TRULY EXCELLENT WRITING MEMOIRS FROM VIRGINIA GUNN DIEHL

Two Insults Away From Fame

I was living in Texas when my first husband tried to kill me. He tried to suffocate me with a pillow. It almost worked. The next day when he was at work, I gathered my dog and split. I went back to Atlanta, as that is where most of my family lives.

I really only had experience in two areas. I had worked in P.R. for a television station in Atlanta. I had worked as a receptionist for a radio station in Atlanta, and I had been a disc jockey in Del Rio, Texas. I had also been an airline stewardess (that’s what they called them back then) for Braniff Airlines.

I applied for a job at WAGA-TV5, the CBS station in Atlanta. I was hired as the part time, weekend receptionist. Believe it or not, there was once a time in television when you could actually speak to a person when you called the station, no matter what time it was. There was a person there to answer the phone the entire time the station was on the air. It was a pretty hard job, as the phone was always ringing. It never stopped. Sometimes it was quite scary at night. The crazy people called at night. They would want you to tell them what was on TV that night. One guy use to call me and ask if there were any scary movies on that night. I would have to look it up and tell him. He would tell me how much he loved blood, and especially killing women. I'd hang up on him, but he'd just call back later. Then there was the guy that wanted to suck my toes, and the list of whacky people with too much time on their hands, would go on and on. Former president, Jimmy Carter dropped in one night for an interview with someone that was kind of exciting.

One night the Program Director dropped in. He asked me what my background was. I told him I had been a disc jockey. He asked me if I would be interested in being a booth announcer. I had no idea what that was, but I said "Sure." That was the end of that and I went back to answering the phones. After a while, I was promoted to full time, daytime receptionist. The phone rang all the time, plus you had to actually dress for the part. The station manager would call, and if the phone rang more than five times, I'd get in trouble. There was a home for crazy people down the street, and for some reason they would come to our station when they escaped. I guess because it looked like Tara in Gone With the Wind. I had a panic button under the desk, I'd ring it, and the police would come and take them back home.

One time they had a big party for the stock holders. I had to dress up like Scarlett O'Hara, and walk up and down the circular staircase, welcoming them. Another time a bunch of streakers showed up with a cake for the station's anniversary. I welcomed them in, just like everyone else, and almost got fired for doing that. They had a great time running around the station naked for a while, until they came and chased them away.

There came a time in the 70's when all departments had to hire one black person, and one female. Once again I was asked if I would be interested in becoming a booth announcer. And once again I said, "Sure." I still had no idea what it was, but I was hoping it would mean more money. I found out that a booth announcer was someone that sat in a tiny room, the size of a closet, off the set where the news was delivered. Everyone could see you. Four sided, glass room, with a microphone. My job was to log exactly what time each program and each commercial aired. On the half hour, I would open the mike, and say, "This is WAGA-TV5, Atlanta." There would be commercials that aired that had to be tagged. I would open the mike and say something like, "Available at Rich's,” or wherever it was available. It was usually about 15 to 20 seconds worth of copy, and it had to be timed perfectly, or you would run into the next commercial. There was a big clock in front of me.

The black guy that was hired along with me fainted the first time he had to do it. It was a terrifying job. Lots of pressure, but it was fun to be doing something other than answering the phone, and I was the first, female booth announcer, so it was also an honor. Sometimes I had the morning shift, which meant I had to be there at the crack of dawn, when they opened the station. Early in the morning, I had to do the Farm Report, which I called the Pig Report. It was really long, full of information that farmers needed. One morning when I was giving the Pig Report, I came across a sentence that was talking about botulism organisms. I got confused and said, "Botulism orgasm." I was hoping no one was listening, but they were. Several phone calls came in about that screw up, pardon the pun.

There also use to be a time when if you called information, you'd actually get a person, and believe it or not, they were actually in Atlanta. Sometimes when I would call information for a phone number, the operator would say, "Is this Virginia Gunn?" That would totally freak me out, and I would say, "How do you know it's me?" and they would say they recognized my voice from my booth announcing job. Those were the good ole days, when you could talk to a real person on the phone instead of screaming at some computer voice the way it is now.

One day I was at my aunt Ann and Pegram's house, swimming in their pool. When I climbed out of the pool, my aunt, who is the closest thing to Martha Stewart I have ever known, except prettier, says to me, "You know, if you would just lose about ten pounds, you'd be quite pretty." I would have been insulted, except I knew she was right, that I did need to lose some weight, so I just made a mental note of it and went on my way. The next week, the station manager stopped me in the hall and said almost verbatim, what Ann had said. "You know, if you would lose about ten pounds, you wouldn't be half bad to look at." This time I was crushed, as this was no family member. Then he says, "Say Atlanta."

I said, "Atlantah." He says, "No, it has no h in it. I tried again. I still couldn't say it the way he wanted me to. So he says, "Say Chicago." I said, "Chicago." To which he replies, "Good, we'll get you a job in Chicago." That was the end of that, and I went back to my booth announcing.

One time I got real brave, and asked if I could audition for an on- camera job. I tried, but I failed miserably. I was just too scared. My voice wouldn't hold up, I couldn't follow the tele-prompter, and I decided that I was probably where I was supposed to be, in my little booth.

It was decided by the powers that be that I should become the weather girl, that's what they called them back then. I was sent off to diction lessons, and a diet doctor. The diet doctor put me on a 700 calorie a day diet. I had to write down everything I ate. He gave me some nasty protein drink and speed. The weight fell off, and I spoke even faster than ever before. The diction teacher taught me how to say, "Atlanta" properly and how to put ”ing” on the end of my words. She also taught me that you say, "Saturday, Sunday, and Monday", but all the other days in the week are pronounced, "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday."

I had to buy a children's puzzle of the United States, so that I could learn my states, and where they were. They built a platform for me to stand on, because I couldn't reach Maine. During those days, weather was pretty simple. All of the weather people got their information off of a teletype machine. I had a white magic marker that I would use to draw in the cold fronts, warm fronts, etc. I practiced and practiced, but the thought of it all still scared me to death. The head weather dude, Guy Sharpe, told me to just be myself and everything would be alright. I thought there was probably more to it than that, but I plugged ahead practicing to be the weekend weather girl. Finally, the day arrived. My uncle sent me a telegram that said something like, Good Luck. Just remember, the worst thing that can happen is that you will embarrass the entire family, and we'll all have to leave town."

The station could see that I was truly terrified, so the doctor put me on valium. I took it for several weeks, but it didn't seem to help much. One night I was watching the play back of my performance, and noticed my eyes were almost totally shut. I stopped the valium, and lo and behold, my eyes opened up.

Then one time, I fell off the platform they had built for me. One minute I was there, the next minute I was gone. There was one night my contact lens fell out of my eye. I kinda forgot I was on television, and told the audience to hold on, we had to find my contact, and there I was crawling around on the floor looking for the damn thing instead of doing the weather.

A few weeks after I started this new job I was in Burger King. A woman came up to me and said, "Congratulations on your new job." I said, "How do you know about that." to which she replies, "I've been watching you." I almost dropped dead on the spot. It was the first time it had even occurred to me that anyone had been watching besides the people in the studio. I became even more nervous on the air. I do not know why they didn't fire me, except I think the audience was totally amused at just how clueless I was.

Many months later something scary and profound happened. Both of the main weather guys were taken down. One had a horrible car accident, and almost died. The other one had a heart attack. This meant I had to do all three weather forecasts every day, seven days a week. Noon, six and eleven. This went on for a long time, maybe it was weeks, maybe it was more than a month, I can't remember. For three or four days I had a temperature of 102 degrees from the flu, but I had to carry on, as there was no one else that could do it. Only then did I learn my craft well. Only then did I start getting comfortable with the camera, and finally I started loving my job. I became quite famous, because every time you turned on the TV, there I was.

So, I guess some times a couple of good intended insults can lead to the best job.

And that's how Virginia Gunn became, "Are you the Virginia Gunn?" for just about the rest of my life.

TRULY EXCELLENT WRITING MEMOIRS FROM VIRGINIA GUNN DIEHL

The Press, The Pharmacy, and the Plumber

Have you ever tried to plan a trip, and you swear that this time it will be different? You will make all kinds of lists of things that must be done. You start a week ahead of time, planning each day, so that this time it will go more smoothly. I was on top of it this time. I knew what had to be done, on which day. I would not become stressed.

Nancy Grace's first novel is out. It's number six on the New York Times list. There are two main characters in her book, and I'm the second one. She uses my real name, and one of my best old dogs is in it. His name was Sidney Sea Biscuit. Charleston, my twenty year old parrot is in it, too. She couldn't remember his real name, and she calls him some girl name, but I know it's him.

The first time I went out of town after Bill died, Montana, my white German Shepherd died in his sleep, and I spent many days on the phone with the dog mortician.

The second trip I took, Apache, his sister had a stroke.

This time, two of the wiener dogs backs went out. They are eleven years old, so this is no surprise. It happens every now and then. They may know that they aren't going, so it may be in their minds, but I knew I needed to get meds for them. I called the vet and she said she would call the pharmacy and I could pick it up later.

In the meantime, every faucet in the house became haunted. I couldn't turn them off. The kitchen and the bathroom. The hot water faucet in the shower came off in my hand. Labor Day was coming up and I knew I needed a plumber now. If I didn't hurry, it would cost twice as much because of the holiday.

I forgot about my many lists, and got to work on other stuff. Stuff happens.

The press down on the island got in touch with me for an interview. At least itwas via computer, so I could have a cup of coffee and actually think a little before I answered her questions. There was lots of going back and forth on questions and answers.

This particular paper is not fond of me. They were on the other side of the "beach battle" that we fought and won. Movers and shakers and politicians wanted to pump our beaches with dredge material. We fought the good fight for years and finally stopped the project, but only after I had to run for islands commissioner, and won. So, I'm pretty much on the skids with the press. It will be interesting to see how the article compares to what I actually said to her. At least I have a written copy of what I said, not that it will make any difference.

Nancy Grace couldn't go to the island to sign her books. She's too busy with her show and her twins, so I told Beachview Books that I would come down, and sign for her since half of the book is set on St. Simons Island.

The interview took the good part of one day and into the next, then it was the running water and the meds that needed to be picked up. Not on my list, damnit.

I had no idea the plumber was going to be here two days. The first day, he fixed everything for six hundred dollars. Gasp.

He was a charming guy. So unlike other plumbers I had dealt with. He actually knew what he was doing. How did that happen? As I was writing the check, I noticed his fly was down. I told him and he got so embarrassed. He said these particular pants just couldn't hold his fly up. Then he says he has to check the pressure. He comes back in and says the water pressure is 150 and it should only be fifty, and that he can't guarantee the work if the pressure isn't right. I told him to talk to the landlady about this, as it was going to cost another four hundred fifty dollars. His company talked to her and arranged for him to come back the next day. He was under the house for hours. No one in their right mind would go under the house. It's a tiny crawl space. Nasty place. But with a big smile he goes in and starts taking away my water pressure.

I don't know if you remember from a previous chapter that my first landlord was foreclosed on last December. The hot water heater died forever and I had no hot water for a month.

I moved back to the island into a house I couldn't afford with lots of dogs, cats and a parrot. I talked to the woman that bought this house after I left and she invited me to come back. Even though it was costing thousands of dollars to do this, I knew I couldn't live in a subdivision. I needed my five acres back, so I agreed and headed back to Woodstock. The last thing I said to the new owner was, "Please don't mess with the water pressure. It's the best shower anywhere around."

After a few hours, he comes back in. He's really dirty, so he takes his shirt off. No big deal. He has an under shirt on underneath. I told him that was fine. So, I thank him, and he says, " How about a hug?" A hug?! Is it appropriate to hug the plumber? I don't think so, although for a second I considered it. Someone told me once that we would die if we didn't get six hugs a day. If I knew six people to hug, it would take me all day to track them down to get six hugs. So, I ignored his request for a hug. A little later we were talking about something else, and I mentioned that any minute now I was going to be turning sixty. It was really hard to say that. It stuck in my throat. I had my back to him. I turned around just as I said it, and I thought the poor guy was going to throw up. It turns out he was born either in 1983 or 1985. I can't remember which year, as I was still in shock myself realizing I was going to turn SIXTY very soon. In 1983, I was busy marrying Bill when this kid was born. If it was 1985, I was in Africa shooting a television show on the Silverback Gorillas. At any rate, it was pretty damn depressing to think that this sweet, articulate guy was being born at the time I was fast approaching middle age.

He even gave me a present. He found a four foot long snake skin under the house. We decided to leave it in front of the door to scare anyone that dared to come visit. It was fun to have company for two days, but I knew that there would be no happy ending. The landlady had just paid this guy a thousand dollars to take away the only thing that I loved more than anything. Water pressure.

After he left, I couldn't wait to take a shower. I knew that the faucet was not going to come off in my hand ever again, and nothing was going to drip or flow when it shouldn't.

I got in my new shower, and sure enough, it was like taking a shower in a third world country. No pressure. The one thing that had convinced me to come back to this house. It seemed kind of strange to pay someone a thousand dollars to take away something you loved. I didn't have much time to cry about lost pressure. I had to get the dogs their meds.

It took the pharmacy three days to get the stuff. I don't know. Maybe they mixed it up in Mexico and sent it via donkey. I had to use a pen attached to a machine to sign my name. I knew that this was one of the quickest ways to get sick. Use the same pen that everyone else was using, when picking up their medications. I suggested to her that they put out some hand sanitizer so that people wouldn't pass germs on to others. She looked at me like, "Listen bitch, I'm young and kinda pretty, and I don't have time to mess with your meddling." She pointed out that they had wipes for people to use if they wanted to, half way around the corner. If I didn't have so many lists to get back to I would have told her that most people don't know that you can die from using other people's pens, and that she should put out some hand sanitizer with a sign to protect them from dangerous pens. Plus, I'm almost SIXTY so how could I know better than her? The twenty something, kinda pretty girl, busy mixing up doggie drugs.

So, here I am, writing a chapter. I haven't even looked at the list. I'll be running my ass of at the last minute, just like always. I'll forget to do a million things.

The plumber has gone to Disney World.

I probably picked up Swine Flu at the pharmacy, and the doggie meds cost a hundred dollars.

Lists are a complete waste of time. The Travel Gods are laughing at me again.

I just bet ya, it rains all week.

TRULY EXCELLENT WRITING MEMOIRS FROM VIRGINIA GUNN DIEHL

I'll Let You Go Now, It's Time To Set You Free

I returned to St. Simons with three intentions.

The first was to attend a book-signing party for Nancy Grace’s new novel. She made me a character in her book....... an ex-commissioner/activist who must stop the bad boys from building 24 story condos on the beach.

A party was planned at my friend Nancy Thomason’s used bookstore n the village, a place where locals have gathered knowing it would never change. A small slice of the way the island was twenty five to thirty years ago. Wonderful books on every subject you can imagine. A comforting kind of place to spend some time. Some island time.

Nancy G.. sent signed bookplates and we decided that since she couldn't come down I would, and we'd see how many books we could sell with me doing the signing. The ad in the local paper describes Nancy Grace's book, The Eleventh Vicim as : “A psychological thriller revealing much about corruption in Georgia.... from the Georgia Supreme Court all the way down to an easily bought off Glynn County Commission. “

Nancy Grace's book is fiction, but half of it is set on St. Simons Island. So Nancy T. and I thought it would be fun to bring me back to town to sign books for the locals. Kind of a strange concept, but we thought it would be fun to do.

Bill used to do book signings at my friend’s store...... the “best” parties they ever had.

Bill and I lived on the island for eighteen years, I was the islands commissioner, and I was an activist. I was Turtle Lady. I was in charge of protecting the Loggerhead turtles as best I could. Bill bought one of the first Toyota Four Runners for me to patrol the beaches. It was called the Turtle Mobile, and I was one of the few people allowed to drive the beaches. There was a sign on the side of my car that read: Glynn County Turtle Recovery Unit number 1. Of course it was the only one at the time, but when I designed it, I thought that would make it sound like it was one of many. My job was to count the nests. Keep track of dead Loggerheads, facilitate the removal of the bodies, count and log the number of nests that were laid, and later go back and count the empty egg shells so that the Department of Natural Resources would know how many baby turtles were hatched on St. Simons and Sea Island. Jekyll Island across the way is a state park, and they had their own people doing this work. Sometimes I would help out over on that island, as I had a trailer on the back of the Turtle Mobile for removing dead turtles.

I loved being Turtle Lady.

My second reason for returning to the island was to get the right whale plaque back, along with the bricks that people had bought when we were raising private funds to build the Whales in the Park Sculpture. When the "powers that be" upgraded the swimming pool and the playground in Neptune Park, they removed the bricks and the plaque that explained important facts about the right whale. The fact that it is the most endangered whale in the world, and it calves off of our island. This year was a record birthing year. Thirty five or six were born this year. The numbers are rising, but there is still a long way to go, if these animals are to be saved. Without the plaque explaining it, the sculpture looks like two whales in the playground, a mother and her calf, perfect for climbing on and sunning oneself, but no history connected to it.

The plaque cost about two grand, and was a gift to St. Simons from the right whale recovery people up north where the whales return every year after coming south to have their babies.

Why would they take away the plaque and destroy the bricks? In my opinion, they are afraid that saving the right whales will in some way effect the port, slow down the ships, thus costing money. And isn't everything always about money? But that's just what I think about the matter. My job while I'm down here is to try to get the plaque back, and the bricks that the people of St. Simons bought.

My third and most important and private mission was to scatter Bill's ashes in front of our old house, Thunder Point.

We spent almost our entire twenty three years of married life at this house on the beach. It's been almost three years since he died. His remains were placed in a film canister with a print out of all the best selling books he wrote on the front of the canister. His friends thought that would be a better place to put Bill than a vase or urn. Bill loved movies. Two of his books were made into movies: Sharky's Machine with Burt Reynolds, and Primal Fear with Richard Gere. I'm willing to bet you five bucks that he is the only person to have their remains placed in an old film canister.

When he died we placed the ashes of two of his favorite dogs in the canister with him. Annie and Noodles. A short hair dachshund and a long hair dachshund. For the last few years Bill’s been with me in the living room, on top of a large piece of furniture, overlooking the t.v. He loved t.v. too, so that seemed like a good place for him, but now the Monarch butterflies are starting to come through the island on their migration. October was our favorite month on the island. Not too hot, not too cold. The butterflies would arrive. It was magical, so I had decided that this was the time to set him free with his puppies.

I staked out the house first. The woman that owns it has several houses. One on Sea Island, one at lake Lanier, and one in Atlanta.

I went over to the house and saw a car out front, so I decided to go to the Dairy Queen for lunch. That was Bill's favorite restaurant. The famous author loved nothing better than a hot dog at the Dairy Queen. Oliver and Isabella went with me to the island, two miniature, long hair dachshunds. I split my fries with them, and then we went back to scope out Thunder Point. This time the garage door was open. There were no cars in it. The man was leaving, and appeared to be the grounds keeper.

It's now or never. It was a hard decision to let him go. His will said he was to be buried at sea, but it didn't say when.

Something kept going through my mind. Something Bill had said to me a few years ago when it was time to release one of my turtles. I came home and told Bill I had let her go, and he said to me, "Won't she be scared?" That broke my heart, as I had never thought that Zoey would be afraid. I thought she would be happy to be in a large pond with other slider turtles. I kept thinking would Bill be scared? Even with two of his favorite dogs going with him? Our favorite dog, Magoo, a white German Shepherd is buried in the back yard, under many rose bushes. When Magoo died, I had twenty three rose bushes planted in his memory on our property. Salt air is not great for rose bushes, but some of them are still hanging in after all these years. Our favorite cat, Nails Magilicuty died under the house next door, so there would be several ghosts to keep Bill company, but I kept thinking, would he be afraid? Is he even here? Are these just ashes, or is this the essence of Bill? It is all over my head. I hope by releasing his ashes, I am also releasing his soul to go off with his dogs and cat to roam the island. Maybe they can fly now. That would be nice.


The fact of the matter is, I was scared to let him go. Really go forever.

I gathered my dogs and canister and snuck around to the deck. My heart was racing so fast I thought I might die too, and then I could go with him. First I scattered Noodles, aka Noodleronie on both sides of the deck. All over the rocks that the deck sits on. Then came Annie, and finally Bill. It was windy and ashes were everywhere. On me, on Oliver and Isabella, in the water as it was high tide, and on the steps of the deck. Then I sat on the steps and said many prayers for the souls of my loved ones. So now they are free. I don't know if any of it makes any difference. All I know is that they are where they were the happiest. Where we spent so much time laughing and loving our piece of heaven on earth, and soon the butterflies would be coming through to make them smile again.

Mission number three was finished.

I hope we meet again someday, maybe at this same place on our magical island. Until then, my dear laughing husband, have yourself some fun. Haunt the bad guys, help the good guys and know how grateful I am for the special life I was allowed to spend with you.

His first sunset was perfect.

HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE A SONG WRITTEN ABOUT THEM? VIRGINIA GUNN IS ONE!

Virginia Gunn Diehl Book Signing - The Eleventh Victim by Nancy Grace

St. Simons Activist Fights Anew in Book

By AMY CARTER The Brunswick News

September 8, 2009

She's back.

With her wiener dogs.

And a cause.

It's not a real cause this time, mind you. Virginia Gunn is not looking for another one of those.

"In fact, I never was," says Gunn, a former Glynn County commissioner and St. Simons Island resident whose island activism is the inspiration for a new book by television personality Nancy Grace.

The real Gunn's eponymous alter ego in the book, however, is passionate enough about protecting the beaches of St. Simons Island that she will spend hours in the Kroger grocery store parking lot, waiting to enlist in her fight the as-yet-unknown driver of a beaten up Volkswagen Beetle sporting a shiny new Greenpeace bumper sticker.

Meet the fictional Virginia Gunn, heroine of an entertaining little subplot in "The Eleventh Victim," a novel by HLN news host Grace, a Georgia native and former prosecutor of violent crimes in Atlanta.

Grace's Gunn is cocked to fight. Over condos. On the beach. Even if you weren't living here 18 years ago when the name "Virginia Gunn" and the word "beach" first appeared in the same news story, your interest should pique to find the two reunited again.

Grace read those stories of the real Gunn's fight in the community while still working as a prosecutor in Atlanta. A Macon-born Methodist who spent summers in youth camp at Epworth By the Sea, Grace says she remembers the St. Simons Island of old, "in a pristine condition." Keeping up with the development of the island through newspaper articles, she found fodder for the plotline of her first fiction book.

"Virginia Gunn has always been such a high profile celebrity in the city of Atlanta and we met when I was a felony prosecutor," Grace said. She wrote the story of the St. Simons Island beach first, and then named her character for Gunn later "because of her deep love for St. Simons."

Grace's novel is a thriller not unlike the kinds of books written by the real Gunn's fellow activist in matrimony, the late Bill Diehl. Diehl's fame was cinched when Burt Reynolds directed and starred in the 1981 movie version of Diehl's novel "Sharky's Machine." The couple married in a televised New Year's Eve ceremony at The Cloister on Sea Island as 1982 turned to 1983. They later moved to "Thunder Point," a house in King City that overlooks the St. Simons Sound. Diehl wrote seven of his nine bestsellers there. A retired Emmy-winning Atlanta television personality, Gunn was known during that St. Simons Island interlude simply as "the turtle lady." Until Glynn County proposed a nourishment project that would have rebuilt the unstable beaches of St. Simons Island with sand dredged from the ocean floor and held in place by two massive concrete groins, or jetties.

One of her earliest headlines in The News appeared on May 8, 1991: "Citizens Question Beach Renourishment." A sidebar asked: "Is Project a Threat to Turtles?" In that story, the real Gunn, a volunteer member of the Sea Turtle Stranding and Salvage Network, asked government officials: "Why are you doing this (renourishment project) during turtle breeding season? The dredge boats killed 83 turtles last month. Turtles are coming in all sliced up and I know what's doing it. Five turtles were killed last week."

And so the war was on.

Eventually, Gunn and Diehl would parent an organization devoted to finding alternatives to the county's beach building plan. The Save the Beach organization argued that groins would only increase erosion; that beaches are, by nature, unstable, building and eroding as Mother Nature deems. They researched alternatives to the $7 million project. They picketed in front of the historic Glynn County Courthouse. They daily called in to the local radio talk show, bought full-page newspaper ads and made the cover of "Creative Loafing," an alternative newspaper published for the Atlanta market.

They fought the county for the better part of a year, until the idea of beach nourishment was finally abandoned.

"Bill and Virginia were perfect leaders for the Save the Beach movement," says Nancy Thomason, a former member of Save the Beach and owner of Beachview Books in the Village on St. Simons Island. "They had brains, glamour, celebrity and passion. They worked tirelessly and fearlessly because they knew they were right."

Like her fictional self, Gunn is a former member of the Glynn County Commission, elected the year the beach project died.

"Sometimes being commissioner felt like a blood sport," Gunn said.

Not unlike the battle for the beach. Still, the good memories trump the bad.

"Somehow Virginia, and others in the group, were always able to see humor in what was happening," Thomason recalled. "We laughed a lot. We always knew we were having more fun than the other side, even when it looked like they were winning."

The people were the ultimate victors, Gunn said.

"I'm very proud. The beaches look great, and we saved the taxpayers millions of dollars by getting this project abandoned. I hope it is a story that is never completely forgotten."

Meet Virginia Gunn.

Virginia Gunn - both live and fictional - will return to St. Simons Island on Saturday (Sept. 12th) to sign copies of "The Eleventh Victim" by Nancy Grace at Beachview Books on Mallery Street. She will bring bookplates signed by Grace. Gunn will be available from 5 to 7 p.m.

TRULY EXCELLENT WRITING VIRGINIA GUNN DIEHL WRITES ABOUT HURRICANES AND LOST PLACES

The internet is a wonderful tool for research or to find places from my past.

Parioli International Day School was where I went to school when I lived with my mother in Rome, Italy. I googled it the other day. I found one woman who went to school there. She remembered the pears that we were served at lunch and how good they were. I don't remember the pears. I remember three things about that school. I received my first kiss there. I would hardly call it a kiss, more like an innocent gang bang. Elizabeth Taylor's two boys went to the same school while she was filming Cleopatra. One day they and a few of their friends chased me into the girl's locker room. They held my arms down and kissed me all over my head. I broke away and ran out yelling, "Cooties!"

The second thing I remember was I was given a job with responsibility connected to it.

We were having a fair and I was in charge of getting the horses. They probably were really ponies, but they seemed pretty big to me. We had to bring the horses across town to the school. Now you would think that they would have loaded up on a trailer for transport, but nope. A man and I transported them by leading them to the school. Through the streets of Rome. Have you ever seen the traffic in Rome?! Roman traffic is scary enough if you are in a car. Walking with horses is a death wish. Somehow we did it. I was so proud of myself. So proud in fact, I jumped up on one and started riding him around the school grounds. It had been raining. I rode him onto some asphalt court. He slipped and fell full force on top of me. It knocked the wind out of me. Stupid thing to do. The horse could have broken a leg. I could have been killed. Only by the grace of God we both lived. It was at that point in my life that I started losing interest in horses.

When I came back to the states my father allowed me to enter a horse show. I placed third, out of three. My love of horses was gone. I like to look at them, but I'll leave the riding up to others.

The last thing I remember about Parioli International Day School is the day we graduated.

I guess we were graduating from middle school. We were all dressed in our uniforms, listening to whatever you listen to at such an event when a bird shit on my head and shoulders. This was so damn funny to everyone in attendance except me. Some nice teacher said it was a sign of good luck. Who thought that up? To me it was a sign that a bird had shit all over my head, and I can't remember any good luck coming out of that situation.

All in all, I had a wonderful time at that school. Now it is gone. According to the internet, it moved to Milan. I don't know why someone would move a school from Rome to Milan, but it's gone. It made me sad. I don't really know why. It's not like I have some great desire to visit it. It just made me sad. I wonder what stands there now? Losing people and places from my past is just a reminder that nothing last forever. I guess that's the sad part of life.

Today I was informed by the television that hurricane Bill has formed. I wish Bill, my husband was alive. He would be pleased that there is a hurricane out there named after him.

The number of vacations that Bill and I took together can be counted on one hand. We never went anywhere much unless it was for business. There was no one to take care of all of our animals and I've been just about everywhere already, so it was never really important that we go places. We lived on an island, on the most beautiful piece of property, with amazing sunsets, and dolphins playing off our deck. Who needs to leave that?

Before we married, we did take a vacation. The year was 1979. We started off by going to Montego Bay in Jamaica. We had a pretty, little bungalow that was almost right on the water's edge. We had our own pool out the back door of our room. When we arrived the weather was perfect. I remember him on that first day rolling around in the sand, laughing and splashing in the water. We got sunburned and had room service bring our dinner to a table that sat outside the room. It was lovely and it seemed as though we were the only people there. Later that night, the rains came. They came and never left. Day in, day out, it rained and it was very windy. We would order room service and the waiter would try to bring food, but by the time he got there, half of it had blown away. This was no longer fun. One night I got up to go to the bathroom. The water was up to my ankles. I opened the back door and I could no longer see the pool. Just water, everywhere. A mongoose was trying his best to swim out of town. I opened the front door and the ocean was at the front door. We were surrounded by water, front and back. I tried to wake Bill and he said, " If the water gets to the top of the bed, wake me." I guess he figured since we had no radio, no T.V., no phone, what's the point of getting up? I figured if he didn't care, why should I? The next morning I got up and there was no electricity. No water. No nothing except lots of wind and rain. At this point, we both decided we needed to get out of dodge. We dragged our bags to the reception area and checked out. The guy behind the desk actually says, " Was there a problem?" We told him to find us a car. We needed to get to the airport. After what seemed like hours, a car is located. The man actually spoke English. He proceeded to tell us that hurricane David had come through. Many people were dead. The courthouse had lost all their records as the water rushed through it. Trees were down everywhere. You couldn't even see a street. We were making our own streets. It was a most horrible sight.

We finally made our way to the airport. It was packed with people trying to get out. So many unhappy people just standing around. The airport was closed. More hours passed.

Finally Bill took control. He left and came back later with a big grin on his face. When in doubt, throw money at the problem. He had found a drunk pilot in the bar. For a large amount of money he agreed to fly us out of there, if we could find someone to remove the palm trees from the runways. He paid people to go out and remove the debris. Then we rounded up some other people who were just as desperate as we were to get out of there.

We split the cost. We didn't bother to tell them that the pilot was drunk.

We finally ended up in Haiti. A place called Habitation LeClerc. A fifty acre, walled luxury resort. They say it once was the home to Pauline Bonaparte, Napoleon's sister. I have never stayed in such a beautiful place. There were thirty six guest villas. Nineteen swimming pools. Each one of the eighteen swimming pools were shared by two villas. The nineteenth one was the main pool. Once again, we were alone in our own villa, with our own pool. I imagine now, the reason we were alone was because it was hurricane season.

I didn't care why. I was in heaven. Each villa had a large bell that you rang when you wanted anything. Food, drink, a massage. It would be delivered immediately by someone who must have been living under the villa. They would just appear. I would swim naked in our pool. There was no one to see me, and at that time in my life, I looked pretty good, so why bother with a suit? The villas were almost like living outdoors. No doors on interior rooms. No glass anywhere. Shuttered windows that stayed opened most of the time. It was simply magical for many days, and then THEY came.

The family arrived in the villa next to ours. They were fat and loud and very unhappy. I didn't care that they were fat. I've been fat at times, myself. I did mind that they were loud and pissed off. You could hear them screaming at each other. Especially the wife. She hated the place. No phone. No T.V. No air conditioning. She was one miserable person.

I was just as miserable thinking of spending time with them in "my" pool. So, she storms out on the balcony, still yelling at her poor husband. I did the only thing I could think to do to irritate her even more. I went down to the pool, stripped down to nothing and dove into the water. The woman looked like she was going to have a heart attack. Shortly thereafter, they checked out and life went back to pure bliss. It was a most wonderful time with the man I loved for so many years. So, I decided the other day to google it. Not that I would ever want to go back without Bill, but just for a trip down memory lane. This is what I found out about Habitation LeClerc.

At one time in the seventies it was the place to go. Jackqueline Bouvier Kennedy stayed there . Mick and Bianca Jagger did too. It shut down in the eighties. This is the description of it now: " The ancient stone wall surrounding the fifty acre forest has collapsed into heaps of rubble. Squatters and thugs have invaded the once-pristine grounds, moving into its bungalows, cutting down trees, destroying plants and dealing drugs. It is now a metaphor for the environmental problems facing Haiti.

Territorial bandits, mountains of trash, and pigs have eased their way up to and over the walls of the buildings and Botanical Gardens, causing most of the plants to be near extinction or die. Makeshift machine-gun slots now block the windows of the hotel reception area, and the marble fountains have long since run dry. A notorious drug gang called the Red Army has overrun the place, terrorizing and extorting "rent" from hundreds of squatters who have occupied the estate's thirty five mildewed villas. Nighttime gunfights are common, with corpses left on display in the morning."

How could something like this happen? Sixty percent of Haiti's seven million people live on less than one dollar a day. With poverty at this level, I guess it's not so hard to understand.

So, Parioli International Day School and Habitation LeClerc are gone, and I'm just sitting here wishing I still had the body and the confidence to swim naked in a pool, without a care in the world. Wishing my husband was still here to rent a drunk pilot.

Hurricane David killed thousands of people before he made landfall in the United States. He came in south of Savannah, close to where we ended up living most of our married lives. It was a tragedy for so many people. We could have been killed, but we weren't, and it will always stand out in my mind as one of our most excellent adventures.

Nothing last forever, not even the Bonaparte's villa. Not my school, and not my husband.

Cherish the memories of your life. Cherish the golden moments, and try to make some more.

And then there was hurricane Hugo, but that's for another day.

TRULY EXCELLENT WRITING VIRGINIA GUNN DIEHL WRITES ABOUT HURRICANE BILL

Hurricane Hugo and the Terrible Teens


Hurricane Bill, the first major hurricane of the season is no longer a threat. Hurricane Bill who was named after my husband and every other man named Bill was at one time a powerful hurricane with winds clocked at 135 m.p.h. He stayed offshore. Former President Bill Clinton and his wife, Hillary left Bermuda a day early, and President Obama and his family decided to wait until Sunday to go on vacation at Martha's Vineyard.

My husband would have liked the fact that his namesake hurricane did no damage, but it did effect the plans of two presidents.

When I was in television, Marilyn was my make-up artist. She and her husband Michael have been friends for thirty years. They were friends with Bill before I met them, so we go back a long time. I asked her to send me a list of some of the people she had done make-up for. I only got page one of five, so I can't list them all, but some of them were Paul Newman, Bette Davis, Lauren Bacall, Lucille Ball, and Barbara Walters.

When I quit T.V. and moved to the island with Bill, they would come and visit us often. On one visit, we told the guys we were going to walk down the beach and find a home for them so that they could move to the island. Of course, we were just kidding, but that's what happened. There was a new, beautiful house down the beach. We wandered around and came back to the house announcing that we had found the perfect home for them. Lo and behold, they moved to that house on the island. Michael would commute back and forth to Atlanta, and Marilyn and I had wonderful days together. We would walk the beach, collect shells, talk, drink coffee, take pictures, and enjoy the special life that we were living.

Flash forward from Hurricane David in 1979 to 1989 when Hurricane Hugo raised his ugly head. Bill and I had a hurricane tracking map that we would track hurricanes with. We would stick pins in the chart until the hurricane came onshore. I imagine a lot of people that live on islands do this. Hurricane Hugo was born on September 9th, and didn't come onshore in the United States until September 22nd. That's a long time to track a storm. When he got closer to the states, life got a little crazy. Day after day, he was getting closer to our island. People started boarding up their houses. Michael has always been a great planner, so he made hotel reservations, they boarded their house and prepared to evacuate. Bill and I approached doom and destruction the way we always did. We smoked lots of cigarettes and drank lots of coffee, as we watched the weather channel every waking moment of every day. Hugo was becoming a very strong and scary hurricane.

Marilyn and Michael had two children, nine cats, and nine birds. They rented a rental truck and got ready to go if need be. I had seventy birds in a dozen cages in our back yard.

I figured if I couldn't evacuate the birds, I needed to stay put. Plus, the island has been very lucky when it comes to hurricanes. They always pass us by. The last one to hit was in the sixties. President Johnson came and surveyed the damage and had the Corps of Engineers place large rocks in front of the homes. They are still there, and are called the Johnson Rocks.

I was sitting around thinking, "Man, Marilyn and Michael sure are working up a sweat over this." and I had another cigarette and another cup of coffee.

Then one evening Dan Rather comes on the news and announces to the world that Hurricane Hugo was going to make landfall in Brunswick, Georgia. Brunswick is the town across from the island on the mainland. I said, "I beg your pardon, Dan, are you nuts? We don't get hurricanes here." I started to get very nervous, as I knew Dan Rather had never mentioned Brunswick, Georgia in his life, up until this point. Then things got really crazy. Michael had made reservations, but they were on the wrong day. Then he changed them to another hotel that turned out to be in the path of Hurricane Hugo. Bill and I finally started realizing that we were in deep trouble. I called our handy man and asked him to come board up the house. He spent all day boarding the house and he gets to the last window and I stop him. I told him I had to have one window that wasn't boarded so that I could see the birds in my back yard. Like that was going to help them in some way. He was not happy. He explained to me that if one window is not covered, it defeats the whole purpose of boarding the house in the first place. I said I didn't care, I had to see if my birds were okay.

The whole island must have seen that newscast, as it emptied out quickly. Marilyn and Michael got ready to leave. A T.V. crew showed up at their house, and wanted to film from their house as it sat just about as close to the ocean as you could get. She opened the door, they asked and she broke into tears. And then after we hugged and kissed for what may have been the last time, they left. Then I think they were stuck in traffic forever. Bill and I sat in our boarded up house, except for that one window and waited to die. We were probably the only fools left in a house on the beach, as all the T.V. crews started showing up to do interviews. I didn't have on a stitch of make-up and didn't care. Besides the seventy birds in the backyard, we had ten dogs, and one cat. They were getting nervous, probably because they knew better than us what was about to happen, and they felt we weren't doing enough to make sure that they didn't have to swim for their lives.

Later that night, it turned. CNN called for an interview. I told them nothing much was going on, which seemed to break their hearts. No wind? No nothing? By that time, it really wasn't windy, but I blew a few times into the receiver so that they wouldn't be too disappointed. Bill went to bed and I stayed up all night. The next morning I took Magoo, our white german shepherd to the beach. The first thing I did was to get down on my knees and kiss the sand. A small plane flew over and tipped his wings at us, which made me burst into tears. Tears that we were okay, and tears that someone else wasn't. And indeed, they weren't. At midnight on September 22, with 140 m.p.h. winds, Hugo slammed into South Carolina. Eighty percent of the homes on Folly Beach were destroyed. Hundreds of beachfront homes were gutted or flattened. The Atlantic House, an over the water restaurant was completely swept away, only the pilings of the 13,000 square foot restaurant were found the next morning. If Dan Rather had been right, that would have been us. The beautiful moss draped oaks were desimated and eighty percent of the historic buildings in Charleston were damaged.

250,000 people fled low lying areas of Georgia, South Carolina and southern North Carolina. Hugo is the most intense hurricane to ever strike the United States coast north of Florida. He was twice the size of Andrew ( 1992) but less intense. He was the most expensive tropical cyclone to ever strike America up to that time ( 1989 ). Ten billion dollars in damages. Almost two hundred miles inland, Hugo still had 100 m.p.h. gusts. Hurricane Hugo produced the highest tide surge ever recorded along the U.S. Atlantic coast. According to the U.S. Corps of Engineers, tides reached 19.8 feet above mean sea level.

A week after the storm, 56,000 people were homeless in the Carolinas. Seventy six people died. The U.S death toll was thirty five. If Rather had been right, there would have been no St. Simons Island left. There probably wouldn't have been a Brunswick, Georgia left, either.

About a week after things calmed down, I felt an overwhelming urge to help those that had taken the hit from "our" hurricane. I gathered up a full household of items to take to Charleston. Furniture, pots and pans, bedding, everything to start over. My handyman and I took off to Charleston. He drove the rental truck and I drove my car. A church located a family that had lost everything and we set off. The destruction up there was amazing and heartbreaking. We delivered our load and started back. When we got home, I realized that I had accidently packed up a box that had been intended for my mother's birthday. There was three hundred dollars worth of girlie-girl stuff. Most of it was for relaxing and spoiling ones self. There were bubble baths, at least a dozen. Pumice stone, little candles, heart shaped soap, manicure set, incense, just over the top stuff. I have often wondered what those people thought when they got to that box. They didn't even have a bathroom, much less a tub. Little, heart shaped soaps were probably not what they needed at the time.

My mother was gracious. She believed me and forgave me.

Marilyn and Michael found their way home and we all got back to "island time."

Marilyn and I got African grey parrots at the same time. Her bird was named Leon and mine was named Charleston, in honor of the people that had been thru so much. Her bird now lives on a mountain in Kingman, Arizona. Mine is still with me, here in Georgia. They are brothers, as they both came from the same clutch. Hers speaks Spanish that he has picked up from workers. Mine was not the brightest bulb in the package. He says, "Puppies!" and he use to know all the dogs names. But when a dog would die eventually, he would stop calling that dog's name. The same thing happened when Bill died. He stopped calling his name. He also stopped calling my name. Charleston will be twenty next month. We have been through a lot together. He has a little, bald spot on the top of his head because he likes to take his hanging bell and wear it on his head. The other day, one of his bells came undone and fell to the bottom of his cage. I didn't think much of it until I noticed that the whole bottom of his cage was wet. I thought there was a crack in his water bowl until I saw what he was doing. He would take the bell in his foot/hand, turn it upside down and use it as a cup. Obviously, he would rather drink from a cup. Then he would throw the rest of it overboard. Sometimes he wouldn't drink at all. He would just scoop up water and throw it it out. He would flood the whole bottom of his cage. I took it away from him, as this was getting very messy, but then I felt badly because it seemed to bring him much joy to do this. So, I decided to let him be and gave him his bell back.

The other night, he starts to scream really loudly. Charleston has never been a screamer. The only time he screams is if he has a toe caught on something, and when he does this, the dogs come running because they know he is in distress. They will bark madly until I fix whatever is wrong with their bird. Well, for whatever reason, maybe because he is a teenager, he is now doing this because he knows he can get instant attention not only from his dogs, but me too. He also started calling, Ginny, Ginny, Ginny in Bill's voice. This is a little unnerving as he hasn't done this since Bill died. Between his imitation of the great floods of Hurricane Hugo, his death screams and pretending to be my dead husband, my nerves are getting pretty frayed. I scream at him to shut up, walk into the other room and he says in the sweetest voice, "You Okay?" To which I reply, "Yes, Charleston, I'm fine but I have one nerve left, and you are getting on it." To which he replies, "You, Okay?"

Maybe when he turns twenty next month, he will reach a certain maturity and stop flooding his house, screaming because he can, and stop pretending to be Bill. On the other hand, maybe Bill is here somewhere. Now that would be sweet!