The corridor connecting Florence to Williamsburg to Georgetown County runs along highways 41 and 51. From Mingo's corner store to the Swamp Fox gas station, this stretch of road is referred to as "Brown's Ferry Road." From Mingo's to Florence, depending on your location, it is referred to as "41-51", "River Road", or "Claussen Road." This stretch of highway runs 82 miles. With the exception of the little farming towns of Johnsonville and Hemigway, for the most part, this is a desolate stretch of highway lined with a profusion of rural farmlands and loblolly pines towering overhead.
In the Fall, the foliage changes to a palette of crimson, orange, yellow, and gold. The fields are heavy with the cotton crops or the wizened remnants of the last corn harvest. Small, antiquated farming sheds meld into the surrounding woodlands along side newly constructed homes. There is a poignant juxtaposition in the convergence of these two structures sitting beside one another. The symbolic subtext here is that the past and present meet yet never really become one.
I moved to Florence, SC eight years ago, a transplant from Pawleys Island, SC. At the time, I wasn't quite sure if I was running away from something or running toward something. Among the myriad of questions I was asked concerning my move, my favorite would be, "Why would you ever leave the beach?" It is a comical misconception among many of those who do not take up a permanent residence in a coastal town that everyone who lives near the beach visits it every day. Frankly, the beach becomes more of a hassle during the Spring and Summer months because of the influx of tourist to the area. This is especially true in a small town like Pawleys Island.
The truth is that I came to Florence to take a teaching position at a local high school. I moved the day school ended in 2008 to a small house on Lorraine Avenue. The neighborhood was welcoming and conveniently located across the street from my children's elementary school. I felt a mix of emotions ranging from excitement at the possibilities this new town had to offer and a sense of dolefulness for the life I was leaving behind. When I left that little town, I never wanted to come back. I wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to start a new life where no one knew me, my family, or anything about me. I wanted to be my own person, or at least, that's what I told myself.
The first night in my new house in Florence I felt despondent. Why had I come here? How would I make it here? Was this an egregious error in judgement? That summer, before I started my new teaching job, was the loneliest I had ever been. I had no friends or family to help me assimilate to this new, big town. I remember, a week after I moved here, I received a call from Georgetown High School offering me a job. A wave of hesitation washed over me before I told them I had already signed a contract with my new school. With that phone call, it became official; I was a resident of Florence.
On my first day at my new school, it quickly became the most overwhelming place I could ever imagine. Waccamaw High School has a student enrollment of just over 800. This school housed close to 1700 then (now it is quickly approaching 2000). After the first week, I began to feel more comfortable in my new environment. I found my way to various restaurants, coffee shops, and clothing stores. I developed a mental list of landmarks around town to guide me to my favorite destinations (Turn by Red Bone Alley, over the over-pass, when you see the big Pepsi bottle billboard, you are almost at the mall). Slowly, I made friends and began to build a life here.
When I come back to Pawley's and see the moss covered oaks that line the road to my parents house, nostalgia of the life I used to have here overwhelms me. For the majority of my life, I called this place my home. When I turn the corner that leads to my parents' house, I think about how my husband and I went on our first date in this town and all of my children were born in this town.
How many times have I driven these roads? They are as familiar to me as the faces of my own children; I believe I could drive them blindfolded. I know all the backroads to any destination and secret hiding spots where first kisses are made. I know the best places for crab cakes, shrimp and grits, or the best steak in town. This is my hometown.
As I pull into my parents' driveway and turn off the car, I think about how much I miss them. How long has it been since I saw them last? And I realize a month or two or six have slipped by since the last time.
There are striking similarities between Pawleys Island and Florence. Because so much has changed in Pawleys and so many new people have moved there, I don't recognize the people in the restaurants. In Florence, because the town is so big, I don't recognize the people in the restaurants here either. Both places have their locals, those people who have lived here all of their lives and take pride in that fact. There are copious amounts of southern charm and the ubiquitous easy smile given by strangers as you pass. But for a transplant, it is hard to know where exactly to call “home."
Florence offered me a place to grow, a place to start anew. Pawleys island is the keeper of my childhood memories; however, when I go back to Pawleys, I don't recognize the landscape or people who now visit my old spots. In Florence, I can't seem to get comfortable enough to make if feel like it's home.
There is a great line at the end of Pat Conroy's novel, The Prince of Tides, where Tom Wingo says, "At the end of every day I drive through the city of Charleston and I cross the bridge that will take me home. I feel the words building inside me, I can't stop them, or tell you why I say them, but as I reach the top of the bridge these words come to me in a whisper." What is it in each of us that seeks to connect who we are with who we were? What is it that defines where our true home is? Like the old farm shed beside the new home, there is a space where the past and present meet but can never become one. Where do you call "home" when the old one feels different and the new one feels distant? When I pass the big bridge over the Waccamaw River and the smell of the ocean in the air hits me, I hear the words build inside of me. They rise with the beating of my heart and softly they whisper, "you're almost home."
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