A Homegrown Success

Roots run deep on St. Helena Island for this family owned and operated business of more than 60 years.

This old farm is no less magnificent to me than the ancient ruins of some faraway place. Live oaks covered in resurrection fern spread their branches wide across this land standing guard over the good earth, providing shade and solace for all who enter.

I know battles have been fought here by men on tractors, wearing bib overalls and wide-brimmed straw hats. Year after year, they waged war against the elements of Mother Nature. In the many years that have passed, this farm has witnessed hurricanes, torrential rains, tornadoes, and parching droughts. These are our unsung heroes who labor largely unnoticed to those passersby headed to the beach on Hwy. 21.

Tons of fertile soil have been turned again and again to face the torrid sun and time. Each season, crops such as tomatoes, potatoes, strawberries, watermelons, cucumbers, and peppers have been planted with great faith and promise, harvested with love and hope. Davey Dempsey runs his vegetable stand here most days - he can read a watermelon better than anyone in Beaufort County. After all, he grew up on this land as did the generations before him. He knows firsthand the struggle to earn a good living in the sandy soil of this island.

For three generations, time has tested its tin roofs, and the scorch of the South Carolina sun has weathered wooden barns and outbuildings. Some are still standing, but parts teeter a bit in the ocean breeze. Set on stone foundations, constructed many years ago, not with precisely executed architectural plans but with whatever materials might be on hand. Old timbers may be rotting as they sway in the breeze, with pieces of metal roofing hanging on. These buildings will forever stand because they were built by men from an era when men had integrity and were as strong and mighty as the substructure in their buildings.

Wisteria trails its woody vines as it climbs around abandoned machinery and disabled, rusted tractors. Each spring its fragrant lavender blossoms perfume the air and reveal large, velvety leguminous pods. Even amongst the decay, beauty and signs of life carry on.

The sweet smell of the earth below our feet, the scent of salt air, and the sound of songbirds renew the soul. I feel the struggles here and the successes that come and go with every season.

The tangy sweetness of a sun-ripened, homegrown tomato, its juices running down my chin as I savor that first bite on a warm summer day, is a simple pleasure that I've taken for granted. It's a sensory memory, tied to countless summers spent driving down Highway 21, the anticipation building with every mile. It's a tradition passed down through generations, as natural to me as breathing.

But as I think about future generations, will they know the simple joys of foraging for wild pokeweed in the spring, its vibrant purple berries a stark contrast against the lush green landscape? Will they experience the delight of picking strawberries, their fingers stained red from the sun-ripened fruit, the sweet aroma filling the air? Will they understand the deep connection to the land, the reverence for nature's bounty that has shaped our lives?

These traditions, these cherished memories, are so ingrained in my being that I never thought to document them. They were simply a part of life, passed down through stories and shared experiences. But now, I realize the importance of preserving these precious moments, of ensuring that future generations understand the richness of our heritage and the depth of our love for this land.

Perhaps that's why I find solace in writing, in weaving tales that capture the essence of our lives, the simple joys, the bittersweet sorrows, the unwavering love that binds us together. Through my words, I hope to create a bridge to the future, a way for those who come after me to know the things we held dear, the traditions we cherished, and the land we loved so fiercely.

Red lettuce ripens in the fields each spring, sweet and delicious.