Summerville, August 31, 1886--A Haunting Tale Amidst an Earth-Shattering Cataclysm

The day’s oppressive humidity lingered, even at this late hour. Lost in thought, I found myself reflecting on the troubling peculiarities that had unfolded. There was a strange quiet—not among the people I’d encountered, but in the behavior of the animals. The usual chatter of local birds had vanished. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing a single bird all day. The carriage horses had been unusually skittish, and even the dog at the train depot seemed unnerved.

A sharp blast from the train whistle jolted me from my reverie, signaling the final call for departure. A cloud of hot steam billowed into the air as the locomotive lurched forward, then gradually eased away from the platform. The final leg of my journey had begun.

I checked my pocket watch: 8:50 p.m. Charleston lay ahead, with an expected arrival around 10:30. I had been looking forward to my stay at the elegant Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer and publisher, I enjoyed certain privileges when it came to reading material. In my possession was a cherished collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. Settling into my seat as we pulled away from Branchville, I recalled that Poe had once been stationed on Sullivan’s Island, a barrier island near Charleston. I planned to visit several places tied to his legacy—Fort Moultrie, and the war-scarred plantations along the oak-lined Ashley River Road. Runnymede, in particular, had been a favorite haunt of his.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. Moonlight filtered through their branches, casting a soft, dancing glow onto the low-growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to immerse myself into. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me that the train had reached full throttle. Around me, some passengers had drifted into sleep, while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover of the dossier resting on my lap and began reading The Gold-Bug. For an unknown length of time, I slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the train, jolting me from my seat. For a brief, surreal moment, I felt weightless—levitating above the cushion—before crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. The violent motion repeated again and again, each impact more disorienting than the last.

Piercing screams erupted from the compartment as passengers were tossed about, helpless against the chaos. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the relentless jolts—up and down, back and forth—like a beast thrashing in its death throes. Through the window, I glimpsed a geyser of water erupting from the earth, shooting skyward. The train’s forward momentum sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was desperately trying to slow us, but the effort seemed futile. Prayers filled the air, whispered and shouted alike.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the upheaval ceased.

Miraculously, the train remained on the tracks. Dazed passengers began to assess their condition. Aside from bruises and shaken nerves, it appeared no one was seriously injured. Another sudden jolt startled the already traumatized group—but this time, it was the familiar lurch of a train decelerating. We crept to a halt.

I retrieved my pocket watch, its glass shattered, the hands frozen at 9:50 p.m. Around me, pages from Poe’s dossier lay scattered like fallen leaves. I gathered them up and stepped off the train.

An eerie orange glow bathed the night sky. Fires burned in the distance, and uprooted trees lay strewn across the landscape like discarded matchsticks. Ahead of the smoking engine, flares cast flickering light over the scene. We had stopped just short of what appeared to be a depot.

Straightening my disheveled clothing, I made my way to the front of the locomotive. The engineer was deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. Steadying my nerves, I approached and introduced myself. I asked what had happened—and where, exactly, we were.

The man turned to me and offered his name, “Frank Doar, the stationmaster.” As we walked toward the depot, he began to recount a most unusual story.

Frank began his account with a steady voice, though the memory clearly weighed on him.

“It was 9:45 p.m. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. I was sitting in my chair at the depot, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was startled by the sudden appearance of an elderly Black man on the platform. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere—filthy, drenched in sweat, breathless, and visibly agitated.

He told me, in a rush of words, that he’d run several miles up the rail line from a section where the tracks were severely bent. He urged me to release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the danger ahead.

Now, I know everyone who works this line, and I thought I knew everyone in the community—but I’d never seen this man before. The moonlight caught the sweat on his head, giving it a strange halo-like glow. Under normal circumstances, I might have been wary of such a demand. But something about him—his urgency, his eyes—made me trust him. Without hesitation, I deployed the torpedoes.

As I finished placing the last device, I turned to speak to him again. But he was gone. Vanished. As if he’d dissolved into the night air.”

Frank paused, then pulled out his pocket watch.

“The whole encounter—his arrival, the warning, the emergency preparations—had taken only five minutes. It was exactly 9:50 p.m. Just then, an eerie hissing sound swept through the town, followed by a deafening explosion. The ground shook violently. I heard walls and chimneys collapsing, trees groaning as they were ripped from the earth. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.”

His story left me spellbound.

Passengers had begun to disembark, gathering at the station in search of answers and a way to continue their journey. Whispers of Frank’s account passed from one traveler to another, each person trying to make sense of the mysterious warning.

Soon, a message arrived. Farther up the line, between Summerville and Ten Mile Hill near Woodstock Station, the quake had twisted the tracks into a serpentine curve. A train that had departed Summerville for Charleston derailed during the earthquake. The engineer was critically injured. A crew member had been killed.

The flares Frank deployed had saved our train from the same fate.

Yet one question lingered: how had the old man known? He had vanished without a trace. No one ever saw him again. No one ever got the chance to thank him.

As for Frank Doar, though he was the one who placed the flares and prevented disaster, he refused to take credit. He believed, with quiet conviction, that the old man was an angel.

At least, that was the story Frank told.

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Somewhere in Time--A Stay at Summerville's Pine Forest Inn

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 p.m. 

"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 and spotted a group of coachmen. One among them held 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 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 that President Roosevelt and his entourage were in the Summerville area abounded—a bit of information I had 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 nearly completed triple-arched façade bearing the designation Arcade Theater. To our right, a few gentlemen 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 bearing the names of various inns and hotels located throughout Old Summerville. Then came several large homes bordered by white picket fences, each richly adorned with 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 flowers 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 at 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 had read about it in a magazine on the train. A tour of the Pinehurst Tea Garden was 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 handrails wrapped around the open galleries. As I walked it, I estimated it to be forty-seven 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, an 18-hole golf course, a swimming pool, and a livery with sixty horses.”

I touched the brim of my hat and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, then added, “Would you like some help with your bag, sir?”

I declined the offer. He then directed my attention to a tray at the end of the counter holding crystal glasses and a matching pitcher filled with 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 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, offering a few quick tips about Summerville.

I was assigned a single on the second floor at five dollars a night.

I entered the room. Large windows bathed the interior in warm sunlight and provided an excellent view of the 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 beside 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 returned to the main lobby. I curiously peeked into the adjacent dining room. Paneled in Southern curly pine, the complementary 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 p.m., 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; a 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 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 estimation, 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 p.m.

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.

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The Summerville Light--A New Argument as the Reason for the Mysterious Lights

Former Sheep Island Road

This article is for all residents of Summerville who remember and experienced the famous Summerville Light of Sheep Island Road—locally dubbed Light Road. Over the years, I’ve written articles about this ghostly phenomenon, and it remains the most popular and beloved ghost story in Summerville’s history. I received over 16,000 responses from readers who recounted their personal experiences with the Light, and a few who were skeptics—though they were overwhelmingly in the minority.

Legend has it the Light is the glow of a lantern guiding the ghost of a woman searching for her decapitated husband along a stretch of railroad tracks that once ran near Sheep Island Road.

Several theories have been proposed as scientific explanations for the Light and its unsettling physical effects—terrorizing motorists by violently shaking cars or inexplicably cutting power to their vehicles. Theories range from swamp gas and ball lightning to headlights reflecting off various road signs.

On Monday morning, July 14, the United States Geological Survey had confirmed reports of an earthquake in the Summerville area. Data from the USGS confirmed that an earthquake of about 2.2 to 2.4 magnitude occurred just before 10 a.m., about a mile east-northeast of the town center of Summerville near Berlin G. Meyers Parkway in Dorchester County. It had a depth of between about 3 and 5 miles, though officials are still working to narrow down the exact measurements of the quake based on the data received from several tools. This is not uncommon occurrence.

At this point, you may be wondering what the Monday earthquake has to do with the Summerville Light. Surprisingly, it may have a connection with another famous Summerville event that occurred in 1886, The Great Charleston Earthquake. A seismologist has offered these natural events as a scientific explanation for the floating orb: a phenomenon called, earthquake lights. Susan Hough of the United States Geological Survey published her earthquake idea in a research article late last month in Seismological Research Letters.

An article in the Smithsonian Magazine explained it this way, "Earthquake lights are mysterious phenomena that have been observed around the world, but scientists still don’t have a clear idea of what causes them. Some have proposed that seismic activity deforms minerals in the Earth, creating an electrical charge that can lead air molecules to glow. Another theory is that they’re related to the release of gases like radon or methane, which can ignite when they're exposed to a spark of static electricity. Hough believes the railroad tracks, in particular, are the key to Summerville’s ghosts."

Hough said in an interview with Post and Courier, "Historically, when rail companies replaced tracks, they didn’t always haul the old track away. So, you’ve got heaps of steel out there. Sparks might be part of the story. That could explain why so many ghost stories—even beyond Summerville—involve lights over railways. When you start looking around, it turns out there's any number of ghosts wandering around railroad tracks with lanterns looking for severed heads. There’s kind of an epidemic of them."

There you have it—mystery solved. Or is it? What say you, Summerville residents of the Summerville Light era?

An Illustration

The unstoppable freight train called progress changed the landscape around the same I-26 real estate, quite possibly closing the chapter on the era of the Summerville Light. The Nexton I-26 connector was constructed. The overpass that once led to the dark, overgrown, wooded hollow is no longer there. Only remnants of the once-haunted stretch of Sheep Island Road remain.

As you enter the Nexton Parkway exit off I-26 heading north, glance quickly to your right. You may catch a glimpse of the remaining tattered pavement. It briefly touches Sigma Drive before crossing Nexton Parkway, extending northward—parallel to the new Del Webb Community—then fading into obscurity.

It is gone, but not forgotten, as a growing Southern town 23 miles outside of Charleston reimagines itself, closing one chapter to open another.

Smithsonian Magazine article 

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Roll the Dice, Make a bet, It is One of Summerville's Distinctive Properties

It is a bit on the difficult side to believe quiet, peaceful, charming Summerville had a "red-light district" in its past. Back in the day, the eatery now known as the Montreux Bar and Grill was a boardinghouse and restaurant operated by a person by the name of Miss Lucia. It was said to have been part of "the red-light district." This would seem to be an apparent contradiction of order, especially when you consider during the time Confederate troops were stationed in the town, they were jailed for bad conduct towards resident females, and rightly so. Different times. Different decades.

On top of houses of ill repute, it also had a gambling casino that was associated with the illustrious Pine Forest Inn--something that would be considered illegal in South Carolina today. Unlike many other states, the state of South Carolina is by far the strictest state when it comes to gambling with no casinos in its major cities. The only legal gambling is on a casino cruise. There is one in Little River called The Big "M" Casino.

Summerville's once upon a time Pine Forest Inn casino was located at 100 Marion Avenue. It is difficult to find any substantial information about the casino itself, but there is great deal of detail available about the house it was located in, and its history is fascinating.

It is believed by residents to have been built somewhere between 1890 and 1900 by Thomas Hopkins and referred to as "Hopkins Villa." The Summerville Scene in April of 1975 called it "the cut-down house." The reason being the original house was built on columns five and a half feet off the ground. When Ralph Sullivan purchased it from Urban M. Kennedy in 1951, he lowered it to the height the present house is at, but he also did something else that would be considered a stunning feat. He moved the complete house from its original location, which was closer to the road, without disturbing the structure, interior, chimneys, and porches. On top of that, he turned it so the main entrance faced Marion Avenue, where it is today. That was some about face. However that was not the only about face it made.

Somewhere between its construction and the 1930's was its gambling days with the Pine Forest Inn. Hopkins left the property to a religious group called the Order of Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy in 1904, who lived there for a number of years but left the property and returned again in the 1930s. Whether it was a casino during that period of time or while Hopkins owned it before he left it to the religious group is a question to be answered with further research. Regardless, that was some about face from vices to virtue.

Today, 100 Marion Avenue is surrounded by white fences and tall bushes. You can get a tempting peek at its main, front entrance through a small gated-opening at the middle of the property. It is a distinctive estate with an arching driveway and expansive porches. It is a fascinating part of Summerville's grand history. Roll the dice, make a bet, it is a history that included what would be considered illegal today.

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Summerville Dream

The Fate of Six Famous Summerville Inns Lost in Time--Imagine if They Would Have Survived

Since the early 1900's tourists have flocked to the Town of Summerville to enjoy the beauty of its spring blossoms, particularly its azaleas, which are in full bloom presently. The Town will soon be packed with people from all over the Southeast and beyond to enjoy the Flowertown Festival April 5-7. The downtown district and its local businesses will be happily ringing their registers, if they still have that antiquated device, otherwise joyously swiping credit cards. S. Main Street will be a sea of people from the Square on down to Azalea Park. Many of the visitors looking for places to stay. However, I wonder, what would Summerville be like if the Wisteria Inn, Holly Inn, Vose Inn, Squirrel Inn, Carolina Inn, and Pine Forest Inn survived to today? You would have to agree, quite different. The following is their story and their fate.

There is not any significant information about the Wisteria Inn other than it was at the intersection of W. Carolina Ave and S. Main Street, and it burned down.

Wisteria Inn

The Holly Inn was next to the golf course at The Summerville Club on Holly Inn Rd. It was eventually demolished.

Holly Inn

Vose Inn is not a commonly recognizable name in the history of Summerville. The obvious reason for its present anonymity is it no longer exists. It was so severely damaged by the Earthquake of 1886, it was deserted to the elements to rot into oblivion before the Golden Age of the Inns began. It was at its best by 1860 before the Civil War. It was situated behind what is now Ambler Hall on W. Carolina Ave.

Vose Inn

Helen and Raven Lewis had the Squirrel Inn built, but Helen is seldom mentioned with her sister Raven as part-owner of the inn. In fact, the two sisters were inseparable. Lifelong companions, Helen having never married left her entire estate upon her death to Raven.

Squirrel Inn opened around 1912. It became known for its hospitable atmosphere and distinctive cuisine. In 1941, Jeanne and Eugene Sutter bought the inn. Under their ownership, it received a nomination in 1957 for being one of the top forty rural inns in the nation. It continued to be a noted inn with fine cuisine until 1966. The building was renovated for condominiums in 1979.

Famous author and diplomat Paul Hyde Bonner wintered as a guest at Summerville's Squirrel Inn. He wrote the best-selling novel called The Life of Llewellyn Jones while a town resident. It was released for publication on January 1, 1960.

The main character of Bonner's story is F. Townsend Britton, a career diplomat of fifty-odd years who carefully charts his disappearance from an authoritative, rich wife to become the widowed, retired, middle-western Liewellyn Jones, a good enough impersonation that fools everyone except Terry, a girl he meets in Cincinnati. To escape further entanglements, Jones retreats to a town in South Carolina where there is an establishment called Redbird Inn.

The South Carolina town in Bonner's story was inspired by Summerville, and the Redbird Inn was a reflection of the well-known Squirrel Inn he wintered at as a guest.

Squirrel Inn

One the the more famous of the inns was the Carolina Inn. In 1810, Moore's Tavern stood on the property. It would become the Brown's Hotel around 1855 under the ownership of Isaac T. Brown--also called the Summerville House. Brown added a ten-pin alley and a billiard room. The hotel was surrounded by wide piazzas.

The Brown's Hotel suffered damage from the 1886 earthquake. It closed around 1890, but unlike the Vose Inn, reopened in 1895. It became known as the Dorchester Inn featuring full, wrap-around porches and numerous shuttered windows. In 1912, T.R. Moore owned the Dorchester Inn and after enlarging the structure, extensively remodeling the interior, and updating the building, it opened its doors as the Carolina Inn featuring 67 rooms and a swimming pool.

With white wood-rail fencing, beautifully landscaped walking gardens, and an acquired reputation for excellent accommodations and cuisine, it would become preferred by many travelers for its discreet elegance and atmosphere. Unlike the structured offerings of the Pine Forest Inn, there were no activities

One of the favorite pastimes of the guests was competing in bridge tournaments and competitions. Somewhat similar to tourism today, other diversions included historical tours, garden tours, maybe a silent movie at the Arcade Theatre, or shopping and sightseeing excursions into Charleston on the South Carolina Railroad out of Summerville.

The Carolina Inn was demolished. 

Carolina Inn

The grandest of Summerville's inns was the Pine Forest Inn. It sat on 60 acres and opened its doors in 1891. The internationally renowned hotel had four floors, elevators, and 150 rooms. The Inn had its own power plant, telegraph office and long distance telephone service. It also housed three water supplies--an artesian well for mineral water, spring water and a charcoal purifying cistern. The weekly rate in the 1934-35 season was $49 for a single room with private bath and $168 for a double, which included meals.

In addition to the enormous rooms the Pine Forest Inn had a glassed in rocking chair porch with 150 rockers and a dining room that was larger than the 1,600 square foot dining room inside the White House.

The amenities included bowling alleys, shuffle board, billiards, a swimming pool, 18 hole golf course that sat on 130 acres, hunting, fishing, tennis, croquet and a 50 horse stable. It also offered a casino.

The Inn was later demolished by Mr. Salisbury for fear of fire.

Pine Forest Inn

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Summerville Keeps on Rising Like a Phoenix from the Ashes in the Face of Adversity

Summerville, from the time of its conception, has been a place to where Lowcountry residents came to heal and renew. Charleston planters, who perspired in the heat and humidity of their river plantations, marooned themselves there to prevail upon its "remarkably dry and balmy atmosphere." Charlestonians, laboring against the voracious mosquitos and yellow fever of their peninsula estates, traversed the 25 miles to avail upon its "foliage of trees and luxuriant undergrowth" that "shut in any poisonous exhalations that might otherwise arise." Unequivocally, Summerville has been appraised as a "charming, rural, picturesque town with a health-promoting atmosphere."

However, Summerville's journey from "Let The Pines Be Sacred" to "The Birthplace of Sweet Tea" has had its ups and downs. In the beginning, the inviting sandy plateau was dotted with Mosquito houses with roving cattle cutting paths through the many pine trees. Then, the railroad came to town and made Summerville one of its stops and held out the promise of greater things to come, but the pineland village grew slowly in population and accommodations.

Then, in 1860, the inhabitants came under the influence of a "new sprit." The sluggish apathy of the previous years seemed to disappear. An "enthusiasm for progress" pervaded the sleepy community. A new administration was taking charge. The new mayor, Reverend Limehouse, purchased land on the Great Thoroughfare and had a new town hall built with a jail behind it and adjacent was the town market. The Brown's Hotel was open for business with a new ten-pin alley and billiard room along with $.50 tickets to Charleston and back, including carriage ride. The Vose Inn and Mr. Cooper's Paradise were other attractors.

However, a political hurricane was brewing in the social atmosphere and its black, ominous clouds spilled over the Town in a fury. It was now 1861. In the distance, shells rained down on Fort Sumter and the American Civil war was under way. Southern State troops were ordered to rendezvous on the South Carolina Railroad at Camp Woodward in Summerville. It would be a chaotic time with the arrival of the emotionally charged troops.

About the gathering combatants, Major Thomas W. Woodward wrote in his memoirs, "And—folly of follies—you were to be allowed to choose whether you would go as a Regiment or disband and go home, although you had already agreed to offer your services to the Confederacy." He further lamented, "some companies preserved their discipline, others were really but roving mobs of jolly, rollicking soldiers."

Eventually, the uniforms changed from grey to blue. There was a threat the Federals who captured Charleston were going to burn the town. In May of 1865, the Black Union Provisional Brigade moved from their position at Bacon's Bridge to occupy Summerville. With many houses and buildings turned into hospitals, it became the temporary residents for the sickly and wounded.

While recovering from the Civil War, the final years of the 19th century saw two more devastating local events. Summerville was rattled by an earthquake in 1886 and a downtown fire ravaged most of the buildings around the Town's square. As with all fires, the clouds of thick smoke dispersed and sunny, blue skies appeared overhead. The sacred tree's that soothed the first marooners came to the rescue.

The International Congress of Physicians in Paris declared Summerville one of the world's two best places for treating lung disorders. The town rose from the ashes and the pleasant aroma of azalea and wisteria wafted through the tall trees and winding streets. Grand inns and hotels were constructed to accommodate the influx of visitors. It was the "Golden Age of the Inns" and prosperity reigned supreme. But alas, the dubious crown of financial security was soon to be knocked off.

An Economic shakeup called the Great Depression began to change the landscape. The wrecking ball took out two of the Town's premier accommodations, the Pine Forest and Carolina Inn. The Summerville Short no longer stopped and the grand old railroad station disappeared from Hutchinson Square. The Summerville Show stopped the movie projectors from turning. Hurricane Hugo paid an unwelcoming visit and showed no respect for the cherished pines. The downtown area lost its allure.

Then, a call went out. :The show must go on," said the Flowertown Players, and Summerville had a Dream. Every Third Thursday the community would gather together and the shops were going local. The Town's popular magazine made a sweet discovery and the "Birthplace of Sweet Tea" took its honored place among the town's mottos, and now from Botany Bay to Boone Hall, it is "at the heart of it all." Restaurants and cafes are on nearly every corner and in-between inviting patrons to linger a little longer. It seems there is no stopping the Town from rising like a Phoenix from the ashes in the face of adversity, and a little help from providence.

Could there be another civil war, it is in the realm of possibility. Could another earthquake happen, it is a viable danger. Could there be another economic crisis, there is always that prospect. Could there be another Hurricane Hugo, blink your eyes and the weather does change. As heralded in this article, each of these insidious calamities have confronted the Town through its 177 years, and each time without reservation, it has prevailed. The only way Summerville could ever fail is if it would lose touch with its sense of itself. Who it was, who it is, who it needs to be, and who it must be in the ever changing South Carolina Lowcountry.

Visit Summerville        Coastal Coffee Roasters

Summerville Dream     La Rustica - on Magnolia

Flowertown Players      Laura Summerville

Azalea Magazine          Five Loaves Cafe

More Summerville stories.

The Summerville Inn That Changed Its Appearance Like a Chameleon

Dorchester Inn

Vose Inn is not a commonly recognizable name in the history of Summerville. The obvious reason for its present anonymity is it no longer exists. It was so severely damaged by the Earthquake of 1886, it was deserted to the elements to rot into oblivion. It was situated behind what is now Ambler Hall on W. Carolina.

A famous name in Charleston history stayed there, and afterwards, penned some glowing remarks about the "charming, rural, picturesque" town of Summerville. She spoke of a "new spirit" and an "enthusiasm for progress." It was 1860, and the Charleston writer was a woman nicknamed "the ancient lady," Mrs. Elizabeth Anne Poyas.

Around the same time, another accommodation was emerging in popularity as a place that combined all the comforts of a city hotel, with the enjoyments of country living. The hotel's address was at the crossroads of W. Carolina and Sumter Ave. But on this day of March 8, 2024, as I stand at that very same location, no traces of the lodging with a history as old as Summerville's pine trees and an identity that varied as much as a chameleon changes colors remained.

Unmercifully, in the 1960's, it suffered the same irreversibly regrettable fate as the Vose Inn, total destruction. So, with some imagination and preserved photos, I gazed out over the present landscape and visually reconstructed the old inn.  

In 1810, Moore's Tavern stood on the property. It would become the Brown's Hotel around 1855 under the ownership of Isaac T. Brown--also called the Summerville House. Brown added a ten-pin alley and a billiard room. The hotel was surrounded by wide piazzas. Inside were spacious parlors, ample halls, and comfortable and airy chambers complimented by all the substantials and luxuries of a well supplied table. Hotel rates were $1.25 a day, $7.00 a week, and $25.50 a month. Boarders were furnished tickets at $.50 each for a round trip passage on the railroad to Charleston, which was a hour trip, including carriage ride to and from the depot.

The Brown's Hotel suffered damage from the 1886 earthquake. It closed around 1890, but unlike the Vose Inn, reopened in 1895. It became known as the Dorchester Inn featuring full, wrap-around porches and numerous shuttered windows. In 1912, T.R. Moore owned the Dorchester Inn and after enlarging the structure, extensively remodeling the interior, and updating the building, it opened its doors as the Carolina Inn featuring 67 rooms and a swimming pool.

With white wood-rail fencing, beautifully landscaped walking gardens, and an acquired reputation for excellent accommodations and cuisine, it would become preferred by many travelers for its discreet elegance and atmosphere in comparison to the opulence of another competitor, the Pine Forest Inn. There was an east wing and a west wing with one large, window-lined dining room sectioned off into two dining spaces with table settings containing china and sterling. A third dining room was reserved for staff employees who accompanied their employers when staying at the inn. The fine cuisine included an offering of duck and quail, two dishes the inn's kitchen was renowned for.

Unlike the structured offerings of the Pine Forest Inn, there were no activities organized by management. Patrons were left to their own devices. One of the favorite pastimes of the guests was competing in bridge tournaments and competitions. Somewhat similar to tourism today, other diversions included historical tours, garden tours, maybe a silent movie at the Arcade Theatre, or shopping and sightseeing excursions into Charleston on the South Carolina Railroad out of Summerville.

The only part of the inn complex that has survived is the two-story 2,400 square foot annex building at 315 W. Carolina. It was built to serve as an the overflow for guests seeking accommodations at the main building. It has been a private residence since 1963.

Carolina Inn Annex

Carolina Inn was sometimes mistakenly confused with White Gables by some today--another inn found on the famous directional sign. A Southern adaptation of Greek Revival architecture, White Gables was built in 1830 at the crossroads of Palmetto and Richardson Streets and was purchased by Sarah Woodruff in the early 1900's. There are some interesting stories associated with the Woodruffs and White Gables. Sarah was Summerville's Scarlet O'Hara when it came to business. However, that is another story.

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Five Points in Summerville--A Once Upon a Time Relic Explained or Unexplained

Summerville is growing, and as a result, is changing. However, Summerville has not forgotten its past. Its past is interwoven into what it is becoming today, and what it will be in the future. It celebrates the stories that have already been written through its projects, murals, arts, statues, books, magazines, festivals, and tours. Rich, entertaining stories explained and unexplained. The following unusual story, though not as well known and significant as the Pine Forest Inn, or the Railroad Station, or White Gables, you just might find compelling.

In Summerville, there is an area where three roads converge unto South Main Street to make a single intersection of five points. The roads are W. Carolina Ave, E. Carolina Ave, and Tupper Lane. I have driven through this intersection many times. Once upon a time a strange, potted ornament occupied a space at the point where W. Carolina Ave and Tupper Lane come together.

It was always just a brief curiosity because I never made any real effort to find out what the strange looking tree-like structure with blue bottles stuck on its branches was. Only by accident, I stumbled upon the answer. I was researching ghost stories in the Summerville area. Not surprising, it's called a blue bottle tree and quite common throughout the South. Perhaps, you remember seeing it as you navigated this highly traveled crossroads. I say remember because like many notable Summerville landmarks, it is no longer there.

What purpose did it serve? Was it meant to be just a decorative object to amuse passersby? Did its presence have a darker, deeper meaning for the individual or individuals who placed it there? After all, the blue bottle tree bears a cultural significance to some Lowcountry residents of times past.

Today, the blue bottle tree is mainly nothing more than a decoration people put in their gardens and on their lawns, but in history, the blue bottle tree is steeped in superstitions brought here by African slaves, although I should add, superstition to some, to others, deep rooted beliefs.

The color blue was believed to ward off spirits, more specifically, the evil kind. The blue bottles on the bottle tree are thought to entice the evil spirits into climbing inside during the evening hours where they become trapped. Then, the morning sun comes up and the sunlight kills the spirits. Quite an ingenious idea, if you believe in such things. Also, a nifty way of making good use of empty wine bottles, if you like the idea of a blue bottle tree in your yard.

Summerville's Five Points has a history. According to one study, a dark history. It is a well-known high-accident intersection. Between the years of 2015 to 2017, there were 60 crashes. Nine resulted in 13 persons injured and 51 resulted in property damage. Fortunately, there were no fatalities. To be noted, these statistics only covered a three year period. I took the picture of the blue bottle tree in 2015. So, when that study was done, it was already there. Yet, could this be the reason the blue bottle tree was placed at this crossroads in the first place, or was there something else more insidious going on with the properties around Five Points. Just down the road are the lion-topped brick pillars of 1006 South Main Street where the ghost of Mary Margaret resides.

Proposed roundabout

There are plans in the making to address the traffic problem at Five Points. One of them involves constructing a two-lane roundabout, which would not include Tupper Lane--it would be turned into a cul-de-sac. Thus, Five Points will fade away into history like the blue bottle tree that once graced the area to become just another footnote in Summerville's illustrious history like the Summerville Light.

I know there is someone out there in Summerville who knows the true reason why the blue bottle tree was placed there, when it was placed there, and who removed it. If not, it will become one of Summerville's Unexplained.

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Montreux Bar and Grill Sweet Tea Cocktail Entry and a Bit of a Ghost Story

The drink pictured here is the offering by Montreux Bar and Grill for the Hold My Tea Bar Crawl Sweet Tea Cocktail Contest now under way and running to September 23. As a suggestion, when there for a visit during the Sweet Tea Festival all this week, keep an eye on your car keys. If Mischievous Monty thinks you had a bit too much to drink, he will steal your keys from you. And, if they should come up missing, don't take offense, he is doing it for your own good.

In case you didn't know, Mischievous Monty is the patron ghost story at the longtime local favorite Montreux Bar and Grill. The mischievous phantom is an unknown individual, who decided to make the building his permanent home. He has a mischievous reputation dating back many years.

The drink is called Lowcountry Royal-Tea by Leah Pippin. It is a recipe of 1.5 oz Nippitaty Gin, 5 oz Simple Syrup, 3 Lemon Slices, 4 Mint Leaves, and 3 oz Unsweet Tea.

The building was originally constructed circa 1862. It has housed generations of businesses during that time. It has even been said it was once part of Summerville's "red-light district." At that time, it was a boardinghouse and restaurant known as Miss Lucia's. Other businesses once located at this address include a dry goods store owned by Chalmers Waring (now that is a recognizable Summerville name), a store called Summerville Hardware belonging to Gene Hutson, a NAPA Auto Parts, and McGuire's Irish Pub.

When it was a NAPA Auto Parts store, on many occasions, it was said parts would be set aside for customers, and then when they would arrive to pick them up, the part would no longer be where it was placed. Employees claimed to hear footsteps where no one was walking. There would be sounds of things being dragged around in locations no one had access to.

When Montreux first opened, employees working in the grill section would clean the kitchen every night, only to return the next morning to find pots and pans moved around or rearranged. A bartender reported seeing a framed record album launching itself over glasses and bottles from the shelf it had been sitting on striking the bar and ricocheting back into the ice maker.

The general manager recounted one night while alone in the bar and locking up someone shouted in his ear. Another night, he witnessed a plastic caddy sitting on the bar taking off into the air on its own. Upon viewing the surveillance camera footage, he described what looked like a mist descended down onto the caddy in a rapid swooping motion and struck it.

Of course, these are all stories told by witnesses through the years who can offer no reasonable explanation for what they experienced in the building now called the Montreux Bar and Grill. Quite ironic, even the  bar's name is tied to the infamous "Smoke on the Water," a Deep Purple song commemorating the burning of the Montreux Casino on Lake Geneva in Switzerland.

Enjoy the festivities and Montreux's sweet tea cocktail entry for the sweetest week in Summerville, and just maybe, Mischievous Monty will pay a visit to your table or seat at the bar looking for your keys if you had a bit too much to drink, or gently whisper something into your ear, like, be a nice patron and leave a good tip, or else. Have fun and don't forget to cast your vote and get your free tee-shirt.

.127 W Richardson Ave., Summerville, SC

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You can read the full story about Monty in Bruce Orr's book Haunted Summerville, South Carolina.

Azaleas, Sweet Tea, and the Largest Festival in the Southeast--Summerville, South Carolina

Summerville has been shimmering in a sea of magnificent multitudinous masses of magenta. It is the annual azalea bloom putting on its best dress for the upcoming Flowertown Festival hosted in Summerville's Azalea Park. The flowers are the official doorkeepers of spring greeting all to the celebration of warmer days. Drive anywhere on the streets in the town's historic district between Central Ave and S Main and you will be convinced Summerville is rightfully crowned the "Flower Town in the Pines".

Rightfully the "Flower Town in the Pines" because Summerville is also famous for its pine trees, but unfortunately, the pollen bloom that rains down from its branches, when the weather warms, is not enthusiastically embraced with happy celebration like the azaleas. With that being said, pine trees and azaleas are a perfect collaboration because azaleas grow well in its shadows.

The varieties of azaleas are as bounteous as its blooms thanks to hybridizing, or crossbreeding. They are native to North America, so it is likely they greeted our arriving ancestors in some form. All North American species are deciduous, meaning they drop their leaves. The evergreen varieties come from Japan where they can be hundreds of years old. The plants and blooms are mildly toxic, but I can personally dispute this assumption as not likely to be a deterrent to consumption. When I lived in northeastern Ohio years ago, I planted extensive rock gardens and plant mounds on my property. I attempted to incorporate azaleas into my scheme, but was unsuccessful. It seemed the branches were a favorite delicacy of deer, who ate the plants down to a stub before having a chance to pop a bud.

The azaleas that helped make Summerville famous are most likely the non-native variety. These originated in China and Japan, and made their way to the U.S. via England, France, and Germany. According to azalea historian Fred Galle in the United States, Azalea Indica (specifically speaking about the group of plants called Southern Indicas) got its name because when it was discovered, Asia was known as the East Indies. The first hybrids were planted in Charleston, South Carolina.

John Grimke Drayton imported the Azalea Indica from Philadelphia--where they were grown only in greenhouses by a nurseryman who also had a branch nursery in Charleston--and introduced them into the estate gardens of his rice plantation on the Ashley River. Marie Clinton Hastie wrote about the beginnings of her grandfather's garden, "it was somewhere in the mid 1840s that the Azalea Indica was introduced to Magnolia." His garden was the first in America to plant azaleas outdoors.

Thanks to the generosity of George Segelken, a pioneer in azalea propagation, Summerville became the place to see these uncommon plants in all their abundant glory in 1935. People came from all over to view the lush beauty of the town's Azalea Park. Segelken named the salmon pink colored azalea "Pride of Summerville." The park is the predominant venue of the Flowertown Festival.

The Flowertown Festival ranks as one of the largest festivals in the Southeast with an origin that goes back to 1972. The three-day festival also carries the well-deserved distinction as one of the Top 20 events in the Southeast by the Southeast Tourism Society. One of the main features of this family-oriented festival centers on the promotion of arts and crafts. More than 200 craft artisans and vendors are given the opportunity to showcase their creative wares throughout Azalea Park. The Taste is another feature that offers festivalgoers a chance to sample appetizers, main courses, and desserts from local restaurants. For the young ones, there will be a Children's Jubilee/Kid's Fest, for the adults, a Saturday farmer's market. Admission is free and parking is free. The Robert Pratt Band will be sending musical vibes through the town's historic district.

The current festival was predated by a previous one in 1941, when Summerville celebrated the first Azalea Festival—a four-day event that included dances, concerts, a parade, and a formal ball. The festival promoted local business and celebrated the town's community pride, a pride as old as the trees. Summerville's rich history dates all the way back to the late 1600s. In those early days, coastal residents sought refuge from the heat and mosquitoes among the cooler pines of Summerville. One of the trees redeeming features was the turpentine scent it emitted, and even doctors considered it a cure for a variety of respiratory ailments. Many came all the way from Europe for the pine air and its believed benefits, but it was not just for the air, they also came for the southern charm and beauty.

Spring is a great time to experience Summerville's southern beauty, charm, and community pride. It is the season to celebrate the Flowertown Festival in The Birthplace of Sweet Tea beginning on April 1st, and this is no April fools. Speaking of sweet tea, allegedly, in 2003 as an April Fool’s joke, the Georgia House introduced a bill making it a "...misdemeanor of a high and aggravated nature" to sell iced tea in a restaurant that did not also offer sweet iced tea on the menu. The bill never went to a vote. You can not accuse the Georgia House of lacking in humor. South Carolina adopted sweet tea as the state's Official Hospitality Beverage in 1995.

Of course, you cannot have sweet tea without a tealeaf, and Summerville owns the bragging rights for a particular variety. With French explorer and botanist Andre Michaux's planting of Oolong tea on the Middleton Barony in 1795, South Carolina was the only colony in America producing tea plants at that time. Later, Dr. Charles Shepard founded the Pinehurst Tea Plantation in Summerville in 1888, where he made tea growing a profitable reality. While Oolong tea could be your choice in making sweet tea, any kind can be used, though black tea is always a classic.

Well, that is Summerville—azaleas, sweet tea, and the biggest festival in the Southeast. While visiting for the Flowertown Festival, grab a glass of the best sweet tea at Sweetwater One Twenty Three. When you see me walking around town, be sure to say, "Hey." I am always interested in making new acquaintances.