Deana Lattanzio is a wife, mother, writer, and speaker who lives in Charleston, South Carolina. Her column has appeared in The Charleston Post & Courier, The Moultrie News, The State, and others newspapers across the state of South Carolina.
Most recent column
One very expensive hotdog
As seen in the Moultrie News - October 2025
Lately, we are all concerned about consuming plastics. I never thought we’d have to fear steel. The night started out uneventfully. One of those blissful Saturday nights with no plans. We were watching TV and it was raining outside—actually it had been raining all weekend—and planned to make do with whatever was in the fridge. Heating some leftover brown rice, I added a can of black beans, an avocado and some salsa. Not wanting the dish I had prepared, my husband went off to search for his favorite fallback: pork. He went outside, rummaging through the shed refrigerator, and proudly returned 15 minutes later carrying a plate of freshly grilled hotdogs. But then, after his very first bite, he paused and clutched his throat. “Oh no!” he said. “Oh God, help me.” “What?!” I screeched, as he tried to expel what sounded like a small animal from his throat. I knew he wasn’t choking, but something was clearly wrong. Apparently, he told me, between hacks and gurgles, he had swallowed one of the steel bristles from a brush used for cleaning the grill. One must have come off, attached to a hotdog, and was now stuck in his throat! After about ten minutes of unsuccessfully trying to dislodge it himself, we got in the car and drove to the hospital. As we awaited the results of an X-ray, we sat huddled together in the small space. “Don’t!” he said, as I began to google: swallowed a bristle from grill brush. But—unfortunately for him—I had already scanned the headlines. So I switched gears, diving into my favorite fallback: the rosary. I prayed that this “bristle” would come out as quickly and uneventfully as possible. The X-ray results came back. Nothing showed up on film. “Are you sure you didn’t just swallow it?” I asked, imagining his intestines down the line slowly getting nicked. He moved his mouth around, swallowed. It was still there. Like “a toothpick lodged way back.” Next, the doctor prepared us for going downtown to MUSC where an ENT would be waiting. So we drove in the pouring rain, dodging the flooding as best we could. Now it was past 9 p.m.—which meant things would really start heating up in the ER. Needless to say, my anxiety was starting to peak when I saw a man walk inside carrying part of his finger in a plastic container filled with ice. My husband—calm as could be—was scrolling through Gamecock stats on his phone. How could he be like this? I wondered. But he said, (painstakingly, as it was hard for him to speak) that the train had already left the station. And though he didn’t want to be on it, he was. There was nothing else he could do but pray…and leave it in the doctor’s hands. We were called back. The doctors—God bless them—were so kind, and capable…and surprisingly young. The first one prepared us for a CAT scan, saying it would give them a clear view of exactly where the steel bristle was lodged. Then they would probably do a quick surgery to remove it. We were left to wait. CAT scan? Anesthesia? Surgery? I did not want any of this for my husband. Also, my mind couldn’t help but flash to the future. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, I imagined—God willing, if all went well—finding my way back to the parking garage after the surgery, trying to dodge both the flooding and the people walking into the emergency room with missing limbs. But my husband reminded me to stay in the moment, that we would cross that bridge when we got there. Before the CAT scan, another doctor came in, saying she was going to see if she could locate the offender by going up his nose, and down to his throat with a long, thin probe. And she saw it! It was lodged in the soft tissue far back in his tongue by his tonsils. Where these bristles “usually get caught.” (!) After more consultations, it was decided that they were going to “attempt” to dislodge it without surgery. Hooray! So now there were three doctors in the room. One wrapping his tongue in gauze and stretching it as far as it could possibly go, one heading down his throat with something that resembled a boomerang, and a third who…well, at this point I had closed my eyes (and ears), so I am not sure if he was there simply for moral support or to hold my husband in a headlock. On the third attempt, I heard those three beautiful words: “WE GOT IT!” So in the end, there was no CAT scan, no surgery, and we made it safely home just past 1 a.m., full of gratitude. I also witnessed something beautiful: my husband’s calm trust in our prayers—and his courage. For he had been a trooper. Back at the house, quietly cleaning up the remains of what would turn out to be some very expensive hotdogs, I saw him longingly and wistfully look into the fridge at the remaining bag of uncooked dogs. Apparently, not even this incident was going to put a dent into his passion for pork, and right then I knew what he was thinking: tomorrow is another day. But not before we throw away the steel brush and buy something else to clean the grill with. At least I won’t have to worry about it being plastic.
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Launching and letting Go
As seen in the Moultrie News - September 2023
I am sure it is not a coincidence that I am undertaking a bathroom renovation as my son is leaving to go off to college for the first time. Since he is our only child, his departure feels abrupt—launching us straight into an empty nest. So in between shopping for sheets, mattress pads, towels and flip flops, I’m also searching for toilets and tile. I needed a project and the bathroom was falling apart. I also needed something to look forward to. Because unlike when I was pregnant with him and he was two weeks late, this time I’m not sure if I am ready to have him leave. In many ways I am blessed in this season of my life. My son is excited to go to college. He makes friends easily, is organized with his schoolwork, and has a fair amount of common sense. I don’t even have to worry about him being far from home because he has decided to stay in state. So my go-to-cry-song—Half a World Away by R.E.M—doesn’t really apply. I can also see how God has been preparing us for his eventual departure all along. Half-days at preschool school gave way to full days. Saturdays filled with soccer, or scouts, eventually became filled with part time jobs. And then during his senior year I hardly ever saw him, even less so this summer. Work, his friends, and surfing kept him busy and away from home. So why is this so hard? I think what it boils down to is this: I will no longer be a mother with a school-aged child still at home. The period of my life that I have enjoyed so much, with all its ups and downs, the one that I have dreamed of since I was a girl, has come to an end. And that is why on this past Sunday, when the deacon at our church told the soon-to-be-college-students to keep their faith and come back to us safely, my son turned around, looked at me and said, “Why are you CRYING?! What is WRONG with you?” Because wasn’t it just yesterday I was pushing him on the swings at Saint Andrews pre-school, or craning my neck to see if he was playing on the Christ Our King field whenever I drove down Coleman Boulevard at lunchtime? Will he really not be at Lucy Beckham High School anymore, when I pass by there on my trips up and down Mathis Ferry Road? Does anyone ever think the time will actually come when their child leaves home? My parents recently sold the house I grew up in. Even though it has been over 30 years since I graduated from high school and left home, my mom said one of the best things about moving was not having to walk by my old room anymore. She said that she still, after all these years, would sometimes feel a ping in her heart when she passed by my empty room at the top of the stairs. I never understood that. Until now. My son’s room is also at the top of the stairs. Right across from the bathroom. Which brings me back to the bathroom renovation. There are many things about both my son and the old bathroom that I won’t miss. In the bathroom I won’t miss the mold, the broken vanity, or the perma-drip from the faucets. With my son, I won’t miss the arguing, seeing the amount of time he spends on his phone, or how he inhales entire sleeves of crackers or cookies at a time—and then stuffs the wrapping in between the couch cushions; (actually, I think that might be my husband). Soon my son will be off and shortly after the bathroom will be completely ripped apart—a pretty messy transition—six to eight weeks my contractor tells me. No such time line for when my heart is gutted. Though I do know I need to allow myself to feel all my feelings and to grieve and honor the magnitude of this life transition. I will also do my best to go easy on my husband who will be grieving in his own way, most likely with a giant Italian hoagie. But in the end, after all is said and done, there will be something new and transformed. Because John 12:24 says this: Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. Seeds when planted appear to die, but it is only so they can become what they are meant to be. And isn’t that what launching our children into adulthood is all about? All our lives we have strived to plant seeds in our children—seeds of faith, hope and love. Yes, we have to let them go, give them roots and give them wings as the old saying goes. But we can still hold them close in prayer—praying that one day all those seeds that we have carefully planted and nurtured along the way, will one day bear fruit. So now the time has come for me to envision Jesus taking my son’s hand—the very same one that once eagerly grasped mine as we walked into that first day of preschool together —into his own. I can trust Jesus will be with him as he ventures off into new, unchartered territory. Just as he will be with me as I say goodbye to such a sweet and tender season in my life, one that I don’t really want to let go of just yet. And at the end of the day—or rather “six to eight-weeks”—I am sure there will be plenty of tears (mine), hoagies (my husband’s), and dust, plenty of dust. But at least I have Thanksgiving to look forward to…and hopefully, a new bathroom as well.
Not all angels have wings: Memories of Elizabeth
As seen in the Moultrie News - December 2023
“That is such a funny little ornament,” my husband says almost every year when I take out the angel with the wild hair. I always try to put her in a prominent place on the tree because she reminds me of an angel I once taught at school. As any teacher knows we all have had students we will always remember. Elizabeth was that kind of student for me. And I will never forget a certain incident that happened when she was in my care. Elizabeth was probably about ten years old when I met her. She had been in a wheelchair since she was a child because she had been born with Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy. But she was one of the most positive people I knew and was always in good spirits. As she grew older, she loved being on the cheerleading team, being out in the sunshine at recess, and of course—just like all my other students—she loved when we went to the animal shelter. I taught a life skills class each semester and every week a small group of kids would pile in my car and we would go to the shelter to walk the dogs and play with the cats. When Elizabeth was in my class her mother would leave me her van (which could accommodate her wheelchair) and she would take my Honda Accord for the day. One particular afternoon we happily set off in the van. It was me, Elizabeth, and a handful of other children—mainly boys. All was going well until we parked. I let the ramp down and somehow when Elizabeth’s wheelchair made it to the bottom of the ramp, it crashed into the car parked next to us. She wasn’t hurt, but unfortunately the car was. I can’t remember if it was a scratch or a dent, but it was noticeable. The boys scrambled out of the van and screeched, “OHHHHH, Elizabeth, you’re going to be in bigggggg trouble!!! Look what you’ve done!!!” I tried to assess the damage while telling the boys to calm down. At the same time I tried to console Elizabeth who had put her head down and began crying. The next step was going inside the shelter and finding out whose car this was. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday and not crowded so it was easy to locate the owner of the car. Soon we met the young man and told him what had happened. He came outside with me expectantly as the boys trailed behind him. Poor Elizabeth was so upset. But I will never forget this young man and the sweet and tender look that came across his face when he saw Elizabeth. He knelt down so he was on her level and smiled. “Oh Sweetie, it’s nothing to worry about. Please don’t be upset. I care more that you are okay than about the car.” I honestly don’t even think he looked at the car. He was more concerned about making Elizabeth feel comfortable. And right then I realized that there are so many wonderful people in the world—truly angels all around us. He cared more about her well-being than his car. He just didn’t want her to be upset. That man never got our information, and never even gave us his name and number, he simply left and went about his day. And we went about ours, playing with the cats and walking the dogs. I hadn’t thought about that incident until I ran into Elizabeth while out shopping about eight years ago. Though I could tell she was struggling, she looked beautiful and excitedly told me that her 30th birthday was coming up. We enjoyed reminiscing about all the fun times we had at school. “Remember when we used to go to the animal shelter?” I asked her. Of course she did. Positive energy radiated from her heart, as it always had. Elizabeth passed away one month after her 30th birthday. But I will never forget her—nor the man at the animal shelter who so kindly ignored the damage to his car. Both he and Elizabeth chose their attitudes about the circumstances in their lives, and that made all the difference in the world.
Ode to John Jakes: for the love of Charleston
As seen in the Moultrie News - December 2024
I will never forget that fateful night back in 1985 when a seed for my future was planted. My parents had just left me alone in our rural New England house to go to one of my father’s work events. I never liked to be alone in our secluded house that was surrounded by woods. So I distracted myself by sitting on the couch, petting my dog, and flipping through the channels—trying my best to ignore the ax murder that was probably lurking somewhere outside. And then I stopped flipping, instantly transfixed by the beauty that came from the TV screen. I had just turned on the premier of North and South, the made-for-TV miniseries written by John Jakes. For the next two hours I was completely transported to another time, to another era in the most beautiful city I had ever seen. When my parents breezed in later that evening, I hardly noticed. For I had just discovered Charleston, South Carolina and knew I had to go there someday. A few years later, when I began applying for colleges, I learned about the College of Charleston. My parents told me to arrange an interview, book a plane ticket and find myself a “reasonable hotel,” a Holiday Inn they suggested. So I called the 1-800 number and booked the closest Holiday Inn property, just a mile or so from the College. When the taxi pulled up to Mills House Hotel on the corner of Meeting and Queen, I couldn't believe my eyes. If this was Charleston’s version of the Holiday Inn then I was sold! With time to kill before the college interview, my best friend and I asked the concierge where we should go. I will never forget her words: “Just turn right and keep walking,” she said. So we did, down Meeting Street, crossing Broad Street, and heading toward the Battery. We passed by cobblestone streets, beautiful homes lit with gas lanterns, and flowers and shrubs that bloomed behind walled gardens or overflowed from flowerboxes. It was October, with a high maybe in the mid-seventies and there was hardly any traffic. The genteel, nostalgic energy of the city wrapped around me like a cloak I would never want to shed. And during my first semester of college, when I discovered the Cathedral on Broad Street, I knew without a doubt that I had found my new home. Thirteen years later, when I met my husband, he asked what brought me to Charleston. “Have you ever heard of North and South?” I asked sheepishly. He had. He even had seen some of it being filmed on his lunch breaks. Which brings me back to John Jakes. I recently learned that John Jakes passed away earlier this year on March 11th at the age of 90. Through his writing John Jakes taught me so much. The way he crafted stories and characters, the way he used tension, and the way he did so much careful research on his subjects was nothing short of brilliant. I never met him, but once as a surprise, my husband sent him a book and asked him to sign it for me. He told John Jakes I was his biggest fan. But John Jakes never knew the extent of it. So at this time of year, as we remember and honor those who have passed away in the prior twelve months, I remember with gratitude the author who introduced me to Charleston, South Carolina. Because from the very first day I stepped outside of its sleepy airport, this beautiful city had my heart. Stories have the power to change lives and I will always be grateful for how God used John Jakes to change mine.
A notable reminder from 'The Golden Bachelor'
As seen in the Moultrie News -January 2024
A couple of months ago, a flurry of texts started appearing on my phone about The Golden Bachelor. It was a thread that included my mother, cousin and aunt. They really had a lot to say about this popular reality show. Having never watched The Bachelor, I only skimmed the texts, but I have to admit, they did have me intrigued. So when I was sick a few weeks later and trying to distract myself, I came across the show. And even though I was feverish, I did make some immediate observations. Gerry, 72 years old, was handsome. He had aged well as they say. He was also kind, empathetic and appeared genuine. The three attractive women still left at this point also seemed nice…and energetic…and head over heels in love with Gerry! The next day I called my friend—a devoted watcher—and my mother, who although is not a member of “Bachelor Nation” had decided to tune into this version. I barraged them with questions. “You don’t understand,” my friend began, “this is how it works. You have to watch from the beginning…” So since I was still sick, I enjoyed a couple of more episodes. Then a week or so later, when my husband was out late for a work event, I binge watched three episodes in a row. By now I considered myself somewhat caught up. “It’s so obvious who he is going to choose,” I said to my mom and friend when the finale was about to air. “It’s Leslie.” Ah yes, Leslie was earthy and sensual and laid back, and Gerry appeared really smitten. Leslie seemed like an “old soul” and had openly shared throughout the season how she had a rough go of it when it came to love. I think many people were rooting for her. So I was completely shocked when Gerry did a complete turn around and chose Theresa. But as the live audience watched Gerry and Leslie talk—when Leslie knew he wasn’t going to choose her—you could literally hear a pin drop. And in a raw and poignant moment, Leslie cried from the depths of her soul, “Nobody ever chooses me,” she sobbed. “You didn’t choose me.” And right then, as I swallowed and watched someone in so much pain bare their very soul, I could only envision Jesus wrapping his arms around her and saying: I choose you, Leslie. I choose you. Because wasn’t it he who had known her since the beginning of time? Knew every pain she had ever endured, every tear she has ever shed? And even if she was the only person left on earth, wouldn’t he still have died for her, because he loved her, fully, completely, unconditionally? I think it took great courage for Leslie to share her heart. In fact, many women on the show bravely expressed what so many of us have felt or experienced: the vulnerability that comes with aging, the fear of being alone, the deep pain and sadness of having lost a spouse—or never having had one at all. So many people could relate and empathize. I felt for Gerry, too. It was obvious how hard it was for him to make decisions that he knew would hurt people, break their hearts, even. It was hard to watch sometimes. But Gerry could only choose one and as I thought of the women left behind, going forward with their lives, a song came to mind, a beautiful hymn, “Like a Shepard,” based on Isaiah 40. Like a shepherd he feeds his flock and carries the lambs in his arms, holding them carefully close to his heart, leading them home. So as the live wedding between Gerry and Theresa gets set to air, I am sure another flurry of texts will appear on my phone. In the end, I am glad I tuned in. Because the show was a reminder for me that we all need love in our lives, no matter what our age. Because through love—whether from a spouse, family member, friend, or even a pet, sometimes especially through a pet—we are shown just a glimpse of that deep, all-encompassing love that God has for each and every one of us. And that is the happiest ending of all.
Why I pray for South Carolina's death row prisoners every time one is executed
As seen in The State -January 2025
I was somber the entire drive. We were going to visit our son at college, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking about the prisoner who was going to be put to death later that September day. “Why so quiet?” my husband asked. I told him I was praying for the prisoner who was to be executed. I did not know all the details. I had only skimmed the headline before we left that morning, and it made me feel powerless. “How about praying for the victim, and for their family?” he responded. “Yes, that too,” I said. I had always felt a call to pray for prisoners. I figured they must have been so very troubled to commit such heinous crimes—lack of a stable family life, lack of means, lack of love. It made me think of the variety of circumstances that each person is born into, or faces in life. There but for the grace of God go I is such a humbling phrase. I’ve never been an advocate of the death penalty. Was it really that much of a deterrent? Wouldn’t an able body be better used working in prison for the duration of their life? Perhaps, as many say, it is the only way for the families of the victims to feel any sense of justice and to get closure. Still, it troubles me. As we continued driving, I wondered what time the prisoner was set to be executed. (It was set for 6 p.m.) I wondered if there was going to be a last-minute pardon. (There would not.) I wondered how incredibly nerve-racking that must be for everyone involved. “I would like to make our first stop church,” I said to my husband. “To pray. Is that okay?” He nodded. We arrived at the church shortly before 3 p.m. It was empty save for a few people scattered about who were quietly praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament. I prayed The Divine Mercy Chaplet for the prisoner—that his heart would be repentant and open to God’s great love. I prayed for the soul of the victim. And I prayed that the victim’s family would have peace—a peace that surpassed all understanding. Outside the college town was so alive. People were everywhere, shopping, eating and drinking, and getting ready for the football game the next day. But not too far away someone was getting ready to be put to death. Getting ready to meet their Maker. My heart felt heavy, burdened. There was so much sadness in the world, so much killing. But as I continued praying, a gentle peace washed over me. The hushed quiet of the church calmed my anxiety. The sun shone through the windows, illuminating the stained glass with rays of light, reminding me of all the beauty and goodness in the world. Hymns rose inside me. The execution on September 20 was the first of several to be scheduled in South Carolina after a 13-year hiatus. Just six weeks later, as I was going up to visit my son for his birthday weekend, I repeated the same routine for another prisoner. Despite our family’s joyous occasions, the state’s scheduled ending of a life kept creeping into my thoughts. When saying the rosary, each decade ends with “Lead all souls to heaven…especially those in most need of thy mercy.” This reminds me that each and every soul is precious to God. For there is no sin greater than God’s mercy. And though I am powerless over the fate of the prisoners on death row—including the one scheduled to be put to death this Friday—I still have the power to pray.