Growing up on the Point in Beaufort, South Carolina, in the seventies and eighties was magic. Pure magic. We all became starstruck when Hollywood arrived in town to film Pat Conroy’s novel The Great Santini. We all knew the Conroys. One Saturday afternoon I was riding my bike on Laurens Street when I popped the sickest wheelie on my Rampar dirt bike, witnessed by a lady out for a jog. She saw me bite it. Blood flowed. The lady? Blythe Danner.