There are parts of the South Carolina coast where you have to go through backcountry, er, Lowcountry, to get there. Hilton Head Island can be accessed from Savannah and I-16, of course, but you miss the acres upon acres of loblolly pines, their sandy undergirding and hundreds of cattle in flat, verdant pastures.
What we didn’t miss was the wild turkey.
As I picked up speed after making yet another turn on a Palmetto State backroad, leading Teresa and I to wonder how we ever navigated without GPS on our phones and in our vehicles, suddenly there were three of them crossing the road. We spooked the big birds enough that they took flight, but one flew the wrong way — and slammed right into our windshield. It was on my wife’s side and happened so fast she didn’t have time to cry out. The gobbler sailed lifeless over the Sequoia, leaving six or seven splintery cracks in the glass.
It wasn’t the only eventful part of our trip home from the shore last week. We had weathered Hurricane Helene on the island, mostly sheltering inside on a rainy and windswept day as it passed. However, the sun broke through the next morning and after noticing a lot of limbs and a few downed trees en route to the main beach, we walked along with other tourists on the sand, hanging on to our hats that the tailwinds threatened to snatch away.
As we got closer to Augusta the hurricane damage became more widespread, and it was obvious many trees had been cut out of the roads. Inside the city limits it was almost as if a bomb had exploded, with trees down on power lines, homes and office buildings. By mid-morning — four days after the storm had passed — hundreds of people were lined up in a school parking lot to receive ice and water, traffic lights were not functioning since power had yet to be restored and dozens of cars were lined up at gas stations.
The granddaughter of our dear senior friend, George Clarke, whom we planned our trip around visiting, had advised me that his nursing home had immediately gone on generator support during and after the storm. By the time we arrived power to the medical sector of town had been restored.
In the startling and provocative little book “The Greatest Miracle in the World” — whose title is not what you may think and can be easily read in a day — ragpicker Simon Potter makes the statement to author Og Mandino (who inserts himself as a supporting character), “Like most old men I am both rude and presumptuous.”
However, the friend we set out to meet along our recent journey belies that description. George Clarke, 97, is the epitome of a Southern gentleman. As we made our way through security and a throng of coiffured and friendly female caretakers, George was waiting in the lobby. He rose with that famous, ebullient smile on his face and gave us each a hug.
After some small talk to catch up, George took us on a tour of his new home. In short, he’s grateful for his five-story digs, the outdoor terrace and patio where he spends time talking to God every day, and the cleanliness of the facility. A half-century ago, George was publisher of the Dalton Daily Citizen. It was a big responsibility in a city bursting at the seams with the burgeoning carpet industry, but also dealing with heartbreak from the many casualties of the Vietnam War. Now, his world is smaller, yet he still has a sharp memory and enjoys talking about the past and the stories that marked his younger days.
As a World War II-era veteran who was disappointed that his eyesight kept him out of the combat ranks, George helped process German prisoners who had been brought to an Army base in Maryland and were being repatriated after the war. Amazingly, he remembers that time like it was yesterday.
Although he was unaware of the far-flung damage from the hurricane — as many of us were at that stage — George did startle us by recounting how it seemed like a bolt of lightning pierced his room with its shattering crash and brilliance a few nights prior when the tempest passed. He was glad we endured the storm on Hilton Head, and we were relieved he and his fellow residents had been spared the damage we’d witnessed outside.
Some of the staff were not so fortunate, they told us as we interacted with them, and came to work from nearby homes that were damaged and without power. It was bittersweet leaving our senior friend, so we prayed with him before departing. And after talking with a security guard at the door whose family was struggling just blocks away, I placed my hand on his shoulder and prayed for him.
It goes without saying there are thousands in hard-hit parts of Appalachia who still need our prayers. However, Scripture tells us “Faith without works is dead.” If anyone has the means to help further in Helene’s aftermath, Samaritan’s Purse could use funds (samaritanspurse.org). Their international headquarters in Boone, North Carolina, has been impacted, although their mission of aid continues. Operation Blessing (ob.org) of the Christian Broadcasting Network is delivering water, food, hygiene kits and other supplies, and partnering with local churches to provide hot meals. And of course, there’s Red Cross (redcross.org).
If we can’t go, let’s assist those who can go — and help meet the needs of the storm victims.
Mark Millican is a former staff writer for the Dalton Daily Citizen.