Journey to an Inspiration

In the summer of 2006, my husband and I decided to spend our 25th anniversary on South Carolina's eastern coast. We chose a place we'd never been before--Georgetown, located between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. It was the beginning of a days-long adventure that led us to a land steeped in rivers, marshes, and history, and the inspiration for a novel that took more than eight years to see the light of day. 

On the first day of our journey, after checking into a hotel with a beautiful view of a marina on the Winyah Bay, we drove up to Pawleys Island--famous for their handcrafted hammocks--to spend a few minutes at the beach before heading out to see what other wonders we would find. A few minutes quickly turned into an evening after a twelve-week-old Golden Retriever pup named Savannah bit into the back of my Capris during a walk on the beach. While trying to extract those sharp puppy teeth from my new pants, my foot shifted in the sand and I somehow dislocated my hip. It was an excruciating pain that somehow outdid childbirth. With me in pain and my foot sticking off in an odd direction, things looked bleak, but as we know, all things work together for good for those that love the Lord and are called according to His purpose. Even the smallest of things. Despite the pain, the injury actually changed the trip for the better.

How?

Copyright Kimberli Buffaloe

First, because I was unable to walk, we were treated to a gorgeous sunset full of riotous clouds. Then, after my husband put my leg back into place (serious. I was not about to spend my 25th anniversary in the ER), the following day, we visited Hampton Plantation. The moment we exited the car, we were attacked by mosquitoes so large, my husband could see the yellow bands on their legs. He rushed (I limped) to the trunk where we kept our hiking packs and sprayed ourselves with insect repellent. Now repugnant to the tiny beasts, we toured the house and grounds.

How is that better? Hampton Plantation was Plan B. Plan A had been a visit to an isolated, pristine island in an archipelago known as Cape Romaine Wildlife Refuge. We'd planned to take a ferry to the island where we would have spent the day exploring. We later learned the mosquitoes we ran into at Hampton were known to be horrible on the island that time of year. Had we gone, we would have been stuck there for several hours serving as the main course for thousands of hungry mosquitoes. Now that would have ruined our vacation.

The adjusted itinerary next led us northward. The day after visiting Hampton, we climbed into the car and crossed the bridge over the Grand Pee Dee and Waccamaw Rivers, where they empty into beautiful Winyah Bay. North of Pawleys Island, we discovered Huntington Beach State Park, named for the Huntingtons, who once owned the land and who donated it to the state to preserve the pristine shore. (Spoiler alert, I wove that detail into the story. Not as a gratuitous mention, but with a purpose.)

I was using my hiking stick as a cane to help me walk, but as I'd discovered at Hampton the previous day, walking longer than a few feet put an immense amount of strain on the injured joint. So while visiting the park, I could only walk a few yards down a boardwalk over a marsh. But oh, what a sight I saw. Acres and acres of marshland in water so clear, I could see down to the pluff mud where fiddler crabs (or muscle crabs as I call them thanks to their one big claw) skittered around clusters of oyster shells. Large white birds called egrets flew gracefully above the marsh under a sunny sky. I didn't want to leave!

Copyright Kimberli Buffaloe

But we continued down the road, straying into North Myrtle Beach, home of dozens, it seemed, of seafood buffets. It was dark by the time we returned, and we were stunned when we caught sight of a statue of two stallions locked in combat at the entrance to Brookgreen Gardens, a formal garden located just across the street from the state park. A place--and scene--we'd missed earlier that day due to our preoccupation with the park.

When we found Huntington Beach State Park and Brookgreen Gardens, we had no idea we'd stumbled into a hamlet called Murrells Inlet. We found out when, during the trip, we cut down the business highway and drove down what some may call the main drag.

On the surface, it was a road with nice houses and then a strip of restaurants. But we sensed something more. Something that immediately captivated our imaginations. I couldn't explain it then any more than I can now, but I've met others who experienced the same.

I think it was the history. You can barely take a step on any spot of soil within South Carolina's borders without walking in some historical footprint. Murrells Inlet is no different, and it has an intriguing history. But we didn't know that during our first visit. We were simply mesmerized by the place. So much so, when we pulled into a parking lot of a restaurant and saw the scene before us (pictured below, which we used for the cover) a novel was instantly born. It was one of those occasions where I literally took a napkin and made notes on it while we waited for our food.

It took only forty days to write the first draft and nearly nine years for the vision, the theme, and the nuances to sharpen to the point the story could be released. It is a story of the events that happened in Murrells Inlet one Fall in Eden.

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 Months after a heart attack reduces his life expectancy, Adam Tucker leaves Atlanta and his workaholic ways to spend his final days relaxing in a forgotten paradise.

Paradise has other plans.

Fall in Eden. A love story for the Church. Available for Kindle on Amazon.

Emerging from Hybernation

It's been a long winter, even for those of us in the south. The prolonged cold with few days of warmth not only battered our gardenia bushes, it kept us indoors. My northern friends will laugh at that and point out the amount of snow they had to put up with during the winter months, but there's a reason southerners live in the south. We can't deal with the cold any more than northerners can deal with our high heat and humidity.

This past weekend, we headed down to Myrtle Beach. I'm not fond of larger cities these days, but I have been spending more time at Myrtle, usually at writers retreats, and it's growing tolerable. It is, after all, a beach. But the city itself wasn't our goal. We wanted to explore the state park on our new bikes.

Ironically, it was the start of Bike Week in Myrtle Beach. A time when motorcyclists from across the country converge on the city and cruise up and down Ocean Blvd on Harleys. Our bikes, however, are a little more fuel efficient.

Biking the Beach. Copyright K Buffaloe 2014

They're also hybrids, so we had a great time exploring the parks and the trails. After locking the bikes on those racks, we strolled down the pier and then enjoyed a cup of Blue Bell Ice Cream at the gift shop. Photos from our trip are below. 

The bikes are turning into an adventure. Just last night, a pitbull chased us down and attempted to grab me off mine. That has created quite the conversation. Next time.

Springtime at Magnolia Plantation and Gardens

The azaleas should bloom this month or next. Wouldn't you just love to in Charleston at Magnolia Plantation and Gardens when it happens?

Where the Oak Meets

A busy week last week. Hubby took off for a few days of badly needed outdoor time, and we headed down to South Carolina's ACE Basin. I'll cover the whats and whys of that trip on my CT&T blog in the coming weeks, but I will say we were treated to the sight of numerous large, old oak trees drenched with long strands of gray moss. Our pictures, taken with the point-and-shoot because we haven't replaced the Nikon lens yet, didn't do them justice.

Notice the small building in the background beneath the trees. That was about the size of a utility shed. Amazing.

The day after returning from that trip, I attended a writer's workshop. When I asked the instructor to hold a class in the Triangle area, I had no intention of participating. Swearing off all expenditures writing, you know. But...interest in a workshop seemed high, but not high enough to actually show up, so I signed up both to justify the instructor's trip, and to support writing opportunities in this area. I'm glad I did.

We discussed several writing elements, and once again, I participated in writing exercises. As with the Myrtle Beach event, my first effort fell flat (there's a reason I'm not into flash fiction!) I wasn't in the mood for another bout of writer's block, so I ignored that fact. But as we went around the room discussing other examples, the instructor made a comment about showing reaction. That innocent little remark struck home, and in a brief flash, every Show/Active Writing/Concrete Nouns/Strong Verb/Art of Writing lesson I ever had suddenly made sense. During a subsequent exercise, a vivid image came to mind, in part because of that revelation, and in part, because the instructions involved an oak. I can't explain it beyond saying the tree was real to me, and I had to make the scene just as real. Following the exercise guidelines—a young boy going to his grandparents for his annual visit sees a deer run across the driveway near an old oak—I wrote the following:

The car turning right caught my attention, and I dropped the game into the seat between me and Brie. I'd of had to turn it off anyway; Granddad's Big Bass mailbox popped into view. Pushing myself up—sitting straight, as Mom called it—I pressed my nose into the glass, turning it up, pig style, as Dad drove down the long, dirt drive.

The yard looked the same as it did when we came last year. Nothing had changed. Same orange flowers growing around the bird bath I used to practice toss. Same bench sitting under the big tree, empty, just waiting for Brie. She'd spend hours there, reading one of her books, just like she did every year. I traced the limbs of the old tree on the window—up, down, touching the ground, and then swinging up again. I'd walk those limbs, climb up into the sky, hang upside down, and throw rocks at the squirrels standing on the branches. As Dad pulled to a stop in front of the house, my finger slid down the trunk and I saw the eyes. Big and round and staring at me. A deer. I peeked at Dad and then the deer. Run! I told it in my mind. Run before Granddad sees you!

When I read it, my instructor's brows rose. "Better", she said. It's a start.

A Few Pics from Our SC Journey

It should take a few days to sort through and process our photos, but I pulled out a few pictures of particular interest to me. As previously mentioned, we had two goals in mind for this trip: see something new and visit the old Slave Mart, the setting for a scene in my first and horribly written novel, Marching to Zion.

Curiosity alone kept me checking on the place in the hopes of viewing the interior. It's now a museum, so we took a tour despite the $7.00/adult admission fee. Though disappointed by a few aspects--the building has changed hands several times since the closing of the market, so the interior isn't intact. Also, with exception of a few relics and old audio interviews, most exhibits consist of large displays with information printed on them--I learned much about the setup of the market, which is the information I needed for Zion. It was almost as bad as I imagined.

Next, we picked Charleston streets we've never seen and did a little car-touring. Then we parked in the garage at the corner of Cumberland and Concord (for we had no idea a garage existed there) and headed to the waterfront. First stop, lunch at Fleet Landing.

Also a new discovery. So I wouldn't resort to an old standby, I ordered the pan-seared redfish with Charleston red rice and the veggie of the day, which turned out to be collards. But because this was do-something-new-day, I tried them.

They're not half bad when mixed with Charleston red rice, otherwise....no.

So how did I handle visiting Charleston without the 18.55mm lens on my camera? I resorted to my roots:

Yes, that's me taking a shot with our little Canon. One of these days, I'll learn to leave the setting on Auto instead of Program. I overexposed the shot you see me taking.

After spending a few hours in Charleston, it was time to go home. Of course we planned on taking the scenic route up Hwy 17, past stands of sweetgrass baskets and remnants of South Carolina's history. This involved us traveling over the Ravenel Bridge. My new bridge shot:

I think I like this better than the previous one. We enjoyed the journey northward, but ran into a bit of a situation in Georgetown when we stopped at Hardees. While Kelley was indisposed, a large man wearing a kerchief and faded camouflage pants, and toting a large cami backpack came in the restaurant. After dumping his pack in a booth, he walked around the dining area, then came back to the serving area and began rapping nonsense in a low voice. This guy resembled a mountain man, a trapper of old, not a rapper. When I glanced over during his "song", I found him looking at me (I was the only person in that area) with a scowl on his face and anger in his eyes. Tired of bullies, I held his gaze for a moment then turned my attention on the menu. He went back into the dining room and sat down.

Weird.

We continued on the journey, stopping once more at Litchfield Books near Murrells Inlet. After purchasing a book on the history of the Waccamaw Neck (the backdrop for Fall in Eden/Autumn in Murrells Inlet and Heart of Eden) we headed home. An excellent trip despite mountain man and the eventual rain we encountered. Of all the photos we took, the following is my absolute favorite:

It was too good to pass up. So was the entire trip, conference and all.