I have, for the last week, traveled the state of my birth, South Carolina, from north to south and west to east, from the mountains where I was born, to the sea where I had my first newspaper job, from the pines and mountain laurel of the Upstate to the palms and sweet grasses of the Low Country. My last night here, I even tiptoed over the border, to Asheville -- which I heard had transformed into an artists' colony. This North Carolina jewel, elevated 2,100 feet in the Appalachians, did not disappoint with its artists' district along the winding, dipping French Broad River, with its hippie chic downtown shops and its uber cool restaurants. Among the Asheville eateries is Vegetarian Seed, a mostly vegan gourmet cafe cheffed by Jason Sellers, former chef of Candles 79 in NYC, once named best veggie restaurant in the U.S. Jason is a gentle and approachable soul, who sat at the counter and chatted with me at length about how he comes up with recipes, both international and traditional. I also made, on my way back to Greenville from Asheville, a surprise veer off U.S. 25 on a dark and spooky night. I went deep into the edge of the Blue Ridge, where I found my beloved Camp Wabak, a Girl Scout camp embedded so deep in forever moments that I remembered the smells as I flew the back roads, my windows open to the crickets, the tree frogs and the sticky heat of a South Carolina summer night.
It was indeed a journey that started last Saturday, July 17, with a Southern Baptist funeral in my hometown Greenville. The funeral was for my outspoken but gentle and beloved Aunt Jane, the Bledsoe-side relative who never conspired with many of the other aunts and uncles to villify me and my three sisters for aligning with my wild child mother after her divorce from my father. I always said I would attend her funeral when she died, and despite many obstacles, including concern that various aunts and uncles would not be happy to see me, I did. I moved aside other obligations, flew to Atlanta and drove the 150 miles to Greenville where I met up with Blood Sistah Kim of the Memphis Lloyds. She and I went together to the Southern Baptist funeral, which was held outside in the 100-degree heat and which was presided over by two fire-and-brimstone preachers determined to save everybody gathered at graveside, including two people who fell out, not from being saved, but from the 100-degree heat. There was indeed an aunt there who would not lift her face to me as I approached her under the tent where she was cooling herself with a church fan. Ah, but I had sister Kim and Cuz Pam, and later, at Aunt Jane's house where her Sunday School class had provided Southern style funeral food -- potato salad, mac and cheese, green beans and sweet tea - there were reunions with other cousins who told us they had moved beyond calling me and my three sisters "the devils." I heard the word, "healing" a lot that day.
On into the week, I reunited and re-introduced myself to the loveliest parts of South Carolina, including the artfully landscaped downtown of this charming Greenville that I couldn't wait to leave when I was 16, which I did with the aforementioned wild child mother. I rediscovered the cosmopolitan Columbia in the Midlands where, I married my husband, bore two of our children and worked as a newspaper reporter for 11 years. And I became smitten --again -- with the culturally diverse Low Country and its Taffy Tacky Surfside Beach, its poignant salt marshes of Pawley's Island, and the mystical, haunted Murrells' Inlet, where Steve and I spent the most tumultuous days of our "courting". Throughout the week, I saw old friends from The State Newspaper in Columbia who felt so much like home again that I'm afraid I must dispute Thomas Wolfe. I was blessed to spend two days with my dear, dear heart friend, the lovely M.E. Perkins, who, when she was 10 years old 21 years ago, was my first baby sitter when my first child was born, and who now, sweetly, is pregnant with her own child. My time with her was magic, as were the hours spent with Cousin Pam and sister Kim, who was here for three lovely days -- one of which was her birthday! My compatriot in flirts with waiters between sips of wine, she also co-stalked my father's old house to see how it had changed, and sat with me for hours, feeling all the feelings that come, on the porch of my maternal grandmother's house, which was condemned two years ago by the City of Greenville for lack of care, but which remains standing because nobody, not even the City of Greenville, can muster the cruelty to destroy a breaking heart.
Greenville was Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Monday evening was Columbia. On Tuesday, M.E. and I traveled south to Charleston and north, up the coast, ultimately all the way to Myrtle Beach, in search of the perfect coastal experience -- and the perfect beach hotel. Not TOO tumbledown, but not too richy-rich was the beach scene we were after. We ended up settling on Huntington State Park, where we knew we really wanted to go all along, a pristine beach 20 miles south of Myrtle Beach and as wide as a six-lane highway, with a marsh to guide us in, with its bigger-than-life ecosystem and its teeny tiny sweet little angel crabs, its elegant egrets and goofus pelicans where I took too many pictures to edit. Once we decided on our hangout for Wednesday, we checked in to the Hampton Inn in Litchfield for Tuesday night.
This was HI Experience Number One, a lovely experience as soon as we walked in the door, when we were greeted by a nurturing, joking woman who obviously loves the beach and her job, who told us we might believe we our offshore hotel is waterfront if we stand on the roof and look really hard. The maids were friendly. Breakfast was lovely, including as it did (instant, but still) grits, fresh fruit and a waffle made fresh in a self-worked waffle iron. And: There were no sperm blankets -- those polyester hotel bedspreads, which infrared light revealed in a documentary are covered with all kinds of human yuk that is never laundered, much less sanitized. "Yes, we have upgraded bed linens," our maternally inclined hotelier said knowingly, meaning "Yes, we have white, washable duvet covers with no sperm on them."
We spent Tuesday at the hotel, did the beach on Wed, drove back Wed night after eating soft-serve ice creams as big as Mrs. Simpson's hair and after driving through Myrtle Beach with its souped-up cars dragging the Grand Strand. I spent the night with M.E., saw more friends on Thursday and then headed up on a 99-degree midday to the Upstate.
I was on the highway, which was 123 degrees, about to fall asleep and thinking I should pull over into a parking lot and do that. But I thought I might melt or faint or succumb completely in the heat. "I know," I thought. "What if I find a Hampton Inn? I'll tell them I was just at one of their sister hotels on the coast. And maybe they'll let me come in with my laptop and doze off a bit in the lobby."
I was a little hesitant, to say the least, and thought for a second of just sneaking in to an HI, which is short for Hi!!, BTW. I would slip by the desk clerks, unnoticed, and do what I needed to do, without asking.
Side note: This is is not my M.O. I like to tell the truth and see what happens. I almost always am rewarded. And so I boldly walked into the lobby with my laptop prepared to give a speech. But right away, without even a word from me, the woman at the desk handed me an access code for the Internet.
"I'm not a guest here," I said.
She just shook her head back and forth, like "You don't need to explain yourself, honey."
I blabbed on, "I did just leave a Hampton Inn on the coast. I'm headed up to Greenville, but I'm about to fall asleep."
The whole time, she was just shaking her head. "It's OK, honey," she said, pointing to the lobby. "Go get yourself some complimentary coffee if you want some."
When I left an hour later, refreshed, cared for, dare I say, loved, they gave me two homemade cookies.
I shall never wander the interstate exits again. Not to the Best Western, nor Holiday Inn. Not Ramada or Quality will I go. But Hampton Inn, which is where, like a devoted lamb, I pulled in last night, my last night with Southern hospitality in SC before I drive to Hartsville International in Atlanta. This is not an advertisement, but an unpaid endorsement, a lovely thread to have wound its way through my journey home.
