Stepping On My Grave

No, I didn't die.

I was just resting.

Actually, I've been driving some, and I hurt my wrist a little, so I took a while off from typing. I'm not dying anytime soon. But I have been wondering about our fascination with graves, the famous, the infamous, and the unknown.

I wrote about Tom Dula's grave in my book. It is difficult to find, up a muddy and overgrown path, and possibly on private property, but still it has been visited numerous times, to the point that it turned into a souvenir stand for overzealous fans. Why I don't know, he was a bit of a syphilis infested cretin who slept around and may or may not have killed a girl. Still, we want to see it.

Less visited, even though it is just down the road, is Laura Foster's grave. Laura didn't get a trial, let alone two, but she got a rather pretty and peaceful resting place. Less molested than Dula's that's for sure. It could have something to do with being surrounded by cows and an electric fence.

Less known for the person in the grave, and more for the statue on it, Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward Angel stands in a cemetery in Hendersonville. It is a marker for Margaret Johnson. This sculpture has seen its share of repairs. The wing has fallen off and been fixed, and now it resides behind a wrought iron fence.

A more hidden, and less known grave, if you can call it that, is Annie Lee's grave marker. A stone pylon was designed by a Confederate veteran to honor the final resting place of the daughter of the famous general. Annie died young, and was placed in the small cemetery because it would have been impossible for her remains, and her family, to travel back to her mother's ancestral home. Her mother, a descendant of George Washington, had lost the farm when they had to move after threats from the Republican government nearby, since she was the wife of Robert E. Lee. Her home was then given up to become a military cemetery.

A more peaceful spot is where Robert Harrell rests now. More well known as the Fort Fisher Hermit, his grave is decorated with shells, photos, and a pan where people can still give him a few coins to help him out. 

The curious thing about his gravesite is that it sits just outside a cemetery. There is a local Methodist church cemetery there, where an old church used to sit. The church cemetery is still used, but Harrell's grave is not inside the fences. It sits in an older spot, a local historical site, with a few other graves. I'm guessing that he was placed there before the cemetery was well used. I know that the spot was donated for his resting place by a local family.

There are so many grave sites that seem to be famous, either for who rests there, or what they represent. I haven't been to the grave of the little girl buried in a keg of rum, or the grave of a man's legs, the one that looks like tree branches, There's the grave of the guy who got trampled by an elephant, and they put an elephant on his grave marker. Kinda cruel, I think, but then, maybe th elephant got his revenge. Otway Burns has a grave with one of his cannons on it in Beaufort, NC. And there are the two grave sites in Hatteras and Ocracoke where British sailors rest after their ships were torpedoed during World War II.

I did once try to go find Chang and Eng Bunker's grave near Mt. Airy once, but I was with my sister-in-law, and didn't want to seem extra creepy searching out a grave site when she just wanted to go to Mayberry. 

Plus I really have mixed emotions about visiting and discussing people's graves. I like the weird stories, the strange events that either led up to their final spots, or just the rather unique markers they use. But at the same time, I don't like the idea of sending people to see them, trampling underfoot the peaceful graves of someone's family member just to get to another person's grave. 

At the same time, one day, long in the future, when I finally shed this mortal coil, I wouldn't mind a cool marker for people to visit. Maybe a giant question mark. And a picnic table.

You can drive my car

We went to the British car show at Shelton Vineyards this past weekend. Packed full of Triumphs, MGs, and quite a few Austin Healeys, it was, as usual, a fun day out for us. The vineyard is a nice setting for a show, and a picnic, and a great spot for my daughter to wander around, as well as get invited to sit in a bunch of old cars. Those things are so tiny, she almost fits now. Give her a phone book and she could drive on of those Triumphs.

On the tractor ride around the farm, one guy, a member of the Triumph club, suggested I get her a pink Triumph. I agreed, as that would be a good way to keep her at home. I don't know if he got it or not. See, Triumphs and other little British cars are notoriously unreliable and... well, there's a lot of baling wire involved.

I must say, I am surprised that I don't see the roads leading up to Shelton littered with little MGs steaming and smoking, dying by the side of the road like a squashed groundhog. When I lived in California, I enjoyed going to the different shows at Monterey Historics Weekend. The place was crawling with Ferraris. Lamborghinis, Bentleys, and more. We would take the day off on Friday to go to the big Concorso Italiano to see all the new and old Italian cars. And that spot, wow, those things would overheat as soon as they stopped. Those high end Ferraris really needed air going into their radiators to keep them from popping. 

Having a sports car, whether it is a classic little machine or a high end supercar, is a challenge and a risk. There's a reason you can find Maseratis that normally coast close to $100K on sale used at around $35,000. The brake job on many of those cars can cost more than an entire car. It may not stop you from wanting one of these, but don't think that a classic can be a good daily driver.

I remember seeing a Jaguar XK120 at a dealership in Monterey once. I was commenting on how nice looking it was, when the salesman pointed out that it had no seatbelt, and the unpadded dash was probably right at the height your chin would be if your head went forward in a crash. 

I'm liking my SUV with a dozen air bags more and more.

Cross That Bridge When You Come To It

I made a big, fast journey down to, well, I keep wondering if the whole area has a name. I started near the SC border and made my way up through Carolina Beach. I gotta figure out where I was because I need a name for the book. Anyway, after my first stop, I made it quickly to the old pontoon bridge that used to cross the intracoastal waterway to Sunset Beach. I planned to stay just for a bit, take a few pictures, then get on the road, hit the other spots I needed to, meet up with someone I planned to meet, and get in to Southport early so I could shoot a little, eat a good dinner and go to bed early.

No such luck.

Actually, my luck got a whole lot better. The pontoon bridge had a volunteer there that happily spent the better part of an hour telling me old stories about the bridge and all the people who got to cross it, or wait to cross it. I missed out on a lot of other places, but I got so much out of that stop. Sometime, you just have to roll with it, and something good comes out of your time.

The pontoon bridge was a very simple design, meant to do the menial job of letting cars cross the water to the newly developed Sunset Beach, while at the same time, letting boats go through the waterway it spanned. The bridge itself was a low simple design, separated by a floating barge of sorts, on pontoons, so that it rose and fell with the tide, that swung out as if on a hinge to open a breech in the bridge for boats to go through. On the hour, two ramps lifted up, and then a big diesel engine would work a winch to pull the floating part open for boats to get through. Because the bridge was so low, pretty much every boat had to wait for the bridge to open to get through. It opened on the hour and closed when the line of boats got through. If a boat came by late, it either tried to run the closing gap, often catching the closing wire on the winch that shut the bridge, or had to wait until the next hour. Because of this, many people traveling the waterway had to plan their visits according to the time of the bridge's opening. It's 15 minutes til? We gotta go!

Of course, when the bridge was open, the road was closed. Traffic would stack up, cars would turn off their engines, and people got out to watch. No use sitting in the hot cars. You weren't going anywhere. You just hoped the bridge got closed before your cold food got warm, or melted.There was no shopping on the island, so people had to take everything in.

Now, this seems like one of those idyllic old timey stories from back long ago when people piled into the big station wagon and traveled to the beach, their only toys a towel and maybe a bucket and shovel. Which would be true. Except that the bridge was used up until January of 2011. And it wasn't like the bridge was even 1950s technology when it was built. This thing was pretty much thrown together to make things work, to get people over to the island.

So there are lots of stories about waiting for the bridge. Lots of stories of being stuck while the bridge was open, or closed. Or broken. And I got to hear them. I can't wait to put them all down in my book.

The bridge was picked up and moved to preserve it, along with the bridge tender house. It;s now a bridge over land. And a lot of history.

The best of times

I just got back from the Outer Banks. It was unfortunate that I had the dregs of a cold, icky sinuses, rainy days, and a wrenched muscle in my back. On the plus side, I spent time with my father. So, all in all, it was a positive trip.

My father has all the best stories. Best in good stories, best in adventures, best in tales. Not all stories are happy, but they are good. He told me this one before, but he added a little more this time.

Once when he was in college, he and some buddies of his went out sailing in the Pamlico Sound. Now this way before the days of checking the weather reports and radar. Heck, it might have been before flare guns for all I know. Anyway, it was a nice day, so they went for a sail.

Of course, as you can guess it, a storm came up, and their boat tipped over. Unable to right it, they all clung to the hull of the ship. My father looked about in all directions, but there was no sign of land, just stirring water and waves everywhere. Only in the far off distance was a house on a point. So my father said, "Look, we can't just stay here. No one knows we're gone, no one is going to come looking for us. I'm going to swim to that house to get help. You all stay here, don't move. (He meant don't swim off from the boat.) Keep watching that house. When I get there, I'll wave my shirt so you know I got there." And he and one friend set off through the churning water to get to the house, miles away.

Of course, he finally made it to the house. Only to discover that the house was abandoned and dilapidated. However, he figured there had to be a path to the house, and a road at the beginning of the path. So they set off over a grassy track and finally made it to a road. Walking down the road, he was finally able to flag down a truck, go in to nearby Aurora, and get help for his friends.

That is where the story usually ended for him, when he told it to me. This weekend, he was reminiscing about his friend he swam with, as he had recently attended his funeral. So this time, he added a little bit more.

He said he always held the people of Aurora in high regard. When they were rescued, the whole town turned out, gave them a warm place, hot food, dry clothes, a place to stay. What they did was important. It was a an act of kindness by a whole town.

Now, I love the story, and the addition I just heard. But more than that, I like that he has a story to tell. It might be a little scary, and at least it has a happy ending, but mostly, he has stories to tell his family. Stories are important. Sometimes it's better to have a memory than a photograph.

Fort Fisher Hermit

I'm going to start out by saying, if you want to know more about the Fort Fisher Hermit, please read the chapter in my first book, Did You See That? A GPS Guide to North Carolina's Out of the Ordinary Attractions. It contains a fairly complete, yet concise, tale of Robert Harrill's life and times, as well as information on his tragic death. Harrill's story is pretty amazing, and it was the reason my once short little book of weird places in NC became the much longer behemoth that it is now. After learning about Harrill and his life, I just couldn't write about him in a few paragraphs.

For those of you that don't know about Harrill, I'll give you a quick synopsis. He lived near Charlotte as a child and young adult, but after several bad turns for him, most which were not really his fault, he decided to run away to the coast, south of Kure Beach to the uninhabited shores past Fort Fisher. He was 63 years old at the time. He lived for 17 years in an old concrete bunker, and became known as the Fort Fisher Hermit, a celebrity on the coast for tourists and locals alike.

Sadly, not all people liked Harrill. Often, people would go down and harass the old man. It was something people would do "for fun." Ultimately, the "fun" probably cost Harrill his life. Some boys went down to see him in June of 1972, only to find him dead, tossed on top of a pile of junk in his bunker, with the signs of a struggle all around the sand outside. Police and the medical examiner ruled his death natural causes, essentially saying he died when his heart failed from being an old man living alone in a bunker on the beach.

Now, obviously, there is more to this story. As I recommended at the beginning, please read my chapter on Harrill in my book for more information. I've just got to say that this has always preyed on my mind some ever since I wrote the chapter. Who killed the Fort Fisher Hermit?

It should have been easy to figure out. Harrill had told some visiting locals that there were people out bothering him the day before, in a VW Beetle. A popular car, sure, but just how many were there around Carolina Beach at the time? I just got suspicious. I mean, it most likely was someone from the area, maybe as far as Wilmington, sure, which would really enlarge the search, but still, probably younger, probably male, probably more than one person. And as I learned more and more, probably known by other people as the likely suspect. I even remember an interview with a filmmaker, I believe, who was asked if he could discover who did it, and his response was something to the effect of, "I still have to live here."

Harrill's family even wanted to know, They were sure it was murder, or at least not natural causes. As it turned out, several people knew who the alleged attackers were. Michael Edwards, who headed the Fort Fisher Hermit Society, was told by other locals of overhearing the men who did the crime discussing it many years later. Four young men went to hassle the Hermit, pulling him out of his sleeping bag, and chasing him into the marsh, where Harrill then fell and went limp from a heart attack. The men put Harrill back in the bunker and left. Edwards went on to explain that it was more likely a bullying gone horribly wrong rather than an actual murder, and that the people were known in the community, and that they know that others know.

This is all alleged in an article in the Star-News from 2001.

And what bothers me? What just kinda creeps me out? Aside from the death, the bullying, the sad history? I'm surprised after all this time that nothing more has been done. I can understand letting the dead rest in peace, but it it just feels really creepy to know that there probably, possibly, allegedly, are a few men, now in their 60s, still walking around, knowing they caused the death of someone. And there are people who know who they are. And they are satisfied with the way things are like that. The horrors of the conscious... 

The Cora Tree

     When I first heard of this legend, I just didn't believe it. I'll tell you a shortened version of the story...

Long ago, before Hatteras was a destination for tourists, or a marker for navigation, it served as a quiet yet hardscrabble land for the few fishermen and their families. The men spent most of their time upon the sea, and the women and children spent most of their time worrying about the men, probably. Then there was Cora.

Cora lived alone in a shack on the soundside of Buxton. She had no family, except for a small child, a quiet and solemn little one that was always her companion. If others had things to complain, she certainly didn't. The fishermen knew that there would be good days and bad days, when the wind blew hard or when the sails were still, the nets were full or empty. But Cora always had fish.

Of course, the rest of the village was sure Cora was a witch.

Once, a cow stopped giving milk when she touched it. And a young boy fell deathly ill, almost dying, when he made a face and teased Cora's child. People knew to give her a wider berth.

Locals knew. Visitors did not. And oddly enough, Hatteras did on occasion get visitors. They were not entirely wanted, nor were they willing. But Hatteras was not known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic for nothing. Shipwrecked sailors occasionally washed up on shore, as they would for centuries on the sandy spit of land.

A certain Captain Blood wound up in that exact position. He and his crew washed ashore along with all the other flotsam that accompanies a good shipwreck. The good captain was taken in by the townsfolk, while his crew enjoyed setting up camp on the beach, and living the reckless life. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Unfortunately, one of the local young men of the village turned up more than slightly dead on the beach one morning. Small footprints led away into the woods, and the numbers 666 were carved into his forehead, above a face frozen in terror.

So of course, it had to be a witch.

Now, the rest of the town were willing to ponder the chances of this, but Captain Blood was a man of action. The captain, a New England sailor, had long dealt with witches, so he said, and he quickly gathered up poor Cora and performed his dastardly tests on her, throwing her into the sound to see if she would float, trying to cut her hair, the usual. He proclaimed her a witch and decided to tie her to a tree and burn her, along with her wicked child. The townsfolk were aghast, they insisted that she be taken to the mainland and be tried. But Captain Blood was not to be swayed.

When he approached the tree with his torch, the sky began to darken and boil. A storm appeared on the formerly cloudless day. A bolt of lightning flashed and its thunder cracked immediately after. The tree was split down to the trunk; all around were knocked to the ground, senseless.

When they awoke, the smell of brimstone permeated the air. The ropes still twisted around the tree, blackened and smoking. But no Cora, and no child. Cora had vanished utterly.

Now, the story could end there, just another fancy tale on the Outer Banks, if not for one thing. The tree is still there.

A huge old oak stumbles out of the ground, reaching up and out with splintered limbs. The tree hangs on, even though it suffers a vicious wound. The trunk is ripped open, with a big dark hole in it. And carved into the wood, as if with a scorching finger, is the name CORA.

if you want to know more, and where to find the tree, check out Did You See That? On The Outer Banks, on sale at Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/Did-You-That-Outer-Banks-ebook/dp/B00Q7MV1NK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Who's That Guy With The Big Head?

Early on I had to, had to in that I must, I needed, I wanted to badly, go down to Charlotte, to see Metalmorphosis.

Okay, I think we were there for a doctor's visit or something. Anyway...

Metalmorphosis is a giant metal sculpture by David Černý, an artist from the Czech Republic. He did some famous work in Europe, including painting a Soviet tank pink, babies crawling up a building, a giant middle finger, and a guy hanging from one hand on a pole off the roof of an office.

I like this guy.

Metalmorphosis is a gigantic shiny metal head that rotates over a reflecting fountain. Yes, it rotates, but it also is segmented, so each part of his head, from bottom to top, rotates as well.

It also spits water.

As we drove by the front of the building where it sits, it was facing forward, When we parked on the side, the head turned to look at us. Creepy.

Then the thing just started spinning around in circles in different directions. 

It's rumored that Cerny has access to a webcam and a remote control to make it do stuff when people are visiting. I believe it.

By the way, "Who's that guy with the big head?" is a famous line, one of many, from Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Tell Me The Truth, Do You Think I'm Pretty?

I'm sick.

No, not that kind, I've got a cold. Who the heck gets a cold days before spring?! I'm blaming it on the little girl with the sniffles at storytime when I tool my daughter to the library last week.

I hate being sick. I really do.

I've been wanting to do a little bit on all the things you can find at a hotel, and I guess this is as good a time as any. So, what if you are staying at a hotel, or more likely, a motel, and you get a cold? What to do?

Well, you'd be surprised at what those people have behind their desks up there at the front desk. Most clerks will have little packs of Tylenol or even Alka Seltzer, and that might get you through a night, or at least through a day long enough to get to a pharm to pick up something a little more potent.

But here's my few tips for helping out in the hotel room when you are feeling bad. Most rooms have coffee pots in them, or hot water in a lounge, which will really help sooth a sore throat. Stuffed up nose? Open up that little picnic pack they give you with a fork and spoon. Get the salt out and mix that with some warm water. It works pretty well as a decongestant. Aches and pains will melt a little in a really warm shower, but I wouldn't recommend a bath. Oh, a bath would be good, but you really don't know who's feet have been in there before you. You're already sick enough.

I always liked to think about little tricks and tips while I travel. I've become pretty good at packing well, but if you forget stuff, it's kinda fun to go see what you can find. Most places have a cheap toothbrush and toothpaste. But bring your own razor. The ones most hotels keep are probably good for bloodletting, but not for my chin. They are, however, pretty good at removing pill and fuzz from sweaters.

Once, my wife and I were heading out for a fancy dinner in some cosmopolitan city we were visiting, and I wanted to tame a vicious cowlick so I didn't look like Dennis the Menace. Mixing a packet of sugar in some water makes a pretty nice hair gel.

At least the bees thought so.

Locals Only?

This is an interesting one to write. I was inspired by a post I saw from Hidden Outer Banks, about how locals to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, some locals, refer to the summer influx of visitors by the derogatory term of tourons. For those of you not in the know, it is a combination of tourist and moron. It has been used in the past to describe the highly ignorant or stereotypical person or family, usually followed with a derpy impression of  "Which side of the beach is the ocean on?"

Hidden Outer Banks went on a well written diatribe of how the locals should not use the term, that the tourists bring the benefits of a robust economy, who pay the majority of taxes in occupancy fees and sales tax, as well as buying products and services, keeping the locals afloat through the summer so that the rest of the year, the quiet times, we live off the monetary fat stored during the summer's heat.

I agree.

And I disagree.

I grew up on the beach. I know what it was like in the early days, well, my early days at least. ( I actually saw a visitor reminisce about the good old days, like in 2000. Really???) There was a simple joy in the emptiness, the old houses, the journeys and fun stuff of being a kid in the 70s, being a teenager in the 80s. Yeah, I'm dating myself, so what? I also benefited from being in a family that wasn't directly dependent upon tourism for our income, so while it might have hurt a lot of people if the bridges just closed, it wouldn't have been too bad for me. Yes, that is a sort of "Apres moi le deluge" kinda thing, and I know it's not very fair.

Anyway, what I am saying is that there always will be a certain group who looks back with delight at what we had, and with disdain over what is now. Yes, sadly, because of the great demand for housing, the three story beach house with the pool in back, we no longer have much of what first made the Outer Banks special. The Galleon is gone, along with much everything else built there. So is Forbes mini golf, a beautiful and fun night out for local and guest alike. The Dairy Mart and its pizza burgers will ne'er cross my lips again, sadly. All because someone put up a house for someone from out of town to come and stay for a week. So I can understand a little bitterness.

But I also know that's not the fault of every out of state license plate that crosses over to the beach. I can get mad about them getting all the good parking spots at the beach, but if I just got up earlier, I would have gotten there. I'm sort of sad that giant buffets have taken over the beach, with giant prices. And the local haunts that do still exist are filled with not so local paying customers, looking for that "authentic" dinner.

But I can deal, I can deal... What I can't deal with is the people who make up their minds beforehand to be that moron, to actively choose to pull the "I pay your salary!" bit. That's where it gets tough. Hundreds and thousands of people we see every week in the summer, but you only remember that one, the guy who snakes the last parking spot you so patiently waited for, then laughs and calls you an a****le, the person who sits down on the beach next to you and smokes, the people who leave up the big cabana tents all week, the guy, really, I saw this happen, who took fishing lures from the sports section of K-mart to the jewelry section, asked the lady the price, and when it was too expensive, he wouldn't take them back, with this witty response, "Hey, I'm not gonna work, I'm on vacation."

I say all this just to say this next. When I go somewhere, I am always respectful. Always. Not just the usual, tipping well, being polite, keeping my hotel room clean, trying to drive appropriately, but full on kind to everyone. Hunter S. Thompson said once that the number one rule was, "Don't burn the locals." I never take advantage, I never think I am immune or above the rules. People like that make me a little ill, actually.

The problem at my beach is that, while there are so many people who want to come to my family home and enjoy for a week what I got for decades, there are still just too many, even in a minority, that show up acting like morons. Because they are. Perhaps we should shift away from the term tourons. Let's call them guests, friends, long missed pals. And I could say, let's save the derogatory terms just for those who deserve it. I'm sure many would agree with that. But instead of telling them they are tourons, let's start telling them they are wrong, and fix the problems.

Blowing up stuff in the backyard

Another early journey was to Shangri-La in Prospect Hill. For those of you who haven't yet made the pilgrimage to the Lilliputian town on the outskirts of Prospect Hill, NC, let me fill you in, It's a Lilliputian town on the outskirts of Prospect Hill, NC. Okay, it's actually this impressive miniature village made by the now late Henry Warren over several years. He saw a little waterwheel building at a store and decided to make one himself, using materials he found around his house. He built his first building from cement and quartz stone dug from his backyard. Liking what he did, he kept going.

His wife is quoted as saying, "When he started, he wasn't going to build much."

That's how quite a few of my chapters seem to have started out. Odd.

From 1968 to 1977 he made 30 different buildings, some fanciful, like the Dew Drop Inn, to an ABC store and the Watergate building. This was the 70s after all.

All the buildings have a distinct look to them, white stone with a brick red trim. Someone really made sure there was good zoning and permits in this place.

For a long time this was a real stopping point. Highway 86 was a major road for tourists coming to NC and the beaches, and Henry's place was a great stop off just to stretch the legs, let the kids run around like giants, and then get on their way. But the road got moved, just a little bit, and people no longer pulled to the side to wander over. It was less visited for a while, and after Henry passed on, it wasn't cared for as well. It took an act of a boy scout troop to go and clean up the place to make it presentable again. But now it sure looks cool.

There are a couple of things to notice if you go by. First, his house, still private property by the way, looks a lot like an oversized version of the buildings in the village. Also, as a marker, there is a large stone marker near the remains of a gas station where the frontage road connects to 86.

This was also the place where I first started photographing my car when I was at a site. I wanted to prove I was there. Now with the coming of Spring, I kinda miss the old convertible. No back seat for the kid, so it wouldn't be as much fun today, but still...

And, yes, Henry Warren quarried the stone from his backyard, with explosives. That's some kinda retirement.

A Bottle of Mouthwash at the Jack Tar

Staying at a hotel as a kid is a totally different experience than an adult. I'm sure a hotel or motel is seen as a place to sleep and shower by most parents, but for a little kid, it's a whole new world to explore, with different rules. You just gotta see how bouncy that bed is, and when do we go swimming?
I was going to just write a little piece on packing up when I go out exploring or on an overnight, and a few hints and tips on hotel stays, when I remembered staying at The Jack Tar in Durham when I was very little. I think my family was going to the National Track & Field Championships at Duke, and left me with my grandmother for the day. I probably got the better end of the deal.
What little I do remember was the experience of staying at such a fine hotel. I believe we must have actually stayed in the old Washington Duke, because we were fairly high up, and had to take the elevator to a high interior floor. The elevators in the Washington Duke had buttons that you merely need to brush, or perhaps breathe upon, to activate. Such joy there was in turning on those delicate chrome buttons that my brothers all got to enjoy the privilege of doing so, while I, the baby of the group, never got the chance. I did, however, get to buy something from the amazing vending machine in the Duke.
While most places would have a Coke machine and an ice maker, the old Washington Duke offered so much more. They actually had a machine that sold sundries, toothbrushes, sewing kits, rolaids, and, magically, a little glass bottle of mouthwash. I think I wanted it as much for the bottle as for the taste of the mouthwash itself. I remember it being a bit of an argument among both my brothers and my parents as to why I would chose that, but, upon reflection in hindsight, it still seems like the most logical choice. It was a quarter, expensive at the time, but I was able to use the mouthwash for weeks, barely taking a sip, just to experience the taste, the smell. What did I need a razor for?
The lesson I learned from this, as a parent now, it to let your children have these experiences. I don't mean you have to buy them everything they ask for. But there is a joy in knowing something will be yours, a reminder of the trip, an exercise that the kid gets to do. I thought of having my daughter, now that she's just old enough to make simple decisions, to have money on her own, just change to spend as she sees fit. it won't break the bank, and I still make sure she's not getting something that will be a total rip, Hopefully she will have the same memories I had of those times I got to stay in a hotel, a new world to discover, and treasure to take home.

Let's Go To The Beach!

I was really impressed by all the neat stuff I found at Carolina Beach. There is so much to see and find in the area. I feel like I have barely scratched the surface of the coast and Wilmington area. I'm heading out there this spring to do work on a new book.

... And Don't Take Your Wife

I've been to some spooky places. Graveyards, empty old houses, out in cold, stormy nights, slick back roads, and twisty mountain bends, cliffs on mountains that fell straight to the sea, hot, empty deserts miles away from anywhere with a flat tire, my trips ran the gamut. Not that I recommend doing any of that stuff. At least not without some good plans on being safe.
I say that because one of my earliest trips for my first book was with my wife. I was so delighted to find this place; it was just odd, out in the middle of nowhere, just so... unexpected.

It was the giant concrete legs in Henderson, NC.

Just, wow, man.

Ricky Pearce made the legs in a big concrete mold and lifted them into place. They sit nearly naked, except for a garter high up on the thigh. Instead of hiding the hip area in the trees, they stick out, unadorned, and more than a little suggestive. He made the sculpture as a tribute to Marilyn Monroe after seeing The Seven Year Itch. The additions to the property include a conveniently placed shrubbery, a path, and a sign that reads "Reminiscing." I missed out on the fact that he made a pair of high heel shoes for it that sit across the street.

Now I really thought this was just incredible as a creation. The legs are highly stylized, flat, with now peeling paint. I never saw anything suggestive about it. But my wife, well, she didn't feel the same about it. And I can't blame her. After a while, especially standing in the middle of them, I got a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. It was just wrong. I mean, it was creative, impressive, and kind of amazing, but still, just a little wrong to be there with my wife, and maybe not be so delighted in finding it. What can I say, I was early in my explorations, still glowing in the discovery. But I haven't been back since.

One day, maybe, when I'm heading in that direction, I'll see the legs again. Alone this time.

A Corner Of Lake Lure

There are quite a few places that sent me to writing my first book, but Lake Lure really got me wondering. Actually, it was coming back from Lake Lure on one of our trips there that got me curious, and kept me curious for years. One summer, all hot and sticky like summer in North Carolina can only be, we are driving back from our stay at the lake. Outside of Lake Lure is a very rural area, neat little pull offs and old places, just an interesting juxtaposition to the quiet luxury of the lake. But what really got me were the low spots and little valleys on the side of the road. In the heat, the kudzu vine grew like it was a petri dish, a giant green weedy salad that covered everything in its path. And I just wondered what could be hidden under all those leaves.
I found out later that there really is something hidden under there. Not the kudzu, but the lake itself.
When the river was impounded with the dam, the area was mostly farmland, but there was a small community still on the land. The story I heard was that the town of Buffalo was bought up, lock stock and barrel, by Lucius Morse when he decided to create Lake Lure. The few people that were there were told to get out with what they could carry. Thus the town, the houses and some of the other bits of life of a farm community were left behind.
My favorite part of the legend was that the church was located at the dead center of the lake. The cold deep water preserved the church, its stained glass still whole in the windows, offering a service to only the fish that swim that deep.
And maybe to the spirits that were laid to rest in now watery graves.
The legend goes that if you take a boat out to dead center in the lake at midnight, you can hear the watery chiming of the church bell, still in the steeple, calling the souls to their pews.

Over the years I discovered so many other legends and tales to the place. Chimney Rock, attached at one end, is noted for its ghostly visitors, and two hotels are said to be haunted.

But that's for another story.

I don't hate Nicholas Sparks

I was going to write about the time I explored Lake Lure, one of the events that led me to write my first book, when I saw a post about Nicholas Sparks this morning. It seems that yet another of his books is going to be turned into a movie.

Now, I've kind of knocked Nicholas Sparks in the past. My go to line is to ask people if they liked my books, then to go give them a good review, as it helps sales. And if they didn't like them, well, I'm Nicholas Sparks. In the hopes they go give him a bad review, see? (I'm not really Nicholas Sparks.)

I really have no contempt for Sparks; on the contrary, I have nothing but bonhomie for the hugely successful turkey guy. My hangup comes from a Facebook post I read a few years ago. Some NC page asked who their fans' favorite writer was, and in a landslide, Sparks was mentioned more than any other writer. Even worse, some of North Carolina's best and most famous were not even mentioned. O. Henry (not a native, but a North Carolinian nonetheless), Clyde Edgerton, Thomas Wolfe (!), David Drake and Orson Scott Card in science fiction writing, Haven Kimmel, Jerry Bledsoe, Tom Robbins, David Sedaris, Daniel Wallace... I mean, Daniel Wallace barely mentioned! Maybe he wasn't even mentioned.

No Carl Sandburg.

No Paul Green.

So, really, I'm more disappointed that the favorite author of most people in North Carolina is a guy who writes, by his own admission, the same book, over and over. Two people meet, they are slightly confronted by each other, have to overcome an external problem, grow closer, but can't be together for some reason, and they separate, benefiting from the closeness they gained.

Yeah, I read a few of his books. That's the thing. He's a good writer. He can put the words together well, and the story flows. He has appeal, he's fun, entertaining. And, honesty, if I thought I could make the money he makes off those things, I'd write the same book over and over, too. And he seems like a nice guy. He ran track, and built a new running track for the local high school in New Bern.

And I don't really blame him for the crummy movies made from his books; that's rarely the author's fault. And, I know, The Notebook is pretty good. What do you expect? I has James Garner in it. Rockford was awesome.

Soooo, yeah... If you ever see me knocking Nicholas Sparks, I do it with love. And maybe a little envy, but not much, I'm really not that kinda guy. But I do hope people would open their library up a little. There should be a competition for the best author in my home state. I'm going to keep working hard to be part of that.

You stayed WHERE?!

Once I was married, I learned quickly to spend the money on a decent hotel. Oddly, my wife was more of the cheaper, it's just a bed and shower, kind of person. I was somewhat keen on a decent place to stay, later a nice place, but I always wanted a good location. My idea of a good room was that I could sleep in a hammock, wake up, fall out and land on the beach.
I have stayed at a few less than hospitable places, and it seems like quite often they centered around trips to Las Vegas. Go figure. Our first trip we spent the night at the Bun Boy Motel, cause we just couldn't make it all the way there in one day. Windy and hot, it was 99 degrees at midnight, I saw a leaf scuttling in the wind outside our room. Wait, nope, that's a mouse. Inside the air conditioning wasn't turned on, and the heat had killed a roach in the bathroom.
Other trips included a stay in Barstow, at a cheap room. It turned out that clean sheets were extra. We slept in sleeping bags. I thought of sleeping in the tub, but figured it wouldn't be any cleaner. I would have complained, but I didn't want to see the innkeeper in her nightgown again.
So we spend the money.

On our second trip to Carolina Beach, we stayed at the old Beacon House B&B. It has that nice and cozy look to it, just what you expect from an old beach house. The rooms were a little small, but it was in a nice little quiet end of the island. We were able to get up and walk right out to the beach. Plus, someone cooked breakfast for us.

Nowadays, it's less of an option. B&Bs sometimes aren't as suitable for families, and with dietary concerns, it's tough to get someone else to cook for us. Still it was a groovy little place.

We had stayed at The Golden Sands before, and really liked that place, but they not only pushed their rates up just too much, but they have some weird minimum stay thing, where we had to spend three nights there, for a weekend. Once again, good location, but I just figured we can do better. 

I write this mostly as a reminder for myself. I'm planning a new trip down to that area this spring. And I was thinking of sleeping in a tent, since it was just going to be a quick photo trip. 

Spend the money, Joe. Spend the money.

The Other Monument

Do you know about the other monument?

This really set me going.

Another of the early bits of hidden history I heard about was that there was another Wright Brothers Monument on the Outer Banks. I was so used to every tourist having to make the pilgrimage to the big monument, the pylon on top of Big Kill Devil Hill, trudging up, having to carry their kids cause it got too steep, any misstep meant that their feet would be embedded with cacti. But the view was worth it. And the kids got to run around the top, arms open, flying like airplanes out on top of the hill.

But there is another monument. It isn't nearly as imposing as that big granite one, but it is meaningful, nonetheless.

This is actually the first monument put up for the Wrights. It honors the beginnings of their first tests, Wilbur came down from Ohio, armed pretty much with an invite and some wood and cloth to start his first glider. He stayed for two weeks with the Tate family on the property where the monument sits. Orville would show up two weeks later with a tent, mandolin, coffee, and his new camera. They ultimately ended up in a tent about a mile away, testing their glider, mostly as a kite. They even took the Tates' nephew, Tom, for a ride in the glider.

The little monument honors the Wrights first glider, built on that spot.

The house was later given to the Methodist church and used as a parsonage. It was later burned down, and there is nothing left on the land now. The house next door is not the house they stayed in.

And, oddly enough, that's not even the monument. It was replaced in 1987 after the first was damaged from the fire and the elements. It's preserved in the nearby town hall.

I loved knowing about this one. I just thought it was so cool to know of the "other" monument. Later, when I got my car, the drive out to see this was one of my favorite trips on the beach. It helped that a little ways after the monument, the road curves over to the sound, and there's a great view of the water, and nice sunsets to boot.

Secrets well kept

Growing up on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I heard and knew of various and multiple legends that permeated the islands. The tales and histories that happened on the barrier islands were rich and varied, surprising for a little strip of land with only a few thousand people that lived there at the time. But growing up with it, I guess I just took it for granted that my home was the home of the Wright Brothers, the Lost Colony, and Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.

I still listened to the legends, though.

One of the first tales I heard, in my teens at least, was this legend that, hidden in the Wright Brothers Monument, under the second vent, was written in braille the entire history of flight up until the time the monument was built. I remember reading it in some weekly newspaper feature piece, just a little blurb of things most people don't know. Well, now they did.

Of course, no one could really tell if this was true. The monument was locked tight. A legend attached to that was that during a tour, someone became claustrophobic and freaked out inside the narrow stairwell. I don't know if that is true or not.

I can say that the tale I "heard" is not. There is no braille history embossed under the vent in the Wright Brothers Monument. However, the real story was so much better.

Years later, in the beginnings of my first book, I began doing some research on that legend. It turned out that there was a brass plaque placed inside the monument, in an inset on the wall. It had a hexagonal map of the world, with etched lines of various firsts in aviation on it, from the Wrights up to 1928, with a flight by Kingsford Smith from Oakland to Brisbane. However, over the years, the plaque had been damaged from water leakage. It was removed from its spot on the wall, and had legs attached for a short time to make it a table. It was later removed, and long thought lost. By who, I don't know.

I simply asked about it at the National Park Service in Manteo, and they let me contact the curator of their Museum Resource Center. He knew exactly what I was looking for, took me into this big vault they have there, and pulled out the plaque, wrapped in cloth, and let me photograph it.

I felt like Indiana Jones, but to a lesser extent. There weren't any snakes.

So, there it was. I found it. Yeah, it never really was lost. But this was the culmination of years of wondering what the truth was about all the tales. It felt pretty good.

That is one of the things that set me in motion. A plaque, a tale, a bit of hidden history. The Outer Banks would figure prominently in my curiosity over the years, with legends and tales abounding. This one took decades to solve. But it was a great little success for me. I was inspired that I could do this, that I could find all the wonderful stuff hidden behind closed doors, or just off the road. Good Hunting indeed.

How did this get started?

Greetings, everyone!

No, really, I got permission to be here!

Yeah, that sounds about right. Welcome to my long desired discussion on the origins of my books, why I wrote them, what sent me on the path of creating Did You See That?

I'm Joe Sledge, author of Did You See That? A GPS Guide to North Carolina's Out of the Ordinary Attractions and Did You See That? On The Outer Banks. I try to describe my books as offbeat travel, or weird history, or roadside attractions, but they are all that and more. My books not only include a detailed description of some of the many strange and wonderful spots off the side of the road, they also include the latitude and longitude of each place, making it easier to find all the weird things that I searched out over the years. I'll be writing more about the places I've been, what I found, and didn't find, and all the great trips I went on. That I want you, dear reader, to go on as well.

I will begin soon with all the little spots, the tales and bits of history that put me on this path, along with some of the nice little odds and ends that I couldn't share in the books. I wrote them in third person, so they would be less of a journal of my travel life, and more to put you in the tale. 

But I won't be doing this alone, I hope. I certainly will be looking to engage the reader in participating. Feel free to comment, nicely, and I will be glad to discuss all this wonderful stuff with you.

Good Hunting, everyone!
Joe