Sasee Magazine - May 2019

May 2019

Being a family means you are a part of something very wonderful.

It means you will love and be loved for the rest of your life.

- Lisa Weed -

pen!

O w No ut our bo Ask a n special. i e v mo

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Letter from the Editor It’s Monday morning as I’m writing this, and I woke up with a laundry list of things I “have to do” running through my mind. I have to get up and go to work; I have to finish the housework I left undone over the weekend; I slept too late to exercise, so I have to come home and do it this evening…and on and on. You get the idea. I didn’t want to start my day on such a negative note, so I sat up in bed, grabbed my notepad and started scribbling down all of my complaints. For years, I’ve spent a lot of time reading motivational books, subscribing to blogs and even participating in online events that promote a better life. In the middle of my “woe is me” litany, I remembered an idea I’d read a few days before. Instead of complaining about what I “have to do,” I changed my story to what I “get to do.” So I took every complaint I’d written and rewrote it this way: I “get” to go to work and do something meaningful all day. I “get” to clean my home that I love. I “get” to exercise this body that serves me so well. By the time I finished with my list, I felt wonderful!

Just that small shift changed my entire perspective, and I got up and started my day with joy rather than complaints. Life is busy for almost everyone I know, and it’s easy to become overwhelmed and slip into negativity. But, for me, when I stop, just for a moment, and look around me, I realize how very blessed I am – and how blessed we all are if we just take time to acknowledge the abundance around us.

Wishing you a beautiful May and a very Happy Mother’s Day!

Cover Artist Boobs and Booze, (Family Series) by Jennifer Koach Jennifer Koach studied art at UNC-Chapel Hill and has continued her studies at the Arts Students League in NYC. She makes her home in Charleston. She is exhibiting for the 7th year at the 40th anniversary of Piccolo Spoleto Outdoor Art Exhibition in Charleston from May 24th to June 9th. PSOAE is the longest running outdoor art show in America and features more than 70 artists. You can also find her art at Art Mecca on King Street and at Studio 151 on Church St. Her series of paintings called “Boobs and Booze” has a USA trademark and depicts women having good times in fun places. It celebrates the friendship that women share. Because of client request, she has expanded the series to include men and families. Commissions are always welcomed.

Follow her on instagram: jenkoach; on Facebook: Jennifer Koach Art or at jenniferkoachart.com.

May 2019

Volume 18, Issue 5

8

Extended Family

by Rose Ann Sinay

14

Going Deeper

by Celina Colby

16

Read It! Nicole Says…Read Turning the Tide

by Sally R. Murphy Liar Temptress Soldier Spy

by Karen Abbott

18

Olives and Bread

by Joan Leotta

32

Through Thick and Thin

by Elizabeth Hatley

34

Sarah Bowler: Is Skilled Nursing Right for Your Loved One?

by Leslie Moore

36

I Think I Can...I Think I Can...

by Erika Hoffman

26

46

Riding the Rails with Dad

by Jeffery Cohen

Art Director Patrick Sullivan

Web Developer Scott Konradt

44

28

Account Executives Stacy Danosky Erica Schneider Gay Stackhouse

42

Super Blooper

by Diane DeVaughn Stokes

24

Dawn Richardson: Cherished Memories

by Leslie Moore

Editor Leslie Moore

Photographers & Graphic Artists Madeleine Desser Kelly Clemmons

Mom’s Mantra

by Linda O’Connell

Ray of Hope

by Georgia A. Hubley

Sales & Marketing Director Susan Bryant

38

Ben Marlow: A Legacy of Kindness Steeped in Pluff Mud and Salt Water

by Leslie Moore

20

Publisher Delores Blount

4 Paws for Fozzy: A Mother’s Journey

by Leslie Moore

Sasee Kids (of Any Age) Find That Perfect Gift for Mother’s Day!

by Leslie Moore

48

Sasee May Calendar

Accounting Gail Knowles Executive Publishers Jim Creel Bill Hennecy Suzette Rogers PO Box 1389, Murrells Inlet, SC 29576 fax 843-626-6452 • phone 843-626-8911 www.sasee.com • info@sasee.com Sasee is published monthly and distributed free along the Grand Strand. 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 © 2019. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any material, in part or in whole, prepared by Strand Media Group, Inc. and appearing within this publication is strictly prohibited. Title “Sasee” is registered with the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office.

“Generations”

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Extended Family?

I

by Rose Ann Sinay

have five naked plastic bodies in my blanket chest at the end of my bed. Each is encased in its own white plastic bag, the yellow drawstring tightly drawn and knotted. They keep me awake at night wondering what I should do with them.

I blame my sister, Tammy, who (on her ninth birthday) asked for the trendy Crissy doll. It was the size of a nine month old baby and sported a shank of growing/retractable red hair on the top of its head.

Mom happily complied. She’d never owned a store bought doll and frequently offered to buy us the newest plastic moppet on the market.

We always declined, that is until my sister caved.

At first, Tammy was enthralled with the doll always busy braiding long thin lengths of its hair. Soon, after having exhausted ways to style the long nylon mane (so out of sync with the doll’s short, shaggy cap) she began hiding the toy under her stuffed animals. Never having been a doll person, I understood. Crissy’s very un-baby-like smile was, well, a bit creepy.

Unbeknownst to our mother, my sister gave the doll away, causing an effect we couldn’t have imagined.

Another Crissy (sans a pretty outfit) made her appearance when I was in high school. Mom bought it at a second hand store.

“Why?!” I asked when I saw it sitting on the table. I knew it wasn’t for me–I had made my dislike of dolls known early on–I’d cried when I received a Chatty Cathy for Christmas. And, it wasn’t for my sister who had not been forgiven for giving hers away.

Mom had bought it for herself. She’d owned one doll in her life–one made from stuffed handkerchiefs and tied with yarn. I’m sure she had pictured her own daughters’ toy boxes overflowing with an assortment of frilly dressed plastic babies.

“And, it was a very good buy.” End of conversation.

And, collectible it was: one turned into two, two into three, and then, number four arrived. They showed up between the pillows on my parents’ bed and on my mother’s dresser. One escaped to the hall table and another sat in a rocker in the living room. My sister and I shook our heads in amusement.

When I complained about their naked bodies on display, mom bought a couple of baby sleepers. It didn’t help. They were still creepy.

My sister held her tongue about the dolls (guilt?), but pushed back when she found Crissy number four sitting on the double bed that we shared.

“Not again,” my sister said as she walked it back to our mother’s room.

We teased mom about her growing plastic family. She laughed at our aversion to her doll collection. Some days the hair on their rubber heads was braided and tied off with ribbons; some days they wore new sleepers. The dolls moved from place to place. My sister and I ignored their existence. Eventually, they just became rotating background. We agreed that if her collection filled a childhood void, then we were happy for her.

Years rolled by. Tammy and I moved away from home, found jobs, and had families of our own. Dad died and Mom moved back to her homestate near her twin and other family. Later, she would move to a retirement home near me in North Carolina. ***

I had made my dislike of dolls known early on–I’d cried when I received a Chatty Cathy for Christmas.

“Crissy is a collectible,” my mother said.

8

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When mom passed away, we sorted through her personal effects to be saved or disposed of. It was then Tammy and I realized she had added one last Crissy to the family. She had, also, purchased a display case where the dolls were congregated, their hair in varying lengths, some with ribbons, none with clothes.

Though we joked about the dolls, we understood Mom had had the last laugh. She

May 2019

left her beloved dolls, all five of them with that same disturbing grin, to her daughters. To my dismay, my sister declined her half of her inheritance, leaving me in total possession.

“Just get rid of them,” my sister said, matter of factly, as she pulled the long tuft of retractable red hair out of the rubber head and slowly rolling it back into place. “We’ll take them to a thrift shop, and donate them if you can’t bear to throw them out.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t get rid of something that had brought Mom so much comfort. I shuddered. But, I couldn’t keep them either.

“Just take two of them,” I begged Tammy, desperate for her to take them off my hands.

“Nope, they’re all yours. Mom liked you best,” she said with a wink and a smirk (very similar to Crissy’s).

I tried to talk my children into taking one for their daughters. My suggestion was met with wide-eyed terror by my daughter, and speculation of how the dolls could be used as Halloween decorations by my son.

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I discovered on the internet that the dolls were in demand. They actually had a small value depending on condition. Condition was certainly a plus here. But, sell them? It seemed . . . mercenary. *** It’s been almost two years now. The dolls still reside in the trunk at the end of the bed. I’ve thought about taking a picture of the macabre quintuplets for posterity, and then, dropping them off at a shop (before the door opens for business). The dolls could be “adopted” by little girls who would love and appreciate them. Yes, that’s what I should do. Unfortunately, nobody would want all five. For sure, the quintuplets would be separated after being together for over forty years. Oh, dear. Was I becoming my mom?

I will think about what to do with the quints tomorrow, or next week, or next year. Maybe – I’ll just leave them to my children.

Rose Ann Sinay

is a freelance writer newly relocated to Connecticut. She continues to write about moments worth remembering , graciously provided by family and friends.

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Mother’s Day is May 12th

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13

Going Deeper

by Celina Colby

M

y abuelo’s hands slowly trace over the fresh canvas, taking in the size of the new surface. His paints are all prepared, small dabs of primary colors lining the wax paper next to him. I watch his hands caress the brushes; he holds in a tin can next to the canvas.

He’s spilled paint on his shirt but I don’t say anything about it.

His works line the walls around us. They’re piled haphazardly around the floor, and I can’t help but wonder what the organizational system is. Are they chronological? By subject, soccer players on one end of the room, gently bobbing boats on the other? His most iconic piece stands in the middle. It’s a white sailboat with two red stripes, floating gracefully across a lake. He’ll proudly tell you how it was featured in Yankee Magazine. His paintings have as much depth as any of the artists I’ve studied in my textbooks, or seen in museums. Sometimes even I forget he’s blind.

He remains silent during the preparation but as soon as his brush touches the canvas he breathes easy again.

“Which painting do you like best, Celinita?” He asks, and he somehow knows each one and exactly where they are in this chaotic studio.

“I could never choose, I like them all,” I say.

“Don’t think too much about it, just walk around and tell me which ones stand out to you.”

I’m immediately drawn to a stormy seascape. Dark waves are crashing against rocks and a tiny shack teeters on the edge of the water.

“You like the dark stuff, eh?” he says, smiling to himself. It’s more than true, I worship at the artistic alter of Goya and Friedrich, and in the literary temple of Dostoevsky and Nabokov. I was interested in death, madness, heartache, and this painting seemed like just the landscape for those stories.

14

“Do you want me to describe it?” I asked.

“Not the painting. Tell me what it makes you feel.”

It sounded like a question from a psychiatrist’s office but it made me stop and think. I took a step forward and tried to explain what about his painting it was that moved me.

“It makes me feel…on guard. It’s ominous.”

“I think you can go deeper,” he said from his table where he continued to paint.

These words I continue to use to this day when I view art in a museum or a gallery, or as I examine my writing. I think you can go deeper.

As a child I hated interacting with Papi, as we called him. He was old and smelled funny and once he grabbed your arm and got to talking, you were stuck there for hours. I was often cruel to him, taking advantage of his blindness and creeping in and out of rooms without saying anything. Now I’m sure that he always knew when I was there. But he never called me out on it. He was never angry.

He took on his condition with the kind of optimism and content that can only be called loco.

Despite my disregard of him, it was Papi who taught me to see.

Papi always wanted me to describe things to him. I remember one time in particular I drew something and brought it over to show him. He touched the piece, feeling the chalky pastel of my preferred medium, and comparing the shaded textures to the smooth white computer paper. Then he asked me to describe it.

Papi was using me as his eyes, and he didn’t just want to look at the world like an average person, he wanted to see the world like a painter.

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“It’s a ballerina,” I said with typical ten-year-old embellishment.

“What else, Celinita?” He asked, turning to face me with those glassy non-seeing eyes.

May 2019

“She’s dancing.”

“You’re telling me what you’re looking at, but tell me what you’re seeing,” he said.

That was the first time I had ever heard a distinction between the two. Slowly, I began to tell Papi that the ballerina was extending her right leg onto the bar in front of her, that she was strained by the stretch, you could tell because her eyes were bunched up in concentration. I told him that her gown was most likely chiffon, not a bubblegum pink but more of a champagne pink. It extended out around her, fluttering a little with her movement, contrasting the hard muscles that kept her upright on one foot. In many ways this helped the writer in me better learn to articulate things. Papi was using me as his eyes, and he didn’t just want to look at the world like an average person, he wanted to see the world like a painter.

My other grandfather is also an artist, and he and my grandmother would take me to museums every time they visited. I hated it. Most kids got to go to amusement parks and the movies, and I was stuck touring every art exhibit in New England. I begged and pleaded for them to take me somewhere more interesting, but now I’m so thankful they refused. I know every artwork at the MFA Boston, every corridor, and every security guard by name. I live and breathe those galleries.

I like to think that Papi saw some potential in me, that the blind man, somehow more perceptive than us all, looked at me and thought she can go deeper.

Celina Colby

is a Boston based writer and the blogger behind travel, art, and style site Trends and Tolstoy.

V. Lee Moore • Sarah A. Johnson • Elizabeth J. Saraniti Angela D. Harrison • Nancy M. Zovnic 1271 Glenns Bay Road, Surfside Beach, SC 29575 (843) 650-9757 • GrandStrandLawyers.com

15

–Read It!–

Nicole Says…Read These Books

May is the time when we celebrate the women in our lives. This month, I wanted to share with you two nonfiction books that bring to light five unbelievable women who did everything they could to change the world around them.

Turning the Tide

by Sally R. Murphy Sally Murphy is the pioneer of sea turtle conservation. Throughout the numerous hardships and naysayers, she persevered.

Thanks to her, there is an International Sea Turtle Society and several programs in South Carolina, devoted to protecting these beautiful creatures.

Broken down into several sections, this book ebbs and flows just like the tide. Following Sally Murphy’s life, each chapter bleeds with her passion about sea turtles.

Readers will learn how the S.C. sea turtle program came to be, as well as the struggles they still face each day. Numerous photos give this memoir an even more personal touch, as it takes readers on a journey through conservation. Fans of sea turtles everywhere owe their thanks to this brave woman, without whom, our sea turtle population would be dismal.

Let’s be honest, we all love sea turtles and South Carolina has an incredible group of women, known as Turtle Ladies. I first learned about them through Mary Alice Monroe’s books. When I noticed that Mary Alice Monroe wrote the foreword to this book, I knew I had to read it. I am beyond grateful that I did. Sally Murphy is a remarkable woman and her work to preserve nature, and naturally sea turtles, is awe-inspiring. Everyone should read this memoir, in order to understand the importance and significance of nature. If a single person can make this much impact, imagine what the entire population could conquer?

Liar Temptress Soldier Spy

by Karen Abbott

The Civil War is raging around their homes when four very different women decide to use their own strengths to change the tide.

After Belle Boyd shot a Union soldier, she became a spy for the Confederates. Emma Edwards dressed as a man in order to become a Union soldier, serving in some of the most historic battles. Rose Greenhow gained information from Union politicians and sent her daughter south to deliver the news. Elizabeth Van Lew created a vast spy ring that fooled numerous high ranking officials.

When history is told from only one side it becomes skewed. This nonfiction book gives the facts about women from both sides of the war.

Abbott transports readers back in time, where everyone’s safety was in jeopardy and families were fighting over different beliefs. Readers will be left speechless while reading about these powerful, brave women.

These heroines should be highlighted in history books. These women outsmarted men, in every way possible, in order to help their side and bring an end to the hellacious war.

Do not be afraid of the length of this book! This may not be the best book to bring to the beach, but it is definitely perfect for those rainy days. I grew up in an area rich in Civil War history, however I had not heard about these four daring women. This book has something for everyone. Book lovers will see classic authors and historians will recognize several leaders from both sides. Every single reader will understand why this book has won so many awards and they will immediately begin researching her other work.

Reviews by Nicole McManus

Nicole loves to read, to the point that she is sure she was born with a book in her hands.

She writes book reviews in the hopes of helping others find the magic found through reading. Contact her at ARIESGRLREVIEW.COM.

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17

Olives and Bread

by Joan Leotta

U

ntil I was six, going to work with my mother at her family’s warehouse store was a regular Saturday occurrence. Upon arrival, I was dispatched to walk one block, no street crossings, to the Italian bakery where I would exchange a one-dollar bill for a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a brown paper bag.

Back at the store, after giving nominal attention to my coloring books, the siren call of the brine-filled olive barrels pulled me out from my mother’s glass-walled office, onto the wooden floor of the small sliver of retail space in the store.

Lined up against the window of the refrigerator case of salamis and wheels of tasty cheeses not found in the supermarket, those seven wooden barrels, almost as tall as I, awaited my weekly visit. Square wooden tops fixed with a block-of-wood handle topped the barrels which were armed with a yard-long pierced aluminum ladle hitched casually to the side, like a gunslinger’s weapon.

My pattern was unchanging – a short walk up, walk down, past the barrels, quietly mouthing the names of the olives as I went, not really reading them, but bringing their names to my lips from long experience: nero piccolo, nero normale, nero gigante, nero siciliano, (dry, wrinkled, no brine), verde piccolo, verde normale, verde gigante. Verde gigante (green giants) were my favorite. When I was sure my mother was on the phone, or occupied by her adding machine, and my aunt was talking with a customer, I would push back the lid of the green giants and scoop up as many as the pierced ladle held and grab out as many as I could into my left hand, leaving the right free to return the leftover olives to the barrel, replace the ladle and close the lid. Quickly, still furtive, for I was sure my aunt or mother would scold me for eating olives so early in the morning, especially so many. Eight fit carefully into my left hand. My hiding place to savor my secret treasure was a tiny nook behind the cases of DeCecco

pasta bounded by cases of six-in-one tomatoes – promises of delicious dinner yet to come – out of sight of retail customers, my mother’s glass windowed back office and my aunt.

One by one, I dropped an olive in my mouth, each so big it barely fit in that space where my tongue could enjoy the briny saltiness of the oval taste treat and my teeth could begin to strip their firm yet delicate skin from the pit. When I had scraped the goodness off the pit and sucked it dry of brine, I would spit out the used olive, hide the pit in my sweater pocket to throw away later, and repeat the process of satiating my unending capacity for olives.

I heard my mother’s footsteps down the wooden planks.

Well before the last olive made its way from hand to mouth, my mom would often walk up to my hiding place, two pieces of that crusty bread in one hand and a few black and green giants in a small bowl. At least two of each for her and two of each for me. Then, we could alternate – a bite of olive, a bite of bread.

She did not begrudge me a handful or two of olives, but worried that I would overload on their briny goodness and pickle my insides with accumulated ingested brine. Somehow, she knew just where to find me and knew that I was eating olives. Sometimes we talked about the store.

Sometimes about the olives.

One Saturday, I finally asked her, “How do you always find me, no matter where I hide behind all the boxes?”

“Easy,” my mother laughed. “This, the little open places among the cases of pasta and tomatoes, this is where I used to hide to eat olives when your grandfather brought me with him when I was just your age.”

Joan Leotta

of Calabash, North Carolina, has been playing with words since childhood. She is a journalist, playwright, short story writer and author of several mysteries and romances as well as a poet. She also performs folklore and one-woman shows on historic figures.

18

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May 2019

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Mom’s Mantra

M

by Linda O’Connell

y mom always told me precisely how and when to do some thing, and she explained why it was for my own good.

When I had my own children, she knew exactly what to say and do. When I complained about my kids, she counseled, “Just love them. They’ll be grown before you know it.”

“They fight all the time with one another.”

“They aren’t fighting one another so much as they’re fighting for your attention. Just love them.”

I crabbed, “Some days it isn’t any easier being the mom than it is being the kid!”

Mom agreed and tossed out a one liner, then added her mantra.

“Motherhood is finding a balance between not giving up and simply giving in. Just love them.”

Ha! Mom never gave in to me. I had her on that one. I was just about tired of her advice “Just love them.”

When they were little, I compared my life to the countless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I served them for lunch. I felt as if I was oozing in all directions, smashed between things I wanted to do and things I had to do, spread thin between duties, thankless chores and tasks that never seemed to end. I did love them, but I knew I’d be happy when they grew up.

It happened gradually when I wasn’t looking. I was so focused on the endlessness of motherhood I can’t remember the day it all ended. My daughter and son grew up. No more wiping sticky grape jelly off little hands and peanut butter smudges off tables and walls.

Recently I sat down on the porch swing with a glass of sweet tea and old photo albums, and I reflected on motherhood. It was as if I dreamed

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my blonde, blue-eyed daughter into being.

Since my childhood, I knew one day that I would cradle my own baby girl. Tracey was a mover and a shaker, high strung in utero, always jabbing and kicking, and I do believe she was born with her dukes up. She’s always been a get-it-done kind of girl. She has been successful in all she sets her mind to, and she amazes me at her stamina and determination. I wish I had been less controlling and more patient. If only I could go back and do it again. Now I know the important stuff, but back then, I was learning. And oh, the mistakes I made.

The euphoria I felt after giving birth to her in an army hospital in Fairbanks, Alaska, must be the way a mountain climber feels when she reaches the summit after a long, hard climb. The reward was nothing short of miraculous. I would look at her tiny, perfect face and little hands, and I’d cry. She was mine all mine, my dream come true. I shed a lot of tears those first few weeks, and also as the years went by – tears of joy, pride, frustration, anger, sorrow, heartbreak, forgiveness. I wish I had been more understanding, patient and allowed her to do things her way, not just my way. I only wanted the best for her. There are so many things I wish I could go back and change... about myself. Not her. She has a heart of gold and will help anyone. She is a good and beautiful woman.

Before ultrasound imaging, I conceived the idea of my son. I worried though about how I would care for a boy, having had a girl first.

Jason was a slow mover; he rolled in the womb and he gently turned. He has born with a mild-manner and has It happened gradually maintained it for all his years. The euphoria I felt carrying him made my when I wasn’t looking. I pride swell bigger than my belly. The moment I saw him, he was just my was so focused on the baby, and when I held him, I cried. endlessness of motherhood Over the years when it came to my boy, I shed tears of joy, pride, frustraI can’t remember the day tion, sorrow, heartbreak, forgiveness.

I wish I had been more understandit all ended. My daughter ing, patient and less controlling. I only wanted the best for him. There and son grew up. are so many things I wish I could go

Sasee.com

May 2019

back and change, about myself. Not him. I wish I could erase my mistakes, my regrets. He has so much love and forgiveness in his heart. He is a successful, good and caring man.

Make her Mother’s Day Memorable

As I swing, my toes push off on the porch floor. A slight nudge, a gentle push in the right direction to keep the momentum going. I flip through the pages of time, and an old photo falls out. I am holding the hands of my little boy and girl. I stare at my long, flowing hair, my face as unwrinkled as a silk pillow slip, my eyes vibrant and young, not tired and heavy lidded.

As I tuck the photo of “young me” back into the triangular paper adhesive corner holders, I realize that my children and I endured sticky situations and many messes, but those childhood memories today are as delicious as the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I served them so long ago.

When my son and daughter had babies of their own, Mom and I just loved them.

“He ripped the wall paper border off his newly decorated room!”

My son replied when I asked why his two year old was in time out.

Mom wasn’t present but I heard her words. They tumbled right out of my mouth. “Forgive him; he’s learning. Just love him.”

I take a long slow sip of tea, push a strand of hair back, and open another book, a modern scrapbook enhanced with stickers. The four beautiful children on those pages resemble mine. Those two girls and two boys are grand! My grands.

Just like swinging, I will keep the momentum going, as these days I assume my late mom’s role with my three young, stair-step greatgrandsons.

I will love them... despite, not because of anything they do or don’t do. I will just love them.

Linda O’Connell

is a preschool teacher for almost four decades, is notorious for holding her life together with duct tape and humor. Her greatest loves are family, the beach and dark chocolate.

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23

Ray of Hope

M

by Georgia A. Hubley

y first instinct was to tell Mom my flight was delayed, but phone calls to her have ceased. I watched with envy, as fellow passengers called loved ones to pass the time. Due to heavy fog our flight from San Francisco, California, to Columbus, Ohio, wouldn’t depart for three hours.

As I waited, fellow travelers shared remnants of their lives, but I didn’t join them in conversation. I was in a distressed frame of mind, fighting back tears and agonizing over what Mom’s reaction would be when I greeted her. Each time I visited, there was always a ray of hope she’d remember me.

My thoughts drifted back to how Mom and I used to laugh when she’d say, “I’m having a senior moment,” every time she forgot a name, place or thing. After all, her friends forgot things. But her forgetfulness worsened.

Sadly, my fun-loving Mom, once an independent woman and widow of fifteen years, was no longer capable of caring for herself or her affairs.

The diagnosis: Alzheimer’s disease. Time, today, tomorrow and yesterday are insignificant.

Heart wrenching as it was, there was no other choice but to have her cared for at a convalescent facility. I’m grateful my brother and family reside nearby. As my mind swirled with concerns, I was relieved to hear the announcement that my flight was ready for boarding.

After the plane landed, the Captain’s intercom message concluded with the weather forecast, “It’s seventy-five degrees and cloudy, with severe thunderstorms predicted later in the afternoon.” The forecast for severe thunderstorms caused cold chills to surge through me. Since childhood I’ve been afraid of thunderstorms due to our house being struck by lightning.

When I arrived at the convalescent facility, Mom was sitting on the enclosed patio wearing her favorite outfit: a navy blue and white dotted dress, white shoes and matching white purse. As I approached her, I held on to my ray of hope she’d see me, smile and wave hello.

Even though there was no recognition, I leaned down, gave Mom a hug and announced my arrival from California. She appeared confused, but motioned for me to sit

24

down beside her, “I’m all dressed up, because my daughter is coming to visit. Have a seat; you can visit with me until she arrives.”

I wanted to bolt from the room, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat down next to her and held her hand. She smiled and asked, “What is your name?”

“My name is Georgia,” I replied. Each visit was the same, no matter how many times I said my name; she wouldn’t remember I was her daughter.

Although I was devastated, I pretended it didn’t matter. Her attention span was almost nonexistent. I was aware a conversation between us was impossible, but I talked to her anyway, sharing my precious memories that had eluded her.

As I contemplated what to say next, a faint rumble of thunder startled me. I noticed raindrops on the windowpanes. I watched lightning zigzag across the sky. Suddenly, there was a deafening crash of thunder that made me flinch, and I squeezed Mom’s hand too hard, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“When I was a little girl my house was struck by lightning,” I said.

Mom seemed attentive, so I felt compelled to share a chapter from the story of our lives she’d forgotten.

“Mom, one summer evening when I was nine and my brother was seven, thunder clamored and lightning crackled overhead, drowning out your words as you read the Sunday comics to us. The three of us snuggled close in Dad’s favorite brown overstuffed chair, while we waited for the storm to subside.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck the wall behind us, its force so intense we were thrown from the overstuffed chair.

The room was in total darkness. Stunned by the sudden jolt, I wondered why I was sprawled on the floor. Lightning flashed, and to my surprise there was a gaping hole in the wall, with electrical sparks flying about the room and the taste and smell of burned sulfur in the air. I was too terrified to scream or cry.

The diagnosis: Alzheimer’s disease.

Time, today, tomorrow and yesterday are insignificant.

Sasee.com

Unrelenting flashes of lightning made it possible to catch a glimpse of my brother crawling towards you as you lay motionless on the floor several feet away.

May 2019

As I groped through the debris to join you, Dad who’d been working in the barn, charged through the front door carrying a lantern, “Are you all okay?” he asked. “I heard an explosion.”

Actual Patient, Ramona, 70 years young!

“Something’s wrong with Mom,” I whimpered.

We watched Dad tend to you. Repeatedly, he called out your name, “Annie, Annie, Annie. Please wake up.”

I was so relieved when you finally spoke, “My head hurts. What happened? Why are we on the floor?”

“Take it easy, you were knocked out cold for a while,” Dad said.

Thankfully, neighbors came to our aid and helped Dad board up the huge hole in the wall, and treated the small gash on the side of your head. None of us could sleep a wink, as the storm raged on through the night.

Early the next morning the storm moved on and patches of blue sky appeared overhead. It was soon discovered that lightning had struck a telephone pole and followed the phone line that lead into our house, which caused the wall phone to explode. A large battery from inside the phone had hit your head and caused you to lose consciousness. Fortunately, you weren’t seriously injured and our house wasn’t engulfed in flames…” I paused…then ended the story, “And that is why I’m afraid of thunderstorms.”

A puzzled expression crossed Mom’s face, then she grinned and patted my hand, “Thunder and lightning scare me too.”

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Photography by Dominique Vien 360

I gave her a hug and kissed her cheek, “Mom, I love you.”

With Mom’s memory banks empty and mine overflowing, I will continue telling her stories. I’m comforted that tomorrow will bring another ray of hope.

Georgia A. Hubley

Georgia A. Hubley retired after 20 years from the money world in Silicon Valley to write about her world. Her stories and essays appear in various anthologies and magazines.

After two sons were launched into adulthood and the nest was empty, Georgia and her husband relocated to the Nevada desert.

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Dawn Richardson:

and combine them into a pendant that suits her personality. Now she can wear everything all together in memoriam. This is all strictly reworked material, nothing is melted – it still holds the individual pieces, but they’re Cherished Memories blended. Seeing the faces of the women when they open the box and see

by Leslie Moore the pendant for the first time has always been so heartwarming – tears At Grady’s Jewelers, one of my favorite things is reworking estate have welled up in their eyes and mine. and heirloom jewelry into a new treasure that will carry more special memories. There are a lot of different ways to do that. We can even start The greatest moments for me in this type of work is seeing the happiness with a simple sketch on a napkin. With some clients, the style has changed a new heirloom brings because of all the attached memories. They always so much from when their relative wore it, that they want to completely have it with them, close to their heart. It’s nice to help create something redo the piece of jewelry. I can dismantle it and have it melted down or that carries so much meaning. order a new piece. Or, I can take the dismantled pieces and construct something new. I’ve also taken stones from an heirloom piece and made My fatherthstarted Grady’s Jewelers in 1970 – next February will be our anniversary. I’ve been here since before I could see over the several new pieces incorporating the stones. For example, a daughter store’s 50 counter, but this is my 21st year full time. Most of those years as owner/ inherits a beautiful multi-stoned ring from her mother and has it made jeweler/Jill of all trades. into two rings for her daughters.

Some customers know exactly what they want, but I’m always happy to We are honored to have a reputation for excellent customer service and help create something you will love. We make an appointment and discuss trustworthiness. We do our best to treat others as we would like to be treated. Stop by today and take home a new or remade treasure in a ideas – I can guide you through the process.

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The Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art proudly announces this year’s Kathryn Bryan Metts Scholarship Award winner, Marlee Lord. This is a competitive scholarship and Marlee’s artwork wowed the judges!

Marlee will graduate from Waccamaw High School in June and attend the College of Charleston this fall with a dual major of Studio Art and Business. Her artwork has been exhibited at Robert Lange Studios in Charleston and Piccolo Spoleto.

Congratulations Marlee!

27

Riding the Rails with Dad

by Jeffery Cohen

Once I built a railroad, I made it run, made it race against time Once I built a railroad; now it’s done. Brother, can you spare a dime?

watched the rooftops of his hometown disappear in the distance.

Now, he was a man of the road.

Once I built a tower, up to the sun, brick, and rivet, and lime; Once I built a tower, now it’s done. Brother, can you spare a dime?

Riding the rails. On the bum. A hobo. It was a badge that he wore well. A title he was proud of. One that came with honor and experience. He would speak fondly of those early days when he met hundreds of kids just like himself, starving, not just for food, but for the adventure.

I

t was a song my father used to sing for me. He would begin by softly humming its melody. Then the words took form, as if he were writing them as he went along.

My father’s childhood was shaved away by that great depression.

When he thought about the past, he would shake his head and stare off into space as if he could see it all right before his eyes. After the crash of ‘29, people who had lost everything saw no other way out but an open window to jump from. City blocks of the beaten down who once “had,” now lined up next to the “have nots” just to get a bowl of hot soup. Street corners were dotted with tattered souls trying to eke out a miserly living by selling apples to those who could still afford the luxury.

President Hoover’s campaign speeches promised “a chicken in every pot, a car in every garage.” My father would half-smile.

A chicken in every pot. No one had the pot, let alone the chicken to put it in! Pork chops were three pounds for a quarter, but who had the quarter?”

At sixteen and the oldest of five children, my father saw little hope and less opportunity in the small New Jersey town that he lived in. The best he could offer was one less mouth to feed. On a gray summer morning he found himself walking alongside a stretch of railroad tracks, a small bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. As a slow moving freight train lumbered by, he tossed his belongings in to an open boxcar and hoisted himself inside. He sat on the hay-lined floor and

28

“There were days,” he would recall, “when there were so many of us latching on to a string of cars that we seemed like a flock of tiny birds, perched and ready to leave the nest.”

And it wasn’t just kids. Entire families huddled together in railcars with just what they had on their backs. Old men, tempered and tattered by lean times, taught him the ways of the road. Lessons like stuffing your clothes with newspaper to stave off the cold or stocking up on bread when you could because dried and stale, it lasted longer than most other foods would. Traveling from one hobo jungle to the next, he found fellow travelers, willing to share what little they had in spirit and sustenance, all striving to make do.

“Those were days when being poor was nothing to be ashamed of,” he would say proudly. “We never begged for a buck or pan handled.

An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Can’t tell you how many times I knocked on a stranger’s door and asked if I could chop some wood or mend a fence for a meal. And I was always met with a smile and a welcome, the way neighbors do.”

Tips were good, and he figured he had a future, until the night he flirted with Jean Harlow and was given his walking papers.

Sasee.com

My dad rode the rails from the east coast to the west. Young and cocky, he talked his way into a busboy job at the Cafe Trocodero, the jitterbug capital in West Hollywood. The movie stars still came out, even during the depression. Tips were good, and he figured he had a future, until the night he flirted with Jean Harlow and was given his walking papers.

May 2019

For three years he traveled about the country. He picked fruit under a California sun, where he sweated side by side with Okies who had escaped the swirling winds of the dust bowl in the Midwest.

He picked cotton in the south and remembered it as the toughest job he’d ever had. After three days worth of work, he hadn’t made a dime, and owed his boss money for the rental of the bag he collected the cotton tufts in!

In a Chicago stockyard he met Harry, an old friend from New Jersey, and they partnered up for almost a year. On a foggy night passing through Pittsburgh, Harry boosted himself up the ladder of a car to get a look at what was up ahead, never seeing the oncoming tunnel.

He died instantly. My father made certain he got back to his folks.

The road led them both back home again.

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The year my father died, I found myself thinking about his stories, as if the words and memories could bring him back. One summer morning, I walked alongside of a stretch of railroad track, when a slow moving freight train came rumbling by. Without hesitation, I trotted next to a boxcar, gripped the metal ladder and hoisted myself up. I felt the bounce and the metallic clack of the cars. I listened to the screech of the steel wheels on the rails as I passed by my town.

After a mile or so, I hung off the side and dropped into the cinders on the side of the tracks. I sat there, scratched and dirty, and as the train disappeared into the mist, I never felt closer to my dad. He was of another generation, another time, and yet now, in some strange way, we were both men of the road.

Jeffery Cohen

Freelance writer and newspaper columnist, Jeffery Cohen, has written for Sasee, Lifetime and Read, Learn, Write. He’s won awards in Women-OnWriting Contest, Vocabula’s Well Written Contest, National League of American Pen Women’s’ Keats Competition, Southern California Genealogy Competition, and Writer’s Weekly writing contest.

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June 2019 Sasee “L ipstick L ife”

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Through Thick and Thin

C

by Elizabeth Hatley

osmetology school was my contingency plan. While my friends went off to universities, I stayed behind, having no idea what I wanted to do with my life. After a couple of false starts at the community college, I spoke with someone I admired who was in the cosmetology program, and since I had always loved make-up and hair, decided to apply. I was accepted, and began to anticipate a glamorous future in the beauty industry.

Money was tight, and I lived at home with my parents. On nights and weekends, I worked in a dress boutique which gave me some income, but tuition, books, uniforms, a car payment and insurance ate it up. There were days when my lunch was briny cup-of-soup from the school vending machines, days I drove the thirty-mile trip to and from school on gas fumes praying to make it, days I counted my pennies for the toll booths I had to pass through in both directions. But, I stayed focused on my goal.

In school, I learned to roll a perm in record time, I knew the seven stages of color development, and I could do wonders with a teasing comb in an era when big hair was the rave. A year later, I passed the state boards, becoming a licensed cosmetologist.

For two years, I worked hard at my craft, first as an apprentice in a well-established salon, and later, renting my own chair while building up clientele. I was on my feet all day, up to my elbows in the shampoo bowl, my back aching from leaning to one side. I ruined many an outfit with permanent hair-color stains, and the noxious smell of bleach and chemicals made me crave fresh air. This wasn’t the life of glamour I imagined. I missed mental stimulation, and re-enrolled in college, letting my cosmetology license lapse, regretting the years I felt I’d wasted.

I had one client, however, who wouldn’t let me retire, a hanger-on, loyal for over twenty-five years. My father hadn’t been to the barber in all

32

that time. I’d threatened to shave his head, and I bought him gift certificates for haircuts. I’d given him do-it-yourself hair-cutting tools, and I’d even given him bad haircuts, but that didn’t matter.

“The difference between a good and a bad haircut,” he’d say, “is about two weeks.”

My father would wait months between haircuts. I moved to a city sixty miles away, and later, six-hundred miles away, and it wasn’t always easy to get home. When we reunited, my guilt was measured by the length of his hair. At various times, I’d tell him he looked like a poet, an artist, an old hippie. He didn’t care. He was patient, content to wait, a man set in his ways.

Perhaps he waited because I knew his head and hair so well. I knew to watch for the cowlick at the back of his head where the hair popped up when I cut too close, and to watch out for the moles on his scalp. Thinning on top, with an established comb-over, I knew not to cut the crown too short. Try as I might to raise his part, the next time it would be right back where he wanted it. Ruddyskinned and red-faced, “weather-beaten,” my mother once called him, I knew where he was scarred from all the skin cancer surgeries.

I knew where to be gentle.

I’d set up my station in the garage, laying my tools upon the washing machine – scissors, hot water, razor, comb and towel. I’d get a chair from the kitchen table, and carrying it out the door, say, “time to raise your ears.” It was a very old joke, but one I learned from him.

I had one client, however, who wouldn’t let me retire, a hanger-on, loyal for over twentyfive years.

Sasee.com

I’d tuck in his collar and wrap a towel around his neck. He had shrunk over the years, and slouched down, and I’d have to ask him to sit up straight, like asking a child. I’d wet his hair by dipping the comb in a glass of water, cold by then, and he’d shiver and complain. “They have hot running water at the barber shop,” I’d say, this bantering part of our ritual.

May 2019

We passed the time talking, covering many topics over the years – family and friends, faith, college and career advice, discussions about his health, my mother’s failing health, our neighbors’ health, the healthcare system in general. We talked about church politics, local, national and world politics. We were “solving the world’s problems,” he liked to say.

ANTIQUES

“One haircut at a time,” I’d reply.

I’d square his neckline and thin out the sides where it grew in thick.

Cutting closely around his ear, I’d warn, “don’t move,” as if any false movement might result in blood. I’d been using that one for many years, but he would smile all the same. I’d shave his neck, cut the tufts that grew from his ears, and trim his bushy eyebrows. “No one is going to recognize you,” I’d say, removing the towel.

Georgian Style Mahogany Bow Front Bachelor’s Chest with Beautiful Inlay & Crossbanding

Without looking me in the eye, he’d thank me in humble appreciation. He would pick up the broom and a dust pan, and sweep up the hair, a bit lighter after his cut, spryer, good until the next time…and the next. I gave my father his last haircut the day before he died.

I didn’t always want to cut his hair, and I’m sorry to admit there were times I resented the duty, but looking back, I’m glad my father insisted on waiting. Perhaps he had the foresight to know something I couldn’t yet appreciate – the power in human touch, of being present for one another, of giving someone your undivided attention. It turns out the year I spent in beauty school did have purpose. While my skills as a cosmetologist dwindled, my relationship with my father flourished, in fifteen minute increments every few months over twenty-five years.

Elizabeth Hatley

took the zigzagged path to becoming a writer, first as a cosmetologist, then a florist, a flight attendant, a substitute teacher and a volunteer. Her first published essay appeared in Sasee in March of 2006.

Circa 1830

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14319 Ocean Highway 17 at The Litchfield Exchange | Pawleys Island Monday - Saturday 10 a.m. - 4 p.m. | 843-520-9965 | RothrockAntiques.com

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Sarah Bowler:

Is Skilled Nursing Right for Your Loved One?

by Leslie Moore

W

hen your elderly loved one is ready for a more structured environment, there are several levels of care, depending on individual needs. Independent Living Facilities usually rent condos, apartments or rooms to people who are still fairly independent. There will be no maintenance or upkeep to worry about, and meals can be provided, as well as activities and entertainment. People choose Assisted Living when they need some help, but are still able to be mostly independent.

Skilled Nursing and/or Memory Care must have a doctor’s approval.

Here, your loved one has 24/7 nursing care and the assistance they receive is completely based upon the individual. If your loved one is unable to care for themselves independently or has an illness that’s becoming increasingly worse, it may be time to talk to your doctor about skilled nursing.

Dementia is not one illness – it affects everyone in a different way. At PruittHealth Conway, we base our care on the individual, and offer a patient-centered environment. For example, if a patient wakes up and feels like they are still in their 20s, and it’s time to go to work, we do our best to become a part of that reality and to make each patient feel comfortable.

We never argue with a patient – instead we try to step into that person’s shoes and always maintain their dignity. That’s very important to us.

Recently we had a wonderful woman move into our facility. At first, we thought she was only going to be here for a short rehab, but it soon became clear she couldn’t go home alone, so her family made arrangements for

her to move in permanently. We saw this woman’s family every single day – they became like our family, and by the time she passed away, a year and a half later, we were all calling her family “aunt” and “uncle,” etc.

There was a great sense of peace knowing her last days were filled with family, love and laughter.

Remember, family doesn’t stop when someone moves into a facility. Yes, it’s difficult to visit. Yes, things are different. But please go. Go often. Love them through these years.

• • • Sarah Bowler is Admissions Director of PruittHealth Conway at Conway Medical Center. She feels God sent her on a long journey to do the works she loves. Originally from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Sarah moved to Myrtle Beach to attend Coastal Carolina University as a Marine Science major, but soon found it wasn’t for her and switched her major to Sociology. An internship led to her first full time job as Life Enrichment Leader for a skilled nursing facility. When a position opened up at Kingston Nursing Home, now PruittHealth Conway, Sarah accepted a job in Social Services. When PruittHealth purchased Kingston Nursing Home last year, Sarah was promoted to Admissions Director.

Not married, but happily dating, Sarah is not able to travel to Pittsburgh for Mother’s Day this year, but mom and daughter spend a lot of time catching up on Facetime. She wants to wish her mom – and all moms – a very Happy Mother’s Day! Contact Sarah at PruittHealth Conway, at Conway Medical Center, at 843-347-8179, and learn more about how she and her staff can help your loved ones have the best quality care. The facility is located at 2379 Cypress Circle, Conway.

I Think I Can . . . I Think I Can

by Erika Hoffman

A

bout ten years ago, I decided to write with the goal of publication.

Why did I, a newbie, dare believe I’d succeed in acquiring a byline in a magazine or anthology? Wasn’t that aim as lofty as winning a needle-in-ahaystack writing contest? Yet, I had confidence that if I pursued this dream, I’d accomplish it. What gave me that perseverance, courage, and conviction?

Well, it all started a year before that: when my old college buddy took me to a DAR meeting in Raleigh. She knew I liked history and would enjoy the speaker’s talk, and she assured me the women were smart and welcoming.

At the completion of the luncheon and presentation, she turned to me and asked if I’d like to join.

“Sally, on my dad’s side, I’m only 3rd generation born American. All those Germans came in the 1870s.”

“Your mom’s side?” she inquired.

was a Prussian soldier. Yet, upon further delving I discovered my Hopkins ancestors supported the cause by paying military taxes and by feeding the troops biscuits made at their bakery. I also found another ancestor, a hatter, Robert Tuckniss, whose signature is on Continental currency; upon more digging I learned that his father-in-law’s farmhouse was the headquarters for George Washington after the Battle of Germantown. That Quaker contributor to the Revolution was Abraham Dawes. So, due to my ancestors’ commitment to the American Revolution, a couple of hundred years later I could lunch and chat with a lot of nice ladies while listening to programs about American history.

My adventure in genealogy took a year of research and a huge dollop of persistence, but I reached my goal. I am a Daughter of the American Revolution.

While hunting my roots, I became an empty nester as the last of my four kids left for college, and I also became a caregiver when my elderly dad moved in.

Confined, I took up my pen, dusted off my computer keys, and emptied the shelves at Sam’s with writerly accoutrements. Stories have surged through my brain and escaped from my mouth for years! Now, without taking off my slippers, I smacked words on paper, gleaned some savoir-faire from networking and assailed the world with my voice!

“Mom’s dad’s folks were from Bavaria.”

“That still leaves your mom’s maternal ancestors.”

“My grandma’s mom’s dad – Swiss.”

“And her dad’s dad’s folks?

“Hmm…” I remembered Ama telling me that we were Old American on her dad’s side and that her folks’ people once owned all West Orange, New Jersey. “Hmm,” was usually my lame response as Ama didn’t appear as if she had come from any important Jersey scion. She had letters though, from the 1700s, and some were from ancestors who spent time in Demerara, British Guyana, and one was from her grandpa who went to boarding school in England, and later became an accountant for the West Indies Company.

I journeyed from total ignorance about my roots to becoming an expert on family trees. I unearthed Quaker kin in Philadelphia at the time of the Revolution. Yet, I worried if their religion was a deal breaker since Quakers were peaceniks. Then, I found one had signed up to be in a battalion before The Battle of Philadelphia. I mailed this info to the DAR Headquarters in DC, and they researched it and wrote back, “Yes. But he didn’t show up to fight.”

“Sounds like your mother’s kin,” commented my old dad, whose grandpa

Finding my eight generations-back grandpa in American history caused me to be more alert to the history of this nation; likewise writing has made me understand myself and empathize more with others. Keying words in, while seeing the black marks on the stark white screen, helps me sort errant thoughts, analyze reflections and categorize emotions. Writing is work. Yet, it’s akin to the job pro basketball players have; they love the game. Rejection slips smart like a missed shot. After one, I focus more, aim better and try again to hit the mark.

Having accomplished something that appeared impossibly daunting at the onset, like discovering who my colonial ancestors were and whose side they were on, made me realize I could do the impossible—again! Success breeds success!

After a gal reaches the apex of one destination, she takes out her prognosticating binoculars to scan the landscape of her next dream!

Unlocking the secrets of my heritage unleashed a confidence and a determination that has propelled me onward in my quest for a byline.

Genealogy opened the door and let loose my writing genie!

Erika Hoffman

has produced over 300 pieces of published writing thanks to perseverance and also has produced four grandchildren, thanks to her children!

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Sasee.com

May 2019

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Super Blooper

by Diane DeVaughn Stokes

W

hen folks make a big mistake at their workplace or something goes terribly wrong, not many people usually know it happened.

Sometimes no one ever even finds out about it! But that’s not the case for me and my lifelong career. My work on radio and TV has always been right up in your face, here it is, take it or leave it, what was said is done, no chance to do it over again! Live broadcasting is like that. You must have spunk and an easy-going spirit in this business to be able to laugh at yourself if something goes awry, knowing no one is going to die or be disfigured as a result of your screw-up. How lucky am I? And yet, there have been way too many bloopers to discuss in the short time we have here together, but I’d like to fill you in on one of the most awkward moments I have ever had on TV. I call it my “Super Blooper.”

Back in the early to mid eighties I was the Host and Producer for “Pee Dee People,” a public affairs show on ABC WPDE-TV 15 in Florence, South Carolina, where I was fortunate to meet the man of my dreams, Chuck. He can vouch for this story, as it is still one of WPDE’s most memorable and historic moments!

Each day, I featured three guests on my show. But once a week, I opened the phone lines for viewers to call into the studio and talk live on the air with one guest who was an expert in their field. I am proud to tell you I was the first in the market to be BRAVE enough to do this, besides it was the first talk show of its kind in the area. From cardiologists to gynecologists, nutritionists to gardeners, and everything in between, I gave them a voice.

called some people I knew in Marion to contact Elgie and push him over the edge saying it would be good for business. Free publicity so to speak.

It all came down on March 17, 1982.

As we were getting ready to go live at noon, Elgie admitted he was very nervous about opening the phones for questions but I assured him I could handle anything and he was in good hands. I told him I was always very lucky to have a great following so there was never a day without callers who had genuine concerns and questions.

My first caller asked about flea collars. Do they really work and which one is best?

Elgie answered with ease. Next came a question about feline leukemia virus and the vaccine that was recently in the news. Once again, Elgie breezed through a great response as this beautiful Irish Setter who belonged to one of his clients sat quietly with a green shamrock scarf wrapped around his neck.

However, it was the third caller who severely rattled us all.

“Hi,” I said. “This is Pee Dee People how can we help you?”

“Hi Diane,” replied the caller. “I have a question for the doctor? Could my old man get CRABS from our dog?”

St. Patrick’s Day was approaching and being the warped minded, out Yes, you heard right! That’s exactly what I did when I first heard that of the box thinker that I still am today, I instatement. vited Dr. Elgie Nissan a veterinarian from “Elgie admitted he was Marion, South Carolina, to join me on TV I stopped in my tracks and thought, did I with an Irish setter to add green flavor to really hear that correctly? But having been very nervous about the program. in this business for a long time, I knew that most obscene or troublemaker calls were opening the phones for When I called this man whom I did not said fast with caller hanging up! This caller questions but I assured know, but was referred by a friend, he was very deliberate, talking slowly and was thought it was a joke! He asked me a milstill on the line with us! All I could think him I could handle lion questions to be assured I was really who to say was, “I don’t know dear, but let’s ask I said I was. the doctor!” anything and he was in He also asked if he could think about it overnight and get back to me. Meanwhile, I

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good hands.”

Sasee.com

Looking over at Elgie who was as green as the Irish setter’s scarf, I realized he was

May 2019

stunned. He took a deep breath and started to laugh and said, I guess we will have to start over! Then I reminded him that we were live on the air and this caller seems very serious about her question and deserves an appropriate answer. Elgie could not stop laughing, but he looked straight into the camera and said, “Lady, not hardly. But if he tells you he did, divorce him!”

Senior Living

It was a very honest answer from a vet who knew he would never live this down when he got back to Marion. Then he almost had a heart attack when he heard me say, “Let’s go to the next caller!”

He said, “Haven’t we had enough?”

And I responded with “We have ten minutes left of the show to take questions and nothing could be more embarrassing than the last call so let’s do it”.

Needless to say, the rest of the show went well, and Elgie left the studio red-faced and laughing saying it was fun to be on TV with me, but it was like snow skiing. It was much more fun after it was over!

He told me to never call him again.

And I know what y’all are thinking. Where was the delay system? Keep in mind only very big market stations had delay systems in place for calls like these when they went live on the air. No place that I have ever worked had anything as cool as a delay system!

A mother is your first friend, your best friend, your forever friend…

Happy Mother’s Day from your friends at THRIVE!

There have been many more bloopers in my forty-six years of broadcasting, and I treasure every single one of them: The good, the bad and the ugly. Some I could not even repeat here in print or Sasee would run me out of town. And yet, it’s been, and still is, an absolutely priceless career, regardless of the many bloopers. No regrets whatsoever!

Diane DeVaughn Stokes

Diane is the host and producer for “Inside Out” as seen on HTC TV Channel 4, and serves as a commercial spokesperson for several local businesses. She and her husband Chuck own Stages Video productions in Myrtle Beach and share passions for food, theater, travel and scuba diving.

They own three four legged kids that they adore!

(843) 353-1525

699 Prince Creek Parkway, Murrells Inlet, SC, 29576 ThriveAtPrinceCreek.com

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Ben Marlow:

A Legacy of Kindness Steeped in Pluff Mud and Salt Water

by Leslie Moore

L

iving in the small community of Pawleys Island for so many years means I know most people who’ve lived here for any length of time – even if we just exchange a wave and a hello as we pass each other in the aisles of the grocery store. But some families’ roots go back much farther, leaving a lasting impact on each generation. The Marlows are one of those families.

Ben Marlow, has lived in Pawleys Island all of his life, except for a brief period in Mt. Pleasant, and his college years at USC in Columbia. “It’s home,” he said when I asked if he ever wanted to live anywhere else. The creek front home Ben shares with his wife, Molly, and two sons, Ben, Jr. (17) and Wheeler (13), once belonged to his grandfather, Boyd Marlow, Sr. “As corny as it sounds, Molly and I love the smell of low tide and pluff mud. It smells like home.”

“When I got to college, law enforcement was the only thing that interested me,” Ben began when I asked him about his 27 year career.

“My primary employment is with Georgetown County Sheriff ’s Office as the Internal Affairs Inspector. This July will mark 27 years in law enforcement. For a variety of reasons the last few years have been difficult times for law enforcement across the country. Although South Carolina law enforcement officers can retire after 25 years, I am pleased with the direction Sheriff Lane Cribb and Chief Deputy Carter Weaver are taking the Sheriff ’s Office and am proud to remain a part of it.”

Ben and Molly also own Pawleys Kayaks, a business that rents kayaks, paddle boards, canoes and even crab traps to visitors. “Currently we have about 200 leisure watercraft. It’s very rewarding helping people enjoy the beauty of Pawleys Island.” In the summer, Ben, Molly and the boys are working seven days a week, sometimes until late at night. “Molly and the boys do 90% of it. It’s not uncommon for us to be out at 9pm on Friday and Saturday nights during the summer picking up equipment from beach houses. I tell my boys we have to harvest the crop while it’s in season,” Ben said this with a laugh as I commiserated with him about his long hours.

Ben’s mother, Frances, still lives in his family home, but his dad, Tony, died in 2002. Working at the Pawleys Pavilion was one of Tony’s jobs as a young man. This led to the chance meeting of Ben’s parents back when the Pavilion was THE place for young people to gather in the summer months.

“My grandparents, Boyd L. Marlow, Sr. and Lucienne Marlow were founders of the Pawleys Island Presbyterian Church,” Ben remembered

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Ben Jr., Ben, Molly and Wheeler when I asked him to tell me more about the legacy of the Marlows.

“And, after serving the Pawleys Island community for several decades as a founder and board member of Midway Fire Department, the Midway Fire Department at True Blue was named in honor of my grandfather when it was constructed.” Ben went to tell me his grandfather also served in the Army and participated in the North African Campaign during World War II. Boaters on our rivers depend on red and green navigational beacons to guide them through the sometimes treacherous waters at night. Before modern technology streamlined their operation, Boyd, Sr. also worked as the last Civilian lamplighter of the U.S. Coastguard, maintaining these beacons on local waterways from Little River to South Island. “One of my earliest memories of going out on the river was a trip with my grandfather to replace wiring and batteries in the beacons.” Ben laughed and continued, “It’s also the first time I remember eating peanuts in the little bottles of Coke that we would get at my great uncle, Frank Marlow’s store.”

Most reading this have heard of, or most likely visited, Frank’s in Pawleys Island, a restaurant with a well deserved reputation of excellence. I asked Ben about his family connection. “I’m not sure how long my family has been in the area, but my great-great-great-grandfather John Wesley Marlow and three of his brothers, the youngest being 16, enlisted in the 7th Regiment of the S.C. Calvary out of Georgetown. John Wesley was detached to the Waccamaw Neck Area. One of his twelve children, Christopher Columbus Marlow was the father of my great grandfather

Sasee.com

May 2019

Lucienne and Boyd Marlow, Sr.

Boyd, Jr., Lucienne & Boyd Marlow, Sr.

Chris, Ben Sr., Boyd “Tony” Jr., Boyd III, Boyd Sr.

Harry Marlow

Judge Harry Lee Marlow, Sr. He was a magistrate and merchant in Pawleys Island and opened Marlow’s Supermarket near the North Causeway. It was later run by one of his sons, Frank Marlow and is now Frank’s Restaurant owned by Salters McClary.”

Ben and his dad, Tony, were very close and even after so many years, the loss still hurts. We reminisced a little, and Ben shared how his dad’s legacy of honesty and kindness still impacts the way he lives his life. “Dad took over my grandfather’s plumbing business, B.L Marlow Plumbing, and it remained in operation until he died. I remember one Easter Sunday I was hanging around with Dad in his shop, and he got a call from the owners of a beach house on the island. They were opening their home for the summer, and a pipe had burst under the house.” Ben shook his head and laughed as he continued. “It was an emergency, it was Sunday and a holiday. We went to the house and Dad fixed the problem in 10 minutes. The owners of the house weren’t home, and I asked him how much he was going to charge them, thinking it would be quite a bit.

He told me, ‘I’m not charging them anything. I was at the shop anyway, and it was an easy fix. And as long as I live, they’ll never call another plumber.’ That was just how my dad was – and I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about him.”

As we finished up our interview, Ben shared another family story that tells so much about the legacy of the Marlows. “A friend of mine, Dan Grate, lives on Grate Rd. here in Pawleys and is in the firewood business.

I cut down a few pine trees on my property and didn’t want to waste the wood, so I decided to split the logs and use them in my burn barrel and

Boyd, Sr. with Boyd, Jr. & Chris

Boyd, Sr. with Boyd, Jr.

fire pit. I went by Dan’s house to ask if I could bring the wood to his house and use his splitter. Dan told me to take the splitter home and use it as long as I needed it. When I took it back, I tried to pay Dan and he absolutely refused! He told me he would never take any money from a Marlow. When he was a child, my Uncle Frank would give credit in the store to locals. Dan remembered walking with his mom to the store and getting groceries, even though it was hard carrying them back home.

Uncle Frank knew they were walking, so he told them not to worry, he’d drop off the groceries at their home when he closed the store. Dan never forgot the kindness Uncle Frank showed to his family and many others.”

The Marlow tradition of kindness and hospitality continues with Ben and Molly’s huge 4th of July party every year. With help from the community, this special couple has live music and an incredible fireworks show that is one of the highlights of the year for locals.

They also enjoy downtime at a local’s favorite hangout, the PIT (Pawleys Island Tavern), which has live music most nights of the week. Ben shared they once went to Myrtle Beach during the off-season for a “stay-cation.”

Four nighttime establishments told them if they wanted a year-round live music scene the best bet was Pawleys Island. “We laughed off our lapse in judgment and the next week made sure we rode our beach cruisers the short distance to the PIT. Sometimes you just need a reminder of how fun, diverse, eclectic and arrogantly shabby Pawleys Island can be.”

If you’d like to meet Ben and Molly, stop by the PIT – and maybe I’ll be there too, listening to another great story about life in my favorite small town.

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4 Paws for Fozzy:

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A Mother’s Journey

by Leslie Moore

hen something needs to be done, Mom usually does it. Moms go the distance, no matter what the personal cost. Ashli Ambrose is a self proclaimed “homebody,” enjoying nothing more than her time at home caring for her husband and two children, Layla and Fozzy. Putting herself “out there” was not in the plan. Ashli and her husband, Brian, moved to the area from Chicago when Brian accepted a job locally.

They have no family here, but have made some good friends in their small neighborhood in Conway where most of the residents are also transplants from across the country.

When Fozzy, Ashli’s youngest, was a year old, she and Brian noticed he wasn’t achieving milestones. Six months later, she saw a specialist at MUSC, and the doctors immediately found the problem: Fozzy had a tethered spinal cord and because of that, a part of his spinal cord didn’t develop properly. “Fozzy had surgery on his spinal cord which alleviated the pressure, but spinal tissue does not regenerate. The good news is we saw the neurosurgeon last month and there have been some positive changes!” Fozzy’s spinal cord was shaped somewhat like an hourglass, and no messages were getting through. Since the surgery, while he still doesn’t have the use of his legs, he is aware if something touches him.

Once Ashli and her family processed this news, the next step was to make life as good as possible for Fozzy. By the time he was two, he had been fitted for a wheelchair, giving the toddler much more mobility.

But that wasn’t enough for Ashli. “We found a non-profit, 4 Paws for Ability that places service dogs with young children. Your dog is trained specifically for your child’s needs,” Ashli began. “Fozzy’s dog will help him with his day-to-day life, retrieving dropped items, opening doors, eventually helping him to stand and more.”

But, the specialized training required for these dogs is high – $40,000.

And the non-profit requires each family to raise $17,000 toward the cost.

But Ashli is determined to make it happen. This shy young mother has called every media outlet she could think of, organized bake sales and even convinced the Myrtle Beach Pelicans to help. At a recent game, a portion of the ticket sales were donated to 4 Paws for Ability and Fozzy was given the opportunity to throw the first pitch!

Currently the Ambrose family is within a few thousand dollars of their goal. Ashli moved out of her comfort zone to help her son – and it is

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working. “My grandma told me if someone had just given us the money, I wouldn’t have met all of these wonderful people and had so many great experiences. She’s right, and we have been so unbelievably blessed.”

Ashli was also able to get Fozzy involved with the Grand Strand Surfrider Foundation, where Fozzy became an adaptive surfer! And the organization has helped promote Ashli’s 4 Pawleys for Ability fundraisers.

With good medical care and as much help as Ashli can find, Fozzy has a promising future. There is new technology that helps people with limited mobility that Ashli learned about during a recent visit to MUSC. These special braces with the help of a robot, could give Fozzy the ability to walk. “The braces cost $30,000, but I’m going to work hard to raise the money. This technology could change his life.”

If you’d like to help Fozzy recieve his service dog, please donate at https://www.gofundme.com/FozzyBear.

To learn more about Fozzy, visit the family’s FB page, Fozzy Bear.

Sasee.com

May 2019

Moms leave a little sparkle wherever they go!

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Sasee Kids (of Any Age) Find That Perfect Gift for Mother’s Day!

Mothers and Grandmothers deserve to feel special on Mother’s Day, and Sasee has you covered with these beautiful selections!

(And, Mom, you might want to tear this page out and put where they’ll be sure to see it!)

How about taking that special lady out to lunch or dinner? Or buy a gift certificate for a girls’ night out? Inlet Provision Company, located on Business 17 in Murrells Inlet, is fun and delicious!

Good Deed Goods, located in Inlet Pharmacy in Murrells Inlet, has these pretty summer kimonos – and be sure to add a hat to protect her from the sun!

Simple, elegant gold earrings

by Sheila Fajil will make your special mother or grandmother very happy.

Find these and more at Studio 77 in Myrtle Beach.

Stop by one of Alayna’s Boutique/ Kendall’s Hallmark’s three locations, in Surfside, Myrtle Beach Mall, and North Myrtle Beach for this beautiful Willow Tree mother and child figurine that will immediately become a family treasure.

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Sasee.com

Stop by Eleanor Pitts in the Oak Lea Shops and find these beautiful Clara Williams bracelets that are sure to please!

May 2019

What’s Moms favorite color?

Repairs, Appraisals, Jewelry Consignment & Custom Designs by James Huntley 981-B Hackler Street, Soho Shoppes @ Market Common 843-692-0346 • www.treasuresfinejewelers.net Mon - Fri 9:30 - 5:30, Sat 10 - 4

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May 2019

3 The Embers 6 pm, Francis Marion Park, Georgetown. For more info, visit www.georgetownseaport.com.

18-19 Blue Crab Festival 9am-6pm, Little River. For more info, call 843-249-6604 or visit www.bluecrabfestival.org.

4 Rivertown Music & Craft Beer Festival 11am-6pm, downtown Conway. For more info, call 843 248 6260 or visit www.conwayalive.com.

23-6/2 Sandy Toes & Salty Kisses Swamp Fox Players, Strand Theatre, Georgetown.

For times and ticket info, call 843-527-2924 or visit swampfoxplayers.com.

4 Annual Blessing of the Inlet Belin United Methodist Church, Murrells Inlet, 9am-4pm, 843-651-5099, www.blessingoftheinlet.com.

9-23 Annual Waccamaw Arts & Crafts Guild Juried Show The Art Museum at Myrtle Beach, 3100 S. Ocean Blvd.

For more info, call 843-235-2510 or visit wacg.org.

11 Long Bay Symphony Brass Quintet 7pm, Winyah Bay Auditorium, Georgetown. Tickets $15 online at www.winyahauditorium.org, or $20 at the door.

11 Annual Mayfest on Main 10am-6pm, Main Street, North Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-281-2662 or visit www.northmyrtlebeachchamber.com.

24 Moveable Feast Renee Rosen discusses Park Avenue Summer, 11am, Kimbel’s Wachesaw, $30. For more info, call 843-235-9600 or visit www.classatpawleys.com.

24 & 31 Ocean Isle Concert Series 6:30-8 pm, Museum of Coastal Carolina parking lot, E. Second St., Ocean Isle Beach, N.C. For more info, call 910-619-1927.

6/4 Calabash Concert Series 6-9pm, 868 Persimmon Road, Calabash, NC. For more info, call 910-575-6747 or visit www.calabashconcerts.com.

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•

Memory Care

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Skilled Nursing

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Rehab

Advertiser Index

50

Alayna’s Boutique............................................................................................12 Angelo’s Steak & Pasta.....................................................................................10 The B. Graham Interiors Collection................................................................17 Bethea Baptist Retirement Community...........................................................12 Bleu.................................................................................................................45 Brightwater.....................................................................................................49 Brookgreen Gardens........................................................................................10 Burroughs Funeral Home................................................................................51 Carolina Car Care...........................................................................................23 Carolina Center for Advanced Dentistry.........................................................11 The Citizens Bank...........................................................................................23 Coastal Luxe....................................................................................................52 Comfort Keepers.............................................................................................17 Cottage Place Vendors.....................................................................................13 Custom Outdoor Furniture...............................................................................3 Dr. Grabeman.................................................................................................22 Driftwood Garden Club..................................................................................13 Dr. Sattele’s Rapid Weight Loss & Esthetic Centers.........................................19 Eleanor Pitts....................................................................................................37 Good Deed Goods..........................................................................................21 Grady’s Jewelers...............................................................................................27 Grand Strand Rehab & Nursing Center..........................................................23 Hospice Care of SC.........................................................................................27 Hot Fish Club.................................................................................................30 House Parts.....................................................................................................31 Inlet Coastal Resort Assisted Living/Memory Care..........................................10 Inlet Provision Company.................................................................................30 Island Women’s Care.......................................................................................45

Kelly’s Consignment........................................................................................37 La Fayes at 79th..............................................................................................40 The Lakes at Litchfield......................................................................................7 Long Bay Symphony.......................................................................................10 Moore, Johnson and Saranti Law Firm PA......................................................15 Myrtle Beach Plastic Surgery...........................................................................25 Palmetto Ace...................................................................................................22 The Palmettos Assisted Living & Memory Care...............................................31 Papa John’s Pizza.............................................................................................17 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art......................................................13, 27 Portside at Grande Dunes..................................................................................2 Prodigy Kitchens & Baths...............................................................................29 PruittHealth Skilled Nursing, Home Health & Hospice Care.........................35 Rose Arbor Fabrics..........................................................................................41 Rothrock Collection........................................................................................33 Rover Boat Tours.............................................................................................37 SB Turf & Mulch............................................................................................30 Shades and Draperies........................................................................................9 Shade & Shutter Expo.....................................................................................17 A Silver Shack.................................................................................................45 Stuckey Brothers Furniture..............................................................................40 Studio 77........................................................................................................41 Take 2 Resale...................................................................................................47 Thrive at Prince Creek.....................................................................................39 Treasures Jewelers............................................................................................47 Two Sisters with Southern Charm...................................................................41 Value Pest........................................................................................................22 WEZV............................................................................................................50

B URROUGHS

FUneRal HOme & CRematiOn SeRviCeS Inflation Proof Preneed & Preneed Transfers • Guaranteed Affordable Pricing Two Chapels • Onsite Crematory • Direct Cremation • Full Traditional Services Serving SC and NC

843.651.1440 • 3558 Old Kings Highway, Murrells Inlet, SC 29576 • www.burroughsfh.com

Giving the Pets You Love the Aftercare They Deserve

Pet CRematiOn SeRviCeS OF tHe GRand StRand Family owned and operated House Calls • Vet Calls • Office Calls Memorials • Keepsakes • Jewelry

843.357.8113 • www.grandstrandpetcremation.com

Window Treatments • Interior Design • Furniture • Fabrics • Wallpaper • Accessories

Better Living by Design

Coastal Luxe Interiors 67th Ave. 6613 N. Kings Highway, Myrtle Beach, SC 29572 843.946.6644 • www.coastal-luxe.com