Weatherman saved my hometown

The electronic line sweeps across the state, illuminating storms that pose a threat and little towns that live quietly in the shadows.

I grew up in one of those towns, small and remote, 90 miles west of Charleston, 60 from Augusta, 70 from Columbia or Savannah. Middle of nowhere. Allendale.

Heard of it? Probably not.

Unless, of course, you're old enough to remember the good old days when tourists spilled through town like salmon, spawning from New York to Miami.

That was in the '50s and '60s, before I-95 opened and the bomb plant all but closed. Now it's like a lot of other little towns, struggling to find a reason to exist, a way to reinvent.

Every small town celebrates the chitlin' or okra or some other Southern festival facsimile. But they don't replace good jobs and the families that used to live next door, go to church and pay taxes.

Blessed with land and cursed by geography, our state is littered with towns too far from the interstates, off the beaten path, forgotten.

Until Doppler came along.

Storm tracker

If there's one thing local television does better than anybody, it's weather. They will weather you to death in a 30-minute news program.

Start with the weather, tease to the forecast, check the current temps, look at the national picture, back to the overnight, close with the five-day outlook.

Kids, here's a tip: If you want to go into television news, strap a portable Doppler to your head and buy a nice suit.

This meteorological technology came into our lives 10 years ago and immediately revolutionized our sense of dread. It allowed us to look out over the treetops and see what's coming, when it will get here and how bad it will be.

So we watch constantly, east and west, in every direction, for a hundred miles, making sure the coast is clear, the waters calm and the temperature within reason.

Simultaneously, however, we lost that innocent sense of surprise that comes when thunderclouds suddenly appear on the horizon, stirring a summer breeze into a bad afternoon brew.

I miss that, most of all.

Costco run

On the bright side, when the weathermen step away from the map, we're allowed to see names of places we seldom go, or think about.

Out there in the South Carolina countryside, just an arm's length from Rob Fowler, Bill Walsh and Tom Crawford, lie the likes of Allendale, Bamberg, Hampton, Round O, Holly Hill, Andrews, Manning and Kingstree. Places you visit if you have relatives there.

You may not know them, but they know you. People in small towns watch our television stations, listen to our radio stations and read our paper. They think nothing of driving 80 miles for a movie, a good restaurant or a Costco run. It's a way of life out there on the edge of the radar screen.

But it's not as dark as it used to be.

Living in the dim glow of agriculture, poverty and neglect, this world is illuminated when the invisible hand of Doppler sweeps over, a thousand times a day, proving to the outside world that they still exist.

It says so, right there on the six o'clock news.