THE ANGEL OAK

I grew up in the south, South Carolina for the most part, but we were wanderers across that state. back and forth from Columbia to Bennetsville we roamed. but for five blissful years we settled in Charleston and that place buried itself under my skin, left its imprint permanently. I loved that place so much it still pulls me. The smell of the marsh. The hot wet air. The pelicans loping across the sky. And a 1,500 year old tree called the Angel Oak out on John’s Island. A few years ago I guess I just needed to answer that pull and so I began writing out the memory. It turned into to fiction holding all the feelings of that place.
I wrote about two ghosts who were bound up with each other on earth and then stayed bound up when they turned to spirit and a tree called the Angel Oak.
Here is a little snippet from that story.


"I went down in the Valley one day, I heard the angel singing."
Inez held Hopes hand, singing as she wove with her through the tree’s arcing limbs, the two wraiths falling like sunlight through the leaves of the Angel Oak. Hope was frightened. She had never bargained on flying being part of her job description. She wondered how Inez had mastered this flying floating thing as if she’d always known that one day she would soar. Inez ignored her protestations and showed her where to alight, high in the tree, where the view was good.

I don’t like heights, Hope said.
The tallest tree in paradise, the Christians call the tree of life, Inez sang. And then she turned to Hope. Come on, sing with me, she said. Sunday’s dawning soon.
We used to come here all the time, Inez. I love this tree, is this why you brought me here?
Just sing.
I don’t know this song.
The spirits will come.
Spirits?
Inez giggled a wheezy sound through her nose.
Spirit’s other than the two we be.
And when she saw the confusion on Hopes face she added.
If you hadda looked closely if you ever came on Saturday night you would have seen Angels, floating brightly above the water, carrying spirits along on their wings, bringing them back to earth, back to the tree, to sing. Ain’t you never seen them?
No I don’t believe I ever saw that, Inez. Hope smiled a knowing smile. A smirk really.
You don’t believe me?
I didn’t say that.
Humph. Well just wait. You’ll see.
Shadows began flitting along the bent boughs. Shadows arriving and singing songs so sad the wind began to moan. And there were hundreds of them materializing from shadow to shape until finally the Angel Oak was entirely covered with spirits. Their voices rang across the sky, hard to hear, easily mistaken for the wind, or birds or some strange whirring insects that rattled just before dawn. They sang all the songs at once. Nobody knows the trouble I seen. Nobody knows my sorrow, Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, You got to walk that lonesome valley, Swing low sweet chariot, there is a balm in Gilead, Wade in the water,. Roll over Jordon. I’m going home all swelling from the python like branches of the ancient tree..
Who are these people? Hope whispered.
My ancestors.
Have they always come here?
Yes, for a long long time.
Why could I never see them before?
Were you looking?
I don’t guess I was.
You got to look to the past to remember your future, Inez said.
Hope began to quake.
I don’t wanna be left behind when the saints go marching in.
A small girl fluttered down and settled next to Hope. She clutched onto Hope’s arm and looked up at her, her brown eyes wide and sad.
Where’s my Mama at? she said.
I don’t know sugar. Hope turned to Inez, What is this child doing here by herself?
Where’s her mother?
Inez shrugged and began to clap her hands with the others as they sang.
The tallest tree in Paradise, the Christians call the tree of life.
Well don’t you worry, Hope said to the child, you stay with me until we find your mama.
She can’t do that, Inez said. You’re too late.
What do you mean?
Just then, a woman, alive on the earth, wandered under the tree and stood with her neck craned, peering up into the branches draped with spirits and Spanish moss.
Isn’t that the bird woman? Hope whispered.
Yes, Althea can see us. Not many can. She has the call. Inez waved.
Turkey buzzard on its way, someone shouted down to Althea.
Althea nodded her head. Too bad, she muttered and wandered away.
What’s that mean?
Inez just tsked her teeth and shook her head. Mm-mm-mm. She said. while the others sang that Paul and Silas bound in jail sing God’s praise both night and day. hallelujah...

-from I Heard The Angel Singing. Iva Peele


a few weeks ago i took my youngest son to Charleston. we drove out to see the Angel Oak. He was as mesmerized as i've spent a lifetime being. The ancient old tree still growing and holding up our memories for 1500 years has seen more than any than we can imagine. A thousand years before the Europeans came to this place and brought with them people they’d stolen from Africa, this tree was watching the original people go about their lives. Century after century it’s been aborbing it all. all the secrets and mysteries of this place held inside it's trunk and stretched out limbs...

Peace like a River

Sometimes this yearning starts up in the summer. A yearning for the south, where I grew up. A yearning  for the marsh outside of Charleston where my brother and my friend Happy Erwin and I spent hours wandering shirtless and barefoot. Sinking in the marsh mud. Talking in hushed tones about how the crabs would eat you if you sank too deep. Eat out your eyeballs. We slapped at mosquitoes and watched the pelicans lope across the sky. I loved the cabbage stink smell of the mud at low tide and walking up to the 7/eleven, covered in mud and bites, to get an icee. Past the graveyard and the haunted house. It seemed in every moment there was magic. It dripped down from the moss and rose out of the marsh. Sometimes our mother took us out to the Angel Oak on John’s Island. That tree is 1300 years old, her branches long as octopus tentacles reaching up to heaven and snaking yards and yards along the ground. if you sat under that old tree and listened real close you could hear the angels sing.

Here, in the northeast, on the farm, it sure gets as hot as any southern summer, but the marsh is fresh water. Fed by a river instead of the ocean. There is magic here too, but to my untrained eye, sometimes it’s harder to find. You have to search. So, the other day, because I was homesick and in search of memory I went down to the river to play.

The air was cool. Gusts of gadflies skimmed the smooth surface. I let my memories of the south get all tangled up in this yankee river and all the old spirituals I used to know rose to the surface… Just when I thought my soul was lost, I heard the angels singing. O sisters lets go down let’s go down come on down o sisters lets go down down to the river and pray…I’ve got peace like a river in my soul I’ve got a river in my soul…

I ran those songs all together as the sun fell down the sky. I sang loud and splashed around and took the pictures. Off in the distance my husband mowed hay, his tractor rattling across the field.

Here are the pictures that came.