Sasee August 2011

The whole point of getting thingsdone

is knowing what to leave

undone. – Lady Stella Reading

August 2011Priceless

www.sasee.com

630 29th Avenue North • Myrtle Beach, SC 29577 • 843.839.0100 | 11019 Tournament Boulevard • Murrells Inlet, SC 29576 • 843.848.2000 | SouthAtlanticBank.com

Our roots run deep in the Grand Strand.You can see them in our headquarters in Myrtle Beach…in our board of directors, all of whom live and work in this great community…in our executive officers who have a lifetime of banking experience here… and in our employees who are among the most skilled and knowledgeable in the market. Together, we created a bank focused on customer relationships with emphasis on a high level of personal attention from bankers who know the Grand Strand. You’ll also see safety and soundness in our numbers. Our community banking philosophy of credit quality, sound banking practices, and exemplary customer service guides our day-to-day operations and management.

For a better banking experience, visit us in Myrtle Beach or Murrells Inlet.

Member

People You Know & Trust.

SPORTS MEDICINE ~ REHABILITATION SERVICES ~ JOINT CARE ~ SPINE CARE

Larry McDaniel

Bringing Movement To LifeDr. Frederick Hamilton inspires a great deal of confidence in his patients.

www.McLeodMotion.orgwww.Facebook.com/McLeodMotion

McLeodHuman Motion Specialists

Dr. Frederick Hamilton

Orthopedic Surgeon Dr. Frederick Hamilton of McLeod Orthopaedics Seacoast understands that confidence and a positiveattitude play huge roles before and after every surgery.

“Since being injured in high school, both my knees have been nothing but bone rubbing on bone – causing a lot of pain,” saysLarry McDaniel, a retired golf pro from North Myrtle Beach. “Dr. Hamilton was a very positive and open fellow from thestart – which gave me a lot of confidence that my surgeries would be successful.”

With a comprehensive network of highly specialized surgeons, skilled physicians and rehabilitation specialists, McLeodHuman Motion Specialists offers some of the best sports medicine, rehabilitation services, joint care and spine care in theSoutheast. Whether your symptoms are due to an illness, injury or aging, McLeod and its coordinated approach to care canbring more movement to your life.

48169-HMS HamiltonMcDaniel9x10.125_9 6/8/11 4:10 PM Page 1

4 www.sasee.com august

who’s whoPublisher

Delores BlountSales & Marketing Director

Susan BryantEditor

Leslie MooreAccount Executives

Amanda Kennedy-ColieErica Schneider

Celia WesterArt Director

Taylor NelsonPhotography Director

Patrick SullivanGraphic ArtistScott KonradtAccounting

Bart Buie CPA, P.A.Administrative Assistant

Barbara J. LeonardExecutive Publishers

Jim CreelBill HennecyTom Rogers

August 2011Volume 10, Issue 8

PO Box 1389Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

fax 843-626-6452 • phone 843-626-8911www.sasee.com • [email protected]

Sasee is published monthly and distributed free along the Grand Strand. For subscription info, visit sasee.com. Letters to the editor are welcome, but could be edited for length. Submissions of articles and art are welcome. Visit our website for details on submission. Sasee is a Strand Media Group, Inc. publication.

Copyright © 2011. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any material, in part or in whole, prepared byStrand Media Group, Inc. and appearing within thispublication is strictly prohibited. Title “Sasee” isregistered with the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office.

featured articles8101416182022262830

I n T h I S I S S U ERead It!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12 Transition into Fall 2011. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32Women & Men Who Mean Business . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34Scoop on the Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42

47 Hoursby Beth M. Wood

And the Wheels Go Roundby Rose Ann Sinay

Away She Goesby Mary Helen Berg

Should you Write that Life Story?by Janey Womeldorf

The Oneby Sue Mayfield-Geiger

The Wicker Chairby Mindi Mikula

Southern Snapsby Leslie Moore

Walking Side By Sideby Melissa Face

Why I Writeby Diane Stark

Genetically Speakingby Diane DeVaughn Stokes

august www.sasee.com 5

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letter from the editorThis month, I did something drastic – I stopped watching television. Well, not completely, I do still watch the occasional movie, but I no longer have a cable subscription with 200+ channels. After a brief, slightly uncomfortable with-drawal, I was shocked by how little I missed it. And, by how much more spare time I have – to read, catch up with family and friends, play with the dogs – and I get to bed on time almost every night. We’ll see what happens when my “shows” come back on this fall, but for now, life without television is great.

Our Sasee Dream Big Book Drive is underway, with all donations of new and gently used children’s books going to the Bright Blue Sea Bookshelf program that provides books, free of charge, to children who need them. Founder, Ann Harris, has worked tirelessly to start and maintain this program; she even trav-eled to another state to see how a similar program was run. The ad on page 24 lists all of our drop off locations, but if you’re in the Murrells Inlet area, please stop by our office – we would love to see you!


contributing writersMary Helen Berg is a former journalist and a current essayist and writer of children’s books. Her essays have appeared in a variety of publications. She practices mothering on three chil-dren in Los Angeles.

Melissa Face lives in Virginia with her husband, son and dog. Her stories and essays have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul and Cup of Comfort. E-mail Melissa at [email protected].

A native South Carolinian, Lisa Hamilton is the director of the First Presbyterian Church Preschool and Kindergarten. Of course she loves reading, but also finds time for cooking and walking her dog, Hurley.

Sue Mayfield-Geiger is a freelance writer and editor residing on the Texas Gulf Coast. Contact Sue at www.smgwriter.com.

Mindi Mikula is a former journalist, current stu-dent, future teacher and mother, based in East Texas.

She loves writing and is finishing her first novel currently.

Rose Ann Sinay lives in North Carolina with her husband and dog where she spends her time writing. Her children graciously continue to provide her with moments worth preserving.

Diane Stark is a wife, a mother of five and a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in publications like Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Tribute to Moms. She loves to write about her family and her faith.

Diane DeVaughn Stokes is the President of Stages Video Productions, host of “Diane At Six” on EASY radio, free-lance writer and TV spokesper-son. She and husband, Chuck share the same pas-

sions: travel, theater and scuba diving.

Janey Womeldorf is a freelance writer who thrives on writing about the humorous, the poignant, and the continually-surprising sides of everyday life. She drinks too much coffee and scribbles away in Memphis, Tennessee.

Beth M. Wood is a mother of three, market-ing professional and freelance writer. Her work appears in publications including Chicken Soup for the Soul: Shaping the New You. She is a devout

reader, semi-fanatic editor and not-so-great golfer. Follow along at www.bethmwood.blogspot.com.

cover artistYoung at Heart, by Jilly Nonnemacker

Jilly is best known for her wildly colorful palette, frisky expressionistic figures and playful style. Her subjects include expressive solitary figures, whim-sical collective figures, and socially provocative figures with a primary focus on the female figure. Each paint-ing has a story to be shared and is part of a larger series of work. It is fundamental that her paintings radiate with liveliness, movement and a playful spirit.

JillyArt is inspired by people, music, design and real life experiences, and has incorporated her passion for art and people by way of formal art edu-cation and art therapy training along with a degree in pychology/social work and training as a psycho-therapist. Jilly is honored to have her paintings hang in various public, corporate and private collections around the country and has been published in fine art books including, Art Buzz and Addiction and Art and has been featured on several women’s magazine covers.

Contact the artist through her website, www.jillyartdesigns.com or find JillyArt Studios on Facebook.


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The government says I deserve a break…some “me” time. I have this in writing.It’s called a Parenting Plan. Every other weekend, my three kids are picked up by their dad at 6

pm on Friday, and returned to me at 5 pm on Sunday. That’s 47 hours. Just for me. My married-with-kids friends are terribly jealous. And if I’m being completely honest, it sounded good to me, too, at first. After so many days of doing it all myself, I look forward to slowing down the pace a little.

As these “breaks” approach, I always create a “to do” list: laundry, cleaning, fix the ice maker, clean out the gutters, cut the lawn, finish a feature article, work on my memoir, write a post for my blog, tweet a few clever messages…the list goes on and on.

The night before my KFW (Kid-Free Weekend), tired from all the cooking, breaking up of fights, picking up toys, doling out chores and giving baths, I start to daydream about what my weekend will be like: I’ll dress a little nicer for work on Friday so that I can meet a friend for happy hour after work, unwinding with a glass (or two) of wine. I’ll skip my Saturday morning boot camp just this once, and linger over The Today Show and a cup of coffee. I’ll spend the afternoon window-shopping, then meet friends for dinner and drinks at a swanky bar on Saturday night. I’ll lose track of time relaxing, laughing, catching up, then sleep in late Sunday morning, and check off a few items on that to-do list before wel-coming my kids back home.

This is my reality: Rather than head to happy hour straight from work, I rush to pick up my kids from their respective summer camps so that I can spend a little time with them before they leave. At 6 pm, I hug each of them one more time as they run out the door to greet their dad. By 6:15, I’ve stripped all four beds to wash sheets, blankets and pillowcases after two weeks of daily use. At 6:45 I walk past the hall bath and immediately reach for the Scrubbing Bubbles, spending 45 minutes disinfecting first one, and then the other guest bathroom.

Around 7:30, I finally sit down in front of the TV only to realize I never ate dinner. At 8 pm, I sit back down in front of the TV with a plate of Eggo waffles to watch a few old episodes of The Nanny I taped last week. This is when the phone calls and text messages come in from family and friends inviting me out for a drink. Seriously? I’m in baggy sweats and smell like a toilet wand. I turn down the offers and fall asleep to the whomp-whomp of my kids’ clothes in the dryer.

At 8 am Saturday morning I’m on my way to boot camp, because if I don’t go, even just this

once, I’ll beat myself up over it all week (plus it’s a great outlet for all the stress).

By 10:15, covered in dirt and sweat after a 90-minute butt-kicking, I’m on my way to Dunkin’ Donuts for a large coffee: three creams, three sugars, please. I get home at 11 am fully intending to hit the shower, but when I walk in the house I’m dis-gusted with the dirt and junk that’s piled up from two weeks worth of living (how did I not see all this last night?). I spend an hour putting away toys, soc-cer cleats, crayons, camp newsletters and half-full cups of juice.

At noon, I pull some leftovers out of the fridge and eat a quick lunch standing at the kitchen counter while I empty the dishwasher, fill the dish-washer and scrub out the microwave.

At 12:30, I run out to grab the mail, and realize my five-year old could get lost in the height of my lawn, so I cut the grass before I shower off the filth from boot camp. At 2 pm I hit the shower (finally) and then begin running errands. By late afternoon, I miss my kids terribly, checking in via text with my two boys, ages 14 & 11 and remind-ing them to hug their little sister for me. I’m exhausted, but relish a night out with adults, so I spend some time making myself presentable and head out for dinner and drinks with friends.

My plan to sleep in on Sunday is thwarted by an early soccer game followed by coffee with a writer friend to review each other’s work, after which I race to the grocery store, forgetting the carefully thought out list I made a few days before. And because I’m running on a single banana and one large cup of coffee, I spend a good $50 more than I would have if I’d remembered…to eat. To bring the list.

I race home and put away the last of the groceries as I hear my kids running up to the front door. Home at last.

Every other Sunday afternoon I wonder, “Where did those 47 hours go? Why didn’t I slow down and enjoy them more?” But I think part of me knows that I need to move at this pace, even when – especially when – my kids are away from home. Because if I sit still long enough, I’ll realize just how terribly I miss them, and I won’t be able to watch The Nanny for the tears filling my eyes.

But here’s the thing: I need this time. It gives me a chance to miss my kids, to not take them for granted, to realize just how much I love being their mom. Just because I take this time for myself doesn’t mean I love them any less. What it does mean is that when their dad drops them off on Sunday afternoon, they come home to a calm-er, more patient mom. And that’s something that benefits all of us.

47 by Beth M. Wood

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I held my son’s plump, little hand as he negotiated the first step up into the big, yellow bus that we had watched pass our house for the past two weeks on its pre-school practice runs. He reached the top stair and turned to me. The straw-berry blonde hair that I had so carefully gelled to the side now hung over his eyes. His little jaw trem-bled slightly, and I knew he was having second thoughts despite his excitement about the first day of kindergarten. I smiled a confident smile and whispered, “You’ll be fine,” as the driver directed Terry into the front seat.

I stood in place until the bus was well out of sight and felt foolish as a neighbor drove by, stopped, backed up and asked if I was okay.

“Yeah,” I managed to squeak pushing back the tears. “First day of school.”

She nodded her head in understanding and said, “It gets better. Believe it or not you are going to enjoy your alone time.”

I gave her a weak, skeptical smile and walked back the long driveway to my empty house. I paced; I worried; I counted the minutes. I had wait-ed on my porch for a full twenty minutes before that golden chariot returned my precious cargo.

After a few weeks, I became room mother to the kindergarten class. I spent time scouring websites to find simple, interesting activities that gave me a rea-son to offer my creative tal-ents to the classroom. As I helped other children cut out poster board turkeys or string macaroni necklaces, my eyes were really on the little genius in the third row who just happened to share my last name.

Time passed, and I discovered that my neighbor had been right. I started enjoying my “me time” instead of just trying to fill it.

Some days I barely made it home from a luncheon date with friends before he bounded in the door. I found I actually liked grocery shopping without finding the forbidden sugar cereal, the extra boxes of cookies or the match box cars that had been slipped into the cart by phantom hands. My visits to the classroom became fewer and fewer. Eventually, I took a part time job that gave me extra pocket money and allowed me to be home when my son was.

And then…his sister came along. Terry, who had expected to be charmed by the promised miracle, instead, stood at a distance as the little red ball of fury cried her way through her first two months of life.

Early one morning, shortly after his sister’s noisy arrival, I found Terry fully dressed, hair slicked back and lunch box stuffed with pre-packaged rai-sins, nuts and cookies. He looked as eager to get out the door and on the bus as I was for him to enjoy the normalcy of the school day. Not to mention

that I could use a little quiet time, myself“We didn’t get much sleep last night, did

we?” I asked, giving him a big hug. “This won’t last forever – I promise. She just needs a little time to settle in. You did the same thing when you first came home.”

“Really,” he asked, his eyes opened wide.“Really,” I said. “We’ll be just fine; you’ll

see.” And we were.Thirteen years and many reality checks

later, another vehicle – smaller in size and definitely not yellow – sits in wait in front of our house. The U-Haul attached to the back of my son’s car is filled with a couch, a computer, several sets of extra long bed sheets (that will probably never be taken out of the package) and boxes of dorm room necessities. The hand on the steering wheel is quite a bit larger and the grip – not so needy.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to go with you to help unpack,” I asked for the third or fourth time.

“Mom, I’m picking Chris up in fifteen minutes and, besides, all the

guys will be there to help. Nobody’s parents are com-

ing,” he insisted, as he put the car in reverse and com-petently guided the trailer down the road.

“Honey, he’s only an hour away,” my husband reminded me.

“I know,” I whined in a sing-song voice that I hated but just couldn’t help.

Suddenly, I heard the car change gears, and my son shot back up the driveway. He rolled down the window and gave me a guilty smile.

“I’ll be fine, Mom.”“I know you will,”

I said bravely and stood in place long after his car dis-appeared from view.

And the Wheels Go Roundby Rose Ann Sinay



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Twenty-five year old Tea Obreht has been named by The New Yorker as one of the twenty best American fiction writers under forty and been included in the National Book Foundation’s list of “5 under 35.” Obreht was born in Belgrade, in the former Yugoslavia, and has lived in the United States since the age of 12. The Tiger’s Wife (absolutely NOT about Tiger Woods), her first novel, is a beautifully written story about family, superstitions, war and death.

Read It!Lisa Says…Read The Tiger’s Wife, by Tea Obrehtby Lisa Hamilton

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Natalia is a doctor in the war-torn Balkans where she travels to clinics and orphanages in the area where her grandfather recently died. This story is mainly about the life and stories of her grandfather who loved to visit the tigers at the zoo with his granddaughter. As Natalia seeks to find the answers about her grandfather’s death, she actually begins to unravel the stories of his life. We know our histories because of the stories told to us over time by our families and elders, some fact, some fiction, some purely magical and beautiful. This tale is a little bit of everything, from the deathless man to the tiger’s wife. Layers upon layers of tragedy and horror, as it must have been for Obreht and her family, unfold in this country’s legacy that gives us an insight into storytelling at its finest.


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The last year of living with a teenager before they leave for college is a bit like living with a “Pushmi-Pullyou.” (Read your Dr. Dolittle: it’s a creature with a head at each end that tries to go two directions at once.) They push you away HARD trying to establish that they are – Yes they are! – ready to fly. And they pull you close every once in a while, just to torture you and remind you how much you are going to miss them. I had been told that the summer before college, our relationship could be schizophrenic, that some kids become oozing sores so that you can’t wait to turn their bedroom into an office. Others turn sweet as pie so when they leave they may as well take one of your appendages with them. I wondered which one my daughter would choose and vowed that no matter which, I wouldn’t cry. I would make it easy on everyone and be tough.

Anyone who knows me knows this is a joke. I like to appear to have the hide of an armadillo, but underneath am a soft underbelly that qualifies me to write for Hallmark and does not serve me well when I make promises not to cry.

After a childhood of symbiosis, and then pushing me away hard in her last year at home, my oldest child decided to become a young woman the summer before college. She worked fulltime and became as reliable and reasoned as the best friend you always wanted.

Turned out, her image of mov-ing to college came from an episode of the Gilmore Girls where Lorelei Gilmore helps Rory move in. Lorelei sneaks out the old dorm mattress to replace it with a fresh one. Cut to evening in the dorm room: mother and daughter stay together on the first night at college.

Other media references helped us pre-pare to say goodbye. In Toy Story 3, Andy tries to hold on to a few special toys when he leaves for college. In the end, he gives them to a little girl who he knows will take care of them. Then he drives off. I wept.

“Didn’t you think it was sad?” I asked my college-bound daughter.

“No. What was sad about it?” asked she who held on to her dolls ‘til she was 16 and her lit-tle sister pried them from her hot, sweaty hands.

“Wasn’t it sad when he gave his toys away?”

“I am not giving my toys away,” She said. “I am taking them with me.”

She was having none of the mushy stuff.Then, she saw The Kids Are All Right. At

the end, the older daughter is dropped at college.“Why didn’t you warn me?” The words

spilled out, half sincere and half for the theater of it all. “The kids were playing Frisbee and no one asked her to play…” she babbled, reverting back to kindergarten for a moment. “I’ll be all alone.”

“No. You’ll have three roommates,” I say. This time, I was having none of the mushy stuff.

Finally it is the day: Nine hours until we say goodbye. We walk 20 blocks up Broadway to campus. She takes my hand and holds tight the entire way. Neither one of us minds that palms are

sweating. We are symbiotic again.The move-in is smooth. The

clock ticks. Three hours to go. We lunch on campus with some of her new class-mates. Will any of them be a soul mate? I step aside to take a phone call, and she texts me: Where did you go? I am only a few feet away, but she wants me closer.

We sit on folding chairs and lis-ten politely to the orientation speech by the charismatic college president. Our shoulders touch and we sit as close as we can without her being in my lap. I watch the clock. The president talks of the changes to come, of who these promising young women will be in four years. I strategize again about how I will not cry, but I know I haven’t a prayer. I breathe deeply and try to distract myself. We are in an auditorium of 100 people and I can’t help it – I sniffle.

I tell myself, as long as my shoulders aren’t shaking, and I keep look-ing straight ahead, no one will notice. Then a big, fat tear slides down my left cheek and hits my daughter’s bare shoul-der. She jumps as if the ceiling is leak-ing and then realizes the origin.

“Awwww, Mommy,” she says, and puts her head on my shoulder.

So little time left. Outside the auditorium, a few brave parents start to go. She says: not yet.

We sit at a table under the trees and now she is in my lap. Families are trickling out, and there are few excuses left. But she says, look at the clock: it’s not time. Fifteen more minutes.

Then, it really is time. We walk to the courtyard near the front gate. We are buried in each other’s arms. We whis-

per in each other’s ears: “I love you,” “I love you,” “I am going to miss you so much,” “You are going to be great.” Now, she is crying, too.

“Over this last year you have become one of my best friends,” she says.

I tell her I will always be there, for whatev-er she needs. I decide she should be the one to go, and I tell her I will watch as she walks to her dorm. I will watch her walk away. She finally releases me and turns to go. I watch as she walks across the brick courtyard. Halfway to the ivy-draped door-way, she stops and turns around to look for me, to see if I am watching her. Yes, I am still there. Still watching. She smiles and turns away again. This time she doesn’t look back.

AwayS h e G o e s

by Mary Helen Berg


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And memories lost forever are exactly that.So, if you’ve been procrastinating about doing this, I have a suggestion

for you this summer: start writing. If you don’t have time; find it. If you don’t have a computer, use a notebook. If you don’t know where to start, write “Once upon a time…” and see where it leads you. You will never be sorry.

I wrote my mother-in-law’s story and never a day goes by that I don’t breathe pride and relief that we took the time. I titled her book, Who Knew? because of the slew of never-heard stories that spilled from its pages. I chose to open the book with her recollections of her parent’s love story which led nicely into the where, what and when details surrounding her own birth. It covered depression-era stories of wealth lost, the pain of auctioning their farm, houses traded on a handshake, midnight climbs out of bedroom windows, even her excitement over their first shower, albeit outdoors! Her day-to-day tales of growing up without refrigeration or indoor plumbing were both humbling and riveting. It was a slice of history captured forever, a magical story that deserved to be told and a wonderful tribute to a beautiful woman.

1. Getting StartedAsk questions – lots of them. There are numerous life-story-writing

books available featuring hundreds of memory-jolting questions. Search them out online or in your local bookstore. I did consider making my own list, but realize now I would have missed out on so much because I might not have thought to ask questions like what was her most memorable present.

She was eight years old, money was scarce, but she received a beautiful doll with a china face that Christmas. Her school was a one-roomed building with rustic outhouses and one day, she and her friend, Nellie, decided to play make believe with their new dolls and took them to the outhouse so that the dolls could “go potty.” Tragedy struck, however, when her beautiful doll fell through the wooden hole into the stinking pit below. That night, she cried and cried when she told her father but felt for sure he’d go rescue her; he never did. She had so few toys and now her beloved doll was gone forever. Fifty years later, it was still heartbreaking.

2. Gathering the InformationGathering the information takes time so schedule several afternoons

to ask questions and make notes. You want more than just a string of data and facts so probe beyond initial answers. Let’s assume you are writing the life story about your Dad and you ask the question: “What was your first job?” Your father responds, “I worked at the local store.” Don’t stop there – expand the story. How did you get the job? How much did you get paid? What did you spend your first paycheck on? What was your proudest day/worst day? Tell me

about your memorable customers. How did you get to work? What was in your lunch box?

Before you know it, stories will spill out and you will have a chapter. Then, tie up the initial what-was-your-first-job-question with: Why did you leave? Chances are this will transition you on to another stage of his life, and another chapter.

3. Other Useful MaterialIf multiple family members feature heavily in the book, you may want

to compose a basic two or three-generational family tree as a handy-reader guide. (For the super creative, consider including this as a bookmark versus an appendix page.) Scanning old photos – including family members, even houses they grew up in – can help embellish the memories.

4. Putting it together.Group the memories, and think about how you want to present

them. Do you want the book to be a chronological story? Or do you want the book to be a collection of stories by subject; for example, a chapter on all his jobs, a chapter on his family, a chapter on school and so on. Also, don’t assume you need to cover his entire life. You may want to focus on just one era – from birth to age 18, or his military service. Or, if you are writing about your par-ents, focus on their lives up until they became Mom and Dad. Ask questions, listen to the stories, and then ask yourself which ones most captured your attention. Answer that, and you’ve probably found the essence of your book.

5. Whose voice is telling the story?I wanted the story to sound like my mother-in-law was telling it, so I

chose to use “I” and “my” when writing it; for example, “My first job was…” You may, however, prefer to write in the third person as in, “Dad’s first job was at a store. He stocked shelves for 50 cents an hour.”

6. Finding the TimeYou have the stories, you’ve decided how to write it; the bigger issue is

whether you have the time. Everybody has twenty-four hours in a day, seven days a week. In two weeks, two months, even two years, your errands and your laundry will still be there. The memories, however, may not.

Memories can get foggy as some people get older so resist waiting and find the time. Besides, nothing is more magical than watching their faces light up as they remember things they have not thought about in fifty years.

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In this case, it’s a single question: Should you write it?

And you already know that answer.

Life Story?S h o u l d y o u W r i t e t h at

by Janey Womeldorf

If the title piqued your interest enough to start reading this, then you already know the answer. You even know who you’d write about don’t you? For some of you, it may be yourself; for others, it’s that one family member whose life and experiences are so unique and precious, you know if they are not captured by you, they will be lost forever.


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Inks Lake State Park. 1959. I’m 15-years-old and there’s a really cute boy camped two spots from us. He’s taller than me (I’m already 5’10”), and he has pimples, but so do I. He wears his hair in a flattop and mopes around his campsite all day. His parents fish and cook their catch on their Coleman stove. My dad has a boat, so our family spends most of the day on water skis; then we come back to camp and barbeque. One night my dad introduces himself to cutie-pie’s dad, and they come over. Cutie-pie’s name is Tommy, and he is from Bay City. I start to calculate how many miles that is from Deer Park in case we fall in love, and Tommy can drive.

“Where is Bay City?” I ask my dad.“Oh, not too far; a little south of Houston,” he answers.Nice, I think. Maybe cutie-pie can take me to the prom.We are introduced, and he

barely smiles.“Hi.”“Hi,” I say back.Then we look down at our feet

and ignore each other. Tommy’s dad starts talking about Bay City and foot-ball, and that his son plays on the team, and how proud he is of his boy for mak-ing the A team at age 16.

I start to wish I was 16. Fifteen sounds so young, but my dad blurts out, “Susie’s just 15 and twirls a baton at halftime.”

I cringe. Now he knows I am only 15. Plus, he knows I’m just a baton twirler and not a cheerleader. I’m doomed.

“So what position do you play?” I ask him.

“Halfback.”“That’s really cool.”Then he asks, “Do you want to

walk over to the pavilion and listen to the music?”

The pavilion is around the bend and is basically the marina where boats are docked, and bait, ice and gro-ceries are sold. They also have a jukebox.

“I have to ask my dad,” I tell him. But, dad has overheard and says it’s okay, but to be back at 10 pm.

We walk over and along the way, talk about The Platters, Elvis, Little Richard and Brenda Lee. Tommy asks me if I can do the bop, and I tell him, sure, my older brother taught me. He says he can bop, too.

So, we get to the dance pavilion and Fats Domino is singing Blueberry Hill. We listen to the words and sway to the tempo. The breeze is skipping gently off the lake, and a few lanterns are hung sporadically about giving off a soft glow. I try to remember the perfect way to part my lips should cutie-pie want to kiss me. I’ve seen how it’s done in hundreds of romance comic books and have even practiced on my fist a few times, but have never had a real, true “lips on lips” encounter. This might be the night.

When the song ends, we wander over to the jukebox and pick out some tunes. We stood there, tapping our feet when appropriate, com-menting on the songs, the artists and how our parents hated rock ’n roll. Tommy said his parents thought the music was a product of the devil. I

said that my parents just didn’t like it because it was so loud.“So, what’s there to do in Deer Park?” he asks me.“Probably about as much as there is to do in Bay City,” I answer“Yeah, it’s a small town.”It is getting close to 10 o’clock and very few people are left at the

pavilion. A few couples are dancing, mere silhouettes formed in the glow of the green and red jukebox lights. The lanterns are growing weak, the breeze has died down and I start biting my nails.

“Guess we better head back,” I say.Tommy nods and puts his arm around my waist, but the gesture is

stiff and awkward. The moon and stars are the perfect setting when we hear One Summer Night on the jukebox as we take the dirt road back to our camp-

sites. Then, There’s a Moon Out Tonight, can barely be heard, as we get further away from the pavilion.

As we get near my campsite, Tommy’s arm is no longer around my waist. He tells me good night, but doesn’t look me in the eye. I say, “Yeah, good night, see ya tomorrow,” and walk toward the tent where I plop down on my cot and listen to the mosquitoes sing me to sleep. I dream of lips, football, dating and going steady.

Next morning, I look over toward Tommy’s campsite and it’s empty. They’ve already left. My heart is broken. He doesn’t know my last name and can never find me. I remember his last name, but what good will it do me? I’m only 15; too young to track him down and see if he might be “the one.”

Years would go by and count-less times I would meet guys whose last name I knew all too well who were not “the one.” I may have thought they were in the beginning, but they were not.

Maybe Tommy was “the one.” But, I add up the amount of time we spent together and the conversation we exchanged. Doesn’t seem like that would be enough information to determine if someone was “the one” or not. Of course, in third grade, I was pretty certain that I would marry Clayton, who sat next to me during math. Then in fifth grade, Ricky was “the one.” Even after that summer in 1959, looking for “the one” would become a major undertaking. In junior high it was Jerry. In high school it was Garland. After that, a few more came and went; I even married one or two of them.

Eventually I concluded that maybe there was more than just one “one.” Maybe there were several who qualified, so you had to choose wisely.

I cautioned my children about the importance of searching for “the one,” and hopefully they will tell their children. After all, it’s a lifetime commit-ment, or at least, is supposed to be. Chances are, Tommy never spent much time wondering if I was “the one” or not. More than likely, Tommy’s recollec-tion of me that summer is buried deep inside his subconscious, along with the sounds of yesterday’s music and be-bop steps.

But, a part of my 15-year-old brain still hides behind that other part called wisdom, still wondering, was he “the one?”

The One

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I sit on the step, my knees tucked snugly against my chest, my toes making small rip-ples in the puddle beneath me. I stare out at the rain, a soft sigh escaping my lips. The hard concrete beneath me is damp and I can

feel my jeans growing soggy, yet I have no desire to move. Days like this leave me a little nostal-gic, longing for things I’ve left behind. I can almost feel him beside me again, and I don’t want the illusion to end.

I gaze out at the green expanse of the lawn, broken by the chain-link fence, and spy a chair gathering water in the neighbor’s yard, shining white against the gray-green glow of the waning day. It reminds me of another rainy day, and of a white wicker chair. I still dream of him sometimes when it rains; him in that old wicker chair with me seated contentedly in his lap or the rain falling around us in a curtain while he kissed me and said everything by saying nothing.

It had been an uncommonly wet winter that year. The most memora-ble moment of that winter, of perhaps any winter, was standing in the cold drizzling rain, stretched up on my tiptoes with his lips molded against mine, my eyes closed and my heart open. My heart had skidded to a stop, I had for-gotten to breathe and the world stood earth-shatteringly still. The void that had always been inside me disappeared. I was home.

That winter was our wonderland. From the moment I opened the door to find him standing there on my front step until that last lingering kiss goodbye in the rain, the days and nights were full of laughter and dreams and magic. I can still taste the wine on his lips and see the curves of his face when he turned that dazzling smile on me as if it has been minutes since we last stood there together instead of the long years that have passed.

I’ve never experienced such an overwhelming peace like I did in that moment where we stood together between the raindrops. Where I fit against him, it was like the missing piece of a puzzle had snapped into the place and the picture was finally whole, the search complete. The world ceased to exist outside of his embrace, and in that one kiss was all the promise for the future I’d ever need.

The next spring, it rained endlessly the day I loaded the last of my belongings into the moving truck. I thought of him that rainy afternoon, of the plans we’d made that would never happen, of weddings that would never be and adventures that would never begin. I walked through the empty rooms cataloging all that had passed between those walls.

Alone in the old house, I sat one last time in the wicker chair and glanced around me saying my silent goodbyes to the memories we’d made there. I’d closed my eyes and could almost feel his strong arms cradling me as they had the winter before, his chest rising and falling with his breath and the music of his husky laugh when I’d said something funny.

“Do you want that old chair there?” the mover had asked me, point-ing at my weather-worn white wicker chair, sitting lonely in the corner of the porch by the back door. I was silent for a moment. “No, it stays here.” He nodded, and soon I heard the rumble of the truck as it pulled out of the drive-way and crunched on the graveled street.

The Wicker Chair

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Southern SnapsJean Benson

Beyond Hospice: A Modern Day Miracleby Leslie C. Moore

I met 79 year-old Jean Benson at her lovely Wachesaw Plantation home, where she met me at the door looking fabulous, wearing perfect make-up and fashionable clothes – and a huge welcoming smile. During our visit, I learned that a week before our interview, Jean, an avid golfer, shared a win with three other women at a member-mem-ber golf tournament. I also learned that in October of 2010, only a few short months ago, Jean was told she only had six to eight weeks to live!

Jean and her husband of 57 years, John, a pharmacist, retired to the area 20 years ago from Westchester City, New York. Both love golf – John maybe a bit more than Jean. “John would play five days a week, but I’m happy with one or two days.” As the years passed, Jean made many friends and even became Mrs. Claus in the Murrells Inlet Christmas Parade. Neighborhood children knew where to come each year for trick-or-treating when Jean would dress up as the Cat in the Hat and wait on her porch with treats.

Jean’s journey through the hell of cancer began in 2008, when she found something “not right” on her left breast, just below her nipple. “I’ve always taken good care of myself and had annual mammograms,” Jean told me, and so she immediately made an appointment to make sure nothing was wrong. After a mammogram and ultrasound everything looked normal, and Jean was told it must be just fatty tissue.

However, late in 2009, something changed, and the spot on Jean’s breast began to pucker. Jean goes for checkups every three months due to dia-betes and talked to her doctor, Philip Nicol, about the change. He immediately sent her to Dr. Craig Brackett at Coastal Carolina Breast Center. A biopsy con-firmed the worst, and on March 23, 2010, Jean found out she had cancer.

“You could’ve taken a 2 x 4 and smacked me in the head, and I wouldn’t have been any more shocked,” remembers Jean. “Cancer picks who-ever it feels like choosing – it’s an ugly disease.”

Even in the face of this devastating news, Jean stayed upbeat. She had her husband and soul mate behind her, as well as the love and support of her

three children, her niece, their spouses and her six wonderful grandchildren.

On April 12, 2010, one day past her 56th wedding anniversary, Jean had her first lymphectomy. All six nodes removed were positive for cancer. Two weeks later, Jean had surgery again, this time sixteen lymph nodes brought the grim news that the cancer had spread.

“I went from Stage 1 to Stage 4 cancer just like that,” remembered Jean. “I was shocked! I couldn’t understand how this happened so quickly.” Jean’s next stop was at Dr. Darren Mullins’ oncology office in Murrells Inlet, where she made the decision to begin chemotherapy.

“I have been so fortunate to have the nicest doctors. The doctors and their staff have treated me with so much kind-ness.” Jean laughed and continued, “They must take classes in how to be kind, because they treat me like I’m family!”

Although she was never in pain during her chemo, she was exhausted and had no appetite, losing nearly 30 pounds. “After the first three treatments, I bragged about not losing my hair, but then it started falling out in clumps.” Jean asked her daughter, Janet, who lives in Calabash, North Carolina, to come and cut her hair. Janet buzzed her mother’s hair, but the two women were able to laugh a little and joked with each other about Jean’s “beautifully shaped head!” “There was no use to cry about hair,” said Jean. “It will grow back.” Today, Jean’s hair is still thin and she wears an array of beautiful hats that coordinate with her outfits. The day we met, she wore a cute, white billed cap studded with sparkly stones.

Jean was determined to make the best of her situation and to never give up, even in throes of cancer treatment. On Saturday, October 2, she par-ticipated in the “In the Pink” Breast Cancer Awareness Walk with friends and family walking beside her “chariot,” a pink golf car. “I was too sick to walk, but I was determined to participate.”

By the end of October, Jean was a very sick woman. The surgical-ly implanted port used to deliver her chemo had become infected; her blood count was so low she had to have six units of blood transfused to keep her alive. Dr. Brackett did surgery to remove the port and told Jean

and John that the cancer had spread to her lungs, and he would like to do a biopsy that involved surgery.

When Jean, John and her daughter came home, Jean asked them all to sit down around the table. “I wanted to know what they’d been told. How long did I have?” John was barely able to talk about what he had learned and had to leave the room. But, Jean’s daughter, Janet, gently told her mom that they had been told she was not expected to live past Thanksgiving.

“I made up my mind right then that I was going to live my life, how-ever much time I had, the best I knew how. I decided not to have the lung biopsy or any more treatment, and I called Hospice. If I’m going, I’m going my way,” Jean said in a voice filled with acceptance and peace.

The staff of Tidelands Hospice was wonderful to Jean. They supplied oxygen and all necessary medical equipment, but more than that, they gave her the support she needed during this difficult time and enabled her to keep liv-ing. “John and I never really cried too much, once in awhile we did cry at night, but during the day we had droves of company!” Jean brought out a large basket filled with greeting cards that she received, some from Canada, England and all over the country.

Jean planned her funeral to spare her family that grim ordeal. She and John had both decided they wanted to donate their bodies for medical use and, with the help of the Hospice social worker, the arrangements were made. The pastor of Belin

United Methodist Church in Murrells Inlet, Mike Alexander, is a neighbor of Jean’s, and he agreed to officiate at the memorial service, stopping by her house to iron out the details.

But Jean did not die. Thanksgiving came and went, then Christmas. On New Year’s Eve, Jean felt well enough to go out, and wearing a black fedo-ra, she and John rang in the New Year with friends, dancing the night away. Jean continued to improve. After St. Patrick’s Day, Jean told John that she thought they might make it to their 57th anniversary on April 11.

And then, miraculously, after becoming well enough to begin treat-ment again, Jean was discharged or “graduated” from Hospice. “The girls from Hospice came, and I wore a big pink hat. It was a real celebration! Not many people graduate from Hospice, you know,” Jean said laughing.

On a visit with Dr. Brackett, he mentioned that radiation treatment was now an option for Jean. At first, she was hesitant, but then decided to give

it a try and made the drive from Murrells Inlet to Georgetown Radiation for 32 days of treatments. However, she decided not to be tested right away to see if the cancer is still present. This plucky woman is taking life one day at a time.

“Cancer thrives when people feel sorry for themselves. I did feel sorry for myself sometimes, but I had to accept it and do what I had to do. I have had so much love and support from my family, my friends and neighbors, and caring doctors and staff.” Jean tears up when she thinks of all the people who’ve shown her so much love during her illness.

Her friends and family remain steadfast and are amazed at Jean’s strength and determination. One friend, Sasee writer, Judie Schaal, says that “Jean is a constant inspiration to all her friends. She handles every situation with a smile and a positive attitude. This includes the heartache of missing a winning putt on the 18th hole to facing the challenge of life threatening can-cer. She’s the first to help out a needy friend and the last to exit the dance floor. And all this never changed when she planned her own funeral thinking she only had a few months to live. She is still under treatment and still a marvel to all who know her.”

Miracles do happen. Just ask Jean.

Encourage children to read by dropping off New and Gently Used Children’s Books for our August Dream Big Book Drive.

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2 0 t h A N N I V E R S A R Y

All events held at Brookgreen Gardens unless otherwise noted

T i c k e T s o n s a l e n o wwww.pawleysmusic.com • 843-626-8911

2011 Schedule of EventsPIFMA’s Wearable Art LuncheonThursday, September 15 • 11:30 am • $25 at Tommy Bahama, The Market Common

Gallery CrawlSunday, September 18 • 3:00-6:00 pm • Free admission at Various Galleries from Murrells Inlet to Georgetown

Saving Sandy Island & Uncommon FolkTuesday, September 20 • 3:00 pm & 7:00 pm • Free admission with ticket Tara Theatre, Litchfield Golf & Beach Resort

Nothing to Prove: Mac Arnold’s Return to the Blues& They Came to PlayWednesday, September 21 • 3:00 pm & 7:00 pm • Free admission with ticketTara Theatre, Litchfield Golf & Beach Resort

12th Annual Pawleys Island Wine GalaFriday, September 23 • 7:00 pm • $85, beginning Sept. 1 $100 at The Reserve Golf Club of Pawleys Island

Spyro GyraSaturday, September 24 • 7:00 pm • $35 & $25

The Kickin Grass BandSunday, September 25 • 3:30 pm • $25

Charleston Chamber OperaTuesday, September 27 • 6:30 pm • $25 at Holy Cross Faith Memorial Episcopal ChurchOpening Act: Performance by the Young Treasures Scholarship Winners

Ball In The HouseThursday, September 29 • 7:00 pm • Adults $35, $25, Students $10This performance is funded in part by a grant from South Arts in partnership with the National Endowment for the Arts and SC Arts Commission.

David Osborne TrioFriday, September 30 • 7:00 pm • $35 & $25

The Hit MenSaturday, October 1 • 7:00 pm • A Tabled Event • $35 & $25

Family DayChalk WalkSunday, October 2 • 1:00-6:00pm • Free admission

Bits ‘N Pieces Puppet TheatreThe Musical Tale of Peter RabbitSunday, October 2 • 3:00-5:00pm • Adults $15, Children 15 & under Free


by Melissa FaceMy mom was an English major and an English teacher. So it was only

natural for this to be my strongest subject in school and for me to enjoy read-ing and writing. In high school and college, I received positive comments on my compositions and literary analyses. “You should be an English major,” one professor said. “I could bring you a change of major form if you would like.” I told her that I was happy with my Psychology major, and I didn’t want to switch. “But why?” she asked. “You have a real knack for this.” My answer was simple: “My mother was an English major.”

I knew I didn’t want to study English because I did not want to fol-low in my mother’s footsteps. I needed to do something different, something of my own. Mom had cornered the market on all things Shakespeare, Thoreau and Dickinson. It was time for me to find my niche.

As an undergraduate, I studied Psychology, and then I earned a Master of Arts in Human Resources. I bounced around in different jobs work-ing as a counselor, a restaurant hostess and a telemarketer. A few years later, I ended up operating the control board at a television station. The job, although fast-paced and fun, had nothing to do with either of my majors. It wasn’t high paying, and it didn’t leave a lot of room for upward mobility. Still, it would end up being a pivotal point in my career.

The owner of this small, South Carolina television station also owned a weekly newspaper. And while I worked the overnight shift in master control, I often mingled with the reporters and editor. I found their work fas-cinating and challenging, and I thought I might be good at it. Though I had never published anything outside of academia, I gathered some writing sam-ples (and a bit of courage) and approached the paper’s publisher with a col-umn idea. He loved my proposal and agreed to let me write for the paper’s monthly business section.

I still remember the day I called home to tell my mom that my words were in print. “People are going to read my writing!” I screamed into the phone. “Can you believe it? I am going to mail you a copy as soon as it is printed.”

Mom was excited for me – and quite proud. But she really didn’t sound too shocked. “That’s just wonderful, honey. I hoped you would eventual-ly do something with your writing skills. See, you are like your mother after all!”

Well, maybe Mom and I had a shared talent. But this wasn’t English. This was Journalism. And I wasn’t writing a critique on Tolstoy. I was writing concert reviews and features. It was very different.

I liked writing for the paper so much that I started branching out and submitting essays to local magazines. It was a thrill each time I saw my name in print and received feedback from readers. People in town noticed my work, and I was offered a freelance copywriting gig for a local marketing firm.

Writing quickly became my passion but I lacked something that many writers struggle to find: steady, bill-paying income. I needed a career.

I met up with my former English teacher at a friend’s wedding a few months after moving back to my hometown. Mrs. Hellyer informed me of a job opening at the school I had attended. “We need a middle school English teacher, Melissa,” she said. “Do you want me to put in a good word for you?”

I told her that would be great, and I applied for the position the fol-lowing Monday. A few weeks later, I had the job. It was official; I was an English teacher – just like my mother.

Mom has since retired from teaching full-time and is now a part-time instructor for adults with disabilities. She also has begun a new journey. Mom is writing essays for a magazine and, in a sense, is now following in my footsteps.

Recently, a reporter from our local newspaper contacted Mom and me. She had heard that we were both published nationally and she wanted to do a story on the mother-daughter writers of Wakefield. We met at the diner and discussed our adventures over Cokes and coffee. Mom and I shared our tales of acceptances and commiserated in our rejections. We talked about how we serve as each other’s editors and critics, and that we would one day like to publish our own collection of essays. Being an interviewee was exhilarating and having my mom beside me made the experience even more memorable.

It’s funny how things turned out. I worked hard at being unlike my mother and wound up becoming even closer to her. I tried many jobs through-out the years only to find myself happily doing the one thing I swore I never would – teaching.

You could say that I have followed in my mother’s footsteps. And in some ways, she has followed in mine. But today, as we work towards a mutual goal, no one is really leading or following. We are walking side by side.

Walking Side By Side


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Why I Writeby Diane Stark

“Mom, I’m hungry,” says a child who got up from the dinner table precisely 16 minutes ago.

“You can’t be hungry. You just ate,” mutters the overworked, overtired mother of five.

“But I am hungry,” the afore-mentioned child insists.

“New rule,” says Mom of Five. “You are not allowed to be hungry again until I’ve managed to clean up the mess from the last time you ate.”

The child pulls a face, designed to let Mom know she doesn’t like the new rule. Then she stomps off and calls to her siblings, “Don’t even ask Mom for a snack unless you want to get stuck washing dishes!”

And later that same day, or possibly a different day, because let’s be honest, they all run together, Mom of Five hears a desperate call from the bathroom. Is someone sick? Or out of TP? No, it’s nothing quite so urgent.

A child, who changed her outfit at least four times that day, wants to inform Mom that the ham-per is overflowing.

“It can’t be – I did laundry all day yesterday,” Mom says with a sigh.

“Well, it is. It’s full of my shirt that got chocolate on it, and my pants that I was wearing when I sat in the mud, and my outfit that felt too itchy to wear,” the child explains.

Mom of Five sighs again. “All right, I’ll take care of it. Again.”

And you can see why all the days start to feel the same.

As you may have guessed, I am

Mom of Five. My oldest son just got his learner’s permit last week. My youngest is in the throes of potty training. There’s another boy and two girls in between. We’ve got a teen, a couple of tweens, a grade-schooler who thinks she’s a teen and a toddler. Our kids cover the par-enting gamut, and while I love them, these babies of mine keep me hopping.

Between volleyball games, baseball practices, dance recitals, long drives just to practice driving, and many, many trips to the potty, this Mom of Five hardly has a minute at home. We’re an on-the-go bunch, and I like it that way.

Because when I’m out with the kids, I’m Somebody’s Mom. But when we’re at home, sometimes I just feel like Everybody’s Maid.

Yes, my days run together in a flurry of cooking, cleaning and laundry. Sometimes my life feels like a ride on a merry-go-round. I wash the same clothes and mop the same floors, but nothing ever really gets done. Beds don’t stay made and tummies don’t stay full. And the dirty laundry seems to multiply overnight.

Nothing I do ever seems to last. My kids can un-do hours of work in just moments – and they often do. Clean house? Not for long. Full refriger-ator? Look again. Empty laundry ham-pers? Yeah, for about an hour.

And that’s exactly why I write. I write because no one can un-do what I’ve done. If I write a story on Monday, it’ll still be there on Tuesday morning – unlike those seven loads of clothes I

spent all day washing. My writing is just mine. It’s spill-proof, whine-free and completely off-limits to my lovable little mess-makers.

Best of all, it makes me feel alive and useful and intelligent. I love my life, and I love being a stay-at-home mom, but let’s get real. Reading the same Thomas the Train book 27 times in the same day is not the most intellectually stimulating way to spend an afternoon.

But writing, creating some-thing from nothing more than your own thoughts and experiences – now that’s something to get excited about. When I write, I feel like I am doing what I was made to do. Writing is my reward for all of the other stuff I do.

I spend a lot of my time taking care of the people I love. My writing is the one thing I do just for me.

I hope that all of the little things I do for my kids will be remem-bered as they grow up. I hope they’ll remember that I spent my days sitting in bleachers, yelling their names. I made time to cook their favorite foods, wash their favorite jeans and read them their favorite stories. I tried hard to make sure that what was important to them became important to me too.

I hope they’ll remember because these things are how I show my children how very loved they are. When I make time for them, I am investing in their futures.

And when I write, I am invest-ing in mine.



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Of course I had many a diary over the years, and I recall this entry that I scribbled one night while under the covers of my bed: “Dear Diary, I would love to be a writer someday or perform on Broadway.” I was only ten years old, but I knew, even then, what my passions were. Writing, just like pub-lic speaking and performing came so naturally to me.

When I was four, my Aunt Jean and her daughter, Elaine, who was four months younger than me, came to live with us in my grandpar-ent’s two-bedroom apartment. Yes, six of us, under one small roof: My mom and me, Aunt Jean and Elaine, Trixie the dog, and my wonderfully benevolent Nana and Pa Pa who took their daughters back into their home after they left bad marriages.

Elaine was a very serious child, whereas I was rather silly and very out-going. Occasionally, we would color or cut out paper-dolls together, but usually Elaine was found sitting in a chair reading a book. She could do it all day long. As for me, I chose to write a book. My first attempt was about the little kitten I wanted to adopt from a neighbor’s litter, but my mom said no because there were already too many mouths to feed in this small apartment. It was my first broken heart, so I wrote a little book about it using art paper I brought home from kindergarten, and I found that my heart did not hurt as bad after I spilled my guts amidst the folded pages: My first cathartic experience.

I also loved to write and design menus to alert my grandfather what was coming up for dinner that night. “Tuna Casserole or Salmon Croquettes? Would you like to take a guess?” That was just one of my many poetic menu headings. Okay, give me credit, I was five years old, and Pa Pa thought I was brilliant!

Catholic School opened up doors for me as each class was small and intimate. Sister Maureen was my third grade teacher, and she said that I had a “real gift.” She was the first person outside of family who encouraged my writ-ing ability. One day she asked me to stand up and read my composition enti-tled “Divorced Mom,” for which I got an A, the only one in the class. You see this was a topic that really hit home for me, as Elaine and I were the only two kids in the entire school who had divorced parents.

This was an oddity back in the fifties, not to mention among good Catholic families. Worst of all, since they were divorced, our moms could not receive Communion. I was so afraid that my mom would die and go to hell because of the divorce, which I spelled out in the essay that I tried to read aloud to the class without crying. I also detailed the hurt of never knowing my birth father, comparing my no-show dad to Elaine’s ever-present father who appeared every weekend bearing gifts.

A month later, my mom said we needed to sit down and talk. Sister Maureen had called and told her about the paper. I knew she wasn’t going to be happy about me spilling the beans about the divorce, so I braced myself for the worst. Instead she was so proud that I got an A and Sister assured her that my gift of writing was God-given.

However, it was what my mom went onto say afterwards which mattered most to me over the years. This was the first time she told me any-thing about the man who was my father. I never wanted to ask her about him. I knew it was a sore subject. She was eighteen when they married, had me eleven months later, and he left us when I was just nine-months old. She hated him, which was obvious by the photos in my baby-book. One photo

Genetically Speakingby Diane DeVaughn Stokes

As far back as I can remember, I always loved to write, from making homemade Mother’s Day cards that my mom adored, to writing poems and limericks. I knew I was destined to work for Hallmark someday or at the least write for a living. My family, however, was sure I would be an actress or performer of some type, as I used to love to recite and act out commercials that I had memorized. Just give me a stage!


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showed a man holding me but his head was cut off, and another of a man bending over my crib, also headless. I knew nothing about him except that this headless sperm donor was my father

This was the time my mother chose to tell me about something I grew to treasure. “You know, Diane, your father was an excellent writer, and there’s no doubt that you get this talent from him because I can’t write a lick! He used to write me poems and love letters all the time”. And then she showed me what he wrote in her high school annual. I’ll never forget that moment, as I realized that some part of me was just like him, the man I fantasized about and longed to meet, the man I wished had loved me enough to stick around for a while, or to at least visit every now and then. For the first time in my life, my father became real to me. At the same time, I finally knew that my mom and my birth father did love each other at some point, and it made me happy to know that I wasn’t a mistake. Best of all, my mom, putting all hatred for him aside, loved me enough to finally say something positive about the man who not only gave his sperm to give me life, but also gave his genes which would mold me into the person I was to become.

College found me majoring in Journalism for the first two years, switching to English with an emphasis on Creative writing and Speech. Plus, I became the university’s student spokesperson to the local media. I also worked on the newspaper staff and yearbook, chaired the entertainment committee and was a cheerleader for four years, relishing the limelight, which all led to my career as a radio and TV talk show host/producer. Keep in mind that very few women were in the media at this point. I was a forerunner, a pacesetter so to speak and being a good writer helped me every step of the way.

When I finally met my long haired, earring wearing, Harley-riding birth father, Howard Michaels, for the very first time, I came to realize the strength of genetics. My father had been one of the dancers on American Bandstand, worked for a local newspaper in Philadelphia and was once a script-writer and radio personality. He had been a singer and dancer with a traveling troupe, “The Latin Aires,” and was the manager of the Soul Survivors whose famous record from the sixties, “Expressway to Your Heart,” is still played today on radio stations across the nation.

Sadly, Howard died six years after I met him from a massive heart attack while dancing at a nightclub he owned in Philadelphia called “Nowhere,” but I’ll always be grateful that my mom and step-father, who legal-ly adopted me when I was ten, supported me in this decision to find my birth father and to meet him after all these years. Not only did I gain a new sister, brother and really cool step-mother, but I also learned that even though I never lived with this man and never knew him as a kid growing up, I shared much of the same talents and passions for life that he did. He loved to perform; he was a very good writer and just like me, was the “director of everything” as my husband likes to say. The rest of my good nature and warped sense of humor comes from my beautiful mother who gave me her heart and soul from the day I was born and continues today brightening my life. Mom knows what to say at all the right times, just as she did many moons ago when my love of writing needed nurturing, even though it meant giving credit to a man who lied to her and cheated on her, and left us both without offering one cent as he walked out the door.

Throughout the years, I have had many jobs that involved creative writing. I’ve written documentaries, television commercials, several musical revues, even two songs that made it to the radio and tons of articles like this one. Each time, writing brings me joy, like nothing else. It’s a passion that ful-fills me, and one that I must never take for granted because this talent came genetically from a man I hardly knew. What a gift!

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Being an artist myself, I love color. This scarf shouts out loud fun and will add a lot of pizzazz to my fall wardrobe. Bits and snippets of vibrant patterns and art nouveau swirls, trimmed in those fall 2011 brilliant colored pompoms makes this scarf

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Transition intoFALL 2011

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I gravitate towards simple and solid when choosing my wardrobe. What I love about this dress is the awesome teal color, an essential for fall fashion, and the fabric is so lightweight that it wears great in the heat of the South. I can wear it to work, accessorize it with a great choker, another must for fall,

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Amy Martini, owner of Me & Mommy in North Myrtle Beach, stays busy running her boutique and being mom to her 13 year old daughter and 21 year old stepson, but when the family gets a day off, they enjoy spending time on their boat. “We live on the waterway—I love being able to walk outside and get on the boat!” There’s very little time for television in the Martini household. “I do like to watchAmerican Idol, or anything with music,” said Amy. Amy feels strongly about offering personal service to her customers. Her husband is the owner of Midtown Bistro, and they both believe in giving that personal touch not found in the larger chain stores and res-taurants. “I love watching people leave excited about something great they’ve found. When I first opened the store ten years ago, I just carried children’s clothing, but I had trouble finding the clothes I liked in the area, so I added ladies wear—not matching mother/daughter outfits or maternity wear, but cute and fashionable women’s clothing.” Amy wears what she sells, so if you see her around town and love the cute dress she’s wearing, you’ll know where to find it!

As a commercial artist for more than thirty years,Andi Pepperney-Collins has owned Art Mosaics of the Carolinas, LLC for two years, but worked for the previous owner who taught her to cut natural stone. “I had been do-ing glass mosaics for ten years, but now I work with stone, porcelain and glass custom designs that are handcrafted in our studio. “I take pride in being able to take a client’s ideas and bring them to life, creating something special for them using the world’s oldest art form.” She works with clients throughout the U.S. and Canada. Andi and her husband, Matt also believe in improving the community and created a huge mosaic for the entrance walls to the Palmetto Adventure Land Playground in Carolina Forest, a park built entirely by volunteers. Find them on facebook to become a fan and stop by the Studio for a tour.

Dr. David Grabeman “I rarely have a day just to relax,” laughed Dr. David Grabeman, when asked about his favorite way to spend leisure time. “But, I do love going out on the boat with my family. Our children have always loved the river.” This busy Pawleys Island dentist doesn’t spend a lot of time in front of the television—except for sports, with golf being the number one favorite. “I always wanted to be in the medical field, but it wasn’t until I was in college that I decided to go into dentistry. My father and brother are both dentists in Ohio.” Dr. Grabeman went on to tell me that getting to know his patients is the best part of his job. “Many of my long-time patients have become good friends.” This caring professional also does dental mission work and goes to Haiti several times a year to provide care in a remote village without running water or electricity—all at his own expense. A group of other doctors, veterinarians and dentists travel together to a small island off the coast. “It’s an incredible experience—I love being able to give back.”

Andi Pepperney-Collins

Amy Martini

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BUSINESS For Chris Richardson, owner of The Kangaroo Pouch in Myrtle Beach, a day off means family time with her husband and two year old son, Braxton. “You can’t get back these special moments!” Other than a nod at the morning news, the family doesn’t watch television. “We listen to music—mostly 80s music! We just never outgrew it.” Chris remembers how hard it was for her when she was expecting. “I tried to register at a store out of town, but I didn’t know exactly what I needed. Most of my friends went out of town to buy the things they needed for their baby.” After Braxton was born, Chris saw a need for a store that would help new parents decide what they needed that fit their lifestyle. “We like to educate parents on the different options, whether or not we carry it. There are things you won’t think about when you’re buying baby items—everyone’s needs are unique.” Kangaroo Pouch now tests new products for manufacturers, and local moms blog about the products, giving feedback on how well they work. “I love every single minute of my workday. It’s so nice to do something every day that I absolutely love!”

Busy businesswoman, Sally Blevins, co-owner of Tideline Fabric and Home Decor in Shallotte, N.C., laughed when I asked her to tell me her favorite way to spend a day off. “A day at the beach, I guess; a couple of hours just lying in the sun and resting would be nice!” Sally and her husband and co-owner, Todd, spend very little time watching television, and she couldn’t think of one favorite program. “We own the business together, so even at home, we’re talking about work.” Sally’s parents bought a fabric store in the 1960s and, after selling it, started a wholesale decorating company in the 1980s. Sally and Todd have been in the decorating business ever since, but recently decided they were ready to leave their corporate jobs and move to the beach. Last February, they bought Tideline Fabric and Home Decor and love it. “Greeting and meeting people is the best part of my workday. I enjoy seeing people smile when they find something they’ve been looking for. We’re the total package, shades, blinds, draperies, bedspreads, valances, pillows and more.—and they are all custom-made here in the store for each customer.”

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961 Mr. Joe White Ave.Myrtle Beach

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“I haven’t had a day off in so long, I can hardly remember,” laughed Charles Biddix, owner of Palmetto Ace Hardware in Pawleys Island. “My favorite sport is snow skiing, and I take vacation trips to Utah and Colorado in the winter.” Not much of a movie buff, Charles does “come to a screeching halt” when a Clint Eastwood movie appears on the big or small screen.

Charles has owned Palmetto Ace Hardware for four years now, and owns another Ace Hardware store in Atlanta. “I always knew I wanted to own my own business. After being a part of corporate America for 22 years, a period of downsizing gave me the opportunity to do something on my own.” Al-ways a handy person, Charles grew up holding a hammer and wearing a nail apron—and even built a house with his Dad. Giving good customer service is Charles’ favorite part of his workday. “I’m a people person; recently a cus-tomer was trying to work on his kitchen sink and uttered some choice words that, unfortunately, his young son overheard. He told his father to ‘go see Mr. Charles, he can fix anything!’”

Lance Griffith, of CHD Interiors in Murrells Inlet, enjoys working with his family. “We’ve owned this business for 35 years. My mom was in the business for the first 20 years, but when she retired, my wife, Patty, came on board and han-dles the human resources end of the business.”

When I asked him what they do during their infrequent down time, Lance laughed and told me, “We’re like everyone else in the area. We go to the beach, read, travel to Charleston for the day and play with the grandchildren. Of course, we love to travel!”

For the past ten years, Lance and Patty have traveled to Europe once or twice a year to buy an-tiques for the business. “We have found wonder-ful things in England, Belgium, France, Italy and even Spain.” The couple fills one or two ship-ping containers to bring home for many satisfied customers. “There are a few people in Charleston and Charlotte that do something similar, but no one else in the area.” Lance went on to tell me

that this is a way to offer another great product. “The painted English, French and Italian furniture works well with our Lowcountry casual as well as with traditional styles.” Many of Lance’s finds are sold before he even gets them home, “We take photos of everything we’re buying.”

Recently, Lance found 18th century European pine doors that he then custom fit for a client’s home. They have sources overseas that can find reclaimed floors, slate tiles, doors and more. “There are lots of items like this we can find that make such a difference in your home. And, it’s not as expensive as you might think. The pine doors were cheaper than buying new ones!”

Discovering what his customers want, based on their preferences and lifestyle, is Lance’s favorite part of his work. “I really enjoy interact-ing with our clients. Many times people are not sure what they really want, and I work with them to understand their lifestyle. People may say they like one thing, but when you show them photos it

helps uncover what they really want.”Lance is proud to offer a wide variety of mer-

chandise. “We get a lot of business from out of town, and hear over and over that we offer things just not found elsewhere. You won’t find anything vanilla here. Our unique selection gives that one of a kind look—it’s the way we put it together that makes it special.” CHD Interiors also of-fers one of the largest selections of fabrics in the Southeast.

CHD Interiors can work with a homeowner from the ground up. From working with the architect to the putting of the last dish in the cabi-net, this expert design team brings its customers’ dreams to life—no matter how large or small the dream might be! “We can handle any size project. Our staff can rearrange what you already own and incorporate a few new pieces to create a fresh look or help you from the ground up.”

CHD Interiors1088 Mall DriveMurrells Inlet

843-357-1700www.chdinteriors.com

Lance Griffith


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10283 Beach Drive SW (NC179)Calabash, N.C. 28467

910.575.5999www.sunsetrivermarketplace.com• Custom Framing • Art Classes •


Art Mosaics of the Carolinas, LCC . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17Barbara’s Fine Gifts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Beach Designs Clothing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21Bloomingails Consignment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Blue Heron Gallery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Brookgreen Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40Burroughs & Chapin Art Museum . . . . . . . . . . . . 29Butler Electric Supply . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17Cabana Gauze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17Carmen Carmen Salon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15CHD Interiors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37Coastal Carolina Breast Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11David E . Grabeman, D .D .S ., P .A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5Dr . Jerry M . Guanciale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12Eleanor Pitts Fine Gifts & Jewelry . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Frans Clothing Company . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Grady’s Jewelers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9Grand Strand Primary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21Hair Trends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41Hannah Bs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29Homespun Crafters Mall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Island Floors & Rugs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19The Kangaroo Pouch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Katie’s Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31Lemon Drops Apparel & Gifts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13Lifeway Christian Stores . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40Litchfield Dance Arts Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29Long Bay Symphony . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Loris/Seacoast Healthcare Foundation Ball . . . . 38Maguire Law Firm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

The Market Common . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9McLeod Health . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3Me & Mommy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Miller-Motte Myrtle Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37Palm Shoes & Collections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Palmetto Ace Home Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . 25Pawleys Lifestyles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Pawleys Island Swimwear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12PIFMA’s Wearable Art Luncheon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43The Pink Ribbon Boutique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41Purpleologist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21Rose Arbor Fabrics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Salon Envy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Sassyfras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Scents Unlimited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41Sculpted Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44Shades & Draperies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7South Atlantic Bank . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2Southern Guys & Gals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Strand Styling Studio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29Sunset River Marketplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Take 2 Resale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17Taylor’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9Taz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7Tideline Fabrics & Home Decor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41TV33 South . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38Victoria’s Ragpatch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 WEZV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Advertiser Index

� is National Historic Landmark ishome to the only Association of Zoosand Aquariums accredited zoo on the

coast in the Carolinas, and one ofthe most signifi cant sculpture

collections in the world!

From overland excursions on theTrekker to garden tours and new

exhibits, there is always somethingnew and exciting at Brookgreen.

For more informationcall or visit our website

(800) 849-1931www.brookgreen.org

Admission: $12 Adults,$10 Seniors, $6 Children 4-12& Children under 3 are FREE!

Admission is Good for 7 Days!On Highway 17 south of Myrtle Beach between Murrells Inlet and Pawleys Island.

� is National Historic Landmark ishome to the only Association of Zoosand Aquariums accredited zoo on the and Aquariums accredited zoo on the and Aquariums

coast in the Carolinas, and one ofthe most signifi cant sculpture

collections in the world!

From overland excursions on theTrekker to garden tours and new

exhibits, there is always somethingnew and exciting at Brookgreen.

For more informationcall or visit our website

(800) 849-1931www.brookgreen.org

Admission: $12 Adults,$10 Seniors, $6 Children 4-12& Children under 3 are FREE!

New ButterflyExhibit Now Open!

$10 Seniors, $6 Children 4-12& Children under 3 are FREE!$10 Seniors, $6 Children 4-12$10 Seniors, $6 Children 4-12& Children under 3 are FREE!

Join us for crafts, snacks, one-day specials, lots of fun activities, and to pick up your copy of Princess and the Popstar featuring your favorite Christian veggies.

Free with pre-buyor purchase through Aug. 13 Girl Power! Triple Feature DVD 005326200 Reg. $14.99

KIDS DAY ONLY SPECIALSWhile supplies last on these faith-inspiring activities!

$5.00 SALE DVD 001304205 Reg. $14.99

$5.00 SALE DVD 001238042 Reg. $14.99

99¢ SALE PB 001305758 Reg. $2.99

99¢ SALE PB 001305759 Reg. $3.99

$999Pre-Buy or purchaseThrough 8/13/11 for

NEW!

Available Aug. 13Buy Princess and the Popstar for $11.99 from Aug. 14-27!

KKKiiidddsssDDDaaayyyKKKiiidddsssDDDaaayyyJoin us for

Saturday, Aug. 1311 a.m. – 1 p.m.

C12125

Valid at the Myrtle Beach LifeWay Christian Store only. One coupon per customer. Coupon must be presented and relinquished at time of purchase. Cannot be combined with any other discounts, including coupons, Savings Cards, Bonus Bucks, and LifeWay Rewards. Available on in-stock items only. Cannot be applied to the following: myMedia BurnBar, gift cards, church supplies and programs, NAMB, WMU, LifeWay-branded products, Living Proof Ministries, Bargain Buys, prior purchases, Willow Tree® products, LOGOs & BibleWorks Software, Specialty Imprints, textbooks, robes, pre-sell offers, and homeschool products.VALID AUG. 6-27, 2011 ONLY.

30OFFONE REGULARLY PRICED ITEM

%

Myrtle Beach LifeWay Christian Store Located on Seaboard Street off Pine Island Road, just south of the Coastal Grand Mall. 843.839.9953


Hair TrendsFULL SERVICE FAMILY SALON

Located on the corner of Hwy. 17 and Hwy. 707 S between Food Lion and Tuesday Morning

Murrells Inlet • 843-357-8374Open Mon.-Fri. 9-7 & Sat. 9-5

PRICE LISt starting at Adult man’s haircut 15.00 Adult woman’s haircut 20.00 Kid’s cut 6 & under 11.00 Bangs 6.00 Shampoo – Blow dry/set 18.00 Shampoo, cut & style 25.00 Perm 50.00 Conditioning Perm 55.00 Cut (with perm) 10.00 Highlight foil-partial 75.00 Highlight Foil 85.00 Color & style 49.00 Cap highlight 60.00 Waxing brow 10.00

SpecialHighlights

$65.00(only valid

through 9/30/11)

Fabrics & TrimsCustom Draperies

Blinds, Shades & Shutters

910-754-5600 • 4764 Main Street • Shallotte, NC

Onsite custom workroom

The Pink Ribbon BoutiqueOne-Stop Cancer Resource

Our mission is to provide a safe, private place to obtain all the items you will need during your journey through breast cancer treatment

Every purchase benefits Breast Cancer Research267 Willbrook Blvd. Unit D, Pawleys Island, SC

(Behind Piggly Wiggly in the Mingo Shopping Center in Litchfield)843-237-0100

• Ladies First®, Innovative After Breast Surgery Products • Nightwear and Yoga Clothing •

• Lindi Skin Care® • Private Dressing Room • Save The Ta-Tas • Magnetic Bracelets •

Jour

nals

and B

ooks

• Gre

etin

g Car

ds • G

ift Ba

sket

s • Je

welry

Wigs • Turbans • Halo Hair • Recovery Cam

isoles • Stylish Dresses

We are in our new location!Hand blended men’s & women’s fragrances

Perfumes, colognes, crémes, body lotions & shower gelsSoy candles, home fragrances & gifts

800-323-530910707A Ocean Highway, Pawleys Island, SC

South of the Hammock Shops – next to Bistro 217wwwscentsusa.com

Sasee August 2011

Documents

Transcript of Sasee August 2011