Sweet Caroline(76)

“Mercy Bea, what’s the time on my hair?” I ask.

“Five more minutes.”

Mitch pulls out an obscure-looking disc. “Here’s a record marked ‘State Fair, ’49.’”

Elle gets up to see over his shoulder. Her bracelets clink softly as she reaches, turning Mitch’s hand for a better look. “What do you think it is?”

Mitch slides the disc from the white paper sleeve. “Fairs used to have recording booths. For a few bucks, a person could record a song or message.”

“Let’s hear it.” Mercy Bea tosses in a second bag of popcorn.

The old disc protests the needle with a pop when Mitch sets it down. In the next second, a very familiar voice emanates from the speakers. “This here is Jones Q. McDermott at the South Carolina State Fair, nineteen and forty-nine, singing a song to my true love.”

Clunk, twang, thunk.

Elle and I exchange a quizzical glance.

Mitch chuckles. “He must be having a hard time with his guitar in the booth.”

Mercy Bea comes over munching from her first bowl of popcorn. “He sounds so young.” Her words fade away. “I miss him.”

I grab a handful of white popped kernels. “Me too.”

“This is for my gal—” Jones says.

(“Hurry up, kid. Ya ain’t got but two minutes!”)

“Ah, hush up, old man. Here’s for you, darlin’.”

The guitar strings squeak and Jones begins his serenade.

You captured my heart

With your lovely smile

We was young

But for a while

I’ve been in love with you—

(“Ha-ha-ha! What’d you do with the money your mama gave you for singing lessons, kid?”)

Always loved you

Darling, will you marry—

(“Not if she’s smart. Time, kid. Time.”)

The recording is over. Abrupt and rude. My emotions cry foul. Jones McDermott captured me with his heartfelt, fifty-eight-year-old song.

Mitch lets the needle scratch against the paper label for several long seconds.

“What happened? Where’s the rest of the song?” Elle yips. “Mitch, check the other side. Who was that man yelling?”

“The booth operator.” Mitch somberly flips the record over, but there’s nothing on side B. So he plays A again.

“This here is Jones Q. McDermott . . .”

The four of us listen and fuss to each other about the rude booth operator, then wonder who in the world stole Jones’s heart.

“Mercy Bea, did you ever hear him talk of anyone?” I ask.

She tosses popcorn into her mouth. “I may be the oldest among y’all, but I’m not that old. By the time I met him, he was a cranky, committed bachelor.”

Mitch carefully slides the 45 into the white sleeve. “Sounds like he really loved this woman. But the man yelling . . . Not cool. Poor Jones trying to sing his heart to a woman he loved.” He laughs lightly. “I remember my first recording session. I was petrified.”

I jab his ribs with my elbow. “You were not.”

“Yes, I was. Terrified. If someone yelled at me like that, I would’ve bolted. Never sung a note.”

Mercy Bea rams her wrist in front of my eyes. “Time, Caroline. Time.” She runs toward the bedroom. “Hurry, we best get you rinsed out.”

“Mercy Bea—” Eight extra minutes have passed. “If I look like Lucille Ball . . .”

“You won’t look like Lucille Ball.”

Howard chooses that exact moment to shake Beaufort as if we are a tiny town encapsulated in a snow globe. The lights flicker.

“Come on, baby, stay on.” Mercy Bea grabs a clean towel from my closet with a quick review of the coloring directions. As she grabs the shampoo, Howard bears down with another giant gust.

The lights flicker off.

And stay off.

Frogmore Café Feeds the Neighborhood After Howard





BY MELBA PELOT


WEDNESDAY, SEPT 5

By normal standards, Caroline Sweeney is an average twenty-something, lowcountry born and bred.

But Sunday, after Hurricane Howard blew through, she became the belle of Beaufort.

Along with the Frogmore Café’s cook, Andy Castleton, Caroline and her crew fed more than a thousand people over the past two days at the Bay and Harrington Street café.

Many customers brought food from home to be fired up on the grill, contributing to the giant block party.

“Caroline shows extraordinary heart. Giving from the Café to people in need,” said Councilman Dave Williamson. “She donated all the food, water, and time she had.”

“I saw people Sunday night after the storm I hadn’t seen in years,” said Beaufort dentist Dr. Gerry Collinsworth. “Mini reunions happened all around me.”

Sunday night became even more magical when country great and Beaufort son Mitchum O’Neal pulled guitars with local favorite Branan Morgan and filled the hot, humid night with music. Later, they were joined by other local musicians, Penny Collins and Red Stebbins.

“In times like these, I’m reminded of how many great people live in Beaufort,” said Connie Stern, a local realty receptionist.

“Caroline Sweeney being at the top of my list right now.”