Featured: LIFESTYLES Pg. 23
Living the Harbour Town Yacht Club Life
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The Breeze August 2018
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The Breeze August 2018
Notes From The Editor Well I have a confession to make. After over 15 years of being the magazine of Bluffton I took the name Bluffton out of The Breeze. Let me tell you why. I am the small guy on the block in the media business around here when you look at the other fine magazines. We are not trying to compete with them—we are different and are proud of that. We put the emphasis on fresh high quality editorial content with graphics that tell the story. We support the Charities. We are a source for local information. Our advertising is pleasing and provides a message. We now believe that The Breeze is ready for a wider audience! To share our stories with Hilton Head. We have been distributing on the Island for some time now and I have been receiving a lot of positive feedback and emails from Islanders. We now have thousands of readers there. Now, there is one more confession. I will be traveling for part of July and August and decided to relive several articles that were “the best of” over the years. The Breeze readership has doubled over the last four years, and I hope old and new friends are ready for a real treat.
PUBLISHER/EDITOR Randolph Stewart firstname.lastname@example.org 843.816.4005 COPY EDITORS Chris Golis John Samuel Graves, III W.W. Winston ADVERTISING COORDINATOR Cindy Hayes 843.757.8877 GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Alec Bishop Jessica Spenner CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Gene Cashman III, John Samuel Graves, III Amber Hester Kuehn, Michele Rohldan-Shaw Andrew Peeples Harbour Town Yacht Club Kelly Dillon, Spring Island,com PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR Alec Bishop email@example.com LIFESTYLE EDITOR Samantha Williams www.resortgirl.com 678.641.9165
To kick off our “coming out party”, we have placed an iconic Harbour Town Photo on the cover from Jeff Keefer. It was taken from the entertainment veranda atop the Harbour Town Yacht Club, a special place, and one of our new supporters. To add to that Resort Girl, Samantha Williams, has shared with us her good times at the HTYC, and the friends that she has made there. She is such a good writer and I am so pleased to know her and call her a friend.
PHOTOGRAPHY AND ART Jeff Keefer Ed Funk Chris Hefter Samantha Williams Jess Spenner Tom Jenkins Photography Our Readers & Friends
For history you will enjoy Part I of two parts, The History of Spring Island. The facts came from a personal diary and I particularly liked the story of Union Troops foraging on the island, and their encounters with the slaves that lived there at that time, and how the soldiers invited the slaves to share what little food they had to eat.
CORPORATE OFFICE 12 Johnston Way, Penthouse Studio P.O. Box 2777 Bluffton, SC 29910 843-757-8877
Now, I have been holding back on the Andrew Peeples piece for awhile. Read The Big Race, and know you will die laughing. He was such a great writer and Blufftonian, and I am privileged to print his words. An abundance of editorial can be found in this issue, Amber Hester Kuhen’s favorite piece on marsh grass. Michele RoldanShaw’s piece about herself providing deep incite into her free spirited personality as she tells us why she is destined to write. And finally we finish up featuring a wonderful little home on Spring Island. Let us know what you are thinking and remember to tell our advertisers you saw them in your favorite magazine in the lowcountry, The Breeze. 4
The Breeze is published by The Bluffton Breeze, LLC. All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored for retrieval by any means without permission from the Publisher. The Breeze is not responsible for unsolicited materials and the Publisher accepts no responsibility for the contents or accuracy of claims in any advertisement or editorial in any issue. The Breeze is not responsible or liable for any errors, omissions or changes in information. The opinion of contributing writers do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the magazine and it’s Publisher. All Published photos and copy provided by writers and artists become the property of The Breeze. Copyright 2018. Subscriptions are available at a cost of $65 per year.
CONTENTS F E AT U R E S
AUGUST 2018, VOLUME 16, NO. 7
08 The Turbulant Past of a Tranquil Island 12
The Big Race
It Starts With the Marsh Grass...
Living the Harbour Town Yacht Club Life
Smile Itâ€™s August
Why I Write
40 Dispatches from the May 44
What are Community Foundations Anyway?
46 Retreat in the Middle of a Reserve D E PA R T M E N T S
08 History 18 Environment 16 August Tides 23 Lifestyles 30 Your Corner 32 Restaurant Guide 42 August Happenings 46 Architecture COVER: VIEW FROM HARBOUR TOWN YACHT CLUB VERANDA BY: JEFF KEEFER
The Breeze August 2018
The Breeze August 2018
The Turbulant Past of a Tranquil Island Today, Spring Island is a tranquil place -- known for its high bluffs, stunning views, nurturing breezes, majestic oak forests teeming with wildlife, saltwater estuaries with an abundance of seafood, and fresh water from dozens of natural springs. Hence the island’s name. But this tranquility has been shaken by many conflicts throughout the ages -- some that we may never be aware of since it was first inhabited as early as 10,000 B.C. But we did discover the 1862 diary of a federal soldier, John Frederick Holahan in the Bluffton Historical Society Archive, which brings to life a small chapter of the conflicts that took place on the island -- and we will have more to come in future editions. -- Randolph Stewart From: Diary of John Frederick Holahan, 1862 and “A History of Spring Island Plantation” By: Agnes L. Baldwin, 1966 Published by: Spring Island Trust, 1996 Tuesday 4th A large foraging party under Capts. John I. and Austin Curtin went today to Spring Island, about 15 miles up Broad River and adjoining the main land. We were about 40 strong, and went well armed, as the rebels are often on the Island and might give us trouble. About 20 negroes went as guides and rowers making our party number 60 in all. We look like a small fleet and formed a merry party. Many a joke was cracked and song sung as we went gliding along the smooth surface of the water that presented scarcely a ripple on its glassy surface! Everyone who could sing sang, and the rest applauded. Finally we rounded the Devils Elbow entered Callawashee Sound, followed an armlet in by Buzzard Island and landed on Spring Island at the mansion of Dr. Edwards, who is away with his rebel brethren. Sending our boats around to Barnashore Landing we scouted across the Island on foot. The Island is about 3 miles long and at least one in width, rich and fertile. It 8
is covered with unplucked corn and unpicked cotton. Herds of cattle, half wild, roam about at will and we had much difficulty in hunting down one or tow for our use. It is almost as exciting as a buffalo chase, and fully as dangerous, as we came near shooting our companions half a mile off on the level plain she we made a miss shot. Dwelling houses for overseers and larger buildings for the storage of cotton were at intervals along the shore where landings were made. Giant mules, larger than any horses I had even seen, went galloping about at safe distances, and the prairie scene was complete. The usual made roads were present, and if we tried to leave the we had to return to them to get across a causeway which last is a road across a swamp. Hogs ran in droves, fattening on the corn, and were very fierce. We killed what we could carry, and drove others ahead of us to Barnashore where we succeeded in penning them.
We wanted chickens but the cunning darkies knew we were coming and hid all except one old setting hen and a blind rooster. A long row of beehives attracted our attention., and we quickly smashed them up and despite the angry bees, we got an abundance of their treasured sweets. Some of the boats finally arrived, but others could not reach us as they drew so much water that would have been compelled to approach too close to the mainland, and the rebels began firing on them. Killing cattle and hogs began in earnest and the boats were soon laden. Capt. Austin Curtin, being advised of certain treasures on Callawashee Island, took Sergeant VanVallin, Sergeant Muffley, myself and some others and started for them. Muffley and I found a small skiff, and thinking it might prove useful we got into it and paddled it along with some strips of board. We got
bet an opportunity to dispose of them. We got nothing of value, but some silver plate suddenly appeared at his home up North).
behind, and did not get to the landing until dark. Curtin had left a man to tell us to wait for him and we could do no better. After waiting a long time, our party returned and brought a cart-load of boxes which they had dug up from concealment.
In the morning we crawled forth carefully, but seeing no enemy, we set about inspecting the Edward’s mansion.
Loaded our plunder into the boats and set out for home. At Barnshore, Muffley and I got out and walked across the island, so that our laden boats could get over the bar without capture by the rebels. We were thoroughly exhausted by the time we reached Dr;. Edward’s landing, and we sat down and waited for Capt. Curtin and the boats, but waited in vain. (He told us afterward that he could not get up to us, but our private was, and still is that he purposely left us lest we might lay claim to some of the valuables in the boxes before he could
As the tide went out, we began to feel the gnawings of hunger, and going to a negro hut, got an old woman to cook us some hominy. She gave us some butter to put on it, but although I managed to use some of it, Muffley thought there was too much dirt among it. About 2’ o’clock we lay down to sleep, with Josh’s pants and Dinah’s petticoat for a bed, and Sam’s coat for a pillow. We slept some, knowing that our colored friends would keep faithful watch. Our slumbers were not peaceful, however, for an old rooster on the rafter above us kept crowing away a a fearful rate, a we feared he might split his throat.
Wednesday 5th The building was large, roomy and imposing externally, and had been furnished with elegance and taste by the opulent proprietor of the Island. But vandals had smashed the grand piano, cut and mutilated the costly paintings and furniture and carried off the best carpets and other articles capable of removal. It made one sick to witness what utter want of decency and taste some of our bummers had displayed— I say bummers , for me no true soldier would so far forget himself as to thus destroy ruthlessly, what could not harm us. Magnificent avenues of live oaks led away in three directions at least The Breeze August 2018
for half a mile, and the immediate grounds were enclosed by a fence of ossage, orange, trimmed as rectangular as a stone wall and ornamental shrubbery adorned the grounds. Flowers grew every-where in profusion and everything about us was calculated to delight the eye and overpower the senses with beauty and fragrance! Buried near a cotton warehouse we found a lot of articles useless to us, except for some old Georgia and Carolina bank bills and a few dollars in silver coin. We confiscated the money and reburied the rest. Some of the bills were of the odd denomination of four and three dollars; new to us. I forgot to say that I appropriated some books from the extensive library and a “love of a writing stand”. I knew they would only be destroyed if left behind. About noon, the tide came in, and with two boats, one the “Silver Cup” our best sail-boat manned by some of our boys, the other containing a government agent who was over-seeing the picking of the cotton on the different islands. After loading what we wanted, we started out the armlet toward Callawashee Sound, but stood ready to repel and attack from some rebels that we saw land a half hour before on Buzzard Island. Fearing our number, they let us pass in safety without molestations. Just in our wake followed a large flat loaded with negroes ands all their household goods, who took the opportunity to flee to the protection of our flag. We noticed that the wind was blowing strong from the sea, but felt 10
not danger until the last pull of the oars sent us out into the Sound and there—we four our boat tossing wildly about in the rolling billows and the “whitecaps” dashing into our boat and threatening to swamp us! We shouted to the negroes in the flat to go back, and they just saved themselves, for their flat could not have lived a moment outside the creek. We were waged past the mouth of the creek and all out effort to reenter were unavailing! Our four negro rowers would have dropped the oars and certain destruction have come upon us if I had not placed my rifle to their heads ad bade them pull for their lives! Oh! What slow progress we made! It kept 3 workers busy bailing out the water from our boat, and all my skill as pilot was needed to quarter the waves that seemed so greedy to devour us! The negroes nearly dead, begged for relief at the oars, but we could not stop pulling for a moment or we were lost! At last we got just past Devil’s Elbow, “where many poor men drown”, the negroes said, a few moments lull in the storm—up went out sail! We were safe! Along came the breeze on our quarter and away sped the gallant Silver Cup! How she rushed along over the angry waters and seemed to laugh at their efforts to harm her! Every seam in the canvas was stretched, but nothing tore or broke, and in less thine than I can write this, we dropped anchor at Seabrook, proud of the gallant boat that brought us so safely through our perils! She was more than a Golden Cup to us!
The Breeze August 2018
The Bluffton Times VOL.89 NO. 21
NEWS FOR TODAY
PRICE 5 CENTS
THE BIG RACE E
verybody in Bluffton who isn’t too old or too young to remember things will recall the big race that was run right down the main street. It was one of the most exciting events that ever took place in Bluffton. But it wasn’t recorded in any of the racing journals, because at that time Bluffton wasn’t connected with the rest of the world. There were no telephones, the nearest telegraph office was eighteen miles away, and the road to Savannah hadn’t even been dreamed of. I’m talking, of course, about the big race between Lonnie Mulligan’s black billy goat and Johnny Harrison’s brown and whitespotted billy goat. Those two handsome goats were just about the same size, and everybody in Bluffton wanted to see them race. Everybody, that is, except Lonnie and Johnny. They knew it was bound to be a pretty close race, and they tried their deadlevel best totalk it down.
Grandpa Guilford was the mayor of Bluffton, and he instructed M r . Forester, the marshal, to convert the main street into a race Mayor George Sewell Guilford track. The street was paved with oyster shells and was just about a half mile long. The race, Grandpa said, would start in front of Prince Riley’s barber shop at the north end of the street and stop at the big oak at the top of the hill leading down to the
wharf at the other end. The winner, he said, would be awarded a two-bushel sack of oats. He appointed Captain Haynesworth of the steamer Attaquin the judge at the finish line, and they set the starting time at 2 o’clock the following Friday afternoon. The night before the race I slept with Lonnie and his goat in a crocus-sack tent in Lonnie’s yard. It was a blackas-pitch night and a hoot owl was mourning low in the pear tree back of Lonnie’s kitchen. We had a lantern hanging on the pole, but the chimney was all smoked up, and it was almost as dark inside the tent as it was outside. The goat bedded down between Lonnie and me and chewed his cud. He dozed with his eyes half shut, except when he
“My goat was just operated on about two weeks ago,” said Johnny. “It’ll be another month or so before he can run again.” “I’m fatter than Johnny,” said Lonnie, “and it wouldn’t be a fair race because my goat’ll have more to pull.” But nobody paid them any attention. Steamer Attaquin at Calhoun Street Dock
was coughing or sneezing. Lonnie laid flat on his back with his legs crossed and his hands locked under his head, so he could watch for daybreak through a hole in the top of the tent. I laid on my side with my head on one arm, so I could see Lonnie’s face under the goat’s beard. Lonnie hadn’t swallowed a mouthful of supper or drunk a drop of milk or water since dinner tVime. He wasn’t going to eat or drink anything until after the race. He said he had to get as light as Johnny by racing time, because the goat that had the most to pull was bound to lose the race. “I’m empty as a church on Saturday night,” Lonnie said, “and I’m all dried up inside for want of milk and water. But nothing’s going down my throat till after that race tomorrow, and I mean it.”
A buzzard’s back got about a thousand feathers on it, but all thousand put together don’t weigh enough to hold him on the ground. Any time he wants to, he can sail straight up into the sun so high you can’t even see him.”
It wasn’t easy to change Lonnie’s mind, because he had red hair, just like Miss Chaplin, our school teacher. Once she told you to stay in after school for throwing a spitball or something, you could move up to the head of the spelling class, but you still stayed in after school. But I knew Lonnie would be too weak to ride in the race if he starved himself all night. I tried to tell him that a cold biscuit filled with a little bit of Georgia cane syrup wouldn’t make him much heavier.
Lonnie sat up and looked at me with his mouth wide open, the way you look at Santa Claus the first time you see him.
Lonnie didn’t take his eyes off that hole in the top of the tent. I couldn’t see much use in saying anything else, but I had to keep trying. “Shucks, Lonnie,” I said, “did you ever watch your mother bake biscuits? Did you notice what a little bit of flour it takes to make a pan full of biscuits? I’ll bet there’s not one teaspoonful of flour in one whole big biscuit.” I kept watching Lonnie’s face to see if he was changing his mind, but he kept his mouth shut tight as an oyster and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “One teaspoonful of flour,” I said, “is light as a feather on a buzzard’s back.
“Dogbite my skin,” he said, “how come I didn’t think of that!” He jumped up and snatched the lantern off the pole and headed straight for the kitchen. “Bring two!” I yelled after him. He came back with two hunks of cornbread. Somebody, he said, had eaten ali of the biscuits left over from supper. The cornbread was dry as talcum powder and it made us thirsty. We had to go to the pump on the back porch and get water before we choked to death. We drank about a quart each, and then Lonnie said he felt as if he had gained about three or four pounds. He sounded awfully discouraged. What I had gained didn’t matter, because I wasn’t riding in the race. We went back to the tent and laid down and stayed quiet a long time. We could hear a poodle dog over on the main street barking at a ghost or something.
Race Course on Calhoun Street
We could hear the little hoot ow1in the pear tree back of Lonnie’s kitchen. We could hear two bullfrogs beating a bass drum down in the cove back of the old school house. I was just about to fall asleep when Lonnie suddenly sat up and started talking again.
“Dog bite my skin/’ he said. “I’m not running my goat in that race tomorrow, and I mean it.” “Gee whiz!” I said. “Gee whiz nothing,” Lonnie said. “I’m twice as fat as Johnny now, and his goat’ll make a fool out of mine.” I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Shucks, Lonnie, I’m just about as light as Johnny. If I were you and you were me I could ride in that race, only it would be you and not me.” And quick as lightning it brought a good idea into Lonnie’s head. “Dogbite it,” he said, “how come you can’t ride in that race? How come somebody else can’t ride with Johnny? That way, we can even up the weight. Dogbite my skin, how come I didn’t think of that before!” He jumped to his feet and popped his fist in his hand a couple of times. Then he snatched the lantern off the pole and headed straight for the kitchen again. In less than two minutes he was back with a pot full of cold lima beans and a whole pitcher full of buttermilk out of the icebox.
Lonnie had said. Johnny said it was all right with him, provided he could have Wesley Clemons in his cart. Mr. Forester got out of the buggy and lifted us four boys one at a time. “Yep,” he said. “Wouldn’t be three ounces difference one way or the other.” Lonnie and Johnny were satisfied, and Wesley and I were just about the happiest fellows in the world. Mr. Forester drew a starting line across the street with his club. He took a big gold watch out of his pocket and looked at it. “Dogbite it,” he said, “I’m hungry.” We gave the goat one or two beans along as we ate the rest and washed them down with the buttermilk. Lonnie drank all of the juice out of the bottom of the pot, and then we laid down again and rested, till Lonnie saw a streak of gray through the hole in the top of the tent. “Dawn’s busting,” he said. “I got to get up and go to work. I got a million things to do before racing time at two o’clock.” “Me too,” I said. I ran home. I went straight to the kitchen and got the milk bucket and went out to the barn and milked Daisy. I ran back to the kitchen and strained the milk into pans and set them in the icebox. Then I ran out to the woodpile and started swinging the axe. I swung it until Mama called me to breakfast. After breakfast I ran back to the woodpile and kept cutting wood until I had plenty to last through supper. By the time the dinner bell rang, I had already toted the wood into the kitchen and filled the woodbox behind the stove. I swallowed a plate full of rice and gravy and roast beef and mashed potatoes and squash and green peas and some hot buttered biscuits and a glass of cold milk, and then I grabbed a big slice of Mama’s apple pie and ran back to Lonnie’s house. Lonnie had finished greasing both wheels on his cart with lard and was waiting to borrow my knife. He said
he had to put a sharper point on the end of his whip handle. He said he had to have it just right - not too sharp and not too blunt, but sharp enough. He drew his .38 Special and told us to get ready. While he was doing that, I got his mother’s scrubbing brush offthe back porch and brushed the goat’s hair. I brushed him all over until he was as shiny as Dan Patch in the picture on Grandpa Guilford’s desk. It took me about a whole hour to get him that way, and before I knew it Lonnie was saying it was time to get on up to Prince Riley’s barber shop. Johnny and his goat were already there when we got there. Mr. Forester and a lot of other people, white and colored, were there too. As far as I could see down both sides of the main street, people were waiting for the race to start. Lonnie drove the cart up alongside of Mr. Forester’s buggy. He told Mr. Forester that he wasn’t racing his goat unless I rode in the cart with him.
“Two minutes to starting time,” he said. “Better get those racers lined up.” The crowd on the corner thinned out pretty fast. Some of the boys had bet their best spinning tops on the goat they thought would win and wanted to be at the finish line when the race ended. My brother Luke was getting a haircut in Prince Riley’s barber shop, and he got so excited that he jumped out of the chair with the cloth still tied around his neck and took out after those other boys. Lonnie and Johnny lined the goats up on the starting line. They ba-a-a-aed and stamped their feet and shook their tails, but they toed the mark and stayed right on it. Mr. Forester held his watch in his left hand. He drew his .38 special out of the holster and told us to get ready. He kept his eyes on the watch as he raised the pistol above his head and pointed it toward the sky.
“Let Johnny pick himself a rider too,” Lonnie said. “I don’t care who, so long as the two together’s no lighter than me and Kink.” (Lonnie called me Kink on account of my curly hair.) Mr. Forester called Johnny over to the buggy and explained what Courtesy of Joanie Heyward
When Mr. Forester fired his pistol and yelled, “Go, goats, go!” Lonnie and Johnnie jabbed those pointed whip handles just as hard as they could, and those two goats leapt straight up into the air, just as though a couple of mad hornets had popped stingers into them. They came down with their feet flying back and forth like the shuttle on Mama’s sewing machine.
I reached out my hand to be ready to twist Lonnie’s goat’s tail, but Lonnie jerked my hand back. “This is no tail-twisting race,” he said. “What you think I borrowed your knife for? You just bend to the wind and hold on tight!” Lonnie had the pointed end of the whip handle aimed at a certain place. I looked over at Johnny and saw that he had the pointed end of his whip handle aimed at the same place on his goat.
Lonnie and Johnny didn’t let up on those whip handles either. They held them tight in place the whole time those goats were running. I think both Lonnie and Johnny would rather have been dead and buried than to have lost that race. I don’t think they could have stood the shame of it for the rest of their lives. “Bend to the wind!” Lonnie cried. “You’re holding me back!” I was already kissing the singletree, but I bent some more. I bent so low that I couldn’t see when we passed Papa’s store, or the post office in the corner
of Uncle Sam Graves’ yard. I think we had just passed Mrs. Lockwood’s house when I heard the sharp clang of iron against iron and somebody yelling, “Look out! Look out!” But it was too late. The inside wheels on the two carts locked together like two bulldogs. The carts tilted up on one outside wheel, then up on the ot her , then flipped all the way over, like Mam a’s waffle iron, throwing the goats out of the shafts and piling us four boys against th·e Episcopal churchyard fence, less than fifty feet from the finish line. The goats lost no time getting back on their feet and heading back the other way just as hard as they could go -trying, I guess, to put plenty of distance between those pointed whip handles and the places where they had been. Captain Haynesworth and about a hundred other people gathered around us boys to see ifwe were hurt. And when they saw that there wasn’t one scratch on any of us, they all broke out laughing. I think Lonnie and Johnny wanted to cry with joy when Captain Haynesworth said he would have to call it a tie race and divide the oats between the goats. That way, nobody lost the race, nobody got hurt, and everybody except the goats had a lot of fun.
A true old time Blufftonian will remember Mr. Andrew Peeples. He was born in 1905 in Bluffton and was one of fourteen children of a prominent Bluffton merchant. His father owned a quaint shop on Calhoun Street called “Peeples Store.” This little structure still stands on Calhoun Street as “The Store.” Andrew graduated from Bluffton High School and later from The University of South Carolina. He was also a graduate of The Alvienne School of Dramatic Art in New York. The stories Andrew has written have been recollections of his childhood in Bluffton around the early part of the century. His daughter, Mildred, sent me this story and I could think of no better gift than to share this with everyone in Bluffton. Andrew Peeples died on January 16, 1979 and he is without a doubt the genuine Bluffton Boy. Article printed with permission from Mildred Peeples Pemberton
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It Starts With The
Marsh Grass... By: Amber Hester Kuehn
This is one of Amber’s Favorite It's Spring!
And the seeds that fell to the mudflat last fall are starting to emerge…emerald green blades of Spartina alterniflora, Saltmarsh Cordgrass, are peeking through amongst the old brown sticks that are waiting to be carried away with the outgoing tide. This cycle is so much more than it appears. If you have never considered marsh grass to be the basis of our ecosystem, prepare to be amazed…
It drinks salt water. If you want to test this trait on other plants, be my guest, and water your lawn with salt water from the May River. The results will not impress you, however, marsh grass can push salt from its blades…look closely to see a collection of salt crystals if it hasn’t rained in a while. Deer have been known to lick the marsh grass in the high marsh for the salt mineral in their diet. Although it is tolerant of a range in salinity, it does not tolerate shade. For this reason, long boardwalks linked to floating docks are discouraged.
It collects silt that forms the mud flat. The roots of the marsh grass form a hill of pluff mud. Silt collects in the roots and starts to form land, although very soft and sinky. Did you think I said stinky? When people ask me to explain why the mud flat smells bad on a hot summer day at low tide, I simply tell them…”It is working!” That smell of rotten eggs is actually sulfur hydroxide gas, a byproduct of bacteria that eliminate the excess organic matter that must come out of the estuary
to make it pristine! The mud flat is home to fiddler crabs, snails, mussels, and oysters…wading birds and dolphins use it as a feeding platform.
It is the “Nursery of the Ocean”. South Carolina has 345,000 acres of marsh grass, more than any state. When the tide is high, small fish, blue crabs, shrimp, and larval organisms hide from their prey in the grass….at least until the low tide forces them to leave with the water. Have you ever wondered why shrimpers cast a shrimp net at low tide on the water’s edge or why hand line crabbers wait until low tide to drop bait in the shallow water by the mudflat? The shrimp and crabs congregate as close as the water will allow, ready and waiting to return to their safe haven in the marsh grass.
It is food for small organisms. Dead marsh grass provides food for animals that feed on decaying organic plant matter, or detritus. For example, marsh fiddler crabs feed on detritus and in return, aerate the mudflat by burrowing their tunnels.
It protects the land from erosion. In life and in death, this plant is protection in the event of a storm. In the estuary, a storm surge will strike the marsh grass first, which breaks the wave action like water running through a colander. The land behind it will not take the full force of the wave. When marsh grass dies in winter, it breaks off and the outgoing tide takes it from the mud flat, to the beaches of the barrier islands. There it collects at the high tide mark and catches the sand that is blown into it. When sea oats attach to this natural sand fence, a dune is formed. Dunes are the first line defense for the barrier island during a storm surge. Spartina alterniflora is tough enough to live where most plants canâ€™t. It has strong roots to hold the mudflat together. It is food, shelter, and protection for wildlife. It is essential to Lowcountry marine ecology. A dolphin is inspiring, but would it be here if there were no marsh habitat to support the small fish that it eats? The ecosystem is connected in many ways and it starts with the marsh grass.
OLD TOWN You don’t want to miss historic Bluffton near the May River for some of the most unique shopping and dining in our area. It’s all blended with colorful and creative art galleries, history up and down local streets, and dining for lunch
American Cherry Late 18th Century
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and dinner in charming settings. The Bluffton Old Town Merchants Society warmly encourages visitors to come and spend an afternoon or a day discovering historic Bluffton.
1263-C May River Rd., Bluffton, SC
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The Breeze August 2018
LIFESTYLES Show off how you wear your yacht wear anywhere in Bluffton and on the Island by posting your best looks on social media using #blufftoncom—The photo with the most “likes” will receive a complimentary dinner at the new Andes Rotisserie! The top five looks will be featured in our new #blufftoncom picture page in The Breeze. Start styling, clicking and posting, Resort Girls!
By: Samantha Williams
Living the Harbour Town Yacht Club Life Did you know that for 28 days a year you can live the Yachting life in iconic Harbour Town? Neither did I - until a fellow Resort Girl introduced me to the Harbour Town Yacht Club (HTYC) in the Sea Pines Resort on Hilton Head Island, S.C. A few of my resort girl and guy friends from Big Canoe had recently joined HTYC to enjoy golf outing weekends and family vacations. My friends referred me to the Manager, Victor Davidson, and I quickly became sold on the idea of living mere steps away from all of the historic and breathtaking sights that Harbour Town has to offer. As an added bonus, I would also have access to the club’s partner golf resorts, the beautiful yacht “Mystique” and the HTYC clubhouse’s dining facilities and events. Most of the club and private lodging is located above the popular shops and dining spots of Harbour town in Sea Pines Plantation. The rooms range from studios to 2-bedroom units and all have small kitchens with a refrigerator, microwave, coffee maker, dishes and even blenders! There are a few condos off-site, but all are within walking distance of the yacht basin. When staying on property, you can take a refreshing dip in the pool or soak in the sun at the Harbour Town pool and work out at the Sea Pines center gym. The Harbour Town Yacht club is not a new establishment; it is rooted in decades-long traditions. Victor leads an amazing team at the Yacht Club, one that is always there for you, with a common goal of helping you make the most of your membership. I personally nicknamed Victor “Yacht Man”! I have taken to greeting him by this moniker, often with my arms held in a big “V” above my head. (Now, I know only an exceptionally gracious man would allow someone to do that – but he has that personality.) He is a true Superman, always making my time (and my fellow The Breeze August 2018
members’) at the club super fine! Victor and the entire, amazing HTYC team are dedicated, hardworking and gracious. The entire staff always makes you feel special – just like part of the HTYC family. There are two ways to become a member at the HTYC. I decided on purchasing an equity membership, but there is also a great social membership available. It has come in very handy when wanting to attend island events, hanging out with my fellow Resort Girls and meeting new friends. Each year, with my equity membership, I am provided 28 days of lodging with an option to request certain days and/ or weeks. There is a system in place for priority reservations, which Yacht Man can better explain to you, but you can also pick up days on short notice if there is availability. I have done this many times, such as when the air conditioner in my home was out of service and just wanting to come and stay at the Harbour. The social membership is also a popular choice for locals of Sea Pines and Bluffton to meet up, as a traditional social is held most Saturday nights from 6 to 7:30 PM. Light bites and drink specials are always part of this popular event.
And now, with the recent renovations of the rooftop deck, including expanded seating areas and comfy couches, watching the sunset over the beautiful Harbour Town Yacht basin is even more of a delight. The
club is open most nights with a happy hour serving refreshing libations for the grown-ups and Shirley Temple or Smurf “mocktails” for the club’s younger guests. During the warm months, the Grill features a delicious feast, serving up a set dinner menu to please the palate. It is a great way to grab a meal and then just pop back to your room, many of which feature a private balcony, to relax, reflect and recharge. As social members, you have the option of lodging on a 48-hour notice if rooms are available. This can prove to be a perfect spontaneous vacay for Bluffton-based members and those from surrounding areas who want to come in and spend a night on the Harbour.
You can relax by grabbing a seat on the historic teak and mahogany yacht, “Mystique”, with cruises running several days a week. Complementary light cocktails are offered, and you can invite up to 2 guests for free per week (there is a limited charge for additional members). If the sun is shining bright, I might just take an impromptu voyage and hop on board with fellow members if a seat is free. In addition to all of these amenities, there are numerous special events which are very popular with ALL members. Celebrations are held throughout the year, including a Derby Day party, a 4th of July fireworks dinner, and Christmas parties. The club wraps up the year with a rocking New Year’s Eve party. This Resort Girl has been to most of them and enjoyed each and every one - and everyone! These events draw a lively group of members and are organized and run by a marvelous and loyal team. Some days, I just feel like popping onto the plantation to walk the sandy Sea Pines beach. It’s easy to do as a member because you get free gate pass access to the Sea Pines gate, beach club and all the wonderful dining and luxuries the plantation has offer. And, have I also mentioned the great golfing partners? Members have access to some of the best courses on the island and that is a bonus – FORE SURE! To top everything off - some exciting updates have taken place at HTYC over the last year, including the expanded/upgraded rooftop deck I mentioned earlier. In addition, the third-floor conference center also underwent an expansion and update. This conference space is stunning, with coastal furnishings and décor, and it also has all the technology required for any corporate meeting or training. There is also a sleek bar area attached to the meeting facility, offering a place to socialize after an event - or for smaller member events. Members have access to book these rooms, and the space is also available for private and corporate events.
THE MEMBERSHIP EXPERIENCE: For more than 30 years Harbour Town Yacht Club has been the centerpiece of Hilton Head Island. The Founders vision is alive here today. SOCIAL MEMBERSHIP: Provides you the right to enjoy the facilities and amenities, and exclusive Club privileges: intimate dining, roof top Veranda and Roof-Top Club, stay overnight, access to the Club Conference Center for that special business event, daily access to Sea Pines Racket Club, golf packages, cruise or charter the Club-owned yacht, Mystique, Sea Pines Gate Pass, and much more even during the Heritage! You’d be surprised how affordable membership is. The best way to taste life is to come and see it for yourself. For $199 you can sample this experience for three days and two nights. And it’s minutes away. Why: It’s the way people here treat you! You become a part of something we’ve all found hard to define. It’s tradition - even history. Think of all that have enjoyed it over the past 30 years. It’s for people without boats. And it’s for people with them, large and small. It’s the dream of visionaries. Yet as real as can be, and virtually in your back yard! It’s balance. It’s harmony. Hard to find elsewhere, it’s different way of life once you are here. Come join us!
I so enjoy being a member of the Harbour Town Yacht Club and plan to keep establishing traditions and making memories for many years to come. If you might be interested in membership, stop by and ask for the “Yacht Man”, Victor Davidson. Tell him Resort Girl sent you and join me and the other HTYC members in some yachting, dining on the deck, and ringing in some good times – while watching some spectacular sunrises and sunsets.
Relax, Recharge and Reflect!
The Breeze August 2018
WELCOME TO YOUR NEW BACKYARD RESERVE YOUR MEMBERSHIP TODAY
FOR YOUR TOUR CONTACT: Victor Davidson email@example.com 832-671-1400 bluffton.com #blufftoncom 26843-671-0401
843.815.3315 | INFO@COCOONBLUFFTON.COM6 PROMENADE STREET, UNIT 1008, BLUFFTON, SC 29910 PROMENADE | DOWNTOWN BLUFFTON
Designer Clothing footwear jewerly accesories. shopcopperpenny.com Follow us: 843.505.6252 Mon - Sat 10am - 7pm Sun. Noon - 6pm Shelter Cove Centre TheTowne Breeze August 2018
Smile! It’s August!
By Kelly Dillon
By Kelly Dillon
August. It’s an enigma of a month. It lacks any notable event or notable weather, like May with Memorial Day and July with its unbearable heat and Independence Day. It remains inadequate to June, lacking a sense of summer fever, as the kids have lost their spark with the looming doom of school and with the adults wholly burned out. August remains curiously blank. Or so it seems. While not as well known as other summer holidays, August hosts many little-known celebrations and themes to give you something to do. Some holidays remain bizarre while others deserve some more recognition; most make one wonder who in the world is getting the stranger holidays officially appointed, like Wiggle Your Toes Day on August 6th or the classic Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor’s Porch Day on August 8th. And, yes! Those are real. Were they created by the bored or by the officials? It doesn’t matter – they help give the notoriously bland August the bit of fun and kick it needs to compete with the more well-liked summer months. Let’s begin with August itself. Though the month has a holiday for each day – really! – it’s also been given themes that you can keep in mind throughout the month. Admit You’re Happy Month. If you’re the type of person to mutter and complain about your life, try to halt the self-destructive comments this month. If you’re less than the celebratory sort, admit your happiness at least once so you can say you did. If you want to get into the spirit of things, try to cut out complaints altogether, if only for a few weeks. Easy, right? 28
Family Fun Month. You parents reading might have already exhausted entertaining your kids throughout June and July in every available venue, but give it another try. The same goes for couples on their own. There’s bound to be something you can do; maybe the upcoming holidays in August can help entertain the whole family. Shouldn’t the whole year be “Family Fun” oriented, anyway?
The fun doesn’t stop there. Each week of August has its own appointed theme. National Simplify Your Life Week: The first week in August is something that appeals to the stressed and the complicated. This week is the week you finally take a deep breath and sort out your priorities. You might even cut things out of your schedule, if that doesn’t end up stressing you out more. National Smile Week: The second week sounds promising. Those of us in the Lowcountry aren’t strangers to smiles, whether they’re to strangers or to friends, so it’s going to be easy for most of us. The challenge is smiling for an entire week. Smile at anyone – and at everything. You might end up unnerving a couple of people with such excessive grinning, and at the end of the week you might have a couple of smile lines in your face, but at least you got in the spirit of August. Friendship Week: It’s strange that Friendship Day, which is the 3rd of August, doesn’t fall in this third week of the month. It’s something you can argue with those celebrated friends about, at least. Seeming that it’s a week – or day – focused on friends, though, try
to up your game. Go to a better lunch or supply better gossip. Better yet, do everything with your friend with renewed purpose. You could laugh harder at friends’ jokes or loudly compliment them in great excess – just ignore the odd looks your friends might give you, or strangers might. Be Kind to Humankind Week: The fourth week in August might seem for the altruistic, but it’s really just for the decent. Try not to snap at anyone, friend or foe, throughout the week in an effort to reflect the kindness the week wants you to exhibit. Let slide the little things: mistakes a waiter made, the wrong change a cashier gave, or a driver nearly mowing you over.
But if you’re feeling even more helpful, there’s always giving back by looking for a charity to help in your area. And finally – the days! Here are some of the best and the strangest. International Forgiveness Day. August 3rd: As it shares the same date as Friendship Day, take the time to lift lingering annoyances with friends or, if you have any enemies, lingering grudges – even if it’s just for a day. It’s fitting with the theme of Friendship Day, though you may find it difficult to forgive the tourists who keep cutting you off at the traffic circle. August 9th: Book Lover’s Day. Get ready for a trip to the library or the bookstore; Book Lover’s Day is a day for the readers. What you might do is up to you. Have a favorite book? Share it with your friends for the seventeenth time, who, for whatever reason, haven’t read it despite your best efforts. It never hurts to try again.
If you’ve since given up – I know I have – have a relaxing reading day to yourself.
that recommended book, give it a try in the spirit of Book Lover’s Day – just don’t tell your friend if you don’t like it. August 26th: National Dog Day. On the 26th, treat your dog to a day of their own on National Dog Day. If it’s not too crowded – which is wishful thinking – take them to the beach or down to the river, or splurge them with treats and toys aplenty from the pet store. If you lack a dog, give some of those pups at the pound a visit; they deserve to see a friendly face and be given the attention they need.
If you don’t like dogs, it’s best to stay in your house on the 26th. August 26th: On a more sobering note, August 26th is also Women’s Equality Day. It commemorates August 26th, 1920 when the 19th Amendment was added to the Constitution, granting women the ability to vote. The 26th is the day to be thankful for those who battled for equality and allowed half of the population of America to give their voice in a time when their voice wasn’t welcomed; it’s also the day to look reflectively on our society and note lingering gender inequalities. What can you do to help? August 30th: Toasted Marshmallow Day. No, it’s not S’mores Day, which is August 10th, so skip the graham crackers and slabs of chocolate. The 30th is the day you can fulfill some of that “Family Fun” of August, and finally gives you the excuse to turn on the fire and make some burnt marshmallows to match your burnt skin from the hot summer. Lacking a fireplace, you could try toasting a marshmallow above a lighter to get in the spirit of things, something my brother has since perfected.
And to those who are those friends who refuse to read The Breeze August 2018
The Breeze August 2018
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May River Grill** 1263 May River Rd. (843) 757-5755
Cahill’s Chicken Kitchen 1055 May River Rd. (843) 757-2921
HogsHead Kitchen • Wine Bar 1555 Fording Island Rd., Ste. D (843) 837-4647
The Pearl Kitchen and Bar 55 Calhoun St. (843) 757-5511
Toomers’ Bluffton Seafood House 27 Dr. Mellichamp Dr. (843) 757-0380
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Sippin Cow Longhorn Steakhouse 36 Promenade St. 1262 Fording Island Rd., Tanger I (843) 757-5051 Alvin Ord’s of Bluffton (843) 705-7001 1230 A, May River Rd. Southern Barrel (843) 757-1300 Mellow Mushroom Farm Brewing Co. 878 Fording Island Rd. 1301 May River Rd. Bluffton BBQ 375 Buckwalter P (843) 706-0800 (843) 707-2041 11 State Of Mind St. lace Blvd. (843) 757-7427 (843) 837-2337 Mulberry Street Trattoria Fat Patties 1476 Fording Island Rd. 207 Bluffton Rd. The Bluffton Room Squat ’N’ Gobble (843) 837-2426 (843) 815-6300 15 Promenade St. 1231 May River Rd. (843) 757-3525 (843) 757-4242 Giuseppi’s Pizza & Pasta Okatie Ale House 25 William Pope Ct. British Open Pub – Bluffton 25 Bluffton Rd., Ste. 601 Truffle’s Cafe (843) 706-2537 (843) 815-9200 1 Sherington Dr. #G 91 Towne Dr. (843) 815-6736 (843) 815-5551 Old Town Dispensary Grind Coffee Roasters 15 Captains Cove Buffalo’s at Palmetto Bluff 7 Simmonsville Rd. #600 Twisted European Bakery (843) 837-1893 (843) 422-7945 1 Village Park Square 1253 May River Rd., Unit A (843) 706-6630 (843) 757-0033
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Flora’s Italian Cafe 841 William Hilton Pkwy, Ste 841 (843) 842-8200
Ombra Cucina Rustica 1000 William Hilton Pkwy, Suite G2 (843) 842-5505
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Relish Cafe 33 Office Park Rd, Unit 216 (843) 715-0995 Watusi Cafe 71 Pope Ave Ruby Lee’s (843) 686-5200 19 Dunnagans Alley (843) 785-7825 Wise Guys 1513 Main St. (843) 785-8866 The Breeze August 2018
e t i r W I y h W “There is nothing in this world or the next that is not useful to a writer.” These are the words of eminent Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez, and the only phrase I remember from his 400+ page autobiography. They stuck because I relate. When my article for this month fell through and The Breeze editor, Randolph Stewart, asked me to write about myself instead, my first instinct was to try and dodge this curveball—but my next thought was the Márquez quote. “You’ve written about everything from blackeye peas to sinking ships,” said Randolph. “Tell us why you write— it’ll bring readers closer to you.” Well Randolph, I write ’cause I got somethin’ to say. No matter what I do or go through, whatever happens or doesn’t, from awful to awesome to ordinary, like Márquez I can always tell about it. What I live becomes the work. In a childhood scrapbook put together by my mom, one of the earliest pieces is a two-line story about how I liked red trucks. Three decades later I wrote an article for The Breeze about my first car, a little red truck I had for 12 years and 250,000 miles of adventure. As a girl I used to roam the fields and forests of our farm with the dog, solitary rambles during which I picked up the strange habit of narrating everything in my head in the 3rdperson. “Then with faithful Bucky by her side, she struck off into the unknown in search of the treasure,” I would think as I hopped a ditch and went crashing through the undergrowth. All that changed later was I switched to the 1st-person and my dog was named Coosaw. Remember the movie Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? I was obsessed with the grail diary, a battered leather-bound journal in which clues were recorded—tomb rubbings, 34
By: Michele R olda
Bible verses, hastily sketched maps—held close by the hero as he climbed mountains, cut jungles and defied death repeatedly in his quest. Could there be a brighter fire for my imagination!? How thrilled I would have been then to see my own travel journals as an adult, when I actually made good on some of those dreams. At age 12 I saved up to buy a mini tape recorder—an odd thing for a kid to want—but the fact-finding impulse that made me interview people or even record them covertly as an investigative tactic became a driving force of my career. During long winter evenings I used to lay in front of the woodstove with my grandmother’s antique typewriter and ask people to give me a topic—any topic, peanut butter for example—then I would start pecking out whatever came to mind. In high school I took journalism as an elective and flourished on the school paper, but you couldn’t just say anything in there and one thing I resolutely hate is censorship. Therefore my true calling was heard with the discovery of “zines.” These handmade, low-budget, cut ‘n’ paste booklets were a pre-Internet way to express yourself—writings, drawings, photos, comics, whatever you had all Xeroxed and stapled together for pennies on the dollar, then distributed underground to your friends. What a revelation! A revolution! A set of wings to fly. I’ve done a lot of other kinds of work, but from that day to this selfpublishing has been my heartstring.
My professional career began fifteen years ago on the other side of the country when I needed a second job and the only place hiring in my little town was the weekly paper. “If you like talking to people and have at least basic writing skills, you could be a reporter for the Sequim Gazette,” read the help wanted ad, which I answered without realizing it was a major career move. I got $45 for my first assignment, submitted on a floppy disk to a press room that smelled like coconut oil because they shared space with a tanning salon. Several months later I moved to Bluffton with the casual notion that if I did it there I could do it here, so after combing the streets for local publications, I walked into their offices and asked to be given a shot. That’s how I became a freelance journalist—basically by accident, not because I aspired to it. In my heyday I was writing 8-12 articles a month totaling hundreds of thousands of words over the years, and The Breeze in particular I’ve been with almost since its inception. Randolph’s right, I have written about everything: alligators, warhorses, garden clubs, tea tastings, legendary devilfish, flood insurance, Madagascar, meditation, turkey hunting, wedding trends, carnivorous plants, sleepouts on uninhabited islands, inspiring women in the community, Revolutionary War heroes, medicinal herbs, runaway slaves, Puerto Rican rap albums, shrimp salad sandwiches, NYTimes bestselling authors, the reproductive habits of oysters, Medicaid Part D (seriously the most annoying assignment I ever had) and just generally whatever I’ve been asked. When The Breeze founder, Donna Huffman, handed over the reins to Randolph, she told him I was her “ace reporter” because she could tell me to go write a story about a tree and I would turn in the best darn tree story he ever read. I was flattered by that, especially because I like trees.
But that was only my paid work. On the side I was selfpublishing travel tales from Colombia, Mexico and the Caribbean. I was giving off-the-record accounts of interviews with Gullah matriarchs, oystermen and homeless people (all the juicy tidbits commercial rags wouldn’t run), and chronicling Lowcountry exploration as I searched for arrowheads down the dirt roads or kayaked among pods of dolphin. I was returning home to the West Coast with a fresh eye for anecdotes about my mom’s goats or my stepdad’s beehives or the towering rainforests I grew up in, plus telling you everything I got for Christmas. I was documenting life as a socalled starving artist, in all its unusual detail with stray dogs and hardships and side-jobs weeding asparagus. Whether I was off on world tour or living in somebody’s spare room, I told you the truth about it. Eventually I cut back on freelancing to focus on my own projects. Five years later I had two full-length books about my travels around the South, which never got discovered by Oprah unfortunately, but are still available at Cahill’s Market in their original handbound collector’s editions. Most recently I’ve gone into children’s lit with a new series about the Buddha’s past lives, based on ancient Indian folktales that I am retelling and illustrating as a way to make ethics awesome. Patience, compassion, honesty, generosity and loving-kindness are seldom found in video games, but kids deserve to know what lasting happiness they bring. I feel very strongly about this, just as I’ve always felt strongly about my work, even if later I evolve. Inspiration flies on, commercial success stays out of reach. It’s tough to get the breaks in this biz! But it’s easy to look back and feel happy about what I’ve done.
The Breeze August 2018
I have truly lived the writer’s life: the poverty (beans and rice), the adventure (Barbados on assignment!), the freedom (I wake up at 4:30 AM and nobody tells me what to do), the solitude (ah, the bliss of solitude!), the cups of tea (my only vice, thank goodness), the feast (lunch on you), the famine (lunch on me), the thrill (going to press!), the fame (“Are you that girl that does the little books?”), the insecurity (another rejection letter—have we all been wrong, am I actually no good?), the despair (I can’t hang on any longer, I’m getting a job at the dollar store), the happiness (I’m back writing again, I’m back working on my projects!), and finally the deep conviction that there is no other way—I am a writer, that’s all. Might as well die being me. What I’m trying to say is, I write because I have no choice in the matter. This is more than a job, more than a profession. It’s a vocation, a genuine purpose on Planet Earth. Whatever I think and feel, whatever I’m into, whatever I witness or experience, it must be communicated to others. Whether I’m describing the little green snake I saw like a silken emerald in the swamp, or telling how it felt when a sister-girl braided my hair in Birmingham, or detailing the precise location of my campsite, or relating the cares of an old woman who cried on my shoulder, or listing the ingredients in my soup at Cuzco’s central market, I try to make it come alive for you. And I always have an underlying message. It changes over the years—like earlier it might have been “protect the wilderness” or “treat all races with respect,” whereas now it would be “morality equals happiness” and “this is the Buddha’s teaching,” and in the future who knows what it will be—but what doesn’t change is I have to find it meaningful, and I have to care that you understand. I can’t work in a vacuum, people. Without readers my work has no meaning. So the most important thing left to say here is THANK YOU, because I would have given up long ago if not for the loyal supporters who make me feel that what I do matters. You have told me my books are an education, an inspiration, a fascination, an escape, a favored toilet reading, a treasured object carried on your travels, something to put you to sleep at night (and I knew exactly what you meant by that), a rare find, a gift from one dear one to another. You have taken the time to call, email or write a note of encouragement, and you’ll never know how much that means to me because let’s face it, I am still in my humble origins—spirits would sink low as the bank account if I didn’t feel the love. Why do I write? Because I wake up in the morning; because we all gotta do something and I can only be me. Yet without you there would be no reason for any of this; without you these would just be marks on a page. I write because you read. 36
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The Breeze August 2018
Dog Days By: Stumblin’ Jimmy Watermelon
I t’s August and Lord is it hot. That’s the way it is living on our southern coast. You may say, “Well if you’re living
on the coast you have those balmy sea breezes to cool you down.” I hate to tell you newcomers, but in August the only thing that’s balmy most of the time are the hallucinations that can be found floating in your head from the heat. Oh we’ve got sea breezes alright. They’re either sweet short spanned drifts holding just enough coolness to ache your cookin’ heart, or if well sustained, are followed by rain, thunder and an all too illuminating thing that we call lightning. Otherwise there’s no more than the brush by a bird’s wing to blow the sweat off your nose. Yes folks, it doesn’t matter if it’s a big wing, a big nose, nor how far the sweat flings. In these “dog days” of summer that’s the better part of what you’ll get. It was on just such a day, in just such a month, that the canine who holds current, and for some several years past, residence at my address arrived. I had set out early to work on sprucing up the front yard. Ghee (that’s the nickname I have for my better half) had commented over Friday supper that the raccoons wouldn’t have to hide in the trees if our grass got much higher. That was her nudge, and come fire or flood, by Saturday afternoon that lawn, complete with surrounding bushes was going to be right spiffy, and I was going to be the party physically responsible for it. As you may guess, the morning’s work wore into no flood, but a plentiful share of summer sun’s fire. Ever notice how things, natural as they may be on their own, can unnaturally fall into place as a whole? Well there I was, a 50 year old, over heated, sweat wrung man trying to finish his chores, hunched over a cuss-stubborn, far nearer to new than me, two year old lawn mower that wasn’t cooperating much. Moist little pungent puffs of air on my forehead caused me to glance up. There, not six inches from my face was a big black nose connected to a golden fur haired muzzle that carried a dribbleous (that’s my word) set of lips frothed up like a horse on the long side of winded. Following back to a set of mournful brown eyes, floppy ears and a big fuzzy reddish gold body with a sagging flag of a tail, I concluded that before me was a golden retriever and not some phantom of the heat. It just stood there looking at me, waiting. Something in this situation seemed familiar. In an effort I can only describe as unconsciously dutiful, I rose and went back to the garage, returning with a full bowl of cool well water. Placing it under the shade of a live oak tree near the house, the big dog sauntered over, drank a fair fill and then plopped down to rest and watch me. Ghee looked out of the dining room window and waved. The dog looked on and panted. I went back to the mower and, finally bringing it sputtering to life, began the march to finish what I had started. With some end of high grass in sight the mower choked to a stop once again, this time with a tank dry of
fuel. Back to the garage for the gas can and then down on one knee to pour up and pray for what I hoped would be a final run. By now the sun was ranging high, full overhead and cranked well into ‘broil”. Looking up, there was that big black nose and those roomy brown eyes again, all up close and waiting. Who was this creature, where did it come from and where was it’s master? I screwed down the tank cap, hitched up my sopping ball cap and gave the beast a good “once over”. Well, “it” was a she and about 85 or so pounds worth. There was no collar, no tattooed numbers under her ears and from what I could feel, no chip under the flesh of her shoulder. Through all this she just stood there and waited. I glanced up at the sun then back at her with all that thick coat of hair. Off to the garage I went and this time she followed. Out came the kiddy pool that I had bought as a joke for Ghee last summer. The dog, sat and watched as I set it under a young, but spreading laurel oak in our backyard and filled it with that ever cool well water. When I was finished she proceeded over, stepped in, circled a few times then laid down like this was the way it was supposed to be. She sighed and with what seemed like a bit of a grin, rested her chin on the pool edge. As she closed her eyes and rested there I went back up front to finish the last whack of my promise to Ghee. Just short of an hour later, my yard work finally done, I was collecting my clippers and the mower, when a surprisingly quiet, dripping wet she-dog moseyed up behind me. She seemed to pick just that moment when I was most relaxed to shake off the gallon of pool water that her furry body held. On reflection, the temperature change felt good, but the shock of it half pulled my back out. I looked down at her and she looked back, wagging her now half standing flag of a tail. Maybe she was just trying to give a little back. On our back deck I dried her off with some old bath towels I had now snuck out from Ghee’s laundry room. The dog, grinned and play tussled a bit as I rustled her coat dry. In all this day there had been no one to come by looking for her. Hard to believe for such a good dog, but I began to suspect she had been abandoned, left to a sad end or to someone else’s care. She looked up at me and waited. There was some white on her muzzle that I hadn’t noticed before. Her canine teeth were worn flat on their peaks. She was a girl with some age on her, probably seven years or so. She looked up at me and waited and now I wondered how I was going to get her into the house. Ghee was going to be “a hard sell”, but the pull of those big old, deep brown eyes told me I was going to find a way. Even with a word out to all the vets and animal shelters no one ever came forward to claim her. We named her Pumpkin for her reddish golden coat. With our vet’s help we nursed her through the beginning of the heartworms that she had come to us with. By trial and error we solved most of her skin allergies, although sometimes she still gnaws and licks just to keep us on our toes. She saunters over to one or both of us and looks and waits and somehow we know what she is asking. Today I find myself back in the front yard, in the sun and steam of another August summer day. I look up from my mowing. As I glance across to the dining room window, it dawns on me that I’m doing the bidding for two ladies now. There they are. One waves with her hand and the other her tail. There looking back, both watching and waving and waiting. It may be the “dog days” of summer, but who’s to say why and for whom?
The Breeze August 2018
Dispatches from the May By: gene cashman iii
My eldest daughter just left home for her first experience at an overnight summer camp. Keeny is eleven. She is attending the same summer camp I attended when I was eleven, nearly thirty years to the day. For me, it was the summer of 1988. It was a great summer to be an eleven year old boy. This was back when my father would drop me, my mom and younger sister off with my grandparents to spend the summer at their Oyster Street cottage. He would come back and forth every few weeks from work. It was a wild frontier of adventure and exploration for a city kid. Free from lots of parental oversights and with little expectations on my time, it was perhaps the freest I have ever been. I have often called it my Neverland. If I were to consider myself as Michael or John from J.M Barrie’s classic tale, then my older cousin Shelby was definitely Peter Pan. Wily and full of mischief he played the tune I dutifully followed all summer long. We would rise up each morning and spend every waking moment out on the water. From the far reaches of the May through Port Royal, up the Savannah River and out into open Atlantic we saw it all. Shelby was and still is a natural outdoorsman. I never felt anything we did, at the time, was inherently dangerous. Although, looking back I realize most of it was. For instance, I am not sure that today I would motor all the way out to the Savannah Tower from All Joy in a 13 foot Boston Whaler. I have no recollection of provisions for food or water. The only thing that mattered was gas, of which we took at least three tanks, bait and our fishing poles. I distinctly recall that refueling at Harbor Town was a must, both ways, if we were to have enough gas to troll. This was the summer that Shelby was Spanish-mackerel crazy. So, naturally, I was as well and boy did we catch a lot of Spanish and blue fish that summer. Besides the start to school, the spell was only interrupted once that summer and it was due to my leaving from low country South Carolina and going to the Ozarks for camp. The same camp my daughter is now. Camp was tremendous fun, don’t misunderstand, but I craved news from Bluffton. I wanted to peak back into Neverland. So imagine my surprise and joy at coming across some of the correspondence from that summer and in particular, those weeks away from the May River. Some of the real advantages to holding on to letters, notes and scraps of paper are that it helps piece together one’s life, long after the memory has settled into the muddy recesses of long term memory. A collection of notes from my mother recall some of the ordinary life back in Bluffton circa 1988; captured on a postcard undoubtedly from Scotts or on pieces of paper she would keep by the phone for messages. HOT! HOT! HOT! read one such note, the hot in uppercase bolded with exclamation. It went on “so, hot you can hardly breathe. Huge thunderstorm last night! Lightening balls in
the house! Granddaddy got 2 bushel of crab. Grandmom picking on the porch.” This is the classic style of note or card from my mom. It always included a reference to the weather and whatever activity of note was occurring that day. This particular note also highlights one of the more often told family stories; the one about the thunderstorm so bad that lightening, literally balls of electricity, were visible in the house. My sisters have a tendency to exaggerate, but I defy science or meteorologist to attempt to confirm or deny this story. It would not matter anyway, it is so baked into family lore it doesn’t matter if it happened or not. It also portrays an image I wished I could realize today, of my grandmother picking crab. There are some images that define a period of life and her picking crab is definitely a memory that will always represent my memory of Bluffton growing up. Another card begins “Hope you are well! Big rain this afternoon. Sitting on the porch watching it roll up the river. Ate dinner last night at Crazy Crab with Dunaway’s. Grandmom cooking up a storm in the kitchen for your dad’s arrival.” The short sentences, the run on thoughts again highlighting my mother’s style of card writing. Going to eat on Hilton Head was a summertime treat. The Crazy Crab was a staple spot to visit. I think we renamed their hush-puppies “shut up dogs,” although I am certain they aren’t on the menu like that today. The Dunaway’s, lifelong friends of our family, are part of most all Bluffton memories. Anyway, it would have all been tidbits of information mom knew I would like to get at camp; to visualize the tables full of family and friends, sunbaked and happy. The ending to the note is a poignant and sweet thing to read thirty years on. I can close my eyes and picture my grandmother cooking, her glasses fogging over in the steam of what was invariably shrimp creole. She always cooked that meal when someone was coming in to town. There was another card with “Greetings from Bluffton” emblazoned across the top. Inside mom had scribbled “Gobbled up Squat N Gobble burgers on the dock today. Sunny and hot! Shelby out in boat-misses you. Saw huge dolphins today in river. So close you could almost touch them!” I recall this was one of the summers that people began to charter boats to feed dolphins in the Calibogue Sound and May River. They would get so accustomed to being fed dolphins would come up to any boat and pester for handouts. The practice was eventually stopped as many dolphins were getting whacked by boat props, but for a few summers it was amazing how close you could get to these incredible creatures. Mom would always be sure to include notes about nature. As for Shelby, I can remember, while at camp, daydreaming about what he might be catching or what adventure he might be on. He has always captured my imagination, me the little brother looking up at a superhero older cousin.
The last card I came acrosswas on a piece of paper with KATHY CASHMAN a c r o s s the top in bold print. Clearly, mom had scribbled the note, probably while talking on the phone. I could picture her sitting at the dining room table, legs propped up talking to her sister on the phone. It read “Huge moon tonight. Beautiful day on the May. Sandbar and boat day. Went to Scott’s and got the sweetest watermelon. Granddaddy asleep in his chair. Grandmom watching TV. Night!” Two things that bring sweet tears to my eyes are remembering granddaddy asleep, covered up with his newspapers in that brown leather chair of his and my grandmom watching Murder She Wrote in bed. I loved to snuggle her in bed and listen to whatever case Angela Lansbury was trying to solve. Everyone should be so privileged as to have the opportunity to snuggle their grandmother in bed. Let’s fast forward back to summer 2018. Somewhere in the Ozarks, my daughter is getting mail from her grandmother, my mother. These are new dispatches from Bluffton to a new generation from the same steady hand. I bet good money though it is being written in the same style as what she wrote to me all those years ago. I am curious to see if it includes a reference to the weather of the day. I bet it will include something about her cousins sailing or some adventure on the water. I am most confident it will include a line or two about some delicious meal they’ve shared with family and friends. There is something deeply reassuring about being known and loved by a mother, a grandmother. The consistency and constancy of purpose that remains true and steady, even though so much else has changed. My daughter will be coming home from camp and heading almost straight to Bluffton. There she will join her brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncle and grandparents in a place with tremendous meaning to enjoy a sweet time with family before school starts and summer ends. I hope she saves the letters she gets this week at camp and can recall them in thirty years’ time with fond and sweet memory. I hope she crawls up in bed with her yaya and tells her all about her own adventures. Mostly though, I am happy life has come full circle, even if for only a season, in a way I can step back and appreciate all the joy family and Bluffton have brought me. The Breeze August 2018
OVER the BRIDGES
August Happening’s & More in Bluffton, Beaufort, Hilton Head & Savannah
Bluffton Bluffton Famers Market: Every Thursday through August: 1-6p.m. Along Calhoun and Lawrence Streets. Fresh, locally grown vegetables, fruits, flowers, plants and herbs. Listen to entertainment and relax with friends in historic downtown Bluffton. Stand and Paddle: Throughout August: Board Lessons, Tours & Outings. Guided tours out on the beautiful Lowcountry waterways. Full lesson & instructions, professional guide, then an exciting fun-filled adventure out on the river. Leaves from the public landing at the end of Wharf Street in Old Town T7:30 pm depending upon the time of year. 843-3688690
Hilton Head Island
August 3rd and 19th: Annual South Carolina Tax Free Weekend!
August 2nd, 9th, & 16th: HarbourFest at Shelter Cove Harbour & Marina. Join us for the 30th Anniversary of HarbourFest! Fireworks, carnival games, face painting, music by Shannon Tanner, Cappy the Clown. An Island favorite event!
August 19: The Society of Bluffton Artists presents “She’s Music, She’s Art. Gayle Miller a watercolor artist and president of the society, and veteran jazz singer Jan Spencer are teaming up for a special art exhibition and concert at the gallery on the corner of Church St. and Calhoun St in Old Town Bluffton. A special wine, art reception and concert is slated at the Center for Creative Arts, next door to the gallery. The public is invited for wine and art at 2:30 p.m. and Spencer’s performance at 3:15 p.m. Tickets are $25.00 and can be purchased at sobagallery.com. 42
August 25: Fun Day Programs at the Heyward House Museum & Welcome Center. Children 5-12 years. $5.00 Adults $10.00 Adults not required to participate. Quilt Block Making learn, design your own quilt block from designs used in the 19th century. 11a.m. to 12 noon. 832-757-6293.
Through August: Coastal Discovery Museum at Honey Horn. Meet the critters that call the lowcountry their home. Joe Maffo with Critter Management will have live alligators, snakes, rabbits, chickens and who know what for this fun “Meet and Greet adventure. Every Wednesday and Friday from 10-2 pm.
August 23: Carolina Car Club Cruise In . Open to al automotive enthusiasts with no costs, no reservations, awards, 50/50 raffle and plenty of shopping and dining available t nearby Shelter Cove Towne Center. 39 Shelter Cove Ln. Event takes place waterside overlooking Broad Creek at Shelter Cove Community Park 5-8 p.m.
August 31-Sept 2: Crosby Stills Nash & Young Tribute featuring CSN songs at the Arts Center of Coastal Carolina 8 p.m. This group of 7 extremely talented musicians all grew up in the 60s & 70s with the heavy influence of the band. 14 Shelter Cove Ln. For tickets, call 843-842-2787 or visit www.artshhi.com
Savannah August 1-31st: Ghosts and Gravestones of Savannah. Explore America’s most haunted city. This one hour and 15 minute guided trolley tour is a chilling experience and takes you to reputed haunts such as Perkins and Sons Ship Chandlery, Sorrel Weed House, and more. Includes vivid narration about the city’s dark history, the bloodiest battles in history, tales of vicious pirates, and more.
Beaufort August 3: Frist Friday After 5 in downtown Beaufort! Grab a friend and head downtown to explore & support local downtown shops, restaurants & art galleries. Enjoy tasty refreshments & live local music! Stay after for dinner in one of our fabulous downtown restaurants. 101 W St Ext. mainstreetbeaufort.com/ first-friday-beaufort. August 7: Summer Concert Series featuring Levon at the Crossroads in Moreland Village, 6:30 p.m. Gates open at 5 p.m. Bring chairs and a picnic or purchase food and beverages on-site. Admission is $25 per car; proceeds benefit Family Promise of Beaufort County. 19 Village Park Sq. www.palmettobluff.com.
August 1-31st: Savannah Historic Homes Tour. Savannah, GA is known for its vast history and Southern charm; The architectural feats that were achieved in Savannah were some of the best in the United States, and its heritage is filled with immaculate homes built for Savannah’s rich and famous. Visit the Savannahwalks.com
August 13: Beaufort Drum Circle! Bring a chair and your favorite percussion instrument. No experience necessary and open to all ages. Pay to park at the marina, right next to the Contemplative Garden at Henry Chambers Waterfront Park. 5:30-7 p.m. Contact Jane at (732) 259-1935 or Lanny at (843) 4410169 or email@example.com.
August 3: First Friday Oyster Roast. 6:30-9:30 PM. Take the free ferry from River Street to the Westin Hotel, Savannah Harbor. Guests will delight in oysters, low country boil, barbeque, and specialty cocktails. Call for details: (912) 201-2000
Saturdays: Port Royal Farmers Market! 8:30 a.m.12 p.m. Located in Heritage Park on Ribaut Road by the Naval Hospital. South Carolina Produce, Seafood, Beef, Cheese, Honey, Flowers & Live Music. portroyalfarmersmarket.com.
August 3: First Friday in Starland. 6 - 9 PM. Discover local art, music, food and culture from all over Georgia’s first city. Take the free art march trolley to different galleries through the Victorian and Starland Districts. FREE. August 4-26th: Savannah Voice Festival. Led by opera legend SHERRILL MILNES, the festival is a celebration of the classical voice with over 25 performances. For more information go to savannahvoicefestival.org. (855) 766-7372. First Show is August 4. “Pages In A Book” Concert/Dinner at The Westin Savannah Harbor at 7:00 pm. $55-$65. August 11: Southeast Crab Feast. Seafood festival at Lake Mayer Park, with all-you-can-eat blue crabs and tmusic and a family friendly environment for the entire family. This event historically sells out early every year so secure your tickets ASAP. From $28 per person, children (5-11) $10. Contact firstname.lastname@example.org. August 11: Skidaway Island Spring Triathalon. Triathlon event at The Landings Club, Skidaway Island, with 250m swim, 18K bike ride and 5K run. Registration required. Visit Skidawayislandsignup.com
Saturdays: Lunch and Learn Series presented by the Lowcountry Master Gardeners Association, The Gazebo at the Farmer’s Market, Heritage Park, Port Royal. 12:00 noon-1 p.m. Free, just bring a folding chair. lowcountrymga.org/. Saturdays: Pentecostals of Beaufort Seafood Fundraiser! The “Award Winning” Seafood Shack will be serving fresh, cooked to order seafood lunches every Saturday in the church parking lot from 11 a.m. until 4 p.m. Only $7 per plate. Everything is fresh right off the boat! 206 Sea Island Pkwy., Lady’s Island. (843) 592-2299 or pentecostalsofbeaufort.com. Third Saturday: Adaptive Golf Clinic at the Legends of Parris Island golf course. Sponsored by Beaufort Memorial in conjunction with the Legends course. 9 to 11 a.m. on the driving range. Civilians, veterans and active military personnel are all invited to join the 2-hour session and learn how to use adaptive techniques and tools to tee off and putt better than ever. For more info or to register for the clinic, contact Giammona at (843) 522-5850 or email@example.com or PGA professional Andy Hinson at (843) 228-2240. The Breeze August 2018
What are Community Foundations Anyway? By: John Samual Graves, III
Community foundations have existed in the United States since around 1914. According to one of my favorite websites, Wikipedia, “Community foundations (CFs) are instruments of civil society designed to pool donations into a coordinated investment and grant making facility dedicated primarily to the social improvement of a given place.” Their mission is broadly defined to improve the quality of life in a specific community. They are supported by a broad range of private as well as public donors and seek philanthropic contributions primarily from inside the community. They are governed by local boards, and they employ professional investors to safeguard and grow the funds entrusted to them. They are staffed with professional grant making personnel to ensure that the various funds established with them are properly managed for conformity to the original charitable goals of each fund. Together the staff of Community Foundation of the Lowcountry and Hopeful Horizons celebrate a recent grant awarded during the #LowcountryVolunteers Challenge. Grantmaking is just one of the many things community foundations do to support nonprofits in the community. Community Foundation of the Lowcountry was established in 1994 and is located on Hilton Head Island. According to their website, www.cf-lowcountry.org: Community foundations are tax-exempt public charities serving thousands of people who share a common interest—improving the quality of life in their area. Individuals, families, businesses, and organizations create charitable funds that help their region meet the challenges of changing times. Community foundations invest and administer these funds. Community foundations make grants, but they are more than grantmakers. They raise money, but are not primarily a fundraiser. They are involved in leadership activities, but are not the community’s think tank. Community foundations play valuable community service roles. They nurture the nonprofit sector as a whole, and help it to integrate and grow. They promote organized philanthropy by individuals, corporations and organizations. They recognize change and convene leadership to respond to it.
When Aunt Mary died in 2009 I looked for some kind of permanent means by which she—and the Graves family—could be remembered. I decided that a community foundation endowment would be the perfect way for her to have a long lasting, visible impact on the welfare of the town of Bluffton and the immediately surrounding areas.
Mary Elizabeth Graves (1921-2009)
The Mary Elizabeth Graves Endowment Fund addresses the concerns dearest to my Aunt Mary’s heart: Animal Rights Advocacy within Beaufort County with a preference for supporting nonprofit organizations serving the town of Bluffton; Historical Preservation, Environmental Protection and Conservation Advocacy and Services in the area defined as the Town of Bluffton, excluding Palmetto Bluff. Over the last several years since her death grants have been made from her endowment to the Bluffton Historical Preservation Society, the Palmetto Animal League, and just recently a grant to the fund to restore the Bluffton AME Chapel. Her fund also made a grant to the Bluffton War Memorial Monument. My Aunt Mary’s youngest brother, Frederick Wallace Graves, died in the Korean War. His name is on that recently erected monument. Anyone may contribute to the Mary Elizabeth Graves Endowment Fund. Just search for it under that name on the Community Foundation of the Lowcountry website, www.cf-lowcountry.org. Go to their “Giving Through the Foundation” tab and click on their “View our Funds” menu. Community Foundation of the Lowcountry lists over 270 Funds on their website. All of the funds accept charitable donations. It is an excellent way for someone to contribute to a favorite local cause without actually setting up their own fund. All contributions are tax deductible, and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your dollars will be expertly managed and thoughtfully disbursed over the years for worthy projects in Bluffton, Hilton Head Island and the surrounding areas.
Denise K. Spencer is President and CEO of Community Foundation of the Lowcountry. Emmy Rooney is Vice President for Development and Donor Services. Jean Heyduck is Vice President for Marketing and Communications. Anita Miles is their Administrative Assistant. They can be reached at 843.681.9100. The author is grateful for the support and help he received with this article from Jean Heyduck and Emmy Rooney.
impact improvement support compassion service leadership COMMUNITY generous loyalty family philanthropic unity
The Mary Elizabeth Graves Endowment is one of the many charitable funds at Community Foundation of the Lowcountry. My Aunt Mary was the last Graves family member to live in the Graves House on Calhoun Street in Old Town Bluffton. The home had been built in 1908 by her grandfather, George Sewell Guilford, and has long been listed as a contributing structure in Bluffton’s Historic District. The Graves family had lived there for over 100 years. At one time many members of the Graves family—and many of their cousins— lived in Bluffton’s original square mile. Thankfully, the Graves House has recently been completely restored by Bluffton’s United Methodist Church.
Retreat in the Middle of a Preserve By: Randolph Stewart
There is a place midway between Historic Bluffton and Historic Beaufort that is a 3,200 acre nature preserve. It’s called Spring Island. I did not say subdivision, or development! Nature Preserve! A plan was approved in 1985 for 5,000 homes. The preserve will now have only 410. That’s 7 acres per household. In addition, 1000 acres was set aside in perpetuity and the Spring Island Trust was established to ensure the preservation and protection of the island’s environment and cultural history. The trust is a non-profit organization and everyone who lives on the island is a member. Everyone is dedicated to the protection of the preserve and the wildlife that live there. 46
The Island has been described as “a great maritime forest.” Live oaks cast their shadows across the landscape and these imposing ancient trees, along with 90 other species, thrive – more than three times the number found on neighboring barrier islands. 600 types of flora, 700 fauna types, and 19 varieties of soil have also been identified on the island. Surrounded by saltwater estuaries, the island is an ideal setting for both woods and wetlands. There are several saltwater ponds along the shore and dozens of freshwater ponds throughout the forest. Saltwater ponds offer shrimp, crabs, oysters, redfish, sea trout or flounder; and fresh water largemouth bass and bream. The result is a peaceful refuge for people looking for an alternative to the typical country club golf community. Often described as “an unpretentious place,” the members, a diverse group geographically as well as in age and interests, share the philosophy that “bigger” is not necessarily better, that “glitzier” is not their philosophy. Nothing holds this philosophy more true than the home I visited with my friend John Strother, the broker on Spring Island. I always enjoy riding down the narrow roads through the Oak Forest – it is so calming with the dappled light. As we passed Straight Road, and yes it is straight, John pointed out a few turkeys feeding in the planted field. Around a few
more bends he slowed down to let a doe and her fawn cross the road, and along the way there are always the large black Fox squirrels foraging in the understory for a nut to take back to the nest, hardly giving us a glance. The amazing thing about all the homesites on the Island is that you do not see houses in your face, just a peek here and a peek there. We turned off the road and I noticed a wonderful unique home, nestled on 3 acres, and giving me the feeling that it wasn’t built, but had grown out of the forest. The columns flanking the front door looked like branches of a tree, reaching out to support the extended barreled standing seam shed roof. As I was warmly welcomed into the home by the owners, I looked around and was amazed at what I saw. Wood and windows, that is all there was. The front of the house had a lower wall and the rear apposing wall of the one room deep Great Room was vaulted high with large windows and double transoms to allow the protected light to flood in and to let the completely natural landscaping reveal itself. The ceiling was exposed and finished in tongue and groove pine and supported by large angular beamed trusses bound by large metal brackets. The trusses were made from 100 year old cypress. The space was totally unpretentious and organic, which speaks to the owners’ personalities. The Breeze August 2018
One end of the room was flanked by a tabby fireplace and the other with a dining room, which was also surrounded with windows and nature. If there ever was a home that is a part of nature, this is it. Hats off to Scott Corkern, the Architect that created this dovetale box. He has certainly fulfilled the owners’ dreams. The rest of the first floor contained a well appointed kitchen carrying the organic interiors into the cabinet designs. The Master Bedroom is also on the first level – everything you would need is on the ground floor. At the top of the stairs is a library. But not your normal library. Six shelves tall the books were accessed by a wood ladder and a continuous bronze finished rail. One feels like one is in a treehouse, with the large windows and the views being equal to the canopy. Adjacent to the library is a Guest Master, private, quite, and relaxing. Walking a stones throw down the path to Rice Gate Pond from the Great Room, we paused for a moment to hear the sounds of the forest and the wildlife surrounding the pastoral pond. John looked at me and shrugged his shoulders like saying, it doesn’t get any better than this! A retreat in the middle of a preserve. This is truly a special home. 48
If you would like a tour of this home and to see all the wonders that Spring Island has to offer, from the Nature Center, Tabby Ruins, Walker House, Equestion Center, Art Barn, Arnold Palmer Golf course, the pristine waters, abundant wildlife and maritime forest contact John Strother at 843.227.2530 or email firstname.lastname@example.org Information provided by: www.springisland.com
The Breeze Magazine of the Lowcountry
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PHOTOGRAPHY LIFE, EVENT & PORTRAITS VIDEO PRODUCTIONS WEB DESIGN & SOCIAL MEDIA
EMAIL: ME@ALBISHPHOTO.COM WWW.ALBISHPHOTO.COM The Breeze August 2018
The Breeze August 2018
Old Town Bluffton Properties STOCK FARM *conceptual artist rendering
Mixed-use lots for commercial, residential and/or retail
4.13 ACRES Offering Price $799,000
Marsh and May River Views
One bedroom Cottage
Completed infrastructure One mile from Old Town
182 BLUFFTON ROAD *conceptual artist rendering
Entrance to Old Town Bluffton Mixed-use lots for commercial, residential and/or retail
Wayne M. McDonald
Simone Griffeth McDonald
Suzanna Rose McDonald
Broker | Owner
Licensed SC REALTORÂ®
Realtor | Sales Executive
Magazine of the Lowcountry