Of all the recent press on remembering Hurricane Hugo, the recurring theme was how this storm brought out the best in us, people – be they friends or strangers – helping people in need. That was surely true of our Flower Town, beginning 20 years and four nights ago. Hugo was probably the worst natural disaster to hit Summerville since the 1886 earthquake. We survived both, mainly because of what Summerville has always had – and has always demonstrated in abundance – community spirit.
Our Mayor, Berlin G. Myers, was pictured in the newspaper – most likely for the first time in his political history – without a coat, after he’d spent endless hours assessing damage. Town staff members tirelessly distributed food and other goods for those in need. A black minister, new to Summerville in 1989, told me he’d recently come here from up north with preconceived ideas of southern racial prejudice. “Hurricane Hugo put an end to all of that,” he said, explaining, “I saw white and black people come to my church both to be fed and to offer help. My church helped both black and white Summervillians and that’s what we suddenly all became, Summervillians.”
My favorite personal people-helping-people memory happened during those first post-Hugo days. I was working for The Journal-Scene, and of course, our electricity was cut off and we couldn’t operate. We moved into the Goose Creek Gazette and shared offices for several days. There was a curfew and staff members had to carry a letter saying we were authorized to be out after hours.
Most of us worked late into the night on deadline days and found ourselves driving home along dark, lonely stretches. “Black as night” had a new meaning as we came along deserted roads. No street lights. No business lights. No traffic lights. Just a long, long, darkness.
On the way home – at 10 or 11 pm – I’d meet up with the S.C. Highway Patrol first. They’d look over my letter and tell me to proceed. Then I’d come upon the Dorchester County Sheriffs deputies. They’d recognize me and just wave me on the way. Next, I’d come up Highway 78 to Highway 17A and meet up with the Summerville Police Department. In those halcyon days, I knew most of the officers. They’d stop me and ask if I was all right.
As I drove down the dark Main Street after that first SPD encounter, the only lights were mine – and the car following me. I got nervous as I approached Five Points and turned left and the other car was still behind. We both proceeded up Trolley Road. I turned into my neighborhood and into my street and into my driveway and the car was still there.
Once we were both stopped, I saw to my relief that it was a police car and got out and asked why he had followed me. “We wanted you to get safely home,” the officer told me. “Summerville takes care of her own!” That scenario was repeated every night I was out late. For the thousandth time in the 11 years I’d then been a resident, I was so grateful our family decided to settle here.
Twenty years and four nights later I feel exactly the same way.