Father Peeples

In 1943, led by David Nathanial Peeples, a monastic order settled over on Potato Island; he renamed it Good Shepherd Island.

Have no idea what kind of monastery. Probably few, outside of family members, knew for sure, and there were a gracious plenty of siblings, 14 children in all, growing up on Calhoun Street in idyllic rural Bluffton, South Carolina.

In later years, we could suspect that the monks were victims of PTSD and had found refuge and peace on this small island in the middle of the Maye River and surrounding marshes.

Frankly, I never saw a soul on that island that even vaguely resembled a monk.

However many and of what nature, we knew they were there.

We heard their bell ringing.

“It’s a silent order,” people would say. “The bell tells them when to do things.”

And at all hours of the day, we could hear that bell ding-dong.

Without air conditioning, our windows were open in the summer heat, seeking any sort of relief from a stray breeze off the river. Sound does travel farther over water, and we were just across the Maye River on Myrtle Island.

Many of us in Bluffton knew Nathanial’s brother Luke, who lived on Calhoun Street next to what is now Babbie Guscio’s The Store.

Luke was a talented composer and musician. Like as not, you could walk past his house and hear him playing some of his music on the piano.
Unlike Nathanial, who craved privacy, Luke was an accomplished raconteur and liked nothing better than to indulge in a spirited conversation.

Potato Island had two docks, one on the Maye River and one on the back side of the island on a small tidal creek we called Shrimp Creek for the obvious reason.

It had lots of shrimp.

On occasion, locals took their bateaux around there to throw a net for this delectable and easily attainable crustacean.

Rumor had it that Father Peeples considered this an invasion of privacy and threatened intruders into “his Shrimp Creek” with a loaded shotgun.

I never had the nerve to take my bateau around there into such dangerous waters.

My friend Margaret told me about a man whose bateau somehow ended up over at Potato Island, stuck at low tide. Later, when the tide was high, he went back to retrieve it.

Father Peeples stood on the bluff and hollered over to ask what he wanted, what his business was.

Pointing, he said, “That’s my bateau. I’ve come to get it.” When it concerned his bateau, he called Father Peeples Mister Peeples. After all, he wasn’t going to be too worried about proper titles, and what did you call a monk anyway?

“It’s mine,” said Peeples, claiming that it had appeared on “his” island.

“That is my damn bateau, and I’m taking it,” said the aggrieved owner.
And he did.

The hullabaloo had finally become too much for the reclusive Father, aka Mister Peeples.

Too many people. Too much noise. Too many boats on the river. Just too dang much.

The last we heard, Nathanial Peeples had taken his religious group and gone to the Everglades.

there.

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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.