A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Bluffton Today column
March 20, 2011

On Monday, radio personality Howard Stern was discussing celebrity deaths. Specifically, that when a celebrity dies, all of the ugly, overweight pictorial evidence of said celebrity disappears and they are forevermore portrayed as young, gorgeous, fit, icons.

This discussion came on the heels of Elizabeth Taylor’s death. Suddenly every less than flattering, sickly, tabloid-worthy, image of Ms. Taylor had also passed on. But the saucy vixen who lit up the silver screen in A Place in the Sun and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is indeed hot, again.

I tend to be a planner, so, before I go, I think it only appropriate that I find THE picture that will best define me postmortem. The problem is I hate having my picture taken.

I recently had a photo shoot and I literally lost sleep worrying about it. I worried about what clothes to wear. What would look most flattering. What colors would photograph well. How my hair would hold up after an eight-hour workday pre-shoot. Then, post-shoot I sat in the photographer’s studio as she pulled all of the shots up on her big screen TV (I’m cringing as I type this) and we critiqued them together. Seven outfits. Two hours. Half a dozen props. One hundred pictures. And I gave tentative approval for a small handful.

This is not a slight to the photographer. She is, in fact, brilliant. I love her work. I just don’t love her working on me. (She knows this.)

The reality is, I can’t “look natural” when in fact I am standing in a most unnatural position -- with a big light shining on my face, a fan blowing my hair about, in front of a paper backdrop, holding a rubber chicken, turning my hips to the left, twisting my shoulders to the right, tilting my chin to the sky, smiling, and keeping my eyes open, while all eyes are on me. Seriously, who knew how hard it would be to keep my eyes open? I never seem to have a problem keeping my peepers peppy when reading, or typing, or driving. But, bring out a camera and suddenly I am Chief Blinksalot. What’s up with that?

Collectively, I have spent hours un-tagging myself in Facebook photos. Come on people. You know what I look like in person. So, chances are you know what I should look like in a photograph. If the two don’t match (or I have more than one chin), please don’t tag me.

Ah Facebook, where the formula for the perfect profile picture alludes me. Some people though – well, they just don’t care. Is standing in front of your bathroom mirror and taking a picture of yourself really the best you can do? Where is your creativity? Have you no shame? Do we really want to see your zit cream, tampons, overflowing waste basket, and messy bedroom in the background? I say no. Post an unflattering picture that someone else took. Not the one you took pre-pee.

A recent trip to the Post Office to renew my passport had me in a photo-frenzy. None of my Facebook photos hit the mark. I actually emailed the aforementioned photographer and she ever so agreeably sized my best picture down to the required two by two square.

Unfortunately, it was a no-go. While my eyes were open, they weren’t looking directly at the camera. So Marshall, at the Bluffton Post Office was tasked with capturing the moment. On the fourth try, and through muffled laughter, he finally said, “Just open your eyes really wide.” I obliged. This is why my new passport photo makes me look like a deer caught in the headlights or perhaps a woman with a really bad eye lift. My fear now is that I will have to make that face for every customs official I encounter. Hopefully, they won’t laugh as hard as Marshall did.

I don’t know how I am going to go out. But I do know I’d like a strong photo finish.

In A Van, Down by the River

Bluffton Today column
March 16, 2011

On Monday, I came across a Facebook post from Ryan McCarthy, owner of Downtown Deli. It read, “Anybody see a white dodge van around town let me know. It was stolen from the back of the Deli at some point this weekend!”

I had to crack up when I read it, not because Ryan and his wife Leah lost a valuable member of their catering fleet, but because Ryan had such a great attitude about it. So, I called him to get the scoop.

According to all reports (ok, I only got one report), Ryan and Leah were both at the Deli over the weekend, and the white van was still there as of 2:00 p.m. on Sunday. On Monday morning when Ryan arrived for the breakfast shift, one of his employees asked where the hot boxes were. He replied, “In the white van.” (The underlying meaning being - Duh, where they always are.) His employee went outside, came back in, and with a sheepish grin said, “Um, I don’t see the van.” (The underlying meaning being – I know I am going to sound crazy, but the van isn’t out there, dude.)

As Ryan continued to tell me the story, he broke into laughter. “You know the kicker,” he said, “we only had one payment left.” Knowing that, he and Leah had actually planned to buy a new personal vehicle this weekend.

Still chuckling Ryan went on to warn the thief with these words of wisdom --

1. Sometimes, if the battery is getting low, the alarm goes off, just for the heck of it. This will likely bring much unwanted attention your way. (Ryan and Leah learned this two years ago at the Masters when the white van’s alarmed blasted serene Augusta National for two hours.)
2. The battery is going to go low, and may even die, because it needs to be replaced. (That should make for an entertaining moment when the thief calls AAA.)
3. There is a box of Monster Pizza (also owned by the McCarthy’s) Beer of the Month Club membership cards in the back. If you decide to “join” the Club, the suspect pool has just been substantially narrowed, and you’re now the primary suspect, Einstein!
4. For $223.28, the amount of the last payment, we may have sold you the van.

Ryan’s good attitude is a perfect example of someone taking a bad situation and not letting it get the best of him. If only everyone reacted like that when things just weren’t going our way.

Case in point. I was at one of our big-box home improvement stores last weekend, loading up on spring color, only to have my bubble burst by the worst in customer service. The store was as busy as all get out, and the Garden Center checker seemed less than thrilled that she was spending her day at work, while the rest of us crazies jumped on the “it’s spring, we better plant” bandwagon.

As I rolled up to the register, the checker stepped out with her scan gun to assess the load. She lifted her head, looked me dead in the eye, and proceeded to tell me to lift all of the plants for her, so she could scan them.

Pardon moi?

Once I recovered from the initial are-you-freakin’-kidding-me buzz, two thoughts ran through my head, in quick succession. One -- I’m sorry, do I work here now? And two -- Sure, I’ll help, but you’re going to end up in the newspaper.

Frankly, I would have helped anyway. Mainly because my obsessive-compulsive-must-have-things-in-order indicator light would have come on, thus forcing me to make sure that all plants remained as originally organized on the cart. But, the second the checker decided to not ask me, but tell me, to lift the plants, the game was over.

With a harrumph, I begrudgingly lifted all of the plants so that Ms. Checker Outer didn’t pull a muscle or get any dirt on her hands. Who knows, maybe someone stole her car that morning, but should she have taken it out on her customers?

All in all, it is easier said than done to keep your attitude in check. We could learn a lot from Ryan.

Therefore, I think it is only appropriate, that in recognition of this recent grand theft auto, Ryan name a sandwich in White Van’s honor. Ryan, serve it with a side of CHIPS, and the lemonade you made from the lemons that were served to you.

A Spill in the Drink

Bluffton Today column
March 3, 2011

I stand by my statement that rodents, a.k.a. ground hogs, should not be predicting our weather.

However, I will also acknowledge that in an utter coincidence, spring appears to have sprung. How do I know? Well, I’ve already had to repair something on my boat. Her maiden voyage of 2011 (in February!) wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. Let me tell you how it all went down. And, by “it” I mean my co-captain, and by “down” I mean, “into the river.”

As you know, the weather has been spectacular the last two weekends. My spring itch came early and I was ready to get Just Mine in the water, and the sun on my face. So, we gathered the necessary accoutrements – food, water, beer (which is really 90% water anyway), music – and we were underway.

We headed out and anchored for a bit, where I promptly took a quick nap – spring sun and the smell of pluff mud are like tryptophan to me. Once my snooze was complete we headed up (or is it down?) the river toward the Spanish Wells point. And that is when we got stuck. Literally. On a sand bar, that I swear to you was never there before.

Co-captain quipped, “I can see the bottom.” Silently I responded, “Thanks Einstein,” and willed him overboard. Much to my delight, he did sink into the sand and 12 inches of 55 degree water to nudge our vessel to freedom. (Apparently 55 degree waters, even if only up to your calves is still devastatingly chilly. More on that in just a minute.) Once clear, I started her up again and began the slow sputter to deeper waters. But alas, we were still stuck.

“We’re still stuck,” I said. And like the true trooper he is, co-captain swung his legs over again and made the quick plummet.

Unfortunately, my calculations were again off and we were actually quite seaworthy and resting upon about nine feet of water. Are you doing the math? Even LeBron James would be completely submerged at this point.

Luckily, co-captain’s cat-like reflexes kicked in - perhaps jolted by the 55 degree shock – and he grabbed onto the side of the boat mere seconds before being swallowed by the frosty beast. What he said next is sadly not fit for print.

What did I do next?

Well, I laughed. Because I was frozen (oh, the irony) and didn’t know what else to do. Frozen. I didn’t even extend a hand, or mind you, a life preserver. Nope, instead I watched him inch himself slowly around to the ladder, still repeating the not fit for print mantra he had adopted one minute prior. It wasn’t until he was back on the boat that I finally reacted. By then, it was a little too late.

Thank Poseidon, that I (obsessive-compulsive-needs-to-plan-every-moment-of-her-life-Courtney) have a man who is so easy going that he just shook off his brush with hypothermia and gave me a smile…

Until he began to thaw and noticed the deep bruising and scratches that began to appear on his forearm. Luckily for me, this was just about the same time that I noticed that he broke the bimini cover clip while tumbling. Whew, we’re even-steven again.

Mr. Bimini Clip should be feeling better any day now. He’s a simple $6.95 fix.

Captain Co-captain however, is still suffering from bruising to his limbs and ego (even more so now that the entire escape is documented in print).

So, as spring continues to flourish and that magical time of year - when our moments on the water begin to outweigh our moments on land - appears, remember:

1. Your GPS may be a liar too.
2. If I catch you in an awkward situation, I will definitely laugh at you. I can’t help it.
3. Stick with a guy who keeps a smile on his face, even after you forced him overboard, and laughed at him, and blamed the whole incident on your GPS.

Smooth sailing, my friends.

Altruistic Islanders: Setting A Good Example

CB/CH2 March 2011



If cleanliness is next to godliness, what is selflessness?

One who is selfless give up their own interests for the greater good. They often think of others, before themselves. They act willingly and generously. They give of their time, their talent, and their treasure. They are not boastful. They seek no attention in return.

In South Carolina alone, the collective efforts of volunteers were valued at more than $2.5 billion, according to VolunteeringInAmerica.gov, which works in partnership with the U.S. Census Bureau and the Bureau of Labor Statistics, to compile the most comprehensive collection of data on volunteering and civic engagement ever assembled.

Interestingly, their research shows that despite all the additional stresses of a difficult economy, volunteer service remains strong. In data collected over the last four years, VolunteeringInAmerica.gov reports that South Carolina boasts 923,000 volunteers, that is 26.8% of our state’s residents. Together, they clock more than 118.5 million hours of service per year.

Locally, there are dozens upon dozens of deserving organizations. Collectively, hundreds of selfless individuals work each day to make our community a better place – a scratch behind the ear for a dog looking for her forever home, a comforting hand to hold, a connection with an otherwise lost teenager, a meal for someone who didn’t know if they would eat tonight, a call for help answered.

Five individuals in Bluffton and Hilton Head – true altruists – are making an impact right here in our backyard. They stand out among the crowd. And deserve our gratitude.

John Walland
Hilton Head Human Association
Now this is a man, anyone would be happy to walk with. However, the majority of John’s walks are with his canine comrades. And he loves every minute of it.

When John Walland retired from his career in the steel industry 11 years ago, and moved from Cleveland to Hilton Head, he didn’t know what to expect. He arrived, sight unseen, having never been to the Island. His wife, Dr. Debra Walland, talked him into the move as she had her eyes on starting a practice in the Lowcountry with a former medical school classmate. John obliged.

As luck would have it, once John was settled, he learned that two of his new neighbors were board members for the Hilton Head Human Association. They got to talking. And then they got to asking – asking John if he would be interested in volunteering. Before he knew it, John was on the road to Columbia to pick-up cat and dog food donations. That was 11 years and 60,000 miles ago.

Since then, John and his wife have added five rescue dogs to the family and John’s involvement in the organization has continued to grow, much like his pack at home. Executive Director Franny Gerthoffer had a hard time putting into words how she feels about John, saying, “The best word in the dictionary doesn’t even begin to describe this man. Every event, John is there. Every fundraiser, his is the first money in the pot. He doesn’t know how to say ‘no.’ He makes our job so easy. He truly loves the animals. He wants to save them all.”

And he tries to do just that. Earlier this year, on his way back from having outpatient surgery in Savannah, arm in a sling, feeling less than 100 percent, he saw a little dog on the side of the road. He urged his wife to pull over. As they got out of the car, John noticed a second dog. Surprisingly, both dogs sat there, side-by-side, wagging their tails, skinny as rails – as if waiting for this angel to rescue them. As you might expect, John loaded them into the car and took them home. So much for the rest that the doctor ordered! John called Franny that night to let her know she’d have two new friends dropping by in the morning.

Franny’s appreciation for John runs deep. “He makes our job so easy,” she says. But, why does John do it? With a warm, humbled voice he says, “It makes me feel good. Everyone needs that in their life.”

Hilton Head Human Association works to improve the lives of homeless dogs and cats while also working to substantially lower the number of animals reproduced or relinquished.www.hhhumane.org

Raymond Holmes
Boys & Girls Clubs of the Lowcountry
After vacationing on the Island for 22 years, Raymond Holmes and his wife finally made the permanent move in 2008, lured by one of those iconic 72 degree December days. The Washington, DC area that he had called home couldn’t compete with those numbers.

Raymond’s long career in electrical engineering and computer technology for the Federal Reserve had kept him busy. Now, he was ready to give back. Having spent some time volunteering for the DC Central Kitchen (an organization that served 4,000 meals a week), Raymond knew that food service and culinary arts was an area in which he wanted to contribute.

The Boys & Girls Club of the Lowcountry offered just the opportunity, and Raymond volunteers in their “canteen” as a part of the after-school program. While the literal definition of canteen is “snack bar” so much more happens in that space, according to Raymond. “Food is important, but this is where we really get to know the kids and understand their behavior, their quirks, their personalities, and where we can help. The food is the key to opening that door,” he says.

Even though it is not just about the food, Raymond ensures that the food service standards are beyond par, going so far as to get ServSafe certified through Technical College of the Lowcountry. In fact, he continues to take online classes, and in turn trains the Boys & Girls Club staff in nutrition, sanitation, food handling, and more. “I don’t know what we’d do without him,” Bluffton Club Unit Director, Molly Smith remarks gratefully.

After momentarily searching for the right words, Molly continues by firing off, in quick succession a multitude of reasons that make Raymond indispensible. “He is a great mentor. He shares his wisdom. He helps mold and shape the children, especially the young men. He bridges a 60 year age gap and bonds and connects effortlessly. He also gains much respect.”

Raymond is enjoying every minute of it. “The kitchen is the most important room in the house. It is where the magic happens,” Raymond says with a smile, recalling his younger years, waking up and smelling the breakfast that “Momma” was cooking.

Conversation and connection happen in the kitchen. At the Boys & Girls Club, Raymond is making their kitchen a home.

The Boys & Girls Club Bluffton Unit was established in 1998 to provide a safe and stimulating environment for Bluffton's children during their after-school hours and summer. www.bcglowcountry.org

Les Wilner
Second Helpings
When Les Wilner moved here from Queens, New York, 14 years ago he was shocked by the need in our community, unable to believe how many people were seeking assistance. Retired from the wholesale food business and looking for something to do besides golf, Second Helpings immediately caught Les’ attention.

Believing that, “this is his time to give back,” Les does just that by coordinating all of the organization’s Bluffton volunteers (a position he has held for more than 10 years). That means, scheduling 48 people, and two delivery routes a day, six days a week. He’s basically running a small company, on his own time.

Second Helpings Executive Director, Peggy Warnke, conservatively estimates that Les has volunteered more than 8,000 hours in his tenure and touts his, “Strong relationship with the food donors and his passion for the agencies to which he delivers.” (The Second Helpings network extends beyond 65 partner agencies.)

For Les, “The thank you means more than anything. Every time we pull up in a truck to deliver food, the recipients are gracious and grateful. Sometimes we pull up to 20 or 30 people just waiting. It was a shock to me that for some folks, cake is a luxury item.”

Even more shocking to Les – who is admittedly, “not the most emotional and affectionate person” - is the fact that a perfect stranger would give him a hug, so appreciative of his effort. It overwhelms Les that he receives a thank you, when in his mind there are many others who deserve the gratitude.
As such, during this interview, Les turned around and told me the story of a woman who is a hero in her own right, a member of a church of only 15 families that delivers 3,000 pounds of food a week. “She’s who we should be thanking,” Les says.

I suspect that the 4,000 people that Second Helpings feeds each day, would want to extend their thanks to Les. And he takes it all with a grain of salt saying, “Charity comes back. If a little old, obese man (his words, not mine), in his mid-seventies can do it, anyone can.”

Second Helpings mission is to collect and thereby rescue nutritious, surplus foods that would otherwise have been wasted, from restaurants, resorts, caterers and supermarkets. Volunteers deliver this food, in a safe and healthful manner, to agencies serving the disadvantaged in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. www.secondhelpingshhi.org

Nancy Meyer
Bluffton Self Help
Bluffton has always been a “second home” for Nancy Meyer, whose been vacationing here for 30 years. After she made Bluffton her permanent home a couple years ago, she quickly entrenched herself in the local community. At an event benefiting Bluffton Self Help, Nancy noticed the “ladies in red aprons” (the signature attire for Self Help volunteers), started chatting with them, and said, “I think I’d like to join you.”

Recognizing a good thing when they saw it, the ladies immediately put Nancy in touch with the Executive Director, who wisely put her to work. After some time in the volunteer role, Board President Peter Bromley pulled Nancy aside and asked her if she thought the organization needed a volunteer coordinator. Nancy quickly replied, “Yes,” not knowing that Peter’s next question would be, “Would you like to be that volunteer coordinator?”

“I saw how she connected with people. She takes initiative. She has strong planning and organizational skills. With 60 volunteers on the roster, we need someone to take the lead. It never hurts to ask,” according to Peter. Good thing he did, ask …

Nancy accepted the challenge and dedicates time to Self Help, five days a week, making sure that every volunteers needs are being met. “Everyone volunteer has their own reason for being there, and I want to make sure we are doing right by them,” she says.

Being on site, and seeing how the organization works is particularly rewarding for Nancy. “It’s a pleasure to watch an SUV drive up; two guys hop out, and say, ‘Hi, we read in the paper that you need food. We have a truck full of food.’” Even more rewarding for Nancy, is watching a volunteer greet the donors, help them unload, and make then realize the importance of their donation. “Everyone gets something out of it …”

At Bluffton Self Help the our purpose and mission is to help those in the greater Bluffton area who are in critical need of short-term, documented financial assistance, and to also provide them with the most fundamental needs, such as food and clothing, while urging them to become more self-reliant. www.blufftonselfhelp.org

Jack Toady
Hospice Care of the Lowcountry
With a warm voice and an affectionate laugh, Jack Toady immediately puts one at ease. A trademark quality, for a man who volunteers his time, beside those who are watching their own time slip away. A native of the northeast who spent his career as a special agent in the criminal investigation unit of the Treasury Department, one might expect a tough guy. In fact, Jack is the exact opposite.

He and his wife moved to Hilton Head 14 years ago, also lured by warm temperatures and the perk of year-round golf. While the laid back lifestyle was one Jack welcomed, he also felt the need to give back.

Having seen hospice in action for a close friend, he knew that Hospice Care could be the perfect fit for him. Jack spent his first year volunteering in the office, and managing the tedious bereavement follow-up process that is required for each case. In 2007, following some intense training, Jack moved into the caregiver role.

As a Family Patient Volunteer, Jack’s role is to provide company and conversation, to run errands and complete odd jobs, to give the primary caregiver time to his or herself, and in some cases, he just sits in silence, a comforting presence for those in the twilight hours of their life.

Not an easy task – making an emotional connection with someone who you know you will have to eventually bid farewell. Jack has had patients for as short as one week, and some that have stretched beyond a year. He says that each case is different and, “It is very difficult, but when you start talking to people you realize the interesting lives that people lead. More importantly, it is amazing the talent pool of people who have lived right here, our neighbors.”

For Director of Volunteers, Renee Woodruff, “Jack is a super star. He never says ‘no.’ He is compassionate and caring, dedicated to the hospice movement, flexible and always ready to respond and go when needed.”

To Jack, his role is a necessary one. And, “the reward outweighs the emotional toll.”

At Hospice Care of the Lowcountry, the philosophy of care is as much about living well as it is about dying well. The mission is to help patients and their families find the fullness and joy they deserve, even as they face the anxieties of the end of life. www.hospicecarelc.org

One would be hard pressed to place a value on the selfless acts of this quintet. Their priceless contributions – large and small – resound loudly within our community. How ironic, that they toiled long and hard to enjoy a fruitful retirement. Yet, in retirement, they’ve found true fulfillment through their selfless contributions.

Meeting the Parents

Bluffton Today column
February 16, 2011

I haven’t been brought home to “meet the parents” in about a dozen years. So, when the “I think you should meet my parents” bullet came whizzing past my head, I was so stunned by the potential danger, that in a blind panic, I said, “yes.”

While still suffering a little traumatic stress, I may have also invited his parents to stay with us. Clearly delusional thinking on my part.

After I recovered, and came to my senses, I started asking questions. Of course, I knew they would love me. But, since I purposely have an uncomfortable bed in my guest room, to ward off houseguests, I was worried about what this first meeting - er, sleep over - would yield.

First revelation: They don’t curse. Um, sweetie, have you met me?

Second revelation: They don’t drink. Um, sweetie, have you met me?

Let’s face it. If I am getting through these two days, I’m drinking. If, I’m drinking, I’m cursing. This should be no surprise.

As I type this, it is Monday, Valentine’s Day, and they are set to arrive in a couple hours. I will be at a meeting, having bought myself two additional hours of panic. This basically means, in four hours, I will be walking into a house (my house) full of strangers. My neck is tensing and the red splotches that I get on my chest, when I am stressed, are beginning to form.

I don’t know why I am so worried.

It’s funny, because my parents and my sister and her family (I won’t mention their last name because my sister is always worried that I will mortify her in the paper) all live right here in Bluffton. So, if someone is in my life, they quickly meet my family because we are pretty tight, and heck, they are all right here. Proxemics being as good a reason as any to have to meet my family. It has never even occurred to me that meeting my family could be a source of stress. We are a great family. Of course, I believe that, because it is my family.

So, as I prepare to meet my significant other’s parents, I have great sympathy for my sweet brother-in-law, who has been enduring my family for more than 10 years. Poor guy. After making the decision to move to South Carolina, he thought he was moving 800 miles away from his in-laws. What he didn’t know is that his in-laws would quickly follow. I’ve heard my sister quip about being 800 miles away from her in-laws (they didn’t make the move) and each time her hubby retorts, “Yeah, I moved 800 miles from my in-laws too … and look what happened.”

Anyway, fast forward to Tuesday morning. I had water with dinner and I didn’t curse once. Ok, I cursed once under my breath when I nearly burned my hand pulling the roast from the oven, but under my breath doesn’t count, since they didn’t hear it. (If a woman curses in the kitchen and no one is there to hear it, did she really curse?)

Dinner was a success. Dessert was even more successful. So much so that when I said the cake was from Betty Crocker, his Mom thought I meant the Betty Crocker cookbook not the box. (She loves me!) She cutely said, “I think my Betty Crocker is much older than yours.” She was right, since I bought my Betty Crocker three days ago at Publix. We are both voracious readers and had a lovely debate about “real” books versus the Kindle and Nook options available today. (I got a Nook for Valentine’s Day…)

His father looks so much like my late grandfather, that my heart skipped a beat when I met him. He is quick with a joke and clearly enjoyed giving his bride (of nearly 60 years) a hard time. Also, just like my grandfather.

Bottom line. Dinner was like dining with old friends and family. I think that is a good thing.

Now, I wouldn’t be me, if I didn’t admit that part of me was hoping that something might go awry, for the sake of my readers. But, at the end of the day, as we all retired to our bedrooms (some with more comfortable beds than others) there was no tension in my neck and the splotching had subsided. All signs that I’m really not as bad as some of you think I am.

I Predict We Stop Listening to Rodents

Bluffton Today column
February 2, 2011

Well, here we are again. Groundhog Day. Is it just me or do we do this every year? Over and over again. We wait for a woodchuck (yes, groundhogs are actually woodchucks) to emerge and predict the future. Er, weather.

It’s 2011. And we are relying on a groundhog to tell us what the next six weeks of weather will bring? I find this beyond bizarre. Should we instead, be seeking that little detail from say, oh, a meteorologist? Or perhaps someone with a smidge of college education under their belt?

Since the average lifespan of a groundhog is merely two – three years, I doubt they have had they time, in their busy schedules – hibernate, procreate, predict future, repeat - to matriculate.

With a mere 39% accuracy for the groundhog, one could argue that the weather man’s “it may rain- it may not rain” 50% accuracy rating is the better bet. Actually, you could hedge a bet on anyone.

Two weeks ago I had the nasty flu that’s been going around. (I likely caught it from you.) Anyway, I liken the groundhogs prediction to my flu predicament. I could go and see a doctor, take 10 days of antibiotics and get better. Or, in 10 days I could just be better. Meaning, I am just as qualified as the Yankee Groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil and his southern counterpart, General Beauregard Lee (I can’t make this stuff up) to pontificate on the weather.

As such, I thought I would describe to you what my morning is like … and you can then determine whether spring has sprung or winter will continue.

The alarm went off at 5:15 a.m. but that wasn’t the first time I turned bleary-eyed to the alarm clock fussing with four-letter words. No, I was up at 2:10 and again at 3:30 and 4:25 to boot. My groundhog, I mean dog, Darby has a tendency to sneak his way up the bed in the middle of the night, rendering me immobile, and actually yearning for reverie. Once the alarm sounds, one of two scenarios will follow.

Scenario one:
I’m up. I fumble on the nightstand for my glasses. One too many stubbed toes having taught me not to walk to the bathroom unaccompanied by spectacles. Splash water on face. Insert contact lenses. Don workout gear. Drive to boot camp. Sweat and pant uncontrollably for 60 minutes. Drive home. Shower. Debate need for blow drying hair. Eat breakfast. Guzzle coffee. Kiss dog goodbye. Embark on my day refreshed and ready to roll.

Scenario two:
“Darby, for crying out loud, this is my bed. My bed.” Tug covers from under dog and back up over shoulders. Try to fall back asleep. “Darby, it’s still bedtime, please stop licking my face.” Roll over and tug covers up over face. Enjoy seven minutes of additional sleep until whining commences. “Darby, please just let me have five more minutes.” More whining. “Hmph. Fine. I’m up. I’m up. I’m up.” Fumble on nightstand for glasses. Stumble downstairs. Let Darby out. Look at the clock and realize that I should have just rolled out of bed at 5:15 and I would already be on my way back from working out. I would be energized and much less cranky.

Now if this morning was a scenario one day, winter will soon be over, birds will sing, the sun will shine, chipmunks will chip, you get the gist. However, if this morning was a scenario two kind of day, we’ll have to wait until spring officially arrives.

I’d bet that regardless of which side of the bed I woke up on this morning, both scenarios will likely lead to March 20, a little more than six weeks from today, the official first day of spring.

Why are we leaving the prognosticating to a grasshopper and grub eating groundhog? Leave it to me. A margarita and mimosa drinking minx. I say shed the winter doldrums. Pull out the flip flops. Let the sun shine on your face and channel spring.

After all, isn’t it really just a state of mind?

What's Love Got to Do With It?

CH2, January 2011

Love. How can four little letters be so complicated? I mean most other four-letter words are quite self-explanatory. Right?

Dictionary.com shows 14 definitions, seven verb uses, six idioms, and 16 synonyms for the word “love.” That’s 43 potential meanings behind those four letters. Now, throw in the connotative meaning of the word, as defined by the nearly 312 million people who live in the United States, and we likely have 312 million definitions.

Everyone defines love in a different way.

I love the beach. I love days on the river. I love Christmas. I love margaritas. I love pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Oh wait, that’s not me. That’s Rupert Holmes.

I love my nieces. I love teaching. I love sharpie markers, and good stationary, and Bon Jovi, and cute scarves, and pedicures, and flip flops, and shrimp on the grill, and homemade macaroni and cheese.

I also love, love. And have always been a believer in the “fairy tale.” Even though after numerous attempts, and just as many failures, I’ve got nada. So, why in the world am I still an optimist, you may ask?

I think because I might finally understand what true love means. And, I learned it from my dog.

First let me back up and give you the whole story.

I was blindsided on a fall day. I came home from work and started dinner. He paced the kitchen while I diced and sliced. A few minutes of tap dancing around the kitchen island and he revealed that he thought we should separate. After eight years, he “just didn’t want to be married anymore” - like he was deciding to give up carbohydrates.

He moved out the next day.

The damage was done. And then, the damage began. I was angry. I threw temper tantrums and anything I could get my hands on (namely, three cordless phones and my wisely insured Blackberry). I sobbed and hid in my closet, tucked safely behind my winter coats, and clutching the teddy bear my father gave me the day I was born.

It was six months before I found my smile again.

My dog Darby, well he bounced back a little quicker than I.

Darby sat at the front window for a full month after the ex left. He waited each night for him to come home. With the rumble of every truck in the distance his posture would re-align and his ears would perk. Eventually he gave up waiting, and so did I.

But, Darby – in an attempt to make dog biscuits out of kibble - made himself quite comfortable right there next to me in my former marital bed. I think the message – though subtle – was you had your chance buddy, this pillow is mine now. And, oh does he love his pillow, his 400 thread-count sheets, and his down comforter. And, placing his head on my shoulder, when he knows I need it most.

When we first got Darby, as newlyweds, my ex was the one who picked him up from the veterinarian’s office where he was being sheltered. I always felt that Darby connected with the ex more than me, because he was the one who rescued him. But as Darby sat beside me during my darkest days I realized that his love for me runs deeper than any friend I ever had. He had weathered many a storm with me. This was just the first time I truly noticed.

And from there on, we were joined by the leash. He got me out of the house every day for a walk or a run. He got me in the backyard for some sunshine. He got me on the beach to put my toes in the water and he got me to the sandbar for a quick swim. All that exercise also got me down a few pounds, perhaps Darby’s way of getting me back on the “market.”

I suspect that Darby was looking forward to the fun of scaring the heck out of any potential suitors. I used to think his bark was worse than his bite. Until the standoff he had with one unsuspecting victim. He wouldn’t let the guy near me. We sat on the couch, Darby sat between us. We hugged, Darby barked like a lunatic. When near the end of the short-lived “relationship,” we were “having some words,” Darby sat planted at my feet, growling at the opposition, who eventually retreated. (Victory!)

Turns out, Darby is a pretty good judge of character.

So when my current beau came over for the first time, and cautiously took a seat (he’d heard the previous stories), Darby walked over and put his sweet little chin right on new beau’s knee.

And that’s when I knew, I was ready for love again. And so was Darby.

Every February, in an over-commercialized frenzy, we run around like idiots buying heart-shaped everythings, to show the ones we love how we feel about them. And because of this one day dedicated to everything saturated in sugary-sweet somethings, we just might ignore those we love the other 364 days of the year. Which, when you think about it is completely backwards.

I was inspired by my dog. A mutt. Who still – after thousands of walks – hasn’t realized that I can’t get the leash on while he is jumping around and chasing his tail. Yet, he taught me the purest meaning of love. And he shows it every single day.

We’d be wise to do the same.


Illustration by Matt Anderson

Bathroom Etiquette 101

Bluffton Today column
January 19, 2011

I had to use the handicap bar in the bathroom at work last week. I couldn’t get up without it. No traumatic injury here. Rather, I just started a “boot camp” fitness program. And, I am exhausted.

Since launching this New Year’s torture (I mean, endeavor), I have been walking on rubbery legs, writing with quivering implements, and sipping shaking coffee cups. I am sore to the core, literally. Ten days ago I didn’t even know what my core was. Now I spend an hour each morning channeling that inner strength in an effort not to look like a total idiot. Who knew that avoiding idiocy was so dang difficult?

I thought I was in shape. I mean, I’ve been walking (with an occasional jog thrown in for good measure) three to four miles a day, for three years. So, of course, when I completed my intake form, I ranked myself a seven – of ten – in terms of my fitness level. Turns out, I am actually looking at something more in the two to three range.

When I couldn’t ascend the stairs at work last week, I knew I was in trouble. But, I still got my aching body out of bed every morning, in the five o’clock hour, to tackle the challenge while chanting: I will not give up.

Ha! Easier said than done. I almost gave up this weekend, while on a quick getaway to New York City.

If you are from the north, or if you’ve traveled north, I suspect you will concur that Newark Airport and Penn Station are two hotbeds of germs, grime, and everything gross. And both top my list of places I never want to be stuck in, for more than hour, for fear of having to use the facilities. Unfortunately, because my new workout regime requires that I drink half my body weight in water (you do the math) – every day - I can now be found in the bathroom 200% more than I ever was (see handicap bar entry above). Which means I had to break “Courtney Rule Numero Uno” and use a public restroom. More than once. Oh, the horror!

So, our flight lands at Newark Airport and I have now been “holding” my grande non-fat mocha for about three hours – because there is no way I am going to use the restroom on the plane. So, here I am in miniscule bathroom stall, with my luggage. Now, typically I would rely on my leg muscles to hold me slightly airborne so that I didn’t have to touch the seat. But, as you have read, my muscles were mush, so the question became … where to put my tush?

And this leads me to the real problem -- women who pee all over the toilet seat. This is a phenomenon that has stymied me for years. It happens everywhere. At the local bar. The local college. The library. The dentist’s office. Your favorite restaurant. Your office.

What is it so difficult to hit your target? It’s a pretty big target for crying out loud.

I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you too are participating in an intense exercise experience and a little shaky on the hind legs. Ok, so you dribble a little. Now here’s a crazy thought – look to your right. Do you see that roll of white paper hanging on the wall? You do? Good. Now pull that piece of paper – that’s it – pull a few squares. Now use them to wipe the seat. Good work, champ.

Was that so hard? Think of the good deed that you have done. Women everywhere will silently thank you as they shuffle into that restroom, check for feet under the stall doors, push the door back with caution, learn that the latch is broken, balance on shaking legs, stand in a puddle of a lord knows what, while trying to hold the stall door closed with their finger tips, and simultaneously finish their business as quickly as possible.

This isn’t rocket science ladies (and men, it would hurt for y’all to follow suit) – if you sprinkle, when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie. Case closed.

Why Do We Do The Things We Do?

Bluffton Today column
January 5, 2011

So, I’m watching TV and a Badcocks Furniture commercial comes on. The Dad in the commercial is upstairs jumping on his bed with his son. They are jumping, and jumping, and jumping and Mom looks up as the chandelier in the dining room begins to shake. Next thing you know, Dad’s feet are dangling from the ceiling. And, this drives me crazy. Why? Well because I have a hard time believing that by jumping up and down, Dad managed to bust his way through the mattress, box spring, bedroom floor, and dining room ceiling. It’s just not feasible.

As I shared my disillusionment with TV commercials, my TV-watching partner commented, “You never take things for what they are worth, you always dig a little deeper.”

He makes a point. Rather than just enjoy a lazy day on the couch watching TV, I choose to spend 30 minutes analyzing a 30 second commercial. And that made me question (surprise, surprise!) why exactly do we do the things we do?

For example, why do we put our napkins in our lap? If I am at a restaurant and eating a platter of sloppy wings, I wipe my hands on my napkin, and then put that same dirty and now dripping in wing sauce napkin in my lap. So, my hands are clean – until the next bite – but my pants are dirty. Brilliant.

While at the meal, I may also put my elbows on the table. You know why? Because if you are telling me a story I am going to lean in and give you all of my attention. Do you know why? Because if I am sitting back in my chair, with my hands in my lap (on my dirty napkin), I appear un-engaged. It is also important to note, that if I lean forward, no crumbs will hit my lap, and therefore the napkin serves no purpose. Just sayin …

Believe it or not, as I pondered why I act the way I do, I started thinking about Carlos Olivera who lost his life twelve days ago over a car towing incident. Because someone else acted the way he did – it truly makes you wonder how and why people make the decisions they do, especially at the expense of someone else.

Almost five years ago I wrote a column about a car being towed in my neighborhood. As I read that old column, my stomach turned, as I realized that I referenced alleged murderer Preston Oates in my column, as Pro Tow was the tow company in my story as well.

I had been hosting my sister’s baby shower at my house and as the guests dispersed, one of them couldn’t find her car. Since cars don’t usually just disappear in broad daylight, we began our investigation. It took under a minute to realize that one of my lovely neighbors didn’t like that a car was parked in front of her house so she had the car towed.

At the time, my Mom and I were pretty upset and being the ballsy Jersey girls that we are, we marched right up to the “neighbors” front door and started yelling at her. One of our guests, a retired New York City police officer, convinced us to get the heck off that woman’s property before we got arrested. She had a point, so we acquiesced, but my “investigation” continued for days, as I interacted with the Bluffton Police Department and Pro Tow to figure out how the course of events went down.


My Mom and I have had a number of conversations about Mr. Olivera in the past week. And, we talked too about how rash we were to scream and yell at our neighbor, on her front porch, not knowing what was behind her front door.

I’ll admit that I have a temper and if someone ticks me off, I tend to let them know. And on more than once occasion my Mom has said to me, “Cour, calm down, that guy/gal might have a gun.” It scares me that she is more right than I ever imagined.

Maybe I was naive in thinking that moving from the hustle and bustle of New Jersey to the sleepy town of Bluffton, SC would indeed be safer, quieter, and a simpler way of life. But, right now I am on guard. I have read too many headlines this year, in this very paper, about tragic losses of life.

At this moment however, more than anything, I am sad for Mr. Olivera’s family who had to witness this tragedy and who will forever be marked by this reckless act.

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. Email Courtney at courtneyh@hargray.com.

2010, Year in Review

C2 magazine, January issue

If you are like me, every bleary-eyed New Year’s Day, you begin the annual ritual of taking stock of the previous year. You question what you’ve accomplished, you curse what you wish you had accomplished, and then you prepare the all too familiar (meaning the replica of last year’s) list of resolutions.

2010 was a rough year.

Our country is at war and more than 500 American soldiers made the ultimate sacrifice in 2010. The Gulf oil spill threatened our ecosystem, the fishing and shrimping industries, and the economy. As many as four million homes received foreclosure filings. 15.1 million Americans remained unemployed, at year’s end.

Locally, non-profit organizations have been scrambling to meet the increasing needs of our neighbors who have been impacted by the economic downturn.

Yet, as I ponder the year in review, I realize that what we were most interested in were actually the headlines that stole the real headlines.

For a child of the 80s, it was a devastating year, as we bid adieu to our favorite TV family members. You know actors and actresses who actually played a character on TV, as opposed to playing a part in the reality TV revolution.

What'chu talkin' 'bout Willis? Well, I’m talking about Gary Coleman and his untimely death. I believe that the biggest surprise on this one is that Todd Bridges is the last standing Different Strokes cast member in the game of life. I didn’t see that one coming.

Nor could I have predicted that Michael Seaver’s Growing Pains sidekick Andrew Koenig a.k.a “Boner” would pass so young. He made millions of teens and tweens giggle through the 1980s every time he walked on set and into our living rooms. I mean, with a name like Boner …

And, Corey Haim, the cute Corey, whose poster donned the closet door of my bedroom for much of the late eighties. There is indeed a Teen Beat reunion going on in heaven these days.

We also witnessed the passing of legends – George Steinbrenner, the meanest man in baseball, who we all got to know via Seinfeld and one quirky George Costanza. J.D. Salinger, the reclusive author whose novel The Catcher in the Rye tackled the topic of adolescent alienation and became required high school reading. And Tony Curtis whose acting credits spanned 60 years.

And lest we forget Blanche Devereaux, that saucy minx. She made it ok for women to be loose and wild, at any age. She was the first cougar and for that we thank Rue McClanahan. Rue, thank you. Thank you for being a friend.

When I think about what got people talking in 2010 I remain miffed by the shock and awe over a killer whale at Sea World killing someone. Um, it was a killer whale. I am pretty certain that it got the name “killer” for good reason.

Bedbugs were a whale of a story in twenty ten. When you get hundreds of different people sharing the same hotel room over the course of a year, something gross has got to give. To respond to the hysteria, the first ever bedbug industry summit was held in Chicago in the early fall (seriously). No stunning breakthroughs were made therefore we will continue to get the heebie-jeebies every time we slip between the sheets in a hotel room. The good news is, the bedbug carries no disease and their bites have no effect on one-third of their victims. So you have a one in three chance of being just fine. Sleep tight.

Speaking of sleeping, in other people’s beds, Tiger Woods apologized to his wife, in front of the whole world, for being a cheater. She up and divorced him anyway. And then Howard Stern invited all of Tiger’s mistresses to compete in the Tiger Woods Mistress Beauty Pageant. Jamie Jungers took home the $75,000 prize.

Bristol Palin was tapped for Dancing with the Stars. (I wonder if she wrote her dance steps on her arm?) I’m sorry, if your Mom unsuccessfully runs for Vice President, you automatically become a “star”? I’ve been trying to convince my Mom to get on the POA board, which should definitely secure me a spot on American Idol.

As if the table-flipping Real Housewives of New Jersey didn’t do enough to tarnish the reputation of Jersey girls everywhere (this one included), then the brilliant executives at MTV thought a show dedicated to the summer at the Jersey Shore was just the ticket. For the record, everyone in the cast was from North Joisey (not the shore) or New Yawk!

WTF? Healthcare reform was a BFD for Vice President Joe Biden, who in his excitement over the March bill signing was caught whispering, "This is a big f***ing deal," into the President's ear. Mr. Loose Lip’s exchange was just loud enough to be picked up by the microphone, and quickly made its way onto cable TV and into cyberspace, for all of the world to hear.

The iPhone continued to stun us with applications to make our life much less personal but oh, so much easier. Don’t have time to type an email? The Dragon Dictation application translates your voice into text, so you can simply dictate your message and then send the text, taking that pesky typing chore completely out of the equation. Of course, if you were going to say it anyway, how about picking up the phone and calling? I’m just saying …

Lady Gaga was certainly looking to simplify things in 2010. She yearned to go back to the times of yore, when animal husbandry was the career of choice. So much so that rather than buy a dress at a store, like the rest of us, she had one made -- of meat -- with matching accessories. No really, this was actually news.
Conan O’Brien boldly ended his seven-month stint as host of The Tonight Show, on principle. As a part of his deal, he had to walk away quietly and wasn’t allowed to address his departure on television. So, he turned to Twitter, and began making his first public statements since leaving. In an hour, he gained 30,000 followers, thirty minutes later he reached 50,000. After 24 hours, O'Brien had well over 300,000 followers. Today, he has more than two million.
While we are talking about tweeting, it seems that the “twitterverse” is all akimbo with the tweet revolution. I don’t know about you, but I don’t care what you ate for dinner, how long it took for you to digest your dinner or how many squares it took to end the cycle. Less is more people. Less is more.

However, since we are on the subject of social media, let’s address the fact that my Mom joined Facebook this year! Your Mom probably did too. I haven’t seen the movie, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a predicted outcome.

Just like I am fairly certain that Elmo didn’t think he’d see Katie Perry’s boobs at a Sesame Street taping. Well, it was Elmo’s lucky day (and I am sure his giggle could be heard on set), because no one else got a peek, as Sesame Street scrapped the episode after the revealing segment was reviewed by editors.

Speaking of boobs, the TSA instituted the “Free Feel-Ups” at the airport policy, which should make travel in twenty eleven just titillating. Unless of course, you are filmmaker/ actor Kevin Smith, who last year was deemed too fat to fly. Yet, in an ironic twist, the fat guy I always get stuck sitting next to made the cut.
Locally, there remains only one way to get on and off the Island. Unless you fly. In which case, you can entangle yourself in the “is the runway at the Hilton Head Airport long enough” debate. Maybe not, but the lines at Starbucks are, so if someone would please add that to our 2011 county agenda, that’d be just great.
But, in all seriousness, wherever your travels take you in 2011, may you be safe and smiling.

My New Year’s resolution? Smile more, bark less. I give it a week.

You Wanna Pizza Me?

C2 magazine, January issue



I broke a bar stool at my favorite pizza joint on my 21st birthday. I mean I didn’t
smack it over the top of someone’s head or recklessly toss it at a bouncer. Rather, in the heat of celebration, I may have stumbled a little and the stool took the brunt of my fall. I’ll argue that it was on its last legs (pun intended) anyway.

Why am I telling you this? Well, if you had been paying attention you would have noticed that I spent my 21st birthday at a pizza joint. Not in New York City, not in Vegas, not at a classy restaurant where the champagne flowed like water.

Nope. I was at the Saw Mill, on the Seaside Boardwalk, New Jersey. (Yes, home to the first season of MTV’s Jersey Shore. ) The Saw Mill had dollar drafts and the biggest slices of greasy Jersey pizza you could get your hands on.

Any way you slice it, America’s love affair with pizza is hot, saucy, and laden with temptation. 93% of Americans eat pizza at least once a month. (100% of the Americans in my household eat it once a week.) So, why the obsession?

Ancient Greeks used to top their breads with olive oils and spices, yet it is the Italians who get the lion share of credit for pizza. And more specifically, are the ones responsible for bringing the tempting treat to the United States, in the early nineteen hundreds, when they traveled here seeking a better life on American soil.

The first pizza joint in the United States -- Lombardi’s— opened its doors in Lower Manhattan, in 1905. The combination of garlic and oregano scents wafting from the windows signaled the dish as “foreign food” that would likely upset the stomach, and as such it didn’t catch on. In fact, most middle-class Americans stuck to boiled fish and toast.

It wasn’t until the 1940s, that pizza in its modern form flourished in the United States and became popular across all cultures, no longer limited to Italian immigrants. American Heritage magazine, in a 2006 article on the history of pizza, points to the 1943 opening of Pizzeria Uno in Chicago as the moment when the tides turned. Chicago-style deep-dish pizza was born and a nation was changed.

When I was young, Friday night was pizza night. We would stand at “Pizza Charlie’s” counter, boxes stacked to the ceiling, Charlie’s red hair frizzed from the heat of the ovens, a line out the front door, while the whole town waited to pick up our orders. Back then, there were only so many choices, and Charlie was our guy. I later fell in love with Pete & Elda. Their thin crust and sweet sauce still haunts me today. In fact, when I go back to home to visit, I almost always pay Pete & Elda a visit. The Saw Mill was a dive bar on the boardwalk, one I didn’t discover until I was of legal age (coincidence?) and there was no better summer night than one that included a cold beer, a huge slice, an off-kilter bar stool, and the smell of the ocean. All have left an indelible mark on my senses.

Maybe I am spoiled, having grown up in a pizza-centric region of the country. And I know I am finicky. All pizza is not made equal. And all pizza is not fit for these lips. Yet, it remains my favorite food.

It is possible that I am biased, so I thought it only fair that I seek the opinion of a food expert. I called on my friend Gail Simmons, Food & Wine magazine’s special projects director and BRAVO TV’s “Top Chef” judge and host. And she told me, “I believe pizza may just be the world's most perfect food - piping hot, smothered in cheese, fresh tomatoes and herbs, or your choice of endless toppings, a crispy crust with just a bit of chew, that you can pick up and eat entirely with your hands! It is so delicious and ingenious I would argue it is Italy's greatest contribution to modern civilization -- forget art or architecture. Pizza (made with love, good ingredients and a 700 degree oven) will never go out of style.”

Well, it is certainly not going out of style anytime soon here. The stretch between Bluffton and Hilton Head is burgeoning with pizza business. Whether your taste buds seek a California pie, Chicago-style, New York pizza, or a gourmet concoction that you eat with your pinky in the air, your bases are covered here.

But, pizza isn’t just about the pizza. Pizza is history. Pizza is tradition. Pizza is camaraderie. I’ll argue that there is nothing better than sitting around the table with your friends and sharing a pizza. A group of friends, who may debate sports and dispute politics, will come together and agree on their pizza toppings. And, in synchronized harmony they’ll lean forward and grab a slice from a community pie. The cheese stretches, the sauce steams, the grease drips, and they each tilt their head to the side to take that first bite. That’s amore!

CH2 Bachelor of the Year Unveiled

C2 magazine, January issue



I was stood up by C2’s Bachelor of the Year. Ok, he didn’t stand me up. He was merely 30 minutes late. Regardless, my tolerance for tardiness being nil, my brain started working overtime to determine how I would introduce this Johnny come lately to the world. Once we started chatting he enthusiastically agreed that my first sentence (as printed above) was completely appropriate.

That’s when Ben Wolfe won me over. By the end of the story, I suspect he’ll have won you over too.

Ben start wooing the women early. His first love was “Susie” a cute girl with a great sense of humor. “Susie” had an interest in the performing arts and was debuting in the school’s production of The Sound of Music. Ben saw his opening and he grabbed it – he was cast as Kurt (cue “So Long, Farewell” lyrics) – and life has truly never been the same. Their spark eventually fizzled, as most fourth grade relationships do. However, thanks to “Susie,” Ben was introduced to another passion – theatre - which he pursued through his school days and into college and today he is the Performing Arts Director at Hilton Head Preparatory School.

After “Susie” Ben chuckles as he describes dating in his hometown of Sandersville Georgia, where he attended a small private school and graduated with a class of merely 25 -- the same 25 kids whom he started Kindergarten with. “It was hard to date, everyone knew everyone so well. It was like dating your sister. So there were a lot of group outings, dances mostly. Once, I could drive -- movies and bowling were the only options and we actually had to drive outside of Sandersville to do that,” he said with a grin.

Now, that the Lowcountry is his oyster, his perfect date around here would start with “seeing something – a baseball game, a movie, a show – then dinner, so we’d have something to talk about over our meal.” I like his strategy.

Ben has a hell of a sense of humor and in fact, seeks the same in a mate. “She has to have a sense of humor.” I asked him if he ever jumped ship because a date just wasn’t funny, or didn’t find him funny. As expected his reply was dripping with sarcasm … “Listen, I’m not going to ditch a date at dinner. I enjoy food too much. It’s not worth missing a meal.”

Admittedly, Ben is not actively looking for the future Mrs. Wolfe. “I’m not NOT looking; I’m also not browsing Craig’s List on a Friday night.” (Good, because that would be creepy.) Two of Ben’s fellow Hilton Head Prep teacher’s – Kathryn Ramseur-Riley and Tina Webb-Browning - nominated Ben for the Bachelor contest. Ben says that he agreed to participate, recognizing that for him it would all be tongue in cheek. However, on the off chance that Carrie Underwood reads C2, he is hoping that this could be the start of something beautiful.

The prize for the Bachelor victor is $3,000 (and this fabulous article). Ben says, “Coincidentally, $3,000 is the same price as my self respect. So that worked out real well.” He intends to spend every penny on a new car. (Good! Perhaps one that will assist him in getting places on time.) Ben is also expecting that once the Christmas trees come down in all of the Island’s traffic circles, a life size statue of him will be erected. Yet, he’ll continue to live life as a commoner and has, “no plans to introduce a new walk or anything …”

Now that he’s won, it is also necessary that he be subjected to a barrage of questions. So, here we go.

C2: What is the quality you most admire in a woman?
Ben: Sense of humor and the ability to help me in matching my shirts and ties.

C2: What do you most value in your friends?
Ben: Dependability.

C2: Who are your heroes?
Ben: My parents, my close friends and ... Ralph Nader.

C2: What are your pet peeves?
Ben: Food smacking and that awkward doctor’s waiting room silence.

C2: What is the most important thing in your life?
Ben: Succeeding personally and professionally, to the degree that my success allows me to aid and support friends in need. Oh! And honey mustard, it just goes with anything.

C2: Beer or wine?
Ben: Beer, if you're offering.

C2: Hamburger or hot dog?
Ben: Do we really know what's in a hot dog? Always a burger for me.

C2: Beach or mountains?
Ben: Mountains occasionally ... but judging by my current location, I've made my sand castle, now I lie in it.

C2: If your house were on fire, what is the one thing you would save?
Ben: I am currently living alone with no pets. I know I'd grab my computer so I could update my Facebook status about the fire, then Facebook chat someone to call 911 for me.

C2: What has been your most embarrassing moment?
Ben: Besides these surveys? You'd think I'd say the countless times I've burst open the seam of my pants while performing on stage ... but somehow I've gotten used to that.

C2: If we asked an ex-girlfriend to tell us one thing about you, what would she say?
Ben: "What? He told me his name was Juan."

C2: Would you take the last sip of milk for your morning coffee?
Ben: Well as an avid avoider of both milk and coffee, the last sip is always safe around me.

C2: What was the last movie that made you cry?
Ben: Field of Dreams. Every time. It’s the magic corn.

C2: What is currently in your Netflix queue?
Ben: Inception and Shawshank Redemption.

C2: What is the biggest misperception others have about you?
Ben: That I'm really tall. Actually, they're just really short.

Ben doesn’t take him self too seriously and he loves to crack a joke. Obviously.

In addition to his stellar wit, he is a hard worker, he likes to take care of the people he loves, and he is committed 110% to everything he does -- and therefore very selective about what he weaves into his life, women included.

He is the self-proclaimed pickiest person on the planet, “I have a little George Costanza in me,” he says. Too much Costanza is likely a deal breaker for most women, so I asked Ben to elaborate. After some quick math to calculate his persona – and liken it to characters on TV – he replied, “50% Ross Gellar, 40% Jerry Seinfeld, and 10% George Costanza.” By my calculation, that is 90% normal … I’d say that’s pretty good odds ladies.

Since his pickiness may be his downfall, I thought I should give the single gals a little head start on landing Bachelor Ben. So, the three questions he will definitely ask you on a first date are as follows: What is your favorite outdoor sport? What type of music do you listen you? And, if you could spend your life working for a charity, which charity would it be? (Ben advises that the answer to question three should not be Al Qaeda.)

I have Ben’s phone number and email, and even though he hasn’t formally asked (ok, he hasn’t asked at all), I will be more than happy to screen any potential inquiries. Otherwise, you should just plan to attend the unveiling of the new Ben statue, which will likely be placed near a beach, and a honey mustard stand.

If we build it, they will come.

Twas Three Days Before Christmas and I Didn't Send Cards

I didn’t send Christmas cards this year. Not a decision I made lightly. After all, I wrote a research paper in graduate school on the longevity of the greeting card, my thesis being that regardless of advances in technology, people still get that excited twinge when they receive a personal card in the mail. I do.

In fact, each year, as I pull down my Christmas ornaments (about ten seconds after Thanksgiving dinner concludes), I wade through my Christmas cards from the previous year. Oh yes, I keep them. This year as I read through the 2009 cards, it struck me that no one (except Grandma Noon) actually writes anything in their cards. Instead, I have pictures of all of my friend’s kids with their pre-printed family name at the bottom.

So this year my struggle was two-fold. First, do I schedule some pricey photo shoot so I can send a picture of me and … oh, I don’t know, the dog, to my friends and family? Or, do I skip the fanfare all together?

At about the same time I was lamenting, one of my Facebook friends posted the news that her annual Christmas newsletter was finally complete. I had to chuckle. (And privately message some other Facebook friends to share my snarky comments.) Now, I have never actually received a “Christmas Newsletter” from anyone, yet the stories associated with said newsletters often rival that of a fruit cake. Meaning, no one actually wants to receive one.

Anyway, that got me thinking. Isn’t the purpose of Christmas to send good tidings and cheer to others? So, how does reading about the mundane happenings of your family’s past 365 days bring the Christmas spirit to my house? And then … it hit me. Facebook may be the new Christmas Newsletter.

Just brushed your teeth? Status update! Just wet the bed? Status update! Just made a tuna sandwich? Status update!

Just put a piece of tinsel on the tree? Status update! Just bought extra tape? Status update! Just yelled at Lord & Taylor for cancelling your order instead of shipping your order (this actually happened, but you won’t see if on my Facebook page)? Status update!

But, I digress. Back to the Christmas cards. I scratched them from my to-do list and felt an immediate sense of relief. Right up until the first card arrived in my mailbox. And, ever since that first pang of guilt hit, I haven’t been able to stop obsessing about the year I didn’t send Christmas cards, as it will forever be known.

As any good obsessive compulsive should – I ensure that Christmas is a well-orchestrated machine. I make sure that all of my rolls of wrapping paper match, that all my ribbons match that wrapping paper, that my tags match my ribbon, that my gifts are themed (yes, I’m that person) and that every card includes a personal note – a connection with the recipient - which is exactly the reason why I skipped cards this year. I couldn’t muster the energy to write personal notes to my ever growing list. My worry over whether or not I would think of something clever to say overwhelmed me. And, now I feel like crap.

I realize that this is not your problem. However, I also realize that the majority of my Christmas card list is probably reading this right now. (Light bulb!) So, now that I have your attention, I wanted to let you know that my column today is dedicated to you. Yes you, my friend, who means so much.

Close your eyes. Well open them now silly, or you won’t be able to keep reading. Geesh. Picture a card. It’s a nice one -- weighty card stock, glitter, ribbons, foil lined envelope – only the best for my dear friend. And the message inside, pure poetry, courtesy of one of the world’s most recognized writers --

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags.
It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

You lift my spirit all year round, with laughter, smiles, silliness, emails and yes, status updates.

I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas.

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. You can reach Courtney at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Where Will You Find Christmas?

Bluffton Today column
December 8, 2010

I remember it like it was yesterday, when in fact it was nearly 1,500 days ago. After talking to the humbled father on the phone, to get an idea of what his children wanted or needed for Christmas, we agreed on a meeting place for the following Saturday.

When I pulled into the dirt parking lot with dust flying, one vehicle car sat off to the side. As I got out of my car and popped the hatch, the door on the lone white minivan slowly opened. A gentleman walked forward, hands in his pockets, head hung.

As he lifted his eyes to meet mine, I noticed the tears welling. He put out his hand, introduced himself and starting thanking me before I could even utter a word or show him what I had selected for his girls.

Once the gifts, that his daughter’s had been asking for from Santa, were loaded into his car, he thanked me again. And then he stood there. In silence. I’m sure I cocked my head to the side, as I do when I am questioning someone. He responded by holding out his arms and pulling me into a warm hug. As we embraced I could feel him holding back the sobs. He thanked me again, with a cracking voice, and he was off.

I don’t remember his name. I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him again. A ghost of Christmas past, he reminded me the impact that one person can have on another.

That was four years ago when I “adopted” my first family from Bluffton Self Help. I wasn’t prepared for the impact the experience would have on me. And, as I type this column, I have just returned from Christmas shopping for my “Self Help family” this year.

I don’t have to tell you that this has been a rough year. People are hurting everywhere. And, a lot of folks are in need. But, before you send your holiday tidings off to an organization afar, I simply ask you to consider supporting those in our own community this year -- our neighbors, our friends, our colleagues.

Like year’s past, Bluffton Self Help will be collaborating with churches, communities, civic groups, clubs and families to provide toys to over 1,000 children during the upcoming holiday season. Imagine changing the lives of 1,000 children. That is a remarkable feat in our small town.

Self Help Executive Director, Jenny Haney, strongly believes that no child should be denied the joy of having gifts awaiting them on Christmas morning. I couldn’t agree more.

The specific need this year is gift items for boys and girls, ages eight to 12 years old. Haney’s suggestions include: arts and craft supplies, themed Lego’s, books, sports equipment, jewelry-making kits, and girl’s hair accessories.

So, while you are out and about doing your holiday shopping, think about slipping just one extra item in your shopping cart, and then deliver it to Bluffton Self Help (1264 May River Road) before next Monday, December 13th.

Do you remember the joy of waking up on Christmas morning? Pulling back the covers and rushing out of your room to see what was waiting under the tree?

Can you imagine if you had found nothing when you got there? Think about it.

Skip the Starbucks this morning and warm someone else’s heart.

“Remember, if Christmas isn't found in your heart, you won't find it under a tree." - Charlotte Carpenter

For more information:
Bluffton Self Help
1264 May River Road, Bluffton, SC
843.757.8000
www.blufftonselfhelp.org

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. Courtney Hampson can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

A Christmas Story

From the December issue of CH/CB2

Pictured: Me and my sister, Sharon (left), with Fritz (in the loving head-lock) circa 1978.

When I think about memorable holiday moments, it is hard to ignore the Christmas that my cousin Jimmy was in jail. My sister, brother-in-law, then-husband, and I, marched in from the cold, shook off the chill, and proceeded to take off our coats to reveal matching t-shirts that read “FREE JIMMY.” We got a pretty good laugh, but had little time to pat ourselves on the back because we had to quickly change before Jimmy’s side of the family arrived.

Truthfully though, one flip through the ol’ family photo album and all of my Christmas memories come flooding back. In hindsight, I now realize how fortunate I was to be the oldest cousin on my Mom’s side. Because every one of my Christmas Eve outfits saw three wears post-me. You can basically figure out what year every picture is taken just by doing some quick math. If I wore the red plaid dress in 1979, it is likely that my sister Sharon wore it in 1982, my cousin Kim in 1983, and finally my cousin Ali in 1987. The male cousins suffered the same fate. The powder-blue-three-piece suit that Michael wore, then Dan, then Jimmy (pre-jail) was a little hard on the eyes by the time 1985 rolled around.

Then, of course, there was the Christmas of my first year of college. In August I left for the #1 party school in the nation. By Christmas break, I was home in NJ with all of my belongings, and registered for the local community college. Apparently, straight-A Courtney and #1 party school did not mix.

So, when I arrived at our Christmas Eve destination, and was greeted by my cousin’s husband who said, “Merry Christmas, even though you’re a college drop out,” the holiday spirit was pretty much sucked from the room. If only I had known that years later his son would be in jail (yup, same Jimmy), I might have spoken my mind. And, if my cousin hadn’t divorced him a few years later, he would know that I went on to graduate with a 3.7 GPA, and had an even higher GPA in grad school. How’s that for merry, buster?

If you look at the picture of me from that very Christmas morning circa 1991, you’ll see me in my West Virginia University sweatshirt. That is the 18th such picture in that series. Me, turning the corner, at the bottom of the stairs to see what was under the tree.

The rule in our house was that you couldn’t go downstairs until Mom and Dad were awake. And, once they were awake, you had to wait for them to set up the cameras (including video) so they could capture that moment when we first saw all of the presents piled under the tree. Every year we played along. No matter how old I got, I still savored that moments.

Before we would head downstairs, we would “do our stockings,” which hung on the cardboard mantle. Oh, you read correctly. We didn’t have a fireplace in our house, so my parents purchased a three-dimensional cardboard fireplace, that they would lug out of the attic each year and affix to the wall, so we could hang our stocking by the chimney with care. I still don’t know how that thing survived more than a dozen Christmases with stockings weighing in at a combined thirty pounds easily. It truly is a Christmas miracle.

Now, while we had to wait to get near the tree on Christmas morning, our dog Fritz had the run of the house. Which is why when he peed on baby Jesus, in the manger, I wrote a story about it (career foreshadowing). My Mom reminded me, as I was writing this story, of the night nearly 32 years ago when she and my father went to my back school night, sat down at my little desk, and had the opportunity to read the Christmas story I wrote. Apparently, Fritz’s manger-peeing-extravaganza was the focal point. Hey, drama sells.

As I got older, and started buying Christmas presents (that you couldn’t find at the elementary school bookmobile), I truly began to appreciate the spirit of the season. I love to give. (I’m not 100% onboard with it’s better to give than receive, but I tip the scales on giving, if I do say so myself.)

So, for my first grown-up Christmas, I was excited to buy gifts for the members of my extended family. I picked out a really luxurious pair of satin pajamas for my Grandmother. When she opened the box she appeared surprised. She slowly pulled the pants and the top from their wrapping, and looked at me and said, “This is beautiful Cour, but I don’t know where I would wear it.” I looked right back at her and said, “How about … to bed.” That is one moment I wish we had captured on film.

In a time when our photo albums are posted on Facebook, I miss the days when a picture wasn’t taken from a phone, when you only saved the good ones, when you wrote the event and date on the back, and cherished the picture until the edges were tattered.

Today, as I flip through our old family photos albums, I realize that no matter what year the picture was taken, the story and the characters are the same. I know that … In the dining room there is a green Jell-O mold with maraschino cherries courtesy of Aunt Madeleine. One of the men of the family is in a bedroom somewhere struggling into the decades old Santa suit. The older cousins might be playing drinking games. And, everyone else is gathered around the tree, singing carols awaiting Santa’s arrival.

Christmas is a season of tradition. Quirks and all, every family has a story -- of family traditions that you should never let go.

Are We There Yet?

Bluffton Today column
November 24, 2010

How do you know if you are in a relationship? Well, that answer smacked me in the face a couple Sundays ago. Let me tell you how it all went down. As I settled into his truck to head out for breakfast I looked down at my bare knees and said, “Geez, I missed my knees shaving.” He responded with, “You want a razor?” as he reached back, pulled a Target bag from the backseat and gave me a brand new razor.

I promptly cracked the plastic, and got to work on my knees. It wasn’t until he said, “I guess this is how we know we are in a relationship,” that the wheels started turning and I began to wonder, what is that pivotal moment when you know?

Now, clearly I “knew” long before I decided to perform my personal hygiene in his car. It might have been the moment when he said, “I adore you.” Or the afternoon he spent hanging a new screen door for me. Or the days he let my dog out, when I was held up at work. Or even more likely, the five hours he spent with the cable guy trying to get new cable run throughout my house. That, my friends, is love.

Nevertheless, a quick poll of my friends yielded some interesting stories on the same subject. Many of them revolved around bathroom-related incidents, which made my leg shaving extravaganza, appear utterly minute. My Mom (who really should start getting some money on the side for all of the fodder she adds to this column!) said, “When I started folding his underwear.” I am not sure if she was referring to my Dad or my Step-Dad and it is probably best not to ask that question. The romantics in my friend list all pointed to the moment when one of them was ready to move away, was begged to stay, and lived happily after.

Relationships become even more complicated around the holidays. Especially when you are preparing for your first holiday together. Whose family do you spend time with? How do you combine your traditions? How do you convince him that chocolate mousse is indeed an appropriate Thanksgiving dessert?

My rules are simple. I host Thanksgiving. I have been using the same recipes for the last seven years. And, I have the day (ok, the week) planned down to the moment. So, by now he knows that obsessive-compulsive-Martha-Stewartesque-detail-oriented-Courtney is going to come out to play. Heck, he’s seen previews of the persona, and he is still hanging around, so I tip my hat to him.

Last night we grocery shopped. Today, we’ll begin our food prep – the stuffing, chocolate mousse, stuffed mushrooms, and soup will all get crossed off the list today. And, our turkey will begin his transformation as we brine him with sweet tea.

Tonight, we’ll test my Thanksgiving Eve tradition and see if it is up to par according to his radar. I am hoping for a chill in the air, so we can make a fire. While prepping the shrimp for appetizers tomorrow, I will squirrel away a pound and make shrimp salad sandwiches for dinner. We’ll pop Home for the Holidays, into the DVD player, and watch this hilarious film that tackles the topic of torturous holiday snafus among family.

If the weathermen are right and temperatures are going to top 80, we’ll launch a new tradition tomorrow – appetizers, margaritas, and corn hole in the back yard, before the big feast.

Finally, when we all gather around the table, we’ll decide if his cheesy biscuits do indeed make the cut. I bet I’ll adore them.
Happy Thanksgiving Bluffton. Here’s hoping your traditions go off without a hitch.

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. Courtney Hampson can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Who Are Your People?

Bluffton Today column
November 3, 2010

Eleven years ago I was rushed to the hospital and scheduled for immediate surgery. I was bleeding internally due to an ectopic pregnancy. In an effort to avoid coming to terms with what was happening with me, I focused instead on what was going on around me. Shortly after I was brought into the emergency room, a gentleman was wheeled in, his children by his side. Hushed voices escalated to raised voices and it was clear that this man was fighting for his life. While they prepped me for surgery in the next room (created only by curtains), I concentrated the best I could on his prognosis and it was grim. He too was being prepared for surgery.

I was told later that after I woke in the ICU, the first thing I said was, “How is the man who came in after me?” I was happy to learn that he survived after suffering an aneurysm.

Fast forward about a year and my Mom’s washer and dryer go on the fritz. As she stood in the garage chatting with the repairman – as only she can – he became comfortable enough to reveal that just a year earlier he almost died. You see where I am going with this, right?

Yes, the repairman was the man who lay next to me in the hospital.

I was recalling this story not long ago, after a friend and I were talking about Mitch Albom’s book The Five People You Meet in Heaven. The book recounts the life and death of Eddie, an amusement park maintenance man who dies in an accident at work. After dying, Eddie finds himself in heaven where he encounters five people who have significantly affected his life, whether he realized that at the time or not.

And, of course, that got me wondering, who are my five people? I suspect that Mom’s washer/dryer repairman is one of them. He probably doesn’t know that my being a bystander to his trauma certainly put into perspective my own trauma that day. And oddly, 11 years later I still think about him and that day often.

As my conversation continued with my friend, he was really only able to identify one of his five possible “people.” Interestingly, his connection also revolves around a chance meeting, in the hallway of a hospital, on what was one of the most marked days of his life.

So, as I was processing all of the above, it made me think of the people who pass in and out of your life every day, that you likely never acknowledge, or never spend the time getting to know. And then, there are those who make such a huge impact in your life, that when they are gone, the void is deep.

Two weeks ago, my boss, mentor, counselor and pseudo-father-figure retired. As he choked up during his announcement, the tears streamed down my face. I even let a very unprofessional sob escape. Over the course of five years, Bill was my go-to guy. He was a brilliant manager, always calm under pressure, inspiring at all the right moments, and always willing to let me fall into a chair in his office “just to talk.”

For the next seven days, I cried. (Another example of my innate professionalism.) Until suddenly I realized that everything Bill had taught me in five years was suddenly being put to the test. And because he taught me to be better than I think I am I needed to snap the heck out of it.

Is Bill one of my five, or is that too obvious a suggestion?

This past Saturday, I played in the Wayne Hamby Memorial Golf Tournament at Pinecrest Golf Club. Wayne was a part of my Mom’s group of friends and golf comrades here in Bluffton. Knowing my Mom’s love for Wayne and his wife Vicki, I wanted to play, despite the fact that my clubs had 3 years of no-action-accumulated-dust on them.

As the opening announcements for the tournament unfolded, I learned that friends of Wayne’s had driven in from hundreds of miles and multiple states to be a part of the fitting tribute. That was the impact Wayne made. On Saturday he graced us with perfect weather – and he must have been listening to me as I begged for someone to help me to hit the ball straight off the tee.

It made me wonder, how many people at the tournament would say that Wayne was one of their five, and who Wayne might have met when he made it to heaven.

Strung Out: The Story of Bob Benedetto

CH2, November 2010



Tucked into a non-descript warehouse, on the south side of Savannah, sits Benedetto Guitars. Wood dust, the scent of varnish, and the strains of string guitar waft into the air. Artisans work diligently on the next masterpiece. And Benedetto President Howard Paul is just wrapping up a more than two hour tour (and a phenomenal education on the history of the jazz guitar) when he nonchalantly quips, “Hey Bob, we’re coming through …”

After a collective gasp and sideways glances, among the C2 team, we realized that we were standing in the same room as master luthier Bob Benedetto. The legend to whom Paul had been referring for hours.

Admittedly, I didn’t ask the question, “Is Bob here?” I wrongly assumed he wouldn’t be toiling in the factory with the rest of his team. But, there he was, head tucked, hands in motion as he slowly sculpted a small body acoustic archtop from a piece of Sitka spruce, salvaged from a salt water bay, where a mollusk had his way with the wood, creating a stunning gift from nature.

But the story begins long before that. Decades before, in fact.

Born into a family of artists, cabinet makers and musicians (his grandfather made the legs on Steinway pianos), Benedetto made his first archtop guitar in 1968, with tools passed down from his grandfather and others that he made himself.

His reputation grew as he crafted guitars for noted players Bucky Pizzarelli, Chuck Wayne, Joe Diorio and Cal Collins. Later he added Johnny Smith, Jack Wilkins, Ron Eschete, Martin Taylor, Howard Alden, John Pizzarelli, Andy Summers, Jimmy Bruno and Kenny Burrell to the list of “The Benedetto Players. ” Pictures of all of them line the walls of the Savannah factory, many with a handwritten note documenting the day and place the moment was captured. The photographic history of Benedetto has been captured over decades by Bob’s wife Cindy, a photographer. (They met at a wedding, she the photographer and Bob in the band.)

As his name grew, so did the demand. From 1999-2006, Benedetto had a licensing agreement with Fender Musical Instruments to produce his models in a small, controlled manufacturing environment. But, for a man who nurtures a love affair with his craft, Benedetto was anxious to be back on his own.

In 2006, he joined forces with Howard Paul to take the Benedetto Guitar brand worldwide. The two have been making music and some rather stunning works of art ever since.

The process of crafting a Benedetto Guitar is long, and tedious, and requires the skilled hands of masters. The precision and personal attention to each instrument is what makes each Benedetto guitar special. The perfect piece of wood is selected from the 103 degree “wood room,” where Benedetto stores unique finds from all over the world (and where we spent 10 minutes sweating along with the story). Once the piece of wood is selected, it is carved diligently by hand to create the top and back of this hollow-bodied instrument. Every tree is different hence, every Benedetto guitar is unique. Master finisher Matt Eady hand sands and applies the color stain to each perfectly crafted body, in painstaking, repetitious manner. Such care is taken that only one instrument a day gets Eady’s attention. Master luthier Damon Mailand works on the final elements, adding the strings and finger plate, which “floats” magically above the body.

Don’t be mistaken – even though Benedetto receives worldwide acclaim, Bob personally signs and packs every instrument. Nothing leaves the factory without his approval. That is probably why Bob Benedetto is acknowledged as today’s foremost maker of archtop guitars. Over a prolific four-decade career, he has personally handcrafted nearly 800 instruments, including 500 archtops.

Today, Benedetto guitars appear on countless recordings, TV and film soundtracks, in videos, books, magazines, concerts, and museums, including the Smithsonian Institution who said, “I can think of no two people in the history of lutherie who have done more to increase appreciation for the archtop guitar than Bob and Cindy Benedetto.”

While the artists are at work, President Howard Paul oversees the day to day operations and handles 100% of sales for the company. While describing his crazy schedule, his phone rang and he rolled his eyes with an exaggerated smirk. “I’m also the secretary,” he chuckled as he covered the receiver with his hand.

Paul is a busy man and a talented jazz musician in his own right. When we sat down he had just played a dozen gigs, in ten days, while also moonlighting as one of the chief volunteers responsible for organizing the Savannah Jazz Festival. This year’s Festival poster features a portrait of him. And as the Festival had just wrapped its week-long schedule of performances, Paul looked exhausted, yet proud.

No rest for the weary, but at Benedetto, Paul is able to combine all of his loves since he admittedly has a hard time saying, “No.”

Paul has always been surrounded by music. He started playing guitar at four, jazz guitar at 10, and was playing professionally by the time he became a teenager. At 21, he was teaching guitar at the college level. Living in Atlantic City, NJ, there were plenty of gigs available for Paul, but he soon learned that the bar scene – “booze, drugs, and loose women,” he says – was a bad environment. So he went to college, graduated from the University of North Carolina and was soon back in Atlantic City. Again with the booze, the drugs, and those darn women.

So, his next escape was the Army, where he spent 10 years as a logistics officer. After the Army, Paul spent 10 years as a logistics executive for Chatham Steel. But, he “gigged the whole time. I never stopped playing,” he says.

Finally, in 1996 he was ready for his first Benedetto guitar. With a 3 ½ year wait on his hands (as if you needed anymore proof that these are truly custom works of art), Paul had plenty of time to become friends with the Bob Benedetto. Their friendship grew and a decade later their partnership was sealed.

Now four years into the journey, the duet crosses paths each day in the Savannah factory, where a tireless crew works to ensure that the artistry of jazz is as present in the instrument as it is the musician.