A new guardhouse stands sentry at the back gate in Seven Lakes West, making the east side of this little kingdom more stately.
I’ve watched the progress as each brick has been laid with the fascination of a person who once held the proverbial keys to a much older set of gates.
Before I became a writer for the Seven Lakes Insider, I worked for a Presbyterian church in Charleston, SC ringed by historic gates. Occasionally the responsibility to open them in the early morning or to close them after dark and under street lamplight fell to me.
The wrought iron works of art dating to the early 19th century towered overhead. Crafted by blacksmiths around 1814, they were embellished with hand-forged thistle motifs, a nod to the Presbyterian church’s Scottish heritage.
Opening and closing them felt like a primitive ritual. Simple padlocks secured heavy chains around the pickets. At least one of the padlocks would grow moody and particular in the humidity on any given morning.
With the chains removed, I would lift the cane bolt from the ground socket. Pulling and pushing against the weight of the leaf to swing it open caused the pintle and gudgeon to emit a ghostly whine.
More than once I found myself wondering about all the hands that had performed this same task — sextons, deacons, elders, pastors, going back generations. I felt like part of a chain of people tending to a sacred task of hospitality.
This is quite a contrast to the way I experience gates now. Our Seven Lakes gates inspire not reverence, but more often a buzz of anxiety. Will they open? Will they close? Will my guest be granted entry? Will the contractors arrive on time? Will my package delivery make it? Will someone “sneak” through?
These questions ask a lot from an arm that lifts on a hinge.
None of this has the gravity of a 200-year old wrought iron gate that survived a civil war, a devastating earthquake and countless hurricanes it had no hope of keeping out.
Our Seven Lakes gates are mostly aluminum and electronics. They usually have no noisy comment to make as they swing. They don’t share pious opinions about the weather the way that old padlock did.
When I pass through our gates, I’m usually in a rush to get somewhere or in a hurry to get home. So I really just need them to work without any hassle.
But if I’m paying attention, there is a pause built into every crossing. It’s only a few seconds, but long enough to register that I’m home. When I’m going the other direction, it’s long enough to notice I’m leaving.
This isn’t a very romantic ritual. It’s not tactile. But it is a pause in the midst of ordinary days. It is a pause waiting to be noticed.
So the next time you find yourself waiting on that little arm to decide if you are welcome, behold not an inconvenience, but a threshold.
Contact Maggie Beamguard at maggie@thepilot.com.