May 2012 Priceless www.sasee.com
Beautiful
young people
are accidents of nature, but beautiful
old people
are works of art. – Eleanor Roosevelt
CHILD SAFETY SEAT CHECK JUNE 26, AUG. 28, 2012 from 3 - 6 pm at the Myrtle Beach Kohl’s • Safe Kids certified child safety seat technicians will check proper installation of child safety seats, correct those in need and educate on proper installation and use. • Participants must have both child safety seat and child present. Expecting parents, please bring seat. • The technician will determine if a new child safety seat is needed. If so, 1 per family is available while supplies last. • Rain cancels event.
For more information, please call Safe Kids Pee Dee/Coastal led by McLeod Health at 843-777-2592.
49266-McL Kids Safe-Sasee.indd 1
4/13/12 1:21:52 PM
Any decision about your health is important. Which is why you can rely on McLeod to consistently deliver compassionate, leading-edge health care. Recognized nationally for its leadership and innovation in quality, safety and commitment to patient-centered care, McLeod is dedicated to serving patients wherever they live or work. Our experience, knowledge and access to technology is unsurpassed locally, ensuring that we remain your most trusted and capable choice for medical excellence. Choose Wisely.
www.McLeodChooseWisely.org 49261-McL Choose Wisely-Sasee.indd 1
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featured articles
16 18 20 22 24 26 28 30 32 36
May 2012 Volume 11, Issue 5
who’s who
The YA-YA Candles and Petite Bebe
Publisher Delores Blount Sales & Marketing Director Susan Bryant Editor Leslie Moore Account Executives Amanda Kennedy-Colie Erica Schneider Celia Wester Art Director Taylor Nelson Photography Director Patrick Sullivan Graphic Artist Scott Konradt Accounting Bart Buie CPA, P.A. Administrative Assistant Barbara J. Leonard Executive Publishers Jim Creel Bill Hennecy Tom Rogers
by Marsha Tennant
Parenting Behind the Wheel by Beth Wood
Squeaky Wheels by Erika Hoffman
Southern Snaps by Connie Barnard
Piece of Cake by Jeffery Cohen
Marriage and In-Laws by Janey Womeldorf
Open Faced Sandwich by Janie Rosman
The Next Best Thing to Being There by Rose Ann Sinay
Confessions of a Baby Addict by Diane Stark
Teflon Mom
by Alessandra Bianchi
I ♥ In-Laws I n T h is I ssue Dear Sasee… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Read It! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Sasee Gets Candid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Faves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Women Who Mean Business . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Scoop on the Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
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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, see page 31. Letters to the editor are welcome, but could be edited for length. Submissions of articles and art are welcome. Visit our website for details on submission. Sasee is a Strand Media Group, Inc. publication.
Copyright © 2012. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any material, in part or in whole, prepared 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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contributing writers Connie Barnard traveled the world as a military wife and taught high school and college composition for over 30 years. She has been a regular contributor to Sasee since its first issue in 2002. Alessandra Bianchi writes and cultivates her own Teflon super mom powers in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Earlier this year, she enjoyed several bluebird days of skiing in the Swiss Alps with her mother, now a proud grandmother of ten, and still a great skier, sans yellow jumpsuit.
letter from the editor For many of us, whose mothers have passed on, Mother’s Day is a time to remember. My relationship with my mother was always one of respect and love, but I did spend a lot of time worrying about whether or not she approved of my life and the choices I had made. Before she died, we had a chance to really talk things through, and I realized that, yes, I was loved and approved of; her seemingly constant “suggestions” were always given from a place of love and a deep concern for my welfare. This knowledge was instrumental in helping me make peace with losing her. Now the tables are turned, and my brilliant, beautiful daughter is an adult who, I believe, feels much the same way I did years ago. I would rather not wait until I’m on my deathbed to make sure she knows that, yes, I love her and, yes, I approve of her life, her choices and am well pleased with the woman she has become. Life is unpredictable, and all we really have, for sure, is the love of family and friends. I dedicate this issue of Sasee to all the mothers who are no longer with us. We love you.
Jeffery Cohen, a freelance writer, painter, and sculptor, wrote a weekly newspaper humor column for six years. He was a finalist in the 2011 Women-On-Writing Flash Fiction Contest and won second place in Vocabula’s 2011 Well Written Writing Contest. A native South Carolinian, Lisa Hamilton is the director of the First Presbyterian Church Preschool and Kindergarten. Of course she loves reading, but also finds time for cooking and walking her dog, Hurley. More of Erika Hoffman’s non-fiction narratives will appear in the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Soul – Young at Heart edition and in the Nurturing Paws Anthology by Whispering Angels. Her new novel, Runaway Faith, is with Comfort Publishing and should be released within the year. Believing that everyone has a story and needs someone to tell it, Janie Rosman writes about community, lifestyles and business. She has been published in Gannett newspapers, IN Magazine, The Hudson Independent, Westchester Parent and Westchester Commerce Magazine.
cover artist
Rose Ann Sinay lives in North Carolina with her husband and dog where she spends her time writing. Her children graciously continue to provide her with moments worth preserving.
Gathering A Bouquet, by Jane Woodward South Carolina native Jane Woodward is an impressionistic oil painter. Her work is featured along the coast of South Carolina at Island Art Gallery in Pawleys Island, The Georgetown Art Gallery and The Hamlet on Broad Street in Charleston. Jane’s work has been featured in Brookgreen Gardens and, along with her fine art, she has painted wall murals, one of which may be viewed at Huntington Beach State Park in the Visitors’ Center. Jane teaches oil painting at The Waccamaw Continuing Education Center in Litchfield, as well as offering private lessons in her home. You may contact Jane through the galleries listed above or at www.janewoodward.com or www.smugmug. com. Her work is also featured on www.fineartamerica.com.
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Diane Stark is a former teacher turned stay-at-home mom and freelance writer. Her work has been published in dozens of magazines. She loves to write about the important things in life: her family and her faith. She can be reached at DianeStark19@yahoo.com. Marsha Tennant is the author of the children’s book, Margaret, Pirate Queen. She was recently published in Mary Jane’s Farm, AARP and She magazines. Marsha enjoys spending time with her new grandson, writing and having libations on the back porch. Retirement is fun! Janey Womeldorf is a freelance writer who thrives on writing about the humorous, the poignant, and the continually-surprising sides of everyday life. She drinks too much coffee and scribbles away in Memphis, Tennessee. Beth M. Wood is a mom of three, marketing professional and freelance writer. Her work can be found in various Chicken Soup anthologies and on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Foursquare. Follow along at www.bethmwood.blogspot.com.
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e ed to Sase c u d o r t n i I was just I read the n e h w e m t ti for the firs rris Cribb o M l l e N article on . I enjoyed n e t t delightful i r w l l ecially we p s e s arently a p w p a h n a whic y and each b s e l c i t r a e ection! l e s l a all th u s u riter. Un talented w orgetown Mary, Ge
Loved the Jean Ben son article. Don’t know her, but th e article touched my heart. How inspir ing and miraculous. Diane, Myrtle Beach
Sasee is by far, the best form of advertising that my company m. has had the chance to benefit fro an, Being a single, professional wom men it is so wonderful to see other wo arge. working together and taking ch Through this process, I have who gotten to know wonderful ladies ds.” I would not hesitate to call “frien I would be the first person to recommend Sasee to any business who is looking for their budget in advertising to work for them. Ashley, Myrtle Beach
Dear Sasee… We receive so many wonderful letters from readers and friends and would like to share a few with you.
I would like to order a gift subscription… this is a special lady, some 30 years ago we divorced, but have remained close. If you could expedite the request it would be appreciated. She visits the beach often and we are back to dating so who knows what changes from day to day. Bill, Myrtle Beach g Sasee. in d ea r ed h is n fi st I ju iving voice T hank you for g who speak to women writers viewpoints m o r f , y ll a c ti en th au eir lives. I th to in ll a s u e it v that in st them! g n o m a e b to y p p am ha ia Carrie, Californ
Sasee’s January 2012 issue brought tears of joy to me… Sidney, Wallace
in w that her piece o kn rk ta S e n ia ing I wanted to let D t, the most touch ub o d ut o h it w , is ave this month’s issue ave kids and I h h t ’ n o d I . d a re essay I have ever ch clarity and su h it w te ro w u ed but yo g never been divorc your overwhelmin el fe y rl ea n d ul emotion that I co r with you and ca e th in en be ell have pain. I may as w ng. Job well done. lo a g in g n si n re d your chil Melissa, Virginia
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Lisa Says…Read The Art of Fielding, by Chad Harbach by Lisa Hamilton 10 www.sasee.com
You do not have to be a baseball fan to enjoy the new novel by Chad Harbach, The Art of Fielding. This is Harbach’s first novel, and I agree with many critics – he has a huge hit on his hands. At Westish College in Wisconsin, near the shores of Lake Michigan, five individual paths cross and connect when the routine throw of a baseball goes dangerously off course. Henry Skirmshander is the impressionable young ball player destined for greatness; he even keeps a tattered copy of a baseball manual with him at all times titled, Art of may
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Fielding. Mike Schwartz is Henry’s best friend and mentor and is also the captain of the team. Owen Dunne is a member of the team and Henry’s gay roommate. Guert Affenlight, the College President, and his daughter, Pella, round out the characters in this story about our national pasttime and about life itself. Harbach has been compared to Jonathan Franzen and several others for writing another great American novel. The Art of Fielding has all the components of one, no doubt. It is loaded with wonderful literary allusions, characters you feel, and it’s about family, friendship and love. A home run for us!
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the different routes. Once they sailed Christopher Columbus’ route and eight hours off shore the battery died, so for 21 days they had only sails. He said the worst thing about it was the warm beer! After looking around the country, my parents fell in love with Murrells Inlet and were drawn to settle here after dad retired. He became active in the community, serving on the Board of Murrells Inlet 2020. Working with Al Hitchcock, owner of Drunken Jacks, Dad was able to get grants from Exxon to start the first section of the Marshwalk. I always wanted to make him proud – I think I’m more like him than he wanted me to be! [laughing]. I even followed in his footsteps and was employed with Exxon before switching to the medical field.
gets candid
Meet Claudia Berner
Claudia Berner’s parents, Walter and Muriel Berner, retired to their beloved Murrells Inlet to golf and enjoy their retirement years. On her frequent visits, Claudia started noticing differences in her dad, small quirky things that were not a part of his personality. After his eventual diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, Walter asked Claudia to make sure he was able to stay home with his wife of 62 years and live out his remaining days with dignity. While it was not easy, Claudia and her siblings found help and developed a routine of love and caring that gave meaning to their beloved father’s last years. After Walter’s death, Claudia and Barry Weber, a Registered Nurse, who was her father’s main caregiver and close family friend, opened Grand Strand Homewatch CareGivers in Murrells Inlet to help other seniors maintain their independence in the face of illness or age-related issues. Claudia, tell us about your dad. Dad was a magnificent man with a huge personality and has been my role model for so many things. He worked for Exxon for 40 odd years and people who worked for him would tell me how lucky I was to have him for my father. He had a passion for life and for his family, and even in his declining years he would tell my mom how pretty she was and how much he loved her. My dad was my hero. An adventurer at heart, Dad was born in Miami and grew up in and around the water. This was always his passion, and when he bought his boat he named it Porfin, Spanish for “At Last.” He and his sailing cronies would sail all
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How did you and your family adjust to caring for your dad? I promised Dad that as long as he was safe, we would keep him at home with my mother. At first, I visited often because I didn’t really trust anyone. I soon learned that there is a huge need for good caregivers that you are able to trust with your loved ones. There are necessities in caregiving: basic hygiene, physical stimulation and allowing the person dignity and honor. We wanted Dad to be able to get out and enjoy Murrells Inlet, to enjoy the restaurants he loved and have the very best quality of life. At first, Mom didn’t understand that she needed to let someone help her take care of her husband. We had to allow her the dignity of caring for her husband and continuing with her life, but also give Dad what he needed. There were some funny moments – sometimes he’d go into a restaurant and eat with both his hands! Luckily, most people were very understanding. Murrells Inlet is such a great community. We met Barry when he came to us after working with another resident of Wachesaw Plantation. Dad took to Barry like crazy! He looks a lot like my brother, which made transition from caregiver to close friend very easy. He and my mom are now best friends. Routines and consistency are so important to anyone who is memory impaired. We had a bedtime ‘ritual’ that soothed him. Barry would rub his back, and I would read to him. He liked Winnie the Pooh the best. Then we would say our prayers, and he would open his eyes and join in with the phrases that were familiar to him. Barry and I always strived to do things better. I started having our local Piggly Wiggly put together a grocery order, and Barry would pick it up. We found someone to come and cut Dad’s hair, take care of the housework, etc. Barry would always call me and let me know what was going on. He would often send pictures or arrange a time to Skype so the family could stay connected. When Dad started to decline, we were all able to be there at the end. Why did you decide to open Homewatch Caregivers? After we lost Dad, I knew there was a need. We looked at several franchises, but many were in it for the money only. We don’t want to be the biggest, just the best. Supervised by Barry, we customize the care plan for each client. We have one client who wanted an outing with “the boys,” so Barry arranged that for him. With our help, the primary caregiver, usually an adult daughter, always knows what’s happening with her parents. We are not a medical service, but provide a continuum of care. Usually, we start our services as companions and the care increases as the illness progresses. Big changes are hard on people who are ill. This business is my dream and my Father’s legacy. Grand Strand Homewatch Caregivers is located at 3577 Highway 17 Business in Murrells Inlet. Call (843) 299-0291 for more information or visit www.homewatchcaregivers.com/myrtle-beach
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William F. Rinehart, DMD Cosmetic Facial Surgeon Board Certified Oral & Maxillofacial Surgeon Presents
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Join us May 26-27, 2012 for our 17th annual recital at Wheelright Auditorium, Coastal Carolina University. Saturday, May 26 @ 7:30 pm and Sunday, May 27 @ 2 pm and 4:30 pm
Sign up for summer classes and dance camps July 9-August 3.
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Palmetto Ace Home Center Get In Get Help Get on with Mother’s Day! Summer Living Beach Bags 4 sizes, 3 colors available! (843) 235-3555 8317 S. Ocean Highway Pawleys Island, SC 29585 The helpful place. www.palmettoace.com 14 www.sasee.com
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www.sasee.com 15
The
YA-YA
Candles and Petite Bebe by Marsha Tennant
16 www.sasee.com
Once upon a time, YA-YA’s Cheri and Marsha were on a wine crawl all through the state of Michigan. They lighted candles in every little chapel and church they discovered. The entire state of Michigan was glowing by the time the trip was over…and then you were born. Fairy tales do come true. The YA-YA candle story is my grandson’s own magical story. From the moment I learned that I would become a grandmother, I have told him the tale. There is no doubt for Cheri and me that we had the power and did not play in summoning the Fertility Goddess and any other matriarchal spirit who happened to be in the area at the time. When Petite Bebe would arrive was not clear, but we knew we had unleashed the stars to align and send his soul to be part of our family. The night that Alice and Preston told us that we were going to be grandparents I just smiled, grabbed my cell phone and called Cheri. “The candles worked,” I whispered in the phone. I heard a quiet but affirmative sigh and then her words, “We did it.” After I hung up the phone I told them the tale. Alice shook her head and smiled. She knew her mama and Cheri well. The two movies that embody the strong sense of motherly instincts are The Divine Secrets of the YA-YA Sisterhood and Steel Magnolias. These women did not play either. Their tenacity and determination in setting the wheels in motion for their daughters was undaunting. The rituals and spells they conjured up may have been part lore, but no one has ever questioned MAMA power. Living in the Lowcountry has only validated my belief that the lines between magic and reality blur with incredible results. Waiting was the challenge. My friend of five decades and I knew it was just a matter of when. We watched as Alice traveled through most of her thirties – determined not to settle – but watching her own biological clock tick. Being a mother was important to her, but she would not rush into a relationship merely for the sake of the outcome she longed for. At last…the stars aligned, and the candles burned brightly. There was another YA-YA in this fairy tale. Her name was Char, Preston’s mother – who left Earth far too early. Her last wish was that her son would be blessed with a Petite Bebe. She had an infectious and playful smile. We knew she reached her hands down from Heaven to stir the stars at just the right moment. Once the spell was unleashed we could feel her presence, so Cheri and I welcomed her into our YA-YA circle. After telling Preston Blane Bond his story while he was still in his mommy’s tummy, I can hold him at last, kiss his sweet little face and whisper …Once upon a time there were THREE YA-YA’s…
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Parenting Behind the Wheel by Beth Wood
It is late, and I am tired. My infant son’s cries from the back seat had finally died down from howls to whimpers to peaceful sighs. Those late night car rides were just as relaxing for me as they were for Connor. Both of us were lulled by the thrum of the engine, the flicker of blinking lights on wet pavement, the occasional shoop-shoop of wipers. The car was the one place where I could count on peace between us. As my son grew, so did his seat in the car. At two, he’d sing along to the nursery rhymes in the CD player, grinning at me in the rear view mirror as he clapped to the playful beat. He’d practice his words on me, pointing to objects to which I’d provide names. At five, he was promoted to passenger side rear seat, riding high in his new booster seat, watching over his baby brother in the infant carrier next to him. He’d happily retrieve dropped bottles and binkies and sound out street signs on the way to school, giving me a high-five from the back seat every time he read a word correctly. By second-grade he’d outgrown all car seats, and having learned to read silently, had long since stopped shouting out words to me. He was a quiet kid, but in the car, when he wasn’t reading, he’d talk. About his school day, his friends, his favorite song on the radio. Before long, he was sitting next to me in the front passenger seat, his younger brother and baby sister taking up the back. It was at this point that Connor took over as car D.J., and we began talking about our shared love of music, specifically the lyrics. He’d play his favorite songs for me and tell me about his favorite bands. And I, in turn, would give him a taste of the ’70s and ’80s, instilling, if not a love, at least a strong appreciation for “good music” like Pink Floyd, Journey and Michael Jackson. Conversations about music led to other topics; school, friends, even girls. Serious subjects were saved for car rides, too; relationships, divorce, sibling rivalry. I’ve learned more about Connor, and his brother and sister, driving in the car, than I have anywhere
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else. I can tell how well they’re getting along by the seat they choose. When there is tension between them, Jack will lift the third row seat and sit alone. When the oldest and youngest are getting along, six year-old Ella will request that he sit next to her rather than in front by me. Their body language speaks too: When the boys are getting along, Connor will turn his head to talk over the seat back, and Jack will lean forward against his safety belt to listen. As a single parent, car rides have given me a glimpse into my kids’ lives when I’m not with them. They point out the places they’ve been, the restaurants they want to try, where their dad takes them for pizza. Car rides are also where I’ve learned whom my kids’ are hanging out with, and the real reason I always offer to serve as taxi on the weekends. I learn about the type of music they’re listening to, who is doing well in school, which boy likes which girl. It’s all there, right inside those four doors. Fifteen years of talks, music, laughter, peaceful quiet and even sometimes, tears. It is late, and I am tired. Connor has just sent me a text asking me to pick him up from his friend’s house, up the street and around the corner. It is 11 pm. Curfew. As I pull out of the garage, I am reminded of all the car ride memories that I hold dear… The six month old infant snuggled in his car seat on the way to the babysitter. The five year-old kindergartner dressed in his crisp white uniform shirt and blue shorts, ready to begin his school career. The ten year-old soccer player, he and his teammates crammed like sardines into my minivan after the big game, dirt on their knees, sweat soaking their shirts, huge grins on their faces. The fourteen-year old high school freshman, in black blazer and pink tie, the color of his date’s homecoming dress. I pull into the driveway and walk around to the passenger side. Connor comes out and, seeing the driver’s seat empty, climbs behind the wheel to drive his mom home. I watch as my oldest son carefully navigates our subdivision streets and wonder silently at where the years have gone.
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Squeaky Wheels by Erika Hoffman
A few weeks back, when I mentioned my upcoming sojourn to Florida, a pal said to me over lunch, “You never talk much about your third son.” I shrugged. “Why not?” she asked. “He doesn’t cause me any grief,” I replied. I sipped my syrupy sweet iced tea and thought about the Biblical story of The Prodigal Son. In it, the good son feels neglected because of the attention his father paid to his brother upon his return home after the boy had led a gallivanting, wasteful, decadent life. This returning kid, who’d been selfish, was feted and feasted while the helpful child, who remained home, working for his dad, never had been given a fiesta in his honor. He felt resentful. I wondered then if my third boy ever felt slighted. My baby boy, now 25, had picked me up at the airport and lugged my heavy bag to his vehicle, and, despite Hurricane Irene brooding off the coast, drove me around the city he now calls home. During the downpour we ate lunch at an Italian café on Las Olas Boulevard. After the wind died down, he and I grocery shopped together while he related all the training he’s received. He entertained me with engaging stories about medical procedures he’s learned. In the evening, we dined out at a barbecue eatery. Back at his place, he sat quietly next to me while we watched my favorite TV shows. I told him he didn’t need stay by my side; he was free to study in the next room or leave to do whatever he needed to do. “I’m okay here alone,” I said. He didn’t budge except to tilt his head toward me. “I can catch up later, Mom.” He dragged out the sheets from the dryer and made my bed; he laid out towels and fetched anything I might need for the night. Most likely this story about my non-prodigal son won’t make the cut anywhere; there’s nothing overly dramatic, utterly poignant or hysterically funny in it. Yet, I had an epiphany. There is an “aha” moment to this simple narrative. Sometimes a parent gets so caught up with putting out fires, assuaging drama queens, and maneuvering around the shenanigans of “the entitled child,” that she overlooks CinderFella – the quiet one. Sometimes in a family there’s a child that makes no waves, seeks no limelight and requires no special favors. A wise parent should step away from directing mini-divas that rival “reality stars” and make time for that child who makes a parent’s life easier. Appreciate the one on automatic pilot who’s doing his own stealth mission without fanfare, who, though unnoticed, saves the day, and who makes a parent feel that she’s succeeded on the worthwhile endeavor of child rearing.
I returned from a trip to Florida to visit one of my grown children. On the plane while gazing out the window, I thought about this son who took a day off from obligations to spend it with me touring his new abode and city. I reflected on his giving up his bedroom for my comfort while he made a pallet for himself on the floor of the communal living room he shares with two roommates. I remembered how he took time to show me where the fitness room and pool were, how he painstakingly demonstrated how all the remote controls to the TV operated, and how he spent time ensuring that I knew how to unlock his door since his “Thank you, son,” I whispered as he key was unlike anything else I’d ever seen. hugged me good-bye at the airport. “I had a When he was at class, he wanted me to feel nice visit.” comfortable in his apartment building. As I zoomed home on Jet Blue, I considered writing a story about this “Me too,” he said. I watched as my quiet kid, this thoughtful boy who stocked his refrigerator with Tabs because that is son drove off, back to his life in South Florida. what his mother still drinks. (I am stuck in a time warp like Austin Powers.) Yet, I know that in creating a narrative, be it fiction or non-fiction, Was it my adept parenting or just “my the scribe must arouse emotions in the reader: feelings of sadness, hilarity or lucky stars” to birth such a kid? Lucky, lucky excitement. The author has to provide tension with a conflict; then she must reveal how it gets resolved. In so doing, an inspirational lesson is gleaned. stars – I’m going to put more faith in astrology! That’s the way it’s been with my stories, which often revolve around parenthood. When I jot down a tale, I locate a trouble spot in the upbringing of my tribe and relate what happened. Frequently, I’m writing about three of my four offspring: the three squeaky wheels.
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Southern Snaps Book Lover’s Paradise
Meet Vickie Crafton of Litchfield Books by Connie Barnard “A bookstore is the only place we have where people are still thinking.”
There’s an ad on television featuring a montage of aging adults in various settings. Each segment captures a different person smiling at us through the camera lens, giving a unique and personal response to these words: “When I grow up I want to…” Somehow, this ad strikes a deep chord, even though I don’t remember what it is selling. There’s irony, of course, with these old people talking about growing up, but it goes a bit deeper, don’t you agree? Many of us carry around half-serious dreams regarding what we would do if we could choose another life, another job, another pursuit of happiness. Mine has always been to own a bookstore. Not one of those Big Box things – but a small, light-filled place with great books to read, customers who love to read them and opportunities to come together frequently to share this common passion – a literary salon of sorts, Southern-style. In other words, I would like to own Litchfield Books. Fortunately for all concerned, Vickie Crafton beat me to that punch. In 2001 she and her husband Tom Warner purchased the Pawleys Island landmark from its original owners, Carolyn and Dean Berry, who first opened the doors of Litchfield Books in 1987. Vickie and Carolyn became neighbors when Crafton bought her Pawleys Island home while living and working in the fashion industry in New York. She says, “Like many others here, I had first come to Pawleys in my youth. It is a part of my life, a part of who I am. While living in New York, I felt a need to continue that connection. I bought my place here and moved my state residency directly from Kentucky to South Carolina.”
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– Jerry Seinfield
The tall, casually elegant Vickie met her husband Tom Warner through their mutual careers in the apparel industry. When Tom’s work as an executive with Graniteville Mills took him to South Carolina, Vickie moved her work base to nearby Aiken where they lived until his retirement in 1998. The couple then settled here permanently. “It took a bit of convincing to get Tom to move here,” Vickie says. “He did not yet grasp the mystique of Pawleys Island, but it didn’t take him long to fall under its spell.” For years Crafton had said she’d like to own Litchfield Books. In 2001, not long after the couple settled into their new life here, she was presented with the opportunity to do just that. The Berrys had made the decision to sell the store. Vickie laughs today as she looks back on it all: Be careful what you wish for! Neither Tom nor she had ever been involved with a bookstore, and Vickie’s on-going consulting work required a lot of her time. Yet somehow, she just knew they should go for it. A decade later, hundreds of local residents and summer visitors could not imagine this corner of the world without the special place which defines it in so many ways. Building on the legacy established by the Berrys, Vickie and Tom have expanded in new directions by regularly inviting both nationally renowned and newly-discovered authors for booksignings at the store. They expanded in a literal sense as well by acquiring the property next door and doubling the store’s space. “This allowed us to open up and
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spread out a bit,” Crafton says. The enlarged store also made it possible to add an in-store postal service and an interesting assortment of gifts and greeting cards, as well as personalized stationery and invitations. For gift and stationery selections, she draws on her corporate background, choosing quality items made in the U.S., preferably in the South, which customers might not be able to find back home. “Because we are a small store,” Vickie says, “we have to be selective in our inventory, always with a clear understanding of our customers and their interests. We are constantly making changes throughout the store to reflect their needs and their interests.” This is especially true of book selection. Specializing in current fiction and regional history, the store also has an excellent children’s section and an impressive, hand-picked assortment of special interest and general works. Emphasis on quality and individual attention has proven to be a winning formula, even with a challenging economy and the advent of electronic readers. One local patron said, “When I walk into Litchfield Books, I am usually on a mission, whether it is to find the perfect card or a specific book. I know I will see the familiar faces of Tom, Vickie, Bonnie or Carol, their experienced staff members. Several months ago, when looking for a copy of Pat Conroy’s early novel The Great Santini, I first went to a large chain store where the staff assistant took me to the non-fiction books dealing with magic. I guess he confused Santini with Houdini! I then drove down to Litchfield Books. Tom was working with a book cart near the front of the store when I walked in. Without even turning around, he reached over to the shelf behind him and handed me a copy of the Conroy book.” As with most business enterprises in the area, the summer people are important to Litchfield Books. Many have vacationed here for generations. Year after year they come to the same house for the same weeks and do the same things. Mary Johnson of Winnsboro, South Carolina, first came to Litchfield Beach as a child with her parents in the 1950s. She has returned almost every year, even as she moved around the world with her husband’s military career. Her three children now join them each year with their own families. Mary says, “When I come to Litchfield, I don’t want to go anywhere. Even a trip up the road to Brookgreen is sometimes too far. The only time I leave the beach is to buy groceries and visit Litchfield Books.” In addition to its great card selection, Mary says, “I like shopping at a store that sponsored ‘Radio
Reader.’ I also like spending time there surrounded by books – instead of seven noisy grandchildren.” Shortly after purchasing the store, Tom and Vickie began working through publishing houses to bring talented, interesting authors in for booksigning and lectures. Amazingly, these have become weekly events, drawing world famous writers such as David Baldacci, Nora Roberts, Elizabeth Gilbert, Pat Conroy, Jodi Piccoult, and part-time Pawleys residents, Cokie and Steve Roberts. They also look for talented, relatively unknown authors on the brink of fame. Often these events are in conjunction with the popular Friday Moveable Feast luncheons which the store co-sponsors with Linda Ketron’s CLASS at Pawleys program. The store also hosts additional book-signing events for writers who draw crowds too large for local dining venues or whose schedules preclude the Friday events. Anna Fitzgerald, of Charlotte and Murrells Inlet, attends the functions frequently. She says of them, “It is truly phenomenal that a small, independent bookstore in our tucked-away corner of the South has continued to bring in such talent almost every week for over a decade. The larger cities do not have anything like this, nor do the mega bookstores.” Crafton says that when they first visited the large publishing houses in an effort to bring writers to these events, the publicists looked in them in wonder. Not one had ever sent a writer to South Carolina on a book tour! Over time, however, Pawleys Island has become such a popular choice that quite often they are approached by the publicists. Carl Lennetz, former marketing director of Harper Collins currently serving as executive director of World Book Night, attributes their success to large supplies of talent, hard work and attention to detail: “In New York publishing circles, Vickie and Tom are known for hosting some of the best author events in the country. They offer two things every author wants – a warm welcome and a big crowd – and they deliver every time. They are professional, generous and a pure joy to work with.” It is probably best for all concerned that Vickie Crafton stole my dream of owning Litchfield Books. Let’s face it, old English teachers should not try to make a living that way. I’d probably just sit around and read all day, oblivious to the hard work needing to be done. Despite the many challenges, Vickie and Tom know that every day they open the store’s doors they are helping to make this uniquely interesting community even more so. But, like all independent businesses, they need our support. “The Pawleys area is a very special place,” Crafton says, “and we need to do all we can to help keep it that way.”
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Piece of Cake by Jeffery Cohen
When I was just a boy my mother baked a special cake from a recipe that a neighbor passed on to her. The Hungarian Nut Cake, though simply named, was quite complicated to make. Instead of being flour-based like most cakes, the main ingredient was nuts. Bags of walnuts had to be shelled and then ground to a powder. Eighteen egg whites needed to be whipped into a white froth and gently folded into the mixture. Remaining golden yolks would be blended together with a pound of soft butter and cubes of sweet chocolate creating a velvety mocha brown icing that melted on your tongue. This light, spongy cake topped with chocolate butter cream was like nothing I had ever tasted and quickly became my favorite. And because it was my favorite, my mother chose to make it on my birthday each year. As she carefully spread the rich icing over the cooled cake, she would smile at me. Then my mother would close her eyes as if conjuring up the past, and she would tell me the story of my first days in the world. It was a chilly day in November, just like today, she would begin. Your father rushed me to the hospital and almost got a ticket on the way. I was in labor for more than fourteen hours…fourteen hours before you were finally born. You were ten pounds, twelve ounces, and you had a full head of black hair. They said you were the biggest baby on the floor. The nurses called you “little blimpo” because you were so chubby. I remember it was the day before Thanksgiving. Your father brought me a turkey leg for dinner. Your first month was like a bad dream. I just couldn’t get you to stop crying. By the end of December, I was sure something just wasn’t right. I would hold you and rock you and sing to you, and all you would do is cry. And I cried right along with you, and I begged for an answer. Why won’t you stop crying, Jeffery? What am I doing wrong? I’d ask over and over. Your only answer was to spit up everything I tried to feed you. We called the doctor, who was just getting ready to leave for his in-laws’ house, where he and his family planned to spend Christmas Eve. He asked me to give you a bottle of Chamomile tea to see if you could hold that down. It came right up. The doctor felt sure it was an obstruction of the bowel, and it had to be operated on immediately. He told us to get you to the hospital. He would meet us there.
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You’ll never know how scared I was. I lost your sister at birth six years earlier, and I was so afraid that I would lose you too. I held you in my arms and told your father we weren’t taking you anywhere. I couldn’t bear to lose another baby. Your father got down on one knee and said, “Betty, it’s the only chance he’s got. We have to give him that chance.” There was no more discussion. We wrapped you in blankets and headed out into the cold. They operated that night. My doctor, God bless him, saved your life. Then she’d open her eyes again. They were always filled with tears. She would hug me, kiss my forehead, and she’d go back to icing the cake. This was a sweet birthday tradition that my mother and I shared for almost thirty years until her death. I felt like an orphan that first birthday without my mother there icing my favorite cake and retelling my favorite story. When a friend asked why I had such a long face on my birthday, I explained my sadness. “Do you have the recipe?” she asked. I dug out a grease-stained notepad that held the secret ingredients of all of my mother’s creations. There it was, scrawled in her handwriting: Hungarian Nut Cake and in parentheses, forJeffery. My friend faithfully followed the recipe, and she continues to bake that cake every year for my birthday. As for the story of my birth, no one could ever tell it the way my mother did. But if I had too, I could do it with my eyes closed.
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Marriage
and
In-Laws by Janey Womeldorf
I love my in-laws. I almost feel guilty. The truth is, whether you like it or not, when you marry your husband, you marry his family. Regardless of what you think of them, they are part of the package and part of him; and let’s face it, he’s known them a lot longer than he’s known you which means they are not going anywhere soon. This is cause for celebration for me. I won the in-law lottery and like a good marriage, the relationship and times we share get better every year. There is nothing more magical than being at your in-laws’ with your husband and his family, sitting around the table crying with laughter as they reminisce about that one Christmas when Mom forgot to label all the presents so nobody knew if they were about to open a doll or a truck. Times like these are so priceless and heart-warming; it saddens me to imagine the alternative. Dr. Laura – the radio talk show host – regularly fields callers whose question starts something like this: I really love my fiancé but… The caller, usually female, then spews a litany of jarring examples of how his family is a bunch of mean-spirited people she plans to spend as little
time with as possible. More often than not, the hostility is focused between her and her future mother-in-law, sounding more like a competition than a battle. She then asks Dr. Laura what she should do. Dr. Laura’s opinion and answer is simple yet harsh: Don’t marry him. The caller, now speechless, then listens as Dr. Laura explains that if she marries this man, whose family she already detests, every birthday, anniversary and
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family get-together will be nightmarish. Not only is she setting herself up for a lifetime plagued by misery and family friction, but her husband will be stranded in the middle – a situation ripe for marital discourse no spouse wants to be in and in which there are no winners. I always feel so bad for the caller as you know it was not the answer she was expecting. This in itself is odd because I wonder what answer she was secretly hoping for. Did she think Dr. Laura was going to side with her and suggest she tell her fiancé to choose her over his mother and family? (Sometimes I suspect this is exactly what the caller is thinking!) But the main reason I feel sad for the caller is because of what she will miss: In-law brothers and sisters gathered around the adult’s table joking and laughing as they finally confess to Mom and Dad how they broke the bed that one year. Cousins growing up together eating hot dogs on paper plates always served up on the green fold-up tables that Grandma and Grandpa keep specially. Spouses and siblings developing friendships as they journey together through the for-better-and-for-worse times of their lives. Holiday gatherings so large that even with the extra leaf, there is more food than table. And finally, quiet evenings sitting around the table playing cards with his parents, just like they did with theirs. Although I feel blessed to enjoy all of this now; 23 years ago it all had the potential to take a much uglier path. The first time I announced to my own parents that we would not be with them, but instead were spending Christmas in Michigan with his parents, I told my Mum in July; I figured she would need six months to calm down. Within moments, she declared that if I was going to Michigan then everybody was, and she wasn’t joking. What made this even more unbelievable is that my family does not even live in the USA; they live in England. Two families, one house, ten days – I feared it might pre-empt another war between our countries. The British are coming, the British are coming! That Christmas, 22 people sat down for dinner; grandparents, parents, and siblings from both sides of the Atlantic spanning four generations and two different cultures, all putting aside their differences to share the spirit of the season in harmony and togetherness. The effort, consideration and respect his family showed to mine brought tears to my eyes, and the Christmas proved to be one of the most magical in our 23 years of marriage. How could I not love them? As overjoyed as I was about the success of our international Christmas, I must confess that having five thousand miles and an ocean between each other’s families comes with benefits. First, British people do not celebrate Thanksgiving; phewee, that’s one holiday solved. Second, the Atlantic Ocean means my husband and I will never have to juggle either of the following: Eat two Christmas meals on the same day, or pack everything up on Christmas Day morning for the long drive to the other parent’s house – a blessing not just for our waistline, but our stress level and our marriage. Over the years, I have been elated whenever I discover other people sharing similar feelings and stories about their in-laws. Sadly, this is not necessarily the norm which makes me wonder if they keep it to themselves because they also feel guilty. Besides, when you gush happy-in-law stories in public, you never know who might be listening; it might be the girl who just called Dr. Laura – talk about adding salt to the wound. Maybe it is better to keep quiet just in case. But then again, there are too many sad thoughts in the world not to share those that are happy. My in-laws are a beautiful family, and I love them all. There, I’ve said it.
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Open Faced Sandwich by Janie Rosman
Dad calls my name from three rooms away; to me it sounds like a bellow. The dear man is hard of hearing – none of his three hearing aids work, he says – and doesn’t know the volume of his own voice. It’s a wonderful voice, one that soothed me, comforted me, reprimanded me, advised me and now asks me for help. At 89 he can’t hear his own voice; my ears know a pin dropped into feathers. I walk into the kitchen and see him struggling with the can opener, frustrated. He looks up at me helplessly as I gently remove it from his hands and open the tuna fish. I leave as he says, “Thank you,” allowing him his dignity. Incidents like these – a lid closed too tightly, an item on a shelf that’s out of reach except by stepstool, bags too heavy to carry – happen often to my octogenarian parents. Now in their beyond-golden years, they’re blessed to have each other. What to do? Become a filling in the sandwich generation. Merriam-Webster describes the sandwich generation as “a generation of people who are caring for their aging parents while supporting their own children.” The Web calls this group of baby-boomers “those who care not only
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for their own children but also act in a caregiver role for their own parent(s).” Truth be told, I’m not exactly a filling because being “sandwiched” means being in the middle of whatever. The term “sandwich generation” refers to someone caring for both their parents and their children. There had to be a logical explanation. Google to the rescue! Link upon link appeared, and after much investigation I learned I’m an open-faced sandwich. And by this time I’m really curious because anything related to food peaks my interest. Syndicated columnist Carol Abaya, M.A., says people fall into one of three categories. Traditional sandwiches describe those who raise their own families and also care for their parents. Club sandwiches are people in their 50s and 60s with aging parents, adult children and grandchildren or folks in their 30s and 40s with kids, aging parents and grandparents. Abaya calls us open-faced sandwich folks “anyone else involved in elder care.”
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Some days I feel more like a sardine wedged between my life then and now. A few years after college – now a distant memory revived by anticipated reunions – I moved out and then moved back only to move out again until job loss and life happened. Part of life happening was Dad’s stroke in November 2004, which precipitated my decision to work from home. Mom and I alternated responsibilities like driving Dad to and from his physical therapy and medical appointments. Contrary to what friends told me, living at home is not like living with roommates. “It’s like being back in college,” said Beryn. Not really. These are my parents, and, frankly, it’s very different. Who knew from sandwich anything years ago? My parents’ respective families lived within blocks of each other – a subway ride at the most – and saw to the needs of siblings, aunts, uncles and other family members. Dad took care of his widowed mother when he came home from the war. When he and my uncle married he assumed much of the responsibility for their mother. Mom supported her parents through their respective illnesses and moved Nana close to us after Papa died. The only sandwich people they knew worked at the corner deli. When Dad retired from a successful career in 2002, he got a parttime job, played golf, enjoyed free time with Mom and drove himself in his own car. A few days past his 82nd birthday, and shortly after Thanksgiving, he woke up and told Mom he was having difficulty swallowing. I called our local pharmacist and asked if his medications were interacting badly. She said get to the ER right away. “I think he’s having a stroke.” I believe she saved his life. Little by little he got stronger. We saw to his appointments, and made sure he took his medications correctly and in time. I put “me” on hold and focused my attention on getting Dad well. By what definition? A trip to the eye doctor was telling. One wall of the waiting room had large plastic canisters of assorted sweets. He likes hard candies, so I brought him two and sat down to read a magazine. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Dad attempt to open one candy. He gave it his all while I sat there wanting to help without embarrassing him. Children want to do things by themselves. My niece, 8, and my nephew, 12, are fiercely independent and ask for help only if strength is required or if something is out of their reach. “Would you please open this?” Dad asked, his eyes admitting frustration at his physical limitations. At that moment I felt sorry for him, the once-strapping man who served in the United States Army and who, fatherless at age 20, was emotionally strong for his young widowed mother. “Thank you,” he said, eyes now showing gratitude. And although my parents celebrated their 56th wedding anniversary, I worry about them like they used to – and probably still do – worry about me. I’ve made plans to move, yet each time the gods smile and change them. As one friend says, you can get there from here only if you’re happy with your “here.” So for now I remain an open-faced sandwich.
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The
Next
BestThing to BeingThere by Rose Ann Sinay
Several times a week, I take a walk with my son through the streets of Boston on his way to work. We start out at 9:00 am. This time of year he wears his down jacket and gloves. I fuss at him for not wearing a hat. I’m in my warm, blue robe. We stop at his favorite coffee shop where he orders a large coffee – black – and a toasted bagel with extra cream cheese. 30 www.sasee.com
Along the way, we discuss movies, headlines and the upcoming weekend. We debate politics, argue over book reviews, and critique the state of the economy. We have fixed our government’s flaws and righted the world’s wrongs many times over. There are moments that my opinions are highly regarded. It feels good. I have waited a long time to be a friend and contemporary, instead of the parent and disciplinarian. Occasionally, when our views differ, he conveniently remembers that he is talking to his mother. It seems to explain my lapse in judgment. Our conversation is interrupted by greetings as my son acknowledges people on the streets that he sees every day. The homeless guy on the corner always says, “Hey Buddy,” as my son passes, and sometimes, a short chat ensues. I take this time to sip my coffee and nibble the English muffin that is not on my diet. My son, then, continues our discussion, picking up where he left off. I find that amazing, since I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about. We stop at the convenience store on his route where he buys a few scratch off lottery tickets. The register clerk greets him like a good friend. I bite my tongue to keep from commenting – anything over a dollar on the game of chance is too high stakes for me. As we approach his workplace, we part ways. He gets on with his day. I get on with mine. Three hours later, I am in the car with my daughter in sunny California as she maneuvers through bumper to bumper traffic on her way to her Los Angeles office. She’s attired in a summery dress and heels. I’ve changed into comfortable jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Our conversation is punctuated with occasional honks and mild expletives as she lays out her day from a 9:00 am (Pacific Time) meeting to what she is going to pick up for dinner. Where my walk with my son is abstract and in the moment, her ride is full of the future; where she will be next week, next month, in five years. She pulls into a local Starbucks where she orders a Skinny Caramel Macchiato and an egg white/spinach wrap. My mouth waters, so I pour a little extra cream and put real sugar into my coffee. This past summer, there was talk of babies (grandchildren!). She was going to name her first born Peyton Rose – Rose after me – which made me very happy. This month, she talks about moving to New York and renting an apartment that allows pets. She and her husband could adopt a puppy from a rescue center there. They could call him Herbie (really?). The baby idea with the lovely name seems to be forgotten in their soon-to-be-abandoned beach apartment. I am learning not to ask too many questions, and I try to keep my unsolicited advice to myself. Note the verbs: learning and trying. No matter how old your children are, parents feel the need to impart their wisdom/experience. Who would have thought that it could be a satisfying experience to simply relax and listen? I’m discovering how to be patient. It’s just a matter of time before my questions are answered. I go to places normally impossible. My cell phone whisks me from my kitchen table in North Carolina to walk the streets of Boston through my son’s eyes, and ride that stretch of highway between Redondo Beach and LA, on speaker phone, with my daughter. It keeps my family connected with everyday minutia that occupies space around the big events in our lives. It’s the filler time…it’s the mortar between the bricks…it’s the next best thing to being there. My kids will cringe when they read this string of clichés. They will shake their heads at my writing faux pas. My children will say I am idealistic and sappy, but I know they will smile. I can’t wait for that conversation.
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Confessions of a Baby Addict by Diane Stark
Just days before my youngest son was born, I was out shopping and I spotted an absolute musthave for our family’s newest addition. It was a little blue onesie that read, “Mommy’s New Man.” I laughed so hard that I actually had a contraction or two. (They weren’t enough to actually do anything, but they reminded me that the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight.) I took home that must-have onesie and hung it up with the rest of his tiny clothes. I could hardly wait to see my Little Man wearing it. (In truth, I could hardly wait to see him. Period.) Labor and delivery should have been a piece of cake this third time around, but things didn’t exactly go as planned. Things ended with a quite unexpected emergency c-section. Not exactly my first choice, but since a healthy baby was the end goal, I adjusted my plans. On the operating table, just moments before they were planning to cut me open, my doctor casually asked if I was interested in getting my tubes tied, you know, while she was in there anyway. I was stunned. Since having a c-section wasn’t even on our radar, my husband and I had never discussed it. I looked around for Eric, but the doctor said, “We had to ask him to step out. He’ll be allowed back in just before the birth. Now about that tubal ligation…” I’d already been in labor for 21 hours. Now I was strapped to a table, exhausted and more terrified than I’d ever been in my life. Not exactly the best time to be making life-altering decisions.
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“Just get the baby out safely,” I said through gritted teeth. Five minutes later, Nathan Samuel was born, healthy and huge at nine pounds one ounce. None of his siblings had weighed over seven and a half pounds. No wonder I’d needed a c-section. About a week later, I was relaying the drama to my sister. When I got to the part about possibly getting my tubes tied, Eric said, “Whoa, I didn’t know about that. Why didn’t you do it?”
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“How could I get my tubes tied without even talking to you first?” I said. Eric shrugged. “We’d already agreed that Nathan would be our last baby. I would have been fine with it.” “I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind when the doctor gave me the option,” I reminded him. “I know, Honey, it’s OK,” he said. “But it just would have been one less thing to worry about, you know, since we know for sure we’re done having kids.” For sure? No more babies? Ever? The thought made me just a little bit sad. The next two years went by in a blur of breast feeding, diaper changing and not a whole lot of sleeping. Nathan was a joy in every way, and I was too busy enjoying him to think too much about any future babies. But the Christmas after Nathan turned two, I was holding my sixmonth-old nephew, Josh, and I felt an all-too-familiar tug on my heart. The tug said, “Come on, admit it. You miss the baby phase.” And I had to confess that I did. For the next year, every time a friend announced that she was expecting, I felt the tug. When I shopped for big boy clothes for Nathan, I’d glance longingly at the baby department, wondering what precious must-haves must be waiting for some lucky mom to take home. And when I held someone else’s baby, I couldn’t help thinking, “Maybe just one more…” I never voiced the secret longing to my husband. He’d made it clear that he was “too old” to have any more kids. And I myself was just two months shy of my 35th birthday when Nathan was born. Maybe we were too old, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming about a little baby girl, you know, just to make the numbers even again. It wasn’t an everyday thing, just more of a passing thought. But every few months, it popped up again. The following Christmas, my brother and sister-in-law were the ones with the new baby. But as adorable as little Corey was, when I held him, I didn’t feel the tug. I waited for it. Even expected it. But it wasn’t there. Maybe my heart was finally ready to accept that I was done having babies. Saying it aloud wasn’t as sad as it had been just a few months before. No more babies. No more pregnancy. No more weight gain or heart burn or hemorrhoids. No more teeny, tiny must-have onesies from the baby department. Somehow, I’d become OK with it. But just a few weeks ago, my body started acting funny. I was having symptoms I’ve only experienced three times in my life. I was pretty sure what the symptoms meant. I waited a week hoping things would get back to normal. When they didn’t, my imagination ran wild. “Another whole year without an adults-only vacation,” I thought with no small amount of regret. “Just when Nathan is potty trained and getting ready to start preschool, I’ll be starting all over again. And I don’t even want to think about how long it will take me to get back into shape this time around.” After my week of stewing, I finally took a test. The whole thing turned out to be a false alarm. I was beyond relieved. Besides my desire for an occasional grown-ups only vacation, my apprehension about starting over, and my absolute dread over gaining more baby weight, I had not relished the idea of telling my 40-year-old husband that he, too, would be starting over. But as it turned out, I didn’t have to. And a teeny, tiny, CRAZY part of me is still just a little bit sad.
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g n i v i L r o o d t u O
n e d r a &G r o c ĂŠ D
These Corinthian Bells are visually and acoustically exceptional chimes. They sound beautiful and are MADE IN THE USA. They can be found in a variety of colors at Palmetto Ace in Pawleys Island.
Grow your own herb garden! You can get fresh basil, mint, rosemary, cilantro, thyme, sage and many more at Nitty Gritty Nursery & Edible Garden in Murrells Inlet.
Looking for a way to spruce up your outdoor living area? Add a chic, weather resistant outdoor Capel Rug. These are perfect for porches, and patios as well as high traffic areas inside your home. Find these durable rugs at Hucks and Washington in Conway.
A touch of elegance is what this beautiful chandelier will add to your outdoor living space. Add candles and your own floral arrangement to make it a bit more personal. The Social Garden in Myrtle Beach.
Talk about unique and a oneof-a kind find. This birdhouse is handmade by a local artisan who finds the drift wood in the creeks of Pawleys Island. Stop by Currents, Pawleys Island to discover other unique items.
A definite Sasee find for your home or outside patio and porch area. Precious moss covered pocketbooks adorned with a string of pearls is the perfect planter for all your Spring flowers. Found at True Blue Nursery, Pawleys Island.
Update your patio cushions with gorgeous fabrics and designs. You will find the PERFECT outdoor fabric at Rose Arbor Fabrics. They have a wide selection available.
Teflon Mom by Alessandra Bianchi
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It was a phone call I will never forget. I know it’s your dad’s turn to have Christmas, but he has his new wife and stepdaughter, and I’m all alone. Couldn’t you just call him and say that you girls want to spend the holiday with me? The pain and neediness were unrecognizable to me. In my college dorm room, wrestling a vexing term paper to the ground, I felt exasperated by my mother’s pleas. She always told us she would never put us in the middle of any divorced-parent conflicts, but here she was, doing exactly that! I don’t need this right now was all I could think. Worse to come: “Should I go out this Friday night with Mr. So & So, even though he’s a jerk and I know I won’t ever want to marry him, or should I just stay home in my basement apartment all by myself? It’s better to get out, isn’t it, because, you never know whom you might meet, right?” I wanted to howl, but instead I answered, “I don’t know, you’re The Mom!” I knew my response wasn’t helpful, but I didn’t know what else to say. I felt useless, and wished I could say something to make her feel better. Until that moment making people feel better had been her specialty, not mine. Blonde, beautiful, a Lee Remmick look-alike, she was my sister’s and my enthusiastic champion and idol. “You do well and you enjoy it,” “my Little Princesses,” “my Sweet Precious” – were her stock expressions, always delivered with positive inflexion and an air of inarguable certainty. Throughout our childhood, during the 1960s and ’70s, our mother had always seemed more special than the other moms, even Superhero-like. After all, our mother was a beautiful model on TV. There she was, striking a sultry pose leaning against a palm tree inside a fake lagoon at the Trader Vic’s restaurant in Beverly Hills. With her slim-but-curvaceous figure, her Hawaiian floral bikini, her blonde bouffant and fake eyelashes, she could not have been more gorgeous or impressive. As we watched her in a commercial for Dodge trucks, stepping onto the running board, flipping her long blond hair, and beaming her high-wattage smile, my sister and I shrieked so loudly in delight we didn’t even hear her utter her “Dodge Girl” lines. We were star-struck by the woman sitting next to us on the couch! So when she announced one summer morning in 1977 that we were moving to Paris in 10 days, we didn’t overly question her decision. We were oblivious to most of the searing details, but even at ages 12 and 11, we noticed things were odd. One night our dad sat us down to tell us he was taking his own apartment, “to think things over.” A new woman perched herself at the side of the tennis court, and watched our father’s noontime matches – wearing only a bikini. Now clothed, this same woman accompanied us out to dinner with our dad. At bedtime, especially, our mother hugged us a lot and gamely told us that everything would be fine. Paris wasn’t exactly the “Gay Paree” my sister and I had pictured. Tossing snowballs around the Eiffel Tower, on our way home from school each day – this was what we imagined our new life would be once we left Southern California. Instead we arrived to a dingy apartment up four flights of stairs with a windowless shellacked bathroom we called the “Black Hole of Calcutta.” My voice broke mid-sentence during my father’s first phone call, and, between
exhaling sobs, I heaved, “I hate it here!” In the bowels of a Metro station, on a plastic bench bolted to the wall, my sister lay miserably with her head in my lap. Our mom was outside, pounding the pavement, checking out yet another school possibility for us. “Elle e’est malade?” passers-by asked with concern. I could only shake my head, since “jet-lagged,” “homesick,” and “starving for some familiar American food” were well outside my extremely limited French vocabulary. (Impossibly, my sister didn’t like baguettes or croissants until later.) In general, during that year abroad, there were few low moments our mother could not fix. She located the American food store, which sold “real” chocolate chips in the yellow package just like home. She devised the perfect solution for the food-splattered, greasy kitchen walls that grossed out all three of us: buy several spatulas, two cans of super-white enamel paint, two six-packs of beer, and voilà – host a painting party for some visiting American college students. “Start scraping!” she cheerfully commanded the minute they crossed the threshold. When school closed for the February ski vacation, she stuffed our tiny car with a week’s worth of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and banana bread, and drove a line due southeast out of Paris. Bleary-eyed and with a death grip on the wheel, she didn’t stop until we arrived in the small Swiss village she’d heard had an affordable chalet. After check-in, the innkeeper discreetly tried to pass her a fistful of francs. Countless times I witnessed our mom behave as nothing less than a Single Mom Super Hero. Later, I learned she braved other, more arduous adventures during this awful phase of her life. Episodes like my father announcing, “Honey, I’m leaving you, and by the way, that baby you’re carrying, better get rid of it.” Or this entreaty, which took place behind closed doors when he visited us in Paris: “Oh sweetheart, I made a mistake. Will you take me back?” Cliffs Notes version of plot resolution: She complied with his first request, and refused his second. So he married the “other woman” two months later. My mother excelled at being a Single Mom Super Hero…for 10 years. Today, as a married mother, I am in awe of her choices and amazed that there weren’t more tearful phone calls. When she did shed her Teflon cape, in that college phone call, for example, I am sad I didn’t grasp the significance of the gesture. It was easier to be impatient and academically stressed than to acknowledge parental vulnerability that day. Besides, I was busy cultivating a bulletproof, sunny disposition of my own – straight from the pages of my mother’s handbook. Today, as I pass along this upbeat, shielded outlook to my own two boys, the grownup in me wonders whether this short-changes a parent in her own hour of need. Instead of having an epiphany that day, while floundering at what to say next, I stared at one of my favorite photographs of her, push-pinned into a corner of my bulletin board. She’s wearing a James Bond yellow ski suit (pure ’80s), leaning on her ski poles. Her long blond hair picturesquely streams back from her smiling face and a perfect Swiss Alp fills the background. This is my mom, not the crying woman on the telephone. Of course, she is both of those women, and to her credit, my autopilot mental picture of her 25 years later remains that beaming bombshell in the Swiss snapshot. She has come down from her lofty perch only a few more times since that tearful call, treating me like a peer rather than someone to protect. But then she takes to the skies again, soaring magnificently, with all of the other Super Heroes.
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Caryn Martin Caryn Martin, owner of Once Upon a Time Consignment and Antiques, remembers how much fun she and her husband had on their last vacation to Las Vegas. “We did a little bit of everything—exhibits, shows, sightseeing, playing the slots and shopping. We saw Carrot Top and could not stop laughing.” Caryn’s best vacation memory is a girls’ trip she took while living in Charlotte. “A group of us (just girls) went to Nags Head and Manteo for a week. We rented a house right on the beach.” Caryn is the primary caregiver for her 83 year-old mother and will celebrate Mother’s Day at her home with a special brunch. “Mom suffers from many health issues that cause her to be housebound. It will be a treat to have her over and spend time with her.” Family is important to this hardworking businesswoman, and she makes it a priority to keep in touch. “Spending time with one another, especially with my side of the family or my husband’s, is something I believe we all wish to do more often. Each of us lives in different cities and with everyone working and our nieces and nephews in school, visits are few and far between. The phone, email and handwritten cards are usually our mode of communication.” Caryn and her husband took over Once Upon a Time Consignment and Antiques about seven months ago and have been busy transforming the store. “We love meeting and getting to know visitors and locals. The best part of the business is definitely the people you meet, and I would like to think that they keep coming back to see new and fresh consignments and to get a little of some ‘good ole’ southern hospitality!”
Once Upon A Time Consignment & Antiques, 5107 North Kings Hwy, Myrtle Beach 843-839-0050 www.onceuponatimeshop.com
Dawn Brown Dawn Brown, owner of Tiki Tan/Bou’Tiki serving North Myrtle Beach remembers her last vacation well. “We went to the Bahamas. I really wanted to catch a BIG fish because of an ad I saw online, BUT, we only caught a barracuda. We still had a great time and got to relax a little.” Her best vacation memory is a trip to Las Vegas where she was engaged at the Eiffel Tower. Mother’s Day is a special time for Dawn and her family. “I have one daughter, Courtney, who works with me. We will probably spend the day on the water and then go to dinner.” Her mother and grandmother will join Dawn and Courtney for dinner. The four generations get together often. “Dinners, boating and holidays are always a blast,” Dawn said. Dawn opened Tiki Tan in March of 2009 and loves her work. “The relationships I have developed with my clients, employees and suppliers are the best thing about being here. It seems more like a big family.” Tiki Tan has lots of repeat business, and Dawn works hard to ensure her customers are happy. There are always lots of specials—check them out online at www. hotikitan.com or on Facebook for up to the minute information. Customers can choose from four levels of tanning in a clean, modern environment. “We have amazing tanning beds and are always adding new items to Bou’Tiki—our Designer Skin Luminary is a fabulous product. Everyone always likes to stop in and see us!”
Tiki Tan/Bou’Tiki, 2126 Hwy 9 East, Longs, 843-390-2769 www.hottikitan.com or www.boutikigifts.com
Dr. Kimberley B.C. Goh Dr. Kimberley B.C. Goh, of Grand Strand Plastic Surgery, took her last vacation in the mountains of Georgia, saying, “We hiked and walked on trails in the forest. One of my most memorable vacation trips was to Alaska. I absolutely loved it. We even took the bus trip two days up the Alaska Highway, which is a gravel road up to the Arctic Ocean. It was one of the most aweinspiring and beautiful places I have ever been.” Dr. Goh gets together with her mother and mother-in-law frequently, but is not always able to be with them on Mother’s Day. “My family and my husband’s family try to get together at least once a year, but as our siblings’ children get older, it is more difficult. When we are here in Myrtle Beach, we cook, shop, talk and go to the beach. The rest of the time we stay in touch by email, phone calls, visits and facebook.” Horry County resident since 1991, Dr. Goh completed her Plastic Surgery Residency/Fellowship in Cincinnati and came here to join Grand Strand Plastic & Reconstructive Surgery. She was the first woman in the Department of Surgery at Grand Strand Regional Medical Center (then Grand Strand Hospital) and only the second woman on staff there, later becoming the first Chief of Surgery. “The best part of my work is actually being able to see what I do make a difference in my patients’ lives. It is remarkable how repairing, reconstructing or enhancing a person’s body can make them more confident in their day to day lives. Our patients are very important to us and we appreciate their trust in us.”
Grand Strand Plastic & Reconstructive Surgery Center, 4610 Oleander Dr., Myrtle Beach, 843-497-2227 www.kimberleygohmd.com
BUSINESS Electa Drake
Electa Drake, owner of Beaver Junction, laughed when I asked her about her last vacation. “It’s been so long I can’t remember! I do remember my best vacations; they were spent here, at my aunt’s home in Garden City, when I was a child. We would come from Georgia or Louisiana, and I was always able to bring a friend to experience our coast. The entire family came—I have lots of good memories.” “My daughter, Caitlin, and I will spend Mother’s Day together. We just hang out and watch movies—I’ll cook, and she’ll clean up. It’s a good day for both of us,” said Electa. “Our lives are so busy; it’s nice to have down time. Caitlin is my heart. She attends CCU and works for my sister, Leslie Beaver, at Beaver Bar.” Electa and her sister see each other quite a bit, since she owns the bar across the street. “I love spending time with Leslie’s children, my nieces and nephews, and their children and spouses. Since I moved to the area, I’ve been able to really get to know them.” A move from Louisiana to the Grand Strand inspired Electa to follow her heart and open the unique and eclectic business she’s always wanted. “I first opened a small shop in Georgetown after I moved here after Hurricane Katrina,” Electa began. “I had always wanted an antiques shop. People who like old things are a different group and usually are a very kind and generous group.” Electa enjoys talking with her customers and hearing their stories. “I may forget a face or a name, but I never forget a story! I have a lot of unusual things and you will generally find something new every time you come in. Stop by and see me!”
Beaver Junction Antiques & Consignments, 3525 Business 17, Murrells Inlet, 843-651-8955 http://facebook.com/Beaverjunction
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www.brookgreen.org
BOOKSHELF
Admission: $14 Adults, $12 Seniors, $7 Children 4-12 & Children under 3 are FREE!
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.
Butterfly Exhibit Opens Spring 2012 Admission is Good for 7 Days!
For more information, please call Ann Harris at 843-318-1732
On Highway 17 south of Myrtle Beach between Murrells Inlet and Pawleys Island.
Advertiser Index
Artzfolk & Co . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Brookgreen Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Distinctive Eyewear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Hannah B’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Art & Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Cabana Gauze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Douglas Diamond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Homespun Crafters Mall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Barbara’s Fine Gifts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Christopher’s Fine Jewelry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Eleanor Pitts Fine Gifts & Jewelry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Hucks & Washington Furniture Company . . . . . . 13
Beaver Junction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Coastal Dance Centre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
En Facé . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Indo Thai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Belk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
CRH Interior Designs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Grady’s Jewelers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
The Joggling Board . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Bou’Tiki . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
The Cricket Shop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Grand Strand Homewatch Caregivers . . . . . . . . . 31
The Kangaroo Pouch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Bright Blue Sea Bookshelf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
David E. Grabeman, D.D.S., P.A. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Grand Strand Plastic Surgery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
LifeWay Christian Stores . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
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Now Open!
Myrtle Beach’s Newest Weight Loss Center
of Myrtle Beach
843-293-2300 Physician Supervised Weight Loss Program
Office Visit Includes Medications • Free Body Mass Composition • Patient Discount Cards • Free Body Imaging • Student Discounts
Tuesdays & Thursdays 3:30 pm-7:15 pm Wednesdays 9 am-1 pm | 1 Saturday a month Located south of The Market Common in the South Strand Medical Office Building
5046 Hwy. 17 Bypass South | Suite 206
Litchfield Dance Arts Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
The Pink Cabana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Sculpted Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Too Qt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Long Bay Symphony . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Pounds Away of Myrtle Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Shabby Shindigs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Two Blondes on the Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
The Market Common . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
ProFlowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Shades & Draperies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Ultratan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
McLeod Health . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Redken Myrtle Beach Show . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Studio 77 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
WEZV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Once Upon a Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Rose Arbor Fabrics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Sunset River Marketplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
William E. Altman, DDS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Palmetto Ace Home Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Safe Kids Pee Dee/Coastal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Take 2 Resale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Pawleys Island Realty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Sassyfras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Taylor’s Boutique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Pawleys Island Swimwear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Scents Unlimited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Tiki Tan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
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Visit www.sasee.com for a full calendar and more Sasee events!
The Scoop
may 3 -24
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4-6
5
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10-20
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11-27
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Moveable Feast, Ron Rash discusses The Cove, 11 am, Tara Ballroom at Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort, $25. For more info, call 843-235-9600 or visit www.classatpawleys.com.
The Fox on the Fairway, Swamp Fox Players, Strand Theater, Georgetown. For times and ticket info, call 843-527-2924 or visit www.swampfoxplayers.com.
“Day of Wine & Roses,” Carolina Shores Garden Club 5th Annual Garden Tour, 10 am-1:30 pm, $10 includes refreshments. For more info, call 910-579-1057 or 910-575-2356.
19-20
21-28
25
15th Annual Waccamaw Arts & Crafts Guild Juried Exhibition, The Art Museum at Myrtle Beach, 3100 S. Ocean Blvd. For more info, call 843-235-2510 or visit www.myrtlebeachartmuseum.org.
Annual Blessing of the Inlet, Belin United Methodist Church, Murrells Inlet, 9 am-4 pm. For more info, call 843-651-7979 or visit www.blessingoftheinlet.com.
Blue Crab Festival, 9 am-6 pm, Little River. For more info, call 843-249-6604 or visit www.bluecrabfestival.org.
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Beach Music Party, 5-8 pm, 13 North Ocean Blvd, Surfside Beach Pier. For more info, call 843-650-9548 or visit www.surfsidebeach.org.
Rivertown Music and Arts Festival, 10 am-9 pm, Conway. For more info, call 843-248-6260 or visit www.conwaymainstreet.com.
Waterway Art Association 21st Annual Exhibit & Sale, Brunswick Community College Extension, Route 17, Calabash, N.C. For more info call 910-575-7981 or visit www.waterwayart.org.
may
An American Songbook: From the American Church to Basin Street to Broadway, Long Bay Symphony, 4th – 8 pm, Calabash Presbyterian, Sunset Beach, N.C.; 5th – 4 pm, First Methodist, Conway; 6th – 4 pm, Trinity Episcopal, Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-448-8739 or visit www.longbaysymphony.com.
Black Tie, Murrells Inlet Community Theatre. For times and ticket info, call 843-651-4152 or visit www.mictheatre.com.
Ocean Isle Concert Series, 6:30 pm-8 pm, Museum of Coastal Carolina parking lot, E. Second St., Ocean Isle Beach, N.C. For more info, call 910-579-2166.
Nobody Does Sonata to Mothers Tea “I do” Like We Do Join us for a tribute to Mothers
May 12, 2012 at 2:30 in the Afternoon
Eagle Crest Gracious Retirement Living Entertainment by
The Long Bay Symphony Youth Orchestra Woodwind Quintet Tickets $30
FOR TICKETS CALL: TICKETS ALSO AVAILABLE ONLINE AT:
843.448.8379
www.LONGBAYSYMPHONY.com
June 2012
Douglas Diamond Jewelers Great quality and prices on the area’s largest selection of fine diamond jewelry. Expert Jewelry Repair & Custom Shop
Need Extra Cash? We pay top dollar for your old and unwanted gold and diamond jewelry. 120-7 Shallotte Crossing Pkwy., Shallotte, NC 28470 Located in the Belk Shopping Center
Belle of the Ball
9 1 0 . 7 5 5 . 5 5 4 6
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We know her secret‌
Promotions may not be combined with other offers and other restrictions may apply. Background image is a model.
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