Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Hemingway, South Carolina, is a tiny town of less than 500 people.

There, one of my favorite people was born, calling Hemingway her hometown until college beckoned, followed by the state capitol and other glorious adventures.

The joyous Mary Eaddy has the merriest of laughs. “Oh, honey,” she’ll drawl. “let’s just forget that.

That is not a good memory. Life is too short to store up bad memories. Let’s just move on from that.”

Then, she’ll produce an impish smile, highlighted with constantly twinkling eyes. She is tall with broad shoulders, light brown hair, with an aura of happiness around her. Nothing is ever a problem to Mary. “We can figure this out,” she’ll say in the most beautiful, lilting of Southern drawls. “Don’t you worry. Honey, this is an opportunity to show how smart we are.”

Her wink exudes cleverness. “If this is all you have to worry about, you have no worries at all. You just worry about loving that wonderful husband of yours.”

Mary’s own remarkable husband, an engineer named Mike, hangs proudly on every word she says — especially when she tosses back her head and laughs so merrily that it sounds like the wind chime on our porch.

When my first in a series of Stella Bankwell Mysteries launched last year, I toured near the island where she now lives. The neighborhood, filled with beautiful homes, lies in the distance, across the water, the lights of Charleston shimmering like rhinestones on a debutante’s dress. Live moss drips mystically from the trees, accenting red brick galore surrounding white homes with black doors and matching shutters.

Tink, not always easily impressed with people at first, adored Mike and Mary from the very beginning. He was wary when she insisted that we spend the night with them in their house with its large, sweeping rooms and enormous wide doors. She and Mike spent years designing it to perfection, this wonderful home that whispers in the same sweet voice of Mary, “Come in and stay awhile.

I just happen to have a charcuterie board and a couple of bottles of wine. Do you like salmon? That’s what we have for dinner.”

Everything was delicious, especially Mary’s storytelling. When Tink asked a question, she would say, “Oh, my, Tink.” She’d smile, throw back her head and, ringing with laughter, would then chime, “I’ll try to give you the short story but it’s hard because it’s a wild story. Yo’ll swear I’ve made it up.”

After that story, he asked, “Where did you grow up?”

“Hemingway, South Carolina.

It’s about an hour from here. It’s a little Southern town where everyone knows what you had for supper the night before. But I loved it. Absolutely adored it. Everyone should grow up in a place like Hemingway.”

“Hemingway,” I said thoughtfully as I used the silver fork to pinch off a piece of divine salmon.

“What’s in Hemingway? I know there’s something.”

“Honey!” she said dramatically.

“We are the home of Tupperware.

At least that’s where the plant is.”

I smiled, sighing happily. Two of my favorites come from Hemingway: Mary Eaddy and Tupperware.

I loved Tupperware so much that, at age 10, I talked Mama into hosting a party. I still have a few of the hostess pieces she bought or was awarded as a hostess. They all still “burp” — the signature sound that keeps food fresh for a long time. I came home from our trip to see Mary and Mike and bought a big box of Tupperware in bright colors.

“I’m going to have a party. I read the Tupperware company is in trouble. They need our help.”

Comically, Tink shook his head.

Then it happened. Tupperware announced it is closing the Hemingway plant, putting 100 people out of work. This company, born and grown in America, is going to Mexico.

Isn’t it ironic? Mexicans want to come to America yet America’s Tupperware is moving to Mexico.

Tupperware in Mexico. Jobs lost in my beloved South. It makes me so sad.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Visit www. rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.