Some of us remember where we were the first time we saw Star Wars. George Lucas' epic story from that galaxy far away lit up the summer of 1977 in a way that few cultural phenomenon are capable, and in spite, or maybe because of, a few plot twists which would have made both Shakespeare and Freud proud — such as the main character discovering that his father is a monster who amputates his children's limbs and that the object of his lust is his sister — the simultaneously glittering and grungy threads of that tale wove themselves immediately and pervasively into the tapestry of the American experience. I watched the film five times that summer. But I digress.
The first time I saw it was at King's Giant Plaza, a modest strip mall off West Stone Drive in Kingsport, TN. I believe the shopping center is still there, though they must call it something else since King's Department Store and Giant Grocery both succumbed to the economic chaos of the final quarter of the twentieth century and slipped into oblivion. I will always remember that little cluster of businesses for two reasons: my introduction to Star Wars and the glorious happenstance of later picking up a copy of Farmstead Magazine from the rack in the drug store at that mall. Farmstead was a delightful, though short-lived, publication devoted to gardening, small-scale farming, and homesteading. The issue I found included a piece written by Paul Birdsall of Maine about making loose hay with his Suffolk draft horses. My life was never the same after I read that article. But I digress. Again.
As much as I enjoyed my exposure to both sides of the force, it was a bittersweet moment for this hillbilly. The problem was a girl. Or rather the absence of one. Her name was Beverly. It still is. She should have been with me when Luke met Obi Wan, but she was not. Instead, she was at Myrtle beach with her father, brother and two sisters playing out an annual ritual which was supposed to represent "quality family time" with the man who had abandoned Beverly's mother and their four children several years earlier. Bev did not want to go on the beach trip, but "Dad" had threatened not to make the "trek" (drips with irony, doesn't it) unless she went along. Her siblings wanted the free trip, and the manipulative so-and-so took her away from me for a week.
Beverly was gone, and just like the guy whose feet were too big for his bed, nothing seemed to fit. No, wait! That's someone else's story. She and I had known each other for several months, but our "relationship" had begun only a few weeks before the "family beach vacation" when we had gone with friends to see Smokey and the Bandit at — wait for it — King's Giant Plaza. Come to think about it, maybe I have three reasons for always remembering that little strip mall.
If anything, Smokey had an even larger impact on American culture that summer than did Star Wars. In those days, "everybody" had a citizen's band radio in their pickup truck, and Burt and Sally's mindless, high-speed romp across the south touched a collective nerve. Watching that movie was not a "date" for Beverly and me, but the next night was. So was pretty much every night after that. By the time for her family beach trip, our love was strong, our connection was powerful, and we were making plans that involved happily ever after. I did not want her to leave. She did not want to go. None of that made a difference. In a demonstration of her character, Beverly put her brother and sisters' interests ahead of her own. I loved her even more for doing that, but it made for arguably the longest week of my life. At least while she was gone I could watch Star Wars. So I did. Twice.
Soon after she returned, we were making wedding plans. We had not a single thought about waiting some culturally appropriate length of time. We had no interest in a fancy or expensive do that would make headlines on the society page of the Kingsport Times. We wanted our friends, family and the other members of our church family to join us in celebrating our mutual commitment. We planned the event for September 10. It was only a few weeks away. A compressed time frame for even a basic wedding, and we had much to do. One of the items that kept coming up was a honeymoon destination.
Since I was a North Carolina native, I had some awareness of a semi-mystical place known as "The Outer Banks." I'd always wanted to go there, but the few family vacations I had experienced involved visiting relatives so that my paternal progenitor did not have to spring for motel accommodation. Unfortunately, I had no uncle on the Outer Banks. Beverly and I were free to visit any place that would fit within our modest budget. The Outer Banks seemed perfect, and on the afternoon of our wedding, we left East Tennessee and headed toward the Atlantic Ocean.
We spent one night in the bridal suite at the Regency Hyatt in Winston Salem, NC, and the next day we drove to Kitty Hawk. One of my favorite memories of that trip is shooting a 110 photo of my new bride with her arm around the bust of Wilbur Wright.
While we were visiting the Wright Brothers Memorial, I started asking folks we met about a good place on the Banks to eat local seafood. Several establishments were suggested, but the one that came up most often and with the strongest endorsement was called Captain Ben's at some place called Ocracoke. I am a lover of most foods with an aquatic source, and as we drifted in a leisurely manner south/southwest along the Outer Banks, Captain Ben's came up again and again. We spent time in a few spots playing in the surf. We stopped at historical markers. We climbed the Hatteras Lighthouse. You could do that in those days, and it was, of course, still in its original location.
As we left Hatteras, I realized that the day was long spent, and that we needed to hurry if we were to eat at the famous place. We had learned that reaching Ocracoke involved a ferry ride, so we scuttled along and caught a departing boat without major wait. The ferry ride was delightful, and after our brief drive along Ocracoke Island, Captain Ben's was one of the first businesses we saw on the outskirts of the village. I was thrilled to find the modest, white-painted block building with a faded sign. I vaguely remember some trappings of seafaring life affixed to the front. Maybe a fishing net and some crab pots. The inside had nothing to distinguish it from hundreds of other roadside mom and pop restaurants other than the thrilling aroma of fish frying in cottonseed oil. I went weak kneed as soon as we opened the door.
In spite of my wobbly walk, I managed to get us to one of several open tables, and we sat down. The waitress brought us water and a couple of single sheet menus. I was ready to order as soon as she left, but I waited politely for my beautiful wife to peruse those luscious saltwater options. She was still reading intently when the waitress returned. I don't remember exactly what I ordered, but it included fried oysters and soft shell crab. When our girl turned to Beverly, she never looked up from the menu as she said, "I'll have fried chicken." I nearly fell off my chair. It was the only time in all these years that I seriously considered the possibility that I might have made a mistake.
I had not, by the way. The only problem was that Beverly had been underexposed to aquatic cuisine. At her house, "seafood" meant Mrs. Gordon's fish sticks. She had no background for appreciating the delights of Neptune's larder. After being around me for a while, her palate affected a serious and permanent recalibration. She gets as excited as I do about the possibility of great seafood. Almost. All she needed was judicious exposure.
I had a second surprise on that night so long ago. In those days, at that time of year, the ferry boats did not run at night. By the time we finished our meal, and I was in no particular hurry to end that experience, we were stuck on Ocracoke. We were making this trip in the manner we would make nearly every adventure of our lives: general planning, but no rigid itinerary. Staying on Ocracoke did not mean missing a reservation made somewhere else. We were young and and tough, and we could have slept in the car if necessary, but we found a room in a cheap motel — long gone now, of course — and we enjoyed our first night in the "quaint little drinking village with a fishing problem."
We were up and out before dawn so we could watch the sunrise over water and see the wild ponies which at that time roamed the island freely. We discovered that Ocracoke is a magical place where the rest of the world fades by several degrees. We loved the unhurried pace and having to pay strict attention to what local folks were saying. I've always been interested in language and accents and colloquial speech patterns, but this was unlike anything in my experience. Our couple of days on the island made us lifelong fans.
Still, though, quite a few years slipped by before we made a second visit. By then, most of our six children were in tow, and all of them eventually made that ferry trip at least a couple of times. Some of them caught the Ocracoke infection and have since returned on their own. Others found it uninspiring. That's their loss. Beverly and I are still under the spell, and now that our nest is several years empty, we have vowed to visit Ocracoke regularly.
As I write about the history of our first exposure, our bus is parked beside The Topless Oyster. This outstanding seafood restaurant sits on the site of the long-defunct Captain Ben's. We met the owners a year ago, and part of our current Ocracoke joy is both eating and playing music at TTO. The fact that it occupies such a significant historical location makes our being here that much better.
We love Ocracoke's people, its beaches, its pace, the intense music scene. I'm finally attempting to learn to surf fish with the help of friends we met last October who come here every fall to catch flounder and drum and blues. The weather is just the right mix of chilly evenings and glorious sunny days. Since we've come to this place and time from one of the busiest summers of our life — a time of gutting the bus we live in so we could reskin it and build back enough basic amenity for this trip — being here with no particular schedule provides us a delightful and much-needed restoration.
Thanks to all who bothered to read this far. I'll follow this lengthy intro with some photos and travelog. Stay tuned for the next couple of weeks as we proceed with no particular agenda or itinerary. Be well and productive, and may the force be with you.
An enjoyable read Jim, let the tales continue. Jack
Well Sir, now you have made me late for the several phone calls and messages upon my desk. I guess I have to learn to read your posts at night. ;) Enjoyed every word.
Thank you.
Great story, brought to mind some of our "adventures" all of those many moons ago. :)
Wasn't it great to drive till you didn't want to anymore and just stop at the first place that
came into view, or even just sleep in the car?
So.... Hard to pick a beginning for this trip. That's why I meandered so far afield in the opening salvo. I kept reaching further and further back, but I can't tell about this trip from a purely historical perspective. I'm tempted to start with my mid-August trip to Elkhart, IN to buy windows and tanks. That was the first step of the reskin which has occupied so much of our lives since, but that story is (still being) told in my build thread on Nomadicista. The little spell of mostly electrical difficulty which spiced our recent trip to Pennsylvania is already discussed in two threads on this BB. No need to rehash that or its aftermath in spite of the resulting delay.
Probably the fair starting point is 8:43 P.M. on Thursday, October 16, eight days after our planned departure. That's when we actually pulled onto the interstate headed in the general direction of Ocracoke. Bus improvement had been brought to an arbitrary but usable state of closure. Food and other supplies had been purchased, sorted and stored. I had in my pocket a fresh North Carolina Unified Fishing License. Absence of that item had kept me from learning to surf fish last year, and I did not want to repeat the omission. Bus, equipment and provision checklists had been (mostly) attended. Lastly, the fuel tank had been topped, and my strategy of waiting out the recent down turn in pump prices rewarded us with a few cents per gallon in last minute savings. We did it! We were on the road. But we knew it was mostly a symbolic beginning.
We had begun that day with hopes for hitting the road by mid-afternoon AND with a mutual pledge to leave town before midnight. No matter what. This prep stage had gone long enough. We needed to GO, but both of us were exhausted from weeks of intense effort. No way was I going to drive far, and we knew it, but we had a plan.
October 16 is Beverly's birthday, so we wanted to do something a bit special. We drove about 60 miles along I-40 to the closest iteration of our favorite fast food joint, Jack in the Box. The reason we love Jack is another long story which I will save for another occasion, but I'll hint that it involves my earliest exposure to tacos. This particular Jack is adjacent to a box store lot, so after a late supper, we had a place to spend our first night. Here's a shot of Sophia in predawn parking lot light:
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On Friday we started early and made good easterly progress in spite of stops for Burger King coffee, walking Kora, buying fuel, checking fluids and browsing at Camping World. We stopped for an early lunch at Steak and Shake, another of our favorite chains which is not often available to us. And yes, BK sells excellent coffee.
By midday the reality of being on vacation was beginning to set in, and we started thinking a few unstressed thoughts. One of those trains led to us deciding over lunch to consider a major route change. We had always gone to Ocracoke by driving east and a bit north to Manteo and then driving the length of the banks to their southwest terminus. That route is fun and scenic, but it is also long. We realized that we had the choice of spending another night on the road or arriving on Ocracoke very late. We preferred to do neither.
Most people who visit Ocracoke take a ferry from either Swans Quarter on the northern part of Pamlico Sound or Cedar Island farther south. By running online comparisons, Bev determined that we could save several hours and many miles by sailing out of SQ. The only problem might be the ferry schedule. The last boat leaves Swans Quarter at 4:30 P.M. Repeated route checks with MapQuest and iPhone Map showed us arriving around 4:15. Not much margin for error.
By the time — around 1:30 — we decided to go for it, our necessary stops had been made. We did not speed, but we did not slow down much, either. Most of the route was divided highway, but on the latter 2 lane sections, a couple of school busses with no apparent purpose held us back for MILES. In spite of everything, we pulled to the ticket station at 4:11. We knew that the fare would be $30, and we had already figured that the boat ride would save much more than that in fuel. The ferry sailed at 4:35 with us aboard.
During the two-and-a-half hour ride, we had a grand time visiting with others who were generally as excited as we were to be Ocracoke bound on a late Friday afternoon. I was apparently in an unusually gregarious mood, so I spent most of the trip on deck talking about Sophia and graciously accepting compliments on our wonderful Australian Shepherd: "Why thank you. Yes, she is gorgeous. And her coloring is so striking. And yes, she is exceptionally well behaved." Most of those folks have never seen a child who will listen and obey, much less a dog. Even though we had some room on our side of the deck, I resisted the temptation to get out her Kong Flyer and show off her catching and retrieving skills. I could too easily imagine that red, ten-dollar disk flying over the rail, and it is the only frisbee-like toy we have on this trip. Kora does not like the hard ones.
After the fact came out that I build stringed instruments for a living, I consented to drag a couple out and even played part of an old time tune before one of the D strings broke on my open back banjo. Soon after that, we watched a gorgeous sunset over the Sound and donned sweaters to finish the trip. Here are a couple of shots of Beverly at the rail, one with Kora and one with sunset:
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And here is Sophia on the boat in deep dusk:
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We offloaded at 7:10 and drove to our favorite seafood place, The Topless Oyster, where Bev had flounder and I had — well — oysters. It was a perfect end to a wonderful day.
More to come.
Jm H
Enjoyable read about bus tripping. Thank you. Nice for a change from mechanical problem treads.
JC
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
Jim, when are you releasing your book? Let us know, I can't wait to read it, in the mean time have a nice trip.
Jim enjoyed reading your writings, you are gifted there
A re-purposed used brake chamber diaphram makes a great soft frisbee.
Quote from: yvan on October 20, 2014, 06:47:09 PM
Jim, when are you releasing your book? Let us know, I can't wait to read it, in the mean time have a nice trip.
Thanks for those gracious comments. My writing is not everyone's cup of tea, but some enjoy it. I, too, get tired of the same old tales of woe and breakdown, even though I've contributed my share of those.
Yvan, on the off chance that you're serious about wanting to read my book, here it is: http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/AdvancedSearch/Default.aspx?SearchTerm=Livermush%20Theology (http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/AdvancedSearch/Default.aspx?SearchTerm=Livermush%20Theology)
It's called Livermush Theology. Livermush is a western North Carolina variant and dramatic improvement of a pork based food that many areas call scrapple. It's something I love, it was likely my first solid food and I use it in the book as a metaphor to talk about values which I find important. The book is a collection of moderate length essays which can be read independently, so it makes convenient bedtime reading. It is definitely religious in nature since it grows out my understanding of Christian faith, but it is not preachy or dogmatic.
Authorhouse has the book on sale for $11 US. The electronic version is $3.99. Either way, I make a buck when you buy one.
Our stay on Ocracoke continues to be wonderful. I'm working on the next travelogue installment. We've met professional musicians, politicians, sailors from Germany and Poland and a woman from Southern Pines, NC who apparently loves to be thrown from horses. Maybe once too often. We've been accosted by a federal campground ranger with a Napoleon complex. We've played in the surf and reveled in the not-too-intense October sun. We've learned that Kora has no interest in the ocean. She actually seems afraid of those waves sweeping toward her. Hard to imagine from a dog that will face down a full-grown steer without flinching. We've loved having time to cook and our bill of fare has ranged from light and fluffy pancakes taken from Bev's grandmother's recipe book to my homemade spaghetti and meatballs to fresh catch of the day to a meal we call "cheese'n'apple" (A snack tray which includes sharp cheddar, pepperoni, raisins, and Ritz crackers. The apples on this trip are my favorite: mountain grown Stamen Winesap.) to my mother's homemade rice pudding. Mother is past the point of being able to cook anything edible, but please don't tell her I said that if you run into her. Bev makes the pudding to perfection and her switch to brown rice gives that luscious custard just the right textural contrast.
Did I mention that we do not use the popular "nuclear" method of preparing food. We have several reasons for not owning a microwave, but near the top of the list is taste. Food tastes so much better when prepared by traditional means. One of our favorite cooking methods is seriously traditional. Here is a part of our collection of "macrowave" ovens:
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Most people call them Dutch ovens or camp ovens. Call them what you like. We simply love what they produce. Incidentally, homemade bread in a campground guarantees instant popularity. We've met some wonderful folks that way.
I get a chuckle when I read about conversions that don't include an oven or even a full cook top. "We never bake," they say. "We always eat out," claim others. While I celebrate that freedom to choose, our choices are different. We love to eat out, but only occasionally. We both bake, and we both love to cook. Our current range is a Magic Chef made for RV use. It has a moderate size oven — we baked two bowls of rice pudding at once last night — and three propane burners. We use it because we have it. The finished conversion will include a 30" Peerless Premier range with battery ignition to complement our off grid power system. That oven will swallow the largest turkey, but I always cook turkey in the macrowave.
This morning is now well along, and I want to get in some fishing. I'll have to check the tide schedules and buy bait. You never know what you might hook when you cast a line into the sea, but just maybe tonight's supper will include my first fresh flounder. Wish me luck.
Jim & Bev on Ocracoke.
Ocracoke Campground, operated by the Park Service, is a delightful place with beautiful dunes and beaches. The price is reasonable, and we like the fact that it offers no hookups. Two private campgrounds in the village have full connectivity.
Since we don't need shore power, and since we finally have tanks and plumbing, we can stay anywhere. We're fortunate to have standing offers of places to park when we're on the island. This trip we've enjoyed both time in the campground and time with friends. We spent that first night on private property.
The next day, we did what circumstances demanded. We slept late. A rarity for me. I laid in bed until after seven, and then I sat on the couch and did some writing. Twas lovely. At around ten, we drove to the local grocery store for a few fresh items and then out to the day-use parking lot next to the campground. There we fixed spaghetti and meatballs for ourselves and friends who come here every October to fish. It's a dish we love, and we figured it would give them a break from the fish they've been eating all month.
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That night I played music at TTO. Started at 6:30 and wound up around 9. I could have quit at eight, but a number of people were hanging on to listen, and I was having too good a time to quit. I've been playing in public with Bluegrass bands since the early seventies, but these days I usually work alone. Bluegrass music done well is like jazz. It's all improvisation based on intricate instrumental interplay and complimentary dynamics. Everyone gets a chance to solo, and while you're up front, everyone else's job is to make you sound and look good. I especially love singing Bluegrass harmony. Bluegrass done well stirs my soul. Done poorly, it turns my stomach.
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Of course you can't do any of that alone. What I do by myself might be described as "Bluegrass flavored," but I try to compensate by being entertaining. I engage the audience and spin yarns which sometimes are taken directly from my hillbilly heritage and sometimes border on outrageous lies. I try to pick material which has some significance for the time and place. I also write songs about situations that are important to me or that I find amusing. Solo performing has its own rewards, but sometimes I miss playing with a band. I must confess, however, that I don't miss splitting the money.
Sunday we visited the Methodists and took part in their annual youth-led worship service. Pastor Bryant delivered a short and informal homily on the advantages of diversity and used the rainbow as a metaphor. After church, we took a backstreet walk to our parking spot in the village and fixed leftover spaghetti. My spaghetti only gets better over time, but it doesn't usually have much time. My recollection of Sunday afternoon is fuzzy, but a nap may have been involved. We drove to the campground late Sunday afternoon with the intention of spending a few days, but a misunderstanding over the availability of a space long enough for our rig led to my being the recipient of a ranger's overreaction, and I lost my taste for staying that night.
We spent Monday and most of Tuesday in town, resting and writing, eating when we felt like it, catching up with a few friends. I know a fellow here who is also a luthier and musician. Got to visit his shop and see several guitars he is repairing and a few he is building. When he found out that I was planning to buy a surf fishing rig to replace the new one I forgot to bring, he pulled one of his own from the shop rafters and loaned it to me for the duration. All I had to do was buy new line. He no longer fishes, and he says I can use this rig whenever I come to Ocracoke. I didn't argue.
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About 3:30 Tuesday afternoon we headed toward the campground again. The dump station and water fill are nearby. Our 105 gallon waste tank was not full, but our 100 gallon fresh tank was empty. I discovered a couple hours into last Fridays's drive that we were sloshing a lot of fresh water through the overflow as we were driving. I stopped and pulled out a PEX crimper and a ball valve. That fixed the slosh. I have another vent at the high point of the overflow line, so all I have to do is remember to open the new valve on the overflow when filling.
And speaking of opening valves. First dump of the new waste tank was no problem, but filling the fresh tank did not go so well. I had scouted the dump/fill station in advance and learned that the park service has provided a fill hose with no fitting on the end. No problem. I had enough plumbing stuff along to come up with a male hose fitting on a 1/2" PEX barb. I stuck the barb in the fresh hose, secured it with a hose clamp and connected to my fresh inlet. When I opened the valve at the fresh source, I was rewarded with excess spray around my clamped fitting no matter how much I tightened the clamp. I'm embarrassed to think about how much time I wasted before I figured out that I had only opened one of two necessary valves inside the bus. DOH! Once I corrected that error, filling went much better. In my defense, this is a new plumbing system. I'm not likely to make that mistake again.
The upside of this little error was that it delayed our campground arrival until after Mr. Ranger had left for the day. I checked with the volunteer host (an acquaintance from last year), picked a spot and self registered. When I went to pay this morning, the ranger was in a considerably better mood, so I think we'll get along fine. I took him a bowl of jambalaya for lunch. He was already a fan of my spaghetti.
We have managed to spend a bit of time on the beach, but it's been hard on me:
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Ocracoke has wind today. Would be great kite weather, but alas, I have none. Planning to get in my first fishing instead. I think I have all the pieces in place. Maybe something good will bite. Either way, I'll be sure to tell the tale.
Best to all,
Jim and Bev on Ocracoke
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Our three nights in the campground went well. Even though way under capacity, it's a good bit more crowded than it was last year. That was just after the government shut down that closed all the NPS facilities for a while, and I suppose some decided to just stay home last October. For better or worse, our rig stands out in any group of camping vehicles:
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I have done some fishing. Not much catching. This little flounder did NOT go to market. Or table, either. They have to be 15 inches to keep. This one missed it by several:
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I hooked another that was well over legal size but lost it about fifteen feet from where I was standing. A bit later, my friend, Mike, caught this 21" beauty a few yards from where I was fishing:
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He caught four keepers that day. He was hard to stand. In spite of his objections, his wife insisted that he give us some fillets. They ended up looking like this:
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Home grown and canned green beans. Homemade rice pilaf. Hard to beat.
To honor her own and a friend's birthday, Beverly made this lovely little cake:
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We cut and shared that after the flounder meal.
Kora is still not sure what she thinks of this ocean stuff:
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I, on the other hand, am in no way ambivalent:
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Played at TTO Friday night. Playing again tonight. Still having a grand time. Primitive as it is, we love living in our bus. This vacation must be working because I find myself looking forward to getting back to home base and wading into the next bus building marathon. Insulation, walls, floor, ceiling, cabinets, counters, new door, paint....
Not just yet, though.
Best to all,
Jim and Bev on Ocracoke
We had a good time playing at TTO on Saturday night:
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The food was excellent, as usual, and Eileen, a waitress who is new to us this trip, was a pleasure and worked hard for everyone she attended.
After my set, we were surprised to see a group of Elvis impersonators walk in. I was hoping they would be singing for us, but no. They were part of an Elvis fishing excursion, and none of them were singers.
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We made it out to the beach a little before seven and watched the sunrise. It was gorgeous.
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After an early lunch, I spent some time playing in the surf:
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I'm always amazed at how warm the Atlantic is in October.
While I was in the water, Bev did some nature photography. Later we drove into the village and visited the marsh grass restoration project near the visitor center. This was started in 2010 as a way to protect the southwest corner of the island from erosion. It is apparently working well. Part of that development is a sheltered pool that serves as a fish nursery. We saw hundreds of what I believe were immature red drum.
We returned to beach access parking near the campground around 4:30. About a half hour later, two park rangers stopped near us and approached the bus. I opened the driver's window and commented that they were looking at us like we had done something wrong, but that I could not imagine what that would be. One of the officers asked if we had stayed there overnight. I said that of course we had not since that would be illegal. I asked if anyone had made such a claim. He ignored my question and said that they had "seen us there a lot." I replied that we liked that stretch of beach. Then he made me mad. He said, "Did you get thrown out of the campground." "Of course not," I replied. He proceeded to ask me where we were staying even though a few moments later he admitted that he had seen us parked at out perfectly legal spot in town. I then asked them to explain to me what law I had broken, and at that point they left.
All the Federal employees here seem to be working under stress. I know that the campground operated all season with only two of the eight employees who were hired at the beginning. Since this past Tuesday, it's only been one since the other ranger had worked all the hours he was allowed for the season. Perhaps the rangers in patrol cars are overworked as well. Beverly suggested that they might be fighting boredom. I suspect that our unfinished paint job led them to consider us indigents. So be it. We had broken no law, and they apparently were aware of that from the beginning.
I was starting to get the itch to head west anyway. My music bookings are complete. We have ferry reservations for Wednesday afternoon. If we were not cooking for friends on Monday evening, I would have changed our reservations to Monday. As it is, I think we'll leave Tuesday. We've had a wonderful time, but this Ocracoke stay has had a noticeable hassle factor. Most of if I won't discuss on a public forum, but we have other places to see and people to visit on the journey home. I believe that time is almost here.
Best to all,
Jim and Bev on Ocracoke
Bev was probably right, they had nothing better to do. Sounds like you are having a memorable trip overall. Be safe.
Jim, this has been a wonderful read. I didn't realize that you're still on vacation! I need to make my vacations more like yours, LOL. Glad you guys are having a good time. Hope to see you all later next month or so.
Monday was our last full day on the island. It was the only day that we did not go to the ocean. We spent the mid morning cleaning and doing some pre travel arranging and then walked around the village so Bev could look in several of the shops. At each stop, I did my best to keep any available outside seating from being stolen while she shopped. I'm not much of a shopper. Most segments of the retail economy would collapse if they had to depend on people like me. The only Ocracoke shops I entered were the grocery store, the seafood shop and the tackle shop. I did go to the grocery store often. Early Monday afternoon we made our largest single grocery purchase as we prepared to cook for a group of friends that evening. I thought about music as I cooked that meal.
One of the pleasures of playing music is the way that it opens doors. I met my wife and most of my close friends because of a guitar or a banjo or a bass. Probably the same thing happens to golfers, trap shooters and chess players, but I treasure the images of so many music-made friends over so many years. A few of them are famous. All of them are special. With most I've had the pleasure of sharing a song or a few from the vast body known as "the tradition." As we played, that tradition changed: refined by fresh interpretation or expanded by new material springing from the fertile minds and depth of human experience brought to focus in the heady atmosphere that sometimes infuses an impromptu jam session. Somewhere in the process of that long journey, I learned that songs do not have to be old to be traditional.
Almost from their beginning, the work of Lennon and McCartney began showing up where people gathered to play traditional country. Manfred Mann's "Fox on the Run" has long been a Bluegrass standard. Some new songs come with the fit and feel of "tradition" because in their creation they were molded and hand fit into the swirls and eddies of emotion that wind through the chambers of every human heart. Some artists — Larry Sparks comes to mind — can, by sheer force of talent, embue a superficial ditty with soul and power. These days, if you have the chance to listen to a parking lot jam session at a Bluegrass festival or fiddler's convention, don't be surprised if the players launch into something by Beyonce or The Black Eyed Peas. For what it's worth, I like mine cooked with fatback and served with hot, buttered cornbread.
The joy of sharing music often leads to the joy of sharing lives, and that's part of our newest bond to Ocracoke. Last October we happened to meet a couple members of the famous folk group, Molasses Creek. Marcy and Lou and Fiddler Dave graced some of my performance time, and Bev and I attended their regular performance at the Deep Water Theater. This year we got to know the band better, and they accepted my offer to cook a Dutch oven meal for them on our last night. (Keep in mind that the "Dutch ovens" to which I refer have nothing to do with blankets or flatulence.)
About three o'clock Monday afternoon, I parked the bus on School Rd. near the Deep Water Theater. There we began peeling potatoes and onions and rounding up biscuit ingredients. By 4:30 we were carrying cast iron ovens, boxes of supplies and banjo cases a short way along Howard street to the restored, historic home of soon-to-be friend, Philip Howard. I cooked a hearty shepherd's pie in one of my larger ovens and made-from-scratch biscuits in another, then ten of us surrounded the magnificent round table that once belonged to Sam Jones to share the meal and pleasurable conversation. After supper we sat around the living room and played music for an hour. Bev and I found every part of the evening a pleasure and a joyous way of winding down our time on Ocracoke. Our host for the evening has a related blog entry here: http://villagecraftsmen.blogspot.com/2014/10/sheperds-pie-banjo-music.html?showComment=1414690952753#c1873186019735183317 (http://villagecraftsmen.blogspot.com/2014/10/sheperds-pie-banjo-music.html?showComment=1414690952753#c1873186019735183317)
Before daylight on Tuesday morning we were cleaning and stowing for travel. After we shared morning tea and said goodbye to our hosts, we drove through the village about eleven and parked in the public lot near the ferry dock. We were booked on the 1:00 boat for Cedar Island. We ate at an outdoor food stand and then Bev visited one more shop. She had to buy a grandchild gift or two. We had to claim our ferry reservation by 12:30. We got there at twelve. Because of being early, we spent two and a half hours in the ferry line. Our boat was an hour and a half late. When we were finally able to load, they placed our curb side so close to the cabin that I could not open the door. It was no big deal since we had everything we needed for the two-and-a-quarter hour trip, but it meant no visiting with the other passengers during this crossing. If we had experienced trouble, we could have easily gotten out a window or one of three escape hatches. My major disappointment with being closed in is that I have no pictures from the boat deck. We did manage a few through the driver's window.
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Even though this was only our third long ferry ride — the first was leaving the island 37 years ago — we've learned to love the two plus hour trip. I thought to check our progress by GPS and learned that the boat we were on averaged 11.5 mph. That was plenty fast enough as we began to decompress from an experience which, in spite of a few unpleasantries, still has an Avalon-like feel for us. Ocracoke is just other-worldly enough to allow us a smidgen of perspective on the labor we went through to get there and the labor to which we return. This trip is proving far more valuable than the dollars and the few drops of sweat we expended to make it happen. I saw no mists parting as we crossed Pamlico Sound, and I neither saw or felt anything akin to a trans dimensional experience, so I am encouraged by the reaffirmation that Ocracoke is not some mystic mecca which can only be reached by the pure of heart. Come to think of it, that group of drunk, non-singing, Elvis-impersonating fishermen had already made that fact clear. If you want to go there, you can, and I intend to. Someday. Maybe not next October, but someday.
The drive from Cedar Island dock provided further reality check. For most of an hour I drove along narrow, two-lane roads which obviously were built on an inconceivable amount of hauled-in fill. All that separated our thirty thousand plus pounds of rolling hardware from the swamps and canals was a narrow and steeply sloping shoulder. If we had experienced a breakdown, I would not have dreamed of putting even a single tire off the pavement. We had no trouble, and I was not exactly nervous, but that stretch of driving demanded my absolute attention. I was not unhappy when we reached wider lanes with more forgiving berms.
Because our boat was so late, we soon realized that we would not make it to our friend's home near Jacksonville with enough daylight to negotiate their narrow drive. While we were enjoying our first trip through the seaport section of Morehead City, we decided that this would be a good place to spend the night. We located an excellent spot on the fringe of a Wally World lot, next to a belt of grass and trees where I could walk Kora and close enough to Lowe's to use their excellent wifi. We walked to Micky Dee and ate McRib sandwiches before enjoying a satisfying dose of Netflix in bed.
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After a leisurely morning and a lunch of delicious leftovers, we drove partway back across town to shoot these photos at Diamond Limo Service:
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That's right, it's ANOTHER Gillig H2000LF. I did not try to find out where this bus had served, but it is not outside the realm of possibility that it could have been an RDU stablemate of our Sophia. It now serves as a "party" bus, which is, I believe, a euphemism for "rolling bar and strip joint." We are happy to provide different work for Sophia. I thought about that contrast as we drove to our next waypoint near the massive military base known as Camp Lejune. Our visit had nothing to do with the Marines. Our business wore a different sort of dog tag.
I've learned that people who rescue dogs want to tell about it. Since I have Kora with me so often in public, I've come to expect the likelihood of having to hear someone's rescue experience. Sometimes the person who is anxious to share is being dragged around by the object of their philanthropy, but more often they've left Muffy or Butch or Major at home. The conversation always starts the same way: "That's a beautiful dog. Is he a rescue?"
I always ignore the gender confusion. Sometimes I can't tell if a pooch I'm meeting for the first time is male or female, but Kora is — and I'm being absolutely honest — far too pretty and feminine to be a male of any breed. Rather than correcting the stranger concerning Kora's gender, the question racing at that moment through my frontal cortex is how can I politely excuse myself from having to listen to another rescue story. When the pickup line includes any use of the word "rescue", I can almost certainly count on an extensive diatribe which will include excruciating detail concerning the person's emotional state at the time of the "rescue" and a long list of the health and behavioral issues the dog brought to the relationship. It's not that I don't think rescuing any dog from a bad situation is admirable. It is. I'm just not interested in hearing about it. For a long time I found myself trapped no matter what I said. For the past few months, however, this method has provided partial relief. I look the questioner momentarily in the eye as I say, "Yes she IS." And as I'm turning to head in any other direction I add, "We rescued her from the best breeder of working Aussies in the southeast." Sometimes that confuses them just long enough for me to make my getaway.
That breeder's name is Bill, and he is our friend who lives just across the road from Camp Lejune. We met Bill and Judy in 2011 during the course of my research to find an Australian Shepherd breeder who was focused on producing dogs that have sense and working ability rather than animals which have been bred for size or color or coat length or any number of secondary characteristics. Bill and I became friends almost from the beginning.
We picked Kora out from photographs and emailed descriptions of her, her ancestors and her litter mates. After Bev, it's one of the most fortunate choices of my life. Kora is a joy and a delight, and we have long since learned that she has those instincts and abilities to be a great livestock dog that her entire pedigree suggests. Since we don't own livestock in this phase of our lives, we bring Kora back to Bill from time to time so he can refresh her training and handle her in an upcoming working trial event. Kora is staying at Bayfield Farm until after her next trial event in early December. That is, if we can stand to be without her for so long.
On Wednesday afternoon we got to see that she has not forgotten her training as Bill took her to the field to bring in his goats and later to handle his flock of ducks. Working Aussies have to have proficiency with cattle, sheep and ducks. Kora used to not like ducks. She's doing great with them now. We're looking forward to her building her next round of credentials in December as she works toward one day being awarded the letters WTCH permanently affixed to the front of her registered name. That stands for Working Trial Champion.
When we left Bill and Judy's early Thursday morning, we took with us two of Kora's pups which had been there the past two months for their initial training. These girls, Tosh and Thena, are not yet eleven months old, but they are both well started on their life's work. One of the purposes for this leg of the trip was delivering them to their new owners between Raleigh and Greensboro. We hate to see these girls go, but their new home is with people who will love them and treat them well in addition to providing them an everyday opportunity to use their great intellect and ability. I am pleased to report that Bill is so impressed with Kora and her offspring that he now owns a littermate to Tosh and Thena. Becka is so much like her mother, and that is nothing but good.
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After we delivered the pups and lunched at Steak and Shake, we drove steadily west for a couple hours or more. At Morganton, we stopped for fuel and supplies and then headed mostly south along hilly, two-lane roads toward South Mountain State Park.
South Mountain is a curious corner of Appalachia, separated from the contiguous mass of the Blue Ridge by fifty or so miles. I suppose this would be a good time for some of you to learn to properly pronounce the word "Appalachian." It has no long "A" sound, and the final syllable does NOT sound like "shun." Remember that. All short "A" sounds, and the ending is "chun." Use this little ditty to remember how to pronounce the noun form: "Mr. Snake," said Eve, "If you attempt to deceive, I'll throw this apple atcha."
We discovered that the State of North Carolina had chosen this particular time to replace several bridges and improve a number intersections along the route from Morganton to South Mountain. Inconvenient though that might have been, it was compounded by the fact that we were allowed to drive nearly ten miles down Enola Rd. without being forewarned that we would find that road closed for bridge replacement. We were forced into a long backtrack and searching for an appropriate detour. Once we discovered the way around, we began seeing Enola Rd. Detour signs. The intersection where the Road Closed Ahead sign should have been placed bore no such indication. What should have taken us about half an hour was more than doubled.
South Mountain Park was worth the trouble. Even though it's in our back yard, I'd not been there since I was a pup. Getting into the campground was tight, but we found a lovely spot. Hardwood fall colors were at their peak, a beautiful stream flows through the site, and only a handful of other campers were present. Had extensive talks with two different young rangers who were interested in Sophia. We stayed two nights with not even minimal cell service. Hated to leave midmorning Saturday, but a cold rain was falling and turning to snow. Friday night temps had dropped into the high thirties with much colder predicted for later on Saturday. We decided that we shouldn't tempt fate and possibly not be able to get the bus out of the campground. The exit promised to be challenging enough on merely wet pavement due to a sharp angle between the uphill exit drive and the connecting road. No one else was in the parking lot, so I was able to swing far to the left before turning right out of the lot. Our low floor did not scrape at all. I was glad.
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The trip from South Mountain to home base in Marion was uneventful in spite of the rain. We stopped near Morganton for a Taco Bell lunch and a run into Lowe's. Stopped again at Spencer's Hardware in our hometown for a wood stove door gasket. I need to get our little stove back up on a temporary mount to get us through the next few days, especially since we're operating sans insulation.
About 1:00 P.M. we rolled back onto our usual parking place. We'd been gone sixteen days. Our odometer doesn't work, so I don't know how many miles. The bus performed almost flawlessly other than horrible fuel economy. Hard to accurately check for above mentioned reasons, but a couple of spot checks along the interstate showed something like 5.5 mpg. We should get at least 8 and I wouldn't think 9 or 10 unreasonable. More investigation required.
I'm penning this wrap-up about five hours after we returned. I've been busy all afternoon attending necessary chores with the bus and our home base. I've also been putting a good bit of thought into tomorrow since it's a Sunday and I have pastoral duties for the first time in a month. As much as I'd like to write something about the net effect of this trip, I can't find the thoughts. Much less the words. Maybe that will come in the next few days. If so, I'll share.
We're thrilled that we got to go. Double thrilled that we had no mechanical issues even though our CoachNet was paid. In thirty seven years of marriage, this is the longest we've ever been away. I can't say "away from home" since we were driving and living in "home" the whole time, but we were away from the place we usually park and the place where most of our responsibilities are centered. It was good to be away. It's good to be back. In spite of the drastic change in weather, I find that I'm ready for the next phase. However that comes. I suspect that it will come hard and fast.
Best to all,
Jim & Bev
Back in Marion, NC
P.S. We had one incident today that made me chuckle. While we were waiting for food at Taco Bell, I stood patiently waiting for a short-but-not-slim woman to move away from the accessory station. She finally took a couple steps toward the serving counter, and I moved in and began pulling a few napkins. While I was at it, she reversed those two steps without bothering to look behind her. Of course she ran into me. I was not hurt or inconvenienced in any way, but she appeared to be horribly embarrassed. As she turned and looked up at me to begin her apologies, her eyes grew to enormous proportion. I assured her that it was okay, but she went on. I didn't realize until a few moments after she finally walked away that she had been struck by both my size and the fact that I was still wearing the navy blue watch cap I had put on before we left the campground. I heard her behind me asking Beverly, "Is your husband a lumberjack? He sure is big." I turned immediately and sang the only appropriate response, "I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay. I sleep all night and I work all day."
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Super write-up! Thanks for sharing! I really enjoy your testimony.
Epilogue:
We've traveled less this year than I had hoped but more than the state of our conversion might indicate. In spite of major work — living in it all the while — the bus is still in a state that most would consider primitive. Maybe it's surprising that we traveled anywhere. We're working toward independence from our home base, but that's in the future.
In the early and middle part of the year, we took a few non-bus day trips to beautiful places around western North Carolina. On one spring outing we visited Lake James State Park. We hoped for a glimpse of a pair of nesting bald eagles. Bev's binoculars rewarded us with sightings of at least one of the birds on the hunt. That bit of eagle watching set part of the tone for this year.
Beverly is the bird watcher. I use the Edward Abbey system where LGB means "little gray bird." Raptors, however, pique my interest. Early in our marriage, I investigated the sport of falconry. The obstacles were considerable. By the late seventies, most of the classic hunting falcons were endangered. Tennessee had a licensing program allowing some exception to the federal ban on trapping and possessing certain large raptors. When I learned that only six people in the state had secured a license, my interest waned. I would be content with reading about falconry and watching those magnificent birds in the wild.
I watched for eagles and large falcons going to Ocracoke and back. We saw gulls, pelicans, plovers, egrets, pipers, grackles, red-winged blackbirds and mockingbirds. Under Beverly's tutelage I can identify most of those. I spotted several hawks and a couple of smaller falcons. We did not see an eagle. Lack of visual contact did not keep me from thinking about eagles, however, because just before we left home base, I became aware that the documentary, "History of the Eagles", is on Netflix.
I've been a fan of that flock almost since they hatched. Their eyrie was Linda Ronstadt's backup band, and I carried a torch for her. Glenn Frey and Don Henley were part of her first road group. They turned down a chance to play her more extensive second tour so they could start their own band with Steve Misner and Bernie Leadon. The year was 1972. Their music caught my ear for the same reasons that I loved Crosby, Stills and Nash and The Osborne Brothers: great songs and fabulous harmony.
Last week I watched "History of the Eagles." I loved it. The next day I got an email from a friend on Ocracoke. Perhaps it was time to update this travelogue. I'll come back to the email, but first more about that hit-making machine the world knows as The Eagles.
On May 6, 1975, I saw the original band plus Don Felder. Several of us from the small college I attended near St. Louis got tickets for Kiel Auditorium. From the moment Glenn Frey said, "We're The Eagles from Los Angeles," and they launched into "Take it Easy" to the end of the second encore, I was transfixed — lost in the music and the mob of screaming humanity. When Bernie Leadon's banjo kicked off "Midnight Flyer", I nearly wet my pants. Felder's guitar took the band to a level that scarcely seemed possible. He and Bernie fed off each other during guitar duets. They built lyrical layers on top of Henley's rock-solid drum foundation and Misner's lush bass lines. Then those harmonies transported me to some altered state without need of the mind-altering substances which were, no doubt, widely distributed in that concert hall. In the company of a few friends and a few thousand strangers, I was happy to give myself to the power of music. I suppose people have been doing so since the beginning.
Military leaders have always used that power to inspire and intimidate. Joshua's trumpet section delivered the fatal blow at Jericho. The cacophony of Gideon's 300 trumpets caused the army of Midian to turn on itself and enabled Israel to route a superior force. Philip of Macedonia, his boy, Alex, and all the caesars considered their brass sections among their most potent war tools. Hordes of Vandals and Goths and Visigoths reportedly sang as they overran the crumbling Roman Empire. The highland pipes of Scotland have such a military association that players still march while they perform. I think they're trying to get away from the noise. Native American tribes sang and danced to build war frenzy. General Pickett's trumpeters helped keep his division marching into the bloody maw of Seminary Ridge. US troops prevailed amid the horrors of WWII with help from the "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and all those USO performers.
Music also has power to affect nondestructive change. Christmas carols caused a spontaneous truce in the trenches of WWI. It almost stalled the war. Wouldn't THAT have been embarrassing? Americans sang wihle they marched for civil rights. Sometimes they sang on in spite of fire hoses, dogs and truncheons. Many religions use music to inspire and galvanize. Effective advertising campaigns employ a theme that grabs attention and has staying power. Fifty some years after first exposure, the "Rice Krispies Theme" still transports me to Saturday morning breakfast and the promise of a day rambling woods and fields with friends or my cocker spaniel.
Music can cheer the downhearted, overcome weak resolve and communicate across cultural barriers. It promotes group identity and social interaction. It can also be a tool to corrupt and control. Hitler and every other successful cult leader wrapped their followers in song. Encouraging base desires with music did not start in the sixties with what one of my professors called "the thump-thump of sensuality." We will always have those who use music to promote the immoral, the illegal and the unhealthy. As Luke Skywalker learned, every force has it's dark side. On the other hand, we are surrounded by witness of music's power to heal. One of those examples is guitarist, Joe Walsh.
Walsh was famous when he joined The Eagles in 1976. Bernie Leadon, with his country and bluegrass inclinations, was out. Walsh, with his hard rock chops and credibility, was a dream come true for Glenn Frey. Walsh gave The Eagles an edge. The Eagles gave Walsh a new fan base. Joining the band was probably good for Walsh financially. The boys from LA did not, however, offer much help in dealing with his addictions to alcohol and cocaine. They were too busy with their own dark desires.
Joe Walsh could have become another live fast, play hard, die young footnote in music history. As part of The Eagles, he had access, means and support for his unhealthy appetites. Bernie Leadon and Steve Misner would claim that they left the band, in part, because they needed positive influence. Hanging out with The Eagles was nothing like attending an AA meeting. Somehow Walsh survived.
In their documentary, Joe, speaking from the wealth of perspective sometimes afforded an observant sexagenarian (isn't THAT an ironic handle for a rock and roller?), makes reference to an unnamed philosopher. The gist of his comment is that each of us tend to think of our life as an exercise in chaos, but at some point we can look back and see it as a finely crafted novel. Walsh is one of my favorite guitar players. I am an acoustic musician, and my tastes run more to James King than The James Gang, but his playing is melodic and lyrical, his electric guitar more an extension of his soul than a means to impress me. He does impress me — of course — I marvel at his virtuosity, but now I might be even more impressed with the depth of Joe's comprehension.
When we see the "finely crafted novel" in life's rearview, we cringe at our flaws. Joe Walsh lived long with his demons. He found a way to ditch those monkeys where he used to find facilitators: his bandmates. When The Eagles reunited in 1994, all the other guys were clean. They made his sobriety a requirement. Joe decided that making the music he loved with the people he loved was more important than a bottle or a line of white powder. Joe Walsh's friends, and the power of the music, saved his life. I loved watching "History of the Eagles." Most of all, I loved recent footage of the band with Joe Walsh playing his best, singing powerfully, rock and rolling with abandon — still alive.
So, what does Joe Walsh's rehab have to do with our bus trip to Ocracoke? Maybe not much, but indulge me. A "chaos at the time" metaphor is too strong to apply to our visit to the Outer Banks. We experienced some disappointment, but the details are fading. When I pull out those memories, I find them settled in a snug and cozy place. We loved the experience, and we will treasure the memory. Not enough for a finely crafted novel, perhaps, but it's a pretty good short story. That story is still unfolding.
Now, that email from one of the Ocracoke musicians with whom we shared food and fellowship and a jam session or two. We were on her mind. She wondered how we were doing and how Kora responded to her recent training and trialing. She spoke of major change and the death of a pet — plans and hopes and possibilities. Her words put me in her presence. She's known health issues and loss that would stagger many. She could have become that person who beats up people around her with tales of woe. Instead, she's the one with a listening ear and an encouraging word. When I think of her, I see her smile. She would tell you that part of what brought her through the valley of shadow is a web of meaningful relationships and a wealth of genuine experience. Maybe not those exact words, but that's what I brought away. I hope the time we spent together was as good for her as it was for Bev and me.
A dear friend — a musician — once gave me a copy of the book, "Jakob the Baker." Jakob is wise, so he is often called to lend insight. He told one of his supplicants, a bitter woman who was determined to find a way to carry her wealth beyond the grave, that everything of value is carried in our memory. Our culture tells us that Jakob is, at best, foolish. My heart, even after all these years, tells me that he is right. You don't have to live in a bus to make memories, but the ability to be at home wherever we switch off the engine is helping us add to our wealth of meaningful relationships and genuine experiences. I believe those are the things that helped Joe Walsh turn away from the dark chapters of his life.
Two of Joe's Eagle friends drove him to rehab. Afterward, the band, reformed in more than one sense, began rehearsing. Twenty years later, they're still at it. I cannot speak for Joe Walsh, but I think he did not get clean and sober to make more money, rather so he could be with his friends making the music only they can make.
Early in 2015, The Eagles will be touring Australia and New Zealand. If they play the eastern US later in the year, Beverly and I plan to see them. We're not fans of big crowds, but when I mentioned the idea she said, "That sounds like fun!" Indeed it does. We'd like to take the bus, because — well — that's how we roll. Knowing what I do about parking at large concert venues, however, I can imagine us driving the old Mazda to someplace like Charlotte or Atlanta or Nashville or Cincinnati or Jacksonville. We'll stand out in the crowd, even among so many baby boomers. We'll stay at the hotel non-California and probably sleep with a peaceful, easy feeling.
So, put me on a highway, and show me a sign. Gonna watch Joe Walsh and his Eagle buddies take it to the limit one more time. A trip that good might deserve its own travelogue.