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

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.

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.

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.