Here's the opening of one of my projects. Let me know what you think. It's based on a true story, with a smidgen of ole T. Allen added for good measure...

The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road 

It’s not often that I think back to those days growing up in Bucksport, not that I don’t have fond memories, because I do.  Like many tiny coastal towns in the watery edges just a mere rock’s throw from the touristy section of the beach, Bucksport had once made its mark in the rich history of South Carolina’s culture. People not from around here look at the name Bucksport and often interpret its meaning incorrectly. Too many folks I have encountered tend to focus the pronunciation on the  Bucks part of it, thinking it must be a deer hunter’s paradise and that fact weighed heavily into coming up with the name. While deer are plentiful, neither Bambi nor any of his relatives had anything to do with the namesake.  As a young girl living there, I never gave it much thought one way or the other. As an adult, I did research it, looking for answers. Nothing answered the question of why we had been tormented so by what lived there in that house.

Fact doesn’t lift the burden. Bucksport was founded more as a rural port. That’s where the port part of it comes from; sort of easy to figure out if you really put your mind to it. It’s really not my way to spew a history lesson, but for the sake of painting the picture, I guess I must. How else are you going to be able to relate to what I’m going to tell you, that is, if I actually decide to share my deepest, darkest secrets with you.  Believe you me; this doesn’t come easy for me. No, not the history lesson; well, yeah that to, but what I have experienced has been well kept from anybody but those who know what I know. It’s been nearly a lifetime of trying to forget it seems.  I must apologize. I do have a tendency to ramble and sort of drift off point. It might be a tad intentional. The subject matter still terrifies me to this day.  Looking back doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

All right, Bucksport is where me and my three sisters grew up. It was for the most part a fun place to live back in the fifties and early sixties. I say for the most part with reservations that I’ll get to eventually; that is if I can really make myself venture down that path. That was over fifty years ago, hard as it is to believe now. Trust me, I don’t really want to go there but maybe it’ll help if I just say it out loud, but the jury is still deliberating on that verdict. Verdict, that sounds serious, doesn’t it? It sure felt like a life sentence after it started. We were imprisoned so it seemed, with no chance of parole. Daddy wasn’t budging so we were trapped in a nightmare.

Bucksport is nestled between Conway and Georgetown, South Carolina; not so easily found on a Road Atlas. Just follow 701 from either direction and you’ll eventually see the signs; that is if you don’t blink or sneeze. It’s not too far from the sands of Myrtle Beach. Okay, let’s see if I can muster up that history lesson; as best I can anyway.  I might just surprise you and me too, what I learned about its origin. What happened there has surely been on mind lately so I have done a little research? Don’t get too excited though, it’s not much, but maybe it’ll be enough to bring you up to speed. Location is everything, right?

That being said, the rural port is located on the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway at the merger point with the Waccamaw River. Probably more highlighted and recognizable these days is the Bucksport Restaurant and Marina. You can get there by boat or car. It seems to still be a favorite eating place for locals and visitors alike. A man named Henry Buck of Bucksport, Maine moved here in 1820. He came to South Carolina in search of wood and started up a lumber mill in what he named Bucksport; go figure. Somehow he had found out that Horry County had a significant timber industry with cypress, pine and hardwoods in abundant supply, here for the taking.

Henry Buck eventually had sawmills in Bucksport and Bucksville.  A man with money can name whatever he wants after him I suppose. Bucksville was located near Bucksport, why the two different names I don’t really know. Both properties are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, in case you’re interested. The Buck family really has nothing to do with the house where we lived, not that I’ve ever heard, but still the man is responsible for developing the little community.

Henry Buck did well for himself in Horry County, using his personal fleet of ships reportedly shipping three million board feet annually from his little enterprise to Carolina cities Charleston and Georgetown, even to Yankee land as far away as Boston and New York. It was said his wood, ours, had even been used in the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. It put my county on the map back in 1860 as one of the five greatest timber-producing districts in the state. Funny, living there as a child, it never felt like we stood out any kind of way. I guess being way out in the boonies wasn’t so special.

I’m better suited for procrastination. Spouting all this Bucksport history prevents me from getting to the root of the evil, my non history making saga. Anyone of my sisters or me could have probably put Bucksport on the map for an entirely different reason, but daddy would have tanned our hides if he caught us talking nonsense as he called it. I’m not sure who we feared most, daddy or that other one. Who am I really fooling? Daddy didn’t hold a candle to that other one if truth be known. I would have faced his leather strap anytime if it would have made things normal for the rest of us.

More history, fact, a lot of black folks resided in Bucksport. Last head count I can actually remember seeing was from the 2010 census where the population was reported as being somewhere around 876, the negroes accounting for nearly 80%; whites coming in a not so close second at less than 8%. I guess Henry Buck could be blamed for these skewed numbers. In his day he was the largest owner of Negro slaves in Horry County, needing them to help out on his 20, 000 acre plantation. I always chuckle when northerners tend to want to blame the south for being slave owners. Henry was a damn Yankee and he brought them here. Funny if you really think about it; those fleets of ships bringing over those poor kidnapped Negroes from Africa flew the United States flag, not the confederate one. It’s always been easier for them to blame us than look in the mirror I reckon.

We grew up surrounded by Negroes back in our time in Bucksport. It was just the way it was. As an eight year old, I didn’t think much about it one way or the other. They were part of our lives. I didn’t see any right or wrong side of it; not like folks prefer painting the picture today. We southerners get a raw deal, based purely on the acts of a few, blaming us for mistreating them, the Negroes. I never mistreated anybody, black, white or any other color. I sure didn’t steal them from their villages and whisk them away to this country. I have never owned a slave. Stop stereotyping us as evil. It won’t work on me. I know what evil really is. I’ve experienced it. So have my sisters. Five long years can wear you down. Sadly we had no say so about where we wanted to live or what was best for us. It was what it was and we had to learn to cope with it. In a sense, I was enslaved to the circumstances.

Looking back, I’d like to hang the blame on my parents for putting us through this, but what were they supposed to do? The Burgess family had to live somewhere. Besides, daddy never believed us or maybe he did, but admitting he did would mean he had to do something about it. Maybe he didn’t know what to do so he buried his head in the sand, a more convenient approach to avoiding it. Mama knew. I know she knew. She was trapped like the rest of us though. I wonder if she ever experienced what we did. I mean the full experience. If she had, I honestly believe she would have talked daddy into leaving. It would have most likely fell on deaf ears. Daddy was too strong willed. He wouldn’t have left even on her say-so and pleas. He was too proud to admit to such nonsense. He had no desire to be the laughing stock of Bucksport. That’s why he hushed us up, forbidding us to spread silly rumors.

There was nothing silly or rumored about what was happening. I know. I was there. It happened to me and it wasn’t my imagination. Ask my sisters if you don’t believe me. Cancel that. They’re not going to tell you anything. Maybe after I clear the air, one or more of them will step from the shadows and back my story. Then again they might just leave me out on that limb by my lonesome. What’s the point of airing the dirty laundry now and risking everything? Many would just think it was silly talk conjured up by children or worse still, they’d peg the whole lot of us loony birds, that crazy Burgess clan.      

Taking a deep breath isn’t going to kick start this, that’s for certain. It’s been buried way too long and way too deep.  Fifty years but yet I can’t completely shake it free. Maybe I should run this by mama first. Daddy is gone so he no longer has a say in it. Sadly mama is in sort of a fragile state. She has what they used to call hardening of the arteries or old timers. Her mind just isn’t what it used to be. No, she’s not crazy. Years ago she had her opportunities to cross over into crazy land, just like the rest of us, but she was too feisty to give into it, I suppose. She is just old and in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was a good day when she remembered I was Rebecca. Her sickness can’t really be blamed on the past. We’re all way past the straight jacket days. I babble on, don’t I? It’s just tough to choose a starting point. A story deserves an ample beginning, a time before it happened. I hate just jumping right into the middle.  After all, five years is not a lifetime, even though as a child it seemed like an eternity. Living down on Ports Harrelson Road wasn’t always bad but when it was, bad was our worst nightmare.