Seneca, S.C. -- Lindsey Graham closed out what would be his last campaign the same way he had for more than 30 years, in the place that made him.

On June 8, he worked the laminate tables in the brightly lighted dining room at Skins' (home of "The TRUE Southern Hotdog"), nudging folks to have another of the pork-and-beef dogs that would normally run $2.70. "It's on me tonight," he said.

Skins', now an 11-restaurant institution here in Upstate South Carolina, started out as a pool hall. Its come-as-you-are atmosphere was deeply familiar to Graham, who grew up selling hot dogs in his parents' pool hall about 14 miles east in Central. He had long kept a home in Seneca, a short drive from Skins'.

The days before had been a slog. Graham had been leaning on his colleagues to fully fund border patrol and ICE, including in a marathon 18-hour voting session, part of his role as Senate budget chairman. But that Monday night a month ago, on the eve of the GOP primary, he told the crowd that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

"I grew up right down the road," he said. "I live about a mile from here. I'm going to bed tonight in my own bed for the first time in a long time, knowing that you have my back."

For decades, Graham was on a first-name basis with world leaders and among the most plugged-in Beltway insiders regardless of who occupied the White House. But at home, he was "just Lindsey." He wore khakis and a ball cap, roamed Walmart without an entourage and, since he famously didn't cook, ate out frequently at Skins' but also at Chick-fil-A, Olive Garden and the locally owned 1826 Bistro on the Green in nearby Pendleton.

"He's by far the most famous person that ever came out of Central," said Al Cumbie, 74, the town's former mayor and manager of the local funeral home. "So we were all proud of that."

Since the news of Graham's death on Saturday, that pride has taken on a different tone. On Sunday, the pastor at Corinth Baptist Church, where Graham was a member, said prayers for Graham and his sister, Darline Graham, who has since been picked to fill the rest of his Senate term.

On Monday, Central had a solemn air, with misty gray skies and flags at half-staff, including some lowered hours before Gov. Henry McMaster gave the official order. Television news crews gathered near the railroad tracks.

Central Mayor Ken Dill said some residents were too choked up to speak.

"He had friends, he had people that lived and worked with him for 40 years," Dill, 67, said over coffee at Jitters Brewing Company. "Those people were shocked and hurt."

Central is trying to build a new fire station, and earlier this year Graham's office secured $2 million in federal funds to help with construction, Dill said -- the kind of "local boy done good" the town won't forget.

Over the years, Graham kept up with his old classmates from D.W. Daniel High School, sending flowers when anyone lost a parent and showing up at funerals, where he insisted on waiting in line to greet the family. Now, it was his sudden death, at age 71, that everyone was talking about.

'You made me the man I am today'

Graham hails from the northwestern corner of South Carolina known as the "Golden Triangle" and "the foothills of the mountains." Anchored by Clemson University and dotted with former mill towns, it carries a decidedly working-class history that is a world removed from the chummy capital of Columbia and the wealthy cities along the coast. When Graham's hometown tried to name a street after him, he waved it off, saying there was no need to make a fuss.

Since the 1990s, Graham had lived in a one-story white-brick ranch in a wooded subdivision on a peninsula of Lake Hartwell, one of several man-made lakes in the area. He grew up, though, in Central, on West Main Street, the small town's main drag.

He kicked off his long shot 2016 presidential bid downtown, across the street from what was once the Sanitary Cafe, his late parents' pool hall and bar, and the home where he grew up right next door. They died within about 15 months of each other while Graham was at the University of South Carolina, leaving him to raise his sister, who was nine years younger. He adopted her after his parents' death so she could qualify for military benefits. She was beside him onstage that day.

"There are a lot of so-called 'self made' people in this world," he said. "I am not one of them. My family, friends, neighbors and my faith picked me up when I was down, believed in me when I had doubts. You made me the man I am today."

Constituents and friends say they felt free to challenge Graham. "You could tell him what you thought and he would never take it personal," Cumbie said. He recalled chatting with Graham one day and asking him point-blank why he had backed Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan for the Supreme Court. "Lindsey, what in the world?" Cumbie remembers saying.

Graham replied that President Barack Obama had won the election and deserved support for his choice. "His chain of thought was to be a statesman," Cumbie said.

Some in the area questioned whether Graham lost that instinct over the years, particularly after he became one of President Trump's biggest boosters.

"Once McCain died, everything changed," said Jeff Bennett, 65, who went to high school in Central and -- though he considers himself a left-leaning independent -- voted for Graham up until 2020. "For him to turn around and basically rubber stamp everything Trump said after that, it was kind of mind-boggling. I felt really disappointed."

Cumbie views it differently. "I don't think he changed. I think the country changed," he said, describing Graham as someone squeezed from both flanks, including a movement in South Carolina to dump him for being too willing to work with Democrats. "I always thought that was a strength," Cumbie said.

Before he ran for public office, Graham served as an assistant Oconee County attorney and as the attorney for his hometown. He bristled at bureaucracy at times but appreciated that there were limits to what government could do, said S.C. Senate President Thomas C. Alexander, who started his Seneca legal practice around the same time as Graham.

In those days, there was a local committee seeking to get rid of kudzu, an invasive plant that blankets much of the rural South. Graham had to temper their expectations, recalled Alexander, 69, laughing at the memory. "It was a serious issue for folks but at the same time, he knew the reality of the art of what was possible," he said. "That's been a hallmark of my friend Lindsey Graham all these years."

As Graham wrapped up his remarks at Skins' last month, he thanked the crowd for a lifetime of support. "How can I pay you back? By being the best senator I know how to be."

Write to Cameron McWhirter at Cameron.McWhirter@wsj.com and Valerie Bauerlein at Valerie.Bauerlein@wsj.com

(END) Dow Jones Newswires

July 13, 2026 20:00 ET (00:00 GMT)

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