sasee january 2012

January 2012Priceless

www.sasee.com

We must

always have old

memories and

young hopes.

– Arsène Houssaye

Nathan J.S. Almeida, M.D.3485 Mitchell Street, Loris, SC 29569 (843) 756-7029

3980 Highway 9 East, Suite 220Little River, SC 29566 (843) 390-0877

McLeodPhysician Associates

Dr. Almeida welcomes new patients.

McLeod Physician Associates and Pee Dee Cardiology Associates are pleased that Dr. Nathan Almeida joins the team in caring for patients in Loris and Little River. Board certified in Internal Medicine and Nuclear Cardiology, Dr. Almeida says he chose cardiology because he wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. “This is where I can have the most impact,” he says. Working with Dr. Amit Pande and Dr. Gavin Leask of Pee Dee Cardiology, who have been serving patients in Northeastern South Carolina and Southeastern North Carolina for nearly 15 years, this skilled team of physicians offers a full array of cardiology and imaging care. With locations in Loris and Seacoast Medical Center, these offices are an extension of the high quality and high-tech services offered by Pee Dee Cardiology and McLeod Physician Associates.

Dr. Almeida Joins the Exceptional Cardiology Team in Loris.

48863-Dr. Almeida Sasee 9x10.125.indd 1 12/13/11 9:21:13 AM

4 www.sasee.com january

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

January 2012Volume 11, Issue 1

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, see page 39. 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 © 2012. 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 articles8121416182026283436

I n T h I S I S S U ERead It!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 Sasee Gets Candid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24Sasee’s Circle of Love Wreathes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23Women & Men Who Mean Business . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30Scoop on the Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38

The Only “We” That Mattersby Diane Stark

My Huckleberry Friendby Sue Mayfield Geiger

Dancing with Giantsby Amy Mullis

Family Treasuresby Nancy Oliver

Memories of Loveby Karen E. Leone

Southern Snapsby Connie Barnard

Cutting Beyond the Quickby Rose Ann Sinay

Addicted to Listsby Janey Womeldorf

Knock Three Timesby Kim Mallin

Degrees of Regretby Melissa Face

january www.sasee.com 5

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Connie Barnard traveled the world as a military wife and taught high school and college composition for over 30 years. She has been a regular contributor to Sasee since its first issue in 2002.

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].

Sue Mayfield Geiger is a freelance writer and editor residing on the Texas Gulf Coast. Her new book, Gibbons Street is now available at www.gibbonsstreet.com.

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.

Karen Leone was born in New Rochelle, New York, on April 9, 1965. She earned her undergraduate degree at Duke University in 1987 and a graduate degree at Washington & Lee School of

Law in 1990. Karen currently lives in Chicago with her remark-ably unflappable husband, four reasonably manageable children – except the youngest one, Luke – the black Labrador retriever, an ancient hamster with an agonizingly sluggish doomsday clock and intermittent fish.

Taking a break from her life as a family doc in Charleston S.C, Kim Mallin is currently living in Antigua with her husband, teaching at the American University of Antigua School of Medicine. Her days off are spent scuba diving, writing and improving her road race times by running up the hills of Antigua.

Amy Mullis writes for the websites “Stage of Life,” “An Army of Ermas,” and her blog, “Mind Over Mullis.” She hasn’t danced in a long time, but thinks now would be a good time to start.

When Nancy Oliver is not wasting time pawing through boxes, she is trying to figure out how to get the resident groundhog to evacuate his living quarters under her North Carolina house.

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.

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

letter from the editorEven though I love summer and hot weather, January holds its own magic. It’s exciting to start a brand new year, with unlimited possibilities, and it’s a great month for relaxing weekends spent reading or watching a good movie. If you need suggestions for a great book, be sure to read Lisa Hamilton’s insightful review, and, even better, you can find them all archived on the website in case you missed past issues.

Sasee has a new feature this month that I hope you’ll love as much as I do – “Rocking Chair Renegades” – highlighting fabulous women over 50. Our first Rocking Chair Renegade is Pawleys Island resident, Barbara Kee. Please let me know what you think.

Another bit of good news is Sasee writer, Felice Prager, has published her sec-ond book, Waiting in the Wrong Line. As many of you know from reading her work here, Felice is hilarious, insightful and always leaves her readers wanting more. You can find her book on Amazon.

Happy New Year,


cover artistPeacock Garden, by Wyanne

It’s pronounced Y-anne…not Wayne. Wyanne’s brother, who was in college when she was adopted, came up with it. His name is Wayne. Wyanne used not to like it so much…but later in life thought it was a pretty

cool name for an artist. She creates art every day; painting and occasionally mak-ing jewelry. For over a decade, Wyanne has sold her work online to clients all over the world. She also teach online art classes, and has had art showcased online and in several publications. The artist currently resides in Fernandina Beach, Florida, but will be returning to Atlanta (her home for 18 years) in June of 2012. She and her life partner, Danny, have a 9 year-old daughter and 16 year-old son.

To contact Wyanne and see more of her work, visit www.wyanne.com, www.wyartjewels.blogspot.com or visit her etsy store at www.wyanne.etsy.com.

contributing writers


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The Only

“We”That Matters

by Diane StarkMy husband Eric and I spent last week in Hawaii. Our children

stayed at home with Grandma. We spent the week relaxing on some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. We drove around the island in a cute little convertible, a far-cry from the seven-passenger SUV I usually drive. We sipped drinks with pink paper umbrellas and ate delicious food, which I didn’t have to cook. We did exactly what we wanted and nothing that we didn’t.

Sounds pretty great, right?It was. Except for one small thing.My husband used to live in Hawaii. Over a decade ago. When he was

in the military. When he was married.But not to me.In a way, it was nice. I had my own personal tour guide. We never got

lost, and Eric knew all of the best places to go.“We have to go to the luau at Paradise Cove,” he said. “There are sev-

eral of them, but that one is the best.”And he would know. In the three years he’d lived there, he’d been to

all of them.“This is Electric Beach,” he said. “We used to come here to scuba dive

almost every weekend.”We. Usually when my husband says “we,” he means him and me. But this

“we” wasn’t us. And it hurt a little bit.It’s not his fault. Eric and I didn’t even know one another back then.

And I was part of a different “we” in those days too. But my “we” didn’t get to live in an exotic locale like Hawaii for three years.

Before we even booked the trip, I’d shared my feelings with Eric. “I’m just worried that the trip won’t be special for you because you’ve already seen and done it all,” I said.

Eric waved his hand through the air. “It will be special because I’ll be with you,” he assured me.

But I was unconvinced. I imagined our romantic Hawaiian vacation as nothing more than a trip down memory lane for my husband. After all, he’d moved there right after he’d gotten married the first time, and his oldest son

was born there. He was planning to take me to many of the same places he’d already been, and he was sure to reminisce about the times he’d visited as a young Army captain.

But I wanted us to make our own memories. Memories that were just ours. But it didn’t seem possible given the circumstances.

As we drove around the island, Eric showed me the hotel where he’d attended the Army ball, the Army base where he’d once lived, and even the townhouse he’d rented when he first arrived in Hawaii.

And of course, in each instance, when he’d said “he,” he really meant “we.”

The “we” that didn’t include me. I couldn’t help feeling melancholy about the whole situation. My hus-

band had lived in one of the most romantic places in the world – and not with me. “I just wish we’d been together then,” I said with a sigh.

Eric reached over and took my hand. “It wasn’t as great as you’re imagining it, Honey,” he said. “It wasn’t like now, when we can do whatever we want every day. Back then, I had a job to go to, and I didn’t have much time to enjoy all that Hawaii has to offer. Except when I took time off because my family had flown in for a visit, it wasn’t that different than living anywhere else.”

I nodded, grateful for his efforts, but not really buying into what he was saying.

He squeezed my hand and added, “And just for the record, I’d rather run the rat race in Indiana with you than live in paradise with anyone else.”

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the man I married. In that moment, I realized that the past no longer mattered. Eric and I were making our own memories, and they were far better than either of us had experienced with anyone else.

I also realized that paradise isn’t a place, it’s a person. Or in this case, two people – working, raising kids, paying bills and loving each other every day.

Together, Eric and I are the best “we” I could ever imagine.The only “we” that matters anymore.Because the truth is, we’ve built our own paradise. Even in Indiana.


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I decided to read The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides, because I loved his former novels The Virgin Suicides and the Pulitzer Prize win-ning Middlesex. This book is unlike the previous ones but definitely a winner for people who love to read.

The three protagonists are seniors at Brown University in the ’80s; the country is in a reces-sion, and life for those entering the real world may be harder than ever before. Madeline, an English major, is writing her thesis on Jane

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Austen and George Eliot. She is a beautiful intellectual that believes books and ideas will answer the questions of how to live her life and how to seek true love. Mitchell, religious studies major from the Midwest, begins a journey around the world to get Madeline out of his mind as he tries to find the meaning of life while questioning the existence of God. Leonard, a manic, exotic, charismatic loner from the Pacific Northwest completes the love triangle as the three take their steps to adulthood.

This novel is lengthy, but well worth the time. The literary references throughout the book are astounding and fulfilling as we ask – are the old better than the new?


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HuckleberryHow many childhood acquaintances can say they’ve been friends for

62 years? In today’s world of technology and transitions, it may be that memo-ries of childhood will be quite different for present generations. With texting, email, Twitter, Facebook and Skype, friendship is just a click away.

Yet there was a time when friendship blossomed between two five-year-old girls who first met over a backyard fence thick with honeysuckle. They started first grade together and gradu-ated high school together as well. The girls played hop-scotch for countless hours on their adjoining sidewalks; roller skated from sunup to sundown, picked blackberries along the railroad track, and scattered chocolate chip cook-ie dough in every crevice of their mothers’ kitchens when learning to bake.

Mud pies and make believe, picture shows, paper dolls, board games and wading in the ditch after a good

rain were simple pleasures. Summer days were spent squirting each other with a water hose, but the best pastime of all occurred when a Sears and Roebuck truck came down their street with a refrigerator delivery for a neighbor. Every kid on the block watched in anticipation as the cardboard box it came in was hauled out to the curb for the garbage truck. The girls were swift, grabbed it quickly and transformed it into the whim of the moment. It became a castle

where they reigned in all their glory with servants bringing them tea and cake. It was a Lincoln Continental or their own private yacht. It was a schoolhouse where they were the teachers and gave homework only to prissy girls and mean boys. It was a theater where they were movie stars and won numerous Academy Awards. It was their very own future home where they cooked for husbands and raised babies. It was where they shared their biggest dreams and treasured secrets.

My

Friendby Sue Mayfield Geiger


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After months of wear and tear, it would eventually find its way to the trash heap. But soon, someone on the street would buy a washer and dryer, and they would be the lucky recipients of two giant cardboard boxes!

The girls cut out pictures of movie stars from movie magazines and plastered them on their walls. They wrote letters to James Dean, Natalie Wood, Tab Hunter and other popular icons of the day. And guess what? The stars wrote back, sending glossy, autographed headshots of themselves. The girls dreamed of having them over for tea many a day in their pretend sanctuary.

They rode the bus together for 12 years and raced home as fast as they could while in junior high school to watch “American Bandstand” where they were captivated by dancing teen couples Justine and Bob, Arlene and Kenny, and Bunny and Eddie. They saw Ricky Nelson, Ray Charles and Elvis in person, screaming their lungs out at each concert.

The girls grew hoarse from yelling at hundreds of football games. They fretted over what to wear to school dances, and more importantly, about who would ask them to dance. They could do the bop and slow danced the night away with dreamy partners and some not-so-dreamy.

They took driver’s ed together and drove their parents’ cars, thinking they were hot stuff. They picked up girlfriends and paraded around town, cir-cling pre-Sonic drive-ins looking for just the right spot. Carhops in shiny gold uniforms took their order and brought out heaps of fried onion rings and cher-ry Cokes. They were living large!

They double-dated, went steady, survived break-ups, had spats of their own, cried a million tears and laughed a million laughs. After high school grad-uation, their lives took different forks in the road.

One friend went off to college in another city and the other took a job as a secretary. Soon they married and were in each other’s weddings. They had children and grandchildren. They sometimes lived hundreds of miles apart but always kept in touch.

They supported each other through their parents’ deaths and other tragedies that came their way. They celebrated birthdays, anniversaries and other milestones. They attended high school reunions and are about to cele-brate their 50th next year.

They feel fortunate to have traveled this road together – two gal pals who grew up in the best of times when “facebook” meant pasting school photos of your best friends in a scrapbook, when talking on the phone for hours was a lot more engag-ing than texting, and when meeting for the first time with real human contact was the everyday norm. Like 62 years ago, when the friendship of youth blossomed as sweet and natural as the honeysuckle blooms that covered a backyard fence when life was young.


I was too young to be astound-ed by the fact that Dad was taking me to the dance. If any of his submarine bud-dies from WWII or the guys from the maintenance shop at the mill, where he was the go-to guy for problems nobody else could solve, had known about it they would also know better than to tease him. It would be impossible for them to believe that this man, who was more comfortable with a wrench in his hand and grease under his fingernails than a dance floor under his feet, was my escort for the night. I wished it would last forever.

Kicking up gravel and dust as I skipped across the parking lot, trying to keep pace with Daddy-sized steps, I watched our shadows grow long in the sunset and felt sophisticated and worldly. I must have looked about the size of a thumbprint next to him, clutching the folded top of the brown paper bag that held our sandwiches and sodas for sup-per. I reached up to hold his hand as we crunched along toward the armory. Across the parking lot there were other teams of two strolling toward the big building, each one mismatched when it came to height, like a full blown oak tree overshadowing a seedling. I was a Brownie Scout, and tonight was the night for the father-daughter dance.

My dad is not the kind of man who sows words like grass seed, covering the entire yard and waiting for sprouts. He is the kind of man who can fix a china cup with a tender touch and superglue the broken bat a sandlot grandson holds up with tears in his eyes. He doesn’t need the sound on when he watches the ball game, and he doesn’t check the instruc-tions before he assembles the bicycle for Santa to bring. He’s not the kind of guy who discusses his plans for the future or even his plans for the next hour, but a private fellow whose idea of a grand social occasion is taking the family to the local Chinese restaurant for some-body’s birthday.

Looking back, I know he must have wanted to be anywhere else that night; fixing a machine that wouldn’t give in or traveling back to his days in construction where, as an electrician, he was often miles from home bringing power to a bank that would eventually house millions of dollars. But he was there with me, smiling across the sunset as the lights from the big building spilled into the street.

Across the gravel, my friend, Karen from across the street drove up with her dad. He opened the door for her with a flourish, just like mine had done. The evening sky glowed softly above us, and I was sure the world stopped while we headed inside with our best guys. We were princesses with beanie caps for tiaras.

The space inside the National Guard Armory looked huge. Ivy-covered on the outside, it was filled with more little girl excitement than a balloon holds helium. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the big-boned building float away on wispy tendrils of childhood dreams. The evening was warm, but the great hall was warmer, full of animated chatter. We found a place for our little picnic among other bags holding peanut butter sandwiches and cold drinks, and joined a circle of giggling girls, each one flanked by a date wearing a boyish grin and a plaid shirt, hands plunged into the pockets of pants not usually worn during the week. The air smelled of magnolias and punch and shoe polish.

A man with a microphone stood up at the end of the room and invited us to join the fun. We followed the announcer’s instructions and formed two large circles with fathers on the inside and daughters on the outside. For a suspended moment we stood, smiling in anticipation as we waited for the music to start. Then we began to dance. Fairy princesses paired with giants, fluttering in a warmly lit gymnasium.

“Heel and toe, heel and toe, slide, slide, slide, slide.” At every “slide,” the fathers would skip a beat to the right and dance with the daughter that his steps brought him to. My dad skipping is one of the wonders the world will never see

again. The fact that he danced with more girls than even me is amazing.If we only knew to ask the right questions, the wisdom in the room

could have saved us from endless heartaches and headaches, empty dreams and emptier wallets later on. But for the moment, the air was perfumed with laughter, and the world was made of peanut butter sandwiches, cold drinks and the men who would forever be our champions.

For that night, there were no cares, and worries still hid far down the road behind the trees. So in the gathering place of heroes, we captured an eve-ning, laughing with friends and dancing with giants.

Dancing with

Giantsby Amy Mullis


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The fact that I still have – five decades later – the pillow I used as a child probably explains it all. The cover disintegrated years ago during a wash, but the guts of that pillow are the guts in a new throw pillow. No, I can’t let go of the past – and this is a good thing as well as a bad thing.

I’m renovating my family home place. I am the third generation to live here, and the project has become one that does not seem to want to end. Much of this lack of drive toward completion lies with me and within me. I get caught-up in the cleanup and the clearing out.

As elderly relatives have died, I have also been the one to volunteer to clean and sort out their houses. I couldn’t bear the thought of having their

belongings tossed into trash bins by paid strangers. My sister calls my boxes of collected items “trash,” but I think of it as sacred

trash. I can’t let any of it go until I have observed it all, read it all and interpreted its significance.

I have several boxes of my mother’s things. I know these things were special to her

because of the way she wrapped them. Baby girl curls

are wrapped in layers of crinkled tissue paper and carefully pushed

into envelopes. Beautiful candy boxes hold letters from different peo-

ple. One stack of envelopes is tied together with a ribbon as blue as my

mother’s eyes. These letters – disappoint-ingly unromantic in nature – are from a

World War II soldier she had befriended. In these numerous 10-to-12-page letters, he

writes of the long days, of missing his Alabama family and of how kind and encour-

aging my mother has been to him with her letters. Also, with these letters is stored the tiniest, most perfect little ceramic jug I have ever seen. It is the size of a three-chambered peanut in its shell.

I pick up a box of my favorite aunt’s belongings. Aunt Irene lived to be 96. Always healthy, she lived on her own until about three weeks before she died. Her box is full of accountings, to-do lists and itemized itineraries of all the different places she and Curtis, my uncle, had visited. On her 1936 honey-moon, she kept a detailed diary of where she and Curtis visited, what they ate and how much it cost.

The entry from her wedding day reads:Got married at 4 pm. Drove to newspaper office to have wedding pictures

made. Early night.Another entry from the honeymoon itself reads:

Woke up at 7 am. Went to Niagara. Impressive. Had 2 ham sandwiches, 2 Cokes, 2 pieces of pie. 37 cents! Went to bed at 9:30 pm.

I sometimes just stand and look into my father’s boxes. He could be stern and gruff, but he usually had a smile and funny story for everyone he met. On top is a bulletin from his funeral – the place where I learned of so many good deeds that it still makes me tear up to think of how little I really knew about him. Mr. Lee, for example, told me at my father’s funeral how Daddy had gotten out of bed in January 1962 to come jump his car so that he could get to his shift on time. I pick up a note from Mrs. Lillian, telling me how my father disentangled her cat from a wind-shield wiper. I pick up his well-read, coverless serviceman’s Bible. In this Bible, he stored a long list of relatives’ names, written on 6-by-9 inch lined tablet paper. I’m guessing that – as he sat in his barracks reading his Bible – he was thinking of his parents and siblings at home and wondering about his own place in the universe, as I so often wonder about mine.

I have a keen interest in my family’s genealogy and nothing has fueled it like all these details in all these boxes. In one of my mother’s cookbooks, for example, I have found no fewer than 53 different clipped obituaries. Each of these 53 people – I’m guessing – is related to me somehow. They go into a dif-ferent box for my family tree database update. And that pound cake recipe she clipped out from somewhere and stuck in the “Cakes” section? She never ended up using it; I still have the well-used handwritten version she has of her mother’s pound cake recipe. The recipe clipping was a no-brainer for the trash. See? I can let some things go.

I know that these objects are all just things, but it is these things that fascinate me. I had never considered my mom to be sentimental, yet those saved downy baby curls tell me otherwise. I had never considered my artistic aunt to be so methodical, but those detailed notebooks from her life tell me otherwise. I had never considered my father a person who practiced random acts of kindness, yet since his death I’ve lost count of the number of acts that have been related to me.

And if it hadn’t been for these things – this “trash” – I would never have known these all-important background details about them. This sacred trash has taught me things about them and, just maybe, a few things about myself.

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I won’t let her die alone because I’m afraid.That’s what I keep telling myself.But I am afraid.I’m afraid to watch my earliest protector,

my most enduring support, my biggest fan, my best friend, my mother, suffer.

I’ve been watching her disappear for so many years now, but during most of that time, I’ve made believe I was strong.

But I haven’t really been strong. I’ve been chasing her shadow and busying myself with day-to-day life, and in quiet times, with thoughts about everything, anything other than Alzheimer’s disease.

But now her time is at hand.And so, too, is mine…“Mom?”“Yes?” My mom had her back to me,

hands up near her face, her shoulders hunched and faintly heaving.

“Why are you crying?”I’d never seen my mother cry before.I was so young that morning, sitting in the

warm bath water and playing with my tub toys. My brothers had left for school already. Only my mom and I were in the house. It was quiet – the only sound other than Magilla Gorilla softly ema-nating from the master bedroom TV, was my mother’s muffled sobs. She didn’t want me to see her crying. Why not?

I didn’t know what to think. I remember feeling a little afraid because my mom seemed to be so sad, but mostly I was puzzled.

She turned to me and smiled weakly.“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” She sat on the

edge of the tub and gently rubbed circles on my back with a soapy washcloth. “It’s your grandpa. My father. He died this morning.”

“Oh.”I knew it was sad that my grandfather had

died, but only in the way that six year olds do.I can’t say that I remember everything my

mother told me that morning about her father, about his life and about how deeply she loved him. But I can imagine what she said:

“My father was quiet. He was gentle. He was generous and kind, and everyone he ever knew loved and admired him. He always told me how smart I was and how proud he was of me. I never saw him angry. I never heard him raise his voice. I can see him now sitting at the head of the kitchen table, smoking his pipe, smiling. When he laughed, which was more like a happy chuckle, his whole body bounced, and his eyes danced. When I was a little girl, he was my life. He was my father.”

And looking back now on that moment we shared over 40 years ago, it feels like a clue, or maybe just a simple truth, that I couldn’t comfort my mother on that morning her father died other than by being her daughter…

I hung up the phone and indulged myself in a prolonged sigh. My mother called me in Chicago looking for my brother, who lives in New York. I gently provided the pertinent phone number and then engaged listlessly in a rerun of our typical conversation. We now communicate in a loop.

“How are the kids?”“They’re fine.”“Where are they?”“They’re at school. It’s Tuesday.”“It’s Tuesday?”“Yup. Where’s dad?”“I don’t know. He’s around here some-

where. Or he went out. I’m not sure.”

“Okay. How are you doing?”“I’m fine. My back hurts today. We’re

probably going to get rain.”“Okay. Well, I’ll call you when the kids get

home so you can talk to them.”“Oh, where are they?”“They’re at school.”“Okay.”“Bye.”“Bye, Bye.”But the kids will arrive home at 4:00, and

I probably won’t call back. “I’ll have them call her on the weekend when there’s more time,” I assure myself before shutting down completely and escap-ing to the morning chores…

“Mom?”“Yes?” I keep my back to her. I don’t

want my six-year-old daughter to see me crying. Why not?

But then I turn to her and smile weakly. “I’m just sad about grandma, honey,” I say. And as she climbs into my arms I rub tiny circles on her back with my hand. She places her soft cheek against mine, and her small, thin arm around my neck and squeezes gently. I take a deep breath and hold it; hold it perhaps in the hope I can hold on to this moment forever – or maybe just a little while longer – this moment when my sweet baby girl somehow understands that she can make me feel better just by being my daughter…

What will I remember about my mother? Will I remember the disease most of all? Will I remember looking into her eyes as she slowly faded away and seeing only how flat and unanimated and lost those eyes seemed to be? Will I remember find-ing nothing there I could recognize or reach? Will I forever be burdened by the pain of knowing that what used to be behind those eyes – intelligence, warmth, wit – was lost long before I was willing to say goodbye?

Or will it be this?My mother was quiet. She was gentle and

generous and kind, and everyone she ever knew loved and admired her. She always told me how smart I was and how proud she was of me. I never saw her angry. She never raised her voice to me or made me feel anything but supported and loved. I can see her now standing in the kitchen in her nursing scrubs making my breakfast, exhausted but smiling. When I was a little girl, she was my life. She was my mother.

And so I must understand that, as my mother’s memory of love abandons her, I have to love enough for both of us now.

My time surely is at hand.

Memories ofLoveby Karen E. Leone


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Southern SnapsHigh Seas Adventure:

A Personal Sagaby Connie Barnard

Beware of aging men with time on their hands. They come up with wild ideas.

Not long ago the Fates presented us with a gift of unanticipated leisure. Just as I was trying to figure out how to con him into re-doing the mas-ter bath, he walked in one day and said, “Why don’t we get on a freighter ship and go around the world?”

Without missing a beat, I replied, “Have you lost your mind?” as I clicked over to HGTV’s “Extreme Bathroom Makeovers.”

Flash forward six months. He takes me out to dinner, smiles into my eyes, and says, “Okay, why don’t we get on a freighter in Savannah and go to Jamaica, the Panama

Canal, Tahiti, Fiji, New Caledonia, Australia and New Zealand ?”

Call it madness, ignorance, love – all of the above. I smiled back at my boyfriend of 40 years and said, “Sure, why not?”

And thereby hangs this tale.I am writing from the middle of the Pacific Ocean where for the last

37 days we have been passengers on the CMA CGM freighter Matisse, a French company with Romanian officers, a Philippine crew, and a passenger limit of six. If you don’t know exactly what a freighter is, next time you cross the Ravanel Bridge into Charleston, look down on your left. See those great big boats with stacks of metal crates? Yep, that’s a freighter, and a few of these ships have cabins available to a small number of passengers. I know, you’re thinking just as I did: “Why in the world would anyone want to do that?” Amazingly, our ship’s three cabins are so in demand that they are usually booked at least a year in advance.

Our personal Odyssey began on September 22, 2011, at the Port of Savannah, Gate 5, Berth 9. As our port-authorized cab pulled up next to our new home away from home, we saw two couples standing on the tarmac in the ship’s shadow. I knew at a glance that they were the other passengers on our ship – and that they were seasoned travelers who do stuff like this all the time. They had that look, you know: sturdy utilitarian clothing, col-lapsible hats, investment cameras in durable cases hanging around their necks. And there I was: Scarlet O’Hara dressed for the ball. Well, not exactly, but you know how we Southern women have a thing for coordi-nated outfits and make up. I had spent three months trying to figure out which clothes to bring on the two month trip and was quite proud of myself for cramming everything into one suitcase and a carry-on. As I watched the ship’s third officer and steward struggling to haul our lug-gage up the 38 steps of gangplank’s ladder, I knew deep inside that these women had put everything they’d ever need into a bag the size of my pocketbook.

Their names were Irene from Denmark and Angela from England. With their husbands, Hans and Mike, they had met on September 8 when the ship departed from England. They’d made stops along the way in Rotterdam, La Harve, Dunkirk and New York City. They were waiting for a cab into Savannah, eager to visit the Waving Girl and an internet cafe.

After checking our paperwork (medical clearance, passports, visas, shot records), the Third Officer had recovered sufficiently from the luggage episode to give us a tour of the ship and introduce us to each member of the crew. The Matisse is a mid-sized freighter owned by a French company with Romanian officers and a Philippine crew. The required language of the work-place is English. The ship’s captain, Laurentiu Melniciuc, is a crusty, no-non-sense boss, but in the evenings after dinner, he shares marvelous, often hilari-ous, tales of his 33 years at sea, the best one involving a raccoon in the engine after a stop in Miami.

Passengers are given free reign of the ship, including its operational center, the bridge, which is manned 24 hours a day in four hour shifts. An open deck above the bridge, nicknamed “Monkey Island,” is where we passen-gers all stood to wave at the video cam as we passed through the Panama Canal. We waved at the cameras and the visitors on its observation deck waved back to us, Monkey-see, Monkey-do.

The gymnasium/library on board is a large room with two walls of paperback books. About half of these are in French, but there is a surprisingly impressive collection of English titles, many donated by previous passengers. The room also contains a ping pong table, dart board and treadmill. Meals are served in a sunny dining room designated for officers and passengers. The ship’s masterful cook, David, also prepares Philippine food for crew members who have a separate dining room. Elsewhere on board there is an indoor swimming pool and a small ship’s store which pro-vides wine, beer, soft drinks, snacks and toiletries. I’ve been told that somewhere there is also a coffin – just in case one of us is unable to complete the voyage…

The owner’s cabin, which we leased, is a spacious suite about 10 by 15 feet with its own tiled bath. It has large double porthole win-dows with a nice view, partially blocked at the moment by stacks of those colorful metal crates mentioned earlier. There are two other cabins, the super cargo and second officer. These are not as large but otherwise much like ours with nice carpeting, sturdy blond furniture which includes built-in beds, cabinets, desk, wardrobe and a small refrigerator. Next door is a large passenger lounge with tables, chairs, sofas, a coffee pot and a nice flat



screen television for watching videos. At the end of each hall is small deck with metal chairs. We refer to this as “the porch” and spend a lot of time here soaking up the view and the sun.

Speaking of time, yes, there IS a good bit of that. The ship averages about 20 miles an hour. I’ll let you do the rest of the math. This is not a trip for people in a hurry. It is much more about the journey than the destination. We do not have live television or internet (though we do have access to the ship’s e-mail system), and I am truly amazed that the world has survived almost 40 days without our watching the news or reading a newspaper.

What freighter travel does provide is the rare and precious gift of total leisure. Our culture tends to measure the value of life by how busy it is. On board, it doesn’t take long to get beyond this. Between Panama and Tahiti, we went ten days without seeing land. Spotting a distant fishing boat or freighter off in the distance is often the big excitement for the day. That and watching the radar screen coordinates switch from N to S as we celebrate crossing the Equator into the Southern Hemisphere. This actually WAS a pretty big deal, as was crossing the International Date Line. Currently, we are 16 hours ahead of South Carolina, which just goes to show how our concept of time is both neb-ulous and artificial.

Our fellow passengers are an interesting lot, each with a unique per-sonal story. A retired English midwife is traveling with her husband to New Zealand where she worked thirty years ago. They got off in Sidney and were replaced by a British engineering professor returning to the UK after seven years in Darwin working on a water project. This trip tops his Bucket List. An Australian woman who doesn’t like to fly is meeting her family in England where she will travel for several months before heading home via the Trans Siberian Railway and a Russian freighter. Two in the group are recent cancer survivors. Hans and Irene from Denmark have visited remote spots all over the world. They got off in Melbourne and will travel around Tasmania for a month.

Despite its Spartan aspects, freighter travel is not cheap. (And no, we don’t have to swab the deck to pay our way.) Passengers pay a daily rate which includes three meals with wine and steward service. The amount seems quite reasonable until you consider the number of days involved – 43 for us. Compare this with costs of flying in to a posh resort or going on a conventional cruise. You may be surprised – as I was.

Obviously, traveling on a freighter is not for everyone. If you like to dress for dinner and need to be constantly entertained, don’t even

think about it. If you don’t enjoy reading or otherwise entertaining yourself, this trip could be pure torture. It requires flexibility as well. The ship’s primary purpose is to deliver the goods. Weather and port delays often complicate arrival and departure schedules. For certain people, however, this is a unique and enjoyable way to go. Passengers get to know one another and the officers and crew as well. Often they are invited to tour the huge engine room, impres-sive even for someone who doesn’t know a piston from valve. When the ship approaches a port, passengers gather to watch the port pilot arrive by small boat. He climbs aboard the moving ship via a rope ladder dropped over the side of the ship, and then takes charge of the ship as he guides it into port. Pretty amazing stuff.

In a couple of days our adventure at sea will end. Forty days and forty nights on a boat is long enough – even for Noah. We will spend the next month aboard planes, trains and automobiles exploring both islands of New Zealand and both coasts of Australia. It is an amazing opportunity which has taught me something very important: TIME is the greatest luxury of all – that and the freedom of not even knowing what day it is.


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A heartfelt thank you goes out to all who participated in the 1st Annual Circle of Love Wreath Drive.Sasee had so many gorgeous wreaths & door hangings donated.

Visit our website at www.sasee.com or our facebook page to see all the wreaths that were donated. The following wreaths were awarded the Sasee Awards:

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Meet Nell CribbGracious, articulate and attractive, 81 year-old Nell Cribb, lifelong resident of Georgetown, is someone most people in this small town know – or have at least seen walking the streets of the historic district in period dress while operat-ing her tour company, Miss Nell’s Walking Tours. This active octogenarian also collects Coca Cola® memorabilia and has it displayed throughout her lovely Front Street home. Recently retired from the tour business, Nell sat down with Sasee to share some of her memories.

Why did you start Miss Nell’s Walking Tours?This was my retirement business. I was the secretary at Winyah High School for 31 years, and when I retired I knew I wanted to do something outside and be around people, so this was a perfect fit. I have been blessed with two fulfill-ing careers.

When I started doing tours, I thought it would be busiest in the summer months, but spring and fall were the best times. I did tours on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at 10:30 am and 2:30 pm, but I would take appointments for other times. Sometimes I did as many as four a day!

When I was growing up, my parents instilled in me an appreciation for his-tory. They both loved Georgetown and passed that love on to me. People here have been so friendly and receptive to my tours and the tour goers. My guests would tell me that they were pleasantly surprised that everyone spoke “Good Morning” to them without knowing them! I told them that was good old Southern hospitality. And, many of the historic homeowners would allow me to take guests into their homes – a perfect example of how welcoming and gra-cious the people of Georgetown are to everyone.

I was always conscious that my guests were getting their impression of Georgetown through me. I wanted them to have a good time, so I always tried to tailor the tours to the interests of the people taking them. Every tour was a little different. Most people remember stories and tidbits, not necessarily his-torical facts.

I also did step-on tours on charter buses and even small cruise ships that dock here on the way to Florida from Boston. Once, a tour bus operator stopped me, frantic, saying the company had not scheduled a step-on tour guide for the group. I told him to let them go shopping for an hour while I conducted a scheduled tour. Then, he told me there was no money budgeted for the tour – I told him not to worry, I would do it anyway. I always wanted to give people enough information to entice them to come back and get to know Georgetown a little better. It turned out that the people on the bus

gets candid

took up money to pay me. If I hadn’t stepped up, those people may have left Georgetown with the wrong impression and might never have come back.

What do you think of Georgetown today?I think it’s getting better and better. The late Tom Davis, former publisher of the Georgetown Times, started the idea for our Harborwalk, and it has been wonderful for Georgetown. And, now we have the Winyah Auditorium for cultural events.

There is always something new to learn about this town. Once in a while someone on a tour would ask me a question I just did not know. I was always honest, and I would get their name and address and mail them the answer.

I love your home and all of your Coca Cola® memorabilia. How did you start collecting?I have lived here since 1970 – the house was built in 1923 and ’24. At one time, the city stopped at St. James Street [about a block from Nell’s house], and this area was called “Browntown.” The oldest house in Georgetown, the Ulmer House, was built in 1734 and is on Prince Street.


I never said, “I’m going to start collecting Coca Cola® things;” it just happened. At Christmastime, the coke company would send me a case of bottled Cokes, and I put all gifts under the tree. The year the local bottling company closed I was given cups, plates, etc., and I put those under the tree as well. My friends noticed and started giving me more Coke items. My latest is a six pack of Cokes from Dubai featuring South Africa’s 2010 World Cup.

What are your plans for the New Year?After 22 years of giving tours, I decided it was time to step away. Someone else may be able to portray Georgetown in a completely

different light. I turned my business over to native Georgetonian, Debbie Summey.

Hopefully, this year I’m going to inventory my Coca Cola® collection. I need to get this done for my daughters, Vickie and Cammie. I’m not good on the computer, but a friend has offered help. Someone told me I should ask Ripley’s to come and do the inventory – I may have one of the world’s largest private collections!

I am family-oriented and have been doing a quarterly family news-letter for the past 40 years. We are a big family; I was one of twelve children and eleven lived to adulthood. I believe it’s important that we stay connected. People used to have Sunday dinners at Grandmother’s house and always knew who they were related to – it’s not that way anymore. I thank God every day for my life, and that I was fortunate enough to grow up and live in Georgetown and share my talents with others.


Our house had been on the market for eight, long months, and I had given up hope of starting the New Year in a smaller abode in sunny North Carolina. It seemed inevitable that we would have to endure another snowy, New England winter. We couldn’t ditch the snow blower, the plow, or the assortment of shovels just yet. Basking in the warm, Carolina sun was still only a dream.

Unexpectedly, on the coldest day of the year, we got a call from our realtor – we had an offer. My husband and I were ecstatic. It’s what we wanted, what we’d been waiting for; but, could we actually do it? Now that it was a reality, could we really leave our home of twenty-eight years where every square inch held memories of children, friends and family – where nearly every nail had been set by my husband’s hammer, every board cut by his hand? I was sad-dened at the thought of strangers painting over the markings on the pole that showcased the history of my children’s growth. I had to shake this feeling. There was so much to do.

I looked around our home with new eyes. The collection of hand-carved birds, nesting in their niches in the floor to ceiling bookshelves, wouldn’t be making the migration south. It pinched my heart to think of get-ting rid of them, but there was no room. Someone else’s belongings would own those spaces. Did the new owners have anything worthy of filling them, I wondered.

Books filled the expanse of shelves between the carvings. Dickens and Bronte shared space between the mallard and the sandpiper, while King and Follett bridged the gap between the heron and the egret. There were a few valu-able, signed editions, but most of the volumes were just my own personal favor-ites – I had a lot of favorites. Giving them away was going to be excruciating.

“They’re dead weight.” The mover eyed the wall of books and handed me the pricey estimate. “You may want to get rid of some,” he said, viewing my literary friends as expendable mass.

In the basement, my husband faced his own dilemma. His massive workshop occupied the entire footprint of the house. Saws, hammers and things I had no names for were outlined in black and hung neatly on the walls. A lathe and drill press, extensions of my husband’s hands, perched on stands ready to go to work. At the other end of the huge room sat the Gravely tractor with its numerous attachments. What to bring? It was a no-brainer to me. He wouldn’t need his own, personal hardware store where we were going. Our five acres of land was being reduced to a mere postage stamp lot. A new house wouldn’t require major repairs, and I certainly didn’t anticipate two feet of snow along the Carolina coast that would require the power of our mighty Gravely. If I had to cut to the quick, so did he!

Moving day approached and suddenly, the eight month wait seemed like a blip in time.

Downstairs, my husband secured boxes with masking tape and lined them up by the door.

“It’s going with us,” he said, when I offered my help. He couldn’t possibly mean his workshop. The new garage would

accommodate two cars, and not much more. I did a quick, visual assessment of his packing progress. The silhouettes of his missing tools looked eerily naked.

“I gave some of it away,” he continued, “but I’m taking the rest.” “...the tractor and plow?”He nodded. “I’ll find a place for them.”Boxes, lengths of lumber and finished planks were bundled with rope,

Cutting Beyond theQuick

by Rose Ann Sinay


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ready to be relocated. There was no use arguing with him. All I knew was his stuff was NOT going to be stored on my side of the garage. His truck could bake outside in the southern sun.

I stomped up the stairs and grabbed a fat, red marker. North Carolina I wrote on the cartons of books that had been slated for the library.

We arrived a day before the movers. The house seemed even smaller than I had remembered. I hung curtains and wandered through the newly painted rooms with a measuring tape trying to find an extra three or four inch-es of usable space. With a little creativity, our whittled down belongings were going to fit…everything, except my books and his workshop.

I was in town, establishing our new life, opening bank accounts and exploring the local stores when the moving truck arrived.

By the time I got home, the transfer was well underway. I parked the car on the road and proceeded to the front door staying clear of the furniture procession.

“Don’t come in yet,” my husband yelled as he caught sight of me.His worn, leather, tool belt sat comfortably on his hips. His face

and hair were salted with wood shavings. Wet patches of perspiration stained his t-shirt.

“Stay right there,” he ordered.There was the whir of a drill, and a flurry of clumsy activity.“Okay, you can come in now.”I navigated through a maze of boxes that led into my living room.

Boards leaned against the old table saw, positioned in the middle of the space. Tools littered the blue tarp that covered the floor. I followed my husband’s gaze. There, flanking both sides of the fireplace, were two unfinished book-shelves with the promise (and framing) of more to come. Five or six books sat haphazardly on top.

He reached into another box, pulled out the egret, and plunked it next to my books.

“So, what do you think,” he asked with a grin on his face, the drill still in his hand.

I maneuvered closer, stepping over his beloved tools and errant blocks of wood. A Tale of Two Cities and Lady Chatterley’s Lover stood comfortably, side by side.

“I think,” I said, grinning back at him, “it’s beginning to feel like home.”


I love lists. I need lists. I would not be able to function without lists. I can never figure out though, whether the reason I make so many is because, one, I am an organized genius, or two, my memory is shot. As I get older, my need to make lists is intensify-ing, as is my depen-dency on calendars. Do I have some sort of weird addiction or just one horrendous memory?

In my kitchen hangs the essential wall calendar – my lifeline – the bigger the squares the better. Without this, I would never show up for appointments, renew my lottery ticket or send out birthday cards. I also have my fridge-magnet list for daily but less vital reminders to take out the chicken, vacuum and bake cookies, which strangely I never forget. In addi-tion, a blank notepad hides perma-nently behind my fruit bowl for when I’m peeling potatoes and my brain suddenly spurts out that we are down to our last roll of toilet paper. It is a fact of life that these spontaneous reminders never happen when hands are free, clean or dry. On my desk notepad, I list overly-ambitious “To Do This Week” goals, but the mother of all lists is my yellow legal pad.

No flimsy scraps of paper for me; my master list is a full-sized, yel-low writing tablet, and if I say so myself, a work of art. I list the grocer-ies I need down the index, and write the items on sale, grouped by store, on

Addicted to Listsby Janey Womeldorf


BOOKSHELFB R I G H T B L U E S E A

Give

gently used children’s

Books for the

Books will go on blue bookshelves in the community, available free for families to select and keep.

The Bright Blue Sea Bookshelf is a Voices for Children project designed to create a culture of literacy in our community.

For more information, please call Ann Harris at 843-318-1732

the top half of the page with the grocery ads (complete with sale items circled) tucked in the back, all held in place by a large rubber band. I even attach paper clips for the coupons I don’t want to forget at the register. Nothing tortures the soul more than forgetting to use a coupon that sat just inches from your wallet. One time, my Mom and I both forgot to use our $5-off-2-entrees coupons at Red Lobster. Our husbands never flinched at our wasteful oversight; five years later, it still makes us cringe.

How do people even shop without a list? If I get to the store and don’t have my list, I might as well go home, otherwise I’ll buy everything I don’t need and nothing that I do. I found someone else’s list once on a bunch of broccoli. I was tempted to make a customer service announcement for the dis-traught shopper; I felt her pain. I should know; I lost my list once – scariest day of my life.

To the addicted list keeper, lists are a science.I value neat lists, I have rewritten a list that looks messy, and I don’t

like the way others make my lists for me. One time, I sounded off to my hus-band items I needed him to write down as I was handling raw chicken. When I looked at my list later, he had included too much product detail and his writ-ing was too small. When I write cottage cheese, I automatically know I only buy low-fat. I don’t need to read “low-fat, large-curd, 2% cottage cheese” – too wordy. I rewrote it when he wasn’t looking. Also, if we are shopping together and he has control of the list, he makes a measly, simple check mark next to the item once it goes into the cart. I hate that. I wait until he gets sidetracked at steak and seafood, then I grab the pen and strike lines with abandon. Secretly, I love the feeling of crossing something off a list. I have even written things on a list just for the satisfaction of crossing them off – it’s the sense of accomplishment. The list is my “in” basket and nothing satisfies like seeing it empty; it’s a sign of a job well done.

Other pearls of list wisdom: Never compose a list on anything that may double up as a Kleenex or on the back of paper napkins at fast-food res-taurants. You will, without question, forget what you did and trash everything on your tray on the way out. Two hours later, one of two scenarios will plague you. One, the forgotten item still haunts you, to the point of being stressful, or two, you remembered it and scribbled it blindly down on the car notepad while driving, which now means you have gobbledygook posing as a word that you can neither decipher nor remember. The size, shape, and feel of a notepad are also key.

Lined notepaper is too restricting as my scribble rarely fits in the tiny space, so I prefer a blank slate or minimum half an inch between lines. I don’t like pre-printed titles like “Don’t Forget.” I mean, why not just slap me in the face. I’m only using the list because if I don’t, that’s exactly what I will do. You don’t need to rub salt in the wounds of my absent-mindedness. Let me title my own lists thank you very much. Also, notepads are like purses – best selected by the user. I even take my favorite on vacation with me. The thought of being in a hotel room with nothing to make a list on makes me panicky. What if I suddenly think of something we need to buy when we’re out? Too risky.

I also keep permanent lists on my desktop: Christmas-Gift Ideas; Upcoming Vacation Packing list; Books Recommended to Me and my New Year Resolutions list. As this last list rarely changes – lose weight, clean more, drink less – I don’t even put the year on it now. One year, I resolved to keep less lists. I failed after three days. I deleted the resolution from the document and instead embraced my quirky habit. Lists are my life. They complete me.

Lest you think I’m shallow, there are some other things that complete me too; I just can’t quite remember what they are. Wait a minute; I think I wrote them down somewhere.

Let me just get that list.

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BUSINESSPam Shelley

Pam Shelley, Director of Sales and Marketing at Marina Inn and the Grande Dunes Clubs, does not make New Year’s resolutions. “I feel that if you’re forced to make a resolution at a certain time, you’re not likely to stick to it. Instead, I make little goals throughout the year.” A Conway native, Pam has some favorite childhood memories. “My sister and I stayed with our grandmother in the summers while my mother worked. This was a time when you could run around the neighborhood without worrying about danger, so we played outside with friends all day.” Photos are most people’s favorite way of preserving precious memories. Like most of us, Pam doesn’t take as many photos as she would like. “I have taken photos all of my life and most are in albums or hanging on the wall—of course there are a lot I haven’t gotten around to organizing! Now we have digital photos, which are great, but it’s easy to just file them without printing hard copies.” Working in the Myrtle Beach tourism industry all through school led Pam to her current career path. “I started in operations at the front desk. Every step was a part of a gradual process to be where I am today. I knew I wanted to move forward, and tested the waters to see where I would best fit within the company.” Excited about the upcoming year, Pam told me that 2012 would be a year of growth for the Marina Inn and Grande Dunes Clubs. “We are planning different marketing initiatives that will benefit all areas of the company. Marina Inn is a very special place and the best team I’ve ever worked with. I feel very fortunate to be a part of this company and look forward to the future.”

Dr. Lauri Baldwin Graham of Distinctive Eyewear loves New Year’s resolutions. “It’s a great way to either set higher goals for yourself or help get on the right path to reach personal challenges.” On childhood memories, Dr. Graham said, “I have many favorite memories. I am blessed with a great family that has done nothing but love and support me—even the one about one day owning a pet unicorn. They’re still supporting me on that one!” She went on to say, “I do take a lot of photos and enjoy being captured in the moment, whether it’s happy, eventful or just candid. I love looking back on pictures from years ago because it either makes me smile or appreciate how far I’ve come in different areas of my life.” When asked her greatest influence in starting her practice, Dr. Graham said thoughtfully, “I can’t name only one person, but if I had to choose, I would have to say myself, because I would never disappoint myself—if I fall I get back up. Even if things don’t go according to my plan, I can sleep at night knowing that I tried my best and look at it as a lesson learned. There is no such thing as too much ambition and when combined with creativity and a heart to help others, having your own business is the best option.” Distinctive Eyewear has some new and exciting opportunities coming up in the New Year. They are accepting more insurance plans to better serve the community and will continue to offer the best selection of stylish designer eyewear in Myrtle Beach. “Whether you’re looking for trendy, unique, fun or conservative, we have some-thing here for you!”

Dr. Lauri Baldwin Graham

Marina Inn at Grande Dunes, 8121 Amalfi Place, Myrtle Beach, 877-913-1333www.marinainnatgrandedunes.com

Distinctive Eyewear, The Market Common, 1206 Moser Dr., Myrtle Beach 843-213-1201www.distinctiveeyewearmb.com

BUSINESSBetsy Elliot

Betsy Elliot, of Inlet Queens in Murrells Inlet doesn’t really think too much about New Year’s resolutions, saying, “They are not fun and way too planned for me! I am more of a spur of the moment type of person. I like to make a decision, do it and move to the next one.” Betsy’s childhood memories reflect her fun personality. “We rode horses, went dove and quail hunting and played a lot of pranks on people!” Admittedly not organized, Betsy does take a lot of photos, but puts them in a drawer to pull out and look at often. “It takes too much time to be organized, so photo albums are out of the question for me.” Betsy and her girlfriends used to drive around in a pickup truck on the weekends looking for treasures. Soon their many wonderful things began to fill their garages, and the idea of Inlet Queens was formed. “We had to find something to do with our finds,” Betsy laughed. Excited about the future of Inlet Queens, Betsy said, “We are growing like crazy, there are so many talented people in the area. It makes me proud to be a part of their hard work. We are much more than just a shop—we are 46 artistic women and four very tolerant men who support each other. Each person rents and owns their individual booths, and all of our items are handmade, new, used or refurbished. We are an upscale group of eclectic shops. Here, ev-eryone has the chance to live the American dream!”

Diane McLeod, owner of Scents Unlimited in the Downtown Pawleys shopping center, never makes New Year’s resolutions. She laughed and told me, “I stopped doing those years ago!” A photo lover, Diane’s home is filled with pictures of her family; she has three children and four grandchildren, but she doesn’t take many pictures herself. None of Diane’s children live in the area; two live in New Jersey and one lives in Colorado. “I waited a long time for my children;I had them later in life and enjoyed every minute of their childhoods. We were always involved in a lot of activities.” A life-long entrepreneur, Diane bought Scents Unlimited as an established business aftermoving here from New Jersey. Since then, she relocated the business from Little River to Pawleys Island. “I went to a business broker, and when I walked into Scents Unlimited, I knew I wanted it. It was a beautiful store and something different than I had ever done before.” In New Jersey, Diane and her husband were in the moving and storage business, and when she first moved to the Grand Strand, Diane bought and ran a cake route! “I love the freedom andchallenge of being in business for myself—it’s what I’ve done my entire life.” ScentsUnlimited’s internet and mail order business continues to do well, and Diane is enthusiastic about the Pawleys Island community. “We love the area and have met some very nice people.”

Diane McLeodDr. Lauri Baldwin Graham

Inlet Queens, 4905 Hwy 17 Bypass, Murrells Inlet, 843-947-0767www.facebook.com/inletqueens

Scents Unlimited, 10707 Ocean Hwy, Pawleys Island, 800-323-5309www.scentsusa.com

Distinctive Eyewear, The Market Common, 1206 Moser Dr., Myrtle Beach 843-213-1201www.distinctiveeyewearmb.com

Women & Men Who MeanBUSINESS

David & Vicki Bouvier Dave Bouvier, of Bouvier Tax & Financial Services, like most other people, makes New Year’s resolutions but rarely keeps them. His 2011 goal was to play more golf, but that didn’t happen, work got in the way. When asked about his favorite memories, Dave told me that his favorite memory was when he and his wife Vickie came to the Grand Strand from Massachu-setts for their honeymoon in 1981. “In 1986, we came back for another vacation, bought our first vacation home and became annual visitors. Last June we made the decision to move here permanently and built our dream home on Pawleys Plantation.” The couple has two daughters–one lives on Cape Cod in Massachusetts and the other lives in Clayton, N.C. David started the tax business part time for co-workers, neighbors and friends in Massa-chusetts. In 1993 he was offered a buyout from his employer, and then decided to make the tax business full time. Vickie joined the business in 2008 when she retired from her executive vice president banking position. Both are Enrolled Agents, which means they are licensed to represent all taxpayers before the IRS or State. “We handle most any type of tax return or situ-ation, but our specialty is working with day care providers. They have some very specialized tax deductions.” Dave & Vickie attend several tax conferences during the year to keep current on all the tax law changes. They are both members of National Association of Enrolled Agents and National Association of Tax Professionals. Dave is past president of Massachusetts Society of Enrolled Agents. “Many of our 1,000 Massachusetts clients will continue to have us prepare their taxes, and we are anxious to build our practice here. We’re open year round, so give us a call or visit us on our website.”

Bouvier Tax & Financial Services, Inc., 14323 Ocean Hwy, in the Litchfield Exchange, Pawleys Island, 843-314-9090www.bouviertaxservices.com

Dr. William Rinehart Dr. William Rinehart, oral and maxillofacial surgeon, believes New Year’s resolutions are great. “We should all make them every day. Today, I resolve to be thankful for each day—they are all great gifts.” Dr. Rinehart’s fondest memories are of family meals at his grandparents’ home on Sundays. When asked about his photo-taking habits, he laughed and said, “Yes, I take lots of photos—before and after cosmetic procedures on patients I treat!” He uses the photos to educate the community on new cosmetic procedures. When asked his greatest influence in starting his practice, Dr. Rinehart said, “I will always appreciate the opportunity I had to train at a great surgical program in Chapel Hill at the University of North Carolina. The professors and doctors are the best in the country.” The New Year brings many new and exciting opportunities in Dr. Rinehart’s practice. “Each year brings so many new and innovative devices, materials and techniques in cosmetic facial surgery. Fractional Lasers can give youthful, beautiful changes to an aging face. And, Artefil is the only permanent filler and is the basis for volume replacement and collagen reproduction in the mid-face. Please call one of our offices, and we will share more exciting news!”

En Facé, 1729 N. Fraser St., Georgetown, 843-527-2081 & 4017 Hwy 17, Murrells Inlet, 843-215-2525www.enfacecosmetic.com

Barbara KeeLives: I moved to Pawleys Island full-time in May of 2008.Occupation: I retired after working for the Federal Government for 34 years. I had a wonderful career and traveled extensively. I once drove from London to Tehran, crossing ten countries.Hometown: I’m from Annapolis, Maryland. My favorite place in the world is the salt marshes of Chesapeake Bay.Age: 63Activities: Running, kayaking, sailboat racing, golfing, bird watching, volunteeringLoves: I have three adorable dogs, all rescues: Annie, Peaches and Cocoa.Laughs: Doing crazy magazine spreads!

Best Compliment Ever Received: That’s hard. I was well respected in my career, but now when I get thanks for a volunteer job well done I feel great.Favorite Meal: It would probably be eggplant parmesan, salad and wine.Perfect Day: Every day is perfect for me now. I get up and grind the beans for my first of several cups of French Roast coffee, take the dogs for a walk, go for a run, play golf or kayak and meet friends for dinner.

Reads: Currently I’m reading The Long Road Home, by Mary Alice Monroe

Inspiration: My faith inspires me. Beauty: Beauty is everywhere in nature if we take the time to

look. In people, beauty is uniqueness, kindness and generosity. Spirit: We’re not in control here.

Gets Excited: Everything—I was really excited when I got my latest rescue dog, Annie.

Aging: This is the time to give back. I’ve had a wonderful life and career—all my dreams didn’t

come true, actually I have some big holes in my life, but now it’s time to make other’s

dreams come true. I think we always keep growing and learning. I really have a

wonderful life.

A Rocking Chair Renegade is a woman over 50 who:refuses to let age define her and is not afraid of showing the lines of life on her face…believes that the fountain of youth springs from her mind…is wise, funny, active, engaging, valuable, beautiful and definitely not finished!

Rocking Chair Renegades


He forwarded it to me, stating he had jokingly replied with a CV. My remark – “For real? Perfect, I’ll get a job at Eric Clapton’s tx ctr there,” to which he replied only with a smiley face. Granted we loved the Caribbean; love diving, enjoy traveling there; had friends on several islands. And my husband was getting a little bored with his job and was looking for a challenge. But move? Leave Charleston? No way. Not going to happen.

Four days later, we were invited to Antigua for interviews. We decided to go, figuring that the free trip to Antigua was worth it. Thinking, “What is the worse thing that can happen? – We could like it and decide to move there.”…still a win-win situation in our minds. We either stayed in Charleston or moved to the Caribbean. How bad could it be?

The island, with its 365 beautiful beaches, was breathtaking. The resort we stayed in – not so much. The beach was great, and the staff friendly, but every night there was karaoke being sung loudly outside of our rooms until way past my bedtime. And not good karaoke either…if you can imagine a bunch of interna-tional tourists (meaning strange accents) drunk and singing the “Hokey Pokey.” Which actually sounded a little better than the runner up favorite of “Knock Three Times.” I hated that song back in the 70s when Tony Orlando and Dawn sang it, and I still do.

But the school was impressive, and the faculty excited about their plans to make the Caribbean medical school into one that could compete with U.S. schools. By the second day there, I knew in my heart that we were going to move. And realizing that, I found myself having to fight back tears.

How bad could it be, right? Next thing I knew, we were handing in our three month notices.It was quite a difficult decision – much harder than I thought it

would be. After all, we weren’t committing to forever, just a few years. Yes, it is a great opportunity, and yes, it is a beautiful island, and yes…I could go on and on. After giving notice, I had moments of disbelief and excitement; to be living many people’s dream, to be able to dive whenever, never wear heavy coats, not have the hassle of being limited to 10 minute patient visits…there were many positives to it. And don’t get me wrong, going there was a mutual decision, and I was as excited about this adventure as was my husband.

It wasn’t going to be all sunshine and coral though…there were nega-tives. I had wanted to be a doctor since I was 14, spent a few years as a surgery resident and then was unable to practice medicine for several years. I struggled to get back into medicine and truly treasured my profession. I loved what I did. I loved my patients and my office staff. And even though I was talking to the staff at Crossroads, Eric Clapton’s drug and alcohol treatment center, there

were no guarantees that I would ever be able to get a license on the island. It’s very difficult for a U.S.-trained doctor to get a medical license there. At first I would be teaching at the medical school three days a week – not a bad job but not my dream.

That was the main negative. Others included things like being far from family, no 5k or 10k runs every weekend, no air conditioning, no bathtub or clothes dryer in the house, no Target or Stella Nova. No Publix. But I figured I could live without them, at least for awhile. And I

ultimately decided that a few years as a med-ical school professor could only strengthen my professional knowledge.

Those three months were so hard. Saying good-bye to patients often left us all cry-ing. I couldn’t imagine not hanging out and laughing with my co-workers. And with my running buddies, cycling friends and folks from my12 step program, I had so many different groups to say good-bye to that I actually ended up with several going-away parties.

It was at one of those parties that I had one of those “ah-ha moments.” I looked around that room and remembered where I came from. Growing up we moved every year or two due to my dad’s job. I had always envied people who had friends that they grew up with – those who shared memories of 1st grade, their first period and their first boyfriend. The ones who remembered the metal braces and

disappointments over who did or didn’t ask them to the prom; the friends, especially women, who really knew and loved one another. I never had that. Over those years, I had developed a coping mechanism to allow me to be okay with leaving people behind, to not hurt too much. I learned to be superficially friendly, and do what I needed to do to fit in. I became a chameleon. I never realized who I was and I never really let anyone else in…especially not women. I had always felt lonely and like an outsider. Sometimes all I thought I wanted out of life was to fit in.

At that party, I looked around the room, filled with laughing, beauti-ful, bright, outgoing, caring women; friends from all the parts of my life. Who actually KNEW me…and loved me. My heart was full as I realized that I had finally figured out who I was and that I had the life I had always wanted. I finally fit in.

And yet, I was leaving this all behind. Amazingly, instead of sorrow for what I was “losing,” I felt hope for what I might find on this new jour-ney. I felt that since I was taking “me” with me, that same multifaceted woman with an open heart and mind could develop meaningful relation-ships wherever I went.

I’ll let you know how that turns out…

It all started with an email to my husband…“Dear Dr. Mallin:I am reaching out to share an opportunity that may be of interest to you or a physician educator in

your network. American University of Antigua, AUA, is conducting a search for a Chair of Introduction to Clinical Medicine within the Universities’ School of Medicine. This is a unique opportunity to influence the future of medicine and medical care within the US while living in the Caribbean…”

Knock Three Times

by Kim Mallin


“I have something for you,” my dad said, as he walked down the hallway towards his study. “I think you need it more than I do.” He returned with a written record of the last eleven months of my grandmother’s life.

My grandmother, Granny, did not keep a diary. Aside from recipes, grocery lists and thank-you notes, she wasn’t a writer. But she did

keep a calendar. Each January, she recorded the previous year’s daily tem-peratures in her calendar. It was a longstanding habit that stemmed from

necessity. She was, after all, the wife of a farmer. Livelihood depended upon sunshine and rainfall. Temperatures affected planting and harvesting and, ulti-mately, income.

But my grandfather had stopped farming years before he passed away. And now, temperature charting was simply one of her routines. Granny’s calen-dar also contained hair appointments, medical appointments and chore lists. Her calendar helped her stay organized and abreast of special dates.

For the past fifteen years, my father kept his mother’s calendar in his desk drawer. Obviously, it was very important to him. Why then, I wondered, would he want to give it to me?

“Thanks Dad,” I said, while I flipped through the calendar’s yellowed pages. “I will enjoy looking at this.”

When I returned home that night, I opened the calendar. I turned the page to January 1996, the first month of the last year of my grandmother’s life.

I was a senior in high school in 1996, outrageous, rebellious and anx-ious to escape my small town life. Frequently, I butted heads with my parents on major decisions, especially ones concerning curfews, grades and boyfriends.

But luckily, I had a refuge. I had an upstairs bedroom in a two-story farmhouse, a few miles down the road from my parents. I had peace, quiet and home-cooked meals on school nights. I had evening walks, conversation and someone to take my side. I had Granny.

“Aw, let the child stay a while longer if she wants,” I remember her saying on the phone, as I struggled to listen through the wall. “She’s no trouble and I’m enjoying the company.”

Degrees of

Regretby Melissa Face


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Pawleys Lifestyles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

The Red Carpet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Rice Paddy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Rose Arbor Fabrics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Sculpted Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Shades & Draperies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Strand Styling Studio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Take 2 Resale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Victoria’s Ragpatch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

WEZV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Advertiser IndexBut after a while, my parents and I made amends, and I went back home. I still saw Granny on Sunday afternoons, and she stopped by our house weekly. But our personal conversations got shorter as my senior year became more hectic. And though I didn’t know it, I had spent some of the last good days with her.

It was unusual for Granny to go more than a day or two without checking up on us. So when she didn’t call for two days, my family checked on her. Her car was in the garage. A light was on in the kitchen. But Granny didn’t answer the door. My aunt walked around the exterior of the house. She peered in the windows. She saw Granny lying on her side on the hardwood, bedroom floor.

It was later determined that she had suffered a stroke. It left her severely altered, mentally impaired and partially paralyzed. It was mid-August. The blueberries were ripe, and the temperature was in the seventies.

After her stroke, Granny had good days and bad days. At one moment, she would hold up a sensible conversation. The next, she was furious because someone had smeared spaghetti on her bedroom walls. The family hired a live-in nurse; Granny swore she didn’t need one.

Granny’s calendar mirrored the changes in her mental state. Weeks went by without temperatures being recorded. Those that were written were less legible. There were fewer hair appointments, birthdays and anniversaries. There were more medical appointments.

That fall, I visited Granny as often as any teenager would have. I saw her after school and on Sundays. Her nurse brought her to visit me the day I had an outpatient procedure. She gave me a “Get Well Soon” balloon. She was having a good day and had thought about me.

“Thank you for coming by, Granny,” I said. I watched her walk down the steps in her teal sweat suit, guided by her nurse. “I’ll come see you tomor-row after school!” I called out.

But I didn’t visit that afternoon. Instead, I rode around the neighbor-hood, listening to music with my friends. We went to a local hangout, ate hot dogs and walked along the railroad tracks. It was November 5th, 1996, Election Day. It was twenty degrees.

Granny died the next day. She had a heart attack while eating lunch at the kitchen table. She died in the room where she had prepared meals for her husband, fed her four children, cooked Sunday lunch for her family and completed homework assignments with her grandchildren. She died on November 6, 1996. It was twenty-eight degrees.

Grief is heavy enough on the heart. But it bears an even greater weight when compounded by guilt and regret. I was too young to analyze my emotions and too young to know that I had done nothing innately wrong or unforgivable. I carried the regret with me through college and into adulthood.

I have beaten myself up for years for not visiting Granny the day before she died. And for what? Guilt has not afforded me the luxury of time travel, the ability to go back and make a different decision. Regret has not allowed me one more day with Granny, the chance to apologize, or say good-bye. I have only hurt myself further by carrying this around with me. I have been unfair to me.

I realize now that I am not a bad person for not going to see her. I know that she would not hold it against me. In fact, she would probably think nothing of it at all. She never judged me.

I also know why I have her calendar. I understand why I am the proud owner of the written account of the last eleven months of my grand-mother’s life.

Today, I have closure. It is November 8, 2011, Election Day. It is sunny and 68 degrees.

12 The Scoop

7-8 9-3/2 12-14

12-15 20 21

21 26 28

29 31 2/4

Del Shores’ Comedy Act, “My Sordid Life,” Theatre of the Republic, Conway, 7 pm on 7th, 3 pm on 8th, $20 or $75 VIP. All proceeds benefit Careteam of Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-488-0821 or visit www.theatreoftherepublic.com.

Etched in the Eyes, The Spirit of a People Called Gullah Geechee, new history exhibit at Brookgreen Gardens, open noon-4:30 pm daily, free with garden admission. For more info, call 843-235-6000 or visit www.brookgreen.org.

Myrtle Beach Quilt Party and Vendor Extravaganza, Myrtle Beach Marriott Resort & Spa. For more info, visit www.mbqp.net or e-mail [email protected].

Mid-Winter SOS (Society of Shaggers), North Myrtle Beach, various events throughout the area. For more info, call 843-281-2662 or visit www.shagdance.com.

Moveable Feast, Kim Edwards discusses The Lake of Dreams, 11 am, Tara Ballroom, Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort, $25. For more info, call 843-235-9600 or visit www.classatpawleys.com.

“Barbershop Cabaret,” presented by the Low Country Barbershop Chorus, 7:30 pm, Myrtle Beach High School, 3302 Robert M. Grissom Pkway. For more info, call 843-903-4047 or visit www.lowcountrychorus.org.

29th Annual 5K & 15K, 9 am, McLean Park, North Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-272-1717 or visit www.nmbevents.com.

FPC Concert Series, Haochen Zwang, Van Clyburn International Piano Competition Gold Medal winner, First Presbyterian Church, Myrtle Beach, 1 pm. For more info, call 843-448-4496 or visit www.myrtlebeachpresbyterianchurch.org.

Montessori School of Pawleys Island Open House, 10 am-1 pm, 236 Commerce Dr., Pawleys Island. For more info, call 843-237-9015 or visit www.PawleysIslandMontessori.org.

Mahler’s Titan Symphony, Long Bay Symphony, 4 pm, Myrtle Beach High School, 3302 Robert M. Grissom Pkway. For tickets or more info, call 843-448-8379 or visit www.longbaysymphony.com.

Cabana Gauze Brunch & Fashion Show, 11 am- 1 pm, Nosh, $50 per person, $85 per couple. All pro-ceeds benefit Georgetown Hospital System Indigent Breast Cancer Fund. For more info, call 843-314-3344.

“Big Hearts Helping Little Hearts” Gala, to benefit St. Christopher’s Children, 6 pm, Pawleys Plantation, $100. Dinner, silent auction, live music & more. For more info, call 843-235-0777 or visit www.stchristopherschildren.org.

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Epic ProportionA Season ofJ A N U A R Y E V E N T S

2 0 1 1 - 2 0 1 2 S E A S O N

SPECIAL EVENTMONDAY, JANUARY 23, 2012The Long Bay Symphony with Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers

in a Benefit for the Pardue Childrens Foundation

Alabama Theatre, 7:30 pm

Tickets: $50 and $40 available through the Long Bay Symphony or Alabama Theatre

SYMPHONY SERIESSUNDAY, JANUARY 29, 2012Mahler’s “Titan” SymphonyFeaturing horn soloist David Jolley

MBHS Music and Arts Center, 4:00 pm

FOR TICKETS CALL: 843.448.8379TICKETS ALSO AVAILABLE ONLINE AT: www.LONGBAYSYMPHONY.com

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