When I began writing the Saints of Savannah Series, I thought it would be easy to write about the different neighborhoods in Savannah. I had grown up here, running the streets and swimming in the creeks, so I was a natural. I still used phrases like “She lives on the Island” or “he’s from the Southside,” so I had first-hand knowledge. Although no one really knows why it’s called the Southside and what it’s actually South of. And, come to think of it, where the Northside might lie. But still— I quickly realized how little I knew about the city I called home.
We’re all kinda like that in Savannah. Although our city has a small-town feel, it’s actually a big city that’s very spread out. You might know your way around, but you can’t fully appreciate each area until you stay there for a bit. So, when an opportunity came for me to stay in a little cottage on Isle of Hope that belonged to one of my friend’s grandfathers, I jumped on it.
Now, I was warned about him beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me to meet one of the most interesting people I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting, Mr. Noel Wright. He had lived on Isle of Hope his whole life. He had been raised there, and raised his family there, when he wasn’t flying planes, running shrimp boats, wood turning, herding deer, or writing. Yes, he is a writer, too. Why wouldn’t he be; he’s done everything else? If Sheriff Andy Taylor had lived on the Skidaway River instead of in the small town of Mayberry, he would have been named Noel.
My first morning there, this 90 year-young spitfire offered to take me on a golf cart ride around the island. Although he had already taken his morning brisk walk, he wanted more outdoor time. I jumped in, eager to hear everything he was offering to share. He drove me around for hours, around back alleys and backyards. I’m sorry if you may have been one of them, but I had a story to write and was on a deadline. The minute that golf cart jumped the curb and cut across a perfectly manicured yard, I knew I was with the one person who could help me meet it.
He told me about the people who once lived on the island—the original landowners and the families from the 19th century. Then he moved on to the families who are new to this island. People smiled as he passed, and some even asked for his advice on whatever the topic of the day was. As I mentioned before—he is the small-town Sheriff of the Bluff.
At the end of our ride, I stepped out of that golf cart, knowing all the secrets about the island and its people, old and new, thanks to my extraordinary new friend who had shown me around. For the rest of my visit, I took long walks, became close friends with a deer, took pictures of a thousand plants, watched the sun rise and set over the Skidaway River, and wrote my heart out. The main character in my new novel, The Cottage on Mystic Lane, fell in love with Isle of Hope as she uncovered the secrets of her property. And just like her, I fell in love with Isle of Hope, too.
If I went back today, I’m not sure if I could find the slab where the General Store once sat, the encampment where the Confederate Soldiers slept, or even remember why there is a United States flag in the middle of the marsh that they replace every six months. But what I do know is this. Our fair city has incredible people, and Isle of Hope gives me just that, Hope. And that’s one thing we can never have enough of.
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