Sasee September 2011

September 2011 Priceless

In

memory everything seems to happen to

music. – Tennessee Williams

www.sasee.com

Cordially invites you to

Couture for the Cure “A Love Story�

High tea and Fashion Show featuring the latest bridal designs and trends Tickets $35 may be purchased at The Little White Dress 5001 North Kings Hwy. Suite 111 Myrtle Beach, SC29577 Or by calling 843-449-4940

Sunday October 23rd, 2011 2:30 in the afternoon The Dunes Golf and Beach Club Proceeds to Benefit

Dr. Almeida Joins the Exceptional Cardiology Team in Loris.

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

McLeod Physician Associates

Dr. Almeida looks forward to welcoming new patients.

48354-McL Dr. Almeida-Sassee.indd 1

Nathan J.S. Almeida, M.D. 3485 Mitchell Street, Loris, SC 29569 (843) 756-7029 3980 Highway 9 East, Suite 220 Little River, SC 29566 (843) 390-0877

8/12/11 3:17:50 PM

featured articles

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September 2011 Volume 10, Issue 9

Essentially. As we get older, it helps to laugh

by Catherine Durkin Robinson

Living Through Ditziness

by Lynn Ingram

Lola: The Memoir

by Kelly O’Dell Stanley

A Sensible Man

by Francine Garson

Southern Snaps

by Connie Barnard

Gifts From Afton Parkway

by Kim Seeley

Over the Rainbow

by Kathy Harlan

who’s who 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

An Unexpected Gift

by Fredricka R. Maister

Swan Song

by Nancy Crovetti

Live, Love, Laugh!

by Diane DeVaughn Stokes

PO Box 1389 Murrells Inlet, SC 29576 fax 843-626-6452 • phone 843-626-8911 www.sasee.com • info@sasee.com

I n T h is I ssue Read It! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Sasee Gets Candid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Tailgating…Sasee Style! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Women Who Mean Business . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Scoop on the Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

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Sasee is published monthly and distributed free along the Grand Strand. For subscription info, visit sasee.com. 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 © 2011. 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.

Nancy Crovetti is a freelance writer from Lamoni, Iowa. She discovered Sasee while visiting Myrtle Beach with her three sisters.

Last July when the last of her dog family passed away, the kennels sprouted ears of volunteer corn, one for each of her six Rotts.

letter from the editor One of my favorite things about my work is interviewing the many fascinating women highlighted in Sasee. This month, I met with Gina Trimarco, founder of Carolina Improv Company in Uptown Myrtle Beach Theater. She and her hilarious troupe of improv artists are well worth the trip to Myrtle Beach Mall and the very reasonable ticket price. See a show, and give yourself the gift of laughter.

September is one of the busiest months of the year for the staff of Strand Media Group. As most of you know, we manage the Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art, founded in 1991 with one performance and has since blossomed into a two-week regional celebration packed full of great entertainment. What you may not be aware of are the outreach programs sponsored by the Festival. This year, a capella group, Ball in the House, will lead workshops in two local high schools, giving their show choirs insight into the life and work of professional musicians.

Also, well-known street artist, Lee Jones will spend three days in the Waccamaw schools in Pawleys Island, inspiring young artists with a chance to create their own chalk masterpieces on a cement canvas. We hope you’ll come out to one of the events this year. Find the entire schedule at www.pawleysmusic.com.

cover artist

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.

Kathy Harlan lived and loved the space program years with her family in Houston. Now she volunteers and writes for fun.

Lynn Ingram would rather dance than eat three times a day – unless it’s steamed oysters that are being served. Lynn works as a clinical psychologist and part-time instructor in the psychology department at UNCW. Either or both of those jobs might account for why she recently tried to change the TV channel with her cell phone instead of the remote.

Fredricka R. Maister is a freelance writer who lives in New York City. Her essays have appeared in a variety of publications.

Fredricka can be contacted at fmaister@yahoo.com.

The Cellist (4’ x 7’), by Laura DiNello A resident of Naples, Florida, Laura DiNello was born in Chicago and is the single mother of four beautiful children. Her youngest child, her “special angel,” was born with Down’s syndrome and is a budding artist.

Best known for her work in cut canvas art, Laura has been featured on The Travel Channel and in some of the finer hotels in the country, including The Grand Bohemian in Orlando, Florida. For 20 years, Laura has created paintings for homes and restaurants all over the country and Europe. Currently, her work hangs in art galleries in Florida, Tennessee, and Georgia, and may be seen in Paula Deen’s book, Savannah Style. Contact the artist through her website, www.lauradinello.com or find her on Facebook.

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Francine Garson’s work has appeared in multiple different publications. Her flash fiction work has even received a first place award from the League of American Pen Women in 2010.

Francine is a former college counselor and law school administrator. Contact her at echo2665@aol.com.

Catherine Durkin Robinson is an award-winning humorist and nationally syndicated writer. You can find her online at www. outinleftfield.com. Catherine lives in Florida with her husband and twin sons. In her spare time, she investigates missing socks.

Kim Seeley lives with her husband, Wayne, in Wakefield, Virginia. She has just published her first national article in the new volume of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series entitled, What I Learned from the Dog. A little quirky, a whole lot frazzled, Kelly O’Dell Stanley is a graphic designer, wife and mother of three who carves out a few minutes here and there to write.

Diane DeVaughn Stokes is the President of Stages Video Productions, host of “Diane At Six” on EASY radio, free-lance writer and TV spokesperson. She and husband, Chuck share the same passions: travel, theater and scuba diving.

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Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

As we get older, it helps to laugh

Two months before my 40th birthday, I never looked or felt better.

Considering my high school and college years, this is pretty remarkable. I used to scare people with oversized t-shirts, an abrasive attitude and hair that could withstand 50-knot winds. After discovering exercise, obtaining a decent wardrobe allowance and growing my hair down instead of out, I finally became a bit of a babe.

So naturally something was wrong.

My Super-Healthy status took a dive and presented me with my first abnormal pap smear. As a result, I dealt with the indignity of a colposcopy without cocktails. Then, after several days of worrying and revising my eulogy, I got a call from my gynecologist’s medical assistant. She said no signs of cancerous cells can be seen up in my lovely.

“The results are essentially negative.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Essentially negative?” I said. “What does that mean?”

“You should come back in six months just to be sure.”

When did we stop getting a clean bill of health

by Catherine Durkin Robinson

from our physicians?

Somewhere in my 30s, the need to clarify began.

“You tested negative for lupus, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have it.”

“Everything looks fine, Catherine. For now.”

Essentially.

I can’t remember the last time my doctor handed me a lollipop and cheerfully remarked, “With that smile and impressive central nervous system, you’re going to live forever!”

I’m not sure whether it’s the sight of my spider veins, argumentative streak or general malpractice concerns that trigger such pessimism in medical professionals. I know I’m getting older, but if a test comes back benign, what’s the harm in shaking my groove thing and celebrating a little?

Essentially.

I made a few jokes, because laughter helps me cope with nervousness and doom, and hung up. As if on cue, the phone rang again.

My primary care physician called to talk about lab results.

“I’ve got to stop scheduling these check-ups back-to-back,” I said. “You guys are killing me.”

Turns out I have

something called hypothyroidism.

“That sounds familiar,” I said.

“Family history?” she asked.

“Exactly.” I cursed all my female relatives, dead or alive. “Bum to brain, I’m getting everything those broads got in their 60s and 70s!”

My primary care physician didn’t know what to do with that information.

I mulled for a moment. I’m a muller.

“So macular degeneration and congestive heart failure is next,” I sighed.

“Blind as a bat and trying to pull a thong over adult diapers is not how I envisioned my 40s.”

My doctor sighed.

She doesn’t believe in the power of laughter.

Essentially.

After a bit of research, I discovered I exhibit none of the symptoms related to hypothyroidism. Most patients are: Overweight Lethargic Physically weak Come on, now. I keep up with two 11-year-old boys without using stimulants and can open a jar of pickles on my own.

Depression Irritability Mood swings Those are my favorite character traits. What mother isn’t irritable?

Unpredictable mood swings keep kids in line.

Absentmindedness Okay…guilty as charged. Yesterday I put tampons in the pantry and croutons under the bathroom sink.

Decreased libido Double gulp.

In my defense, I’ve been preoccupied with a deteriorating cervix. Did my husband write this list?

My doctor recommended a medication: Synthroid. If the magic pills work, Synthroid and I will be together the rest of my life.

Not one to jump into any serious commitment, I scheduled another blood test and a consult with a dietitian.

My doctor sighed and said, “A faulty thyroid can lead to all kinds of heart and sight disorders.”

“Hey,” I shouted.

“Call the guys I dated in college. Pressuring me will get you nowhere.”

Again, I started to laugh at all the absurdities that come with age. This

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Essentially.

felt so much better than wallowing in misery or parking myself in front of the television. I called a reporter friend of mine, who works for a local newspaper, and talked to her about the need for a humor column about getting older.

After all, my forties is only the beginning.

Hopefully.

I submitted my query to an editor and View from the Hill, my column about aging with a cocktail in one hand and a magnifying mirror in the other, was born.

Since then, I’ve heard from hundreds of readers who find solace in laughing at our journey toward the inevitable.

And I didn’t even know hundreds read newspapers anymore.

As for my health? I always feel better after talking with friends. My girls and I used to discuss hot men, tongue kissing and Bon Jovi.

Now we’re wondering which meds can be taken with wine.

In other words, we’re all a mess. Maybe it comes with age. Therefore, as long as I can continue to wear a thong and open a jar of pickles, I will shake my groove thing and celebrate a little.

Essentially.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! 8 www.sasee.com

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I was compelled to read Caleb’s Crossing, by Geraldine Brooks, because my son spent the summer off the coast of Massachusetts where the majority of the novel takes place. Like many, I enjoy historical fiction, and Brooks writes about early America with wit and wisdom as she tells the story of Caleb Cheeshahteaumauk, the first Native American to graduate from Harvard College.

The narrator of Caleb’s Crossing is Bethia Mayfield, a minister’s daughter who has the spirit and determination to embrace knowledge and

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adventure while growing up in this small settlement among puritans and natives. Bethia meets Caleb, the son of a Wampanoag chieftain, while exploring the beautiful island and its secrets. Their relationship remains a secret as their friendship is forged, and their lives travel a path of love, loss and heartache. Bethia’s father takes Caleb into their home to tutor him while Caleb’s own father struggles to lead his people against the ways of the new colonists.

Bethia is an engaging and entertaining narrator as she confesses her darkest secrets and deepest fears. It is through her that we learn the great bits of history and the hard and fast religious beliefs of the time and area.

Geraldine Brooks has delivered another enjoyable novel that I genuinely liked and recommend.

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www.sasee.com 11

Ditziness Living Through

by Lynn Ingram

Todd says that when I die, he’s gonna have my obituary include a line that says “Pack a lunch” for those who plan to attend my funeral. He plans to headline the event by telling stories about me. Given that he’s the husband of my friend Sandy, who I have known more than half my life, he’s got a good bit of material to choose from. And, he’s correct in thinking that he could have plenty of company up there telling Lynn Tales. As a matter of fact, that advice on the bag lunch may be insufficient. Maybe we should plan on an all-you-can-eat buffet.

One story that Todd has promised to tell has to do with an electric blanket. I once lived in a charming little cabin near Lake City. We had a really cold winter, then a nice warm spell, and then the frigid weather returned. I like warm sheets, so just before I planned to slip off to dreamland, I turned on my dual control electric blanket. (Who, you may properly wonder, was in command of the second control? Alas, ‘twas I who was responsible for both; maybe wishful thinking prompted the purchase of a blanket with two controls, or maybe the thing was just on sale.)

At any rate, when I checked fifteen minutes later, my sheets were still icy. That seemed odd, so I double-checked: yep, both controls still glowed with the little orange “on” light, and both dials were set on high. So I puttered around the kitchen a bit longer to give that blanket more time to warm up.

Puttering completed, I checked again; still I had cold sheets. Hmmm, I thought; maybe I’ve just never timed this before. Just to be safe, I checked the controls one more time to confirm that they were really on. Back to puttering.

Third check; chilly sheets still.

I did this four or five times, maybe even six. I just could not figure it out. There was no good reason for my electric blanket to have stopped working when it worked just fine before we had that warm spell. Oh. Wait a minute.

Warm spell. Warm spell when having any extra stuff at all on the bed got to be too warm. Warm spell when I had removed the electric blanket from the bed.

Back to the bedroom I went. Into the hope chest I looked, and sure enough, there was my electric blanket, all tidily folded up, right where I had put it. I had unplugged the blanket from the controls, but I had never unplugged the controls from the electrical outlet. So sure enough, those dual control orange lights were glowing away, plugged in as they were to the outlet – but having one helluva time heating up that blanket in the hope chest.

This sort of thing is not all that unusual in my life. It’s been more

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than a dozen years or so now, but I very clearly remember the morning that I was having my coffee, truly yearning for a nicely warmed English muffin, and seriously needing to share with my friend Valerie some earth-shattering news.

So I have the phone in one hand and the muffin in the other as I sashay over to the microwave. Muffin into oven, fingers onto keypad: 278442 – no wait, that can’t be right; that is WAY too much time to heat up that muffin. Oh, right – that’s Valerie’s phone number. THOSE numbers get punched into the phone….

Then there was the time that I was just sick of my scummy shower curtain and decided to soak it overnight in a tub full of water and Clorox. Sure enough, I was running late the next morning and didn’t have time to finish the job, so I just kicked the curtain out of the way while I showered. I noticed that the water wasn’t draining out of the tub as it should, but I was too short on time to pay much attention. That evening, I rinsed the curtain, hung it up – and grew quite distressed when I realized that, in fact, the tub was no longer draining. Oh, great, I thought, have I used so much Clorox that I’ve somehow screwed up the drain mechanism? Off for the plunger I went, just in case there was a clog. Plunge, plunge, plunge. No results. Plunge, plunge, plunge some more. No results. I made a couple more attempts, got tired, gave up, made a note to buy Drano the next day.

Naturally, the next morning’s shower was spent standing in the water that accumulated as the shower ran – although not in the water left over from the night before. Dimly registering was the idea that the water was draining to some degree, although not properly. Hmmm. So the drain isn’t totally stopped up. Hmmm. And didn’t I leave a tub full of water the night I put the shower curtain in to soak? And wasn’t that gone the next morning? Wait a minute. I put that shower curtain in a tub full of water to soak, and to do that, I had to close the drain. Close. The. Drain.

september

Did I feel like a prize idiot? Yes, I did. Of course the water wasn’t going out of the drain any more – because the drain was closed. I had closed it to soak the shower curtain and never opened it back up. What had happened was the soaking water had slowly leaked out over the first night, and I had forgotten the drain was closed.

I could mention that I was in graduate school at the time, but UNCW might decide to rescind my degree, claiming newly acquired evidence of mental incompetence. Even I have to admit that the population of people who have used a plunger to try to open up a mechanically closed drain is likely to be exceedingly small.

However, it’s not like some of my more stellar brain-glitch acts haven’t been reasonably public. Take the little convertible I bought a few years back. Truth to tell, that car did not spend many days with its canvas top closed, but every now and then – say, when it rained – that was necessary. One such rainy day, I got to the bank drive-thru only to discover that my power windows no longer operated. I tried all the controls, punching, pushing, pulling. You know how we do this. Never mind that it didn’t work the last ten times, or that the other buttons have nothing to do with the windows. That magical thinking kicks in, and we are just so sure that SOMEHOW, some combination of button pushing, pulling, punching will cure the problem.

Nope. Not happening. So I drove to the dealership, not a happy camper at all, and pulled up to the service area to bemoan my plight to my favorite mechanic. He hopped in my cute little car – and hopped back out in no time flat, having returned my windows to full functionality. How did you DO that so fast? I wanted to know.

He just smiled, the way you do when you pat a very small and perhaps somewhat slow child on the head, as he said, “They never go down when you have the window lock button engaged.”

Oh. It is hard to slink away from an auto dealership in a red convertible, but truly, I did my very best.

I suppose I could worry that some of the dimwitted things I do are evidence that some essential brain connections are coming unplugged, rather like those of my electric blanket. I could, but I don’t, because laughing at this stuff is so much easier and a whole lot more fun. Plus, the people to whom I tell these stories get a good chuckle – not to mention a probable side order of boosted self-esteem (“Man, I am SO glad I am not that stupid!”)

It may be that I am performing an important public service, perhaps even setting myself up to become the newest healthy living guru. Folks have said for years that laughter is the best medicine. These days, we have research that suggests that regular laughter can help decrease blood pressure and levels of the stress hormone cortisol, provide some relief from depression and insomnia, increase the quality of sleep, and increase motivation for engaging in exercise and making healthier eating choices.

It looks to me like all the health benefits I get from laughing might outweigh the downside of my potential cognitive decline. Even better, I could be improving the lives of untold others. I can see it now; I could be starting a movement: Healthy Happy Living Through Ditziness.

Hmmm. This could change things a bit when it comes funeral time.

Hey, Todd, in addition to handling the food detail, you want to start checking into some larger venues? This could turn into a standing-room-only event!

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www.sasee.com 13

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www.sasee.com 15

Lola:

The Memoir

by Kelly O’Dell Stanley

Heads turn. The plate glass windows lining the buildings reflect flashes of turquoise and pink and waving flags. Teens whistle, laugh, and shout, craning their necks for a better look. I’m not the one getting the attention, though. All eyes are on Lola. Subtlety is not her style. Kids are drawn to her, but older women roll their eyes. There was a time, not long ago, when I agreed with them, but experience has deepened my wisdom and now I understand: There’s something special about Lola.

Humble beginnings

Living many hours from sandy shorelines, my friends and I longed to bring the beach to Indiana. Or maybe it was a midlife crisis. Either way, we needed a convertible. So, my husband, Tim, the fix-it man, set about making it happen. The ’89 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight was faded, worn and past her prime, but she ran, and she was cheap. Four of us each chipped in a hundred bucks, and Tim brought her home to do his magic.

Many hours, plugs, and wires later, after wrestling with a Sawz-all and a dead blow hammer, Tim unveiled our new convertible. (Maybe “convertible” is the wrong word, since it doesn’t actually convert; it’s simply a car with no top.) With the addition of a giant pink swimming noodle glued around the sharp, rough metal edge of the windshield for protection, we set to work.

Using nothing but spray paint and paint tape, I turned the lower sides of the car into a grainy, sandy beach and transformed the grimy white metal with metallic blue spray paint. Against this watery, shimmery sky, I added a couple of palm trees in back and a swirly, spirally sun across the hood.

Peggy and Tammy hot-glued felt flowers around the rear-view mirror and pink fur to the dash. We strung garlands of blue silk hyacinths around the windshield and back seat, intertwining strands of plastic bananas and pineapples. Silk leis and sandal air fresheners dangled from the mirror, bath mats covered the floor, and striped beach towels became seat covers. A fake grass skirt undulated from the rear bumper and a beach umbrella stuck up proudly – if wobbly – from the center of the open car.

At heart, she was still the same, but a transformation this radical required a flashy, exotic stage name. The words of the song clinched it: Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair and her dress cut down to there….”

Where Lola’s back window had been, a rear brake light begged to be used as a stage. Using Liquid Nails, we placed a dashboard hula girl there where she danced for onlookers until the day we hit 50 on the highway and she flipped her spring, bouncing and flopping and contorting. As we envisioned her taking that inevitable final leap, in all her ceramic glory, through the windshield of some stunned onlooker unlucky enough to be following us, we sadly relegated her to the glove box. No longer our showy mascot, at least she could still be part of our adventures.

Accessories are everything

A friend asked us to enter Lola in a small car show he was having.

Her beauty was less exquisite and more, well, internal. So we set to work accessorizing. Thanks to our friends, Lola had a sunny antenna ball from Hawaii, a spiral windsock, a magnetic clipboard that exclaimed “Aloha!” from the dash, and – the pièce de resistance – a 10” carved coconut monkey hood ornament.

We sprayed the wheels hot pink and hot-glued hundreds of shells along the top of the back seat, filling the gap vacated by the kamikaze hula girl with a giant rubber pineapple. A silk parrot and boogie board on the trunk completed the look, and we high-fived and admired our outrageous handiwork, secretly hoping not to be asked to be seen with her in public.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful

It was time to deliver Lola to the car show. I’d been worrying about

16 www.sasee.com

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how the serious restorers and collectors would react to Lola, because, well, she was not very serious. At the small city park, balloons bounced in the wind and our friend hunkered in the shade playing oldies on scratchy loudspeakers. Lola preened between the vintage, gleaming, radiant, airbrushed machines; a washed-up hooker among aristocratic gentlemen from old money. I was as embarrassed for her as if her dress had been tucked into the back of her pantyhose. Parked jauntily in a corner, with her colorful rear end facing the crowd, Lola was surrounded immediately by giggling kids. The owners of the “real” cars stayed in their lawn chairs shaded by sun umbrellas, mumbling to their wives, waiting before casually (and disdainfully) walking close enough to get a better look. Once we’d registered, I left.

Later that day, I heard a ruckus and ran out front. There she was, in all her kitschy glory – a beauty queen at the end of the runway blowing kisses to her fans. Lola had been named Best of Show, an award determined by the popular vote. (Men muttered that kids stuffed the ballot box, and we’d better not cross railroad tracks in “that thing,” “that car-that-isn’t-a-real-car,” because it is sure to fold in half.) Peggy was honking the horn, with her kids triumphantly hoisting the massive, garish trophy. I hopped in and we drove around town, rejoicing with the kind of exhilaration one feels for an underdog who becomes the unlikely champion.

More than meets the eye

If Lola were a woman, she’d have a great big beehive hairdo, even bigger cleavage, long nails with jewels on them, and leopard print tights. Pretty in the right light (or at closing time), she’d wear red stiletto heels and a great sense of humor. Her kindness, sprouting from first-hand knowledge of being judged by appearances, would keep people near. If she were a house, she’d be a brokendown double-wide, freshly painted pink and parked in an upscale neighborhood, with lots of symmetrically matched candleholders and fake plants hanging on the walls. And if she were a monument, she’d represent the sustaining power of friendship and community and fun. She’s just like my friends Tammy, Peggy and Glenna – a whole lot of fun, just a little bit silly, and real, solid, spirited, and true.

(And maybe just a little bit saucy.)

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Sensible Man

by Francine Garson

My husband is a sensible man. Practical. Responsible. Intelligent. And certainly logical. Mitch protects his back by bending his knees when lifting a heavy suitcase and doesn’t wear suede shoes in the rain. In fact, he doesn’t even own suede shoes. He knows what to do when what-looks-like-a-red-sailboat, but turns out to be the oil indicator light, appears on the car’s dashboard, and he understands terms like amortization, working capital and rate of return.

Mitch is easygoing and well-adjusted. As the owner of a wholesale tire business, he manages to keep customers, vendors and employees satisfied, and sometimes even happy. He doesn’t get angry at our children when Jenna loses her cell phone again or when Michael’s glasses turn up twisted into a plastic and metal pretzel after a fraternity party. On the face or in the case, remember?

No, Mitch remains even-tempered and calm. His mantra is, “I don’t worry about things I can’t control.” Even the rough air that sent an airline

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serving cart crashing into a bathroom door on a recent overseas flight didn’t disturb his iPod-accompanied snooze. My husband is rational, calm and sensible.

Usually.

In my world, September means driving slowly behind yellow school buses, feeling the first hint of chill in pre-autumn nights and thinking about wearing closed-toed shoes again. Empty lifeguard chairs dot our New Jersey beaches and a temporary Halloween store appears in the mall. A single reddishgold leaf decorates the maple tree in our backyard.

But to my husband, early September signals one very important event, certainly more important than cooler weather or plans for a Labor Day barbecue. In small towns and in big cities, in Florida and in Texas, September marks the beginning of football season in America. Fans head to stadiums or plant themselves in front of televisions in order to watch men in numbered team jerseys throw, catch, run and crash into each other. In New Jersey, caps, windbreakers and travel mugs in either New York Giants blue or Jets green sprout up in supermarkets and shopping malls. I have learned that true fans never mix colors. In our house, from September through December, my husband’s weekend wardrobe takes on the decidedly patriotic tone of Giants’ blue accessorized with red and white.

So with each September, my practical, rational and decidedly unsuperstitious husband, the man who can’t understand the irresistible appeal of a turquoise handbag that doesn’t match a thing in my black, white and denim closet, and who has no problem with plane flights on Friday the thirteenth, is transformed. No, he doesn’t turn an incredibly hulk-like green, nor does he raise his voice when Jenna calls about a misplaced credit card. But suddenly, in addition to my scribbled reminders of birthdays and dental appointments, Mitch’s neat handwriting crops up on our master calendar. Each Sunday space from September through December, with the occasional Monday, is carefully inscribed with the Giants’ kickoff time. Fortunately, in the twenty-nine years of our marriage, none of our friends or family has had the audacity to plan a wedding or a reunion on a Football Sunday. And as Mitch’s conversations with Michael move from our son’s new job and his life in Chicago to discussions about offensive line protection and running games, I hear him say, “We look good this year.” I no longer question the “we.” When my husband claims the overstuffed beige chair in our family room as his seat, I know that football season has truly begun.

As I stock the house with cashews, pretzels and beer, Mitch prepares too. He removes his cap and t-shirt commemorating the Giants’ Super Bowl win in 2008 from their protective plastic, replaces the batteries in the television’s remote control and charges his cell phone, which he uses for strategy consultations with Michael during time-outs and half-time breaks. I accept Mitch’s belief that his chair’s position in the room, whether or not our cat is sleeping on his lap and the fact that he wears his lucky Giants t-shirt will affect the outcome of the game. Knock on wood!

And I never, ever speak to my husband during a game, not even when the red sailboat shows up again.

As fall turns to winter, I take my boots down from the closet’s top shelf and stuff gloves into the pockets of my quilted jacket. The grayish sky promises an early snow. I shop for holiday gifts and stock up on mini-marshmallows in preparation for days of hot chocolate and shoveling. Mitch spends Sundays in his chair surrounded by nuts, pretzels and beer. The television’s blare is punctuated by his screams of delight or groans of despair. An occasional burst of clapping interrupts the steady rhythm of my husband’s agitated pacing. And I tell myself that the sensible man who I married will return when football season is over at the end of the month…unless of course, the Giants get into the playoffs!

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Southern Snaps Charlotte Angotti: Has Quilts, Will Travel!

by Connie Barnard

Several years ago internationally renowned quilting expert, and Conway resident, Charlotte Angotti was taking a cab from Logan Airport into Boston. As five lanes of traffic approached a tunnel clearly wide enough for just three lanes, she nervously asked her driver why there were five cars and only three lanes. The Boston cabbie replied dryly, “Lines are just suggestions.” On reflection, Angotti says the same could be true of the paths her own life has taken. Combining a background in fine arts and traditional quilting with her trademark use of bold color and sense of fun, Angotti has gained fame as an innovative quilt designer who colors outside the lines. One part artist, one part teacher, and one part stand-up comedian, she has created a successful life doing what she loves most and sharing it with others.

The daughter of an Air Force pilot, the late Norm Barikmo, and his vivacious wife Polly, Charlotte was born in her mother’s hometown, Montgomery, Alabama. Like most military families, the Barikmos and their four daughters moved often, but Charlotte always considered Alabama home.

In 1978 after graduating from her mother’s alma mater, Huntingdon College, Charlotte was visiting her parents at Quantico, Virginia, sorting out what to do with a degree in fine arts, speech and drama. One afternoon while browsing in the nearby little marina village of Occoquan, she stumbled upon a quilt shop, and her life changed forever. She fell in love with the colors and amazing patterns of the craft and immediately began quilting lessons, steeping herself in all elements of the revered early American tradition. Charlotte’s free spirit and artist’s soul could not be contained by these boundaries, however, and she soon developed her own visionary design concepts. Like the Boston cabbie, Angotti says, “I had to start out by learning the rules then over time began to use them more as suggestions.”

Charlotte sold her first quilt creation immediately after completing it, and she has been making and selling quilts ever since. This is the mainstay around which she has built a creative, multi-faceted career. Soon someone approached her asking how to make a quilt, so Angotti became a teacher as well, ultimately sharing her talent, skill and sense of fun with thousands all over the world. In 1981 she opened a quilt store in Virginia Beach where she sold quilting supplies and taught classes for 18 years.

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During this time, she also began working with Alexander Henry Fabrics, a small California manufacturing company for whom she still creates display quilts for its market show booths.

Along the way, Charlotte developed yet another dimension to her repertoire: pre-cut kits containing everything needed to create one of her original designs. These soon became so popular that she had difficulty keeping up with orders. Fortunately, about this time she crossed paths with John Flynn, a Montana quilting expert who uses a laser to cut and sear fabric pieces. She says, “John’s work is so precise – it is within 1/500th of an inch in accuracy. That is about the size of a hair!” Together the two worked out an efficient and effective system for assembling the quilt kits. John warehouses thousands of yards of fabric for Charlotte who keeps half yard samples for new designs. After she tests a kit for quality control purposes, Flynn cuts, packages and ships them. Janice Broussard of Katy, Texas, says of Angotti’s design kits: “When you work on a quilt designed by Charlotte, you are assured your finished product will be beautiful, unique and virtually perfect.”

As with her kits, Charlotte’s quilting classes had long waiting lists as well. Boston quilting expert Anne Boyce visited Virginia Beach for one of her workshops. She recognized Angotti’s extraordinary talent and offered to help spearhead her move into large national and international arenas. Ten years after starting her quilting adventures, Charlotte found herself presenting workshops at the country’s largest quilt shows such as in Houston with up to 60,000 participants, Long Beach, California, and more recently, the quilting capital of Peducah, Kentucky.

Angotti jokingly calls these one-day classes “Sweat Shops” – an apt image of the huge room filled with intent quilters bent over their machines. Her classes have become so popular that participants are given passwords to keep out unregistered interlopers.

In addition to her widely acknowledged expertise, Janice Broussard attributes Angotti’s popularity to her relaxed teaching style and riotous sense of humor: “Taking a class with Charlotte is a new and different experience. Other teachers often have their classroom doors opened, with dutiful students at their machines or taking notes while the teacher stands at the head of the room.

Not so in a Charlotte class. Her classroom door is closed, windows covered with paper, as loud, rambunctious laughter emanates

september

from the classroom, echoing down the hall. All the secrecy, coupled with the roar of hilarity, makes the outsider long to be on the other side of the door.”

This sense of fun pervades everything Angotti does. Broussard says, “She looks at the world out of the corner of her eye, telling stories about normal people moving about the world in farcical situations…poking fun at herself as much as others.” This sense of fun carries over to the titles she chooses for her workshops and quilt designs, along with sometimes raucous tales regarding their provenance. Her most popular class is entitled “Let Me Surprise You.” Until they arrive at the workshop and receive their kits of pre-cut fabric, participants have no idea about the design or colors of the quilt they’ll make.

As Charlotte describes it: “Finally, a class where you know you’ve brought the right things!” Other whimsical titles include workshops, “Cure for the Common Quilt” and “Chain, Chain, Chain,” and quilt designs “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and “Why Walk When You Can Fly.” Angotti also leads small workshop sessions, including several in 2011 sponsored by local quilt guilds in Charleston and Columbia, and conducts privately hosted sessions in such beautiful spots as Hawaii, Isle of Palms and a large oceanfront home in Garden City. At these, invited guests arrive from around the country to enjoy three days of gourmet meals, fine wine and Charlotte’s entertaining lectures.

As word of her popularity spread, another exciting adventure presented itself to Charlotte, one that combines her two most favorite pastimes: travel and quilting. Sew Many Places, a specialized travel company which sponsors quilting trips to destinations all over the world, approached Angotti about leading travel workshops. The company provides all aspects of the trip, even sewing

machines. Instructors bring quilt designs, fabric and supplies, so the participants can just sew, travel and have fun. In 2007 Charlotte led an eight day quilting tour of Italy with a memorable group that included her mother, Polly.

This year she has just returned from an unforgettable ten day August cruise through Alaska appropriately titled “Quilting under the Midnight Sun.” For 2012 she is working details for a quilt shop train tour.

In 2008 Charlotte moved to the Grand Strand realizing, as she put it: “I can live anywhere as long as it has an airport.” She enjoys the opportunity to be near her mother and sisters as she works in relative anonymity from her Conway home, constantly moving in new directions and adding new dimensions. In addition to designing, traveling and teaching, Angotti is also working on two quilt design books to be featured on line next spring on “The Quilt Show.” Her designs are also featured in the current (September) issue of the magazine, McCall’s Quilting.

A wise person once advised: “Do what you love; the money will come.”

This has certainly proven true of Charlotte Angotti over the past 30 years as she has carved out a unique and fulfilling life. Described by her friend Janice Broussard as a human vortex, Angotti naturally draws others toward herself and her projects. At the same time, her success has clearly involved large amounts of risk-taking and hard work. Her publisher and friend Debbie Caffrey says, “Charlotte leaves it all on the stage or in the classroom, just like an athlete on the field…There are many, many creative people in the world. What impresses me about Charlotte is how much she accomplishes with her creativity.”

[To learn more about Charlotte Angotti, visit these sites: www.charlotteangotti.com; www.QuiltMakerStudio.com; www.sewmanyplaces.com.]

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Gifts

From Afton Parkway

by Kim Seeley

I drove down a road just the other day that I had not seen since I was eleven or twelve years old, Afton Parkway. The only recognizable feature of the area was the shape of the little town square, the gazebo, and the ancient cannons that still seemed to be foreboding and yet protective of this peculiarly hallowed ground. It’s not really hallowed, of course, but it represents a piece of my childhood that I had not given serious consideration in many, many years. And if childhood memories can be considered a bit sacred, at least to a possessor of them, then this area qualifies as sacred ground to me.

My mother drove me down this same road for five years, once a week, on Saturday mornings. At eleven o’clock, I left my mother and knocked on the door of what I considered a grand house. I was greeted at the door by a rather severe-looking woman with her gray hair always pulled back into a bun. I glimpsed the antique furniture and grandfather clock in the living room, but I always followed the woman straight into the small room on our left, which contained a piano, a bench, and a chair. I took my place on the bench, and the woman, Mrs. Hoffler, took her place on the chair beside me.

“We will begin with the scales,” she would say, and I would dutifully begin with my C major scale. From the age of seven until I was twelve years old, Saturday mornings meant piano lessons with Mrs. Hoffler. She was an exacting teacher, rapping my wrists with a knitting needle she kept in her bun if I dared raise them too high above the keyboard. I took my piano lessons seriously, and I practiced every day, sometimes annoying the other members of my family as I struggled with a difficult passage.

While the wrist rapping would probably cause a cry of child abuse today, I never thought of Mrs. Hoffler as unkind. Strict, yes, but unkind, no.

Indeed, many of her gold and red stars still adorn my childhood music books, accompanied by acclaims written in her flowing longhand, “Excellent interpretation of this selection!”

As I became more accomplished, I memorized piano pieces for guild auditions, judged by a jury of renowned piano teachers. I prepared for that audition as if it would gain me a concert in Carnegie Hall. What I really received was a huge certificate with a score and comments. I still have my certificates in my scrapbook, with ratings from excellent to superior. One year, I received the prize Mrs. Hoffler had promised the student who garnered the highest guild audition score, a silver dollar. I was so proud of that silver dollar, but that was not the real gift Mrs. Hoffler had given me.

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During those five years of Saturday mornings, I had been introduced to the geniuses of piano composition. I memorized pieces by Mozart, Bach, Brahms and Beethoven. I studied the great talents, such as Dvorak and Grieg, but these were not the only products of my time under Mrs. Hoffler’s tutelage.

She had taught me self-discipline, before I knew the meaning of the term. I was the only one who made the choice to sit down at the piano and practice my scales and musical numbers or stretch out on the sofa and watch TV. She taught me the sense of accomplishment that results from practice and mastery of a difficult task.

Even more than these gifts, Mrs. Hoffler opened my eyes to the world of music. If not for her, I might not have taken those college courses in music theory and music appreciation. Perhaps I would not have been accomplished enough to teach the Sunday school children’s choir for many years at my church. My children grew up in a home surrounded by music; popular, sacred and classic. My oldest daughter is a repository of decades of song lyrics; she knows the words to songs of my generation better than I do, as well as the lyrics of her own favorite musicians.

I thought of Mrs. Hoffler recently as I was singing my sevenmonth-old grandson to sleep. “Stay awake, don’t rest your head,” I crooned to baby Evan. Suddenly I saw the music book before me on Mrs. Hoffler’s piano. She allowed me freedom to play some popular music, as well as the classics, and I had learned every song from Mary Poppins as soon as the music book was published. I started singing, “Doe, a deer, a female deer,” and I recall that the Sound of Music songbook is in my den closet. It won’t be long before I will search those song books out, and tune up my old piano. After all, I don’t have Mrs. Hoffler here in person, but her spirit is still alive, as long as those with whom she shared the love of music pass it along to future generations.

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A

gentle snow fell on the city, turning to ice a few minutes after it landed on solid, gray buildings and imposing monuments. The flakes that floated to the street became part of the icy mud that paralyzed traffic, causing people to lean on their horns or shout at pedestrians. I got close to my destination, then fled the taxi and walked the last few blocks.

For two hours the people inside the auditorium forgot the chaos outside, as a tiny woman with a big voice sang her heart out. Finally, as the lights dimmed, she came to the edge of the stage and sat down with her legs dangling over the bare boards. Everyone there knew it was close to the end of her career; the drugs and diet pills had worked their evil magic on a once magnificent talent. Her voice was raspy and her breathing was heavy as Judy Garland began to sing the words that defined her life. “Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high, There’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby.” She died a few weeks later, and the poignancy of that performance will always remain a part of me.

When music, occasion, and emotions combine to create one of those magical moments it is a treasure never to be forgotten.

Growing up in the ’50s, I enjoyed the beginnings of rock and roll – the “safe” versions. Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock,” Fats Domino singing “Blueberry Hill,” even Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” was okay. But I was married and raising three children when I heard the song that led me to love Rock ’n Roll with capital Rs. Woodstock was over, and we were in Houston basking in the success of Apollo 11 when I heard a song on the radio that made me stop what I was doing and stand still until it was over – Janis Joplin singing “Me and Bobby McGee.” The raw and pure emotion in the voice singing those amazing lyrics was mesmerizing. Then I learned that Janis had died at age 27, before “Bobby McGee” was released. I would never be able to hear her sing it live. So I trekked to Austin, to Threadgills restaurant, where she used to perform. There was a pull-down stage, small and rough, and I imagined the plain, unpopular, unloved child finding herself there, with people eating chicken-fried steak and drinking Shiner Bock and cheering as she wailed “Feelin’ good was good enough for me, Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee.” Music has been a highlight of our international travel. We thrilled to

Gregorian chants in a tiny church in England built by Charlemagne. We were two of the five people present and the chants echoing off the stone walls were unforgettable. High above Barcelona Spain is the Montserrat Monastery where the world-famous boys choir trains. Hearing the beautiful, clear voices echoing through the mountains was a thrilling experience. The Salt Miners Band, made up of local mine workers around Austria was a treat. And what could be more special than an organ concert in Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris?

In Cordoba, Spain, we discovered a small restaurant in the Jewish Section that looked and sounded inviting. We squeezed into a small room filled mostly by a German choir on tour who sang as they ate dinner and for several more hours. Their repertoire included lovely folk music but also many nationalistic and militant songs. The waiters, who were Sephardic (Spanish Jews), may have been uncomfortable but they politely served the raucous group all evening. The only Americans present, we applauded their efforts many times, and obviously enjoyed the evening. They finished by turning to us, bowing, and treating us to their version of “Deep in the Heart of Texas.”

We had trekked all day in the foothills of Nepal only to find the field where we had intended to camp was totally underwater. It added another halfmile to the day’s challenges. Earlier, we had discovered that the rain had brought out huge piles of purple maggots that we had to navigate around – or across if necessary. Add to that the leeches that had attached themselves to our feet and legs, causing lines of blood to creep across shoes and stockings. After finally getting the tents set up, peeling off the leeches to the amusement of villagers who came to watch, and having dinner in the damp air, we prepared for bed in the tents set up on the soggy ground.

As we lay trying to relax and put aside the thoughts of maggots and leeches, an amazing event began. In the hills above our campsite a Hindu temple was located. At dusk the priests came outside with their primitive instruments to end the day with music. A bamboo flute, violin-like sarangi, and Napalese rhythm instruments combined to create a stunning concert that floated through the gentle hills and eased us to sleep.

It was the best concert of my life.

R e a h i t n b r e

by Kathy Harlan

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ow

Ov

Everyone there knew it was close to the end of her career; the drugs and diet pills had worked their evil magic on a once magnificent talent. Her voice was raspy and her breathing was heavy as Judy Garland began to sing the words that defined her life. “Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high, There’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby.”

She died a few weeks later, and the poignancy of that performance will always remain a part of me. september

Give dance a chance

Ball in the House

5 Guys, 5 Voices, THAT’S IT.

This performance is funded in part by a grant from South Arts in partnership with the National Endowment for the Arts and SC Arts Commission.

A review from the Boston Globe put it very succinctly

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www.sasee.com 27

gets candid

Meet Gina Trimarco

What will guests see at a show? Or in a class?

We have had a great summer – our shows have been rated number one on Trip Advisor in Myrtle Beach. There is something for everyone – you can bring your four-year old grandson or your 80 year-old grandmother and both will enjoy it. Audience participation is encouraged – that’s where we get our ideas!

People are familiar with the show, Who’s Line Is it Anyway?, and that’s very similar to the type of short form improv we do. We also do long form improv shows that are more play-like—but they’re always different! Improv is an energy boost – we’re creating something out of nothing.

I’ve heard a lot of feedback that I didn’t really expect from the classes. Students have said the classes helped them see life differently – and their life has improved as a result. Those comments are the kind of intrinsic payback that make it all worthwhile, even on the hardest of days.

Just walking into Uptown Myrtle Beach, home of Carolina Improv Company, is a mini-vacation – the comfortable, intimate, 75-seat theater, located in the Myrtle Beach Mall, is filled with echoes of laughter from the many delighted guests since its opening in 2009. Vivacious and attractive, Gina Trimarco, a Chicago native, is the founder and director of Myrtle Beach’s only improv company, offering a hilarious schedule of performances, as well as improv classes for youth and adults and team building workshops.

Gina, how did you get started in Improv?

Believe it or not, I actually started out as an accounting major in college, mainly to please my parents. It wasn’t long until I changed my major to journalism! I’ve always loved improv – and writing, producing and directing. While I was in school, I studied at The Second City in Chicago, where many Saturday Night Live performers got their start. After college, I got a job doing marketing for the Jenny Jones Show, and, at 23, I started my own marketing agency. What I didn’t know how to do, I learned – I said yes to everything! Eventually, I was head-hunted by IMAX Corporation. This is where I really learned to run a business – and I was able to turn the theater around. My success led to being asked to come to work in Myrtle Beach for the IMAX here.

While I was working here for IMAX, I looked around for improv classes, just to escape reality and have some fun, and found out there was nothing like it in our area. I travelled to Chapel Hill for classes, and my teacher there helped me start teaching improv classes here after I left my job with IMAX. I always knew I would end up with my own business again.

My first class was held in 2008, in Surfside, in what was then the Legends Theater. The classes became so popular I started looking for a permanent place to teach and do corporate training. The marketing manager of the Myrtle Beach Mall approached me about putting a theater in the mall – he had actually taken one of my classes. It was a great move. Currently, we have twentyone performers that are a part of the company.

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We know you have an exciting personal event upcoming as well.

Yes, my fiancée, Ted Cligrow, and I are getting married next month. We’ve been together for ten years, so we’ve already made it longer than most couples.

The improv group is doing a special show for us – I wanted them to get all the craziness out of the way before the big day. [laughing] Contact Gina at www.carolinaimprov.com, on Facebook or call 843-597-6393 for information about upcoming shows and classes. Show tickets are $10 and can be purchased online or at the door. Beer, wine and soft drinks are available in the theater.

september

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Where: Tommy Bahama Restaurant, Market Common When: Thursday, September 15, 2011 Time: 11:30-2:00 Wearable Art & Unique Items Silent Auction Strolling Fashion Show & Lunch Cost: $25 This first annual Wearable Art Luncheon is all about fashion, food, fun, and shopping!

A strolling fashion show will feature the hot new trends as well as wearable art and jewelry from local artists. You can shop for unique art, jewelry, hats, scarves and fabulous gifts in the silent auction. A portion of the proceeds will go to benefit the Kathy B. Metts Visual Arts Scholarship and the Pawleys Island Festival of Music and Art. Purchase tickets by calling 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com

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www.sasee.com 29

An Unexpected Gift

by Fredricka R. Maister

My behavior was inexplicable that day when I went shopping and bought Richard a gift for no apparent reason.

Richard was the man with whom I had shared my life. For 14 years we had been best friends, co-writers, lovers and soul mates. We meditated together, liked the same movies and restaurants, held similar political beliefs and above all, knew how to make each other laugh, even in the most unlikely situations.

While shopping during my lunch hour, I came across a bar of men’s soap-on-a-rope, one of Richard’s favorite toiletries. I hemmed and hawed over buying it for him. What was the occasion? Was I going to buy it because I had been so abrupt when he called me that morning at work?

But why feel guilty when he understood how stressed out I was at my job? Besides, he didn’t really need more soap. But he’s a good guy so why not give him a gift?

I kept leaving the display only to be drawn back to it. A flash forward to dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant that evening, and Richard’s surprise when I would ceremoniously present him with his soap-on-a-rope finally convinced me to purchase it.

But our dinner did not come to pass. Richard was found murdered in his apartment early that evening. The autopsy would reveal that Richard had been stabbed 10 times and had a fractured skull from a blow to the head. The estimated time of death was between 2 and 3 pm, precisely the time I was in the store obsessing over whether to buy him the soap-on-a-rope.

The police interrogations, the shocking news that a close friend had been arrested for killing Richard, my appearance as a witness before a Grand Jury, and the cruel reality that Richard had died a sudden and violent death

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were too much to bear. In the weeks that followed, my emotions took on a life of their own, the intensity of which was alarming to me. Rage, depression, terror, acute anxiety – I never knew which would surface or when. I felt totally out of control. Most evenings after work, I would sit on my couch, crying or staring into space. Sometimes I just crawled into bed.

I consulted a therapist, took yoga, got massaged, joined a support group for survivors of homicide victims and developed a network of trusted friends to whom I could unload my overcharged feelings. I was doing all the “right things,” yet I felt no respite from the pain. Homicide was ruling my life.

A friend who was a staunch believer in the healing power of rituals encouraged me to create a “New Age” ceremony to commemorate Richard’s death, using an object that had belonged to him as “an offering.” Although skeptical, I was willing to try anything to cope with my overwhelming grief.

I had once been told that in esoteric circles the soul is believed to reincarnate 40 days after one’s death. That point of information provided the time for my ritual, but what about the offering? Parting with anything that had been Richard’s would be an unthinkable sacrifice. Then, like an epiphany, I remembered the soap-on-a-rope I had wanted to give Richard.

It was still sitting on my dresser.

One beautiful April Sunday, exactly 40 days after Richard was killed; some women friends and I drove to Bear Mountain in Upstate New York, to the picnic area along the stream where Richard and I had spent many happy times. Except for a lone fisherman casting his net downstream, we were the only ones there. The stream, almost overflowing with the early spring runoff, forcefully gurgled its way past us. The setting for my ritual could not have been more bucolic and perfect – just the way Richard would have wanted it.

We scouted around for a spot to bury the soap-on-a-rope, which I had wrapped in the most elegant floral design paper I could find (I hoped the flowers were orchids because Richard really liked orchids.) We found the ideal burial place under a branch that had fallen across the stream and set to work digging a hole with sticks and an ice scraper retrieved from the car.

Once the hole was dug, we gathered around, carefully placing the soap-on-a-rope in its final resting place. As a friend held up an enlarged photograph of Richard, I announced, “This is in honor of the 40th day after your death, Richard. Let us now have a moment of silence.”

We joined hands and reverently bowed our heads. Just as we were ready to embrace the silence, something quite unexpected happened: I broke into an “unfitting” fit of uncontrollable, straight-from-the-gut, contagious laughter. The absurdity of the scene – grown-up women, looking far too solemn, holding up an oversized photograph of a man and getting ready to bury a bar of soap – suddenly struck us as hilarious. Without missing a beat, one friend said, “That’s Richard laughing at us.”

How comforting it was to feel that Richard was with us in spirit.

How liberating it was to give way to such laughter when I never expected to smile again. Could the laughter have been a sign, Richard‘s way of telling me to lighten up and be hopeful, assuring me that I would heal my emotional wounds and recover from the trauma of his murder?

With the passage of time I have surmounted the emotional havoc of Richard’s homicide. That is not to say that I don’t have my moments when the pain of his violent death unhinges and sets my emotions churning. A tender love scene in a movie, an old song on the radio, the stories of homicide on the evening news can suddenly sting without warning. But, inevitably, the memory of my ritual at Bear Mountain breaks through, recapturing that moment when I gave Richard his soap-on-a-rope, and he gave me the hope to heal and laugh again.

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Swan S o n g

by Nancy Crovetti

34 www.sasee.com

Sometimes walking from my cubicle, on some errand to a distant office or delivery pickup station, through warehouses stacked with giant shelves loaded with boxes of books, I am tempted to sing, just belt out a tune in what might be an acoustically wonderful space. But I haven’t – yet. There was a time when I would have and not cared who heard or what they thought. You get to a certain age and such things are looked upon more as aged eccentricity and less youthful exuberance.

My parents met in a concert band at Roosevelt High School in Des Moines. An old yearbook photo shows my mother poised at a harp; my father holds a clarinet, instruments I never saw or heard them play. Our house had a “music” room, featuring an upright piano. The room’s large closet of many shelves held dad’s clarinet, a violin along with my oldest brother’s saxophone, a guitar, a ukulele and a set of bongos.

I would peek into the instrument cases, breathing in the musty, sad smell of old velvet casing and reeds; try to put the woodwind together or press the keys on the shiny sax, to see if I could coax out a sound. With its polished curved wood veneer, the violin was most delicate so I only dared to open and look but never touch. The old instruments seemed sacred and mystical.

Our sheet music, well worn and abundantly scotch taped, included popular musicals: Carousel, Oklahoma, Porgy and Bess. Piano lessons consisted of me wandering in from running outside with the dogs while my sister played. I watched to try and figure out the notes and fingering to mimic later. If it was too hot outside, or raining, we might

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sing: her harmonizing the lower notes while I stretched my voice to the high notes. Those were my singing lessons. My voice was becoming my instrument.

It was in boarding school that I had my true vocal training. I joined choir not only because I loved to sing but also for the grand entrance and exits they made along the chapel aisle each Sunday service. Class choirs wore a white shirtwaist dress, but the upper class junior and senior special choirs wore cottas: a crisply starched tunic draping a satin dickey. Hymnals perched open in their hands, heads held high, eyes forward, barely glancing down at the words or notes, in syncopated step, the choir would march in singing the Processional; then at the end of the service march out again singing the Recessional.

Every service ended with an a cappella benediction in four-part harmony echoing from the vestibule. I wanted to be part of that angelic parade, one of those self-assured songsters who led the congregation each week, then heralded the service’s end, finally to steal away down the side staircases to the basement like vanishing seraphim.

After freshman tryouts, I was placed with the altos but admiring the high notes of the upper ranges, I snuck over to the second sopranos. Before long I realized my mistake: I’d never learned to read music, something vital to singing the right harmony. Since the highest soaring notes were easy to hear and read, making first soprano became my mission.

I listened carefully to the directives about breathing and singing not from the throat but from the diaphragm. Mr. Raymond taught us to listen to one another, to not compete, but to blend, to become one note from many.

Each week I practiced diligently to strengthen my range until my voice became one that was high yet strong and clear. By my junior year I had made the Chancel and Estey choirs as a first soprano.

Mr. Raymond resembled my father: tall and spare, with a quiet commanding presence that prompted our rapt attention and respect without raising his voice. In my senior year he selected me as a soloist for the traditional Christmas Vespers. That year, our school choir had been invited to perform at the First Unitarian Church in New York City where our recital would be recorded live by a radio station and then rebroadcast on Christmas Eve. To be singled out, a voice able to carry a song on your own was a scary and exhilarating honor.

We filed into the cathedral’s immense sanctuary from a side entry, to the quiet hum of the organ’s interlude, muffled conversations, occasional coughs and cleared throats from the congregation. Gazing upward at the vaulted arches, I ran through the words one last time; reminding myself: to not rush, to not stumble, to not forget any words, to remember this very moment, always. When the organ stopped, the lights dimmed. Encircled in the glow of a half dozen lighted evergreens, Mr. Raymond nodded, his baton aloft, and lifted his chin toward me in anticipation. I stepped forward.

There is a moment just before the beginning of a song, full of anticipation and fear: you want it to be over and yet want it to never end.

Surrounded by the soft harmony of altos, tenors, basses and seconds whose voices gently hummed the introductory bars, I counted the notes and waited for the moment the baton would signal my start. In those final seconds I took one last cleansing breath, remembered to stand up straight, remembered to let them hear it in the rafters. Hark in the darkness…clearly sounds a cry…

Like a firefly’s flickering glow, the moment came and then was gone.

The last measures of blended voices faded. Mr. Raymond lowered his hands and baton to end the song. Then, looking up, he beamed silently, gave me a proud nod, circling his thumb and forefinger together in a precise “OK” signal: well done. I stepped back to my place in the choir then turned the page of the songbook to the next piece. Singing, I discovered, is the closest I have ever felt to God: my song, a prayer. I was the proverbial duckling become a swan.

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Meredith Kennedy

Meredith Kennedy, Campus Director for the Conway branch of Miller-Motte Technical College grew up listening to beach music Miller-Motte with her parents, but as a teen started listening to country music. “I like a lot of country musicians, but I love Tim McGraw!” Meredith Technical College had to think a minute about her favorite concert. “I’ve seen Kenny 2451 Hwy 501 East Chesney several times and he’s wonderful, but I saw Neil Diamond Conway in concert once, and that was a great concert, too.”

866-309-2174 Personally, Meredith’s dog, Butch, a bichon frise, always makes www.miller-motte.edu her smile, but professionally, seeing one of her graduates get a job in their field always brings a grin. “Our office is high energy, and we have a lot of fun. Because of our open door policy, students are in and out of our workspaces throughout the day.” Meredith has been with Miller-Motte for 10 years and has been Campus Director since 2007, her favorite position so far. “I get to interact with students in every department from admissions to classes to career services. I love seeing them on their way to a new career and a better life for themselves and their families.”

Joanna Culliton

Take 2 Resale Inc. 11115 Ocean Hwy Pawleys Island

843-237-8447

Joanna Culliton, owner of Take 2 Resale in Pawleys Island has eclectic taste in music. “I like a large variety of music, but blues and jazz are probably my favorites. I think John Mayer’s guitar playing is wonderful.”

When asked about her favorite concert, Joanna didn’t hesitate. “I saw Elton John at Wembley Stadium—it was fab!” A dog lover and rescue volunteer, Joanna’s four dogs are always guaranteed to bring a smile—two Jack Russells, one mixed bred and a standard poodle.

Everyone at Take 2 Resale gets along well and the atmosphere is very lighthearted. “This type of business is perfect for an ADD person like me,” Joanna laughed. “I never finish a task without being interrupted a thousand times!” According to this busy wife and mom of three (23, 18 and 12), her wonderful employees make the work fun. “I think we provide a service for the area. A large variety of merchandise is available for reasonable prices, and customers can sell their things here, recouping some of their investment. We hope to be here for many years to come!”

Barbara McCahill

Barbara McCahill owner of PURPLEologist, loves the color purple, of course, but she also loves the cello. “I played the cello PURPLEologist as a child, and recently I was in Las Vegas for a trade show and The Shops at saw Celine Dion in concert. She had the most fabulous trio of Barefoot Landing, cellists I’ve ever seen. The concert was so entertaining and fun.”

North Myrtle Beach Barbara is even writing a book called The Purple Cello based on 843-272-prpl(7775) her love for the instrument. www.purpleologist.com “Purple has been my favorite color since I was three years old,” said Barbara. Now, everything is purple, even my golf clubs!” Barbara loves her business because the color purple makes people happy, and customers come in “oohing and aahing.” “You can’t be sad here; we have such a happy environment. A woman came in the other day, and suddenly big tears came rolling down her face.

Her son had recently died, and his favorite color was purple. She felt our store was a sign from him that she should be happy. We hear beautiful stories from person after person of their love of purple.”

BUSINESS Gail Roberson

Gail Roberson, owner of Bloomingails in Calabash, loves beach music and shagging; her favorite concert memory is seeing Lionel Richie and his piano rise into the smoky air to begin the concert with his famous song, Bloomingails “Hello.” “The crowd went wild!” Laughter helps Gail make her customers Consignment feel at home, especially the men who come in with their wives. But, it’s the 9990 Beach Dr. babies (and little dogs) that bring a smile to Gail’s face.

Calabash “The goal of my business is for every woman to be able to afford a few nice things,” said Gail. Designed for women on a budget, everything in 910-575-4949 Bloomingails is stylish and clean—a new outfit can be had for under $20— and women not on a budget will think they hit the mother lode! “I raised three children as a divorced mom with no child support, and there was very little left for me.” But, luckily, Gail had an eye for clothes and was able to look stylish wearing clothes she would find at yard sales.

“Women just have to have a few pretty things; it changes your whole outlook. A new outfit found on the weekend turns Monday into a wonderful day!”

Donita Johnson Homespun Craft & Antique Mall 114-A Hwy 17N Surfside

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Donita Johnson, owner of Homespun Craft and Antique Mall, loves country music. “I really don’t have a favorite, I like all kinds, but I do think Zac Brown is really good.” Growing up near Charlotte, Donita was able to see quite a few concerts. “I remember my mother keeping me out of school to stand in line and buy tickets to a Neil Diamond concert. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, that was an amazing concert—I’ve seen him again since and loved it!”

Her new granddaughter is guaranteed to bring a smile to Donita’s face.

“My son and daughter both live here, and this is my daughter’s baby.

I also have a step-grandson that I adore.” Donita’s favorite part of her business is meeting the people she serves. “I’ve always been crafty, but owning this business has taught me so much more. Our business is like a family and I look forward to going there every day.” Donita’s mom works at the store, also. “We go out of our way to help our customers find what they need. Even if we don’t have it, we’ll tell them where to find it.”

Darci Ponce

Darci Ponce, owner of The Strand Styling Studio in Market Common, loves contemporary Christian music and Sidewalk Prophets are currently her favorite band. She’s always enjoyed music, playing the piano as a child and the saxophone in high school where she was also a member of the marching band. “I saw the Dave Mathews Band at Red Rocks 2954 Howard Ave. Unit C Amphitheatre in Denver, Colorado for my 21st birthday, and it was the Live/Work Townhomes @ Market Common most amazing concert I’ve ever seen!”

Myrtle Beach Darci’s husband, an HVAC technician, is always guaranteed to 843-839-2188 bring a smile to her face. “We’ve been married for just over two www.strandstylingstudio.com years and have two cats named Lovers and Calamari. They are our babies…for now!” Darci is passionate about her business, saying, “My location in Market Common is beautiful, and I provide a relaxed and laid back atmosphere. My goal is always to please my clients and make sure they enjoy their experience.” This talented stylist loves seeing her client’s happiness with their new look. “I strive to exceed client expectations each and every time. The smile on their faces is why I do what I do!”

The Strand Styling Studio

Live, Love, Laugh!

by Diane DeVaughn Stokes

Everyone loves my mom, especially me. You see she is absolutely the silliest person I know, making any normal situation crazy with her way out sense of humor. When I was in high school, all my friends wanted to hang out at my house because I had the coolest mom. Nothing has changed.

She is still cool and bouncing off the wall with antics like you wouldn’t believe! It’s overwhelming to even think of how to write this article concisely with the stuff she has done over the years.

Let’s start with serious situations that most people would never find funny, like church. Mom would begin laughing at the littlest things: Perhaps a bee flying amidst the pews, a price tag left on someone’s hat, and the worst… the downed zipper on a man’s pants. That would throw her into a tizzy that would last all day and into next week! And if mom pulled a prank on my dad that he did not think was humorous, that made her even giddier. Oh, and the things Mom made Dad do. God rest his soul. He was a saint.

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I recall a cat funeral my mom had for her friend Pat whose beloved feline died suddenly. Mom called all the neighbors and asked them to wear black and go to Pat’s house that night where Mom stationed Dad on the front porch with a record player, on slow speed, playing “What’s new Pussycat?” A ceramic cat was in a shoebox, draped like a coffin on the fireplace hearth, while mom dressed another friend like a priest to do the eulogy. All this was to bring a smile to Pat and let her know how much she was loved. It worked.

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I bet none of you have a mom who makes get-well condom arrangements when her friends are in the hospital. My mom blows up colored condoms like balloons and attaches them on sticks into planters with ribbons and bows. Then she delivers them to those she treasures most when they are sick.

Aren’t you glad you are not one of her friends? I was never sure which Mom loved more; making the arrangements or going to the drugstore and asking for brightly colored, non-lubricated condoms! The kid who worked the register at CVS must have thought my parents had the most prolific sex life.

Mom never let a birthday go by without a silly prank. No toilet paper yard wrapping for her. That was too normal. She once filled a friend’s mailbox with popcorn. She sewed up the fly on dad’s boxers on one of his birthdays. She short-sheeted a friend’s bed. And one of her topten best happened when she was house-sitting for the next-door neighbors. Mom hung their underwear on a tree in their front yard while they were on vacation. It was a week’s worth of laughs as cars slowed down to see the goods neatly displayed on the huge magnolia.

The things my mom did to my boyfriends over the years would call for a book all by themselves. I knew I was living dangerously when I first brought Chuck, my husband to-be, to my parent’s house for dinner. Mom dressed in a flesh-colored tee shirt with big breasts painted on it, fishnet stockings, my dad’s jock strap and four inch platform shoes from the ’70s as she held a long stemmed cigarette holder in her mouth. After plying my dad with a few drinks, she made him put on a black shaggy wig, his Marlon Brando tee shirt and funky boxer shorts. The table was decorated in Clemson colors, because she knew Chuck was a die-hard Gamecock fan, and the napkin rings were made from the gray paper roll that is left when the toilet paper is all gone.

It was a night to remember, that’s for sure. I guess it was a great way to break Chuck into the family, and the rest of the night beat anything in the movie, Meet the Parents. Luckily, he still married me.

Another memorable but hilarious moment in our family history, thanks to Mom, was the day my birth father and his new wife came to South Carolina to visit me and reunite with Mom for the first time in 23 years. Well, the only way to handle a stressful event like this was to bring laughter into it of course, so Mom wore one of my old May Day, Southern Belle type dresses, while she costumed Dad in a rebel hat with a rebel flag, direct from South of the Border in Dillon. The icing on the cake was the sign mom placed in the front yard, “Yankees, go home!” What could have been one of the worst nights of my life, turned into one of the greatest nights of my life because of Mom’s creative vision for “the extraordinary” to break the tension.

One of Mom’s most unusual, and almost troubling, displays of humor came at her mother’s funeral. As we all stood crying over my grandmother’s open casket, Mom leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Don’t forget to give back those earrings I let you borrow for this wake!” Mom had added some of her own jewelry to make my grandmother look better, also knowing that Nana never went anywhere without her ear-bobs! My sister and I knew Mom said it to make us laugh, not to be disrespectful in any way. Nana would have loved it most, as no one appreciated Mom’s outlandishness more.

Last year at my nephew’s 6th grade graduation, he begged me to not let my mom do anything crazy that would embarrass him in front of his friends. It made me snicker to recall how I was once embarrassed by my mom’s mischievous spirit, but so proud of it today. Who knows, at 78 maybe that’s what has kept Mom so young at heart. Ask her what she does for a living, and she’ll tell you she is a “Call Girl” for Stein Mart. “When they call, I go to work.” Thanks Mom, no one exemplifies “Live, Love, and Laugh” better than you. You’ve taught all who love you that even in our most dismal moments, finding something to giggle about will always lighten the load.

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2004 Hwy. 17 South N. Mytle Beach, SC 29582 843.361.9191

Advertiser Index 131 Digital . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Maguire Law Firm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Accents by Carol . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 McLeod Health . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 All About The Carolinas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Me & Mommy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Art & Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Miller-Motte Myrtle Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Barbara’s Fine Gifts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Palace Theatre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Beaches Coastal Creations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Palm Shoes & Collections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Brookgreen Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Palmetto Ace Home Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Brunswick Community College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . . 15 Cabana Gauze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . . 18 CHD Interiors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . . 27 Cleansing Power at the Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . . 29 Coastal Carolina Breast Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . . 43 Consign @ 5th . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Pawleys Lifestyles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 David E. Grabeman, D.D.S., P.A. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 PIFMA’s Wearable Art Luncheon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Dickens Christmas Show & Festivals . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Pure Compounding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Dr. Jerry M. Guanciale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Purpleologist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Purple is... l Inspirationa 843•272•PRPL (7775) • The Shops at Barefoot Landing www.purpleologist.com Check out all the new updates to our website!

Dragonflies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Rose Arbor Fabrics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Eleanor Pitts Fine Gifts & Jewelry . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Scents Unlimited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Finders Keepers Consignment & Boutique . . . . . 39 Sculpted Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Frame Factory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Shades & Draperies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Fran’s Boutique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 The Social Garden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Grady’s Jewelers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Southern Guys & Gals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Brunswick Community College Foundation presents

Paula Deen

October 15 at 1:00 pm Order tickets @ www.bccowa.com or call 910-755-7416

Greg Beverly Services, Inc. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Strand Styling Studio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Hair Trends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Studio 77 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Hannah Bs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Sunset River Marketplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Homespun Crafters Mall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Take 2 Resale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Island Floors & Rugs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Taylor’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 The Joggling Board . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Taz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Katie’s Project . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 TV33 South . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Litchfield Dance Arts Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Victoria’s Ragpatch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 The Little White Dress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

WEZV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Long Bay Symphony . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Yoga in the Common . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

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september

Cleansing Power at the Beach Release 2 Years of Toxins in 30 Minutes Ionic Foot Detox

Call for appointment 843-427-7263 more energy

improve memory

pain relief

Free Kangen Water • Non Surgical Face-Lift • Detoxification Body Wrap

Now Offering Hatha Yoga Classes (Gentle Style)

Dr. Bruce Frye - Naturopathic coming in September • Call for details 211 Hwy. 17 N., Suite 210 Main Plaza, North Myrtle Beach

2126 Hwy. 9E, Unit 5-A, Little River, SC • 843-399-3300

september

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The Scoop

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September

Visit www.sasee.com for a full calendar and more Sasee events!

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PIFMA’s Wearable Art Luncheon, 11:30 am, Tommy Bahama, Market Common, $25. Lunch, silent auction and more. For tickets or more info, visit www.pawleysmusic.com or call 843-626-8911.

Myrtle Beach Greek Festival, Thurs. 11 am-9 pm, Fri. & Sat. 11 am-10 pm, Sun. noon-7 pm, St John the Baptist Greek Orthodox Church, 3301 33rd Avenue N., Myrtle Beach. For more info, call 843-448-3773.

Spyro Gyra, 7 pm, Brookgreen Gardens, $25 & $35.

For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

Ball in the House, 7 pm, Brookgreen Gardens, $25 & $35. For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

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Gallery Crawl, 3-6 pm, various galleries from Murrells Inlet to Georgetown, free. For more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

Pawleys Island Wine Gala, 7-10 pm, The Reserve Golf Club of Pawleys Island, $100. For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

Kickin Grass Band, 3:30 pm, Brookgreen Gardens, $25. For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

The Hit Men, A Tabled Event, 7 pm, Brookgreen Gardens, $25 & $35. For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

september

PIFMA Film Festival, matinee and evening shows at 3 and 7 pm, Tara Theater, Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort. For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

Atalaya Arts and Crafts Festival, Huntington Beach State Park, Daily fee is $6, multi-day pass is $10. For more info, call 843-237-4440.

Charleston Chamber Opera, 6:30 pm, Holy Cross Faith Memorial Episcopal Church, $25. For tickets or more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com.

Family Day with Chalk Under the Oaks from 1-6 pm and Bits ‘N Pieces Puppet Theatre at 3 pm, Brookgreen Gardens. For more info, call 843-626-8911 or visit www.pawleysmusic.com

843-238-3622 www.homespuncrafters.com

The Hit Men

114-A Hwy. 17 N. Surfside Shopping Center Surfside Beach, SC 29575 Mon - Fri: 9 am to 6 pm Sat: 10 am to 5 pm • Sun: 1 to 5 pm

Antiques Avon Collectibles Country Decor Fabrics + Notions Glassware Handbags Jewelry Luzier Personalized Cosmetics Unique Handmade Crafts Vintage Items Wood Products WoodWick Candles

Five Amazing Performers

Showcasing tunes from ’60s, ’70s & ’80s. They were the Four Seasons with Frankie Valli; they were the Shondells with Tommy James, and many others.

Saturday, October 1 • 7:00 pm • Brookgreen Gardens Tabled Event $35 Reserved, $25 General Co-sponsored by The Market Common and Croissants Bistro & Bakery.

Tickets Online www.pawleysmusic.com or 843-626-8911

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Real People, Real Results Call for a free consultation

1-888-904-1280 and save up to $1000

Ask about our 0% Financing September Special Offers… * with approved credit

Expires September 30, 2011

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