Death Penalty Certified

CH/CB2
August 2010 issue

“My first death penalty case was back in 1990. My client was the first person in South Carolina to be executed by lethal injection, after the demise of the use of electric chair. Oddly enough, I spent the last few hours with him in his cell. They put a TV nearby and let you watch anything you want, and they let you call anywhere in the world. We watched John Wayne war movies and he spoke to his young relatives asking them not to follow his path. We ate popcorn shrimp from Bojangles’ until his time was up. His name was Michael Elkins.” – Dudley Bradstreet Ruffalo



282 people have been executed by the state of South Carolina since 1912. Just two of the dead are women. Sadly the count includes a 14 year old boy. An additional 54 sit on Death Row in South Carolina today.

234 of the 282 executions occurred prior to 1960.

A federal moratorium on executions was enacted in 1962, even though state statutes remained in effect. According to the South Carolina Department of Corrections, for a number of years, South Carolina’s death penalty statute was “fairly typical” and “provided for the ultimate penalty for a number of crimes including, but not limited to, murder, rape and kidnapping.” The statute predicated that the death penalty may be imposed in “those situations where the jury made a final finding of guilt without an affirmative recommendation of mercy.”

In 1972, the US Supreme Court declared that most death penalty statutes, including South Carolina’s was unconstitutional. So, South Carolina changed the statute. But then in 1976, the Supreme Court ruled that while the death penalty was not unconstitutional, “each case should be considered upon its merit,” but the 8th amendment (cruel and unusual punishment) could not be violated.

By the time this all shook out in 1976, the court reasoned that if the prosecution wanted to pursue the death penalty, a number of things must happen. First, there would be a two-phase hearing – part one would determine guilt or innocence. And in the case of a guilty verdict a second phase specific to sentencing would commence. The sentencing phase allows for mitigating circumstances to be entered into record. Next, the death penalty can be sought in murder cases, but only if the murder was accompanied by one or more aggravating circumstances (rape, torture, kidnapping). Finally, the defendant is appointed two attorneys and has a mandatory appeal process (to make sure the law was applied correctly).

Interestingly, it is extremely rare for a person facing the death penalty to pull out the yellow pages and start calling lawyers. The cost to defend a death penalty case runs in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Thus, once the prosecutor decides he is going for the death penalty (the prosecutor alone makes that call), a judge is assigned to the case, and that judge immediately begins to seek counsel and co-counsel for the defendant.

It seems odd, but the judge truly picks up the phone and starts calling the best criminal defense attorneys in the county where the crime was committed. In Beaufort County that means one of three guys is getting the call.

Enter the realist, the historian, the humanist. Three men who march into a courtroom and defend the rights of someone accused of a heinous crime. Why?

The realist
Sam Bauer is rather matter of fact. He has been involved in four death penalty cases (and an additional 25 homicide cases). “No one takes these cases,” he says. “But,” he continued, “When the court puts that much faith in you … you step up.”

Bauer was put in the criminal defense chair right out of college. Literally. He graduated and was waiting for his new job to start, when a family friend called. That “friend” was the federal circuit court judge in Mobile, Alabama. He invited Bauer to “come watch.” And before he knew it, Bauer was appointed as the defense attorney. “I knew the second I walked into that courtroom that this was what I wanted to do.”

The perception of a defense attorney can be quite negative. And you have to ask (and I did), how they do it. For Bauer, he knows that his role is to protect his client, to make sure that the evidence is trustworthy and value, to afford his client the right to a fair trial, to ensure that the government is not corrupt, and most importantly than an innocent person is not convicted and sentenced to death. It’s a matter of fact.

The historian
Dudley Bradstreet Ruffalo comes from generations of attorneys however his interest in law goes back much further. As a student of ancient history, he offers interesting perspective on crime and punishment.

Ruffalo can roll back the clock and cite historical references dating back to the Ancient World and Hammurabi’s Code – the ol’ eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth theory, to the Roman Empire, the Middle Ages, modern European times, and finally the United States legal system.

I’d peg Ruffalo as a “social historian” – his evaluation of the complex systems of rules, over centuries, all boil down to the effect on society. And he studies the historical elements, for better understanding of the role he plays today.

SIDEBAR: Did you know that when you raise your hand in a court of law and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, that is actually a throw-back to a practice that started in Roman times and continued into the Middles Ages? Back when, if you committed a crime, that crime was branded on the palm of your hand?

Yes, this means that Hester Prynne actually got off easy when they simply sewed the scarlet letter on her frock.

If your hand was marked, you were a felon and your testimony would not be taken.

Ruffalo has participated in eight death penalty cases - four for the defense and four as the prosecutor.

He’s seen both sides of the courtroom and admits that he questions the merit of the death penalty all the time, mainly because he says, “What scares me most is that innocent people have been convicted.”

In fact, Ruffalo introduced me to the Innocence Project, a non-profit organization dedicated to exonerating the innocent. Shockingly, there have been 255 post-conviction DNA exonerations in United States history. Seventeen people have been proven innocent and exonerated by DNA testing in the United States after serving time on death row. They were convicted in 11 states and served a combined 209 years in prison – including 187 years on death row – for crimes they didn’t commit.

I’d say that is certainly enough evidence to warrant taking your job seriously and Ruffalo does.


He’s been the prosecutor, served as municipal judge for Hilton Head, was director of a legal clinic, and today has his own practice as a criminal defense attorney. It’s safe to say Ruffalo has seen it all, and yet he keeps coming back for more.

The humanist
“They all have a story to tell and need someone to listen,” says attorney Donald Colongeli, who struck me as a man with intense passion for what he does. It is clear the moment you start talking to him that he shoots from the hip and tells it like it is. It is even more evident that he uses that approach to build a rapport with his clients.

Admittedly, he has to go to a pretty dark place to try to understand a client charged with murder. “I shut the door, I lay out all of the evidence, I look at gruesome pictures, I listen to the 911 tape -- all in an effort to understand,” Colongeli says. He likens his role to that of a surgeon saying, “The prognosis is not good, but I still have to give my client a fair shot. I still have nightmares about some of the things I have seen.”

Interestingly, Colongeli started law school as a staunch republican. But, as his education progressed, so did his thought process and he divulges that he became more and more liberal as time passed because of those cases where the defendant may indeed be innocent.

He does what he does because he gets, “a certain satisfaction from upholding the law of the state and the country.” It all boils down to applying the law. There is a checks and balances in the criminal justice system. And Colongeli notes that it is his job to protect the rights of his client … even if he thinks he is guilty.

“It never gets easier. I still get the shakes and vomit before a case. I’m human too… and I love it.”

A realist, a historian, a humanist -- three very different men with very different backgrounds, personalities, and passions.

Men who aren’t saying they don’t believe in the death penalty, but do believe that no innocent man should lose his life.

And, based on the statistics, we should all share that worry.


Writer’s Note: This year I have penned a story about Beaufort County Sheriff PJ Tanner, Beaufort County Sheriff’s Investigator Bob Bromage, and the County Crime Lab. Each of those stories, interviews, and experiences weighed heavily in my mind as I tackled this topic. I’d received such a complete education on the prosecution and investigative side of things that I felt like my mind was partially closed when it came to the defendant. However, I have to give credit to Sam, Dudley, and Don; they opened and may have actually changed my conservative mind.

The Art of the Break-Up

Bluffton Today column
July 28, 2010

Warning: intense humor and sarcasm to follow.

Mom is always right. Admittedly, it takes about thirty years of mistakes to come to this realization. And once you finally do concede that your mother will eternally be correct, you begin to flip back through that ol’ rolodex in your mind and wonder if there is anything valid that you have missed.

Mom has certainly had some gems over the years, and the more I think about her advice the more I appreciate it. Having recently re-entered the dating world after a decade hiatus, I have been tapping into some of her most prolific mom-isms. Namely, never date a guy whose legs are skinnier than yours. (Check.) And the spin-off of that rule, never date a guy who weighs less than you do. (Check mate.)

After a twenty-plus year career in education, Mom had compiled a mental list of all of the pain in the-you-know-what students over the years. And when she retired, my sister and I inherited a rather long list of names we should never use were we to provide her with grandchildren. Said logic was also to be applied when choosing a mate. Bottom line, Mom had a lot of bad students named Jacob over the years – so we avoid Jacobs (among others) at all costs.

With a Mom like ours, it is only natural that my sister and I have also become rather adept at creating some “rules” (i.e. pushing our ideas on others). As such, my sister has a very strict keep your nails and hair trimmed at all times credo, which luckily her husband follows to a tee. I have since adopted this rule as well, and send out an early warning to any future callers. Let’s keep the personal hygiene in check, why don’t we. However, as a side note, over-zealous “manscaping” can be perceived in a negative fashion. It’s a thin (hair) line to walk, so be careful. Ok? Thanks.

A recent quandary had me scouring the Mom and sister database for wisdom, and I’ve come up empty. So, alas I turn to you as I ponder the rules of the break-up. Since I haven’t dated or had to deal with a break up since, well, cell phones were the size of Volkswagons, I need a little help.

Consider this. You are dating someone and buy them a rather generous birthday present, let’s say for arguments sake, two tickets to an NFL game. Now, the plan when you bought the tickets (because everything lasts forever, not!) is to attend the game together, in a city six hours away, in late September.

You still with me?

Ok. If you break up in June, are you still bound by the birthday gift contract? Meaning, can I re-sell the tickets, in a non-scalper way, pocket the $350 and buy myself something fabulous? I say yes.

Whoa Nelly! Slow down. Before you make a judgment, I would like to enter some additional evidence in the case. A very generous Christmas present to the aforementioned “break-up” and one additional birthday present are also both still at my house, despite attempts to arrange for a pick-up. I say, if he doesn’t want them after 30 days, then I keep them too.

Hold on. If you don’t yet agree with me, I have one final piece of evidence. If, hypothetically speaking, the “break-up” was the one who determined that breaking up was indeed the correct course of action then I might argue that all of the above is moot. All aforementioned presents are mine, and after this column I will likely never have another date again.

Yes, he broke up with me, can you believe it? Of course, I simply contend that he jumped in line and did the deed before I had the chance. This is called self-preservation.

This dating thing is for the birds! Send me your best break-up stories and I may even throw in a prize. Say, two tickets to see the Jets play the Dolphins in Miami on September 26th …

Courtney Hampson will most likely be single for the rest of her life and she’s ok with that. Send her your break-up story at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Facebook = Free Therapy

Bluffton Today column
July 14, 2010

Last Saturday I swayed in the hammock. Cold beer. Nice breeze. Blackberry in hand. I know that final component almost ruins it, but in truth, I get a heck of a lot of entertainment value via my Blackberry. So she (yes, she’s a girl, I call her Betty) is always close by.

On this particular afternoon I was perusing Facebook and pondering the perfunctoriness of the phenomenon. My friend Natalie has just shattered two bottles of red wine and was dealing with a grape-flavored river running through her kitchen. My sister’s American flag had been stolen from off of her house (Happy 4th of July!). My college crony Cari was back at home in Washington DC for the holiday weekend. And my three-decade-pal Lisa was demonstrating the Slip n’ Slide for her kids, and hoping the neighbors weren’t watching.

After getting all the news fit to Facebook, I headed in for a refill on the Corona. My dog, Darby, emerged from somewhere in the shade and followed me inside. I opened the door to the refrigerator and looked down at my panting pup only to find that one side of his face was swollen beyond recognition.

I panicked. Darby has a penchant for sticking his snout where it doesn’t belong and has had an angry bee or two stick it to him. So I grabbed the Benadryl, mashed up half a pill, and put it in some peanut butter … but Darby wouldn’t bite. I knew something was really wrong now. Peanut butter is the secret elixir in our house and if Darby didn’t start spinning in excited circles, I knew my next step was to get the vet on the phone, pronto.

At 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, a holiday weekend no less, I called the emergency vet line and waited for the call back. I sat on the cool kitchen tile, with Darby’s ever-swelling mouth, face, and neck in my lap. Tears rolled down my cheeks and onto his.

Dr. Nance called me back in record time. His guess was a snake bite and he told me to meet him at the office in fifteen minutes. I was there in five and pacing the parking lot when he arrived in bathing suit and crocs, straight from his July 4th celebration, I’m sure.

As we walked in the front door, the vet tech came in the back door, and I was comforted by the fact that they both made Darby their priority (much love to Bluffton Veterinary Hospital!). They assessed the damage, concurred on a snake bite to the shnoz, and as I waited for a prognosis I did the natural thing …

I grabbed Betty and updated my Facebook status: Courtney Hampson is at the vet. Snake bite. The dog. Not me.

Why did I feel the need to share this with Facebook? Well, because I was alone and scared. Darby is my best friend. He is the one I wake up to each morning, the one who greets me at the door each afternoon, and the one who lay beside me each night. (Yes, I need a life, but focus people.)

And my Facebook friends didn’t disappoint. As Dr. Nance got Darby patched up (and drugged up – in a responsible doctor way), messages of support started rolling in and instantly made me feel better.

I guess I could have picked up the phone and talked to someone, but cognizant of the fact that it was a holiday, I didn’t want to burden anyone with my current emergency. Instead I turned to Facebook where oddly, someone is always listening.

Courtney Hampson is obsessed with Facebook, ChapStick, and sweet little Darby. Friend her if you “like” this. She can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Marty Falle Is Stirring Up Dust

CH/CB2 Magazine
July 2010 issue


He made me cry. Yup, sitting right there in front of the coffee shop, in a jam-packed shopping center, on a busy memorial day weekend, with hundreds of visitors passing to and fro. My eyes filled with tears as the lyrics unfolded. He made me cry before he even hit the first chorus.

Marty Falle fancies himself a Midwestern cowboy, complete with hat and boots. No, he’s never herded cattle or lassoed a wild stallion, but to Falle “cowboy” is a mindset. It’s old America. It’s the simple life. It’s appreciation for those things that truly matter. It’s pick-up trucks, scuffed boots and a country bar on a Friday night.

Born and reared in Ohio, Falle parents believed that the arts were just as important as English and math. And, as such they insisted that he and his siblings play a musical instrument during their formative years. One viola, a saxophone, a guitar and a bass later and Falle was hooked.

“Music was meaningful in our family,” Falle says.

However, using his vocal instrument didn’t really occur to him until he was recruited - from detention to choir - in high school. The choir director offered a detention reprieve to the band of football brothers, if they were willing to help fill out the male-depleted choir. “We were bribed and it worked,” Falle reminisced, with a Cheshire smile. With his strong tenor voice, Falle quickly became a standout ascending to lead soloist and then participating in the school’s barbershop quartet, pop ensemble, musicals and school plays.

When he headed to Ohio University he majored in applied voice, but quickly changed gears. Convinced that music would never pay the rent, he graduated with a double major in history and communications and a double minor in philosophy in music. All the while, he kept the music going and his college band, Voices, was ever-popular in Ohio playing to crowds as large as 4,000.

Falle won’t reveal how many years that four-part degree took, but once in hand, he was off and running and headed to the big city. There, he climbed the corporate ladder of a Fortune 500 company, ascending to Senior Vice President and a life fraught with travel, stress, deadlines, and empty suits. While the corporate world paid the bills, Falle found balance with his music.

Eventually music tipped the scales. Falle traded in his New York City commute and a closet of suits in favor of the beat of a different drum. He left the corporate world and started three “lean and mean” smaller companies. Now, he has the best of both worlds … he’s his own boss, lives by the mantra “if it’s not fun, I’m not going to do it,” and has the flexibility to pursue his one true love, the music.

Speaking of love, Falle is clearly a romantic. And, the thematic undertones of his lyrics suggest the same. With two original albums to date, and a third in the works, Falle tells a story with each.

His first album, “Ohio,” speaks to lost love, broken hearts, regret and the emptiness that accompanies heartache. In fact, it was a broken heart brought that brought him to the beaches of Hilton Head Island, where he retreated, healed, and now lives full time.

It’s the writing that brings Falle the most joy. “It’s therapeutic, inspirational … there is so much I want to write about, I need three lives to get it done,” he says.

Falle’s second album, “Dingtown,” is inspired by all of those small American towns, where life is simple, folks work hard and they recognize what is important. (Dingtown is also the name given to his seven-piece band of musicians who help to create the full country experience.) The lyrics speak to Falle’s own journey, of learning who he is and coming back home again, if only symbolically, to that Midwestern cowboy in his heart.

Falle’s original songs will entertain and move you (did I mention that the preview of album three brought me to tears?). The songs also provide significant insight into who Falle is, if - and only if - you are willing to listen close.

But, if it’s just the two-step you are after, Falle plays to that crowd too. His live shows are abundant with cover songs courtesy of all of his inspirations – the Eagles, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yokum, Alabama, and Garth Brooks.

And his voice, his stage presence … wow. Utter magic. Falle makes you want to hoot and holler in your best Southern drawl, throw back a Bud, and eat cracked crab with drawn butter. He’s that good. Smooth. Sultry. Soulful. Country.

You can find him playing ‘round here most weekends (he frequents the Metropolitan Lounge and Bluffton LIVE in Bluffton, and The Smokehouse on the Island), and if you’re lucky, all the boys of Dingtown will be with him.

Even in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, this Midwestern cowboy manages to stir up some dust.

Where are you going? And, did you really come all the way from NY to get there?

Bluffton Today column
June 30, 2010

I know that I - the Jersey Girl - have obviously adjusted to life in the south when even I start to get annoyed by all of the New York, New Jersey, and Ohio license plates. The annoyance is furthered by the fact that said license plates are most often attached to a vehicle that a. is going too slow in the left lane, b. is unfamiliar with the fact that we can make u-turns anywhere we want to down here, or c. has just cut me off.

My most recent encounter was totally my fault. I mean, what am I thinking trying to brave Wal-Mart on a Sunday? I have a very strict “No Wal-Mart On Weekends” policy. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t discriminate. I avoid Wal-Mart on all days ending in “y.” However, if it wasn’t for my brother-in-law, who I suspect broke my beach chair; I wouldn’t have had to schlep to Wal-Mart en-route to the Island for a day of sun.

But, I digress. Now that I have been successfully cut off by the New York plates, I search for a parking spot. And there are plenty. Unfortunately, most are adjacent to some “Northern plate” that has crossed over the line, rendering said spot inhabitable. But no worries, I don’t mind parking 200 yards from the entrance, and walking in 105 degree heat past a dozen empty spaces, my time isn’t valuable.

Upon entering Wal-Mart I am struck by the realization that I may have actually walked onto the set for MTV’s Jersey Shore or The Real Housewives of New York. Oh my GAWD! Where did all these people come from? And how did I-95 accommodate the onslaught?

Once I navigate through the sea of boogie boards, water noodles, coolers, beach chairs, Pringles, popsicles, and other paraphernalia I finally reach the check-out lines.

Holy mackerel, you would think Bon Jovi was giving a free concert at the food court. The lines are a few dozen deep. So, I made a game time decision and went to the self checkout lane. Self checkout never ends well, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I made my move.

As suspected (based on years of self-checkout blunders) the woman in front of me caused quite a little back up. She had a number of large items that wouldn’t fit in a bag. So, of course, the register squawked out its automated commands “please place the item in a bag, please place the item in a bag, please place the item in a bag.” And then finally, “please wait for assistance.”

This is when my eye-rolling and incessant bouncing from one foot to the other activity commences. I am equally as frustrated by the “automated” process and the woman who couldn’t control her own items. But, help did arrive in the form of a Wal-Mart employee who got things moving again.

Alas, it is my turn. Bottle of water scanned. Success. Now how about this beach chair … that features one, two, three stickers and/or tags all possessing bar codes. None of which scan successfully. (I start to sweat a little.) “Please scan your next item. Please scan your next item.” (Panic sets in.) The automated screens begins to flash, “Manually input the sku number.” (Is it hot in here?) Which sku number? There are three!

And suddenly I am the woman in front of me who can’t control her own items.

After an agonizing check out, I make the slow march back to my car, past twelve empty spaces (thanks again New York!) in the broiling heat, with head hung low, and new beach chair dragging. My spirit deflated, I get back in the car to head to the beach.

I am startled from my depression by the sound of screeching tires. Beep! Beep!

As I look to my left, I see the unmistakable red, white and blue of New York plates, running a stop sign and about to broadside me. And suddenly, all is right in my world again.

Everything Happens For a Reason, Oh Really?

Bluffton Today column
June 16, 2010

When I first moved to Bluffton, I sought out a spa for my monthly pedicure obsession. It turned out that the woman who “did my toes,” Lani, and I grew up just miles apart in New Jersey. We never met back then, but here we are today, 800 miles from home, great friends, and wondering how we could have missed each other all those years ago.

My closet friend (ok, we’re dating!) down here is a Yankee. (No, not a NY Yankee. You think I’d still be writing this column, if that was the case?) We lived just towns apart in New Jersey for the better part of our adult years, worked in similar industries, enjoyed the same favorite restaurants, yet our paths never crossed. Then, we both follow family to Bluffton and end up meeting here.

Was it meant to be? Or did Lani and her family, the Yankee and his family, my family and I all just happen to realize at the same time that property taxes in New Jersey were crazy and we were getting the heck out?

On Monday, CNN ran a story about a married Florida couple who discovered that they had crossed paths much earlier in their lives. Just before their wedding, the two were looking at old photos from the bride’s childhood vacation to Disney World. Upon further inspection, the groom realized that the kid in the stroller in the background of the photo was him! They met – face to face – decades later, and are now married.

Is that fate? Or did their parents both happen to take advantage of the same summer special that Walt was running? And, is that fate? Or is it really just a small world after all?

Last week I was forwarded an email (I usually delete these, but it was from my Mom, so I obliged) that talked about some of the survivors of September 11th attacks. Those who, because something unplanned popped up that morning – he had to run his daughter to daycare, he was stuck in traffic due to an accident, it was her turn to pick-up donuts - were late heading to work at the World Trade Center, and as a result didn’t perish.

The email went on to say how important the little things are and that in this instance, each of these “little things,” was a “blessing” that saved their lives.

I have a little trouble with that. It makes me wonder what the other 3,000 people, who did lose their life, did wrong that day to not be “blessed.”

And further, if the traffic that the guy was stuck in was a result of a car crash on the NJ Turnpike, what did the people in the car do wrong that day?

Heck, I’ll do you one better. Maybe the woman who had to pick-up donuts slowed at a yellow light, instead of racing through. Maybe her caution then caused the guy in the car behind her to be late. So, what if he rushed through the next intersection and was side-swiped?

And this gets the ol’ wheels turning in my head. Does everything really happen for a reason?

You hear people say that all the time … You didn’t get the promotion you were gunning for? Well, everything happens for a reason? Your dog died? Well, everything happens for a reason. You had a miscarriage? Well, everything happens for a reason. Your wife left you? Well, everything happens for a reason.

Oh really, what’s the reason? Is it a higher power directing things? Or maybe the answers are simply …

You weren’t qualified.

He was 16 years old and his ticker couldn’t take it anymore.

Biology just wasn’t with you this time. (I know. I speak from personal experience.)

You’ve been sitting on the couch eating wings and sucking the sauce off your fingers for ten years instead of looking for a job and she was sick of it.

Nineteen men decided to hijack four planes and THAT is the reason why 3,000 innocent people died and a handful got lucky.

Courtney Hampson wonders if it is fate that she wrote this column and you read it. What are the chances? Tell her at courtneyh@hargray.com.

CSI Beaufort: This is Not a Drill

My new friends at the Beaufort County Sheriff's Office tapped me to go behind the scenes (with a full camera crew) and check out their new crime lab. I'm beginning to wonder if all of these law enforcement-related writing assignments are a means to keep an eye on me ...

CB/CH2 June issue
Having spent three hours in the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office new forensics lab, I suppose my DNA is all over the place. The good news is I have no prior record, so I don’t believe I will end up in the suspect pool. However, if I—or you—decide to go rogue anytime soon, be assured, we will be caught.

In fact, Sheriff PJ Tanner has committed that the new lab will have evidence processed in less than 30 day—that’s up to 12 times faster than it used to take, before the lab, and when all DNA and arson evidence was processed via the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division (SLED), who by the way, is also processing all of the other evidence gathered in the state. Continue Reading

Buttah is Bettah, Per Paula Deen

You really get a sense of just how big a celebrity is when you try to interview her. My interview with Paula Deen took place via email and via a publicist, and some of my most seering questions were overlooked. But regardless, CH2 scored the interview and there was no way I was turning this one down!

From the June issue of CB/CH2
I’ll admit I’ve been one of the hungry souls standing in line along West Congress Street in Savannah, amid hundreds of other revelers, mouth watering, waiting for a taste of what The Lady & Sons are servin’ up.

As a native Yankee, with a healthy Food Network obsession, I was a disciple of Paula Deen, long before I ever crossed the Mason Dixon line. However, living in her backyard makes any girl feel a certain kinship. With the sass and spitfire of a Yankee, yet the sweet drawl of a southern belle, Deen has launched herself into the spotlight. And with her trademark “y’all” and signature laugh, she has endeared herself to the masses. Continue Reading

Never Too Old To Turn "It" On ...

Bluffton Today column
May 19, 2010

You may remember a column I wrote just before Christmas about the passing of my Great Aunt Madeleine. She was defacto-matriarch of our family, based solely on my belief that no one could lip sync “Away in the Manager” on Christmas Eve like she could.

Anyway, last week Aunt Madeleine’s hubby of more than sixty years, Uncle Al, ventured south to visit the Bluffton branch of the family tree. Uncle Al made the trip with my Grandmother (Aunt Madeleine’s sister). It is safe to say that we’re all hoping this new development is platonic in nature. However, we are also a little afraid to ask. Wink. Wink.

So, one morning Uncle Al was venturing out for his morning walk and my Mom reminded him to take his cell phone, just in case. Uncle Al told mom that he has had his cell phone for two years, but he never uses it because the battery is always dead.

Mom, whom I clearly get my sense of humor from, and has an uncanny ability to ask a string of questions in such quick succession that you don’t know what hit you, retorted, “Then why do you even have a cell phone? You’re missing the purpose. What if something happens? What will you do?”

“I need a Verizon store,” Uncle Al declared. So, off to the Verizon store they went. That encounter went a little something like this:

Uncle Al: “My phone doesn’t work. The battery is dead.”

Verizon (after turning on the phone, and not flinching when the AT&T logo appeared!): “Sir, your battery is fine.”

Uncle Al: “Wait! How did you do that?”

Verizon: “Well, I just hit the red button, the ‘on’ button.”

Uncle Al: “On is red? I’ve been hitting the green button all this time. Doesn’t green mean go?”

Mom (under her breath): “For two years!?!”

Back in the car, and back to Mom’s house they went, where apparently Uncle Al thought it would be an appropriate time to make sure he understood how all of the household appliances worked. You know, just in case. That encounter went a little something like this.

Uncle Al: “How do you turn on the coffee pot?”

Mom: “You hit the button that says, ‘on’.”

Uncle Al: “How do you answer the phone?”

Mom: “You hit the button that says, ‘talk’.”

This may have gone on for hours, but Mom had only a few seconds while serving Sunday dinner to pull me aside for the highlights. And knowing Uncle Al like I do, it is perhaps more likely that he did this just to see how far he could push my Mom. He has a hell of a sense of humor for an octogenarian.

Regardless, it got me thinking. About age (as I reluctantly celebrated the glorious “twenty-seventeen” last week). And more significantly - about the recent revelations of swinger activity in Sun City. Yowzer! Hello! This is big news for our little town, so I must address it.

I’m actually torn on the issue – torn between a “good for them” attitude and throwing up in my mouth a little bit. Now, if this little ditty is true can we conclude that there is more sex happening in Sun City than on the USCB campus? That could be revolutionary.

Further, this could be a huge branding opportunity for Del Webb. “Sun City, An Active Adult Community” could easily be transitioned to “Sun City, A Sexually Active Adult Community.” Heck, sales may even “rise.”

Their “Lifestyle” Director (who I am sure is a lovely woman, and hopefully has a good sense of humor), could get a national sponsor courtesy of yup, you guessed it -- LifeStyles condoms. A box of new business cards, maybe some free samples, and she’ll be the most popular gal on campus.

According to Sun City’s website, “team sports” are a big hit and “who knew you could work up a sweat playing croquet” … I would, of course, modify that page completely.

I’ve always been of the “shoot me when I’m sixty” school of thought. I don’t want to get old. But, it seems that although my knowledge of technology may wane, I have a pretty good shot of “gettin’ a little” something else out of my golden years.
If after reading this column you experience laughter for more than two hours, please consult your doctor.

Pet Peeves, Rants, and Raves. Actually, No Raves.

Bluffton Today column
May 5, 2010

Way back in the olden days, when I took my driving test, I ran over all of the cones during my parallel parking maneuver. But, the instructor was still nice enough to pass me. And this was before I “developed,” so he must have seen a spark of something special in my ability.*

However, since then I have avoided parallel parking (and driving instructors) at all costs. Further, if I don’t have to move the car in reverse, we are all better off. In fact, the day before I moved my boat to dry storage was the day that I tried to back up the truck, the trailer, and the boat and wrapped all of the above around a palm tree.

As such, I will never ever understand why folks will voluntarily back their car into a parking space. I can barely back out of my driveway and into my cul de sac without incident. Backing up on purpose? I don’t get it. Do you walk backwards just for the heck of it? No, I didn’t think so.

While we’re still behind the wheel, let’s address the folks who speed up, race past me, and then end up stopped adjacent to me at the next traffic light. I call this the “hurry up and wait” maneuver. And, I get great joy from giving said drivers the side-eye, a quick tip of the hat, and perhaps an over-exaggerated chortle.

Every time I experience a “hurry up and wait” I am reminded of an outing with my Dad many moons ago. I was driving and apparently tailgating the driver in front of me. My father told me to slow down. But, being the smart-aleck teen that I was, I argued, “but the speed limit is 45!”

And, my father, in all his wisdom said (with deadpan delivery), “but the car in front of you is only going 35, Cour.” Good point Dad, good point.

While I’m at it, might I also mention that people who use the word “irregardless” need to pull out the ol’ dictionary and realize that irregardless is not a word. I believe the word you are searching for is “regardless,” which means, in spite of everything. I’m pretty sure that is what you are trying to say anyway, right? In a chuckle-worthy twist, the dictionary actually has an entry for “irregardless,” that basically says, this isn’t a word. Classic.

Further, if you tend to start a thought with, “we as humans …” you may want to re-think it. If you are talking to another someone, chances are they are also human, so that clarification is probably unnecessary. I’m just saying …

Now, if we are chatting, and you present a number of points and then tell me to “do the math,” I expect some actual numbers to be in the mix. And, if I am telling you a story with stunning statistics for example, I received 1,000 pieces of fan mail last week (an obvious exaggeration, but bear with me)! And you feel the need to tell me that you, in fact, received 2,000 pieces of fan mail last week, that makes you a “one-upper.” In essence you are telling me that everything I do, you can do better. Of course you can. I totally believe you.

Since I am on a roll, I may as well cross the line and tell you that if you truly believe in God and everything he has created, don’t you think you are selling him short when you call him ”awesome” in your Facebook status? I mean, if I was God, and had the omnipotent power that the Bible suggests, I’d feel a little short-changed by “awesome.” (And, if I was God, would I really have time for Facebook?)

And last, but not least, my rant would incomplete if I didn’t thank the Tea Partiers for sending me a copy of the United States Constitution with a note regarding the First Amendment. Many thanks, but that gift was unnecessary. I am quite familiar with my right to free speech and press, as evidenced by the fact that I wrote (and you just read), 704 words of Courtney and no one stopped me. God bless America!

What are your pet peeves? Send them to Courtney Hampson at courtneyh@hargray.com.

*Note this sentence read - "And this was before my boobs came in, so he must have seen a spark of something special in my ability." - before I was advised to change it. :-)

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

Um, let me first say that this was not one of my all-time favorite assignments. I couldn't figure out how I would possibly make this topic interesting (and, maybe I didn't) ... but, as my mentor told me many moons ago ... "the world is about people." And, he was right ... my "subject" John Harris was a riot and once he got me laughing, I was on his team. So, I hope he enjoys my take on his life ...

CH/CB2 May 2010

“Have you ever ridden the tilt-a-whirl?” That is how John Harris, two years into his role as general manager of Hilton Head Exterminators, describes an “average” day on the job. That gem was quickly followed by, “I don’t want to gross you out too much…”

Both statements offer some interesting insight into what Harris’ life is like on a day-to-day basis. He is down and dirty and into all things that creep, crawl, and lurk—in the night, in your attic, in your walls, in your ductwork, in your backyard. Since 1968, Hilton Head Exterminators (HHE) has been making sure that pests live where they are supposed to. However, when the pests invade your world, HHE’s goal is to drive them out. Serving Hilton Head, Bluffton, Okatie, Sun City, and Jasper County, HHE is the Lowcountry’s largest independent pest control company. Part of the key to their continued growth and success is the recognition that their reputation is being built every day. So, every customer interaction is crucial. HHE’s continued focus on building relationships is part of what makes them stand out. Add a favorable dose of community involvement to mix, and HHE’s formula yields a very impressive result. Continue reading

Flock of Sea Gulls

Bluffton Today
April 14, 2010

If a stray cat wanders into your backyard and you feed her, what happens? She starts coming back for breakfast, lunch and dinner because she has found a food source and you are generous enough to keep the buffet open.

So, what happens if you feed the sea gulls on the beach? Uh, they keep coming back.

I’ve learned that there are two types of people on the beaches and sandbars of the Lowcountry.

Feeders (noun): people who feed sea gulls, willingly wave cheese puffs in the air, and are almost always sitting directly adjacent to Courtney Hampson on the beach.

Feeder-haters (noun): people who bring food to the beach so they can eat it; they don’t feed the sea gulls.

Now that summer has recently sprung, and I am taking full advantage of our beloved beach and boat days, I get the distinct honor of having weekly run-ins with the feeders.

You know the type. The feeders think it is funny to have dozens of birds swarming over head. The feeders laugh along with the gulls cackling call. Feeders don’t mind that this dirty bird will strut confidently within inches of their beach blanket for a small taste of their mid-afternoon meal.

It is no coincidence that the migratory path of feeders mimics that of the sea gull. Meaning it doesn’t matter what shore – ocean or river, Jersey or South Carolina - the sea gull will swarm if feeders are present.

It is my distinct hope that the feeder species are tourists from interior states, flocking to the shoreline for vacation, and awestruck by the sea gull, so much so, that they must get a closer look and feed them. In such cases, this may warrant a one-time excusable offense.

But for locals, to be a feeder is inexcusable.

Sea gull is actually a nickname for the Herring Gull. In North America, the sea gull breeds along the Atlantic coast and inhabit shorelines of oceans, seas, lakes, and large rivers. So, bottom line. They are here to stay.

And I am willing to peacefully co-exist with the species (the gull, not the feeder).

In fact, The Migratory Bird Act of 1918 tells me that I have to. Believe it or not, in the early 1900’s sea gull feathers were a hot commodity and were being pillaged. The Migratory Bird Act makes it illegal to harm or injure a gull without a Federal permit. This Act combined with the resources provided by human activity (food!), allowed the species to make a remarkable rebound. The success of the Act was, in fact, so great that now sea gulls have become a bit of a nuisance in many areas where large numbers of sea gulls coincide with human activity and land use. Yup, that means our beaches and sandbars.

Gulls are very opportunistic and adaptive feeders and will forage on anything -- from your lunch, to someone else’s leftovers found in the garbage can, to fish, to chicks of other bird species or their own.

Listen, it isn’t up to me to tell you who to invite over for lunch and dinner. But, it is important to note that the sea gull isn’t the cleanest bird in the ol’ food chain. They tend to carry avian tuberculosis and internal parasites, salmonella and botulism are often the cause of their demise and, they like to play host to fleas and ticks. Now, I’m no scientist, but why exactly do folks insist on sharing a meal with them?

As a founding member of the Feeder-Haters Association, I feel it is my duty to also point out that as with all living creatures ... when you eat, you poop. Unfortunately, the sea gull’s defecation reaction is almost instantaneous. Sea gulls don’t follow the “don’t $hit where you eat” mantra. The bottom line is, if they are eating off of your beach towel, they will probably be pooping there too.

Enjoy the beach and oh, bon appetite!

Courtney Hampson can’t make this stuff up, in fact, she even did some research on this one. For a plethora of sea gull facts and figures, visit http://bna.birds.cornell.edu/. And, if you want to share your tales of feeder-woe, email courtneyh@hargray.com.

Special thanks to Ro Carcione for the pic!

Profile: Sheriff PJ Tanner

CH/CB2, April 2010

On the morning of January 23, 1981, PJ Tanner put his pants on one leg at a time. However on this morning those pants were a part of his Beaufort County Sheriff Officer’s uniform. Tanner had waited for that moment for years. He knew at a young age that he wanted to “be all he could be,” and his intent was to do that through law enforcement.

Tanner spent his late teens and the first year of his twenties “just waiting to turn 21.” He didn’t want to commit to anything long-term post high school, because he knew his ultimate goal. So, as any good born-and-bred Bluffton boy would do, he farmed soy beans on the Ulmer’s Farm (now Old South Golf Links) and worked on the golf course at Moss Creek. And he counted the days.

After hitting the magical age 21, he was off and running (new shoes are also a part of the uniform!). Two years into his new career, Tanner remembers standing at the coffee pot and talking to then Sheriff Morgan McCutchen who asked Tanner what he wanted to do with his life. Tanner replied, “Well, I want your job.” A surprised McCutchen chuckled, and an immediate bond was formed. McCutchen became Tanner’s mentor, and they nurtured a decades-long relationship of mutual respect, both personally and professionally.

Tanner’s road to McCutchen’s job was a winding one. For 13 years, he moved up the ranks, working SWAT, drug task force, and internal affairs. “I was a cowboy, a sergeant answering directly to the Sheriff. I thought I could do anything,” he said.

And he did. On March 15, 1994 he filed the paperwork to run for sheriff. Continue reading ...

Tea for 2,000?

Bluffton Today column

The way to my heart is a grande non-fat mocha, with whip. Preferably delivered each morning. And, if you want to sweeten the pot, write a little note on the lid. Something along the lines of, “Good morning beautiful,” or “You make my day sweetheart.”

Clearly I’m a coffee girl, which is why all this talk about the “Bluffton Tea Party,” slated for April 15th at the Promenade, has me on the wrong side of the caffeine line. Rumor has that 2,000 people are expected to fill the Promenade for the festivities.

The national media has been all abuzz with the Tea Party movement. Governor-turned-vice-presidential-candidate-turned-reality TV-star-turned-talk-show-host, Sarah Palin, has been traveling the country touting the tea. If you’ve been under a rock and missed the pontificating, the mission of the tea party is to “attract, educate, organize, and mobilize our fellow citizens to secure public policy consistent with our three core values of fiscal responsibility, constitutionally limited government and free markets.”

Loose translation: the conservatives are perturbed that there is a democrat in the White House and that they don’t have the majority in the other house. (I’m pretty sure these are the same folks who were appalled by the anti-war protests and those speaking out against then President Bush. But, I digress…)

Locally, the Bluffton Tea Party Patriots (Check out their website ) have organized the April 15th Tea Party. Interestingly, the event tagline is “Let’s party like its 1773.” Sure, because 1773 was such a grand time. Slavery was legal. Women had no rights. The colonies were ruled by the British crown. And, we had to ride horses to work, for crying out loud!

As a side note for non-history buffs, did you know that on July 1, 1776, South Carolina voted against independence? Apparently minds were changed overnight (bi-partisanship in action at the birth of our nation!), and on July 2nd, South Carolina voted in favor of independence.

Anyway, the Patriots are pulling out all the stops for the totalitarian tea fete, with live music, citizen speakers, trivia, and prizes will be awarded for the best overall sign (what’s a protest without good signs?), most unique patriotic costumes and best decorated carriage, stroller, or wagon (expecting a big under-three crowd, are we?).

So let me get this straight. 2,000 folks are going to gather to protest national policies? Now obviously, I’m all for freedom of speech and having a voice but, what exactly is the intended outcome?

I’ll be conservative (but, only in my math) and say that 25% or 500 of the participants will actually live in Bluffton. Don’t you think that 500 people could make a huge impact right here in our community, by speaking up about something we see, feel, experience every day in our own neighborhoods?

Namely, I’d like to catch the idiots who are responsible for the rash of break-ins in my (and maybe your) neighborhood. I’d love to see the “drainage” ditches on McCracken Circle not overflow with every rainstorm (otherwise we should change the name, because nothing is draining). I’d like to help one or two or three or four dozen of the local families who’ve found themselves out of work and struggling. I’d like to donate my time to Bluffton Self Help, or the Boys and Girls Club, Palmetto Animal League, or The Curry Foundation.

So, why don’t we get something going here folks? Give two hours of your time locally. Let’s get together and talk about it. I’m thinking a little coffee clatch may just be my cup of tea.

Courtney Hampson sits a little left of center and can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Squeak, No Grease. Honey, No Bee.

Here is the story of how the squeaky wheel got not grease, and how the honey got no bee.

The short story is that I had to change my name on all of my accounts, and my go-to credit card (with the platinum sheen and the deliciously low interest rate) had yet to arrive. So, I called the 1-800-bank number and was connected to a customer service representative. I told Mr. Service my dilemma and he put me on hold to “review” my account.

Thirty seconds later he came back on the line to ask me some questions about my income. I answered, clueless. I mean, my income had increased nicely since applying for the card years ago, so I wasn’t worried. He put me on hold for another thirty seconds and came back on the line to tell me that “after further review, they would be lowering my credit limit to my balance, ” and in essence wiping out about a hefty chunk of available credit. My cushion, my just-in-case-plan, gone before my eyes, eliminated.

So, in a not-so-shining moment I went a little berserk. I may have gone a few decibels over really loud in order to point out that 1-800-bank was home to my checking account, my savings account, and my mortgage. I went on to point out that I have never had a late payment with ANY credit card, my balances were low compared to my available credit and that 1-800-bank was, of course, utterly ridiculous.

1-800-bank man wasn’t won over by my hysteria, and as such I flung the cordless phone across the office thus ending the call.

Breathing exercises commenced, and I decided to let it go.

Until the next morning, when in a rare “aha moment” I decided to call back and try being nice. My plan was to sweet talk the customer service representative. And boy, did I luck out. 1-800-bank person was kind, understanding, she listened and then she broke the good news … “Courtney, I don’t see any notes about this on your account. The limit hasn’t been dropped.”

“Wow, really? Well, I’m not making it up …”

“Of course not,” 1-800-bank lady chuckled. She asked me the same questions about my income, commented on the increase since my application, and put me on hold to “review just one more thing.”

And that, my friends, is the moment when I should have hung up!

But I didn’t, and she got back on the line and “after further review decided that 1-800-bank would be lowering my credit limit to my current balance.”

“Um, what?” I stammered. “So, you’re telling me that the thing I called about, that you said never happened has now happened, because you made it happen?”

“Yes ma’am, is there anything else I can help you with?”

Uh, yeah, you can buy me a new phone because this one is about to be launched across the office, again!

So, to the old wives who’ve spun the ridiculously contradictory tales that claim that the squeaky wheel gets the grease and that you attract more bees with honey, what say you now? I’m maxed out and I need a new phone!

As a foot note, I figure this is my opportunity to thank BJWSA for refusing to change my name on my account. So, here goes …

Dear BJWSA People:

Now I know that you haven’t been present in my home office for the last five years while I have sat down and been the one to actually make the payment to you each month, despite whose name is on the bill, but it was me. It’s been me all along. So the fact that you won’t change the name on my account without a hefty deposit irks me to no end. However, I give up, you win, and I’m not fighting you anymore. I do have one question for you though. If I stop paying the bill (and find an unlikely alternate water source), who are you going to call?

Heck, Honk If You Love Me

Bluffton Today Column
March 3, 2010

I am out walking or running the Bluffton Pathways almost every day. I’ve been doing it since the ol’ New Year’s Resolution of 2008. Not too shabby, huh?

Depending on the time of year, you’ll find me burning calories just as the sun is coming up and the street lights are flickering out. Or, at the end of the day as the sun is making its final decent. I tackle the terrain along the pathways on Buckwalter Parkway, McCracken Circle and Bluffton Parkway.

While out this past weekend, I was reminded of an incident that occurred about a year and a half ago. Twice in one week I had received a little more attention that I bargained for whilst on my trek. Both involved some brainiac driving by, slowing down their vehicle, and hanging out the window to whistle, hoot, holler, and my personal favorite sending me a kiss -- you know a loud, wet, smooch that was audible over the purr of their engine. Really?

At the time, I was overly spooked by the smooch. It was barely dawn and I remember keeping my eyes straight ahead and focused. First on the house where I knew a Marine lived and would most likely be awake and have a gun fully loaded. Then, my Mom's house was in sight and I knew she would be on the couch, with coffee in hand, waiting for the Today Show to start. Mom’s next-door-neighbor’s police cruiser was in his driveway so I was safe for just a few more houses. Finally, I rounded the corner to my house, where two Sheriff's officers live just doors down. Whew. Home. Alive and well. And, in tears.

These days my dog, Darby, is usually with me and my iPod is lulling me into my groove. Once I hit cruising altitude, I am unstoppable. Darby enjoys the walks too and quickly falls into his sniff, pause, and pee routine.

So, we’re happy. Until …

The inevitable honk. And, it’s THE honk that got me all bent out of shape this past weekend.

If I hear a horn honking while walking I tend to assume one of three things: 1) there is a vehicle that has lost control and I am in harm’s way. 2) The driver knows me and is saying a quick, “hello.” 3) Another driver has just cut driver #1 off, and he is less than thrilled.

What I don’t anticipate is the honk, just to honk. But, you do it every time. You honk. I look over my shoulder. Your vehicle is not careening out of control. I don’t know you. There are no other drivers on the road with whom you are communicating.

You’re honking just to get my attention as you cruise by? You’re honking to break my stride? You’re honking because while attending male chauvinist school you learned that this was an appropriate greeting for strangers? I don’t get it.

Believe it or not, and all evidence to the contrary, I’m a nice person. I would say hello if you called out a simple “hello,” “nice weather we’re having,” or “cute sneakers!” Something, give me anything. Because guys, ladies would much rather you string a sentence together than emit a noise from your steering column.

And, I would much rather enjoy my exercise than spend the next 10 minutes memorizing your license plate number.

Soulful Singer: Angie Aparo

CH2/CB2, February 2010

Its midnight in Nashville, TN, and Angie Aparo’s phone is ringing. He answers. On the other end is John Rich, of Big & Rich, who’s calling from his bar. “You’ve got to get down here,” Rich says, “Jeremy Piven is at the bar and you have to sing for him.”

So Aparo stumbles out of bed, heads to the bar, downs three Jagermeister shots and a Miller Lite, (“to catch up”), and joins the party. He gets on stage, sings a couple songs, and before he knows it, Jeremy Piven is inviting him to play his birthday party.Fast forward three weeks and Aparo is in an oceanfront house in Malibu doing just that. “I’m doing my thing, playing, and I look up; and in a surreal moment, I realize I’m staring out at Dane Cook, Cindy Crawford, John McEnroe… it was like I was watching T.V., but it was real,” Aparo joked. When he finished the set, he brushed past McEnroe in the hall who said, “Nice singing.” At a rare loss for words, Aparo replied, “Nice tennis playing.”

Ah, the life of a star. CONTINUE READING

Sleight of Hand Held

Bluffton Today Column
February 17, 2010

I was at an event a few months ago where I didn’t know the majority of the guests. There, I was introduced to a woman who said, “I think we’ve met before, I am friends with so-and-so.” Ah yes, I vaguely remember, “good to see you again!”
Two hours and one open bar later and vaguely familiar woman and I started chatting. Then, she leans in real close and says, “I heard all about what happened with you and your husband”. The shock of her statement prevented me from saying anything at the time (however in hindsight, I can think of plenty to say). So she proceeded to provide me with all of the details regarding my break-up with my ex-husband. Which by the way, I was already aware of. I mean, it was my story she was re-telling me.

Aaaaaaawkward.Ok almost stranger, now where do we go from here?

Utterly infelicitous social moments happen all the time. And it is how you handle those moments that probably define you best. So, in a rare moment of self-control, I swallowed back the lump in my throat, blinked back my tears, tilted back my drink, high-tailed it to the bathroom, and immediately commenced breathing exercises in order to prevent gasket blowing.

But, I am not usually so well-mannered.

In fact, I avoid awkward moments and unwanted conversations every day. Every day. It is a skill. One that has been made universally easier now that we all posses a Blackberry, an iPhone, or whatever latest handheld technology suits us best. “Handheld” being the operative term here; because we are always clutching our devices in our sweaty little palms. We can’t put them down. We’re addicted. But, that’s ok. This obsession allows us to much more deftly perform a well-executed technology duck, or as my brilliant colleague dubbed it, the “tuck.”

You know the move. When someone that you have very little interest in speaking with, much less spending any quality time with, approaches and you raise your handheld device to eye-level and immediately begin pushing buttons. If you are lucky the phone will actually ring. If not, you can continue to pretend that you are taking some very important emails.

The “tuck” effectively deters any extraneous conversations. It also provides a security blanket. Meeting someone for drinks and you don’t want to walk into the restaurant alone? You’re not alone! Just hold up your handheld and it will be clear to everyone that you are concluding a very important business exchange, not a single woman hoping you haven’t been stood up.

This phenomenon is taking over society. In fact, 3,479,414 people are fans of “Pretending to Text in Awkward Situations” on Facebook.

In the old days, back when we used to walk up hill (both ways), barefoot in the snow, to get to school, we actually had to look someone in the eye and say, “I’m not interested.” Or, “please stop talking about that.” Or, “I’m not sure this is appropriate.”

Today however, thanks to the brilliance of the computer club kids (who walked up hill both ways with us), we can simply lift up our handheld and declare to the world with dexterous thumbs that text forty words a minute and declare, “I don’t give a damn what you have to say!”

Ironically, with the technology to text and email we are saying more … but communicating less.

P.S. I am still searching for the “friend” who shared all of the details of my life with an utter stranger. Of course, once I figure out who you are, and when I bump into you again, you can be certain that I will deliver a big ol’ tuck (to) you.

Not a People Person Per Se?

Bluffton Today Column
February 3, 2010

While watching a segment on Inside Edition last Monday, I totally lost it. I cried my eyes out while a fire fighter rescued a German shepherd who was caught in the raging waters of the California floods. As the fire fighter, via helicopter, was lowered into the water to save the pup, I couldn’t control my sobs. And this was a happy ending!

The next story was about Haiti and the 150,000 lives lost and how they were burning bodies in the street just to get rid of the stench. And oddly, I didn’t shed a tear.

So, it begs the question. Am I a heartless you know what?

I pondered that question that evening and into the next morning when, while packing my lunch for work, I heard my cat Skye vomiting in the living room.

Skye puking was not a normal occurrence, but she has, on occasion scarfed down her food so fast that it has come right back up again. So, I was not alarmed. Until I got to the living room, where I found my sweet girl vomiting, shaking, struggling for breath and balance.

As her legs went limp beneath her I lost it. My dog, Darby, sat close with his eyes darting back and forth from me to Skye as if to say, “Mom, what are you going to do now?”

Well, as any good “mom” would do, I called my Mom to ask her what to do. The sobbing commenced again as I told her that I thought I was watching Skye die in front of me. And, luckily my Mom snapped me into reality and yelled to call the vet. Duh!

I called Bluffton Vet’s emergency line and Dr. Davison called me back immediately and told me to head right over. I put Skye in her carrier, and paused for a moment by the door while Darby gave Skye one last sniff. I guess I subconsciously had a feeling it might be the last time he saw her.

When I got to the Vet’s office they whisked Skye into the back and immediately started an IV and began a battery of tests. It happened so quickly that I never took the time to consider what the outcome would be. I guess I hoped it was a virus, the kitty flu, something treatable and I would walk out with a prescription and my Skye.

Unfortunately that is not how this story ends. I had to say goodbye to Skye with little warning and no preparation. They gently brought her back to me so I could say my goodbyes. I whispered in her ear and told her about when I first brought her home fourteen years ago, and how she used to sleep right on my chest. I reminded her that I loved her, that she was my first “baby” and will always hold a special place in my heart. And, I apologized for yelling at her the night before when she missed the litter box. That was utterly heartbreaking. If I had known I would be saying goodbye, I would have cuddled her next to me all night and given her the pillow that Darby has since claimed as his own. (He’s pretty lonely these days.)

Skye drifted to sleep, with my hand on her head, and my nose to hers. There I was again, a mere fourteen hours after the Inside Edition incident, crying like my heart was breaking. And, it was.

Bob Bromage: Cold Case Files

CH2/CB2, February 2010

At first glance, he is your typical cop. Cop hair. Cut short, a sprinkle of salt among the pepper. Cop shirt. Tan not white. Cop tie. Tan and green—no contrasting colors.

At second glance, Captain Bob Bromage is all business. In his twentieth year with the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office, Bromage is Criminal Investigations Branch Commander, responsible for all detailed and technical criminal investigations not assigned to the Enforcement (Uniformed) Patrol.

Originally from Connecticut, Bromage entered the Army after High School and was stationed in Savannah, where he became familiar with the Lowcountry and Beaufort County. After leaving the Army, he moved back North and began his search for a position in law enforcement with the Connecticut State Police. At the time, however, available positions were few and far between, and a job posting would attract 2,000 applications. Rather than waiting to be the needle found in the hay stack, Bromage journeyed south once again and was hired in 1990 as a patrolman for Beaufort County, working the midnight shift.

CONTINUE READING