Under a sparkling blue South Carolina sky, a bright yellow Mustang–11 years old but in a state of perfect preservation startling to anyone who’s battled the salt and grime of Chicago–was rocketing through the red-clay, pine-lined countryside near the North Carolina line. Inside were my 20-month-old daughter, Louisa, singing quietly to herself in her rented car seat; my mother, named Eleanor but known as Dolly; me; and the owner of the car, my mother’s cousin–also named Eleanor, but known as Winkie.
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No other cars were in sight when we pulled up to the guardhouse at the entrance. The uniformed security man seemed happy to see us: he gave us a big smile with a copy of the Heritage USA Herald, an upbeat paper containing schedules of activities and events and the latest on fund-raising efforts. “This your first visit?” he asked. “Just head on down to the Welcome Center–can’t miss it, it’s just ahead of you on your left–and they’ll tell you what’s what.”
I was surprised to learn from Winkie that there are several housing developments here, sort of like living in a fundamentalist Disney World. We drove past the mini-communities of Dogwood Hills, Wood Ridge, and The Meadows, past the unfinished Heritage Grand Towers hotel, a crane motionless on its roof, to find close-in parking for Main Street Heritage USA. We followed Winkie past cars adorned with Pat Robertson for President bumper stickers and Jesus Loves You! license plate frames to an indoor shopping mall with 1890s facades and up-to-date prices.
Asked about the future of Heritage USA, she sighed. “We’re waiting for someone strong to lead the ministry. It has to be done in God’s time, not ours.”
Outside, I offered to buy McMoose Burgers for the group. “I’ve got plenty of good food at home,” snorted Winkie. “I’m not going to put any money into their pockets.” “Bryan was being facetious,” said my mother.
