After doing so, I continued my research.

To my surprise, one evening I opened my inbox to find a message from Read Freely saying that I had been randomly selected, along with two others, as a giveaway winner.

I was floored. I saw it as good luck from the book gods. I quickly sent my address, and a few days later, I received a box outside of my apartment door.

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Opening my bulky cardboard prize was like opening a square pinata without its colorful fringed skin of crepe paper. However, lifting the lid did not disappoint; the inside still held Read Freely’s anticipated festiveness.

The box was filled with books, bookmarks, stickers, red and blue confetti with festival cut outs made from construction paper, sugar cookies shaped like books, and a tot bag - all items bunched together on top of cushions of crinkled paper. In awe, I continued examining the chest of goodies, digging past the shredded paper, fully expecting more from the lively presentation. Though I didn’t find anything else, the spirit of Read Freely had certainly found me.

I skimmed through the books I received like Symphony of Secrets by Brendan Slocumb and Justice Be Done by Carla Damron, but there was a third book that kept drawing my attention. It featured a young girl standing outside, her background made from a collage of flowers and what looked like handwritten letters. Her facial features and melanated skin were composed of old family photographs, and she wore clothes made of African patchwork quilt designs and playing cards.

The title was also interesting. Redwood Court was the same name as the street next to where I grew up. Seeing that it was a work of fiction, I dismissed any connection to my neighborhood and assumed it was merely a coincidence. Turning to the back cover, my eyes met a number of reviews before landing on the author, DeLana R. A. Dameron. Her photo showed her standing outside in vibrant colors, much like the girl on the book’s cover. Her puffy black hair bloomed beneath a tan wide-brim hat. Without even reading her bio, her piercing eyes and welcoming smile told me she took pride in where she was from.

My interest peaked when I read that she grew up in Columbia. Columbia? Redwood Court? It must be a coincidence...right? How crazy would it be if her book was connected to my neighborhood? Still holding onto that thought, I set the books aside and continued preparing for my book launch, eager for the approaching festival.

The Read Freely festival was everything I hoped for and more. As it came to a close, I walked out of the library feeling inspired and motivated, carrying both a few books and renewed sense of what it means to be a writer.

As I crossed the street to my car, I saw DeLana heading towards the library. Earlier that day, I had managed to get the other books signed but had missed the chance with Redwood Court. Now, with her now in my sights, I dashed back across the street, waving to get her attention, hearing honks from the disapproved drivers while doing so.

Her greeting was just as warm as the photo on her book cover. Catching my breath, we chatted briefly. I told her about the book I was preparing to release and my experience navigating this unfamiliar space, and I thanked her as she signed my copy.

Remembering the title, I asked if Redwood Court was named after a street in the Newcastle community. When she confirmed it, my excitement grew. I told her I lived one street over. I started throwing out names of neighbors and house numbers - partly to see if she knew them, but mostly to prove my connection.

After our brief encounter, I made my way back across the street - this time without the horns - and sat in my car, looking at my signed book.

“To Russell - Hey Neighbor! Lovely to meet you! - DeLana.”

Little did I know that would be my first and last time seeing her, I left inspired that someone with ties to my neighborhood had become an accomplished writer - not just someone from my town, but from the neighboring cul-da-sac. Someone who knew my environment. Someone who knew my home. It made me believe my writing could take me places, too, if I worked hard enough.

We kept in touch through social media every so often, commenting on book updates. I also saw a few posts of her riding horses, shooting guns, and lassoing calves in competition. It was my first time learning what an equestrian was. Who the hell is this woman? The thought that someone this talented and interesting had grown up just one street over from me was unbelievable - a black cowgirl who wrote books, from Newcastle.

At this point, I still hadn’t read Redwood Court, but I cherished it as a symbol - a bar set by a hometown hero.

When I found out about her passing, I was shocked. Not only was DeLana one of the first people I connected with in my introduction to the book community, but we also shared roots in Newcastle - the place where my identity was shaped.

Though we briefly knew each other, in some weird way it felt like losing family - a cool older cousin I had just met but hadn’t had enough time to learn from. And now she was gone.

When I finally began reading Redwood Court, the lens through which I read had changed. The words felt delicate. I had read books by authors I’ve met before, but reading her story about the community I grew up in made me cling to each line like a climber scaling a mountain. I took my time.

She referenced places I knew well - the Shamrock Corner Store, the Sparkle Car Wash, the Red Wing Rollerway. Even mentions of Crafts-Farrow State Hospital, where my grandfather and great-grandmother worked, and Red Door perfume, which my mother once wore, made it feel as though she was telling my family’s story. Seeing every detail her words led me pass, like a passenger staring out of a window.

When she mentioned families connected to the “Boltons” in Ridgway, SC - and I knew my own family traced back to the “Beltons” - I couldn’t help but wonder if we might have been distant relatives. I’ve heard stories of how it could be common that family names could have been misspelled when keeping records of people long ago.

What I took away from Redwood Court was DeLana’s message about community and legacy - the importance of knowing where you come from. I thought back to the first time I saw her photo. She didn’t just look proud of where she was from - she looked like she knew who she was.

I connected with her story not just because of the familiar places, but because it felt like my own: days at my grandparent’s house, family gatherings, the slap of playing cards on tables, the importance of song and music, talks of neighborhood street gangs, navigating racism, the strength of Black women in my community, and neighbors who showed up for one another.

I remember my family calling our Weldwood Court cul-de-sac “The Circle”. I didn’t think much of it then, but our “circle” was truly that - a tight-knit community that shaped me. All those moments were a part of me. And I realized - they were a part of her, too.

The Redwood Court book cover finally made sense.

Though I can no longer thank DeLana in person, I’m greatful for her contributions - to literature and to our community. I’m honored to be from Newcastle and to know that through her story, she was also telling mine.

Though I read her words, I heard my voice.

I am inspired to continue telling our stories - preserving our history, honoring our people, and passing down our legacy to future generations through art. Thank you, DeLana.

Who would have thought several months earlier, while digging through crinkled paper and festival confetti, I would discover a hometown hero?

Thank you Read Freely for introducing me to my neighbor - DeLana R.A. Dameron.

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Some were in good condition; others appeared to have been dragged down the entire costal line of South Carolina from Horry to Beaufort county. Sand and particles of dirt wedged along its side casing and around, and in, the charger port and speakers. Screen protectors were so brittle that they begin to crack and shatter at the slightest tug of their edges, leaving sharp debris and fragments below our feet. Our blue latex-gloved hands hopped from box to box, discarding protective cases and organizing phones that were and weren’t charged, and whether they did or didn’t need to be wiped.

Between shuffling through the sea of midnight blue iPhones and daydreaming, I thought about the Buddhist monks - and Aloka, their loyal dog - who were making their way through the Batesburg-Leesville area that night on their Walk for Peace mission. A mission consisting of a 120-day, 2,300-mile walk from Forth Worth, Texas to Washington, DC, to “raise awareness of peace, loving kindness, and compassion across America and the world.” On day 75, they would be visiting Nazareth Methodist Church, only 19 miles away from were my wife and I stayed.

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Earlier that week, we spoke about heading out to see the monks on Thursday, being that due to distance, traffic, and weather forecast in the days to follow, we thought best to see them sooner rather than later. After a tiring day, going to visit the monks might have been the peace I needed to end a long day.

My wife and I — along with our loyal dog, Arlo — began our route towards the church and buddhist monks. Night had already fallen as we made our way, hoping to get a good parking spot and anticipating lines of traffic. As expected, the string of red tail lights began compiling as we neared the monks’ location. We both agreed parking for us now looked like finding a spot on the side of the road. Not long after, we noticed others had the same idea, as cars positioned themselves off to the side and tilted where a road trench lay. We unloaded from the car and walked towards our destination until we fell in line with the number of other pedestrians heading uphill.

Cop lights gradually illuminated our faces as we approached a congested intersection. The scene had me questioning if we were here to see monks or rock stars! Several patrolmen were directing traffic, trying to create a balanced flow of between automobiles and pedestrians. I could see the buildup of crowd as we crossed the street and onto the church grounds, as the spectators masked the front of the church. We could hear what may have been a Buddhist mantras coming from a small PA system. I leaned and swayed my head to look around and over the hill of heads, trying to get a good look at the monks. A few others had the idea of lifting their phones high in hopes of capturing the visitors. I followed suit.

Glancing at my screen, I could make out the monk who stood speaking, accompanied by eight or nine monks seated on either side of him, all uniformed in mustered brown and autumn-colored shawls. With their heads bowed in prayer, the humming of the crowd at times overpowered the low rumble from the speakers of the soft-spoken monk. I began to hear clearly enough to make out each affirmation ending with “Be happy, well, and peaceful.” This went on for several moments as the peaceful ambiance was pierced with sounds of kids crying, an abrupt police siren going off, and pulsing chatter from small groups throughout.

The distractions put a damper on the buildup I made of the rock stars a few moments prior. The feeling of being underwhelmed broke my brief trance of our guests as I took a moment to look at the other spectators surrounding me. A mixed crowd of different ages looked on-some dressed in short sleeves and sweatpants, while others were covered in camouflaged hunter jackets and hats. One could easily see the audience’s Southern identity and swagger represented for South Carolina. The weather was cool enough that wearing a coat wouldn’t hurt but could become uncomfortable with enough movement. It wasn’t long before I reached the latter, needing to remove my jacket. Families had brought their children to watch and listen, as some sat on shoulders while others played in the open field behind the crowd. A playground sat at the edge of the mass of people on the other end, as kids and adults stood at the top of the play tower securing a better view. A few held signs and posters that read, Give up vices. Adopt virtues. Become a flag-bearer of humanity and Live, work, die for humanity. We all are equal. My attention was redirected to the ache in my arm from still having my phone stretched high above me. I imagined we looked like human antennas trying to better receive the message.

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The idea made me second-guess my intentions for being there. Was it really for “receiving the message,” or because I wanted to say I was there—wanting to be one of the many faces in the crowd because of the attention the monks had garnered? Just because everyone else was doing it. Growing up here, South Carolina hasn’t been a hotspot for major events compared to our neighboring states. So when there is an opportunity to be part of history—to be a part of something greater than you— naturally there’s a need to flock to it. At least, that has been the mentality for me. I just didn’t want this to be another case of not wanting to feel left out.

The sudden claps from the audience brought me back to the present as the monk now began to speak to the crowd. I put my phone down to better my focus on his words. He spoke about mindfulness and reflecting at the end of each day, determining if you’ve said or done anything that could have been hurtful—being forgiving to others as well as yourself. He spoke calmly and surely, despite having the soles of his feet standing directly on parking lot gravel. He even managed a few laughs from the crowd.

“There are many laundry mats that support us, otherwise probably you all would have to sit very far away.” Referring to the shawls they wore since the beginning of their walk.

I’ve never met any monks in person outside of seeing them in movies or videos online. Over the past few years, I’ve referred to their mindful practices at times—meditating, listening to wise words and teachable parables to learn and grow. I even delved into several books, like The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh and Think Like a Monk by Jay Shetty. But I never thought of what my expectations would be when encountering one. A glowing aura, maybe? But nothing. They were human, like me. In fact, some of the seated monks appeared slouched in their chairs, asleep—mistaking their nodding for meditation. Tired from the walk, maybe? Obviously, I don’t know for a fact, but what I do know is—it was nice to see. Maybe deep down, it helped me see not to be so hard on myself. Realizing this, in itself, is a lesson. Cicadas and crickets chirped as the monk continued with thoughtful words.

“We hope that everyone can walk with us by practicing mindfulness every day.”

“Peace world begins within ourselves first, then spread it out within our small world, which is our family. If our smaller world can’t have peace, don’t expect the world peace.”

He spoke about their peace statement: “Give the hands and the mind a job to do together. ‘Today is going to be my peaceful day’, write that down. Now you give the eyes a job to do. Whenever we pay attention to the writing to our hand, that is when the mind stick to the hand. Now we speak it out with our mouths. ‘Today is going to be my peaceful day’. Tell the universe that.”

He even spoke about the harm in oversleeping—essentially wasting the day away despite our limited time here on earth. I thought about the numerous times I’ve given myself the “five more minutes” agreement that’s evolved into three timers with 15-minute increments.

His solution: “Give yourself five seconds to live. Each breath that we breathe out that we don’t breathe in, we die. Get up.” Wise, yet harsh realities.

We could all sense his speech ending as lights from the patrol cars bounced off anything they touched—flickering off the backs of heads and shoulders, glowing up trees, and the nearby play tower.

“At nighttime before you go to bed, please remember before you go to bed, let go of your lover for one hour before bed. Your lover is your phone.”

This made me look at the blue-lit screens displaying a smaller version of the monk that radiated in the air. I thought back to those iPhones piled in storage boxes I had tirelessly worked on earlier that day—how sifting through those worn devices reminded me how much we rely on and are attached to them. How much of our attention and time are spent away from meaningful connection from our loved ones, and even ourselves. Stealing the time for us to wind down and relax, keeping our minds busy and unsettled. All those phones that lay dormant in storage, drained and used up like the individuals who once carried them at the end of a long day—and maybe at times, feeling powerless.

My wife and I left while they handed out peace bracelets as reminders of the peace walkers and the speech that was given about kindness, love, and compassion. I had more than enough to take back home with me—words and perspectives I could build upon and put into practice. My feeling of “following the crowd” had subsided as I became mindful of my intention in attending the event. As we walked back down the road, I thought about the walk the monks would continue the next morning and how grateful I was to hear them speak. How they are human, just like me. Being mindful when resting, when it’s time to. Remembering that peace starts with the self first before it can be shared. And especially being mindful when sorting through more iPhones tomorrow.

Thank you for coming to our state, promoting peace and safe travels on your journey, peace walkers—and you too, Aloka! May today be a peaceful day.

Sincerely,

A Writer From South Carolina,

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