The Old Town Hall Bell Tower—The Keeper Of Some Of Summerville’s Most Controversial And Precious Stories

Summerville was a growing town in 1892. With the ensuing growth, time, if not necessity, called for a new town hall to be built. A corner plot was chosen where the streets of West Richardson and S. Main Street intersected. The cost to build it was set at $6,250.

The planned four story building would wisely face the town's main square, an idyllic vantage point. The first floor would house a high-end grocery store called the "Tea Pot". The second floor would contain the municipal offices. On the third floor, a multi-purpose room/auditorium space would be available for special town events such as dances, plays, parties and operas. The fourth story would shelter the structures massive bell, but as history would have it, it would shelter more than just the bell. It became the keeper for some of Summerville’s most controversial and precious stories.

Children were forbidden to go up into the town hall belfry for obvious safety reasons, not to leave unmentioned the easy temptation presented to an impetuous youth to playfully ring the bell. Although, stories tell of savvy youngsters secretly trudging their way up through the humid darkness of the steep, creaky belfry stairs, navigating a hatchway, and then a catwalk to get to the top. Being the tallest building on Hutchinson Square, the view the belfry offered was often the prize. Imagine the thrill one would experience at seeing from above President Roosevelt and his entourage ride by on Main Street as they made their way to the Pine Forest Inn.

Now, visualize the chaos a person could unleash on the town with an unauthorized ringing of the bell. There was a $200 fine for anyone foolish enough to do it. A popular story tells of a physician named Louis Miles ignoring the law and ringing the bell to announce the birth of his daughter to a confused crowd that gathered below. He happily paid the fine not once, but twice for the same reason.

View of Summerville from the old town hall bell tower in its early years

During World War II, civilians were stationed in the Town Hall bell tower as lookouts. Their task was to watch the skies for enemy aircraft and when spotted, sound the alarm. Silhouettes of enemy aircraft were pinned on the interior walls to assist the lookouts in making proper identifications. One night, the town had a scare when out of the darkened skies a plane buzzed the tower. Combined with several other suspicious incidents that night, officials were convinced the town was under attack, but fortunately, it was all a false alarm. It turned out an impulsive local boy on a training flight just couldn't resist the urge to be playful. Maybe, he heard one of the town's unattached pretty girls was on duty that night.

Young ladies, who were on duty in the bell tower, would use the opportunity to do some boy spotting. Young military men were all over the town during the war. The young ladies would use their vantage point in the high bell tower to keep an eye out for a potential date. When a group of interesting prospects were spotted, the young lady would toss a note wrapped around a stone with the date, time, and place of the next American Legion party along with her name to the boy of her choosing with hopes of meeting at the party.

There is an interesting story told by one of those young ladies who was doing "spotter duty" on the date of April 4, 1945. It is an Area 51 type story, except the flying object was identified in this case, but no formal proof has been found to verify the flying object's existence. For one, the wreckage of the B-24 Liberator bomber was buried by the military in the Summerville field where it crashed. Second, the local paper carried no report of the crash. And third, based on their records, the Air Force Historical Studies Office claims no such crash occurred on that date in Summerville and no flight of a B-24 over Summerville existed on that date, as the story is told. Needless to say, everything that has to do with the military during war time becomes classified information. Still, the young lady on duty that fateful afternoon, who I shall leave unnamed, a school full of young children, and the school's faculty would say otherwise, and not to leave unmentioned as additional possible potential witnesses, the ten flyboys who were seen parachuting from the bomber moments before it crashed. It was seen coming in from the east. So, if the story is true, somewhere buried in a Summerville field west of the town hall is the wreckage of a B-24 bomber, but likely hidden below property that has been developed upon by now. The story is called The Phantom Flight over Summerville by Bruce Orr.

School commencements were held in the Old Town Hall on Hutchinson Square. At such an event one evening, in the middle of the ceremony, an announcement was made for the attendees to leave the building in an orderly and quiet manner. Later, it was reported some of the town's officials in attendance had felt an ominous swaying. The upper floors were declared unsafe for public gatherings, in part, due to the weight of the bell in the fourth floor bell tower. This event led to the town hall and its bell tower to be condemned. Thus, the keeper's book of stories closed with the words, The End.

I am sure there are more stories to be remembered and told. If you have a story or know of one, please leave its telling in the article's comments.

More Summerville stories

A Visit To The Illustrious Pine Forest Inn of Summerville-Somewhere In Time

Shrouded in a final blast of steam, the Summerville Short eased into the station; a small, elaborately decorated Victorian style structure. Stepping onto the depot platform, I glanced at my pocket watch. The bright, Lowcountry sun reflected off its glassy face. It was 2:05 pm. "Right on time," I whispered. A plume of black smoke billowed from the locomotive's smokebox and was quickly whisked away by the warm, early afternoon breeze.

Horse drawn carriages awaited arriving passengers. I surveyed the depot area for my reserved transportation. I spotted a group of coachman. One in the group was holding up a piece of paper with my name on it. I approached the smartly dressed gentleman and identified myself. "Good afternoon, Sir. Welcome to Summerville," he said. His words were tainted with a quaint accent quite different from what I was used to back in Ohio. He handed me a newspaper. It was dated April 9, 1902. I stepped aboard the carriage. With a gentle tug on the reins by my experienced driver, the carriage eased forward.

The downtown district was crowded with people. Rumors President Roosevelt and his entourage were in the Summerville area abounded--a bit of information I overheard while on the train. To the left of our advancing carriage was a fenced-in square landscaped with rows of live oaks and a diamond shaped walkway where children were at play.

On the opposite side of the square stood a row of wooden buildings dominated by a near completed triple-arched façade bearing the designation, Arcade Theater. To our right, a few gentleman standing in front of a pharmacy hospitably tipped their hats as we passed. Turning the corner at an intersection, I asked, "What is the name of this road?" The coachman replied, "Main Street." I followed with an additional question. "The tall building on the right with the bell tower, what purpose does it serve?" "Town Hall, Sir."

Leaving the town square behind, we passed a white directional sign covered with wooden pointers containing the names of the various inns and hotels located throughout Old Summerville and then, several large homes bordered by white-picket fences. Each was richly adorned by a profusion of magenta colored flowers noticeably common to the area. We entered a thick stand of tall pines intermingled with aged, moss covered live oaks. Clusters of wisteria dangled freely from some of the branches. I inhaled a full breath of air. It was distinctly laced with the refreshing scent of pine.

Winding through the shaded canopy, it wasn't long before we came upon a broad, brick paved drive flanked by huge white urns containing plantings of the same flower growing throughout the town. We passed under a columned gateway surrounded by beautiful gardens--more wisteria and azaleas. At the end of the driveway, rising four stories high into the needled branches of the tall pines was the castellated center rotunda of the Pine Forest Inn--my accommodation for the next couple of days.

My carriage pulled up to the Inn's steps. Five horse riders sauntered past. I stepped off, paid the gentleman, and ascended the flight of stairs. The front piazza was impressive. Wider in the middle, it extended out on each side of the rotunda the full length of the building and ended in a hexagonal shape on the corners. Patrons were scattered about the piazza on chairs enjoying the southern exposure and their afternoon tea--likely made from tea leaves grown locally at the renowned Pinehurst Tea Plantation of Dr. Charles Shepard. I read about it in a magazine on the train. I had a tour of the Pinehurst Tea Garden scheduled for tomorrow.

Upon entering the impressive building, two smiling ladies curtsied as I passed. I acknowledged their genteel gesture with a smile and a tip of my hat. The front entrance hall ran the full length of the rotunda. It was majestic. Arched walls set upon pillars divided the rotunda foyer from other sections. A grand staircase led to the upper floors where thick, wooden hand rails wrapped around the open upper floors. As I walked it, I estimated it to be 47 feet from front to back. Large, oak mantled fireplaces with marble hearths and exotic plants were placed strategically throughout the spacious lobby. Rocking chairs were scattered about. At the rear entrance, another long piazza served a huge three-sided courtyard.

I checked in at the desk. A double-chinned, spectacle wearing hotel clerk greeted me with a smile and a southern, "Good afternoon." I informed him of my two-day reservation. After signing the necessary papers, he rattled off some of the amenities. "There is an Amusement Hall with a bowling alley and billiard tables, two lawn tennis courts, croquet grounds, 18 hole golf course, swimming pool and a livery with 60 horses." I touched the brim of my hat and nodded my head, "Thank you." "Your welcome, Sir," and he then added, "Would you like some help with your bag, Sir?" I declined the offer. Then, he directed my attention to a tray at the end of the counter holding crystal glasses and a matching pitcher full of an iced, amber colored mixture. "Help yourself to a glass of freshly brewed Summerville sweet tea, Sir." I poured a glass and took a sip. "Interestingly tasty," I corroborated.

I turned and boarded the electric elevator that serviced the three upper floors--each floor with its own lobby and its share of the 150 suites and singles. As we slowly ascended, I engaged the elevator operator in some small talk. He willingly and gladly complied with some quick tips about Summerville. I was assigned a single on the second floor at $5 a night.

I entered the room. Large windows bathed the interior with an abundance of warm sunlight and provided an excellent view of the outside grounds below. Steam radiators lined the exterior walls. A painting of Drayton Hall hung above an elaborately carved mantle. I placed my suitcase next to the open fireplace and set the empty crystal glass on a marble topped table next to the room's large, cherry poster bed. The comfortably appointed room also included a private bath and an electric bell connected to the general office for personal service. I emptied my suitcase and freshened up a bit before setting out to further familiarize myself with the Inn's appointments.

After another short ride on the elevator, I was back to the main lobby. I curiously peaked into the adjacent dining room. Paneled in southern curly pine, the complimentary woodwork was elegant. Divided into three sections by wooden arches and comfortably filled with beautiful table settings, it seated 250 people. An American flag hung from the chandeliered ceiling. It was near 3:35 pm according to a nearby grandfather clock. The brunch crowd had already dispersed to other suitable areas. The dining room staff was busy making preparations for the evening meal.

Other common rooms included a large, main floor parlor, ladies private parlors with toilet rooms, reception rooms, library, reading room, sun parlor with exotic plants, wine and smoking rooms, and a Rocking Chair Room. Similar to the dining room, all were paneled with southern curly pine.

Women sitting in the sun parlor engaged in chit-chat centered around their families and social events. Some of them rocked baby carriages with their feet while doing needlework. They all wore fancy hats and long, lacy dresses--the ankle reveal was socially frowned upon. Gathered in the wine and smoking room, men in suits debated the latest news and talked about their golf game. The Rocking Chair Room fascinated me the most. I could never resist the invitation of a rocking chair. I would venture to say there were about a hundred chairs. Thirty, by my estimations, presently occupied. It was the right occasion for some self indulgence.

The seconds quietly ticked away with each back and forth motion. The seconds ticked into minutes. I pulled out my pocket watch. It was 4:45 pm. My restful thoughts turned to dinner. I contemplated the pleasure of indulging in the highly acclaimed blue ribbon cuisine the Inn was famous for. The first class chefs were advertised as preparing their culinary delights with ingredients gathered from local gardens along with meat and seafood delivered fresh by train from Charleston and New York markets.

After dinner, perhaps I would share a glass of wine with Florence Nightingale Graham in the wine room, shoot some billiards with Dr. Shepard or discuss literature with Edna St. Vincent Millay in the library. Tomorrow, attend a fox hunt on Ingleside with Teddy Roosevelt.

After all, this was the illustrious Pine Forest Inn of Summerville, where the imagination had no boundaries.

(Pictures taken from "Images of America-Summerville" by Jerry Crotty and Margaret Ann Michels.)