Written by James Cooler
Photography by Chris Hefter

’m not originally from Bluffton. Imagine that. Few people are honored enough to have that distinction. And they are a rare few, indeed.

You can’t just become a Blufftonian. You either are one, or are not one.

My uncle (well, to be fair to my quasi-genealogist mother who will be quick to correct me on this, he is my cousin...third cousin, once removed or something like that...anyway, my great-grandmother and he were siblings... so whatever that makes him) – anyway, my uncle/cousin was Emmet McCracken, Sr. He moved down to Bluffton back in the 50s much to the chagrin of his people back in Hopkins, SC.

“Why would you want to waste your money on that worthless farmland along the May River?” they chided.

He came down here, regardless of the admonitions, and became the superintendent of schools for Beaufort County. He married Naomi McCreary, a true Bluffton belle and a rare native, to boot. They settled down on the banks of the May and spent their entire lives together, watching the ebb and flow of the river.

Emmet, Sr., like his son, was chock full of tales and lore and witticisms. But one of the most telling answers was the response he gave when he was asked if he considered himself a Blufftonian.

He commented that he had been down here for nearly 50 years and he still didn’t think he could call himself a Blufftonian. “You don’t become a Blufftonian,” he remarked, “you just ARE.”

I feel that way sometimes. Well, I feel that way a lot of times. I finally moved to Bluffton about eight years ago. I had been down to the McCracken’s for family reunions, and my sister and brother-in-law had been living here for some while before I finally came, so they gave me good respite when I would come and visit. I had grown up in Columbia and knew I wanted the Lowcountry life since my first vacation at Edisto when I was three months old. (OK, I probably wasn’t cognizant of anything much at that age, but I assure you I made my mind up soon thereafter).

So when I finally moved down here, I totally engrossed myself in living my life the way I wanted...the very same way that most true Blufftonians subscribed to. I learned early on that Bluffton folk are genuine, if nothing else. Very few put on airs, or are pretentious, for anyone.

What you see is what you get. And although that may be venomous at times, it is nearly always welcoming. Sprinkle it with some creativity, willingness to work, and lots of laughs and you begin to get the picture. It’s all form and function in this town. It’s just about being. Blufftonians make things happen that make life more enjoyable for them.

My neighbor and friend, Robbie Cahill, is just that type of Blufftonian.

Robbie and I share a few things that make us similar. And it goes beyond my ever-lengthening shock of hair that my wife constantly reminds me makes me look more and more like Robbie. We both have a bit of a farming background, both enjoy the art of gardening and planting, and have even shared the same business ideas a few times (though I’ll be quick to say that his family did more to make them work than I ever did...just go check out Cahill’s Market for the best in local farm grown vegetables, plants, and sundries).

Robbie lives smack in the heart of Bluffton, and I can honestly say it is on the very short list of my favorite houses in Bluffton.

He recently did something in his yard that exemplifies what I am talking about when I discuss what it is to be a Blufftonian. And his ideas may or may not be original, but they work all the more better because he is who he is and he is where he is.

I stopped by Robbie’s a few weeks ago. If his car is in the driveway, it is always a safe bet that we’ll have a visit for some afternoon camaraderie and a cocktail (so safe, in fact, that I can confidently assume that there is always a splash of my favorite rum in the pantry and a ginger ale in the door of the fridge with my name on it.)

While there, I noticed in Robbie’s side yard, where he usually keeps his boat, that the ground was dug out and leveled, some gravel was in it’s place, and an odd pattern of PVC pipe and water nozzles were installed. A mountain of mismatched pavers sat at one end of the driveway.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“The best thing that’s ever happened,” Robbie said, laughing his gravelly laugh. Then he explained his idea that was of true Blufftonian style.

It was a wash station for his boat and trailer and truck undercarriage. He explained that when he takes his boat out of the river, he will come home, turn the water on, and as he backs his boat into its spot, the water jets in his new driveway will spray the bottom of the boat and truck and clean off all the salt deposits. That, my friend, is ingenious.

“I got these mismatched pavers real cheap,” he continued, “but when I lay them in a random style, it gives it a mottled look.”

I wasn’t faking my reaction. I was suddenly jealous.“But, check this out,” he went on. “I got my hands on a bunch of the old terra-cotta sewer pipes.” He showed me the octagon-shaped pipes, each one about a foot long.

“What are you going to do with those?” I asked.

“Man, that’s the border for my front garden.”

I couldn’t picture it.

So I went back over there a few days later to see the finished product. Sure enough, the pavers-of-different- colors look spectacular as a new driveway, the boat wash station performs as promised, and the terra-cotta pipes look as natural in their spot as a garden border as the plants they surrounded.

It was then that I realized that Robbie’s genius and vision was just him exhibiting the essence of being a Blufftonian. All form and function and creativity.

And, if you look around the heart of Bluffton in Old Town, at the things that made Bluffton what she is – the Oyster Factory, the crooked sidewalk on Bridge Street, the old houses and how they’re situated to catch river breezes, Amos Hummel’s motorcycle gang in front of RedStripe – you’ll begin to identify with the small characteristics that are intrinsic to Bluffton’s style. It’s not all perfect or planned or manicured. But it’s all functional in some shape or form, even if it’s only to appease one’s senses.

I’ve got a brick wall in my yard that doesn’t make sense. But I enjoy it. Maybe I’m starting to figure things out. I’m never going to be a Blufftonian, but Bluffton has certainly become a part of me.