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Article published Jul 2, 2003
Town welcomes Strom home
Suellen E. Dean
Staff
Writer
Doris Strom can look out her window and beyond the neon
Budweiser sign and see Strom Thurmond.
A statue of Edgefield's native son was
erected years ago. He stands facing the Robert Mills-designed courthouse, his
right hand lifted upward.
"It's like he's watching over me," Strom said
Tuesday afternoon between filling orders for burgers and hotdogs and watching
her old friend's funeral service on a television set hanging from the corner of
her pool hall and grill.
This is a place known for its burgers, a place that
Strom has been running with her family of four children for the past 42 years on
Edgefield's town square.
Strom says she is kinfolk on her mama and daddy's
sides of the family before she married a Strom, which was Thurmond's mother's
maiden name. She wore a black dress to work Tuesday. She closed the grill
sometime after 3 p.m., as the sign on the door said, so she could walk a few
blocks over to Thurmond's burial at Willowbrook Cemetery.
A trip to Columbia
would have been too much for her because she has a bad leg.
The first of the
month is always busy, but this week, with strangers coming to town to take
photographs of the statue and roam around Thurmond's hometown, the grill was
even busier.
She has been busy mostly repeating her memories of Thurmond and
pointing out her photo with the longest serving senator.
Earlier this week,
during one of her many interviews, she spotted a spider and its web on
Thurmond's arm and she made sure it was cleaned away.
That's how protective
some Edgefield folks are of their Thurmond. In fact, Strom was standing behind
the bar years ago when a construction worker was sent to town to blowtorch a
metallic cockroach included on the statue by the artist as her trademark.
Shortly before 1 p.m., Terry Ferrell from Ferrell's antiques, his son the
potter, Stephen Ferrell, and vintage clothing maker Freddie Marcia Neel ordered
salad and fruit plates and settled in at a table together in the bar at Old
Edgefield Grill. The grill is in a century-old house just off the square and
within a stone's throw of where an old service station was blown up during the
remaking of "That Darn Cat," in the 1990s. "Now I wish I had gone to Columbia,"
Neel whined in a southern drawl to her friends. When her mother, LuLu, died,
Thurmond called the house to give his condolences. Every time he saw her,
Thurmond would tell her just how pretty she looked, she said. Neel told everyone
to shush and turned up the television volume as Vice President Cheney gave his
speech about Thurmond. Before the stroll to the cemetery, Neel had changed into
a blue and white polka-dotted dress with a red bow and a hat with a red scarf.
"I wore this for Thurmond," she said as she stood after the service at the
cemetery next to the First Baptist Church, where the church ladies had prepared
a feast of pound cakes, cookies and finger-sandwiches for the crowd. "Mary
Tompkins (Thurmond's younger sister) said she would have done this had she been
able," said Fay Vaughan, who got off work from the medical center and came
straight over with her goodies and ended up staying to serve the crowd. Planning
for Thurmond's final return to town was no easy job for Police Chief Ronnie
Carter, who became chief less than two years ago. He solicited the help of about
70 officers from nearby towns and was out and on the square by sun up to block
off some parking spaces along the square. Most all the businesses and offices
were either closed or closed early to await the arrival of Thurmond's hearse. A
horse-drawn caisson arrived and waited for the flag-draped casket. By 4 p.m.,
people lined the square, armed with cameras, camcorders and umbrellas. A
riderless horse, its stirrups turned backwards to symbolize looking back over
one's life, followed behind the carriage. William Walter Mims sat in the doorway
of the Plantation House hotel on the square with his binoculars. Mims, the
former editor of the Edgefield Advertiser, the oldest newspaper in the state,
has never been much of a Thurmond supporter. And that has made him unpopular
around town. A few months ago, his daughter moved home to keep the paper going.
"He attracts good-looking women even when he's dead," Mims said with a smile, as
he peered into the crowd with his binoculars from the hotel, which he and his
wife own and live in. Frank and Judy Stone stood near the Thurmond statue,
waiting for the procession to arrive. Mrs. Stone went to high school with Nancy
Moore, Thurmond's beauty queen wife, and Frank Stone is a retired security guard
who once guarded Thurmond at a party in the Wilcox Hotel in Aiken. "He bought me
a turkey sandwich," he said. "I stayed up all night watching the hotel and then
he got up the next morning and said he was going to go jog. I said, 'You go
ahead. I'll ride behind you.' " The carriage carried Thurmond around the square,
and the crowd fell in behind, following the casket on foot all the way to the
cemetery and the Thurmond family plot near the edge of the grounds. The place
where Thurmond's father, mother, a sister and brother are buried. A place where
his 22-year-old daughter, Nancy Moore, is buried. A place that now serves as the
final resting place for four governors, including Thurmond. Only family and
select friends were allowed near the family plot as a light rain began to fall.
Four red roses and one white one were placed on top of the casket. A single
peach rose was left on Nancy's grave beside her father's. Thurmond's daughter,
Julie Whitmer, cuddled her 2-week-old son, Martin Taylor, in her arms as her
uncle, Barry Bishop, a plastic surgeon, told stories through a loudspeaker. The
rain came off and on as the cemetery became a sea of brightly colored umbrellas
under a dark sky. As a vocalist sang "Amazing Grace," the rain provided the
music. The preacher read 23 Psalm. A 21-gun-salute pierced the air, followed by
the gentle sound of a single bugle melting the air with Taps. The lone horse
without a rider was directed to turn in circles, representing a review of
Thurmond's life. The rain fell harder and the family faded away, leaving about
six men to lower the casket into the vault, wiping it down with towels. Chief
Carter shooed people from the family plot, as night fell and the rain continued
to pour. Inside the First Baptist Church fellowship hall, wet funeral goers
mingled around long tables of homemade cakes. Bettis Rainsford, a longtime
friend and well-known businessman who spoke during the Columbia services,
recalled seeing Thurmond the day he died. A few months ago, he took Thurmond
around town to visit his old friends, stopping by many of the businesses. At
that point, he was in a wheelchair. As he left the church, Rainsford said he
will miss his old friend the most every time he needs help. "And every time it
rains."
News researcher Chandra Placer contributed to this report. Suellen E.
Dean can be reached at 562-7229 or suellen.dean@shj.com.