My Rhymes with Bucket List

Bluffton Today column
May 25, 2011
Last week at Boot Camp (yes, I am still subjecting myself to the daily torture) my trainer was talking about a number of upcoming half and full marathons in the area. She spoke about the training needed to tackle a race of that caliber and went on to tell us that if running a marathon was ever on our “bucket list” this would be a great opportunity.

I was on my back at the time. Enduring what seemed like 1,000 crunches, and could barely muster an audible reply. But have you ever known me to keep my mouth shut? Of course not. So I squeaked out, between huffs and puffs, “Bucket list? That sounds more like something that would appear on my Rhymes with ‘Bucket’ List.”

Meaning, hell no, I’m not doing that. So, that got the wheels turning and I began to compile a list of things I never, ever, want to do.

1. I will never run a distance longer than the “big lap” at Boot Camp. My issue with running is that I just can’t get the breathing right. The more I concentrate on my breathing, the more I hyperventilate. I’m no doctor, but I am pretty certain that hyperventilating for 26 miles might kill me. I’ll walk thanks.

2. I will never skydive. No way. I mean, I can’t even go to the top of a Ferris Wheel without heart palpitations. In fact, if I am on a high floor of a building that has floor to ceiling windows, I can’t look out the window. You know, because I am afraid that the glass is going to spontaneously combust and I will plummet to my death. No really. That’s my fear.

3. I will never mow the lawn. Nope. Not going to do it. I am afraid that I will hit something that will ricochet off a tree and maim me or take an eye out. And, I don’t intend to wear goggles, which means this becomes someone else’s responsibility. (Skip to number seven. He’s going to come in handy.)

4. I will never teach elementary school. I’m going to stick with college students because in nine years no one has ever peed in their pants. Actually, there was that one semester, and that “kid” acted like a six year old so his “accident” was totally appropriate.

5. I will never run for town council. That said I do believe I would add some pizzazz to the monthly meetings. I mean, I would actually speak. More on that as the elections draw near.

6. I will never go to the moon. I remember one of my elementary school teachers telling my class that the moon would be a honeymoon destination when we were ready to get married. You see the crap elementary school teachers have to pull out to keep the kids entertained? Refer back to point four.

7. I will never get married again. Well, at least that is what I thought … right up until last week. Of course, with the moon out as a honeymoon destination, what is there to get excited about?

8. I will never think 40 is old. Having just celebrated the big twenty-eighteen, I have a new found respect for the forties. As I edge closer to the gloom and doom, I intend to embrace the mantra that forty is the new thirty. Until I am fifty.

9. I will never forget what Mrs. Mateyka told me twenty years ago, “You get more bees with honey.” She was right. And I think about that line all the time, as I am yelling at some inept customer service person and getting nowhere.

10. I will never concede to Dairy Queen. I don’t know who they think they are, but a hot fudge sundae includes whip cream and a cherry. Ice cream and fudge is not a sundae. It is ice cream and fudge. (Now you know why I still go to Boot Camp.)

Is It Hot in Here?

Bluffton Today column
May 11, 2011

I was pleasantly surprised at the doctor last week. I had mentally prepared myself to wait eons, which tends to be medical appointment status quo. So when I was called back by the nurse before I even had a chance to sit, I was ecstatic.

We ran through the standard elements of impending exam. I stepped on the scale, with eyes closed. (Why do I always weigh more at the doctor’s office?) Peed in the obligatory cup, with eyes open. And then settled in for another wait.

Alas, I was surprised again when the nurse quite honestly told me that the doctor was running a bit behind, so she would let me know when I could change. Yes! She was trying to save me from having to sit in a paper gown, with my rear hanging out, on a paper sheet, for an undetermined amount of time. Things were definitely going my way.

Much to my surprise the doctor came in just a minute later. I apologized for still being dressed and she said, “Relax. I know you’ve been to the practice before, but we haven’t met, so let’s talk.” (Really?) So, we talked. For almost 30 minutes. Now, I realize this probably made her late for her next appointment, but I was in healing heaven.

I almost didn’t want it to end, mainly because I knew that when our conversation concluded I would have to don the paper pageantry, for the real work to begin. So, as the chatter came to an end, I started getting uncomfortable and awfully sweaty. They keep the exam rooms at a warmer than usual temperature, for your comfort, while sitting in a paper dress. What I didn’t realize was that sitting in my street clothes for more than 30 minutes in the sweat box would cause some serious overheating.

Momentary relief came when I was able to finally (yes, finally! It is amazing how your perspective changes) change into the paper gown, however my dreams of a stress-free experience were quickly dashed the moment I sat on the exam table, and the paper “sheet” instantaneously affixed itself to my sweaty legs. (I really hope you aren’t trying to picture this.)

So, now I am stuck to the paper, waiting for the doctor to come back, and wondering how I am going to smoothly “slide down a bit” when she needs to get started (Ladies, you know the drill.). There’s no sliding when your hamstrings are hopelessly hitched to the paper.

Which led me to start thinking about the paper itself. The only thing keeping my bare a$$ from the germs of the person before me is a sheet of butcher paper. That seems less than hygienic.

The doctor re-emerged a few seconds into my conversation - with myself - about the less than sanitarily sound paper sheet, and then we were off. Yada. Yada. Yada. Exam over and now I need to extricate myself from the dissolving paper stuck to the backs of my legs. It wasn’t pretty.

This makes me wonder. With ever-evolving medical technology at our finger tips, isn’t there a twenty-something whiz kid out there somewhere who could invent something more medically adept than the same paper we use to pack our lunch? Come to think of it, I may be switching to Tupperware. Bon appetite!

Charity Spotlight: Junior Jazz Foundation

Each month, CB/CH2 features a local charity, this month we get a closer a look at The Junior Jazz Foundation.

According to musician, jazz historian, and Jazz Corner owner Bob Masteller, "Knowing jazz adds another dimension to your historical perspective. Jazz is America's greatest artistic contribution to the world."

The Jazz Corner has built both a tradition and a reputation as one of the premier Jazz Clubs in the world. In fact, in February, Downbeat magazine recognized The Jazz Corner as one of the 150 Great Jazz Rooms in the world. (The world!) Jazz greats - Bucky Pizzarelli, George Shearing, and Warren and Allan Vache - share Downbeat’s sentiment, and rate The Jazz Corner as the best jazz venue in the United States, hands down.

Parallel with the evolution of The Jazz Corner’s success has been Masteller’s passion to pass on the legacy of Jazz to succeeding generations. Hence, the Junior Jazz Foundation was formed in 2006. Masteller’s firm belief that the original American art form of jazz music is important, fuels his focus on educating and enabling young musicians in our community by supplying instruments, scholarships, classes and seminars.

The mission of the Junior Jazz Foundation is to preserve the American classical art form of jazz, and to maintain the longevity of the art form. Jazz was originated in America and is our version of classic music. Masteller believes that it is “vital that our youth continue to be exposed to the historically rich culture and history of Jazz in its various forms.”

Masteller works with local schools and legendary musicians to pass on the art form via youth programs both inside the educational framework and also through independent sources of development.

With schools being limited fiscally in their ability to provide the exposure to this art form, the Junior Jazz Foundation steps in and provides what the schools – and students – need. Interestingly, the Junior Jazz Foundation also focuses on the correlation between character and artistic development. As such, the Junior Jazz programs emphasize development, group performance, and non-traditional learning and listening through exposure. The value then received by the students includes an understanding of the relationship between freedom of expression and fundamental responsibility.

As a part of their fundraising efforts, the Junior Jazz Foundation seeks collaborations with area organizations to provide quality jazz experiences. On May 5th, the Foundation will partner with Palmetto Bluff for a Concert on the Green, as part of the community’s monthly music series. Palmetto Bluff will host the outdoor concert from 6:30 p.m. – 8:30 p.m. Revelers are invited to bring their lawn chairs and blankets and experience The Jazz Corner All-Stars and Bob Masteller’s Jazz Corner Quintet. A $25 per car contribution will be collected at the Main Gate at Palmetto Bluff. All proceeds will benefit the Junior Jazz Foundation. www.thejuniorjazzfoundation.com

IF YOU GO
Concert on the Green at Palmetto Bluff
6:30 – 8:30 p.m.
Tickets for “A Concert on the Green” are $25 per car, at the Palmetto Bluff Main Gate.
All gate proceeds benefit the Junior Jazz Foundation.

First Set featuring The Jazz Corner All-Stars
Rhythm & Blues Vocalist Reggie Deas
Pianist & Vocalist Lavon Stevens
Pianist & Vocalist Teri Rini Powers "Hilton Head Island's First Lady of Jazz"
Pianist & Vocalist Martin Lesch
Down-Home Blues Vocalist Whitley Deputy

Second Set featuring a "Salute to Duke Ellington" with Bob Masteller's Jazz Corner Quintet
Multi-Instrumentalist & Jazz Historian Bob Masteller
Pianist & Vocalist Martin Lesch
Bassist Will Snyder
Trombonist Jon Miller
Drummer Billy Hoffman

SIDEBAR
"The Junior Jazz Foundation has been instrumental in getting our jazz program off the ground at Hilton Head Christian Academy. Even though we have a small program, the JJF has supported us through numerous instrument donations, and a large monetary donation which allowed us to purchase a wonderful baritone saxophone. In addition, my students have had the incredible experience of playing in front of a live audience at the Jazz Corner and have also had the privilege of sitting inches away from the legendary John Pizzarelli quartet. The Junior Jazz Foundation has gone above and beyond to support our small, but growing jazz program at Hilton Head Christian Academy."

James Berry, Music Director
Hilton Head Christian Academy

The Real Moms of Beaufort County

CB/CH2 May issue


June Cleaver would roll over in her immaculate kitchen if she caught an episode of BravoTV’s “Real Housewives” for a mere minute. In her fashionable pressed dresses and high heels, Mrs. Cleaver enjoyed needle point, her ladies social club, and having a well-balanced meal on the dinner table each night for her hubby, Wally and the Beav.

In 2011, if you believe everything you see on TV, you wouldn’t flinch to find that housewives throw punches and high-priced parties, linger over lunch and laser hair removal, and yes, they have jobs – boob, nose, etc.
Which is why we thought it would be fun to take a look at five local – (and real) women, who somehow managed to find the time to talk about what the life of a “housewife” looks like today.

ANNA SHARP
Its 7:00 a.m. and Anna has Wells, 6, and Taylor, 4, out of bed and at the breakfast table. After breakfast they head to the barn, they check the chickens, gather the eggs, make sure the horses are happy, and walk the two dogs. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the kids head to school and Anna heads to Affordable Healthcare in Sheridan Park where she is Nurse Practitioner. Tuesday and Thursdays are “play days” and that includes Mom.

Growing up in Savannah, and summering Bluffton, Anna fondly recalls a childhood that included jumping off the dock into the May River, waterskiing, and wakeboarding – in the blistering Lowcountry sun. She headed off to college in Charleston, where she met her husband, Cal, a cardiologist. Together they returned to Bluffton in 2000, and made their home on the land adjacent to where Anna grew up and where she learned many of life’s lessons.

“Dad put the nursing bug in my ear,” Anna says, with a grin. “My parents where pro-education and my father told me – ‘you go figure out who you are, find your independence and your freedom.’” This is a lesson that Anna has already begun to instill in her boys – they have chores and responsibilities that help the house – and the farm - run.

When she’s not nurturing animals, or children, or patients, Anna finds time for herself on horseback. “Riding is my sanctuary, ” she says.

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
AS: Wonder Woman. My dad would cut a toilet paper roll in half that I would slip onto my wrists as her amazing deflecting bands!

C2: What is the greatest gift you have received?
AS: The gift of my youngest son being able to hear my voice. (Taylor was born deaf. He has bilateral cochlear implants for him to hear.)

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
AS: A cross between "Green Acres" and "The Middle."

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a working mom, what would you call it? AS: "Burn after Reading."

C2: Your biggest splurge?
AS: Horses and shoes.

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
AS: Right now, Cadburry solid milk chocolate eggs and "I" everything - phone, pad, pod, love it!

C2: Your leadership style?
AS: Trial and Error.

C2: What is your motto?
AS: It will all work out in the end.

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
AS: It was bad enough the first time, it would be worse in print!

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
AS: Jack of all trades, or should I say Jill?


BECCA EDWARDS
As a fulltime graduate student at SCAD, with a fulltime job teaching world literature at Hilton Head Prep, and three daughters under the age of four, you would think Becca Edwards would be running in circles to make things happen. Luckily, she has mastered the art of zen – oh yes, she’s also a yoga instructor – and has come to expect the unexpected.

Like last year, when she was teaching a class, and started feeling a little woozy, then a lot sweaty, and finally the nausea won, and Becca had to throw up in the wastebasket. One student called out, “Mrs. Edwards is hungover.” Becca calmly replied (and simultaneously realized), “No, I think I’m pregnant.”

But, she rolled with it, and soon Camilla (now four months) joined big sisters, Ransom, 3, and Ruth Love, 2. Her secret to staying organized is mastering the art of multi-tasking, “I might be making cereal, but I am also concurrently planning lunch and dinner, and what outfit to wear.” Becca splits the home duties with hubby Lee (the newly elected Hilton Head Town Councilman), saying she knew they could do anything, after spending six months on a sailboat together, where they weathered two major storms, literally.

Today, when things getting a little rough, Becca simply channels her Mom who taught her to, “Always be real.”

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
BE: A photojournalist for National Geographic, so I could travel to remote, slightly exotic/primitive places.

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
BE: “60 Minutes.” My life is divided into several segments. And it’s all got to happen within the hour.

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a working mom, what would you call it?
BE: “Ready, Set, Mom!”

C2: Your biggest splurge?
BE: Travel. A close second, good antiques and rugs. Coming in third, bi-monthly massages and facials.

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
BE: “True Blood.”

C2: Your leadership style?
BE: I believe you have to earn respect, be fair, and be direct.

C2: What is your motto?
BE: Be the change you want to see. (Ghandi)

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
BE: Oh, there’ve been sooo many.

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
BE: The boss. She might work, she might run marathons, she might be an artist. But a housewife’s primary focus is caring for her family and getting the familial job done.

MARY FRANCES LOWREY
“Every day when the kids and I drive over the bridge from Bluffton to Hilton Head, I say, “Look at this view! It’s beautiful!” Taking the time to enjoy the view, actually perfectly describes Mary Frances Lowrey. With a busy lifestyle that has her constantly on the go, she makes it a point to take time for herself saying, “If I’m off. I’m off.”

As a former corporate trainer, Mary Frances started her own business – IT ALL MEDIA - two years ago. She started slow, with just one client, and didn’t charge that client for five months, until she was absolutely certain that it was what she wanted to do – and that she did it well. Now, a self-taught graphic designer and marketing maven, Mary Frances provides marketing services for a number of Lowcountry clients, and enjoys the freedom of working for herself. “I’m glad I can still be the one to drop-off and pick-up the kids – Maximillan, 10, and Jacqueline, 7 - at school, every day.”

As one of eleven children, Mary Frances is well-versed in what a busy household looks like. Growing up, expectations were high, and Mary Frances – and her seven sisters – each were given this advice, by their father, “Go to college. Support yourself. Then get married, so you have a partner.” And, she did.

Mary Frances’ husband, Larson, logs a lot of miles traveling, which makes it ever-more important that they be completely in sync. And, they are. In fact, it was Larson’s career that brought them back to the Lowcountry, something Mary Frances is grateful for – she says, “I feel like the Lowcountry is who I really am.”

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
MFL: A Newscaster.

C2: What is the greatest gift you have received?
MFL: From my parents it would be my faith, and my education. From my husband – well, he is a great gift giver and his gifts are always very sentimental. My worst gift ever would be a much more fun answer! (I did indeed ask the follow-up question – the worst gift had to do with a dim-witted boyfriend, a scratchy scarf, and the dim-witted beau’s mother.)

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
MFL: “Designing Women.” Strong women with great friends that love and support each other, lift each other up when they are down, and laugh a lot.

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a working mom, what would you call it?
MFL: “Buckle Up...It’s a Bumpy Ride.”

C2: How do you find balance?
MFL: I stand firmly on both feet and hold my arms out to the sides.

C2: Your biggest splurge?
MFL: The dress I wore in this photo shoot.

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
MFL: A Cafe Mocha with no whipped cream from Starbucks.

C2: Your leadership style?
MFL: I would never ask anyone to do something I am not willing to do myself. I hope that I lead by example.

C2: What is your motto?
MFL: Our family motto is: We may not have it all together, but together we have it all. (That is why my business is named ITALL Media)

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
MFL: Not telling! (I’m sensing a theme here, and maybe a follow-up story – “The Lowcountry’s Most Embarassing Moments.”)

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
MFL: It means STRENGTH. Weak women should NOT apply for this job.


KATHLEEN MAYERS
“Where there is great risk, there is great reward.” It was those words that finally convinced Kathleen Mayers that starting her own business, KPM Flooring, was the right decision. First, she pondered every aspect of the undertaking – “I thought, I have three kids, I could lose my house.” But as any good leader should, she overcame the fears, and jumped in.

Originally from Tybee Island, Kathleen moved to Hilton Head in 1990 and worked as a taxi cab driver, waitress, and bartender to make ends meet. “You do what you have to do,” she says. Today, business at KPM is booming and Kathleen is juggling six dynamic employees, a busy travel schedule and three daughters – Emma, 10, Caroline, 7, and Honora, 5. Together with her husband Michael, Battalion Chief for the Hilton Head Fire Department, they are always putting out fires.

Kathleen believes that her faith, her family and her friends help her find balance. And in return she “tries to be a better person every day, and laugh as often as possible.”

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
KM: When I was really little I wanted to be a marine biologist, and a doctor.

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
KM: Is there one about a former taxi driver/scuba instructor/bartender, who is now married with three children, trying to start a business in the worst economy in decades?

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a (working) mom, what would you call it?
KM: “It’s All Smoke and Mirrors.”

C2: Your biggest splurge?
KM: Springsteen concerts!

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
KM: I have no secrets but I am often silly.

C2: Your leadership style?
KM: Hopefully my employees think I lead by example

C2: What is your motto?
KM: Women who behave rarely make history.

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
KM: I do silly things all the time but I stopped getting embarrassed by them years ago. I’d probably have a whole lot less fun if I worried about getting embarrassed.

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
KM: I think it should mean something different to each person. For me it means mother, wife, friend, business owner, and working every day to be better at each.

KELLY CARON
When Kelly was little, she used to sneak into her Grandmother’s closet and play with her furs, costume jewelry, tortoise shell cigarette holders, Chanel No. 5, and her "red red" lipstick. Kelly’s early love for fashion fed into her interest in textile design, which eventually led to a career in interior design. With a little girl of her own now – Emma, 8 months - Kelly is reliving the memories of being a little girl, and the magic of make-believe.

Born and raised in Boone, NC, Kelly and her husband, Nate relocated to the Lowcountry (via Tahoe), just over a year ago. Today, Kelly is concentrating her time on raising Emma, and plotting the return to her interior design career saying, “I want Emma to see me as a role model, a strong woman, who has a career and can be a great Mom.”

As a new Mom, Kelly finds a lot of support from her friends, which she was surprised to discover through the Breast Feeding Support Group at Hilton Head Hospital. While she joined for practical reasons, it turns out that the “boob group” ladies quickly became her closest friends. (Sorry gentlemen, this is a woman’s only group.)

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a (working) mom, what would you call it?
KC: The Motherload.

C2: How do you find balance?
KC: I create my "to do" list for every day. It helps me stay on track. The more things I have on my plate the better I perform for some odd reason. My blackberry is my best friend at moments.

C2: Your biggest splurge?
KC: Paris... the food, wine, desserts, boutiques, and attractions had my heart and my wallet! It is always worth it too - no regrets!

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
KC: Extra hot Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte from Starbucks!

C2: If you could wish one thing for your child, what would it be?
KC: My wish is that Emma will grow up a secure, well rounded, independent lady with a strong sense of self.

C2: Your leadership style?
KC: I am a Taurus so I know my own strength and I can handle situations with dignity and self-control. I enjoy taking the lead. I am very organized and I like to make sure I have my eyes on everything.

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
KC: I don't really get embarrassed- I just laugh at myself. Life is too short to dwell about silly things like that.

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
KC: The family nurturer and the glue that holds it all together.

The reality is -- these women are driving a lot more than the family Ford Fairlane. They play partner, mom, dog walker, dishwasher, diaper changer, caregiver, carpool driver, cookie baker, money maker, business owner, boo-boo kisser, and bedtime story conductor.

And you don’t have to turn on the TV to see it.

A Line in the Sand

It's Official. Our editor decided that both our ideas were bad and alas our new CB/CH2 column is dubbed "A Line in the Sand." I think you'll agree that we love to disagree. This month we tackle mens' obsession with sports.

Frank, Frank, Frank. Dear sweet Frank. I’ve got you right where I want you. At press time, your last four Facebook posts (in just two days) are all sports related. In one weekend you couldn’t even muster up a little love for the beautiful spring weather? Hellooooo. Obsession!

Listen. I am a sports fan. In fact, I probably know more than the average lady. Heck, I even have a fantasy football team that boasted an 8-0 start to last season. Further, one of the items on my bucket list is to see a game at every Major League stadium. Listen, I’m no slouch when it comes to sports.

So now that we’ve leveled the playing field (pun intended), let’s talk about the “my team” phenomenon. This is where the man becomes so obsessed with “his team,” that you gently have to point out that he has no stake in the game, match, or contest.

We all know this guy. (Ahem, Frank Dunne.) He screams at the newspaper, the television, the players, the announcers – whatever form of media is bringing him his sporting content. Worse yet, if he is at the sporting event live, he calls out to the players by their first name, as if he’s earned that level of familiarity. (Frank, you’ll want to reference your Masters Sunday Facebook posts to your good friend, “Tiger.”)

His passion is fueled by a fire that burns in his belly - full of beer. And, he reacts in way that would cause anyone of average intelligence to assume that he owns the team, or is a member of the team, or was at one time on the team, or has some stake in a winning season. But alas – no! He is simply a fan. The game is over. Rip up your ticket like the rest of us and move on.

I understand that this is a generations-old problem. In 1979, my father came home from work devastated, and in tears. My mother couldn’t get out of him what was wrong. Her mind raced. Did my grandfather die? Did one of my father’s fellow firefighters get hurt on the job? What could be so wrong that it rendered a grown man nearly catatonic? Two words. Thurmon Munson. Yup, the New York Yankees catcher perished in a plane crash that day and my father was devastated. (Important to note that in my almost thirty eight this is the only instance of my father crying that I am aware of.)

As I pondered this topic, my better half became the unwilling case study. He was hyper-sensitive to my scrutiny and I was keenly aware of all sports-related hysteria. For example, while taking our morning walk, he checked his Blackberry, did a little hop-skip number, and elatedly declared, “We won! Whew. We were on a two game skid.” Oh really sweetie, a skid? Gotcha.

Or better yet, during the final round of the Masters, while Frank was Facebooking Tiger Woods, my guy was whispering to the television. “Go in.” He inched to the edge of his seat. “Go in.” He leaned forward with interest. “Go in.” His voice cracked, with anticipation. “Ohhhhhh.” Disappointment washed over his face and he slumped back against the pillows.

I love a man who has passion. I’d also love the ferocity of that passion to be directed at me, and I suspect that the majority of ladies would agree. I’m willing to – and I do - equally distribute my passion between said beau and my wardrobe, pedicures, and shoe collection. I’ll sit on the couch, after making him dinner, paint my toenails, and root for my Red Sox.

I get it. You love “your team.” But have they ever loved you back?

A Debt of Gratitude

Bluffton Today column
April 27, 2011

I shook his hand and thanked him for all he had done. When he humbly responded, “I was just doing my job ma’am,” I thanked him again and turned away before the tears welling in my eyes slid down my face.

I had been listening to him tell his story, along the 18th green at Harbourtown, on Friday afternoon. A story that covered 17 years as a US Army sniper, a traumatic brain injury, and a life now in which his service dog, Jefferson, never leaves his side.

“He alerts me when I am about to have a seizure. And, he’ll wake me up when I am having a nightmare. He puts his paws on my chest to shake me from my sleep.”

Those sixty seconds in this wounded warriors presence had an enormous impact on me. And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as I had planned to write this column about the upcoming Wounded Warriors benefit golf outing at Hampton Hall slated for May 23rd.

Allow me to back up just a bit. Last November, the Wounded Warrior Foundation of the Lowcountry (WWFLC) was established by a group of area veterans and concerned citizens. The founders of the 501(c)(3) organization, an offshoot of the national Wounded Warrior Project, saw a clear need for local fundraising and a community-involvement mechanism to help returning warriors suffering with catastrophic injuries to receive tangible support as they readjust to civilian life.

About 60 days ago I got a call asking if I would be interested in writing about the golf event, in the works. I was immediately interested and took the committee up on their invitation to attend one of their meetings. Frankly, when I arrived I was shocked to find a room full of a couple dozen men. Nothing against the men folk, but in my experience a few women mixed in the pot helps a committee meeting, and an event to go off super smooth.

My prejudices aside, I gave the guys a chance to wow me. And they did. My question for the room was simple – why are you doing this?

Russ Spicer, committee chair talked to me about his initial involvement, which began as he learned of the plight of his neighbor, Jim Miller’s son, who after being “blown up” in Afghanistan and suffering extensive burns, and enduring more than 40 surgeries, still perseveres. Miller is chairman of WWFLC, and says, “As a community, we have an undeniable and urgent responsibility to support those who return home severely injured or maimed.”

That paired with Spicer’s experience when he returned from Vietnam in 1971 -- “When I came back the guys I served with didn’t get the welcome they deserved,” -- moved him to do something to say, “We appreciate you.”

Peter Dukas told me, “During a time of war, you hope that the country is asked to sacrifice too. We are doing this because we don’t want soldiers to fall by the wayside, if they do we are doing them an injustice.”

Mark and Linda Larsen (Linda is the sole women on the committee , drafted to keep the guys in line) spoke of driving past the Marine Corps Air Station, and truly recognizing and understanding the sound of freedom, and the responsibility that soldiers have 24 hours a day. “We watch the news clips and fifteen minutes later we forget that men and women are risking their lives,” Linda said, “That is why we are doing this.”

Doug Meyers is a veteran, and is involved because, “It is the absolute right thing to do.”

A year ago, a group of golf buddies in Hampton Hall had an idea. In three and a half weeks their idea will become reality as Hampton Hall plays host to The Inaugural Wounded Warrior Foundation of the Lowcountry Golf Classic, with all proceeds benefiting the WWFLC.

Open to golfers throughout the Lowcountry, teams of four will participate in a Captain’s Choice format. Entry Fee is $150 for an individual and in addition to golf, the event includes a celebratory dinner, silent and live auctions (committee member Pete Demarco has scored donations of golf from more than thirty local golf courses), appearances by local media celebrities, representatives from the PGA and the military, and area government officials, and an official proclamation of “Wounded Warriors of the Lowcountry Day” by Bluffton Mayor Lisa Sulka. The field is 75 percent full, so register now, to confirm your spot.

The slogan of the national Wounded Warrior Project is, “The greatest casualty is being forgotten.” The founders of WWFLC are doing everything possible to ensure that the wounded veterans of the Lowcountry will always be remembered.

For more information visit www.woundedwarriorfoundationlc.org.

Swimsuit: Why Do You Forsake Me?

Bluffton Today column
April 13, 2011

I know no misery greater than attempting to find the perfect swimsuit.

Public speaking – pfff, easy. Dentist’s chair – surely you jest. Realizing I’ve sent an email to the wrong person, whilst bitching about said person – eh, I’ll bounce back. But swimsuit shopping - oh the horror!

Oddly, I don’t mind wearing the bathing suit. It is the journey toward the perfect swimsuit that makes my heart palpitate.

As I throw open the closet this year – having lost some inches of late – I shudder at the thought of having to start from scratch. Yes, I’m smaller. Yes, I’m healthier. But heck, one day of bathing suit shopping will likely set my mental health back years. (And, I’ve worked so hard to become sane, despite myself.)

But alas, successive 80 degree weekends demand a bathing suit, so in I go.

How the heck did I accumulate this many bathing suits? I have more than a dozen tops, bottoms, and one-pieces. I’m a third of the way through this dismal “fashion” show and the only thought running through my head is - who in the hell designed this house? There is no central air vent in my walk-in closet, the master bath seems to get hotter with each tug, and I don’t want to expose my lovely bedroom to this torturous ritual. As I sweat and struggle into suit number four, I silently curse this primal need to actually care about how I look.

Nylon and Lycra are not the airiest of fabrics and of course their sole purpose is to suck-in some trouble spots, so I might as well be trying to jump into a sausage casing, all the while overheating in this darn bathroom, in essence rendering this task a 7.5 on the difficulty scale.

Swimsuit! Why do you forsake me?

Now I’m a dozen pieces in and my favorite find is the black bottoms with the cute tie-string-sides. Front view, adorable. Back view, not so much. Apparently my weeks of boot camp have shrunk my bottom, because I look like I could add a diaper and still not fill out the butt. (Note to self: buy adult diapers just in case this doesn’t work out.)

The top-tier-search goes no better. I just can’t get the support I am looking for, if you know what I mean. Perhaps wearing the same suits for two years has finally stretched the chests beyond their means. Ironically, even though the bathing suits are too large, I remain drenched in my own sweat and I struggle to remove this last once piece.

This means just one thing. I need to shop for a few new suits.

I’ve already ruled out going to an actual store. I mean the thought of standing in the harsh light (of self-disgust), with hip-widening mirrors at each angle, and the size four skinny chick calling out for a size two from three dressing rooms down is less than appealing.

Add to this the fact that I would actually like to see what the bathing suit will look like without my underwear on underneath. And, OCD Courtney may also have a slight aversion to the little peel and stick crotch protectors. I mean paper being so sanitary and all. (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit…)

So, online shopping it is, but I already know how this is going to end. I have no idea what actual size to buy (I know it ain’t two or four -- ok, ok, or six.), so I will order multiple sizes, pay for expedited shipping (because I just can’t wait for round two of the heat box fiasco), and go through the exact same scenario that I described above. I will find one suit that I like. Then I will have to pay to ship back those that didn’t make the cut. Worth every penny, if it means avoiding a fitting room.

Despite my trepidation and ignoring the impending shipping costs, I began the online search. Sadly my “go to” suits from my friends at Lands End appear to have forgotten the better endowed this season. Where is the support? How about a little underwire for the girls?

With a heavy heart, I must continue the search. Sadly, I am seven websites in and I’ve got nada. I’m losing patience and time. There has got to be a nude beach around here somewhere…

The Zerbini Family Circus

CB/CH2 April issue

Close your eyes. Wait, you’re going to have to open them to read this, silly. Ok, pretend your eyes are closed … and you are a kid again. The sounds, smells, and sights of the circus are all around you -- hot buttered popcorn; bright silk tents; peals of laughter; sweet, sticky, cotton candy; shrieks of surprise; exaggerated clown faces; and acrobats flying over head.

When the Zerbini Family Circus made a stop in Bluffton last October what many of us saw as purely entertainment, was actually a family legacy. In fact, the Zerbini family has been flying through the air, with the greatest of ease, since 1817. Eight generations of circus folk have descended from this family tree, with strong roots in the circus life. The family tradition started in Europe. Alain Zerbini, patriarch of the modern day Zerbini Family Circus was born in Marseilles, France. At fourteen, he and his brother quit school to join the circus, as was family practice. In 1968, his father Julian Zerbini, moved the family to the United States, where they all continued to perform in circuses around the country.

In 1991, as Alain Zerbini was recovering from a devastating high-wire fall, doctors told him he would never walk again. Determined to prove them wrong, Zerbini did indeed walk again, and for good measure decided to start his own circus, to boot.

The Zerbini Family Circus started in the United States in 1992.Then, the “the small big top” seated just 500. In twenty years, the show has tripled in size and the big top now seats 1,500. Zerbini is happy with the growth. Yet, he also values the fact that a crowd of 1,500 is still manageable. After all, one of his favorite parts of traveling the country is talking with the crowd before and after the show, and giving them a little “peek under the tent,” he says.

On the road April through late October, the show is constantly in motion. Sometimes staying in a town for a week, other days, they roll in, set up, perform, and shut down again that night. And then it’s on to the next location. Zerbini estimates they visit more than 100 towns each year. Often invited back year after year, Zerbini works with his team in the off months, to make sure that they keep their acts fresh, and always bring something new to the crowds.

Zerbini’s extended circus-family is comprised of 22 performers, from all around the world. And, four from his own nuclear family -- his wife and two of his seven children are a part of the show. “We’re like one big family,” Zerbini says. After all, they travel together 200 days a year, if that doesn’t force the family dynamic, what does?

Well Zerbini says, “Every member of the circus maintains multiple roles,” which forces them to act as a family. Everyone helps with the set-up and staging, they each perform, and when the show is on hiatus in the off-season, they are all still together working on improving the performance for the next extended road trip. All of this, under the leadership of Zerbini, who oversees and manages all parts of the circus from the time they roll into town until circus day is just a memory.

The Zerbini Family Circus will be back in Bluffton this fall, for an encore performance. There is no doubt you will see it all -- acrobats, high-wire acts, trampoline, trapeze, and some clowning around. And the animals they bring are beyond what you might expect -- buffalo, ponies, camels, and even the Zerbini family’s dogs, rescued from local shelters, and now getting plenty of attention everywhere they go.

A family legacy. A spectacle under the tent. A one-ring circus that appears to runs circles around the rest.

A Master Debater

This month, C2 mag launches my monthly column featuring friendly debate and fodder for all. I go head to head, idea by idea, with fellow writer Frank Dunne. In this issue, we start by disagreeing about what to call the darn thing ... off to a great start aren't we?

Here's my opinion. You can read Frank's retort here.

I’m addicted to Chapstick. I deplore clip art. I wear flip flops once the weather clears 50 degrees. I love a good party, but not a Tea Party. I’m not a lawyer, but I like to play one in magazines. If I believe something or someone to be true and just, I will support that person, idea, organization, ‘til the cows come home or the margaritas run dry. I’ll study the opposition’s logic, mount a campaign and argue for what I believe. Almost every time.

Sometimes I will play devil’s advocate just for the heck of it. Because sometimes I love nothing more than getting a rise out of someone. I like to make people think (and get a little hot under the collar).

Let me give you an example. If you and I were dating and you were to reveal to me that you “have to look at online pornography,” I would --- 1. Walk out of the restaurant we were dining in. 2. Spend the next 24 hours, before dumping your behind, grilling you in an effort to understand exactly what you mean by “have to.” Oh yes, I’d ask that question 2,000 ways to Tuesday, to try to get a real understanding of what exactly it was you were telling me. (True story.) For me, it was about the choice of words and the non-existent-logic that followed said choice of words. Game was on!

So, when my worthy opponent, Frank, and I were approached with idea of a monthly duel of rhetoric, I was intrigued. I immediately began channeling my inner Jane Curtin ala Saturday Night Live, and pitched a name for this monthly masterpiece – Point/Counterpoint. Frank immediately disagreed with my suggestion (foreshadowing), and later sent a list of 100 other potential column names. All of which I dismissed.

Allow me to provide some reference, for our readers born after the creation of the internet. “Point / Counterpoint” was a segment on Saturday Night Live, in the late seventies. "Point / Counterpoint" featured Jane Curtin and Dan Aykroyd making personal attacks on each other's positions on a variety of topics. Aykroyd regularly began his reply with "Jane, you ignorant slut,” and Curtin frequently began her reply with "Dan, you pompous ass.”
Now, I’m not telling you this because I find Frank to be a pompous ass. (That may very well come with time …) Nor, do I consider myself ignorant or loose, however I do find the title – and the “historical” reference - to be significant because it suggests a certain sarcasm and levity, which allows two people to disagree on a topic, yet still have fun in the process. And if there are two things I love more than a debate, they are sarcasm and laughter.
Alas, here we are at our first column and we can’t even agree on what to call the dang thing. Frank will argue that the name Point/Counterpoint has been over-used, and frankly, I cannot disagree. But, that doesn’t make me like it any less.

I’m not going to fall on my sword for this one. There will be plenty of time for that.

This is where you come in. Help us pick a name for our monthly clash and if you’re up for it, go ahead and suggest some possible topics as well. Just don’t throw me any softballs like – paper vs. plastic, second-hand smoke, or dog poop scooping. Those answers are so obvious -- paper; kill yourself don’t kill me; and if I can do it, so can you.

I want a challenge.

Because let’s face it. I am a master –(de)bater. (Just like my ex-boyfriend.)

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.