ChadSang
11-19-2006, 01:19 PM
My Early Jorney
My uncle Bascom and his family were the only ones living in the old home place by the time I came along. After my grandfather died, his property was divided among his surviving children. My dad and two of his brothers, Bascom and Walker, inherited the old house and surrounding land. My dad and my uncle Walker agreed to give up their share of the property to Bascom if he would take care of Atwell, their mentally challenged brother. They lived on the edge of the Green Swamp. This water logged swamp had drainage ditches every so often. Well, my Uncle Atwell was found laying in one of the drainage ditches dead as a door knob. My dad always thought my uncle Bascom killed him because he got tired of taking care of uncle Atwell
The house my father was born in was built sometime around the middle 1800s by his father. It was a two-story, unpainted structure, with a detached kitchen. A covered porch ran the length of the front of the house and connected to the kitchen. Homes were constructed like that in those days to protect the main structure in case there was a kitchen fire. There was no electricity and meals were cooked on a wood stove. Behind the home was a smokehouse filled with country hams hanging from the drafters. The aroma coming from that smokehouse was so wonderful. Near the smoke house was the outhouse, which emitted a completely different aroma, No indoor plumbing in those days, you see.
Once a year, there would be a family reunion at the old home place, and all the relatives would gather to enjoy some delicious food and warm fellowship. Long tables covered with white sheets would be set up outside the front of the house. All the women would load the tables with the dishes of food they prepared, which was enough to feed Patton’s Army. My mother freaked out at one of these family gatherings when someone gave me a piece of watermelon. I was only a year and a half old and she was afraid I would choke on the watermelon seeds.
The first time I experienced a bee sting was at one of these family reunions. I was running around the front yard barefooted and stepped on a bumblebee. Needless to say, that was a traumatic event for me, but I probably loved all the attention I got from all the women trying to console me.
Sometimes we would spend the night at the old home place. I remember one time we stayed there when it was cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra in January. I would guess it was during winter based on how cold it was. I could feel the cold wind blowing in through the cracks of the wall in the small room I slept in. The only heat was in the living room where a small wood stove kept you comfortable, provided you stayed in that room.
I also remember spending the evenings with my uncle out at the log tobacco barn. The tobacco was cured with a wood fire, and somebody had to stay out there all night to keep the fire going. I loved the smell of the wood fire and the curing tobacco.
My dad owned a two-story house on the coast at a place known as Howell’s Point. It overlooked the sound near the Lockwood’s Folly River, just a few miles from my dad’s old home place in Supply, NC. My dad called it a fishing shack because it was “nothing fancy.” This simplistic structure served as a haven for our family during the many trips we took to the coast.
I can remember all the wonderful times we had on those trips Each time we would sojourn to Howell’s Point, my dad would get up with the Cox brothers, Louie and Thurman. They had a place known as Cox’s Landing, about four or five miles from Howell’s Point. These two African-American men and some of their sons would take us out in their skiffs to go seining. The small boats had no motors and were powered through the water by one of the men using a long pole to guide the watercraft through the sound.
On the back of one of those boats would be a large net, carefully folded. When Louie or Thurman would decide we reached the ideal spot, one end of the net would be taken ashore. The remainder of the long net would be gently lowered in the water as the boat was guided through the water forming a horshoe, ending back onshore. The top of the net had large corks attached to keep it from sinking. The bottom of the net had lead weights attached to make the bottom of the net sink to the bottom. All the people would then start pulling the net ashore, making sure the top stayed on top of the water and the bottom of the net stayed on the soft sand and mud below. This was important because the fish would escape if you didn’t. One pull of that net would yield enough crabs and fish to fill one of the boats. Occasionally, the men would also gather oysters from one of the plentiful beds that dotted the sound.
Once, during one of these seining trips, my dad was picking up fish after the seine had been pulled ashore. He was barefooted and stepped on a catfish and received a nasty sting. The poison from the fish made his foot and leg swell up so bad, he had to go to the hospital for treatment.
When everyone had their fill of catching assorted goodies from the saltwater, they would put all of the biggest fish on a small rope, take a picture of the catch, and head back to Howell’s Point for a feast. Thurman Cox would always accompany us back to the house and would take care of the cooking outside over a wood fire.
He would build a fire under a huge live oak tree to cook fish and roast oysters. My mom would make coleslaw and fried cornbread to go along with the catch of the day. Thurman would always have a pot of boiling water on the fire to cook the crabs. Those seafood feasts on the bank of the sound are some of my most favorite memories from early childhood.
One day while Thurman was tending to the fire, a chicken wandered up and apparently annoyed the jovial black man. “You better watch or we’ll be eating chicken ala commode,” Thurman yelled. No doubt he was a little confused about the terms “ala king” and “ala mode.”
I’m jumping back and forth in telling the reader about my childhood, so just ignore that if it bothers you.
When I was 11 years old, I was swimming and playing in the water in front of the house at Howell’s Point when tragedy almost struck. As I was enjoying the water, I got into an area that was way over my head. The tide had just changed and the rapid current started carrying me off toward the Intracoastal Waterway. I went down for the count three times and only came up twice. Luckily someone hear my screams and jumped in to save me. Someone gave CPR to me and turned me upside down to get the water out. (beating death #1). It took some time before my parents would let me near the water again by myself.
About a quarter of a mile off Howell’s Point was a small island flanked by the Intracoastal Waterway and the Lockwood’s Folly River. There was an old fishing shack on this island that was about the size of ¼ of a football field. This tiny island with its old fishing shack had always held a strong attraction for me. I fantasized about being a pirate and capturing the island. For the longest time, I wanted to go to that island by myself and live out my fantasy. Finally one day, when my parents felt I was old enough, they let me take a small skiff over to this island by myself. How excited I was as I landed on the island and captured the shack. I raised a pirate flag I had made and claimed the island as my own. Come to think of it, I’ve made a lot of captures all my life. I’ve been chasing rainbows all my life and a lot of the time the sun was on the other side. Found more than a few pots of gold in that quest.
There were other times we would stay at my Uncle Walker’s house in Southport. Southport overlooks the Cape Fear River at its mouth to the Atlantic Ocean, The little coastal town has long been known for its cool breezes and a very relaxed way of life. The earliest French and Spanish explorers visited this area in 1524 and again in 1526. The first European vessel to be built in the new world was constructed on the banks of the lower Cape Fear River. This ship was built to replace a ship that had been wrecked on Frying Pan Shoals, The explorers moved on looking for land to settle. My family owned all the land on both sides of Lockwood’s Folly River back in the older days. The Area around Southport was considered unsatisfactory due to poor soil, inadequate water, bugs and malaria.
Named after Benjamin Smith, a Continental General, an original commissioner and trustee, who later became Governor of North Carolina, changed its name to Southport in 1887. Southport occupies a forest of mighty live oak trees. It has been both a fishing village and military town since it was established in 1792.
My Uncle Walker, his wife and their daughter, Patsy lived in a two-story house at 1111 North Howe Street in Southport. He worked as a gatekeeper at Fort Caswell for years. This fort is located on Oak Island at the mouth of the Cape Fear River (from 1526 until 1662 the river was recorded on maps as the River Jordan. I think I could have crossed the River Jordan walking on water (laugh at that now). On January 31, 1946, Forth Caswell was designated as war surplus and assigned for disposal. The Baptist State Convention purchased the 250-acre fort from the government on September 29, 1949 for $86,000. At that time there were 77 buildings located on the property. Many of them still exist and are used today.
The original fortification, much of which still stands, is the brick structure near the end of the island, overlooking the Cape Fear River and the ocean. This part of Fort Caswell was under construction from 1826 until 1836. The remainder of the fort, seven long cement batteries, along with barracks and officer’s quarters, a hospital/morgue, bakery, horse barn, firehouse and prison, were built around the turn of the century.
Because of the lack of adequate defenses in this area, in 1825 Congress authorized the construction of a fort on Oak Island. The fort was an outstanding engineering accomplishment, one of the strongest in the world. It was a pentagonal structure with a two-story citadel and surrounded by a dry moat and a wet moat. It was named in 1833 for the first Governor of North Carolina, Richard Caswell. I always liked going over to Fort Caswell with my uncle Walker. While he tended the gate, I would explore the concrete batteries and live out many childhood fantasies. Sometimes I’d be a pirate, and at other times I would pretend I was some sort of creature who lived in a lair, just waiting for unsuspected passersby.
When we would visit my Uncle Walker, I was always afraid to go upstairs in his house because I was convinced there was something very evil up there. I do remember the delicious seafood meals my uncle would cook. Shrimp Creole, fried fish, boiled crabs and other assorted goodies from the sea, plus coleslaw, grits and maybe field peas; providing meals fit for a king.
I also remember the terrible water at my uncle’s house. It had a very strong odor of sulfur, quite common along the coast back in those days before the advent of sophisticated water treatment. Even though the town has water treatment now, it still smells like horse shit on a summer day. The only way you could drink this water was if it had been chilled in the refrigerator.
My uncle’s wife died of some sort of lingering illness. My uncle Walker then married the nurse that cared for wife number one while she was sick. He and his new bride had two sons, Cary and Wayne.
Every summer, my family would take a vacation in the mountains. I always looked forward to those trips, except for where we would always stay. We would always find a “tourist house” to bed down for the night. Back in those days, this was a cheap alternative to staying in a more formal hotel. The tourist’s houses were usually people’s houses and they would rent out rooms to tourists overnight. On one trip to Asheville, NC, I convinced my parents to let me stay at The Asheville Biltmore, a large hotel in downtown Asheville. I thought I was somebody that night -- staying in a big city motel all by myself, Of course, my parents were close by in a more casual tourist home.
As the reader will see, there’s a budding vampire afoot, who will begin to discover his own self, even though he won‘t know the full meaning of it all.
To be continued next Sunday, November 26th, 2006.
PHOTOS:
1. My dad's old home place
2. The "nothing fancy" fishing shack
3. The Cox brothers and my dad holding some of the largest fish out of scores of others
4. View of the sound as seen from the front of the fishing shack
5. Thurman Cox, my fishing bud
My uncle Bascom and his family were the only ones living in the old home place by the time I came along. After my grandfather died, his property was divided among his surviving children. My dad and two of his brothers, Bascom and Walker, inherited the old house and surrounding land. My dad and my uncle Walker agreed to give up their share of the property to Bascom if he would take care of Atwell, their mentally challenged brother. They lived on the edge of the Green Swamp. This water logged swamp had drainage ditches every so often. Well, my Uncle Atwell was found laying in one of the drainage ditches dead as a door knob. My dad always thought my uncle Bascom killed him because he got tired of taking care of uncle Atwell
The house my father was born in was built sometime around the middle 1800s by his father. It was a two-story, unpainted structure, with a detached kitchen. A covered porch ran the length of the front of the house and connected to the kitchen. Homes were constructed like that in those days to protect the main structure in case there was a kitchen fire. There was no electricity and meals were cooked on a wood stove. Behind the home was a smokehouse filled with country hams hanging from the drafters. The aroma coming from that smokehouse was so wonderful. Near the smoke house was the outhouse, which emitted a completely different aroma, No indoor plumbing in those days, you see.
Once a year, there would be a family reunion at the old home place, and all the relatives would gather to enjoy some delicious food and warm fellowship. Long tables covered with white sheets would be set up outside the front of the house. All the women would load the tables with the dishes of food they prepared, which was enough to feed Patton’s Army. My mother freaked out at one of these family gatherings when someone gave me a piece of watermelon. I was only a year and a half old and she was afraid I would choke on the watermelon seeds.
The first time I experienced a bee sting was at one of these family reunions. I was running around the front yard barefooted and stepped on a bumblebee. Needless to say, that was a traumatic event for me, but I probably loved all the attention I got from all the women trying to console me.
Sometimes we would spend the night at the old home place. I remember one time we stayed there when it was cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra in January. I would guess it was during winter based on how cold it was. I could feel the cold wind blowing in through the cracks of the wall in the small room I slept in. The only heat was in the living room where a small wood stove kept you comfortable, provided you stayed in that room.
I also remember spending the evenings with my uncle out at the log tobacco barn. The tobacco was cured with a wood fire, and somebody had to stay out there all night to keep the fire going. I loved the smell of the wood fire and the curing tobacco.
My dad owned a two-story house on the coast at a place known as Howell’s Point. It overlooked the sound near the Lockwood’s Folly River, just a few miles from my dad’s old home place in Supply, NC. My dad called it a fishing shack because it was “nothing fancy.” This simplistic structure served as a haven for our family during the many trips we took to the coast.
I can remember all the wonderful times we had on those trips Each time we would sojourn to Howell’s Point, my dad would get up with the Cox brothers, Louie and Thurman. They had a place known as Cox’s Landing, about four or five miles from Howell’s Point. These two African-American men and some of their sons would take us out in their skiffs to go seining. The small boats had no motors and were powered through the water by one of the men using a long pole to guide the watercraft through the sound.
On the back of one of those boats would be a large net, carefully folded. When Louie or Thurman would decide we reached the ideal spot, one end of the net would be taken ashore. The remainder of the long net would be gently lowered in the water as the boat was guided through the water forming a horshoe, ending back onshore. The top of the net had large corks attached to keep it from sinking. The bottom of the net had lead weights attached to make the bottom of the net sink to the bottom. All the people would then start pulling the net ashore, making sure the top stayed on top of the water and the bottom of the net stayed on the soft sand and mud below. This was important because the fish would escape if you didn’t. One pull of that net would yield enough crabs and fish to fill one of the boats. Occasionally, the men would also gather oysters from one of the plentiful beds that dotted the sound.
Once, during one of these seining trips, my dad was picking up fish after the seine had been pulled ashore. He was barefooted and stepped on a catfish and received a nasty sting. The poison from the fish made his foot and leg swell up so bad, he had to go to the hospital for treatment.
When everyone had their fill of catching assorted goodies from the saltwater, they would put all of the biggest fish on a small rope, take a picture of the catch, and head back to Howell’s Point for a feast. Thurman Cox would always accompany us back to the house and would take care of the cooking outside over a wood fire.
He would build a fire under a huge live oak tree to cook fish and roast oysters. My mom would make coleslaw and fried cornbread to go along with the catch of the day. Thurman would always have a pot of boiling water on the fire to cook the crabs. Those seafood feasts on the bank of the sound are some of my most favorite memories from early childhood.
One day while Thurman was tending to the fire, a chicken wandered up and apparently annoyed the jovial black man. “You better watch or we’ll be eating chicken ala commode,” Thurman yelled. No doubt he was a little confused about the terms “ala king” and “ala mode.”
I’m jumping back and forth in telling the reader about my childhood, so just ignore that if it bothers you.
When I was 11 years old, I was swimming and playing in the water in front of the house at Howell’s Point when tragedy almost struck. As I was enjoying the water, I got into an area that was way over my head. The tide had just changed and the rapid current started carrying me off toward the Intracoastal Waterway. I went down for the count three times and only came up twice. Luckily someone hear my screams and jumped in to save me. Someone gave CPR to me and turned me upside down to get the water out. (beating death #1). It took some time before my parents would let me near the water again by myself.
About a quarter of a mile off Howell’s Point was a small island flanked by the Intracoastal Waterway and the Lockwood’s Folly River. There was an old fishing shack on this island that was about the size of ¼ of a football field. This tiny island with its old fishing shack had always held a strong attraction for me. I fantasized about being a pirate and capturing the island. For the longest time, I wanted to go to that island by myself and live out my fantasy. Finally one day, when my parents felt I was old enough, they let me take a small skiff over to this island by myself. How excited I was as I landed on the island and captured the shack. I raised a pirate flag I had made and claimed the island as my own. Come to think of it, I’ve made a lot of captures all my life. I’ve been chasing rainbows all my life and a lot of the time the sun was on the other side. Found more than a few pots of gold in that quest.
There were other times we would stay at my Uncle Walker’s house in Southport. Southport overlooks the Cape Fear River at its mouth to the Atlantic Ocean, The little coastal town has long been known for its cool breezes and a very relaxed way of life. The earliest French and Spanish explorers visited this area in 1524 and again in 1526. The first European vessel to be built in the new world was constructed on the banks of the lower Cape Fear River. This ship was built to replace a ship that had been wrecked on Frying Pan Shoals, The explorers moved on looking for land to settle. My family owned all the land on both sides of Lockwood’s Folly River back in the older days. The Area around Southport was considered unsatisfactory due to poor soil, inadequate water, bugs and malaria.
Named after Benjamin Smith, a Continental General, an original commissioner and trustee, who later became Governor of North Carolina, changed its name to Southport in 1887. Southport occupies a forest of mighty live oak trees. It has been both a fishing village and military town since it was established in 1792.
My Uncle Walker, his wife and their daughter, Patsy lived in a two-story house at 1111 North Howe Street in Southport. He worked as a gatekeeper at Fort Caswell for years. This fort is located on Oak Island at the mouth of the Cape Fear River (from 1526 until 1662 the river was recorded on maps as the River Jordan. I think I could have crossed the River Jordan walking on water (laugh at that now). On January 31, 1946, Forth Caswell was designated as war surplus and assigned for disposal. The Baptist State Convention purchased the 250-acre fort from the government on September 29, 1949 for $86,000. At that time there were 77 buildings located on the property. Many of them still exist and are used today.
The original fortification, much of which still stands, is the brick structure near the end of the island, overlooking the Cape Fear River and the ocean. This part of Fort Caswell was under construction from 1826 until 1836. The remainder of the fort, seven long cement batteries, along with barracks and officer’s quarters, a hospital/morgue, bakery, horse barn, firehouse and prison, were built around the turn of the century.
Because of the lack of adequate defenses in this area, in 1825 Congress authorized the construction of a fort on Oak Island. The fort was an outstanding engineering accomplishment, one of the strongest in the world. It was a pentagonal structure with a two-story citadel and surrounded by a dry moat and a wet moat. It was named in 1833 for the first Governor of North Carolina, Richard Caswell. I always liked going over to Fort Caswell with my uncle Walker. While he tended the gate, I would explore the concrete batteries and live out many childhood fantasies. Sometimes I’d be a pirate, and at other times I would pretend I was some sort of creature who lived in a lair, just waiting for unsuspected passersby.
When we would visit my Uncle Walker, I was always afraid to go upstairs in his house because I was convinced there was something very evil up there. I do remember the delicious seafood meals my uncle would cook. Shrimp Creole, fried fish, boiled crabs and other assorted goodies from the sea, plus coleslaw, grits and maybe field peas; providing meals fit for a king.
I also remember the terrible water at my uncle’s house. It had a very strong odor of sulfur, quite common along the coast back in those days before the advent of sophisticated water treatment. Even though the town has water treatment now, it still smells like horse shit on a summer day. The only way you could drink this water was if it had been chilled in the refrigerator.
My uncle’s wife died of some sort of lingering illness. My uncle Walker then married the nurse that cared for wife number one while she was sick. He and his new bride had two sons, Cary and Wayne.
Every summer, my family would take a vacation in the mountains. I always looked forward to those trips, except for where we would always stay. We would always find a “tourist house” to bed down for the night. Back in those days, this was a cheap alternative to staying in a more formal hotel. The tourist’s houses were usually people’s houses and they would rent out rooms to tourists overnight. On one trip to Asheville, NC, I convinced my parents to let me stay at The Asheville Biltmore, a large hotel in downtown Asheville. I thought I was somebody that night -- staying in a big city motel all by myself, Of course, my parents were close by in a more casual tourist home.
As the reader will see, there’s a budding vampire afoot, who will begin to discover his own self, even though he won‘t know the full meaning of it all.
To be continued next Sunday, November 26th, 2006.
PHOTOS:
1. My dad's old home place
2. The "nothing fancy" fishing shack
3. The Cox brothers and my dad holding some of the largest fish out of scores of others
4. View of the sound as seen from the front of the fishing shack
5. Thurman Cox, my fishing bud