Harold Lee and Robbie

Daddy looks all filled out and healthy here with my cousin Robbie. He must be home from the army? Aunt Noni, help me out here. All you have to do to leave a comment, I think, is to sign up with blogspot and then click on comment under this post. Otherwise, email me.

He says he never got enough to eat when he was at home. He thinks he was always hungry at home. That is hard for me to comprehend. We've had nothing but an abundance of good food as long as I've been alive. Daddy says that my Mom's family had more food and better food than his family did. Mom says they never went hungry, but she knows her Daddy did. Mom says they might not have always had a variety of things to eat at a meal, but there was enough of whatever they had, even if it was just a big pot of potatoes.

We always had a big garden when I was growing up. Mama canned and froze and pickled so that we had more than enough food. We had a cow, Louise, and she gave lots of milk. We had homemade butter! With this abundance I could even be a picky eater. That's a luxury, to be a picky eater! Can you imagine a hungry person being picky about what was offered? I liked chicken, chocolate milk, corn, sandwiches, steak, ham, boiled potatoes. I didn't like pickles, pickled beets, butter bean, green beans, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, okra, tomatoes, onions, collards, cabbage and so many other things. I enjoy eating all of these things now. I think that if I had ever been allowed to get hungry I would have learned to like all food.

I went to a Karate tournament with a neighbor when I was about 16. I had money to buy something to eat. I somehow got really hungry and ordered a hamburger. They put lettuce and tomato on it and that was awful, but I was so hungry I didn't even bother to take them off. I just bit into it and it was so good. I couldn't believe that something I hated so badly could taste so good. My thinking slowly changed after that and I began to try new things.

I've grown to appreciate my parents hard work to make sure we never went hungry. The abundance we have enjoyed was provided because of hard work and careful planning. My family was frugal and never wasteful. Mom managed the family's money carefully. There was never enough money to spend freely. I talk about the need for a budget to keep from spending too much in one category or another. I have categories like "entertainment" and "spending money" and "vacation" in my budget. My parents didn't have that option.

But you know what? My parents were careful and diligent and frugal because they had to be. Later in life when they didn't have to be so careful, they still lived the same way, it was a habit, no it had become their character. They have freezers full of fresh vegetables and pantries loaded with canned goods and they can feed an army at a moments notice. They have a nice home and they create an environment that keeps us coming home. They have all they need and more. The excess spills over and touches so many people.

But I'm only talking about material things. They have so much more to offer. Do you know what it is? Give them a chance and they'll give it to you, too.

tailgate

Once when Daniel was a little fella' we were driving up the lane toward the highway from the Big House. There was a box turtle on the road and of course we stopped to pick him up. I sent Daniel out to grab him. That was no problem for Daniel, he had experience with turtles and all kinds of animals. He picked up the turtle and came to the truck door and would have gotten in the truck holding the turtle except that I said, "Put him in the back of the truck and shut the tailgate". My experience had taught me that when you pick up a turtle it is best not to have him in the floor of the vehicle crawling around. If he gets under the accelerator it's hard to go and if he gets under the brake it's hard to stop and if he gets under the seat he's hard to retrieve.

"Put him in the back and shut the tailgate". Daniel just stood there holding the turtle. Daniel even at 4 was a man of action. For him to just stand there with a blank look on his face, that was perplexing to me. He was always good at following directions especially if he heard them twice.

"Daniel! Put the turtle in the back of the truck and close the tailgate so he won't get out!" Daniel looked at me, then at the turtle. He turned the turtle over. Have you ever played with a box turtle? If you have you know that they have a hinged shell that allows them to shut themselves up completely so that no flesh is exposed.

Daniel turned the turtle over and with his finger he punched the flesh beside the turtles tail causing him to pull himself in and shut the rear part of his shell for protection. Another little punch with Daniel's finger and the "tailgate" was closed. He put the turtle into the bed of the truck and started to get back in the truck.

Stella, you were there. You are my witness. Am I telling it right?

I nearly cried, it was so funny. I didn't want to offend Daniel, so I restrained myself, only smiling with tears in my eyes. I love him so much. He is so perfect. He is strong willed and active, but still sensitive. He likes to be right. I have to be careful not to embarrass him. I hold back with all my might. "Daniel, the door on the back of the truck, the gate-thing that we close back there to keep things from rolling out, we call that the tailgate. Go back around to the back of the truck and shut it for Daddy. That'll keep the turtle from getting out if he decides to start walking around back there."

Later that day I told the story and laughed and I told it in Daniel's presence. I wanted him to see the funniness in the misunderstanding. I wanted him to laugh with us. He did NOT think it was funny. Over the years I told of the incident occasionally and often Daniel was there to hear it. Each time he heard the story he always found it to be very NOT funny. "Oh no, not that, not again".

One day, many years later when Daniel was nearly a teenager, I found myself needing to tell it just one more time. (Every time I tell it, my heart is so full it could almost burst with my love and admiration for my son, Daniel. I almost choke when I tell it. My heart feels like it will burst. It was just one of those things that happens in a family, one of those things that'll never go away. It is a moment frozen in time and it will last forever. It has to be told. Daniel was so smart and he understood everything that he should at his age and so much more. His granddaddy had said when Daniel was two years old, "I don't know what I'm going to do, I've taught him almost everything I know!" Well almost everything.... Granddaddy rarely had a tailgate on HIS truck and THAT was one detail he had not had the opportunity or need to explain for Daniel. )

In that moment with the turtle in hand, it was so important to Daniel that he should understand his dad's request. He had heard it, he had pondered it, he had decoded it and he had taken the appropriate action.

Perfect. A perfect moment. The whole world pivoted on that one little poke of a turtle's tender flesh.

Daniel laughed.

Ancient cypress

This is one of the very old cypress trees that stands in an area within the Black River, a tributary of the Cape Fear River. These ancient trees remain uncut, partly because of their inaccessability and some were undesireable for lumber because they are hollow. Because they were spared, they stand as the oldest trees east of the Rocky Mountains. They are surpassed solely by the bristlecone pines near Death Valley, California.










Dendrochronologists doing a climate study in 1996 took a core from one tree and counted the rings. It was over 1700 years old! The core was taken at 15 feet above the ground so the tree would be older than 1700 years. There are many trees that are larger than the one that they cored but because they are hollow the rings cannot be counted. Some of the trees here are expected to be over 2000 years old. I saw this grove of trees this summer (2007) when the water was low. Here is a picture taken looking up at the top of one of the larger ones. Now that I have a Kayak I want to go back soon.

Nine moccasins

We used to have 'frog fries' out in the yard when I was growing up. A big black pot would be hung on a tripod over a woodfire until the lard was sizzling hot. Breaded bullfrog legs were lowered into the hot grease and the frying was on. Smelled great!

Before a 'frog fry' it was necessary to go bull-froggin'. We would take a small boat out into the pond and shine a flashlight or spotlight along the bank and look for the glowing eyes of large bull frogs. The frogs would often be heard sounding their characteristic low song, "Oh- -woe-woe-want". We'd paddle close until they were in reach and then use the three pronged bullfrog gig to spear the prey. Sometimes the frog would scream a loud "aaaaaeeeeeee!" when the gig hit him.

When a sufficient number of the unfortunate bullfrogs were collected in the burlap sack it was time to return home to prepare them. If the frog was still kicking I remember someone striking them on the head with the knife handle and again it might cry "aaaaaaaeeeeee!". The legs had to be cut off and this was more easily done to a stunned frog. I think that we preferred ours frog legs fried with the skin off. I don't remember any of the frogs' spots showing through the fried batter like it does at some local restaurants where the skin is left on.

This picture was taken when my brother, Gary, was quite young, maybe four years old. I would have been a newborn if I'd been born at all. This photo is the most worn and damaged photo among the hundreds of photos that mom recently went through and organized. This photo was probably shown more times than any other of our photos. I bet Gary took it to school many times to impress his friends, too. These are the nine moccasins that were killed during a frog hunt that Gary participated in. That's our dad at the other end of the stick. He's doing all the work. Gary only THINKS he is helping Dad hold the stick up.

All these snakes remind me of the night that we had fried rattlesnake for supper. Dad had killed a big rattler and he'd cleaned it and cut it up so that it looked more like a bowl of chicken backs than anything else I can think of. Mom didn't want to cook it. She had always been afraid of snakes and had nightmares about them frequently. She didn't want anything to do with them. Dad insisted and she gave in to his wish. I remember her crying over the stove as the snake fried. Me and mom didn't eat any of it. I'm sure Gary and Dad feasted heartily. I did eat rattlesnake, turtle, bear, deer and alot of other things later in life, but that night seeing mom's distress, I couldn't bear the thought of it.

Phenomenal nature spectacle begins, Neil secures parking spot

Some local guys were drinking beer and fishing on posted property on a point of land on the north side of the Neuse River. When I approached them one of them lamented, "I know! This property is posted" He was sure that I was there to tell them they would have to move on. I said, "No, I'm looking for a place to park so I can put my kayak in sometime next month." One of them asked, "Are you a southerner?"

Even though I proudly passed the 'southern' hurdle, these guys didn't have the authority to grant me the permission that I sought. Like themselves I had a good reason to be there, but I'd have to look elsewhere for the parking pass.

The purple martins having raised their young are beginning to congregate in increasing numbers underneath the Neuse River bridge near Bridgeton across the river from New Bern as they have been doing for many years. The martins will gather nightly at this spot from late July until around the middle of August. Each morning they'll take flight with their young and return to the neighborhoods where they have fledged this year's brood. They'll consume quantities of insects during the day and then near days end they'll fly again toward New Bern where they will spend the night in this huge communal roost. Some have speculated that all the birds from a hundred mile radius will commune at a roost like this. The numbers are staggering when they come swirling in like clouds just before dark. I haven't yet witnessed the spectacle of their departure, but I have heard that one morning around the middle of August they all take flight together and head toward their winter feeding grounds in South America. Some evening this August I plan to paddle my kayak near the bridge to observe the martins as they come streaming in. I'd like to get some flash photos of the birds huddled shoulder to shoulder underneath the bridge on the steel I-beams that serve to support the bridge surface.

Tonight we drove to a neighborhood as close to the bridge as we could get and I made arrangements with a homeowner who will allow me to park in her driveway and put my kayak in from her dock. I was lucky to find Ms. Mary Walker checking her mailbox this evening. Having a sure parking spot will help to make this outing come off without a hitch. Ms. Walker was aware of the congregation of martins each year and she said that the roosting has already begun.

On the way back home we stopped at the foot of the bridge to watch the martins coming in for just a few minutes . Luke was impatient and didn't let us stay too long. I'll be back. You are invited.

Of course I remember you!

Here is a letter from someone who knew my mom and dad when they were growing up. Hope the print is big enough for you to read it.

Millpond and Kayak

I've wanted a kayak ever since I heard the work 'kayak'. I probably didn't hear the word until high school or the first year in college, but even so, that's a long time to want something. Not that I've been deprived or that I've felt deprived. I've always had access to the water. I've been canoeing a long time and I practically grew up on the water. Dad got a boat about the time I was 12 and we had summers with camping and fishing and skiing and boating. Later Dad and Mom had a place on the Bay River where they set nets, worked crabpots, even tried shrimping. That lasted nearly twenty years it seems.

But the kayak. The smallness of it. The simplicity. The ease of transport. The solitude. Those things appealed to me. l

The 23rd of June, 2007 I bought two of them. I found them at Sam's club. They appeared good enough. The price was right. Now I can carry one on my head or drag it to the millpond anytime I want. I don't have to plan ahead. I don't need any help. It's easy. I just decide and go.

I've been out on the kayak many times this past few weeks. Stella and I have been out. Daniel and I have gone out. Michael and I have paddled. I've been with Keith. He liked it enough that he bought his own. I've been out alone alot too. I always take my camera. I'm trying to get a picture of the geese coming in after sundown. I haven't gotten the perfect picture yet. I have gotten a few pictures of other things.

The other night I was waiting for another flock of geese to come gliding in. I noticed this storm of little fly-bugs swirling around my head. I shot a few pictures and when I zoomed in on these miniscule winged things, I was surprised to see that they were actually tiny people, with wings. Look at the pictures here and see for yourself. I saw them again last night.

In the daytime there were leaves floating on the pond. I saw this one with red on it. It may be a Virginia Creeper leaflet. That's what it looks like. They often turn red by late summer.

I can comfortably reach some places with the kayak that I might not have seen otherwise. With the paddles out to the sides it is harder than the canoe to maneuver in tight places, but once you get into a tight spot it is easier to turn around with the kayak because of it's shorter length. There are pros and cons with everything.

I am glad I bought them. I can do fun things alone and I can do fun things with people I love. Wonder if Mom and Dad want to give it a try?

The millpond is around 300 years old. When it was empty after the dam broke, I went to count the rings on a submerged cypress log. I estimated that it was over 900 years old when it was cut. They can live to be over 2000 years old I've since discovered. The old ones on the Black River near Wilmington have been proven to be in that age range. I saw them by canoe with my friend, Ron. It was an otherworldly place. I want to go back there and show them to You. If you don't get to see them in person, at least see my pictures at www.flickr.com/photos/crowdive in a set called 'black river'.

Here also is a picture of my dad and friends standing atop the dam at our millpond back in the late 40's or early 50's.

Unfortunate accident

We went North. All of us. Not all of us. So many of us that it seemed like all of us. We are the blended family. The combined family. Yours, mine and ours. Eight is enough. Cheaper by the dozen. We are practically newlyweds and the baby is two weeks old. It is right and good that we should go north to visit her side of the family. It would be great to make this a family vacation. Money is in short supply. Gas costs almost as much as milk. Five teenagers, a new baby, and Wendy and I.

I like pulling the camper, the mother ship. It is long and shiney with rounded ends. A huge family vacation. My agenda: see moose, hear french.

We go to Gettysburg. I want Stella and Daniel to get a chance to experience the battleground. This time we get a dry old man guide to drive our car around and tell us about things. He only talks about the terrain, the lay of the land, the hills, the valleys. He was boring. Last year we got a passionate, war-between-the-states, woman book writer and she brought Pickett's charge to life. This year was not as good. No one was impressed. How can you take a guided tour at Gettysburg and not be impressed? It happened to us. Next time will be better.

Next stop is at Springboro, PA to visit brother Matt, Grandma Ginger and Grandpa Dan. We had two or three days there and had a great time. Matt played the accordian and Luke was introduced to the music of his gypsy ancestors, no, not really, but maybe Croatian polka music? I'm not sure. All we know is that Matt can play alot of instruments and he can write music and he jokes around alot. We only stayed two or three days, because there was so much that I wanted to do with this trip North.

Stella has always wanted to see Niagara Falls. I have decided to take her there. The Falls are big and wet. The colored lights are tacky. The power company has diverted 75 percent of the water to generate power. You don't miss all that water. It looks like it is all there. Stella was sad that day. I didn't know how to make things better. She just got better later. We saw Niagara Falls. Our hair stood up. All but Michael's.

We continued on around the Canadian side of Lake Ontario. We drove all the way around and then re-entered Vermont. We were looking for moose in earnest now. I had read that June was the best time to see moose, because they liked to come out in the evening and lick the salt off the roads.

We began to see lots of signs about moose. Moose next 15 miles. We kept our eyes on alert. Everyone helped. Somewhere along the way we saw moose trails and tracks. I was excited. They looked fresh. "If we never see a moose, at least we've seen fresh tracks". Later I said, "If we never see a moose, at least we've seen fresh moose droppings" This became, "If we don't see a moose at least we have a skull and some leg bones from a moose that died last year".

Then in New Hampshire it happened, someone yelled "MOOSE!" And there the little moose was. Standing in the tall grass. We looked at him and he at us. I took pictures of him standing. I took pictures of him staring. I got some pictures of him leaving. Mission accomplished. We saw a MOOSE!

On to Quebec. With moose bones. Illegal to take moose products into French Canada? We didn't know. It was hard at the border crossing. There were step children and stepchildren and natural children with different parents some of whom were in Iraq. There were questions and explanations. Was Wendy escaping to Canada with her X husband's children? Maybe she was! We had to allow an inspection of the camper. The moose bones were wrapped in plastic and then a towel and then more plastic and then a dark, black, large garbage bag. The kind of bag that human remains are sometimes hidden in. Drugs are hidden this way too. I had to open little doors that were locked on the outside of the trailer. I had to worry that our bones would be found, that we would be detained, denied entry, imprisoned, fined. What if they confiscated our moose skeleton? The border guard had a french accent. He had to know our occupations. I told him I was a speech therapist, nodding to emphasize my veracity. He told us to continue. I could not believe my ears. Anyone could tell we were hiding something. Something was definitely wrong here. Still we were released.

On to Quebec City. In the french speaking province the trailer had brake trouble and we had to stop in a small village and ask for repairs. The repairman was away but his girls said he would return soon. It was already after hours and with our prejudiced conceptions of the French, it was certain that we were going to be turned away. All of my French language skills had been swallowed by my more recent exposure to spanish and I couldn't pull out any more than, "Merci" and "s'il vous plais".

The owner returned and he went right to work diagnosing the problem. He drove the trailer around the village. He crawled under the trailer. I went under with him to encourage him and to show my interest and appreciation for what he was doing. He found a broken wire and and he fixed it. I had the audacity to doubt that he had found the problem. I managed to tell him that I didn't think that could be the solution. He challenged me to drive it around, so I did. He rode with me and he raised his eyebrows asking me in french "is it not fixed?" It was. Now the moment of truth. What does a frenchman charge and ugly american who has shown up after hours on his extravagant family vacation to a foreign land with 5 teenagers, wife and baby? What does a frenchman charge for his services when his ugly american afterhours patron has doubted his ability to repair the brakes?

"How much does this cost?"

He shrugged and smiled, "Ten dollars"

I look at him and nearly gasped. I don't know enough french to tell him he should charge more. He must see I am disappointed. I am, And it shows. I am disappointed that I can't adequately express my thanks.

Something happened to the French in the New World. These adventurous french, who left their country and crossed the sea. The french who came to the frontier to befriend the indians, the french who trapped and traded and canoed and settled in this land, something had happened. Something had changed them and made them new and different. Or maybe they they were isolated from the mother country and never evolved into the proud and arrogant people that we all know they.....woops.

He was a nice french canadian. That is enough. My stereotypic ideas about the french had to be modified.

On to Quebec City. We ate expensive food at a sidewalk cafe with an automated rain canopy in the most european city in North America. Lemonade was four dollars and fifty cents. There were street performers with music and antics. We had bread and butter. There were shops decorated with windowboxes. It rained. We camped near the big bridge.

On to Maine. At the border a nice Maine lady smiled and welcomed us back to America. We told her we had seen lots of moose related things and even a little moose in NH the week before. She frowned and said that unfortunately a moose had been killed on the road just 10 miles further. "Be careful, I think they just pulled it to the side of the road".

"You think there is a dead moose on this road? The road we are on? Hey guys, we might see a dead moose!" A freshly killed dead moose!. I was already thinking of how I might saw off the antlers or a hoof, or clip off the tail or an ear. I know this sounds sick and morbid. I can't explain it. I have wanted to see a moose ever since I was a child watching Captain Kangaroo and Mister Moose and Mr. Green Jeans. Years before I had gone all the way to Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks and the Tetons and I had not yet seen a moose. Seeing a moose was important. Bringing back a souvenir of the culmination of this life quest was, at least, explainable.

Did you know that on the west Coast the same year that we didn't see a moose, we also didn't see a killer whale? We did everything we were supposed to do. We went to the right place, paid the full price, got on the whale boat, went out in the fog. Orcas had been seen for 52 straight days and yesterday they had disappeared going west. The day we went we saw fog and we saw seals. No Orca. I had even prayed and had drawn and colored a picture to ensure that we would see whales. But God had another plan. He had earlier given me the unexpected pleasure of close encounters with mountain goats, and that was enough. I know he was right to do this, but at the time I questioned his motives.

We found the moose. We looked at it long and hard. The eyes were gone. Crows and ravens and vultures go for the eyes first. There were no antlers. It was as big as a horse. I already had a moose skull. I'll not have to take any more moose parts. I was satisfied. I had seen enough. I'd had my fill.

That evening we were late finding a campground. We found the town of Jackson with a river called, Moose River, and a campground called Moose River Campground. We checked in. They offered wireless internet. We needed that. We hadn't had internet since Gettysburg. Still excited about our previous successes, I told the lady. We saw a dead moose today.

She looked up and smiled. "Do you want to see a live one?"

She seemed to be serious and she seemed to be sure. She wasn't teasing me. She said hurry and set up camp and disconnect your tow vehicle and drive the road from here to there and be careful, drive slow or you'll .....

Oh my gosh! Collide with a moose. By accident we were at MOOSE GROUND ZERO!! We disconnected with haste and with just enough light to see, but not enough to take photos......we saw moose after moose after moose after moose and on until even after dark.....moose!

Later I read the modest pamphlet providing information about the campground and area. Not a word was written about moose. I suppose that at ground zero, it doesn't merit mention.

Hogs devour local man

When I was very young I heard the old folks telling a story that was both gruesome and shocking. The story was told at Granddaddy 'Will' Smith's house. I think that he was the one who was telling it. I remember that there were adults around, other family members I'm sure. I was young enough not to know what a skull was. There was the mention of a skull and I remember imagining that a skull would look like an egg yolk. At what age did I come to know what a skull was? Surely by age 5 I would have know. I guess that I heard this story before or around the age of 5. I recounted this little bit of family lore to my dad this year and he said that he had never heard it, but that he had heard of things like this before and he said it might well be true.

The way it was told, the way I remember it, it was as if it was something that had happened very near and I was sure at the time that they were talking about something that had happened long ago just behind the house, in the hog pen or the cow lot. There had been an old colored man, his name was given, but I do not remember that detail. This old man walked through the woods where the hogs were kept on his way to where he often had to go. He was proned to heavy drinking. He was missed by his folks for a time and noone knew where he had gone or where he might be. Eventually someone discovered a gruesome clue to the mystery surrounding the disappearance of this old man. A SKULL !! A skull was found in the hogpen, just a skull and a skull alone. A shining yellowish squishy rounded thing glistening on the dark wet ground. That is what I imagined a skull to be. I didn't know what a skull was, but I understood the implication that this skull was all that was left of that poor man. They speculated at that time and again as the story was recounted, that the man had stumbled and fallen or had passed out or laid down to go to sleep and the hogs had found him and probably had begun to eat him alive. They tore him apart and shredded him to pieces. They devoured him completely, his flesh, his bones, his clothing.....all gone. All gone except the slippery yellowish rounded thing. Why hadn't they eaten it? After all it was soft and squishy. Maybe it didn't taste as good as a bloody, muddy shirt. But for whatever reason, that is all that was left, only the skull.