and inalienable rights. This 4400 word document is the oldest and shortest written constitution of any major government in the world.
The National Society Daughters of the American Revolution is a non-profit, non-political, volunteer women’s service organization. It was founded on October 11, 1890. DAR members are dedicated to promoting historic preservation, education and patriotism in communities across the nation.
This celebration of the Constitution was started by the Daughters of the American Revolution. In 1955, the DAR petitioned Congress to set aside September 17-23 annually to be dedicated for the observance of Constitution Week. The resolution was later adopted by the U.S. Congress and signed into public law on August 2, 1956, by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.
In 1928, the Daughters began work on a building as a memorial to the Constitution. John Russell Pope, architect of the Jefferson Memorial, was commissioned to design the performing arts center, known as DAR Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C. The cornerstone was laid by Mrs. Calvin Coolidge on October 30, 1928, using the trowel President George Washington used to lay the cornerstone at the Capitol in 1793. Mrs. Herbert Hoover was the guest speaker at the formal dedication. Today, DAR Constitution Hall is the only structure erected in tribute to the Constitution of the United States of America.
The Preamble includes phrases that are familiar.to us. “We the People of the United State, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”
Daniel Webster said, “We may be tossed upon an ocean where we can see no land – not, perhaps, the sun or stars. But there is a chart and a compass for us to study, to consult, and to obey. The chart is the Constitution.”
Happy birthday to our Constitution!

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