Author: Lauren Mirs

Cowpens

In the 80s, a distant relative published her 40 years of genealogy research that traced a branch of our family tree back to Ireland. According to the book, our ancestors immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Laurens County, South Carolina. The book doesn’t just list names and dates; the author included letters written by these ancestors, plus information gleaned from interviews with grandchildren, trying to capture each person’s life story and character.

One story told of a farmer whose farm was seized by a military leader during the civil war. Fighting took place either on his land or nearby. “This was known as the Battle of Cowpens,” the story concluded. “Oh, yeah- the Battle of Cowpens,” I thought sarcastically. “Like anyone has ever heard of that.”  

On this road trip, I was in Asheville, looking at the atlas to figure out where to go next, and I saw Cowpens National Battlefield pictured right over the border in South Carolina. It wasn’t in Laurens County, but was close by. That had to be it! I had to go there. Even though I knew the landscape would have changed in 150 years, I wanted to get a sense of the land my ancestors had looked at, walked through, lived in- where they worked, cried, dreamed, laughed, loved, died. 

At Cowpens, among gently rolling hills lush with vegetation, I was surrounded by trees leafing out in a hundred shades of growing green. To me, the area only seemed peaceful and beautiful. I had wondered beforehand if it would feel familiar, as if its spirit were in my blood, but no; it was just another stop on the road.  

If I ever travel to Ireland, I will have to visit the county my ancestors came from. Will it look and feel like Cowpens? Will the land feel familiar? And what about my ancestors- did they feel at home in South Carolina? Or did they die dreaming of Ireland? Maybe they dreamed of someplace else- maybe someplace they had never been. Maybe they never felt at home anywhere. For this year at least, the road is my home.  

What about you? Where are your relatives from? Have you visited their hometowns? Did the experience move you?  

Photo: Cowpens National Battlefield, SC

Sticks and Stones

Now and then, I think of an episode of a daytime talk show I saw decades ago. A guest on the show had been homeless, addicted to heroin. Luckily, she managed to turn her life around. During the course of the segment, she figured out that she had started using drugs because she didn’t feel good about herself, and it all stemmed from being made fun as a kid for the clothes she wore. It stuck with me what a tremendous impact an insult can make. But the good news is, a compliment or kind gesture can also be life-changing. Whenever I think of this story, I try to be extra nice to the next person talk to.  

Photo: Ruby Falls, Lookout Mountain, GA

Irish Dance and a Voice

On another adventure, my mom and I checked into a hotel room for the night. The room even had a balcony overlooking a lawn that led to a small lake, although we didn’t expect to use it since temperatures were predicted to dip into the 30s that night.  

Settling into the room, we went out onto the balcony to get a better view of the sunset. As the pink streaks faded and the air turned cooler, we decided to go back inside, only to discover that the door had locked behind us. We were on the second floor, a concrete pad beneath us. Since it was so cold, none of the guests had their windows open. We were on the back side of the hotel, facing nothing but nature.  

We yelled out phrases like, “Help! We’re stuck on the balcony! Call the front desk! Room one eleven!” [or whatever it was]. We tried yelling in unison. We yelled until we got tired, and then waited. The peaceful sound of the evening breeze was the only reply.  

Our balcony came equipped with set of plastic tables and chairs. We got the idea to bang furniture against the railings. On my first swing, a piece of my chair cracked off. Not only was that furniture was too delicate for batting practice, it didn’t make any spectacular sounds.  

My mom threatened to jump off the balcony. I talked her into holding off because I could just picture her hitting the concrete and breaking a leg. Plus, as the younger generation, I felt it should be my duty to volunteer for the more physically risky stunts, and I didn’t want to break my leg. “I’d rather have a broken leg and be alive,” she argued. Yes, but were we really to that point yet? She threatened to run and blast through the glass balcony door. I pointed out that the running start she’d get was about two feet long, and didn’t really seem adequate for anything other than dislocating a shoulder or acquiring some nasty bruises. “I’m not spending the night up here,” she pronounced.  

I suggested, “You know how, in Irish dance, when everybody’s doing the same steps at the same time, it’s really loud?” We counted out a rhythm and held onto the railing, jumping in tandem. When our legs got tired, we stopped and waited. We were met with a tranquil silence.  

It was getting serious. Before progressing to physically dangerous methods, I wanted to try one last effort to attract attention. This time we went all out, jumping and screaming, trying to be as annoying as possible. “HELP! WE’RE TRAPPED!” we screamed as we slammed our feet against the balcony.  

Eventually, a man walked onto the lawn. I’ll never forget the way he slowly turned his head diagonally to look up at us, his eyebrows furrowed in an expression of What in the world is going on here, and who is causing this ruckus?  

“Oh, thank God!!! Can you please tell the front desk that we’re trapped on our balcony?!!” I pleaded.  

Who would’ve thought that the place we’d most need our survival backpacking supplies was at a hotel?

Down A Country Road

While my mom was rearranging items in her car trunk, I noticed a hand saw at the bottom of the pile. “Do you always keep a saw in your trunk?” “Yeah.” “Do you ever use it?” “Sometimes.” 

Months later, the two of us were on an adventure drive. She was driving; I was navigating. I directed her onto a back road, and my route quickly stopped matching the picture on the map. It didn’t help that some of the intersections didn’t have street signs, and some of the lines on the map weren’t labeled. As we headed deeper into the forest, the road turned from gravel to dirt to mud, until we were on essentially a logging road. Suddenly, my mom stopped the car. A tree had fallen across the road and both shoulders; there was no way around it. By this point, we were probably 10 to 20 minutes in. Neither of us wanted to turn back.  

Thankfully, we were in her car. We both thought of the saw in her trunk.  

The tree was thin enough that we were able to saw its trunk into a few pieces and drag it off the road. [I say “we,” but about 90% of the sawing was done by my mom.]   

We got back in the car and drove on. At some point, we came upon an older man walking with a cane and a Sheltie he called “Nickels.” My mom couldn’t stand the thought of an old man walking for miles alone in the middle of nowhere, so she pulled up beside him and asked if he wanted a ride. He got in, but we left his dog outside because her legs and the hair on her entire underbelly were covered in mud.

At first, the dog ran alongside of the car as we crawled through the mud, but soon we sped up to 20 or 30 miles per hour, and the dog shrank into a spot in the rearview mirror enthusiastically bounding toward us at full speed.  Every now and then, the man would call “Nickles!” out the window, as if the dog needed encouragement. I was thinking, Dude, the dog is going to die if you make it run any faster.  

We dropped the man off at a house along that forsaken road. He yelled out “Nickels!” for good measure as he exited the car. We may have waited a minute to make sure the dog wasn’t going to keel over from exertion, then headed toward paved roads and civilization.

Nowadays, if a road starts off gravel, the two of us hold out for the next turn.  

Photo: Robert Scruggs House, Cowpens National Battlefield, SC

A Pan of Brownies

My mom was a Girl Scout and loved it. Naturally, she enrolled me in Brownies (the prerequisite to Girl Scouts) when I was in preschool or kindergarten. Right after you join, you need to buy the uniform. As a typical little girl, I liked pink, baby blue, and anything sparkly. The uniform for a Brownie was head-to-toe brown, which was immediately off-putting. More importantly, I had no idea what Brownies or Girl Scouts did. My mom hadn’t gotten around to telling me about the wilderness skills she had learned, the camping she’d enjoyed, or the friendships she had formed through the club.  

We met in a school cafeteria, Brownies through Girl Scouts in sixth grade. Each age group had its own lunch table. Pretty much all I remember happening was my group leader making a big deal out of reminding a selected victim that it was their turn to bring a snack for the group next week. “Jennifer, don’t forget. Next week it’s your turn to bring the snack. Tell your mom that you have to bring a snack next week.” I remember thinking, If it’s so important, why don’t you just make copies of a note and hand it to a different person each week?  

At the end of each meeting, all grade levels would gather in a circle. I’m sure some words were spoken (probably the Girl Scout motto that I didn’t memorize), and then we’d hold hands and, one by one, wait for the person next to us to squeeze our hand. Then we’d pass it along by squeezing the hand of the person on our other side. That was my favorite part of Brownies.  

During one pivotal meeting, instead of our normal lunch tables in rows, the cafeteria was set up with smaller booths and one or two of the older Girl Scouts behind each booth. We younger girls must have been told to stop at different tables and talk to the Girl Scouts at each booth. I’m not sure if it was a science fair, information fair, indoor circus, or what. I wandered around the room, doing my best to avoid interacting with anyone. I spotted a leader asking one of the sixth-grade girls to go out in the hall with her, and I trailed them to the doorway and spied on them. The leader asked the Girl Scout if she would be the one to start the hand squeeze during circle time. From the girl’s rapturous expression and blissful response, you would’ve thought that some high honor had just been bestowed upon her. It was like she just learned that she had been nominated as the presidential candidate for her political party.  

Deflated, my thought was, So, if I stay in Girl Scouts for another six years, maybe one day I’ll be chosen for the immense responsibility of starting the hand squeeze? I could handle that now. At that point, I lost all interest in Brownies and Girl Scouts. What was there to look forward to? What was there to work toward?  

If I had been more mischievous, I would have started my own hand squeeze when everybody formed a circle, but I didn’t think of it back then. Surprisingly, judging by the one hand squeeze that came from one direction, no one else did, either.  

Photo: Rock City, Lookout Mountain, GA

Scarlet Fever

In my mid-twenties, I went with a bunch of coworkers out to dinner. Somehow, the game Clue came up. Our store manager mentioned that she always wanted to be Professor Plum. I had to hand it to her for her forward thinking; Professor Plum was pictured as a man in the drawings and portrayed as a man in the movie, and I had never considered that as an option. Another coworker chimed in, “I wanted to be Mrs. White.” I was honestly shocked. I took it for granted that every woman wanted to be Miss Scarlet.  

Who wouldn’t want to be Miss Scarlet? An eye-catching, trail-blazing, quick-thinking, sharp-shooting, freewheeling, razor-tongued, restless spitfire. Miss Scarlet is a forest fire, the reverberating crash of thunder, the hundred yard dash, a blaring trumpet solo surging almost out of control. Miss Scarlet is fearless.  

I had forgotten about those characters until I recently saw Clue on my friend’s board game shelf. Next time I need a shot of courage or sass, I will try and channel the red hot vibes of Miss Scarlet.  

Photo: Biltmore Estate, Asheville, NC