Cookie Cawthon contributing writer
(A Lovely Humanity]
“We’re getting outta here as soon as pos-
sible. Two years max. You do well, get promot-
ed, and we’re gone,” we strategized at our hand-me-
down kitchen table in a rental house on Bellingham
Court. We had been married a year and a career
change for Chris made us open to relocating from
Anderson, South Carolina. When asked where we
were willing to move, we listed Charlotte, Columbia,
Wilmington, and Charleston. After some discussion,
we included Florence as a last ditch effort to get clos-
er to our parents. It was absolutely our last choice.
Yet there we sat with 29501 newly suffixed to our
address. And we were less than jubilant.
Though this is a slice from our story, I’ve heard
variations of the same tale on repeat for the past
nineteen years. You read that correctly; a two-year
conscription has automatically renewed almost ten
times over.
And it’s not because we haven’t tried to leave.
Years ago Chris was the final candidate for a position
in Charlotte…when a higher executive took a volun-
tary demotion to relocate his family back to the area.
And then again Chris accepted a position with a new
company which would have moved us to Columbia.
We had already informed my parents of the move
and were house hunting…when a public financial
scandal rocked the company, leaving us begging to
stay put (his company graciously allowed us back but
Chris may have acquired “Boomerang” as a mocking
94
AUGUST 2017
moniker for a season). And then we finally did it. We
actually packed up all of our possessions, the kids,
the dog, and left. Adios, Florence!
For fifteen months.
We couldn’t get back fast enough. So much so
that we threw ourselves our own welcome back party
and invited all of our friends to our new home to cel-
ebrate. One of those longtime beautiful friends gave
me the most thoughtful, perfect gift – an address
stamp. I was jubilant to welcome that 29501 back to
my statement of place.
Home is where the heart is – yes! – because home
is where your people are.
The people of this place are an enamoring people.
The lady I intersected at the ice cream section of the
grocery story who asked if I had tried the flavor she
was purchasing. My trainer at the gym who prayed
with me and for me with her kickboxing class. The
gorgeous ladies who work in my favorite local bou-
tique who know me by name and tell me when I try
an ensemble that doesn’t really work for me. My ra-
diation oncologist who spent forty-five minutes with
us during our initial consultation. The female inmates
at the Florence County Detention Center who put
their sweet hands on me and prayed for me before
my lumpectomy. Several cashier friends I’ve made
at the convenience store just down the road from
my house. The school teachers who champion my
youngest girl in their classrooms. The deli employee
who kept my rotisserie chicken hot while I took an
exercise class at the gym next door. The server at our
favorite Indian restaurant who playfully mocks us for
always ordering the same dishes. That’s not to men-
tion those long, longtime friends who knew me with
adult braces and no babies.
Maybe these people, this connective tissue of
community, exists other places. I’m sure it does. But
these are mine. All of them are mine. Every individual
represented by the dot on the map marked Florence.
In the end, maybe we all discover that it isn’t the
shows or the restaurant choices or the architecture or
the shopping options that make a city a home – re-
gardless of where we live. Because in isolation those
things can only offer momentary entertainment; I’m
convinced those things only hold value to the extent
we are able to enjoy them with our people.
So Florentines, fellow Pee Dee family, I write this to
confirm and celebrate what you already know - these
streets are traversed by a lovely humanity.
If you find yourself here a bit begrudgingly on
your way to a more suitable destination, I get it. I real-
ly do. Florence isn’t for everyone, just as those other
locales couldn’t be home for me. But I would caution
you to open yourself to those you encounter while
you’re here. Otherwise you are at risk of missing out
on some beautiful interactions to add to your story.
And if our paths cross ten years from now and
you’re still here. Well, I get that too. I really do.
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