1936

Francis Lachicotte Zemp was born on 24 Jul 1937 in Camden, Kershaw, South Carolina, USA a child of Charles Herbert Zemp and Elizabeth Brisbane Workman Zemp.

1940

Lachicotte Zemp was counted in the census on 26 Apr 1940 in De Kalb, Kershaw, South Carolina, USA, as a 4-year-old, male, single, white, son. Also in the home was his father, Charles Zemp; his mother, Elizabeth Zemp; and his brothers, Charles Zemp and John Zemp.

1972

On June 23, 1972, Francis Lachicotte Zemp was mentioned as a living son in the obituary of Mr Charles Herbert Zemp.

1989

On February 19, 1989, F Lachicotte Zemp was mentioned as a living son in the obituary of Mrs Elizabeth Brisbane Workman Zemp.

2002

On July 13, 2002, Francis Lachicotte Zemp was mentioned as a living brother in the obituary of Dr Charles Herbert Zemp Jr.

2022

He died on 11 Apr 2022 in Camden, Kershaw, South Carolina, USA.

Francis Lachicotte Zemp of Camden, South Carolina | 1937 – 2022 | Obituary

Francis Lachicotte Zemp, Sr., (F.L. or Lach) was born July 24, 1937, and died on April 11, 2022, at age 84.

He grew up and lived the majority of his life in Camden, S.C., born the youngest of three sons, to Charles Herbert Zemp and Elizabeth Brisbane (Workman) Zemp.     He was pre-deceased by his wife of 57 years, Phyllis (“Muff”) Wooten Zemp.  He is survived and adored by his three children, Francis Lachicotte (Lach) Zemp Jr.,  James (Jack) Lenoir Zemp, and Phyllis Carrison (Zemp) Spence, as well as five grandchildren:  Will Zemp, Chad Zemp, and Jack Zemp and Grey Spence and Henry Spence.    He was a graduate of Davidson College where he earned a Bachelor of Arts in English in 1959. He went on to receive a Masters in English from the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill in 1963.   From there, he taught English and Writing for nearly fifty years.  Early in his career, he served as headmaster for Joseph Kershaw Academy and then spent many years teaching at Camden Military Academy, Bethune High School, and the University of South Carolina in Camden..   He served others freely, volunteering for Meals on Wheels during the last years of his life and was often seen by his neighbors picking up trash along the side of the road or doing countless small acts of kindness.

He was quiet and thoughtful, with a dry and very funny wit.  He loved music, especially classical, jazz, and opera.  He loved reading and was a wonderful (though shy) writer of poems, short essays and family genealogy, a gift for which his surviving family is grateful.  He loved his garden, and the birds, squirrels, deer, and the other flora and fauna in his yard, often the subject of his writing.  

In tribute, it seems fitting to close with his own, lovely words:

On the porch, we’re gathered round a sturdy kitchen table 

painted white, the seven of us spanning

seven lengthy decades, or so they seem to me

who can recall them all. And we’ve laughed and talked

and made a feast of simple food and potent drink 

as families do who’ve been apart.

And it’s lovely here: 

The evening air is soft and cool, 

and the world beyond the railing lies in folds 

of pasture, field, and meadow, 

rising gently to hillside oaks and sunset sky.

I marvel at the wonder of being here—

this land of gaunt frame houses and Eggs for Sale,

of dulcimers and mandolins,

of ponytails and overalls.

Even now, if asked directions, I’d only say,

“Drive five hours north, two thousand feet up,

and sixty years back—and take the detour

all the way!” I’d never have found it on my own.

But here we are, as much at home 

as sparrows in a nest, or nearly so, at least.

I wish I could accept it as it simply is—

but find it strange to be growing old 

and not to feel it, until reminded

by the living proof. 

Whose are these familiar faces 

that I know so well and love? 

And who is this I’m talking to—

the wife approaching forty, or the child of eight 

who cut her leg on broken glass?— 

the lawyer-mother, or the restless teen 

slipping through a window late at night? 

And who’s the me she’s talking to?—

There are dozens of us sitting here!

I wonder that the chairs can hold us all.

Well, I should not dwell on this, and won’t

except in passing and to blame it 

for the little strangeness that I feel—

strangeness that’s natural to us all, I guess.

And were they not my children, how would I have

ever found them to bring their worlds to me?  . . . 

It’s almost dark, the little ones grow restless— 

time to clear the dishes and milk the goat,

and time I think for us to go. 

But I know now just where we are:

this is the island on a turtle’s back

that takes a spell to reach

and I have stumbled on the spell.

Good night!

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Kershaw County Meals on Wheels.