pineapple hill south carolina

Jonesberry House


THE PLACE: Pineapple Hill is a  beach house in a cow pasture and a sort of farm overrun with kudzu, bamboo and wild blackberries.

Deer raid the small vineyard. A lost swimsuit shows up in banana trees.  Still unused to country ways, I shoot guns from the upstairs balcony. It breaks the maddening silence.

When cows get loose and the old Jeep won’t crank, I nudge them home with an old (sadly, not vintage) Jaguar.

A flock of turkeys is collectively named The Wilsons—as in “Hey look! The Wilson’s are here!”


After many years working in ad agencies and then as a freelance marketing director, a personal loss triggered my decision to step away from the rat race…then I was in a car wreck. So while the rest of the world has apparently been losing its collective mind, I’ve been enjoying a peaceful sabbatical in the country—rehabilitating mind and body both.

I’ve written three novels. The first, Blue Rubber Pool, will be published later this year. A fourth is close to completion. My wordsmithing recipe is simple: start with one part Jack Kerouac (sentences long, as if paid by the word) and one part Hunter S. Thompson (complete disregard for the rules). Stir. Next add one part memoir and another part dream. Shake vigorously. Pour in all you know about love, sadness and redemption. Then allow to ferment until the cork pops out on its own.

I’ve enjoyed sailing, going bare foot for days, roasting oysters, fresh peach cobbler and a Pawleys Island hammock but am thinking it’s time to back to the city again. It’s like the scene in Forrest Gump where he suddenly stops running.