May 2015 Priceless www.sasee.com
A mother is not a person to
lean on,
but a person to make
leaning unnecessary. – Dorothy Canfield Fisher
MURRELLS INLET 843.357.1700 MOUNT PLEASANT 843.571.2446 C H D I N T E R I O R S . C O M full ser vice interior design
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Volume 14, Issue 5
May
who’s who Publisher
2015
Delores Blount
Sales & Marketing Director Susan Bryant
Editor
Leslie Moore
Account Executives Amanda Kennedy-Colie Erica Schneider Gay Stackhouse
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24
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Art Director Taylor Nelson
Photography Director Patrick Sullivan
Graphic Artists Stephanie Holman Scott Konradt
Accounting
Stacie Sapochak
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32
36
Administrative & Creative Coordinator Celia Wester
Executive Publishers Jim Creel Bill Hennecy
Featured Photo Finish by Diane DeVaughn Stokes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 A Divine Selfie by Liz Pardue-Schultz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 The Dress by Cathy Hall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Underneath the Paint and the Tarnish by Rose Ann Sinay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 My Mother’s Clothes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 You May Be Right by Pam Hawley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Trail of Hope by Annette Gulati . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 The Blessings of Being Chosen by Sioux Roslawski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 For Every Gardener There is a Season by Susan DeBow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Sasee Kids . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 The Best I Could by Erika Hoffman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
In This Issue Read It! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Fabric and Fun: Sandy Fidura-Phillips, Fabric Décor and More . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Creative Illumination: Susan Mull, The Lamp Niche . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Compassionate Care: Trish Crowell, Myrtle Beach Estates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Exotic Design: Kalina Petrova . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 May Calendar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
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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. For subscription info, visit see page 51. 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 © 2015. 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.
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Pen & Brush readers’ comments RE: “A Gleam in the Eye and a Casserole in the Oven,” by Rose Ann Sinay I love this story – both for the wonderful romantic gesture from your husband, and because I like knowing there’s someone else out there besides me who thought her tuna casserole made her a cook for an extended period of time. True confession: I didn’t learn to make mine until my late 30s. – Pam RE: “A Motherhood I Never Saw Coming,” by Kate Callihan Kate your story is beautiful, hopeful and brought tears to my eyes. Blessings to you and your little Pace. You have years of hugs and snuggles ahead. – Linda RE: “A Member of the Club,” by Pat Wahler What a wonderful story about what families are really about – and so
beautifully told!
– Tammy
letter from the editor I’ve been a mother for 34 years, and, like most mothers, the role of mother is a large part of who I am. My oldest child, my daughter, Shawn, was born when I was very young and knew nothing about babies. Everything about her was miraculous to me – I would stare at her for hours, amazed that I had produced such a perfect little being. I do remember an older woman, a friend of the family, coming by to see my blond-haired cherub soon after she was born and giving me a stern lecture about keeping her so dressed up all the time. Shawn never complained that I covered her in lace and smocked dresses, but looking back, she probably would have been more comfortable in a tee shirt or onesie. But, I think one of the greatest satisfactions I’ve ever gotten from being a mother is seeing my daughter become a mother to her own little girls. When we talk, and I hear her worrying about Ellis’s colic (she’s six months old), or trying to come up with activities to satisfy 21 month old Quinn’s budding curiosity, my heart swells with pride at the ease with which she has stepped into the role of mother. Since Shawn lives too far away for frequent visits, Facetime has become our way of staying connected, and when I see her look of exhausted joy pop up on the screen, I feel like the circle is complete. She is a loving mother who is guiding the lives of these two amazing children with confidence. Happy Mother’s Day to my favorite mother – my daughter! And, Happy Mother’s Day to all!
RE: “In the Meantime,” by Diane Stark
Thank you for reminding me to live in the present! – Mary Ann
Cover Artist Susan DeBow
Tilly the Teapot Lady, by Susan DeBow Susan Hipkins DeBow is a Sasee writer and artist. She loves colorful paintings and writing, not to mention, colorful personalities. Susan started painting in her late fifties, adding painting to her twenty-plus year writing career. A hobby of hers is watching Law and Order reruns and then going around telling people she wants to make a “collar on the perps,” and demands a “remand.” She got hooked on Law and Order reruns after seeing Seinfeld reruns 20 times. Susan has given writing workshops and workshops for women wanting to make a change, in Arizona, Ohio, South Carolina, Indiana, and Ireland. Gone is her desire for perfection, success, being leader of the pack or right. What she likes to do is make people laugh, listen to people’s stories, laugh more and eat dessert (whether there is a meal involved or not). You can read Susan’s work and see her art, photography and miscellaneous miscellany at www.ohiowritergirl.com If you are nice, she’d like to be your friend on facebook. Go to her Facebook page, Ohio Writer Girl.
we’d love to hear from you! Love what you’re reading? You can reach us by: Have suggestions? mail: P.O. Box 1389 Murrells Inlet, SC 29576 Let us know! 6
phone: 843.626.8911 email: info@sasee.com web: www.sasee.com
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Single in Myrtle Beach? Michelle is an attractive, 40-something professional woman. Recently divorced, she’s decided it’s time to meet new people. Excited for a night on the town, early Saturday night Michelle calls up a few of her girlfriends to make plans. The first call is Jill, married with two kids. “Sorry, Michelle,” she says, “I am just so exhausted from work this week! Thanks, but I’m settling in for a quiet night with the husband.” Undeterred, Michelle makes a second call to her old college friend, Anna. Anna says she would go out but these days she is caring for her elderly mother and cannot afford the expense of an adult sitter. Okay, Michelle thinks, one more try – Sarah! Sarah is sure to be up for it because she is also divorced and her children are teenagers. But once again, “I’d love to, but both girls are home tonight and I haven’t spent much time with them.”
It occurs to Michelle just how much things have changed in the dating scene. Her friends have moved on and going out just isn’t the same as it was in her 20s. She pours herself a glass of wine and wonders she’ll ever meet someone.
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There’s another reason why people from around the world flock to Charleston.
America’s top travel magazine once again named Charleston as the best city in the nation. Year after year, foodies come to relish Lowcountry cuisine. History buffs savor the quaint streets with their magnificent mansions and somber monuments to our patriots. Families play on sun-drenched sand and ogle ancient oaks covered with Spanish moss. What many people don’t realize is that people are also drawn to the Holy City to get the best health care in America. At the Medical University of South Carolina, they find a National Cancer Institutedesignated cancer program, the MUSC Health Heart & Vascular Center, one of the country’s leading children’s hospitals and innovations in science that take place just feet from where they are delivered by some of the world’s best doctors. Perhaps the only thing better than visiting Charleston is living here.
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Changing What’s Possible
Read It! Nicole Says…Read Waggin’ Tales: Bogey’s Memoir, by Maureen O’Brien by Nicole McManus 10
Bogey was unwanted, told repeatedly he was too dumb to love. Thankfully his original set of humans left him at the Grand Strand Humane Society, where he remained focused on staying positive. Soon, his forever parents found him, adopted him and opened his eyes to a world full of love. Using Bogey’s voice, Maureen O’Brien shares the adorable memories of Bogey’s life in an uplifting and heartwarming tale of how Bogey’s adoption gave him a family that finally showed him the love he truly deserved. Readers will follow Bogey from the glorious day of his adoption and throughout his life, including events that occurred in heaven. The author turns a sensitive and always difficult topic into a positive experience. Overall, animal lovers will smile many times as they fall in love with Bogey’s story.
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The short, easy to read chapters make this a great book for the entire family. This book is filled with precious pictures of important moments from Bogey’s life, including all the good that he did while helping children and senior citizens as a therapy dog. There are also several inspirational quotes about dogs and the relationships they have with their families. An important thing to note is that a portion of the book’s proceeds go to the Grand Strand Humane Society in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, to help other pups find their forever homes. It is no surprise that I am a dog person. I have been blessed to live with dogs for most of my life. Now, two adorable, rescued Italian Greyhounds reside in my home and they filled my heart with love and affection from the moment I first met them. I love Maureen O’Brien’s choice of using Bogey’s voice throughout this sweet, innocent and inspiring book. While some chapters are difficult to read, O’Brien manages to remains positive and true to the story.
Nicole McManus Nicole McManus 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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Voice
Photo Finish
by Diane DeVaughn Stokes
She was my godmother, my mother’s only sibling, four years older than my mom, but very different. She was my precious Aunt Jean: Barbiedoll body, impeccable clothes, expensive taste, lots of make-up and false eyelashes, but classy in every way. She was like another mother to me, as she and her daughter, Elaine, came to live with my grandparents, my mom and me when I was four years old following a bad marriage filled with abuse. We were six people living in a two-bedroom apartment with one bathroom, but our home was filled with love. Thank goodness Aunt Jean’s life got better years later when she remarried, but it isn’t her life that I want to tell you about, it’s her death. Sadly, we lost her to pulmonary disease and dementia in her mid-eighties, and Elaine asked me to do part of her eulogy detailing Aunt Jean’s younger years and career path prior to her retirement. I prepared a speech about her schooling, first marriage, second marriage, her secretarial jobs, how fast she was on a typewriter, how she mastered shorthand, and how she dressed me up to look sixteen when I was twelve so that I could get into the hospital to see my mom after my baby sister was born. There were other precious moments in her life that I shared with the funeral attendees so that they would better know Aunt Jean. But, one of the greatest things I did, prior to flying to California for the memorial, was gather a bunch of old photos and take them to Kinko’s to put together a memory board of Aunt Jean through the ages. I cried as I took each one out of my photo book to include in the collage, praying that I would not be so weepy once I got to Kinko’s, as I knew I had never done this before and would need assistance from their staff. Upon entering the store, a nice male employee offered to show me how the equipment worked. He stood by and watched as I tried to follow his directions, placing the first photo into the machine, sizing it, colorizing it and hoping I did it right. Then, as the photo dropped into the out-box, wrinkle free and vibrant with color, as if it was taken yesterday, I took one look at Aunt Jean looking all fresh and brand new, and the tears just flowed. Well, about thirty minutes later, I finished the printing process, and just as I was stuffing the photos into a big envelope, two lovely women my age showed
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up with a basket of pictures. I wondered if they were there to honor a graduate, a couple getting married or someone celebrating a milestone birthday, you know, the happy times. Then I saw them crying, and I knew. Just like me, they, too, had lost a loved one. It did not matter that I’d never seen them before or knew nothing about them. The one thing I did know, most important of all, was that fate brought us together in our moment of grief. There I stood, hugging strangers, two sisters who had just lost their mom, sharing their tears. Then, as if I were some kind of an expert, I offered to help print their photos for their own memory collage knowing how painful yet cathartic the process is. With each entry, they told me about their wonderful mom and what she meant to them. One hour and lots of hugs later, drained from the emotions of this afternoon, I could not go back to work. Instead I went home, plopped down on my couch in the sunroom, cried some more and took a nap. This was one “Photo Finish” that finished me off!
Diane DeVaughn Stokes Diane is the Host and Producer for “Diane At Six” on EASY Radio and “Inside Out” on HTC channel 4. She and her husband own Stages Video Productions in Myrtle Beach. Diane is also the author of Floating on Air – A Broadcasting Love Affair, found on Amazon.com.
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Voice
A Divine Selfie by Liz Pardue-Schultz
“It’s PERFECT! You’re BEAUTIFUL! We got it on the first try!” my 7-year-old daughter excitedly proclaimed as she looked at the new image in my camera’s screen. She had just watched me contort myself into a photoworthy position, hold it, and smile convincingly before she took my picture for a monthly yoga selfie challenge I was doing online. She ran over to where I was unfurling from the pose and proudly showed off her work. “See, Mommy?! It’s GREAT!” She rendered me speechless. Since I was about 11 or 12, my very first reaction to seeing a picture of myself has been to immediately pick it apart and point out everything that is wrong with it to anyone within earshot. I’d barely gotten the camera from my daughter’s grasp, and already I was prepared to launch into a litany of things that disgusted me with the photo. I just sensed that it was going to be a disappointment; they always seem to be in my mind. But the look of pride and admiration on her face stopped me dead in my tracks. What would I be teaching her if she heard me tear myself down right now? I thought. She’s proud of me. Who am I to try to convince her that she’s wrong?…And why am I so convinced that she is? Just asking myself this struck something deep inside me. I had to stop myself from gasping aloud. I’ve spent decades looking at my reflection, picking out all the tiny things that make me “imperfect,” then turning around and trying to get others to see all those things in photos of myself when they were taken. I’d always make sure to point out that my nose is “massive,” or that my arms “resemble turkey legs,” or my eyebrow-grooming choices are chronically awful. Even when seeing myself in videos, I’d diagnose myself as being “too big,” or my voice being “too deep”… “Too deep” for what? “Too big” for whom? Why couldn’t I just look at myself and say, “Yup. That’s what I look like. I’m perfect and deserve to be loved just like that.” Why was I so intent on convincing other people that I wasn’t worthy of compliments or admiration? Why was arguing with someone about how I looked so important that I did it as a natural reaction? And how in the world has this behavior been helping me at all? Why in the world am I wasting so much time and energy fighting against myself?
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There is a beautiful quote from the 1994 movie The Crow in which the protagonist says “‘Mother’ is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.” As terrifying a prospect as this is to any parent, it rings true as we all take into account how profoundly our own parents influenced us, both negatively and positively. I’ve always known my daughter thinks I’m wonderful, and whether or not we agree that I’m flawless, she will carry many of my behaviors with her as her own. (I am reminded of this every time I hear my own mother come out of my mouth.) There aren’t many opportunities in which I’m able to pause and clearly decide which of my negative attributes she witnesses, but in this moment, I decided that self-hatred is not a bad habit she will learn from me. I looked down at the photo with new eyes. There I was, standing in Tree Pose, one leg tucked under my hip, while my arms reached up toward the sun. My posture wasn’t ideal, but I was holding the pose with strength and a smile that showed sincere joy in that moment. It was beautiful. It was perfect. I looked up at where my little girl stood, still smiling broadly, and pulled her in for the sort of embrace I reserve for someone who has just rescued me from peril. “You’re right, Bear,” I said softly. “We Liz Pardue-Schultz proudly lives in North Carolina, got it on the writes about herself, wails classic rock hits at karaoke bars, first try.” and seeks out roadside oddities every chance she gets.
Liz Pardue-Schultz
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Awaken the Dancer Within You! Come Join Us!
Register Now for our Summer Camps & Summer Programs for all Ages, Levels & Styles! Competition Company Auditions May 16th at LDAA - Ages 5 & Up! Come celebrate our 20th Annual Recital May 31st at 12 pm, 2 pm, and 4 pm at Waccamaw High School!
Photography by Wayne’s View Photography Mallory Bindner, Litchfield Dance Company Senior Member
email ldaaoffice@gmail.com or visit www.litchfielddance.com
Litchfield Dance Arts Academy Ilka Doubek, Director 97 Otis Drive, Pawleys Island, SC 843.237.7465
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Some jewelry displayed patented (US Pat. No. 7,007,507) • © 2015 Pandora Jewelry, LLC • All rights reserved • PANDORA.NET
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Profiles
“I have always loved fabric and interior design.”
Fabric and Fun
Sandy Fidura-Phillips: Fabric Décor and More
Tell us a little about yourself. I was born in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. My family vacationed in Myrtle Beach for over 20 years, and in 2004 we decided to move here permanently. I am a widow with two boys, Aaron is 25 and Brett is 22.
I am passionate about animal rescue and have several rescued pets! My partners in Fabric Décor and More, Bob and Linda Sheahan, are also animal lovers. We actually started this business with the idea of financing an animal rescue, and are starting to look for property now. The shelter will be called Laura’s Sanctuary, after my dog Laura who was rescued in 2013. Tell us a little about your mother. My wonderful mom always loved and encouraged me in whatever I wanted to do – whether it was cooking with her or working in my dad’s workshop. She stayed at home and my grandparents lived with us. I was an only child and it was like having two sets of parents! Because of my mother and grandmother, I am a positive person with empathy and compassion for others. Growing up, what was your favorite dish prepared by your mother or grandmother? I loved all the wonderful food my mother and grandmother cooked – we are of Polish ancestry, and my favorite traditional Polish foods are pierogies and stuffed cabbage. My mother was also an amazing cookie baker, and I now make the same ones she did.
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My boys love the traditional Polish dishes I prepare. We keep up the family traditions – our families are so important, we only have them for a short time. On Mother’s Day, the boys will cook for me!
Have you always loved fabric and accessories? How does an accessory change a room? I have always loved fabric and interior design. I learned to sew as a very young child when my mother or grandmother would push the treadle as I sewed because my feet wouldn’t reach. I made my first pair of custom drapes at 17. A friend of my mother’s had a custom drapery workroom, and one day I was there and saw a pair of silk drapes cut out and ready to sew, so I sat down and finished them. Fabric Décor and More is a fun place! Our staff understands how easy it is to become overwhelmed when choosing décor, and we are here to help. We will do whatever it takes for you to be happy with your choices. What you add to your space makes it personal. There may be a lot of beige sofas around, but your accessories complete the look and finish your first impression of the room. We always enjoy having people stop by just to say hello and look around! Our store is beautiful and a great place to browse. Fabric Décor and More is located at 6613 North Kings Highway in Myrtle Beach. Stop by and see Sandy or call 843-946-6644. Visit her online at www.fabricdecorandmore.com.
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Voice
The Dress by Cathy Hall
If there was one trait my mom couldn’t stand, it was self-pity. There might as well have been a huge sign in our house with WHINING in a circle and a bold, black line through the word. We were to be thankful for what we had, and no feeling sorry for ourselves for the troubles that inevitably came along. But that didn’t mean that Mom ignored the aches and pains of her children’s growing years. She wasn’t one to comfort and coddle, but she had her ways of making things better. Like the time a classmate of mine planned a very special birthday party. The birthday girl would be carting a dozen girls to a theme park for a weekend excursion, and as you can imagine, the excitement was a lot to handle in a seventh grade classroom. Eventually, one of the invited girls spilled the beans at school. That’s when I found out that I was NOT invited – but that every other girl in my group of friends was on the list. The birthday girl had the good grace to be embarrassed. She even had an excuse ready for me: She could only take 12 girls, and I was, unfortunately, unlucky number 13. Home from school, I sat on a high stool in the kitchen, telling my mother the whole sob story. I choked back my own sobs throughout the story, upset that I’d been left out of the fun. All of those girls would have the time of their life while I…I’d be stuck at home. But it wasn’t the prospect of being stuck at home that had me in tears. I was crushed to realize that I’d been excluded, that my friends were not the good friends I’d thought they were. Is there anything more devastating to a thirteen-year-old girl than rejection? I was deep into feeling sorry for myself. Mom was quick to explain that she wouldn’t have let me go, even if I’d been invited. It was way overboard for a birthday, in her opinion. Be thankful you weren’t asked, she said, because then you’d have had to say no…and on and on and on. Typical for Mom. But finally, at the end of it all, she conceded that the “non-invite” had been a thoughtless thing to do, which was about as far as Mom would go in validating my pity-party. And then my mother said something totally out of character: “Why don’t we go to Belk and see if we can find a dress for you? I think they’re having a sale, and you need something for the fall.” Shopping? For a dress? That was HUGE in my house. I wore a uniform to school all week, so the only time I wore a dress was for church. And like most girls in those days, I had an Easter dress, a Christmas dress, an all-weather dress and maybe a skirt. To have an extra dress in the
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rotation…well, that was the height of extravagance. But I wasn’t going to argue with Mom or ask any questions. I hopped off that stool and washed my face. I still remember that shopping expedition. I remember Mom walking around the department store with me, cheery and chatty, patient for once as I combed through the racks. Mom even allowed me to try on dresses that we knew were out of her “budget.” It was just an hour or two in a store, but somehow, she knew it was exactly what I needed. We didn’t talk a lot about self-image back in those days, but that doesn’t mean that parents didn’t understand the concept. My mom wanted me to feel good about myself again. She wanted me to understand that yes, people will sometimes hurt you – that often, people can be thoughtless and insensitive without even realizing it – but I was loved even so. And I was a great kid, with value and worth, despite being left out from my group of friends this time. Of course, Mom didn’t say all that. She just spent an afternoon shopping with me until we found a dress. I flat wore out that dress, I loved it so much. And I’m sure I thanked my mother. After all, if there’s one thing my mother was adamant about, it was being thankful for what you’d been given; even it was a dress from the end-of-the-season sale rack. But now that I think about it, all these years later, I realize that Mom gave a hurting Cathy C. Hall is an award-winning writer whose 13-year-old girl so much stories and essays have been published in places more that day. And she can’t even pronounce. But mostly, you’ll find honestly, I didn’t thank her writing in Georgia (and she pronounces that Mom nearly enough. “home”). Find out more at c-c-hall.com.
Cathy C. Hall
www.cabanagauze.com
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Voice
Underneath the Paint and the Tarnish by Rose Ann Sinay
My parents were collectors. They went to auctions, flea markets, garage sales and church fairs and never came home empty handed. They knew about storage auctions decades before the TV show Storage Wars made bidding on abandoned lots an exciting, cut-throat pastime. I rarely went on these expeditions with them. Their enjoyment of these adventures was a mystery to me. Why would you want something old and used when you could go to the store and buy it brand spanking new? My mom exclaimed with delight over boxes containing carnival glass vases, and pictures of birds and flowers in cracked, wooden frames. Porcelain figurines, silverware (black with tarnish), rickety antique desks and an assortment of odd chairs in need of re-caning, refinishing, repairing (or all the above) populated our house. Old books lined our walls – some library discards, some inscribed with sentimental messages and dated to preserve a special moment. When I dismissed all of the items as old, musty and broken, my mother corrected me, saying the items had passed the test of time, and that they didn’t make things the way they used to. Personally, I thought buying new was far superior to paying good money for those boxes of junk. I often shook my head and dreamed of the day I would furnish my own home in pristine, modern furniture. Mom kept busy transforming the chest full of blackened spoons into tiny, polished mirrors. She learned how to weave reed into the seat-less chairs. She stripped and oiled an old rocker and was pleased that it continued to look aged and original. I would have painted it a glossy black and set a chrome and glass table next to it. Years later, when my husband and I were first married, our apartment was filled with some of those refurbished hand me downs. My vision of Home Beautiful was reduced to using cinder blocks (painted black) and wood boards for a shelving, with yard sale items filling the spaces between our “heirlooms.” Eventually, as we could afford it, the yard sale items were replaced with show room furniture purchased at local stores. I was happy with our new decor, but I couldn’t make myself get rid of those old pieces. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, our second hand possessions were more than just chairs and tables. They were a part of me and a part of my family. Every time I looked at the lamp table and the vintage head board, I remembered the time and effort put into removing the thick layers of paint to reveal a natural, wood grain beauty. I recall the smell of paint remover, the ever growing pile of sandpaper squares, and my mother’s abraded fingertips. We stored the furniture and took it with us wherever we moved. Children, cats, dogs and many years raced by. Our new furniture no longer looked new – it didn’t look old – it just didn’t have that special patina of time that my parents’ recycled antiques possessed. Piece by piece, our
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“modern” furnishings were handed down to our children to use in their first apartments. Later, the scratched and dented items ended up on the sidewalks of the city to be snatched up by strangers. Now in our retirement, we are fortunate enough to have a second house – a home away from home in the country with five acres and all the hunting and fishing my husband can pack into our monthly visits. The house needs some updates and our personal touch to make it truly ours. We decided to furnish it slowly, only buying pieces that truly speak to us. We frequent estate sales, antique shops and consignment stores. We find old stuff that could never be found at Ethan Allen or Rooms To Go. These treasures come with tiny cracks, signs of wear and a loose hinge or two. On one of our treasure hunts, a 1920s spinet desk, with a hairline crack running down the length of its leg, whispered in my ear that it would provide the perfect workspace to finish the book I’ve been working on (forever). I’ve discovered all its little cubbies and hidden drawers, and I can imagine all the delicious secrets that they hold. My most recent purchase, a coffee table in the shape of a book, has a leather bound top with gold leaf stenciling along the edge and spine. It sits atop a pair of thick, carved legs crossed in an X. It was love at first sight. The owner of the antique shop told us the table had belonged to the grandfather of an 85 year old gentleman. My heart raced a bit as I tried to “guesstimate” an age. They must have been writers, I think; obsessive readers at the very least. I am always on the lookout for special pieces to artfully grace the top of my table, and I was thrilled when I found a 1903 Underwood No. 5 typewriter in a consignment shop not five miles from our Shangri-La. I carefully placed it on my “book” table, repositioning it over and over again until it looked just right. It took considerable restraint not to insert a piece of paper under the old, rubber roller and type a first line. But for now, I’ll just sit in my old chair (the woven seat has held fast for all these years) and appreciate my surroundings. Everywhere I look I see a story – a life polished and renewed. I finally understand what my mother saw as she gazed into the reflective bowls of her shiny spoons, and I am content. My home has a soul; in fact, it has many souls gathered together in one place to celebrate the passage of time. Rose Ann Sinay is a freelance writer typing away in sunny North Carolina. Her articles/stories have been published in The Carolinas Today, The Oddville Press and The Brunswick Beacon.
Rose Ann Sinay
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Profiles
Creative Illumination Tell us about yourself. I was born in Rome, Georgia, where I grew up. Two of my lifetime dreams were to live at the beach and have a career as an interior designer. Both came true in 1984 when I moved to Litchfield Beach and went to work as an interior designer for the next 31 years. Along the way, my hobby of designing jewelry became a successful business called Kaleidoscope, which was manufactured in Murrells Inlet and sold in retail stores throughout the southeast. My significant other and I still love the beach life and share it with our two precious dogs, Abby and Scubee, who come to work with us at The Lamp Niche every day! Tell us a little about your mother. My mother always worked alongside my dad in his grocery store business. She supported my artistic side by accompanying me to ceramic classes, allowing my creativity to blossom. From a very young age, I wanted to be an interior designer and would move our furniture all over the house, and my mother not only tolerated this, she encouraged me. My father guided my entrepreneurial side and, at age ten, allowed me to set up my snow cone business in front of his grocery store! Growing up, what was your favorite dish prepared by your mother? Have you been able to recreate it? My mother was a true southern cook, and I loved her fried okra, creamed corn, squash caserole and candied yams. I only make these dishes occasionally – I’m trying to eat healthier these days! [laughing]
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“We now offer over 300 table and floor lamps…”
Susan Mull The Lamp Niche Have you always loved lamps and accessories? In 2012, I purchased The Lamp Niche, which was founded in 1991. We now offer over 300 table and floor lamps, including coastal, traditional, vintage, modern and transitional. Many of our lamps are one of a kind and custom designed. One of our specialties is helping our customers design their own unique lamps. Bring in your favorite lamps and choose from our stock of over 1500 shades – we have every style, size and color. To make your lamp complete, a new finial or “lamp jewelry” is a must! With our collection of over 400 finials, we are sure to have the perfect one for your lamp. A new lamp can pull together a room by accenting certain areas, such as a piece of art, a sentimental furniture piece or it can draw attention to an entire section of your room. Often, we can work with your existing lamps by updating them with a different shade and a new finial to complete the look. Choosing the right lamp can put the finishing touch on the decorating scheme that you are trying to achieve. Please come by and have some fun with our creative, knowledgeable and courteous staff, who are happy to assist you in choosing the right pieces to complete your home’s décor, whether you are updating or moving into a new house. We are currently planning to expand with another store in either Pawleys Island or Market Common. We look forward to seeing you! The Lamp Niche is located at 12049 US Highway 17 Bypass South in Murrells Inlet. Stop by and visit Susan Monday through Saturday, from 10 am-5 pm, call 843-651-9532 or visit www.thelampniche.com.
Vintage & Shabby Chic Home DĂŠcor
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When we look back at photos of our mothers and grandmothers when we were children, or even before we were born, the clothes they wore seem to be a part of their personality, a part of what made them special to us. To celebrate Mother’s Day, the Sasee staff shared favorite photos of their mothers and grandmothers, along with a few words to honor them.
My mama was my best friend, and I miss her dearly. Her minister said that for a profile to work the subject had to be unique enough to be interesting and familiar enough to be fitting – and my mother, Ann, was both. She had a subtle, charming and ladylike flair, but still loved to fish and play pinball – just the right mix of rebelliousness and class. It took her hours to dress and put on her makeup because she wanted to please Daddy by looking her best at all times, sometimes changing her outfit several times until she felt she looked just right. She never left home without asking, “Is my lipstick on straight?” This was a family joke, but she never missed a beat and asked us every single day. Mama loved to go shopping and would sometimes say she was “just looking,” but never failed to come home with something. Her classic, elegant style was always fashionable. Gay Stackhouse, Account Executive
The year was 1954 and my mother (sitting far left) was 24 with four children, looking as beautiful as ever at a family picnic. Her mother (in the middle of the photo) loved to buy us matching dresses. I’ve never forgotten the dress I wore in this photo – it was a soft blue with rhinestones on the bodice, and one of my favorites. I loved watching my mother get dressed for special occasions and still have the shoes she wore that day to the picnic. Celia Wester, Administrative & Creative Coordinator
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My tall, long legged mother was always a beauty. In this photo from the 1940s, I think, she is a young teenager and dressed to the nines for a special Sunday event at church. When my mother became ill, there were many days that she did not feel like putting on makeup, but a tube of lipstick was always close by, and the first thing she grabbed if someone stopped by. I still have that last tube of cheerful pink lipstick. I keep it in my makeup basket to remind me that taking pride in one’s appearance is just another form of self respect. Leslie Moore, Editor
My Grandma Carol has been married to my grandpa for 60 years and is a mother of three, a grandmother of five and a great-grandmother of seven. This photo is from the 1950s when my grandpa was in the Navy. Grandma likes to always look her best. Her shoes match her outfit and her hair is always carefully styled. She and my grandpa come and visit me often and one of her favorite things is to go shopping for bargains! She’ll shop the sales all day.
This photo is my mom with my older brother and sister. I really don’t remember much about how Mom dressed while I was growing up – I couldn’t tell you what she wears now! She’s just my mom. I love how we don’t have to say out loud that I’m her favorite child (but I am). Happy Mother’s Day Mom! I Love You! Patrick Sullivan, Photography Director
My mom, Rosemary, is the most beautiful person I know! (I’m sure she’s thrilled that I decided to use this high school photo from 1980!) Mom stayed at home with three children and didn’t have a lot of time for dressing up. She has always been very active and her style is trendy and cool. She does love jewelry and has tons of bracelets and necklaces that she pairs with her simple jeans and cute tops. Her favorite shoes are Toms and flip-flops. She’s so pretty she doesn’t need much – people always think she’s my sister! Erica Schneider, Account Executive
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This photo of my paternal grandmother, looking like a silent film star in her incredible outfit, was taken not long after the turn of the 20th century. I never knew her; she died when my father was a child, but this photo is one of my favorites. My mother, Jackie, was always an athletic tomboy who never cared much for dressing up. This photo of her sitting in a tree really shows her personality. She grew up in Conway and met my father when they were both counselors at a summer camp in the mountains of North Carolina. Their claim to fame was that they were the first couple to meet and marry at this camp! Jackie was an avid golfer and won many trophies. As a teenager, I would caddy for her. After my father died, Jackie began writing and did a weekly column in the Sun News for years. She worried about getting dementia in her old age, but passed suddenly while sitting on the porch of her beloved creek house in Murrells Inlet and was sharp as a tack until the end. I’ll always miss her. Taylor Nelson, Art Director
In the 1940s, these beauties were enjoying the beach in style. This photo of my mother-in-law, Sue Blount, and two of her high school friends, was taken in Myrtle Beach. Sue was a stay-at-home mom and never worked. By the time Jerry and I were married, she was in poor health, but Jerry remembers his parents as fun loving people with lots of friends. Back then, things were quite different – Jerry’s mom drove all the time, but never bothered to get a driver’s license! Delores Blount, Publisher
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I see so much of Mama in both myself and Delores. She loved to dress up and always had on her signature red lipstick. She wore very little makeup, none to speak of except red lipstick. It takes a real beauty to pull off red lips, and Mama surely did that well. We always loved buying her clothes for every holiday and special occasion. Over the years, Mama would get so excited for a special dress or suit to wear to church, and I remember how everyone would always compliment her clothes. Even in her last years in the nursing home, Delores and I would want her dressed as nicely as possible because we knew it made her feel good and happy. And, most days when we arrived she had on her pretty lipstick. This will be our first Mother’s Day without her here, and even though I know she is happy and reunited with Daddy, I would give anything to just to sit with her one more time; to hear her laugh or to hear one of her quickwitted responses. We miss you Mama! Happy Mother’s Day! Love, Susan and Delores Susan Bryant, Sales & Marketing Director Delores Blount, Publisher
Mother & Child “A celebration of Love” necklace Handcrafted by John Medeiros
The Blue Heron Gallery 1780-10A Chandlers Ln, Sunset Beach, NC
910-575-5088
www.blueherongallery-nc.com
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Profiles “Myrtle Beach Estates is very dear to my heart.”
Compassionate Care
Trish Crowell: Myrtle Beach Estates
Tell us a little about yourself. I am originally from a small town in North Carolina, called Wadesboro, and moved to Myrtle Beach in December of 2007 to fulfill a lifelong dream of living on the coast. My oldest daughter, Cathy, is an ultrasonographer with Waccamaw Community Hospital, and lives in Pawleys Island with her husband Ryan and daughter Savannah. My youngest daughter, Dede, is a pediatric nurse and lives in Raleigh with her husband Matt. I have worked in the healthcare industry for more than 35 years, and this is my passion. Assisted Living is a very rewarding career because you can make such a difference in someone’s life on a daily basis. My hobbies are decorating, consignment shopping and gardening. Searching for treasures that just “catch” your eye, or maybe fit in that little nook in your home is fun. Gardening gives you a sense of accomplishment with beautiful blooms and smells, and watching the butterflies. Tell us a little about your mother and grandmother. My mom was a very hard working mother of four. She and my father were in the furniture business for years, and in all the years of their working together, I never heard them say a cross word to one another. I would say that the best quality she instilled in me was having a good work ethic with honesty and integrity.
My grandmother was one of the best cooks around, and always cooked everything from scratch. She had her own garden, and prepared the best vegetable soup I have ever tasted. Mom could almost duplicate it – mine is good, but nothing like my grandmother’s. She kept the neatest, clean house, and I never saw it any other way, all while raising five children on her own after her husband passed when my mom was 12 years old.
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Growing up, what was your favorite dish prepared by your mother? Have you been able to recreate it? My mother was an excellent cook because she was taught by the best! My favorites were her homemade biscuits. When I was small, I watched her make them and always had to have a “baby” biscuit just for me. Tell us a little about Myrtle Beach Estates. Why are so many people selecting your facility to care for their parents? Myrtle Beach Estates is very dear to my heart. We have wonderful residents, staff and family members as well. We are a big family and share in each other’s joys and sorrows. Two of our lovely residents agreed to be in this photo with me – Shirley Tremon and Pearl Hammett. Our staff is about love and compassion, always friendly and welcoming, which shows in our quality of care. I think this is why folks choose us, because we truly care. In addition to our assisted living building, we have a stand-alone memory unit which is structured to provide excellent care to folks with varying types of dementia. We have ongoing training for our staff in dealing with the different stages of dementia, as well as learning techniques to enhance their daily living. Several of our staff have been in that unit since we opened, which tells you a lot about their dedication and passion. I am happy to be a part of this wonderful community, which is a part of Capital Senior Living, one of the fastest growing senior providers in the United States. Contact Trish by calling Myrtle Beach Estates at 843-293-8888, or visit www.capitalsenior.com.
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Voice
You May Be Right by Pam Hawley
Mom introduced me to imagination by reading to me. Once I had learned to read myself we sat side-by-side, a Stephen King paperback on her lap and a Laura Ingalls Wilder tale in mine. I’d pretend to be Laura, until the TV caught my eye, and I wanted to be Marianne from Gilligan’s Island instead. She helped me turn our living room into a prairie cabin or tropical island. The importance of imagination was probably the only advice she gave me that I took without question, for she had also handed down a need to march to the beat of my own drummer. She wanted me to be a teacher when I grew up. Instead, I dabbled in social work, psychology and political science before finally settling on English and journalism. I never did become a teacher, but I have devoted my life to working at universities because I love being surrounded by learning. She must have been on to something. As I neared my mid-thirties, I grew frustrated. I had a decent job, a loving partner, hobbies that sparked my passion and a wonderful circle of friends. But in spite of my blessings, I saw my life as tedious. I wanted to be a novelist. I wanted adventure. I wanted acclaim. Without them, I struggled to see all the little miracles in front of my face. She had her daughters and granddaughter, her gardening and her books, my father and her dogs. She, too, had a good life, although not exactly the one she had envisioned. She had wanted to go medical school and become a brain surgeon, but I came along, and she chose stay-at-home motherhood instead. Unlike me, she appreciated her life instead of constantly wishing for something more. “Learn to be ordinary in an extraordinary world,” she often said over a glass of her much-loved wine. “But I don’t WANT to be ordinary,” I whined. In my late thirties and early forties, I went through a phase of high anxiety. Car problems or setbacks at work would send me into a tailspin of exhaustion and self-pity. Why couldn’t I seem to get ahead? She had faced life’s setbacks for twenty years longer than I had, and would simply tell me not to sweat the small stuff. “Not having transportation until the truck is out of the shop is hardly small,” I’d groan. “You have a job to worry about getting to,” she’d reply. “There are many people who would love to say the same. Now let’s go have a drink.” We “had a drink” once a week in the little pub that she and Dad owned. She was my mother, my best friend and my happy hour buddy. Our nights out helped me put all that ordinariness and small stuff in perspective – at least for a little while. Then those nights started taking a strange turn. We often played the jukebox, and she loved Billy Joel, especially “You May Be Right.” You may be right, I may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for. It seemed an odd choice, a song written more for Dad, me or my sister than her. We were the crazy ones.
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She was the glue that held us all together. “Promise me you’ll play this song at my funeral,” she said one night. I was surprised, but agreed. It was a promise for many, many years from now, when I was gray-haired and retired and she was a wizened little lady in her eighties. She began reminding me of that promise often, swearing she’d haunt me if I forgot. Once, I said the day I would honor that promise was so far off that surely we didn’t need to talk about it every week. She said she thought it would be sooner than I realized. I chalked that up to rough times and a few drinks. I was still struggling with her advice on appreciating our extraordinary world and wasn’t about to believe she would leave it anytime soon. But here we are. That promise I was to keep when I had gone completely grey? I honored it almost a year ago, after her brief but painful struggle with cancer. I had a lot more grey that day than I ever thought I would at 43. But it wasn’t nearly what I’m sure the much-older version of me who was supposed to queue that song up for a crowded room full of friends and family would have had. Some days I can’t believe she was right about how soon I’d play that song. But all the other things she told me? I understand them more now. After those cruel, fleeting months of being both powerless to ease her pain and empowered to make the most of the good days we still had, I am no longer capable of sweating the small stuff. I finished the novel I was writing in her final years, but haven’t yet found the strength for the adventure of pushing it out into the world. Instead of despairing over that, I marvel at every little thing that reminds me of her. Sipping coffee on her porch with my aunt, who was also Mom’s sister and closest friend, I see a hummingbird flit incredibly close to us. I start reading a new book on Friday night and can’t put down until I’m bleary-eyed Saturday morning. I have a day at work where I cross more to-do items off my list than I receive. I love these moments with a new-found intensity, and they will be here whether my book becomes a best seller or never leaves the laptop where it sits. That doesn’t mean I won’t try. It just means I appreciate the journey in the meantime. She may be right. Being ordinary in an extraordinary world is pretty nice.
Pam Hawley Pam Hawley is a humor, essay and short fiction writer from Baltimore, Maryland. Her work has appeared in eFiction Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Here Comes the Bride,” and Sasee. She also blogs at http://likeadogblog.wordpress.com.
Brunswick County 2015 Winner
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Bloomingail’s Consignment Boutique
Happy Mother’s Day! Bring your mom for a fun time! Call for details.
www.paintwithapassion.com 843-353-1711
Carolina Forest 121-A Gateway Road Myrtle Beach, SC 29579
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Exotic Design
Kalina Petrova
Profiles
Why did you choose to immigrate to the United States? Why Myrtle Beach? This is the country with best opportunities! I know sometimes it’s hard for people from here to understand, but the United States is wide open for those who are willing to work. I had a friend who worked in a spa in Myrtle Beach, so when I received my green card, I asked her if I could work there, as I had been trained in massage therapy. Soon, I moved my massage therapy practice to Fitness Edge, in Carolina Forest and Murrells Inlet, while I attended night school for interior design at Horry Georgetown Technical College. I felt very challenged when first came here – I had to start from zero and prove myself. Now, after being here ten years, I’m happy and content with my life. I do what I love to do – work with my partner and fiancé Ryan Smith. He owns an upholstery company, and I have a window treatment workroom.
“I had to start from zero and prove myself.” Tell us a little about yourself. I am from Bulgaria, a small, beautiful and green country located in the peninsula of Southeastern Europe, neighboring Greece and Turkey. I was born in Lovech, a very old and historic town. At 18, I moved to Sophia to continue my education. I’ve always loved sports and grew up loving tennis, swimming and skiing. As a young girl, I was a table tennis champion and played throughout Eastern Europe. After high school, I attended our National Sport Academy where I studied physical education and sports journalism, and I also am trained as a professional table tennis coach. My other passion is arts and design, and I earned an additional degree from a fashion and design school. Even with advanced degrees, wages can be very low in Bulgaria, so I applied to work with a fashion designer in Milan, Italy, and was accepted. Just as I was settling in, I got the opportunity to come to the United States. I won a green card in a worldwide lottery. I consider myself very lucky because the United States only issues a very limited number of green cards annually, and only 3,500 of those go to Bulgaria.
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Working together is challenging at times, but we are very dedicated to our customers and business. As an artist I enjoy drawing and designing unique pieces of custom furniture for Ryan’s shop as well crafting window treatments. We both love doing residential and commercial design; one of our latest large projects was Waccamaw Hospital. Tell us a little about your mother. My mother died of breast cancer when I was 14, but I remember her as a very fashionable lady. I got my love of fabric and style from her. Style and fashion is very important in Europe. It’s common to buy fabric and take it to a seamstress to make custom clothing. My mom used to do that all the time, and I remember going with her to fabric stores with gorgeous French, Italian, and Asian fabrics. Growing up, what was your favorite dish prepared by your mother or grandmother? Can you recreate it? My mother made a delicious dessert with fresh yogurt and strawberries. We strain all of the water out of the yogurt, mix it with honey and strawberries, then add mint leaves and chocolate. I still make this today for my friends. I love cooking! Both of my grandmothers were professional chefs and made unbelievable dishes, including my favorites – stuffed cabbage leaves and peppers. These are traditionally stuffed with meat, but now I am a vegetarian, so I substitute a stuffing using beans or rice. It’s very tasty. Is Mother’s Day celebrated in Bulgaria? We celebrate International Woman’s Day on March 8th, a holiday that celebrates all women. Everyone gets dressed up to go out, and women receive gifts from their husbands, boyfriends or fathers. While I was in college, I worked as a waitress, and on this day we would give every woman a rose with her check. People from home still call to greet me on that special day, and ask me where am I going, and what am I wearing on March 8th. I laugh and tell them it is not celebrated in the United States. Contact Kalina at RK Consignments and Interiors at 843-503-3234 or email her at Kalina_VP@yahoo.com.
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Voice
Trail of Hope by Annette Gulati
My future glistened in the distance like a desert mirage. After twenty two years raising three children, I was about to be introduced to an unfamiliar concept: the empty nest. Apparently, this was now my time; my time to dive into new experiences, develop new hobbies and explore the world. It was time to reconnect with my husband and give my writing career a fresh jolt of energy. Why, then, was I not sparkling with anticipation? My oldest child had just begun life on her own; the other two were attending college 1100 miles away. I missed them all terribly. My husband and I had sold our home and moved to a neighboring state for a job opportunity. Since we were living in temporary housing, I hadn’t yet met neighbors or any new friends, and most of my colleagues were only accessible through an internet connection. I began to feel isolated. After a few feeble attempts to plunge excitedly into this new nest, I gave up hope. I felt lost, empty and not quite sure how to move forward. My husband had a simple suggestion: exercise. When we discovered a trail within a short ten minute drive from our apartment, we were thrilled. We began to use it regularly. The paved trail meandered along a river lined with shrubs and towering trees. Mallard ducks lazed on the riverbanks. Robins perched in the treetops. Canada geese flew overhead. Often, a blue heron stood motionless on a rock in the center of the river. At dusk, small rabbits hopped across the pathway, then skittered into the brush. One evening, a beaver diligently collected sticks, and then disappeared with them downstream. These small snippets of nature provided me with a peaceful distraction, but only slightly lifted me out of my malaise. Still, I continued to walk the path. The trail was often filled with fellow walkers, joggers and bikers at all times of day. “On your left,” the bikers would shout as they zipped by us and continued up the trail. Some were single riders. Some rode in groups of two or three. Some toted children in attached seats or hauled them behind in trailers. They were young and old. They were thin and not so thin. On every walk, we spotted something new – unicycles, tandem bicycles, adult-sized tricycles. One Saturday, we were astonished to see a homemade, automated race car speeding down the trail, and on another, a man with a prosthetic right leg sailing by us effortlessly. I’d come home after a walk feeling vaguely different than when I left. Was it simply the fresh air and bright sunshine? Or was it the heart-pumping, endorphin-releasing exercise? I had a hunch it was something else entirely. But I didn’t know what. The trail lured me back. I began to take a longer look at my fellow trail users – a dad and two sons riding their scooters; a young husband and wife teaching their daughter how to ride her first two wheeler; couples, young and old, holding hands, chatting as they walked; generations of families taking evening strolls together; joggers, huffing and panting, as they raced toward that sixth, seventh, eighth mile and a woman doing
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Tai Chi on a platform next to the water. Not to mention the dogs – a plethora of breeds, sizes and temperaments all took advantage of the trail. These were just ordinary people doing the same thing I was doing – exercising and spending time with loved ones. That’s what I thought. But I’d return home with a smile on my face, my excursion replenishing something I seemed to have lost. How could something so simple, so uncomplicated, alter my outlook on life? I couldn’t get enough. I returned to the trail again and again. As I walked, I’d peer into faces and listen for snippets of conversation, my eyes hidden behind my sunglasses. These people spoke French, Russian, Hindi and and numerous other languages I couldn’t understand. They represented all races and cultures, and I became fascinated with the lives of these strangers – who they were, where they lived, how they were related. Most of all, I thought about their stories. Surely they had stories. What challenges did they face? Did any of them feel lost and empty? How were they moving forward? One cloudy morning, I hiked up the trail, determined to find answers, or at the very least, inspiration. After thirty minutes, I turned to head back the way I had come, slightly disappointed that the trail held very little for me that day. Until I saw her. An elderly, grey-haired woman clasping the handles of her walker. She sprinted by me in the opposite direction like a marathon runner. I turned around to catch another glimpse of this one-woman wonder. She was definitely moving forward. She wasn’t letting anything hold her back – certainly not her age. That’s when it hit me. Nobody was. Not the man with the prosthetic leg. Not the toddler taking his first steps. Not the two young boys casting their fishing lines into the river after the sun had already disappeared. Not even the group of four new mothers, tired though they may have been, standing in front of their strollers and counting aloud to their babies’ delight. Everyone seemed to be rushing headlong into life. Rushing with optimism, clarity, and determinedness. My fellow trail users were pushing past whatever challenges they were experiencing. Why, then, was I not doing the same? My nest may have been empty, but it didn’t have to be a vacant hollow forever. As I walked toward the car, remembering the elderly woman’s energy and enthusiasm, I made a decision. I would rush home and fill my empty nest with abundance. Like the strangersturned-allies on the trail, I wouldn’t let anything hold me back. I was ready for the glittery future that stretched before me. Annette Gulati is a freelance writer living in Seattle, Washington. She has published more than seventy five stories, articles, essays, poems and activities in numerous magazines and newspapers. Visit her at www.annettegulati.com.
Annette Gulati
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Voice
The Blessings of Being Chosen by Sioux Roslawski
When I was a hellion of a teenager, I’m sure my mom kicked herself for adopting me. Catching me lying about where I was for the weekend – more than once – probably made her look at me and wonder to herself, “Why in the heck did I shop around and pick out this kid?” When I went through my question-everything-and-trust-nobody phase, which resulted in lots of heated debates at the dinner table – arguments that nearly drove my dad to the stroke level – I imagine Mom no longer considered me “a blessing.” If she did have regrets, however; she never let on. And when they brought me home from the adoption agency, my parents definitely considered themselves blessed to have this baby girl as their own. After years of trying and failing, a newborn girl to gussy up in hand-smocked dresses made their life together perfect. And I was the perfect baby…until I developed ultra sensitive skin. My body was covered with a prickly rash resulting from the summer heat. Certain laundry detergents made me break out. Then, staph set in. I got a horrible staph infection. Pus-filled sores on my body had to be lanced by my mom and dad on a daily basis. Their blessing-of-a-baby instantly turned into a screaming, squirming wrestler…and it was their responsibility to inflict pain every day in order for me to become well. Did they know what they were signing onto when they scrawled their names on the adoption papers? Most likely not, but no parents truly do, whether their babies come out squalling in a delivery room or whether they’re handed over in a court room. Moms and dads hope for the best – they pray for healthy babies, they keep their fingers crossed that no terrible accidents or illnesses happen, but parenting is always a series of risks. Later, after the staph infection cleared up, I had chicken pox, ear infections, lots of stitches, a broken heart that kept getting broken and a divorce. With every obstacle and every illness, my mom was there for me. Her comforting hands, her consoling embraces and her wise advice helped me along. And from the time I was old enough to understand, I knew I had been “chosen.” In my daydreams, my parents looked at rows and rows of cradles and out of the hundreds of babies they saw, they chose me. In reality, they got a call telling
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them, “We’ve got a baby for you,” and most likely they immediately dropped the phone and raced out of the house, burning rubber down the street in their eagerness to pick me up. No matter how much I worried them – even when I pulled some serious screw-ups – my mom never indicated she regretted adopting me. In fact, she never indicated that in any way I wasn’t always hers. For her, I guess, the day-to-day mom stuff was the blessing. She never felt me kick from inside her womb. She never felt the first of many contractions. She never experienced giving birth to a baby. Instead, from her perspective, she got so much more… My mother cheered me on as I clumsily moved across the balance beam during gymnastics lessons. She sewed felt and sequin Christmas ornaments for my brother and me, every year, so that when we were grown and had families of our own, we’d have ornaments made with love to hang on our trees. In the afternoon there’d always be some homemade treats for our after-school snacks. When I fell in love with a snakeskin-like vinyl material, and gaucho pants and bolero jackets were all the rage, Mom glued and hammered the seams together when the sewing machine couldn’t handle it. I really regretted picking such atrocious-looking fabric, and felt guilty for all the time my mother had spent on it, so I wore it once – and only once – to a family get-together. Mom, she never gave the slightest indication that she was disappointed. When I proved that I was cussedly stubborn and got myself into jams
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rather than accept help, when I protested against the school newspaper when I was in seventh grade, my mother never uttered a word wondering where I had inherited those traits. I was her daughter. Nothing else mattered. And when I was in my forties, I started searching in earnest for my birth mother. Because Mom and Dad were still alive at the time and because our state had laws keeping adoption records closed, I needed papers signed by my parents. It took me a long time to summon the courage to ask. Would they consider this a horrible insult? Would they think they didn’t matter, that I didn’t think of them as my real parents? When I finally gathered the guts to ask, I was relieved with my mom’s answer. “I know you want to find out who you look like, and you want more information about your family history, so of course, yes. I’ll do anything I can to help. And if you get to meet her, please thank her.” “Thank her? Thank her for what?” I said. “Because if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have gotten you.” Eventually, I did find out where I got my high forehead and my big feet. Unfortunately it was too late to express my gratitude – as well as Mom’s – because my biological mother had died decades earlier. Although I only have photographs of her, I didn’t miss out on meeting my real mom. My real mom is the one who held a cool washcloth on my forehead every time I barfed. My real mom is the one who got herself into a fetal position, her feet pressing into the dashboard, as she taught me how to drive. My mom is the one who picked me up after my divorce. When they adopted me, my mom and dad felt I was their blessing – until they day they died. But I know the truth: I was the one who was blessed when I was chosen by them.
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Sioux Roslawski Sioux Roslawski was the chosen child of Carol Kortjohn. She is the mother of two, and is Riley’s Grammy. Her stories can be found in 13 Chicken Soup for the Soul collections, along with a few other anthologies. More of her meanderings can be found at http://siouxspage.blogspot.com.
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Voice
For Every Gardener There is a Season by Susan DeBow
It is a good day to write about tomatoes. I’m not talking the tomatoes in the store that have gotten better through the years. No, I’m talking about the home-grown kind, the ones my husband has planted every year we have lived in a house. Nick grew up in Cleveland. He attended public school. On our trips to Cleveland, when visiting his mom, he would make a point of driving past his old grade school, Benjamin Franklin. In a large lot next to the school, behind a chain link fence, the school had gardens. Each grade had its own plot. In the summer, kids would walk or ride their bikes to the school and tend the gardens and take produce home. The last time we drove by the school, a few years ago, the gardens were still there. Nick’s grandmother, a curmudgeonly old German, who was, shall we say, brusque, gardened. She lived with Nick and his mother and two older brothers in a house on Treadway on the near west side of Cleveland. Her husband had died many, many years earlier from TB. We used to have the trunk that was used to ship his possessions to Colorado where he went for treatment and died. Nick’s mother was a widow, having lost her husband, Nick’s dad, when Nick was five. He was a Cleveland fireman before he passed away. Old Baum, that’s what they called the grandmother, planted flowers and some vegetables in the small backyard. She also used to take Nick down to the West Side Market on the bus where they would go to the poultry store and buy live chickens. Nick remembers them squawking on the bus ride home. Old Baum liked little Nick. She didn’t chase his friends away with a broom, like I heard she did his brothers’. The summer we lived in Cleveland at Nick’s mother’s house, I would take Old Baum’s lunch to her upstairs every day. She was old and couldn’t manage the stairs anymore. She blasted The Lawrence Welk Show. It was a long summer. We were still in college. We had married the summer before and lived in a trailer in Athens during the school year. In the summer, we went to Cleveland so Nick could work for Sohio, loading tires on trucks, a good paying job. We didn’t know we were poor. We just didn’t have any money.
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At our first house on Smith Road, in Norwood, which shook when firetrucks raced by, Nick turned the goldfish pond into his vegetable garden. I was pregnant with our second child. I still can see our oldest son, Ben, who was a year and a half, pulling his little red wagon back to the garden. After a year and a half we sold the house on Smith Road, which he had bought for $20,500, for $34,000. Merle Pointer, a realtor who went to the NPC, Norwood Presbyterian Church, sold our house. We had no clue you could make money selling something that was used. We took our profit and used it as a down-payment for a new house in Mason. My mother almost went into apoplexy when we told her we were moving to Mason. It was as if we told her we were moving to Michigan. Nick built his wooden frames for his above ground gardens. Tomatoes were the constant. They were our candy. It wasn’t long before we filled that house with kids and needed to move on. Our next house was in Landen. In the over 28 years we have lived in this house, Nick has had different gardens. He began with above ground beds on the side of the house. Eventually, the garden was moved to the back of the yard, along the park. Each year it got bigger and bigger. It ended up being about 120 feet by 25 feet. Nick planted 40 tomato plants and lots of vegetables and flowers. People walking in the park often stopped and said it was the nicest garden they had ever seen. His sunflowers reached beyond the sky. When we had overflows of tomatoes, we would give them away. One year I put them in my red wagon and delivered them to neighbors. People loved when the first zucchini came in, but soon hide as the caveman-sized clubs of zucchini proliferated as summer went on. We enjoyed sitting on our back deck eating the bounty of the garden. On hot summer days, days when I couldn’t go outside because I would melt, Farmer Nick could be found, Amish straw hat on head, out weeding his garden.
Our daughter, Andrea, watched her dad for years and has become quite the Farmer Girl, herself. We’d have jars of canned tomatoes, pickled beets and green beans. I’d make fresh spaghetti sauce. The first tomatoes of the season were a cause for celebration. In winter, we would think of those and long for those summer days when the miracle of the tiny seed would be played out over and over. Some years were better than others for the garden, for the tomatoes. There were summers with little rain, too much rain, hot temperatures and cooler temperatures. Nick gardened through them all. He gardened through stage three colon cancer. When we were told Nick had Parkinson’s disease a few years ago, we did what we have always done…carry on. Nick planted his garden. The tomatoes were, as always, delicious, but… Last fall, Nick took the garden down as usual and tilled the ground. That was part of the fall cleanup, getting ready for winter. But last fall, he Nick did something he hadn’t done before. He planted grass seed. He watered it and took care of it as he had his garden. I watched the grass grow in. I asked Nick if he was tired of gardening. No. He told me he wasn’t sure if he’d have the strength to do it this year. Even as I write this, months after the grass seed was planted, my eyes moisten. It isn’t the tomatoes, which we can find at farmers markets. It’s not the sunflowers that brought joy to little children who were mesmerized by the giant flowers. What I’m feeling is the passage of time. A palpable acknowledgement that though we can hold on to our memories, God willing, we can’t hold on to time. Time is elusive, yet very real. It is marked by birthdays and anniversaries and golden watches. And for us, the last garden.
All the Rage
Susan Hipkins DeBow Susan Hipkins DeBow is a writer and artist. A hobby of hers is watching Law and Order reruns and then going around telling people she wants to make a “collar on the perps,” and demands a “remand.” She got hooked on Law and Order reruns after seeing Seinfeld reruns 20 times. You can read Susan’s work and see her art, photography and miscellaneous miscellany at www.ohiowritergirl. com If you are nice, she’d like to be your friend on facebook. Go to her Facebook page, Ohio Writer Girl.
June 43
Voice
The Best I Could by Erika Hoffman
On the day we drove my 92 year old father to UNC Hospital with the hemorrhagic stroke making it impossible for him to see anything on the left, he joked along the route. Once in the emergency room, an attractive young doc extended her long arm and took his bony hand in hers as she introduced herself; “I’m Dr. Leeper,” she said. Without a moment’s pause, my stooped dad squeezed her hand and said, “So, you’re Dr. Reaper, as in Grim?” And then he smiled his little upturned wry grin to let her know he was punning. She laughed. “I’ve not been called that before.” My father’s little joke turned out to be prophetic. The next day he was watched over, hooked up and curtained from another patient – a co-ed who had overdosed the same night Dad entered the hospital. In fact, we saw her friends pull up behind us, and the assistants hurried out to help as they pulled a quarrelsome drunk from the backseat of the car. Most likely her cohorts saved her life. Yet, while sitting on the opposite side of the curtain with my inert dad, all I heard was her whining on the phone about being admitted and maybe charged for underage drinking. I listened to her bemoan her fate as I watched my dad doze in and out of semi-consciousness. When he did rouse up, he didn’t understand why he couldn’t raise his arms which were strapped down to prevent his tugging the tubes out of his arm or nose. My dad would have been compliant had he been able to retain what was asked of him, but his memory lasted only seconds and instructions given him whiffed away from his mind as soon as uttered. After a couple of days, Dad was moved. A physical therapist came by to assess him. Dad’s quick repartees often threw folks off. They always thought he was more with it than he was. Dad had severe dementia. He’d had it for seven years. During that spate of time, he lived with us. He moved to our home because he could no longer take care of his home and affairs. He was 84 when things went downhill. I wasn’t really prepared for the aging of my dad. He’d been a widower for so long. He was independent and never asked much from us kids who had moved away from New Jersey decades earlier. He had his friends. He kept up his house and had his routines. Maybe it is human nature to assume life just keeps going on, until one day it doesn’t; a decision has to be made.
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At 84, he had open heart surgery and a porcine valve put in. Within six months, his memory slid away. His recollection of things was a bit spotty, but after the operation, I noticed acute changes. At any rate, he came to live with me in North Carolina, as that is what he wanted to do. It was me or a nursing home. Many of my pals said they couldn’t look after their elderly folks or didn’t want to. But my dad was always good to his children, and he was a loyal husband to our mother and a hard worker and a faithful friend. I’d look after him in his final years, when dementia robbed him of many activities he had liked to do. Even the ability to process the conversation thread coming from the news anchors on TV waned. After a while, his TV watching became DVDs of Gunsmoke and other old westerns where he knew the plots and recognized familiar actors. He couldn’t recall if he had eaten five minutes after he ate. He couldn’t remember the birthdays of us, his kids, or names of folks he’d known all his life. And in that last year he’d think I was Mom, and that his parents were coming over for Sunday dinner. It was hard to break the truth to him, and sometimes I’d avoid answering when he’d ask me when they would arrive. I hated to view the stark disappointment on his face. Sometimes, I was kind about his confusion. Sometimes, I was frustrated and brusque. Once in a while Dad had some clarity. The day the physical therapist came and seemed to think he could do something to help my father, Dad perked up. The young, harried fellow greeted me in an offhanded way. “Hello, Mrs. Vogel. You’re Henry’s wife?” “Wife?” I sat up straight in my chair.
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“Yes? Or, Sister?” “How long have I been sitting here? Have I aged that much?” I answered in my stunned state. “I’m Mr. Vogel’s daughter! Dad’s 92. How old do I look?” The fellow stammered and eyed the door. “Oh, Mr. Vogel looks much younger than 92.” “Even if you think him a mere 82, how old does that make me – his wife?” I laughed and then added, “My father was no teenager when I was born! Thirty-one years separate us!” This skinny guy couldn’t get away fast enough. He stuttered something about folks having partners who were much younger or some such slush. This physical therapist with poor eyesight and big foot-in-mouth disease bolted, and I glanced over at my dad with eyes closed but smiling. Dad said, “Get him back! I think I like that guy!” Even in dire times, Dad could make me smile. He found humor in life’s situations. Even his experiences in World War II sounded like episodes from McHale’s Navy! Dealing with dementia is hard. Nonetheless, I am happy I had him for those seven years after his heart operation. It taught me to live in the present. I learned to like the simple things and treasure what memories we could still share. People often bemoan the cruelty of dementia, and I don’t argue with them when they say that one feels robbed by it. Yet, aren’t other diseases cruel thieves? When folks say it isn’t fair, I don’t know what they mean, really. Who has been promised a life without difficulty, without pain, without regrets? Sometimes, dementia may be the price paid for living a long life or having a medical intervention prevent you from dying early when you were still physically competent and mentally agile. Despite the confinement, the work, the worry, I appreciate those seven years I had with my father. I think I am a better person for having been a caregiver to someone who needed me and someone who deserved to be taken care of. Caregiving for the demented is not easy, but it’s not total misery either. Joy exists among the sorrow. Some of my favorite memories of those years were of tucking him in at night, when he’d hold my arm in a claw-like grasp, and he’d look affectionately at me and say, “I might forget to tell you thank you. Sweetheart, you are so good to me.” “See you tomorrow, Dad,” I’d whisper and turn off the light. And I’d go down the hall to my bed and sleep soundly, remembering his kind words. Erika Hoffman is now an empty nester except when her son’s New York dachshunds winter with her. She misses the days of child-raising and elder care, but also likes her solitude to record her mini-memoirs.
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Rioz Brazilian Steakhouse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Something Old Something New. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Just Because IYQ. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Paint with a Passion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Rose Arbor Fabrics & Interiors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Studio 77. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Kangaroo Pouch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Palmetto Ace Home Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Rosewood Manor House. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Tara Grinna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
La Plage Swimwear. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Pawleys Island Compounding Pharmacy. . . . . . . . . . . 39
Rustically Refined. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Taylors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
The Lamp Niche. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
The Pink Cabana. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Sea Island Trading Co.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Taz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Litchfield Dance Arts Academy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
The Pink Cabana. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Seaside Furniture Gallery & Accents. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Tire Town. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Millie’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Pounds Away. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Seven Seas Seafood Market. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
To Your Health. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Job#:
MOG2140301
De:
mdk
Size:
4.4167x6.6944
Ae:
kr
Princessa’s Salon & Spa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Shades & Draperies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
MUSC. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Psychic John Edward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Shop the Avenues. . . . . . . .Publication: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Sasee . . . . . . 26Magazine WEZV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Date: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .03.10.2014 . . . . . 51
Myrtle Beach Chevrolet Cadillac. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
QuitSmokingMyrtleBeachSC.com. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
The Shops at Tweaked. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Morningside of Georgetown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Client:
Two Sisters with Southern Charm. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Morningside of Georgetown
Rnd~Ver:
r01•vA
Colors C
M
NA
NA
1017 TURNPIKE STREET, CANTON, MA 02021 • (P) 781.828.9290 • (F) 781.828.9419
49
May2015
3 4 10 11 17 18 24 25 31
5 12 19 26
6 13 20 27
2 9 16 23 30
1-10
1 -31
Driving Miss Daisy, Swamp Fox Players, Strand Theater, Georgetown. For times and ticket info, call 843-527-2924 or visit swampfoxplayers.com.
18th Annual Waccamaw Arts & Crafts Rivertown Music and Craft Beer Festival, Guild Juried Exhibition, The Art Museum 11 am-10 pm, Conway. For more
at Myrtle Beach, 3100 S. Ocean Blvd. For more info, call 843-235-2510 or visit myrtlebeachartmuseum.org.
info, call 843-248-6260 or visit www.conwayalive.com.
Coastal Kayaking, Mondays, Huntington Beach State Park, 10 am-12 pm, $35. For more info or reservations, call 843-235-8755.
5-10
7-10, 14-17
9
15
Waterway Art Association 24th Annual Exhibit & Sale, Brunswick Community
For Better, Murrells Inlet Community Theatre. For more info, call 843-651-4152 or visit www.mictheatre.com.
10th Annual Mayfest on Main, 10 am-6 pm, Main Street, North Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-281-2662 or visit www.northmyrtlebeachchamber.com.
Moveable Feast, Elizabeth Robertson Huntsinger discusses Waterline, 11 am, Sea View Inn, $25. For more info, call 843-235-9600 or visit www.classatpawleys.com.
16-17
22, 29
30-31
6/1-7
Blue Crab Festival, 9 am-6 pm, Little
Ocean Isle Concert Series, Fridays,
Salt Games, 8 am-6 pm on Sat.,
Coastal Uncorked, various events
College Extension, Route 17, Calabash, N.C. For more info, call 910-575-7981 or visit www.waterwayart.org.
River. For more info, call 843-249-6604 or visit www.bluecrabfestival.org.
50
6:30-8 pm, Museum of Coastal Carolina parking lot, E. Second St., Ocean Isle Beach, N.C. For more info, call 910-579-2166.
2
7 14 21 28
1 8 15 22 29
8 am-3 pm on Sun., Myrtle Beach Boardwalk. Activities for all ages. For more info, visit www.thesaltgames.com.
4-25
throughout Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-626-9668 or visit www.coastaluncorked.com.
Give
gently used children’s
Books for the
Give Your Mom, Sister, Best Friend or Yourself the Gift that Lasts a Year! Special Offer 12 Issues for $24 Name Address City State Zip Send check or money order to Sasee Distribution PO Box 1389 Murrells Inlet, SC 29576
BRIGHT BLUE SEA
BOOKSHELF Over 6,000 books distributed. Books will go on blue bookshelves in the community, available free for families to select and keep. The Bright Blue Sea Bookshelf is a Voices for Children project designed to create a culture of literacy in our community. For more info, please call Cassandra Jackson at 843-520-0875
51
Experience Cadillac. A World of Difference.
SERVING YOU AS YOUR HOMETOWN MYRTLE BEACH CADILLAC DEALER 855-946-0278 • 1785 HIGHWAY 501, MYRTLE BEACH SC 29577
MyrtleBeachChevroletCadillac.com