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.