Back to Greenwood

“Why in the world would you trade with him?” Ed stood from the table, exasperated. Yes, he was fussing at his wife, but Ed has always gotten bent out of shape when he was losing due to no fault of his own.

“I needed stone. I’m trying to build cities, here,” Jessica softly but firmly explained.

“But Buff is at 8 points already,” Ed raised his voice more.

‘He’s at 7…”

“No, no,” Ed shook an accusatory finger at my row of development cards, “He hadn’t touched that one in three turns! That is a victory point, I guarantee!”

“I need stone. He already has longest road. Who cares if I give him more brick?”

“Look at where he’s going! Two more roads and then he builds on a sheep port! He has three numbers on sheep, including a six and an eight! He gets that port, we’re all dead!” Ed flung his arms in the air.

I closed my eyes and smiled softly; Ed was an observant one, and he could always see right through me. Anna, my wife, simply stared at the board, scheming of ways to break my longest road and take me down a notch. Jessica stood and huffed to the kitchen, refilling her giant water tumbler while Ed stomped and plotted my demise.

The screen in the living room behind us played some inconsequential bowl game, on only because of our mutual love of college football and not for any real interest. The screen next to it, muted, showed the New Years countdown, which we’d only really take notice of when we get to the last minute before the ball drops.

I stood and walked, stepping over the gate we used to keep the dogs locked in the living room and into the dining room, where my 8-year old twins and Ed and Jess’s two kids sat around the table playing their own set of games, this time a romping round of “Codenames”. Their competition was a lot more rowdy and a lot less serious, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves way more than we were. The adults were playing their third round of “Settlers”, mostly my fault. Of the dozens of games we played religiously, “Settlers of Catan” was one of the few that I felt I had a clean grasp on the strategy, so whenever they struggled to choose which game we’d play next, I would throw “Settlers” on the table, and off we went.

This is our Buffkin and Gidewall family tradition: holiday board games in Greenwood. No matter how busy the holiday season gets, we carve out three or four days over holiday break, pack the truck, and head back to Greenwood. Greenwood, South Carolina: the city that all interstates in South Carolina (and, thus, all its people) forgot. I’m from Columbia. My wife Anna is from Myrtle Beach. Ed is from Greenville. Jess is from Georgia, for goodness sake. There was literally zero reason for us to meet here, for our friendships to form here, for our kids to be born here, for us to scatter and leave from here. And certainly, there was never any reason for us to come back.

Yet here we are. Back to Greenwood.

In the kitchen, scattered remnants of chicken bacon pasta casserole dishes sit in the sink. On the counter, quickly disappearing slices of Jess’s epic chocolate chip dessert pizza sneakily creep away, stolen by tiny hands thinking they’re getting away with something. Back into the living room with the gigantic gaming table sat a “Settlers” board which (Ed was right) will be my victory exactly two turns after I build that sheep port. Stacked on the far end of the table sat boxes of games we’ve been repeating over and over again for the last few days: several editions of “Dominion”, “Love Letter”, “Robo Rally” (which baffles my otherwise brilliant bride), "Azul", co-op games like “Pandemic” (my favorite, personally) and ‘Forbidden Desert”, along with a dozen or so more. Each game more niche, more obscure, more complex. Games that we’ve played hundreds of times each. Despite the bickering and competitiveness, this was our comfort zone. It was our safe space.

Our families met in 2013. Ed was the newly-hired youth pastor at our local Baptist church, the one that Anna and I just started attending. As lovely as Greenwood is, its seclusion on the western side of South Carolina means that the people who grew up here weren’t the most accepting of newcomers. They weren’t “mean”, by any means, but they definitely treated you like you were “not from here”. One Sunday, Ed gave us an invite to attend his oldest son’s first birthday, and Anna and I (with no kids, mind you) came, mostly because we wanted to make friends. Our families bonded over the shared “outsider” experience, and we started coming over more and more.

We were there most Saturdays, watching college football together. When the season ended, we made excuses to come over still. Potlucks. Birthdays. We came over and watched their son while they went to the hospital to give birth to their youngest daughter. Literally any excuse to visit.

But one day, it was simple: “Do y’all play board games?” And we did. And every Saturday after that. We would come together, eat a shared meal, and play board games until after midnight. We would go into church the next morning, exhausted, pretending we weren’t up until 2 AM playing “Puerto Rico” and “Exploding Kittens.” When Anna and I had our twins, we would come every Saturday with dual pack & plays; the babies would play and then go down at 8, and then the board games came out. Greenwood was good to us, but we were great for each other. Two groups of outsiders creating a family together.

And here we were, again. The ball dropped. A new year began. All the kids bundled together on inflatable mattresses in one room. The next morning, a crisp southern winter air spread through our lungs as we hiked the nature trail in their neighborhood. Winding roads and brush, orange and yellow leaves still lining the ground from autumn. We talked, rehashed. Reminded ourselves of conversations from years ago, reminded ourselves of why this relationship was so important.

Family is difficult. Between family fights that leave us miles apart, families that leave and are literally miles apart, and the unfortunate truth that life is not without limitations, family around the holidays can be a source of much grief. When we were together in Greenwood, we had no family; each of our families were hundreds of miles separated from us. How wonderful it was that we, so desperate for familial love and joy, could find each other in so remote a place.

In 2019, Ed and Jess made the decision to leave. We sat at their dining room table, shared a meal, and Ed opened his mouth and announced it. It was a move to a bigger church about three hours away. A chance for a promotion, a raise, and a step closer to becoming the senior minister that we knew was his calling. I was quiet at first, but as they started to clear the table for games, I walked into the next room and quietly sobbed. It was selfish of me, I know. This was a real opportunity for him. But I didn’t care. They weren’t friends; they were the only family we had in this town. They stood with us at some of the hardest points of our marriage. They stood with us when we struggled to have children, and they supported us when God finally blessed us with two at one time. My family has personally cherished every Saturday spent with them, and that was going away. The logical part of me couldn’t come to terms with that.

They left soon after. We threw them a going-away party. Helped them pack the house. But with them gone, Greenwood didn’t have much more for us, either. In 2021, we sold the house, packed a trailer, and moved four and a half hours to the coast. With Ed and Jess gone, Greenwood became a distant memory. We were outsiders when we arrived, and we were more or less the same when we left.

“I don’t regret moving to Greenwood,” I told Ed over the phone a short time before we moved.

“Not at all. Met a lot of good people, made a lot of good friends and memories there,” he responded, quietly.

“Think you’ll ever come back? Lot of people miss you here.”

“Buff, I can tell you, with 100% certainty: as much as I enjoyed my time there, I will never, ever, EVER go back to Greenwood.”

“I hear you, pal,” I smiled gently, “Anyways, what are y’all doing after Christmas?”

And every year after that moment, wherever the Gidewalls are after Christmas, that’s where we’d be. Watching college football. Getting fat off our wives’ cooking. Playing board games until our eyes got heavy and our bodies gave out. As wonderful and exciting as Christmas can be, if you ask my son in December what he’s excited for the most, he’ll say without any hesitation: “I can’t wait to go to Uncle Ed’s house!”

In 2023, at his new house in Lancaster, I sat on the front porch with Ed, rocking in the rocking chair sipping hot coffee in the cold winter air.

“So, I got a weird phone call about a month back,” Ed offered, staring into the distance of the neighborhood in front of us.

“What’s that?” I sipped my coffee.

“You remember the children’s home in Greenwood?” he said.

“Yeah, the one that does all the Christmas lights and the petting zoo and everything?”

“That’s the one.”

“What did they want?”

“Well, one of the college kids that I led there graduated college and took a job at the children’s home. He’s mentoring there and leading community events.”

“That’s awesome. Gotta make you proud as a pastor.”

He took a breath and smiled, “You have no idea. Well, as it turns out, the Senior Pastor at the church there is stepping down, and they have a committee put together, and they’re looking to bring somebody in. They brought up my name.”

“Are you serious?”

“It isn’t a typical church. It services the community around the area, of course, but it is also directly responsible for mentoring to all the kids in the children’s home. I would have to service them, the community, the children’s home itself. I would even be there for counseling and, if the need arises, counsel the kids’ parents, too. A lot of them are incarcerated, in trouble with the law or with addiction. It’s a big need.”

I laughed; Ed knew what I was laughing about, and he started chuckling himself. I managed through the laughter: “So they need a man, a man with experience working with children and youth, a man who wants to be a senior pastor, a man who is not afraid of a challenge, to come in and change these kids’ lives?”

Ed smiled, “Yeah, that’s the gist.”

“You realize this was the job you were born for, right?”

“That has occurred to me. It’s why I said yes.”

“But it's Greenwood.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I remember you saying you would never, ever, EVER…”

“I know what I said.”

“And?”

“You try telling God what you will never, ever, EVER do, and watch Him laugh at you.”

“So?”

“I guess it’s back to Greenwood.”

And here we are. Today. New day, new year. I’ve finished packing the truck, Anna’s in the house now checking every nook and cranny for anything we may have left behind. My twins are saying their goodbyes, hugging their friends and the dogs, talking Uncle Ed’s ear off about how much they’re going to miss him (and the dogs, mostly). Anna steps out onto the porch, yelling at Logan for the shoes he straight-up left in the kids’ room. She hugs everyone goodbye and shuffles the twins into the truck. I stand there, staring at Ed.

“You happy you came back?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m doing what I need to be doing here. Wish you guys were here with us, though.”

“I get that. We miss you more than you’ll ever know.”

“So… same time next year?”

“Absolutely. And you’re locked in, coming to us in the summer?”

“You couldn’t stop me if you tried.” And then he hugs me. And I return it, in kind. And with a squeeze of my shoulder, I pat him on the back and hop into the truck. My boys wave their goodbyes as we pull out of their driveway. Anna and I share a long look, followed by a soft sigh. It’s difficult leaving your family behind.

None of us ever anticipated coming to this place. We never thought we’d stay here. And we certainly didn’t think this place would change us the way it did. But I do know this: next December, this year, last year, and every year moving forward: we’ll pack the truck yet again, and we’ll be on our way.

Back to Greenwood.