Am I a native?

Posted

People might think I am a native of Bluffton.

Nope.

Although, from the time our cottage on the Maye River was turnkey in 1944, we were summer people, not to be confused with those who lived in Bluffton the year round and could claim native as a title, families like McCracken, Bush, Ulmer, Martin, Crapse, Heyward, Reynolds, Graves, Cram, Riley, Huger, Hook, Colcock, Wright, Fripp and the multitude of Pinckney kinfolk.

Yes, I know I forgot some.

We were Savannahians who came to Bluffton as soon as school let out for summer vacation and reluctantly left the Tuesday after Labor Day.

Finding our property on the Maye River hadn’t been easy.

We persevered.

During WWII, so many goods like gasoline, tires, butter, sugar and coffee, were either rationed, or like wrist watches and pocket watches, simply impossible to buy since they were all requisitioned by the military.

My German-born father trained for seven years to be a master watchmaker, and customers brought him their now-treasured timepieces to be repaired.

He worked ridiculous hours.

There was little time for him to relax, but on the rare occasion, we rented a cottage for a holiday weekend, when stores were closed, like Labor Day and the 4th of July.

With friends, the Papes and the Childers, we crowded into rustic cabins at Pine Harbor and Shellman’s Bluff on the Sapelo River south of Savannah.

A hurricane evacuation notice chased us from a cottage on Tybee Island before we could put linens on the beds.

Our favorite place was Bluffton over the Houlihan Bridge in South Carolina.

There was an idyllic week at Buckingham where L.G. Hook led Mary Ann Childers and me on wild adventures. With a bamboo rake and a bushel basket, he taught us how to scoop crab out of their hiding places in the mudflats.

We came another holiday weekend when we were all excited to unload the car for a stay on Oyster Street, only to back out the cottage door stumbling over each other trying to escape from a house full of fleas.

It was too much, the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.

We needed our own place and found our refuge from the hassles of life across the Maye River from Bluffton on Myrtle Island on what our real estate agent claimed was the only parcel available, the smallest lot at the far end of the island, a pie shaped lot, a scant acre, facing north, no soothing summer breezes from the south. A parcel of land covered from one end to the other with cedar, cherry laurel, poison ivy, sticky vines, scrub palmetto, seed ticks, red bugs hiding in Spanish moss and luscious magnolias that never in over 50 years produced a bloom.

We bought it with cash.

It was 1942, such a long time ago.

Much has changed, but much is the same.

There are no more kerosene lamps to clean or water to pump from the well C. E. Ulmer dug for us. There is no waiting early on Sunday mornings on Calhoun Street in front of Planter’s Mercantile for Morris Robinowich to come from Savannah with goodies from Gottlieb’s Bakery. There’s no buying a 50 lb. block of ice from Bessie’s Ice House for the kitchen ice box that drained through a hole in the floor, or dumping crab into a pot of boiling water on our precious, precarious three burner kerosene stove. There’s no scraping barnacles off of my bateau and painting the bottom with red lead paint every spring, and no house party of teenage girls jazzed on Coca Cola and Krispy Kreme donuts walking in baby doll pajamas down Myrtle Island’s oyster shell road to the rickety wooden bridge to see the moon rise over the Maye.

We have air conditioning and plumbing and television and microwaves and ice making refrigerators. Myrtle Island’s road is paved with asphalt, yellow strip down the center, blue markers indicate fire hydrant locations.

But the setting sun still blinds with its red and orange sailor’s dazzling delight. The north wind still howls on frigid winter nights.

Best of all, no matter where we came from, who we are, what we do or have or have not, the River Maye is our common ground, our meeting place, our inspiration.

Am I a native?

Nah.

But thank you, dear Graham Bullock and Jeannie Bunton, I will admit to being a Bluffton eccentric.

Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92 in 2025, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire. Annelore Harrell’s story is a testament to living with passion, resilience, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.