(With Grace and Graham’s wedding now behind us in November, and Ashton and Andrew’s wedding coming up in March, the twins recently dug up a newspaper column I wrote back before Dawn and I got married. I’m sharing it here as a reminder that I didn’t know much about planning a wedding back then, and the twins appear to have been born knowing things it took me years to figure out.)

Going To The Chapel…

In the past four months, I’ve become known by my first name at every bridal shop, florist, caterer, formal wear store, jewelry store, and bakery in both Carolinas and parts of Northeast Georgia.

When I became engaged to be married on Christmas Eve, I told my fiancé that under no circumstances did I want this wedding in June to take over our lives. We were still going to enjoy romantic Friday night dinners, Saturday afternoon picnics, and Sunday evening walks. No way would this wedding go on to take over our quality time together.

Dawn just giggled. Now I know why.

She assures me that all the things I think will never ever, couldn’t possibly, no way in heck, get done in time will all fall into place before the third Saturday in June. Looking down at the calendar on my desk, I’m just not quite sure.

The only thing that I know for certain is that this ceremony is going to cost a fortune. I had no idea that little things could cost so much. If I rolled pennies from now until the wedding day, I still don’t think I would have enough money to pay for it all.

I can only imagine what the parents of the bride must be going through, although I did see her father selling blood at the Red Cross the other day. I was in line behind him.

For some strange reason I had heard that my sole responsibilities were to buy the ring, try not to pass out at the altar, and to pay for the honeymoon. That was before I got “the list.”

I wasn’t aware that proper etiquette calls for the groom to purchase the bride’s bouquet, gifts for the groomsmen, engagement photos, wedding dress portraits, pictures at the wedding, and not to mention flowers for the mothers, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, Godparents, close friends, not so close friends, and the family dog.

And did you know that the groom also buys a “throw away” bouquet so the single ladies at the reception can wrestle around on the floor for it? Seems that the bouquet that Dawn will be carrying down the aisle -- the same one that I must sell my car to buy -- will be forever preserved somehow, somewhere, for absolutely no one to ever see again. I think that’s on my list of things to pay for, too.

Speaking of throwing things at a reception, how did this whole garter throwing tradition get started? If the single guys at the wedding, especially the ones I know, think I’m going to flip them a piece of my new wife’s underwear, well they’re sadly mistaken. Maybe I’ll toss them one of her socks or something, but the garter stays with me.

Once the planning is finished, we’re going to have ourselves a beautiful ceremony -- as long as I don’t pass out.

Dawn is fortunate to have some very attractive attendants who will stand with her during the wedding. I’ve seen some of her relatives and friends in their bride’s maids’ dresses, and all of them appear as though they’ve stepped right out of a fashion magazine.

Someone recently told me my groomsmen, on the other hand, look as though they could form a line up at the Sheriff’s office. Instead of wedding day photos, we might just pull their pictures down from the post office wall. There was no hiding where we were from the moment we walked into the formalwear store for our tuxedo fittings. Before we even made it to the racks, someone asked, “Y’all got this in camouflage?”

But through all the preparations, it has really been an enjoyable experience. I have given my input on the fine china, crystal, the wedding cake, and I was the one who picked out the bridesmaids’ dresses (but do not try to tell Dawn that because she swears she selected them). “We don’t see many grooms in here” is something I heard quite a bit while we were picking things out. I guess those people don’t realize that this is my wedding, too.

To get my blood pressure down, Dawn has told me to let her put the finishing touches on the wedding, and for me to focus on the honeymoon plans. My travel agent gave me brochures on Jamaica, Aruba, the Virgin Islands, and just about every place that has sand and an ocean. Apparently, she hasn’t seen my checking account balance recently.

I hear Cowpens Battlefield is nice in the summertime.

(This column originally appeared in The Cherokee Chronicle in the spring of 1997, as I was serving as the newspaper’s Managing Editor.)

(The December 30, 2025, edition marks the final chapter of The Cherokee Chronicle. Below is the column I wrote for the closing moment. Many thanks to Brock Hamrick for inviting me to contribute and for the care he put into bringing the newspaper’s farewell to life.)

The Final Edition, and the Legacy It Leaves Behind...

There is a certain stillness that comes with writing a final piece, a mix of sadness and gratitude that sits with you as the words form. That is how I feel as I write this for the last edition of The Cherokee Chronicle.

Today, we let go of something that left a mark on so many of us.

For nearly thirty-five years, this newspaper carried the stories of Cherokee County. It documented our triumphs, our losses, our daily rhythms, and the moments that told us who we were. As The Chronicle releases its final edition, I find myself thinking back on what those years meant to me.

I was twenty-four when I first stepped into the offices we rented in 1991, climbing the stairs to a small upstairs space in downtown Gaffney. The rooms were modest, the quarters close, and the staff was small, but the place overflowed with possibility. There was an energy there, the kind that only comes when you believe your work can make a difference. I loved being in those offices from the very beginning, and that feeling stayed with me for every year that followed.

We later moved into a much larger three-story building of our own, a move that felt like progress and momentum and the next chapter of our growth. Both spaces mattered to me. One gave me my start, the other gave me room to grow. Together, they shaped the writer I became.

We worked late nights that blended into early mornings, piecing together stories, designing pages, and rolling newspapers ourselves in the early days before digital changed everything. The Chronicle was more than a job. It was a family, a classroom, and a doorway into the heart of this county.

And it gave me friendships that have lasted far longer than any story we ever published. Some of the people I met in those offices are still part of my life today. Others crossed my path through the stories I covered or the meetings I attended, relationships built through shared purpose. A few dear friends have passed on through the years, but their presence stays with me. Their encouragement, humor, and spirit are still part of The Chronicle I carry in my heart.

I don’t remember every story I wrote. But I remember the people. The conversations that carried us through the long nights. The feeling that we were part of something real and deeply human.

And no one shaped me more than the late Tommy Martin. Tommy was our publisher, but he was also my mentor and my friend. He was the greatest writer I ever knew, and he taught me that the heart of every story begins with listening. His lessons still guide me.

When I left The Chronicle in 1997, newly married and stepping into a new career path a few counties away, I thought I was simply moving forward. What I didn’t realize was that my heart would stay connected. 

Not briefly. Not halfway. Completely.

I kept writing. Columns about Gaffney football, reflections on our community, and stories that always brought me back home. Long after my official departure, my byline continued to appear on Chronicle pages. It became my way of staying tied to a place that shaped my life.

And part of that life began with a single phone call back in 1996. Dawn, who would become my wife, was working at the Chamber of Commerce when she called The Chronicle one afternoon. People say you never know which moments will change your life. But I knew. Immediately. I didn’t know how or when or what our story would become, but I knew she was someone who would shape my world. That one phone call gave me the family I have today. It was the beginning of everything.

Working at The Chronicle opened doors I never expected, and I remain grateful for every one of them. It gave me the chance to serve on the South Carolina Peach Festival board, to travel the country producing concerts and special events with Hollywood’s Productions, and to meet local officials and community leaders who helped guide Cherokee County. Each experience widened my world and reminded me how fortunate I was to be part of something that reached far beyond the stories I wrote.

I covered Gaffney High School football under lights that seemed to carry the whole town’s heartbeat. I sat through Cherokee County Council meetings and Blacksburg Town Council meetings where decisions were made that shaped everyday life. I covered sports at Limestone College, my alma mater, with a pride that only grew stronger through the years.

I was fortunate to work in some capacity for all three of Cherokee County’s media outlets, including The Chronicle, The Gaffney Ledger, and WAGI, which later became WZZQ. Each one added meaning to my career, but The Chronicle is where my foundation was built.

As this final edition is published, I feel both gratitude and sadness. Gratitude for all it gave us, sadness for what we are losing. The Chronicle changed this county, and it changed me.

This newspaper was more than stories printed on a page or appearing on a screen. It was a gathering place, a voice, a thread that connected neighbors.

And today, as it releases its last edition, it deserves to be celebrated.

I am grateful to have been part of its story, grateful for the friendships it gave me, including the ones no longer here. From that small upstairs office in 1991 to this final day, The Chronicle has stayed in my heart.

Even though The Chronicle is closing, I take comfort in knowing that Cherokee County is still supported by dedicated storytellers and broadcasters who care deeply about this place. Many of the people continuing that work are friends I trust, people who feel the same responsibility I felt every time I sat down to write. Their commitment gives me confidence that the story of Cherokee County will continue to be told with heart, honesty, and pride. And knowing that brings me a sense of peace as we say goodbye to a newspaper that meant so much to so many.

What The Chronicle gave us will not disappear with this final edition. It lives in the friendships formed, the stories preserved, the lives touched, and the lessons carried forward by everyone who ever worked there or ever read its pages. Its final chapter may be published today, but its spirit will live on in the people who believed in it. I will always be one of them, carrying its memory with me for the rest of my life.

(Charles Wyatt was a part of the original staff of The Cherokee Chronicle, serving as Managing Editor. Wyatt worked alongside Tommy Martin for over 12 years, leaving The Gaffney Ledger to start The Chronicle with Martin in 1991. Wyatt later served as Vice President of Communications and Marketing at his alma mater, Limestone University. He now works as Strategic Marketing and Communications Manager at Spartanburg Day School.)

More Than a Coach: The Heart of Brendan Storrier...

There are coaches whose résumés speak loudly, and then there are coaches whose character speaks even louder when no one is listening.

Brendan Storrier, the former head men's lacrosse coach at Limestone University, firmly belongs in the second category.

Like many in Upstate South Carolina, I recently saw a heartfelt post from his wife, Hollie, as their family prepared to leave the area and begin a new chapter in New York, where Brendan is now the first year head men’s lacrosse coach at St. Bonaventure University. It stirred something in me. Not because of wins or championships, those are already well documented, but because it reminded me of a moment that perfectly captures the kind of man Brendan has always been.

This is not a story about lacrosse success. His record speaks for itself. Several national championships as an assistant coach. One of the most respected offensive minds in NCAA Division II lacrosse. That part of his story has already been told.

This one is about heart.

In the spring of 2021, an unspeakable tragedy struck an Upstate South Carolina family I knew. I will not get into the specifics. What matters is that their world had been shattered, and at the center of it all was a young man who played youth lacrosse.

At the time, I was serving as Vice President for Communications and Marketing at Limestone University and often found myself on the sidelines at men’s lacrosse games, camera in hand, capturing moments for the university. Knowing how much the game meant to this young man, I had an idea. I thought that bringing him along to a Limestone game, letting him stand on the sidelines and see one of the nation’s premier Division II programs up close, might lift his spirits, even if only for a day.

Originally, I shared the idea with Limestone’s head coach at the time. But before the next season arrived, that coach had left the program. Soon after, Brendan Storrier returned to Limestone, this time as head coach, following a stint at Mars Hill.

So, I took the idea to Brendan.

I explained the situation. I asked if the young man could join me on the sidelines during a game while I took photos.

Brendan said “no.”

But not because he didn’t want the young man there.

He said “no” to my idea because he wanted to do more. Much more.

Instead of simply allowing him on the sidelines, Brendan named this young man an honorary captain of the Limestone men’s lacrosse team for a game in April of 2022.

That day, the young man joined the team in the locker room before the game. Brendan had already spoken to his players about the situation. Those players did not hesitate. They welcomed him, surrounded him, and showered him with genuine love. Not forced kindness. Not performative gestures. Real compassion.

He was given a team sweatshirt, the kind only players receive. He walked onto the field with the Saints. He was introduced as a member of the team. Throughout the game, he was part of every huddle. And just like everyone else wearing Limestone blue and gold, he was expected to pay attention. At one point, Brendan even playfully barked at him when his focus drifted and he didn't join the huddle right away during a timeout.

In that moment, he was not a guest.

He was a Saint.

Limestone went on to win the game 18-7. When the final horn sounded, the young man was part of the handshake line. He walked off the field with the team. He joined the post-game locker room celebration.

And then came one more moment.

After every Limestone victory, Brendan awarded a “Player of the Game” honor. The award was a championship belt, the kind you might see in professional wrestling. The player he selected would keep it until the next game.

That day, Brendan handed that belt to our special visitor. 

Throughout that day at Limestone, the young man smiled for hours. He never shed a tear. It was all joy. All excitement. Pure, unfiltered happiness.

His mom and dad, who stood nearby in the fieldhouse and then on the sidelines, did shed a few tears. So did I. They were tears that came between smiles, the kind that come when your heart is overwhelmed by gratitude.

What makes this story even more powerful is this. Brendan never wanted recognition for it. He never shared it publicly. He never sought credit. Until now, this story has never been told.

I am telling it today because I want people to understand what Upstate South Carolina is truly losing.

Yes, the region is losing one of the best college lacrosse coaches in the country. But more importantly, it is losing an incredibly kind man. A man who leads with empathy. A man whose compassion extends far beyond the field. A man who has built a beautiful family with Hollie and carries those same values into every locker room he enters. 

I am so proud to call him my friend.

St. Bonaventure’s gain is our loss.

But we are better because Brendan Storrier was here.

And it has absolutely nothing to do with wins and losses.

The First Look I Will Never Forget

The maid of honor and a bridesmaid asked me to close my eyes, then linked their arms through mine and guided me outside for my first look before my daughter Grace’s wedding. With my eyes shut and their hands steadying me, I felt like I was being carried toward a moment I had been waiting for since the day she was born.

It was only a short walk, but it was more than enough time for twenty five years of memories to rush in. I thought about the night our twins were born when I held their tiny hands and wondered about the men who would someday hold each of those hands at the altar. I saw first steps and first days of school, dance recitals, soccer games, cheerleading on the sidelines, and graduations that arrived quicker than I expected. I thought about their engagement days earlier this year when both of my girls started down their own paths toward this moment.

As I walked, my mind drifted to everything it took to reach this day. The planning, the timelines, the fittings, and the decisions that filled the past several months all blended together in a way that suddenly felt worth every bit of effort. Saying "yes to the dress," choosing venues, booking the caterer and florist, picking a photographer, arranging hotel rooms, and checking off every small detail, it all played back in my head like a highlight reel that brought us to this perfect moment.

All of that ran through my mind during that slow walk from the reception hall where I had been waiting out of sight to the green grass near the Ashley River where she would soon say her vows.

Then came a gentle tap on my shoulder. My cue to turn around. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened my eyes.

And there she was. Not the little girl I once carried on my shoulders, but the incredible woman she has grown to be. Our eyes met and we both smiled. Then the tears came, not sad tears, just pure joy. She was stunning, and for a moment I forgot to breathe.

This was the day we had prayed over from the moment she arrived in this world. This was the fairytale she dreamed about, unfolding right in front of me. Cameras clicked, the few people nearby quietly cheered, and we held that daddy daughter moment as long as we could. Then I pulled her close, told her how much I loved her, and how proud I was to be her dad. Letting go was not easy, but I stepped back, took both of her hands, and tried to soak in every second.

What I saw was the look of a dream becoming real.

A little while later, I walked her down the aisle. I placed her hand in Graham’s, hugged him tight, and watched her step into a new chapter as she became a Blackwood. And I could not be more grateful, because Graham is one of the finest young men I have ever known. I know her heart is in good hands.

Later that evening at the reception, I shared that it had been an honor raising her. Now it is Graham’s honor to grow old with her.

And in just a few months, we will do it all again when Ashton marries Andrew, the love of her life. I already know that first look will take my breath away just like this one did, because that is what happens when you are blessed with daughters who fill your life with joy.

In the end, I have learned something simple. You spend their childhood holding their hands, and one day you place those hands into someone else’s, but no matter where life takes them or what name they carry, they will always be your little girls.

A Family Treasure That Shines Every December

Every Christmas season begins the same way for me. Before the wreaths, before the garland, and even before the tree makes its way into place, there is one thing I always reach for first from the attic. It is small and softly glowing, a little worn from years gone by, but it carries more meaning than anything else I unpack during the holidays. It is my grandmother Wilborn’s angel.

This little angel first belonged to her more than fifty years ago. Her tiny lights, her gentle smile, and her soft orange hair have watched over many Christmases. She began her life as a tree topper, shining above the celebrations of my grandmother’s home. 

She is simple, a little fragile, and absolutely priceless to me.

Before my grandmother passed away, the angel was passed on to my mom. And years later, when Dawn and I got married and started our own home, my mom passed it down to me. 

My grandmother never got to meet Dawn. She passed away shortly before we started dating, so she was not there to see our wedding day or the family we would eventually build together. But in many ways, my wife Dawn and our twin daughters feel like they know her. They have heard every story I have shared through the years, every memory of holidays at her house, every small detail of what made her so special. The angel has become meaningful to them because it has always been meaningful to me. 

When they look at it each Christmas, they see more than an ornament. They see the woman whose love helped shape the man I became.

Anyone who has ever stepped into our home during Christmastime knows this angel holds a place of honor. She is always the first decoration I set out each year. Even if nothing else is in place yet, the angel always finds her spot. That warm, familiar glow brings me comfort that words can’t quite capture. It takes me back to a time when Christmas meant my grandmother’s voice, the smell of her kitchen, our big wonderful family celebrating the holidays, and the feeling of being wrapped in a kind of love that only a grandmother can give.

It amazes me that something so small can carry so much. A simple ornament with tiny lights has become a bridge connecting generations. It keeps my grandmother close. It keeps her stories alive. And it keeps her memory shining in the hearts of my wife and daughters, even though they never had the chance to meet her.

One day, I will pass this angel down to one of my girls. I hope that when she unpacks it in her own home, she feels the same warmth I have always felt. I hope it reminds her of her great-grandmother, and of all the stories I shared through the years. And I hope it shows her that family traditions, even the smallest ones, can carry love forward in the most powerful way.

For now, the angel stays right where she has always been, lighting the way into another Christmas season. And as long as she keeps glowing, a piece of my grandmother is still here with us.

In the end, this little angel reminds me that the most meaningful parts of Christmas are not the decorations or the gifts, but the love we carry forward from one generation to the next. I hope you have something in your home that brings you the same kind of comfort and connection, something that reminds you of where you come from and who helped shape your story. May this season fill your heart with those gentle memories and the kind of peace that lasts long after the lights fade.

A Road Trip, Paul Harvey, and Tommy at His Best

Throughout the years, and especially since his passing nearly three years ago, almost anyone who knew about our friendship has asked me to tell them my funniest Tommy Martin story. The truth is, I have plenty. Hundreds, maybe thousands.

When you have been friends with someone since 1985, back when we worked side by side at The Gaffney Ledger, then all the way through our years together at The Cherokee Chronicle and beyond, you collect the kind of memories that stack up like old editions of the paper. 

Some stories are loud and wild. Some are quiet and only funny if you knew Tommy. And some are the kind that sneak up on you years later and make you laugh out loud in the middle of a grocery store aisle.

But there is one story that rises above the rest because it captures his humor in its purest form. It is quick. It is simple. And it is so perfectly Tommy that anyone who spent even five minutes with him will think, yes, that sounds exactly right.

That is the one I want to share.

We were driving down to North Myrtle Beach for a Cherokee County Chamber of Commerce retreat. I cannot remember the exact year, but I remember Tommy behind the wheel, searching for a radio station like he was tuning a NASA satellite. Every mile or so, he gave the dial another twist.

Finally, he landed on one station. I think it could have been the old WAGI-FM when Paul Harvey came through the speakers, easing into one of his classic “The Rest of the Story” features. Ever since that trip, I have tried to find that exact Paul Harvey story again, but with no luck. If you ever run across it, please send it my way.

Anyway, Paul Harvey is telling this tale about a brutal gang of banditos who stormed into a village and did every terrible thing imaginable. They killed husbands, terrorized wives, abused children, and even slaughtered livestock. Not exactly comedy, but I was hooked.

Then Paul Harvey went on to explain that one of the banditos got so out of control that his own comrades had to gun him down.

The radio went silent for a moment. Maybe it was a commercial break. Maybe Paul Harvey paused for dramatic effect. Either way, in that quiet space I heard Tommy say, in the driest, most deadpan voice imaginable, “What in the hell did THAT guy do?”

It hit me like a slap.

“What?” I asked.

Tommy looked straight ahead and said, “He just said those banditos killed men, women, children, and livestock.”

“I heard that,” I replied.

“Then what in the world was that guy doing that made the rest of them think, okay, now that crosses the line,” he said, with that perfect mix of curiosity and sarcasm that only Tommy could deliver.

He never said another word about it.

Paul Harvey eventually wrapped up his story, but I could not tell you the ending if my life depended on it. What I do remember is laughing for the next four hours as we made our way down Highway 18, merged onto I-26, and headed for the coast. Every time his question popped into my mind, I burst out laughing all over again.

That trip was more than thirty years ago, maybe closer to forty, and I still think about that moment. If you never met Tommy, maybe this story does not hit you the same way. But if you ever spent even a few minutes with him, you can hear his voice saying it. 

And you know exactly why I am still laughing.

When Tommy passed away in 2023, I lost a dear friend, a trusted confidant, and someone who taught me just about everything I know about journalism and storytelling. In the days and weeks that followed, people kept asking when I was going to sit down and write something about him. I always said I would, and I meant it, but I could never bring myself to do it.

I did not want to write about losing him.

I wanted to write about having him.

And today, as I think about that long drive, that Paul Harvey story, and that perfectly timed Tommy Martin one-liner, I realize something. The funniest stories are not really the point. The point is that I was lucky enough to share a lifetime of them with him.

And that is a gift I will carry for the rest of my life.

A Morning Reminder That I Am Right Where I Belong

Some mornings remind you right away that you are exactly where you are supposed to be. Today was one of those mornings. I snapped a quick photo at student drop off as “Barry,” our beloved SDS greeter on four legs, welcomed students with that mix of calm and charm only a good dog can pull off. 

Watching kids light up as they walked in set the tone for my entire day.

I have only just begun my journey at Spartanburg Day School as the Strategic Marketing and Communications Manager, but it already feels like home. It is easy for an organization to say it is a family, but family shows up. That is the difference, and that difference is clear at Spartanburg Day School. Here, they show up. They greet you by name. They make space for you. They let you know you belong. It is more than a phrase on a brochure. It is something you feel from the moment you arrive.

From day one, I have felt welcomed in a way that is both genuine and consistent. There is something special about this place, something you can sense before you can fully put it into words. You see it in the small interactions. You hear it in the laughter in the hallways. You feel it when parents wave from the car line and faculty members check in just to make sure you are settling in.

Private, independent schools hold a unique place in a community. They do more than educate. They shape young lives through relationships, traditions, and moments that matter. Spartanburg Day School does all of that with a sense of pride and purpose that is unmistakable.

I am grateful to be here. I am excited for what lies ahead. And after mornings like today, with Barry making his rounds and students bounding through the doors ready to take on the day, I can already tell that this is a place that not only welcomes you, but invites you to grow right along with it.

Here is to new beginnings, a new chapter, and a new home at Spartanburg Day School.