A town called Chester.
Something has always appealed to me abut this name. And Chester was a great uncle of mine. (and I’d be remiss, if I didn’t mention that Hustler magazine had a regular comic called “Chester the Molester,” and I know this because my middle school best friend Tim and I used to sneak into his basement to read his dad’s rather extensive collection.)
Anyway—Chester, SC. I drove through last night and was surprised by the fanciness of it. Lots of of big old antebellum houses, dense treed lawns, a town square, etc. Even at 9 pm, you can see that these people are pretty darned proud of their town. Chester is also the home of a major branch of the SC DOT clean-up facilities. Which explains why the place smells a great deal like fresh paint.
Today, I’m headed to the beach. Huntington Beach, hopefully, which looked dreamy last year, when they turned me away (they were full) despite intense begging and nicing. This year, I’m trying to call ahead, but I keep getting a busy signal. Hoping for the best.
(editors’ note: I didn’t get there. I called and they were booked! Next year, I’m really calling ahead. I’ve changed the plan, and after a fabulous drive through rural SC, I’m heading to Wilmington, to meet up with Sweet Lucy, and the Points clan.)
Anyway, I’ve put some pictures up.