1. an essay on change and progress


2. a cemetery never ceases to be a cemetery


3. give me that old time hatteras island religion


4. advice from a man who planned his retirement (early) and worked his plan


5. island lore--legend of the lucky sea bean


6. the mystery of the cat's eye shell


7. the gathering of grandchildren is a rite of summer


8. the whelk is one of the most interesting of the Outer banks


9. An idea for building those precious family memories


10. The creatures of Hatteras and Ocracoke


11. Beach rocks


12. How communicating on the island has changed


13. Hatteras: Loving it and leaving it or Why do I stay here?


14. my mother's cameo


15. The forbidden Road and what it foretells for the island


16. out with the old in with the new


17. law and order in hatteras island


18. Hatteras and Ocracoke: Home to the world's greatest lovers


19. Memories of Christmas Past on Hatteras Island


20. Remembering the many smells that made the islands special


21. Two Very Personal Stories Make Case For Saving Cape Hatteras Lighthouse


22. Seaside Stress: There is stress at the seashore, but islanders resist it


23. My Favorite Island Dog


24. The Value of Speaking For Yourself


25. Sand and Antlions


26. Gardening Forty miles out to sea


27. the secrets of sunrise


28. Memorial Day Memories - Saying Goodbye to and Old Friend


29. Confronting the 'Monsters' of aging


30. The ghost of kings point


31. living in a love basket for fifty five years


32. collecting cockles


33. the legend of the devil's pocketbook


34. the sweetest sound


35. December 7th, 1941: A Day That Has Lived In Infamy


36. HATTERAS ISLANDERS REMEMBER THE HORROR


37. ghost of the Gray house


38. When Your Ship Sinks What Will Wash Ashore


39. Fifty years of clashing currents


40. Fish and people


41. garments of gray to garments of glory


42. Hatteras and Ocracoke Eggs The day eggs closed cape point


43. What Islanders Did During Medical Emergencies


44. a reflection on the changing values of Hatteras and Ocracoke


45. Things we used to do on the islands


46. Hatteras Exercise Program for Young and Old

An essay on Change and Progress

by dewey parr

As I sit in Buxton, and rock on the front porch of the home of my grandparent's, Bill and Melissa Farrow Gray, I look across at what used to be called the Dark Ridge Road (now named the Light Plant Road), at the wire jungle of the Cape Hatteras Electric Membership Corp. I ask myself, why must everything change? Why is it that our beautiful Hatteras Island, in order to become a booming tourist attraction, has to have no semblance of the past? To become a part of the mainland world, do we have to give up our unique island heritage?

I was born in 1931 and spent my childhood days roaming the sand roads, soundside, and ocean beaches of the Buxton area. Those childhood days are locked forever in my memory. I still remember when there where few or no fences on the island, and children were free to play anywhere. I remember the sand roads, winding through the trees, and the vines running right to the top of the tallest tree. In fact, the vines were so dense that my buddy, Eldon Barnett, and I would run right up to the top of the trees on them. Another fond memory was the dense pine straw on the Old Dark Ridge Path. That pine straw was so deep that we would swoop down the hillside on sleds made from cardboard that we acquired from Halloway Gray's general store. As we became more knowledgeable, we changed from cardboard sleds to those made from barrel slats. With the help of my father and Elmore Gray, our barrel slat, pine straw sleds became so sophisticated they had seat and handles. The Buxton Woods were a child's paradise, full of excitement and pleasure. In those woods we were able to walk freely to find treasures our elders had told us about, such as Indian pipes, wood that glowed in the dark, and gum from the gum trees. Mystery and excitement awaited us at every turn, not only in the Buxton Woods but at the sound and on the beach. The Pamlico Sound and its surroundings provided us constant amazement. Our imaginations were kindled at the many new adventures we found there. One memorable adventure was the day we found a small Indian burial mound in the upper end of Buxton. Each little piece of pottery and flint gave way to visions of the day when the Indians roamed the island. Nature abounded in the sound area. The waters and banks were full of new adventures. Clams, oysters, crabs, fish, sting rays, eels, and birds — all taught us about this amazing world.

We learned early-on the rules of the island. You did not bother the other person's property, such as boats, nets, or oyster beds. The code of the island was ingrained in all of us at an early age. We were taught to respect one another and to accept all people for what they were and not what they had, and most of all to keep our mouth shut about the other person's business. There was no class system, for we were all in the same boat.

The beautiful beach was always there but never the same. With each rolling wave there seemed to be something new to learn. What is this? What is that? Where did this come from? Wow! What wonders to behold! The little things, such as those black shiny objects with hooks on each end that wash up on the beach brought questions that required answers. I will always remember on my way home from the beach, while carrying a black shiny case, the response I got from Pearl Midgett, my Sunday school teacher, when I asked her what it was. After many cookies, I learned the legend of the devil's pocketbook. To this day, I still call those black shiny objects with hooks or horns on them the devil's pocketbook. I now know they are the skate's egg case. One of the wonderful things about being a child back then was that everybody took time to answer our questions. It was as if you were everybody's child and everybody on the island was interested in you and protected you. I could walk from the beach to my home at the middle of Buxton on the front road, and by the time I got there my stomach was full from cake, cookies, and pie from the kitchens of every house I passed. I can still hear Chloe Barnett yelling, as I walked the Old Ridge Road past her house (where Fox Water Sports is now located), "Whoo, woo, Sonny, honey, come in here." Every house had a hug and something to eat waiting for you.

My childhood daytime activities on Hatteras were happy hours full of excitement and adventure. Even though we had no television and few toys except those we created, we never seemed to have a boring moment. The evenings were probably my most treasured memories. They were a time for reflections of the present and past happenings. We gathered with friend and family in the old home place or in the general store. There seemed to be an unwritten agenda for these informal gatherings. First, the islanders shared the most recent news of the day, then they joked a little with each other, always mindful of not hurting each other's feelings. My father contributed to the daily agenda, sharing news he heard as he delivered block ice to the kitchens of the homes on the island. By this time darkness began to set in, and the islanders continued their daily ritual by gathering around the wood-burning stove or near the oil lamp. As the oil lamp began to flicker or the fire leaped out from the wood burner, they seemed to be led to their last and most enjoyable portion of the evening. One by one, they shared tales from the past, often confusing fact from fiction. Now, as I look back, I realize much of their enjoyment came from knowing their audience of little heads nodding in the dark was listening in amazement and awe at the gruesome, as well as the wonderful, tales of the island.

One tale they repeated occasionally, I am sure, was for my benefit. It was the story about the oak tree in the bend of the sand road between my home and Mr. Frank Miller's house. As they told it, there were people who had walked in the shadow of mighty oak who had disappeared in broad daylight. I can remember running barefoot in the hot sand around that mighty oak, being sure that its shadow did not touch me. There was no way I wanted to end up being a branch on an oak tree for the rest of my life. It did not hurt my feelings one bit when they cut that tree down for Highway 12. I heard later that you could hear the screams from the branches all the way to Manteo as they put the saw to that mighty oak.

Tale time was also marked by short intervals of silence, as the islanders stared at the light as if they were reliving the bygone days and just basking in the enjoyment of being together. It was in these moments that I realized they were all wealthy people because they had everything. They had each other.

At the appointed time, the evening gathering just seemed to dissipate and another joyful day on Hatteras Island was soon to close. Hatteras kids would lay their heads down on pillows of feathers and fly away to the happy land of make believe to awaken to another day of adventure and excitement.

My 1930's recollections of Hatteras are fond memories that not only bring me joy but also sorrow. It is sad to realize that no longer will the future generations be able to appreciate freely the beauties of our island as I did as a child. It has rightly been said, "One of the most important legacies we can provide our children and for future generations is the gift of knowledge about the family's heritage and surroundings." The woods, sound, and beach are not only becoming less accessible due to fences and new rules and regulations, but also reflect man's interference with the forces of nature. The trees and vine coverings are disappearing at an alarming rate, along with the old homeplaces that not only stood as monuments to the past but also marked the unique characteristics of the island. The names of the roads and even the villages no longer reflect the past or the presence of the people who originally settled on Hatteras. For real-estate reasons, not only have roads been abandoned or eliminated, but many old cemeteries have disappeared along with the memories of the founding fathers of the island.

The older you get, the more you realize change is inevitable. Your choices are limited as to what you can do about it. The good old days on Hatteras are gone forever, and no matter how much we want them back, we cannot make it happen. The best we can hope for is that each person who loves the Outer Banks will resolve to be a committee of one, dedicated to the preservation of the past, and appoint himself as a protector of the environment for the future. We also need to equip our young people with a knowledge of their rich family heritage and a zeal for preserving the unique island history.

As I rock and look at the asphalt road, covering the sand road that wound through the trees to the school house, I still cannot help but wonder why they thought changing the name of the road from Dark Ridge Road to Light Plant Road was a mark of progress.

A Cemetery Never Ceases To Be A Cemetery

by dewey parr

The television talk show psychologists seem to indicate that adults are a product of their childhood experiences. Many of the things we do later in life are repetitious of the attitudes and ideas we formulated in our relationships with our family, friends, church, and community in our early childhood days.

As I look back at the many days I served in the public school system as a teacher, principal, and a central office administrator, I am increasingly aware that many of my methods of teaching and my administrative attitudes are reflective of those early experiences I acquired on Cape Hatteras Island in the 1930's and '40's. The early childhood rearing practices on Hatteras Island provided children with the opportunity to discover the many mysteries of this complex world. The adults in the community, along with family members, always took time to encourage learning by listening to the children and giving them ample opportunity to obtain the answers to their many questions. Children were truly a treasure to everyone on Hatteras and Ocracoke islands. I am thankful to say this practice and attitude toward children still prevails.

At the beginning of my classroom teaching days, I was confronted with a problem that brought back memories of my childhood days on Hatteras Island. It was my misfortune, which later became my fortune, to be assigned to the only classroom in the school district that overlooked a community cemetery. Now mind you, it was as if you were right in the middle of the cemetery, because the graves were five feet from the classroom windows.

Now I ask, what do you do with 31 fidgety, curious fourth and fifth grade students when the grave diggers start digging a grave 10 feet from the classroom windows? How do you stop their little minds and mouths from working on a hot day when the classroom windows are open and the grave-side rites are being conducted? My solution to the problem stemmed from my recollections of those early days on Cape Hatteras Island when I encountered the many small family cemeteries that dotted the island. It was the practice of the majority of the island families to have their own cemetery on their own land. Often the burial site was located close enough to the house so that it could be visited daily by a grieving family member. Death was viewed as a part of the natural order of things, and ancestors who had crossed over, or made the final voyage, were revered and remembered.

I remember a grieving mother at Kinnakeet, [ now called Avon for some silly governmental reason], who visited her son's grave twice a day. She walked about 30 feet from her kitchen door every evening, kneeled in prayer, then removed the artificial flowers so the night wind and rains would not destroy them. The next morning, she returned to his grave and replaced the flowers. She repeated this ritual daily until she died. Today people would say she was foolish or crazy. Back then they said she loved her boy.

It was a common thing when we were children roaming the Buxton Woods to come upon grave sites identified with weather worn, wooden markers and outlined with whelk shells. Often the centers of the graves were sunken because of the deterioration of the wood caskets. The wood markers were weathered so badly you could hardly read the names, dates, or phrases carved on them. I was told many of the markers were crafted by Pharoah Scarborough. They were made from cedar logs acquired from the Buxton woods. These old cemeteries became learning centers for the kids of Hatteras and Ocracoke islands.

Being kids, the cemeteries sparked an interest in geography. We wondered if these might be the burial places of pirates from other countries who roamed these island waters. Many a night we would dream about ships, pirate treasures, and faraway lands. We learned math as we worked diligently, trying to figure out from the dates on the markers how long these people lived. Those dates made historians of us too, because when we got back home we wanted to know all about the people who were buried there and what was it like when they lived.

Usually the adults would start by telling us whether or not they lived before the first or second lighthouse and who was president during their lives. Sometimes they dated their death by recalling the major storms that had crossed the islands. If the deceased was a family member, they would bring out the family Bible and show us where it was written down about their birth, marriage, children, and death. We also learned communication skills because we were instructed to go talk to other people in the community who had first-hand knowledge about certain individuals buried in the cemeteries. The cemeteries provided us many science lessons. Why does the moss grow on a certain side of the monument or how long did it take for the grave sites to deteriorate?

These and many other lessons just naturally arose from our childish curiosity about life and death. Probably the most remembered portions of our cemetery experience were the many folk tales and legends of the island. One legend I vividly recall was the one told to me by my grandmother Gray. She reminded me many times that it was bad luck to walk across a grave. This prohibition was brought to life for me during an experience I had in the Buxton Woods when one of my buddies took a dare to walk across a grave lined with whelk shells. As he began to walk straight across the grave, I soon learned why grandma Gray told me it was bad luck. As he stepped to the middle of the grave, his heel kicked a couple of whelk shells and stirred up a nest of wasps. I jumped, tripped, and fell in a grave with a wasp hot on my tail. To this day I walk around a grave and have great respect for my grandmother's saying, "It is bad luck to walk across a person's grave."

The more I thought about my 1930 Hatteras Island childhood cemetery experiences, the more I realized the solution to my classroom dilemma was solved. I developed a lesson plan for my class centered around the cemetery that we had to look at every day. This was a comprehensive plan that provided the students an opportunity to learn a vast array of knowledge about math, science, history, the work world, and social relations. With administrative and parental approval, a program of study was implemented that not only benefited the children, but the parents and the school district as well.

The children, under supervision, researched the grave sites in the cemetery and went into the community armed with tape recorders to interview family members and friends of the deceased. Not only did my students learn first-hand information from those they interviewed, but they brought great pleasure to many of the elderly as they asked them to share their wealth of knowledge from the past. The experience taught the children a deep respect for history and created a wholesome bonding between the community and the school system, as my childhood cemetery experience had done for me on Cape Hatteras Island.

Photo from Standard Oil of N.J. Collection.
Photographic Archives, University of Louisville
Hatteras Island children are seen here decorating the grave of their grandfather with sea shells. it was a common practice to use wood markers and to line the graves with sea shells.

Not too long ago, I returned to the Buxton Woods to visit the old cemeteries I remembered as a child. Much to my surprise, I was unable to locate the old grave sites with the wooden markers. I used to teach the children that nobody is really dead as long as they are remembered. I guess there are truly a lot of dead people on Hatteras Island, because no one is left to remember their existence.

Someone suggested to me, not too many moons back, that rather than clutter up the island with little family cemeteries, all the bodies should be shipped off the island to a centralized cemetery where land is not as valuable as it is here. This person felt that by doing so there would be bigger and better building sites, especially in the villages, for the tourist industry.

Land is at a premium on our small barrier island, but it would seem to me that it would enhance the tourist industry to preserve the unique island heritage found in our family cemeteries. Many appear to be in a race to see who can destroy everything that made Hatteras and Ocracoke islands the most unique and peaceful places in the world. Many of the rapid changes that are now occurring on the islands are not really progressive but regressive.

I know of a situation where there are three cemeteries in Buxton within 50 feet of each other. One is kept neatly. Another is surrounded by trash and grown over with vines and trees so badly that you can't see the tombstone, and another grave site is completely removed, even though it is deeded as a cemetery. With these three examples in mind, I ask you, when does a cemetery cease to be a cemetery? According to North Carolina law, cemeteries are considered sacred enough that the legislature has passed an extreme amount of law to protect and preserve them. In fact it would behoove those who for real-estate reasons might be tempted to remove or disregard cemeteries as unimportant to read the law before they bulldoze graves or remove the markers. Our legislature feels cemeteries are so important that they have deemed it the duty of every county to keep an updated record of all cemeteries. This is a quotation from the North Carolina statutes:

Sec 65-1. County Commissioners to provide list of public and abandoned cemeteries. It shall be the duty of the boards of county commissioners of the various counties in the state to prepare and keep records in the office of the register of deeds a list of all public cemeteries in the counties....It shall be the duty of the boards of county commissioners to furnish the division of publications in the office of Secretary of State copies of the list of such public and abandoned cemeteries.

It might be of interest to you who are trying to locate the burial place of your Hatteras Island relatives to know that in the 1930's the WPA did a survey of the cemeteries located on the island, not only giving the location, but listing those buried in each cemetery. Even though the survey is not completely accurate and missed some of the cemeteries, it can be very helpful. This survey does not account for the cemeteries that washed out to sea or are now located in the sound because of the massive erosion that has occurred as a result of severe storms.

Since the time of the WPA Survey, there has been a group of dedicated locals who have worked without any help from Dare County to locate other cemeteries and maintain an updated list of those buried in each cemetery. Should anyone have an interest in obtaining information about the location of cemeteries or have information to share about unknown cemeteries on Hatteras Island, I suggest they contact the following people who really care about preserving our family cemetery history: Ann Burrus Jennette, Beatrice Barnett McArthur, Josephine Austin Oden, George O'Neal, and Charlie Gray. Because of the efforts of these people and others like them many of our Hatteras Island forefathers and mothers will remain alive in our hearts because there will always be a record of the fact they lived and died on the Outer Banks. Speaking from my heart, I have to say, as did the Indians of old who roamed these islands, that a cemetery never ceases to be a cemetery. Regardless of where it is located, be it under your house or a condominium, it is still dedicated land that contains the remains of those who lived and died on these beautiful islands. I think all Hatteras and Ocracoke islanders would agree that anyone who would destroy a cemetery should be severely punished.

I am still trying to unravel a Hatteras Island family mystery concerning the burial place of my maternal great-grandmother. She married John Farrow from Avon. After he died, she married a blind man by the name of Zion Flowers. Rumor has it, that she is buried in the Flowers Cemetery located someplace in Frisco. If you happen to know where my great grandmother Sarah Murphy Farrow Flowers is buried, I would appreciate hearing from you.

It was a common thing when we were children roaming the Buxton Woods to come upon grave sites identified with weather worn, wooden markers and outlined with whelk shells.

Give me that old-time Hatteras Island religion

by dewey parr

While visiting a Church off Hatteras Island, I was reminded of the difference between religious attitudes of today and those of my early childhood days on Cape Hatteras. A well meaning minister was speaking on the topic of unity among believers in God. His version of oneness was that his way or interpretation of the scriptures was the only way to worship God and that people of all other views were dead wrong and headed directly to hell.

As I listened closely to his ranting, my thoughts began to wander back to my childhood religious experiences during 1930 and 1940 in the small community of Buxton on Hatteras Island. During that time, religion was not only our primary distraction from the ordinary daily routine, but it was entertainment and fun. We loved to go to church — all two of them.

My earliest recollections were that our little community of Buxton had two active churches. Before my time, but not before Isaac Jennette's childhood days, there were two Methodist Churches in Buxton, the Methodist Church South and the Methodist Church North. The Methodist Church split over the Civil War and issues such as slavery.

The Methodist Church North building was located on the old Frank Miller property. Ike remembers, as if it were yesterday, attending the Buxton Methodist Church North. He said it was an old building when he attended and it disbanded sometime in late 1920. After the Buxton Methodist Church North closed its doors, the members attended the Buxton Methodist South Church, which was located where the present United Methodist Church is today.

In early 1930, the Buxton Pentecostal Church began, and many of the members of the old North Methodist Church began attending what is known today as the Buxton Assembly of God Church.

The Buxton Methodist Church
1908-1960

The two churches I was familiar with were the Buxton Methodist Church, and the Pentecostal Church. The Buxton Methodist Church was located where the present United Methodist Church, or former Methodist Church South, is located. At that time, it was a white frame building with fancy windows and the entrance was in the front facing Highway 12. It was quaint inside with an altar rail in front and wood floors and pews. The Little Grove United Methodist Church reminds you of it.

The Buxton Pentecostal Church was located on the Back Road on a raised knoll where Dare Building is located. The building was framed without fancy windows. The reason I remember the windows were not fancy is because sometimes during revivals the crowds were so large that kids sat in them and adults stood outside peeping in. The church had some good old-fashioned protracted meetings that lasted for days. People came from all over the Island, bringing lots of good food.

I recall a couple of women preachers who came from some place off the Island. They fired everybody up to the point that they were stomping, shouting, shaking, singing, falling prostrate on the floor, and talking in what they called the unknown tongue. I must admit sometimes it got scary when the preacher would cry out for the Holy Spirit to descend on us and all of a sudden people I knew began to do strange things with their bodies that they could not normally do. Some fell flat on the floor and their bodies rolled like the waves coming in from the ocean. Others began to jerk and shake so that it looked as if every part of their body was going in a different direction at the same time. A lot of them began to speak and shout in a strange language I had never heard before. They called it the "unknown tongue." I had no idea what the unknown tongue was, but Momma said, "It is God telling them what to say". I figured if it came from God it surely had to be all right.

I don't remember the many off-the-island preachers' names, but we kids called one of them the Bat Preacher. Now mindful, it wasn't that we were showing disrespect. But she wore a black cape and when she preached she would raise her arms and her cape extended out to the place that it reminded us of a black bat swooping down. Sometimes when we would play church, we would pretend to be the bat preacher swooping down from heaven to give the world religion.

Well, let's get back for a moment to the Pentecostal Church on the Buxton Back Road. It had a piano on the right side up front with a pulpit in the middle. A lot of times, the members would stand around the piano and sing for hours, never mindful of the time, raising their voices and hands to God. They were all wonderful people who loved not only their God but everybody on the island. I remember one time when Grandma Gray and Uncle Kendrick Gray were talking religion. I asked Grandma Gray what the difference was between the two churches. Grandma said they were not really different. They both loved God and everybody, and one was a little louder than the other. She also said for Uncle Ken's benefit, I think, that they knew to stay out of the Bucket of Blood that was located out on the beach. Now the Bucket of Blood was the island bar. It was said that when the patrons got into fights, you could fill a bucket with blood. Through the years I have often thought about the fact there is not really much difference between Church people. Today more than ever, I realized both Buxton churches were full of good people who merely had different ways of expressing their love for their God. In our small community you could not tell any difference in their attitudes toward each other. The only difference I recall was the way the women folks dressed on the beach. Most of the ladies from the Church on the Back Road walked the beach in long skirts that blew in the wind, and they spent most of their beach time trying to hold their skirts down. While, on the other hand, some of the ladies from the Church on the Front Road wore bathing suits. Also the Pentecostal ladies did not wear jewelry or make up. I was told it was too flashy and would blind their vision of God. I was also told some of the ladies carried their jewelry in their pocketbooks, out of God's sight. Of course, you've got to remember nobody on the island had much jewelry to wear or carry anyway.

Another outward feature that seemed to be different was the way the women wore their hair. Most of the ladies from the Pentecostal Church wore their hair braided or in a topknot, because they did not cut their hair like some of the Methodist ladies. It was said that their hair was their glory. I can remember that a lot the ladies had a lot of glory, because when they let their hair down it touched the floor.

From my best recollection it appeared those who had a lot of religion attended both churches and some were members of both congregations. The Methodist Church did not have preaching every Sunday because their preacher was on a circuit serving numerous churches. Even today the Buxton Methodist preacher, Jim Huskins, serves three congregations. The difference today is that he can hop in a car and travel a paved road connecting the villages and be there in a matter of minutes. Back then it was a long trip traveling the winding sand roads between the villages, so the preacher just handled one church each Sunday. The members of the church considered it a privilege to feed or house the preacher whenever he came to the village. You could usually tell the preacher was coming to dinner because some poor chicken got killed. My Aunt Thelma Barnett Gray, who was married to my mother's brother, William Alfred Gray, continued the Island practice of attending both churches until her death in 1991. She worked diligently to help both churches. She sang in both choirs, attended morning services at the Methodist Church and evening services at the Assembly of God Church and both mid-week prayer meetings and social functions, and visited the sick of both churches. The people of both churches not only welcomed members of the other churches to attend but helped and prayed for each other in times of need.

Thelma Gray attended both churches, sang in both church choirs and visited the sick of both churches.

Thelma Gray with her husband William Alfred Gray.

I am thankful to say this seems to be the prevailing attitude even today among the churches on the island. Never was this more apparent than during the aftermath of Hurricane Emily when many families completely lost all of their belongings. The good people of the churches reached out to help everybody, regardless of their church affiliation.

The one thing I do not recall on Hatteras Island during my childhood days is ever hearing anyone condemn another person's religion. The islanders just did not have a habit of religious name calling or discriminating against another person because of his or her religious belief. This was clearly demonstrated to me in the way my own father was treated by all of the islanders.

My father, Dewey Parr Sr., came to Hatteras in 1922 as a young sailor stationed at the Wireless Radio Station in Buxton where the Fessenden Center is now located. Daddy was from a French family in Franklin, La. He was the oldest of 12 children who were all raised in the Roman Catholic faith — a religion that was hardly known at that time among the islanders. What Dad found on the island was a true spirit of love and unity that transcended all denominational barriers. The islanders treated him with such love and kindness that he wanted to spend the rest of his life on what was then a remote, sparsely populated island separated from the rest of the world. I am happy to say that, even to this day, I sense the same spirit of love and unity among church people on Hatteras Island.

The churches on Hatteras Island and Ocracoke don't spend their time hammering away at each other. If they use a hammer, it is to work together as a unit to help relieve the pain and suffering of those who are less fortunate in our community. The monthly breakfast meeting of the Buxton Methodist Men's Group, under the direction of Walton Fulcher, is a good example of the cooperation and concern of people of all faiths on the island. At this informal meeting, it is not unusual to find yourself sitting next to a Roman Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, Assembly of God, Church of Christ, Lutheran, or another religious brother. Nobody is criticizing you about your personal belief, but they are concerned about what they can do together to help anyone in need, regardless of where they go to church or even if they don't go to church. This small but effective group of Hatteras Island men maintain a food pantry and collect funds to help alleviate the suffering of those in need. The effectiveness of this group of dedicated men may very well be the result of the true Hatteras spirit displayed daily by Walton Fulcher, who is the embodiment of a gentle and kind America.

I also recall from personal experience the love that was shown me as a child by the people of all faiths on Hatteras and Ocracoke. I was severely burned when I was a child and was confined to a bed for almost a year in the old Ignatious Gray house next door to Holloway Gray's store. The house is not there today. It was picked up by a tornado and turned upside down. After the house was torn down, the spot where it stood was converted to a cemetery.

Dr. Thomas Mann, the island doctor at that time, built a screen box around my leg, so the bugs could not get to it. In order to make life more interesting for me, they placed me in a bed next to a window facing the sand road so I could see the people pass by. I could also look across the road and watch Lupton Gray and my father building our new house.

People of different religious beliefs walked or chugged down the sand road in their Model T Fords. The majority of them would stop and come to the window and talk with me or bring me a little gift of cookies, cake, and candy. Many of them took time to pray for me. Others would tell me they were praying for God to heal my little leg. That leg was prayed over so many times that it is a wonder that I did not end up with 10 legs instead of two. I don't know what the religion of my visitors was. All I know is that they had love in their hearts for a little boy confined to his bed with his right leg severely burned in a homemade screen cage.

Another man I remember well, even though I don't know his name. He was with the WPA camp located where Brigand's Bay is now. Every week he collected pennies from the WPA and CCC men, so he could bring me a cigar box full of goodies. I also recall him preparing for the day when I would walk again by whittling out a set of crutches for me. When the big day came for me to get out of bed and walk again, he was there with the crutches. I still have those crutches, and there is not enough money in the world to buy them. Now I don't know what kind of religion he had or if he had any, but whatever he had I sure wanted some of it.

I am so happy that religion on Hatteras and Ocracoke today is basically the same as it was in the 1930's — with one exception. That exception is that you have more choices as to what building to attend and the buildings are fancier. The names may be different over the doors, but I think you will find inside each building not only a warm welcome but also an old-fashioned form of religion that teaches love for everybody, regardless of race, creed or color.

As the minister at the church I was visiting off the island began to sum up his sermon on his version of church harmony, I wished for him that he could live on Hatteras Island and come to understand the true meaning of unity of believers in God. I imagine the islanders could teach him a few things about the love of God and religion that they forgot to tell him about in the seminary.

Advice from a man who planned
his retirement (early) and worked his plan

by dewey parr

Here I am in a swirling hot tub, cruising through the Panama Canal and reminiscing about my Hatteras Island retirement years. I thank God along with the many guests who visit the Outer Banks and the Old Gray House for providing Mary and me with eight wonderful years. Little did I realize that retirement on the island could be such a fulfilling experience. Mary and I always dreamed of the day when we would be able to just sit back and enjoy life.

As I wander and putter in the Old Gray House Garden and chat with the thousands of tourists who visit our little retirement hobby, I am becoming increasingly aware that more and more young people are becoming retirement conscious. They are beginning to question what will it be like for them as they approach that time when they will no longer be in the work force. The big question is will they have Social Security, Medicare, or a place they can call their own. Hopefully, these are questions that will be answered in the coming years by our Congress, but in the meantime, my mother’s old adage seems to apply to their retirement concerns.

“God only helps those who help themselves,” she used to say. It is because of so many concerns I am hearing from young couples that I want to take a moment to share this personal experience that led to Mary and me to finding retirement happiness on Hatteras Island.

When I was a school teacher, I followed my mother’s advice and instructed the kids that nothing happens unless you make it happen. I pointed out to them that they needed to plan their work and work their plan. Many years before my retirement, I began to practice what I preached. My first project was to determine what Mary and I would really like to do in our retirement. In order to do this, I made a check list of the many dreams for our golden years that we had shared. I also considered the options we had at our disposal for fulfilling those dreams. In our case, there were five things that made us the happiest in life: keeping busy with productive endeavors, keeping ourselves involved with positive thinking people, traveling to exotic places, enjoying the beauty of nature, and last, but not least, having the time to be like a kid again.

The more we talked, the more I realized the only place I knew of that would realize all of our retirement dreams was Hatteras Island. We both agreed that our annual visit to the island from our West Virginia home brought us joy. We viewed the drive from Oregon Inlet to Hatteras Inlet as nothing more than a little bit of Heaven. From the time our wheels touched the island, it seemed like we were visiting a world free from all of the many pressures of our jobs, raising a family, and just surviving in the city.

We soon realized that we were very fortunate. After many years of struggling to exist, we finally landed in professions that provided us with good retirements. The field of education does not provide a lot of upfront money, but it usually does offer good retirement and other benefits. Another way we were blessed was that we had acquired property on the island of our dreams. We were fortunate in that we had made plans for our non-working years by scraping up enough money 20 years before our retirement to purchase my grandparents’ old home place. The main purpose for buying the property was to provide us with a playhouse for our retirement years — a place where we could meet and greet people and share our enjoyment of the Outer Banks with them.

Mary had always dreamed of having a little gift shop, full of hand-made items she could share with others. She loved to make hand-crafted gifts and to work with crafters. Mary’s dream was to open a business for pleasure. My dream, on the other hand, was to spend my days puttering around with plants, entertaining the tourists, and roaming the beach in my four-wheel buggy. I could envision myself going to the beach, taking an early morning dip, and being like a kid again — piddling the day away doing nothing. Much to my surprise, I was offered an opportunity for early retirement. Mary continued working. What a dilemma! For three years, I watched Mary go to work every day while I became a man of leisure. Not being content with this, I set out to correct the situation by getting my grandparents’ old homeplace ready for making Mary’s dream of a gift shop come true. Finally, on Valentine’s Day, 1992, I gave Mary the Old Gray House Gift Shop on the condition that she would be willing to retire early.

Early retirement is the best thing we ever did. If there is any way you can get out of the rat race, do it as quickly as possible. Don’t wait until you don’t have the health to enjoy yourself. Our health may deteriorate tomorrow, but at least we have had eight fabulous years together. Years from now, we will not be sitting side-by-side in our rocking chairs, grieving over what we wish we had done. Instead, we will be laughing about the fun we have had and the places we have been. Believe me, people, life is entirely too short to sit around in a state of boredom, complaining about problems.

Wherever you are, you can find fun things to do. The difference is that when you live on the Outer Banks, you don’t have to go far to find fun. You are constantly in the middle of it. Laughter and light-hearted people are at your finger tips. The major problem we have encountered in island living is that we just do not have time to enjoy all of the activities.

The people who come to our shop in the summer share with us their appreciation for the Outer Banks, and many of them talk of how someday they would like to retire here. My advice is always the same to those who ask about acquiring property and coming to Hatteras: If you are thinking about retiring at Hatteras, you had better invest in property now while you can afford it. I envision property being untouchable for the average person in the next few years. Hatteras and Ocracoke have become so popular that there is little land left, and property can only become more valuable as the years roll by. One thing you never worry about on the Outer Banks is your property depreciating in value.

Living on the islands is infectious. It is such a joyous place to be that you just naturally want everyone you meet to share in your happiness. Mary and I feel we have the best of all worlds in that we live in a virtual paradise. In recent years, we have spent our winter months traveling to other places and have not found anything to compare with the beauty of the islands. I heard about the sunsets in Key West, so we went there for a month to see it. I was not impressed. I can view the Hatteras sun splashing the colors in the rainbow across the sky as it sinks into the sound. Someone said there is nothing like the Caribbean for natural beauty, so we took cruises throughout the eastern and western Caribbean. Admittedly, the islands have beauty, but that beauty was marred by the poverty and human suffering the likes of which I have never seen on our beautiful Hatteras Island. I was told that a trip to Alaska would show me the most fabulous scenery in the world. So we took a cruise and a land trip to Alaska. It was nice, but I was glad to get back to a beach where people actually get in the water and don’t just look at it because it is too cold. Now they tell me that until I go to Bermuda and Hawaii, I haven’t seen anything, so I have booked a cruise to Bermuda, and plan later to cruise around Hawaii and Tahiti. I am sure it will be peachy pink in Bermuda, and the grass skirts will be flowing in Hawaii, but I don’t think anything will ever replace that feeling of awe and amazement that comes over me as I stand at Cape Point and look out to sea.

If you want happy days and a place where you can feel like a kid again, then keeping coming to our islands. Enjoy our beaches. Listen to the happy sounds that surround you. Take time to meditate. Plan your future years of happiness. Take time to ask yourself what your options are for fulfilling your dreams. Then begin to plan your work and work your plan. As long as God allows me to be here, I will sit under the oak tree, waiting to see your smiling face and share with you the many reasons for planning your retirement and working your plan.

Island Lore -- The legend of the lucky sea bean

by dewey parr

I recently learned how wonderful this computer world really is. My wife, Mary, had a family treasure that I had not paid much attention to, tucked away after my dad and mother passed away. She, along with many other good wives and mothers, keep little family treasures that others may not deem important because they have little or no monetary value. Their value is in the many wonderful memories they conjure up of loved ones from the past.

The little treasure from the past she presented to me was a brown woody-looking oval object about the size of a quarter that my mother Melissa Gray Parr had given to her before she died. It had been the good-luck piece of my father, Dewey Parr. He found it on the Cape Hatteras beach when he was a young sailor boy stationed on the island at the Wireless Station, which was located near where the Fessenden Center is today. He carried it in his pocket most of his life. This little object was still shiny from the many times he rubbed it to calm his nerves during World War II or to bring him good luck as he sailed the seas.

I really knew little about the significance of this little object, except that he called it his good-luck Hatteras sea bean. With the help of my trusty computer, I began my quest to find out why this object from the Cape Hatteras beach played such an important role in the life of my father. Much to my amazement, when I keyed in the word "sea bean," I saw immediately the connection between this 100-year-old brown object and the life of my sea-going father.

Let me share with you the information I found on the Internet. When you find a sea bean on the Hatteras or Ocracroke beach, you become a part of one of nature's most amazing stories. This little brown wood-like object is actually a seed that has been riding the ocean currents for months or even years. It began its journey from deep in some tropical forest where it fell into a tropical stream, probably the Amazon, from a huge vine known as the monkey's ladder. It has a hollow cavity adjacent to the seed embryo and a thick, woody covering that makes the seed buoyant and resistant to decay.

Sailors of old carried one in their pockets as a good luck charm. They felt if sea beans could survive a long and dangerous journey across the ocean, they might be able to protect their owner. In the Azores they are called Columbus beans by the Portuguese residents. When Columbus found one floating in the sea, he was supposedly so inspired it led him to set forth in search of lands to the west. In many areas heart-shaped sea beans are polished or painted and worn as lucky pendants. Strange as it may seem, the sea bean will sprout after floating in the ocean for years.

When you are walking our beautiful Ocracroke and Hatteras beaches, be on the lookout for a lucky sea bean. Should you be fortunate enough to find one, take the time to rub it gently and let its magic begin to give you the inner confidence needed in your voyage through the rough seas of life.

This shiny sea bean was carried in the pocket of Dewey Parr's father for many years.

The mystery of the cat’s eye shell

by dewey parr

Growing up on Hatteras Island in the middle of nature’s garden paradise surrounded by the wonders of the sea and sound was full of excitement and wonder. One of the grandest moments I remember in the 1930’s was when the Palmico sound froze over. Excitement reigned on the Island. It was the talk of the general store, and around the wood-burning stove in the Old Gray House. “Some are driving their model T’s out on the ice”, Grandmother Gray said. That night I dreamed of sliding on the ice on the sound. Before I left for school that morning the last words out of my Mothers mouth

There was little concentration by the students in Buxton school house that day. All we boys could think about was the fun to be had on the frozen ice in the sound. Mr. Charlie Gray our principal, warned us of the dangers of falling through the ice. The school bell rang and boys, being boys, our feet headed down the Dark Ridge Path to the Crossover Road past, Captain Ballance’s house to the landing where the Pilot House Restaurant now stands to the ice covered sound. Slipping and sliding on the ice we went. We walked all the way to Captains Bernice’s boat. As we approached the shore- line to leave, my foot went through the ice and I got my pants leg wet. Wow, was I in trouble. As I made my way down the sand road, now called Highway 12, to my house the only thing in my head was my mothers last words before I went to school, “Don’t you go near that sound”

When I entered the house there she stood. Mom was just a little under five feet tall, but on that day she looked twenty feet tall. There I stood trembling from the cold and fear, with one pants leg wet from falling into the Sound. Then came those dreaded words, which only a mother can generate to such a degree that they seem to penetrate to the very depth of you inner being. “LOOK ME IN THE EYE; tell me, did you go near that sound?” If looks could kill, I know on that day I would have been dead. What happened afterwards would cause the modern mother to be locked up for child abuse.

Have you ever felt the power in your mothers’ eye? Many of the Islanders spoke of those who had the power in their eyes. Some said they could cast the spell of the “Evil Eye” on you. This was a person that, intentionally or unintentionally, could stare at you and cause you harm. Some believed the stare was associated with jealousy or envy, or the fact that they just didn’t like you. The effect of the evil eye on an adult was that they would slowly become ill. They would have head and stomach aches and get to the place that they had little or no energy. The spell of the evil eye not only drained your energy but drained your ambition or emotions. The evil eye could cause your gardens not grow and your fish nets to be empty or your boats to sink, they said. The effects on a baby were more serious and could even lead to death. It was said in some countries they even separate a mother and new born baby from the stare of others for a period of time.

Now I don’t know if there is such a thing, but I do know that millions of people still believe in the power that is supposed to be in the eye. If you don’t believe it key, in the words “evil eye” and “evil eye jewelry” on the internet and you will see that it is still a prevalent belief throughout the world today. Much of the jewelry in the world today is centered on the old fashioned idea of wearing a good luck charm to ward off the effects of evil spirits.

In my study of shells, I came across a shell that was prized during the Victorian period because it was thought to possess the power, not only to bring you good luck, but break the spell or jinx of the evil eye. The scientific name of the shell is, Turbo petholatus, Linnaeus 1758, and its common name is, “Cat’s eye” or “Tapestry Turban”. It is a beautiful shell with colorful twirls that form a turban. It is the favorite shell of the Hermit Crab because it can twist its little body inside the whorls which help to hold it in the shell. My treasured friend, George Gundaker, who introduced me to the world of specimen shells, shared a sea secret with me about this particular shell. This shell has an unusual trait that makes you marvel at the mysteries of the sea. The animal inside the shell was given the ability by the Master Creator to form a trap door (operculum) as a protective devise from its enemies. When the animal becomes frightened it withdraws like a turtle into its shell locking itself inside with a trap door. The strange thing is that the trap door resembles an eye. When an enemy approaches it sees a staring glaring eye. The enemy becomes fearful just as I was when my mother said to me, “Look me in the eye”. The staring eye of the Tapestry Turban shell is so similar to that of a cat’s staring eye it came to be known as the, “Cat’s Eye Shell”.

At one point in history, because of its close association to that of a staring eye, the Tapestry Turbans shell’s trap door was highly prized as a protective device to not only bring you good luck but to protect you from the evil eye. The green looking cat’s eye was fashioned in jewelry to be worn for good luck. Some to this day still carry the cat’s eye or wear imitation cat’s eye jewelry for good luck. The amazing thing is that many wear jewelry today that was born out of superstition without the knowledge of its historical significance. The cat’s eye is a favorite to put into a mojo bag to help ward off evil spirits.

Now I am not sure if there is such a thing as the “Evil Eye”. I rule out nothing anymore, so to be safe I will carry a “Cats Eye” in my pocket for good luck and protection from the stare of those who might wish me harm. At any rate when I see it or rub it, I am reminded of my mother’s words on that eventful day in my life when she said, “Look me in the eye”.

If you feel tired, worn out, and weary, come by the Old Gray House and sit under the Old Oak Tree with me. I will give you a genuine cat’s eye trapdoor to help break the spell of the evil eye. Please don’t stare at me though, because my mother also told me it was not polite to stare at anybody.

Photo By Donna Barnett

The Cat's Eye Shell is made from the trap door of the Turbo petholatus or Tapestry Turban shell. In ancient times it was a highly prized treasure. It was believed to bring you good luck and protect from powers of the evil eye, it became known as the Cat's Eye Shell.

The gathering of the grandchildren is a rite of summer

by dewey parr

There's something about the Island breeze that causes a person to relax and reminisce about the good life. Each time I sit under the old oak tree in the front yard of the Old Gray House in Buxton, with the ocean breezes blowing gently on my face, I begin to think about the good life on the Outer Banks. The breeze, along with a scene that is slowly passing in front of me, takes me back to days gone by and my happy teenage adventures on Hatteras Island.

In front of The Old Gray House, there is a man sitting on a tractor pulling a wagon loaded with the sweetest little girls you have ever seen. Up and down Light Plant Road they go, waving at everybody and spreading a little joy to hearts of those who are older. It is not only the happy faces of the girls that catches my attention, but it is that smug, proud look on the face of the grandfather pulling the wagon. The driver is none other than a Hatteras Island grandpa by the name of Chuck Giannotti.

Summer on Hatteras and Ocracoke islands is a time for the gathering of the grandchildren. Excitement and enjoyment for the kids and grandparents. That special time when the kids whose mothers and fathers no longer live on the islands make their annual pilgrimage to get their feet wet in the salt water and leave the kids with grandma and grandpa for a long visit.

It is also a time when many grandparents, such as Barry and Nadine Baker from Wooster, Ohio, gather all of their grandchildren on the island, so they can appreciate the beauty of the Outer Banks. The Bakers have been vacationing on the islands for 35 years. Even though they are not natives, they have a deep appreciation for the ocean and want their grandchildren to be a part of their enjoyment. This summer they had all six grandchildren with them, along with their parents. A total of 15 of them stayed in cabins near the Frisco Pier. One of the neat things they did was to have everyone paint matching T-Shirts with palm trees, ocean waves, and three little fish on them. Then they all went out to dinner together at the Quarterdeck Restaurant wearing their matching T-Shirts. They were the hit of the restaurant that evening.

Many parents don't realize that sharing their children is probably the greatest gift they could give the kids and their grandparents. For a brief period of time, grandma and grandpa have the opportunity to share their wealth of knowledge about family history and participate in the development of their grandchild's future. The kids not only obtain pleasure but pass on to their grandparents what it is like to grow up in the new technological age.

It is also an opportunity for many of the kids to come to realize that their modern day island grandparents are not out of touch with reality. In fact, some of the grandparents are more knowledgeable about the new world we are living in than the kids. Many a grandparent has taken up computers. For example, according to Johnny Conner, owner of Conner's Supermarket, the grandchildren of his mother, Mrs. Bernice Conner, are finding it rather hard to keep up with her. Grandma has acquired a computer. She is busy writing, broadening her knowledge of the computer world, and traveling the information highways.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if someone could set up a special program on the islands called Adopt-A-Grandchild to give kids who have never witnessed the beauties of the beach an opportunity to spend a week on Hatteras and Ocracoke? It might help solve some of the problems that a lot of the city school systems are having with today's children.

Watching Chuck Giannotti pulling the girls and the gentle motion of my Hatteras rope swing leads me to my most remembered teenage summer session in the Old Gray House. I spent the entire summer with Grandmother Melissa Gray and Uncle Kendrick Gray. A summer that had everything a young teenage boy in the 1940's could imagine — adventure on the sea and sound, wheels (Model T Ford), old and new buddies, a hurricane, and, of course, girls.

After the usual welcome-home hugs and kisses, the first thing I did was head down the Dark Ridge Road, across the cross-over to the Front Road, now called Highway 12, to hunt up my friends. Not only were they all there, but many of the other grandchildren were in for the summer. The Folbs, Barnettes, Grays, Jennettes, Tolsons, Quidleys, Williams, Austins, Farrows, and many other names were represented. As the years went by, the list of family last names began to increase with the marriages of the island girls to off-the-island men with new last names. I don't know how it happens, but all the island teenagers seemed to be automatically drawn to each other. It must be something in the ocean breeze that directs them to each other. Before we knew it, our group of girls and boys was set for the summer and fueled by additional grandchildren plugging into the group as they arrived on the island.

Our days were fun-packed on the beaches, and our evenings were just as exciting even without a VCR and TV. And what's more, drugs, tobacco, sex, and alcohol were not a problem. The adults didn't have to lay awake at night and worry about what we were going to get into next. This was back in the days when kids could bond together and have what I term, "clean fun." This particular summer adventure left me with four treasured memories — a sailboat adventure and a shipwreck, clam bake, taffy pull, and a hurricane.

One of the summer-bunch gang and I teamed up for sailing in the sound. His grandparents, Cyrus and Mary William Quidley Gray, kept their sailboat tied up in Bernice's Ditch where the Pilot House Restaurant is located today. Grandpa Cyrus told us we could use it for the summer in the sound. Off we went sailing the days away. Uncle Ken had shown me a mirror and a door that he got from a shipwreck on the beach at Kinnakeet. So, I suggested we sail to Kinnakeet harbor. After we tied up the boat, we walked over to the beach. At that time there were no houses on the beach. Nobody would dare build on the beach because of the storms. I can still hear some of the old timers saying, "Why you would have to be out of your mind to build on that beach." Look at it now!

Photo from Standard Oil of N.J. Collection,
Photographic Archives, University of Louisville
This is the remains of G.A. Kohler shipwreck as seen
on the Hatteras beach 1945 that ran aground in a 1933 hurricane.

Sure enough there was a freighter that was marooned in the wash. It was low tide and an unusually calm day, so we swam out to the wreck to check out the vessel. This to us was high adventure on the seas, but to the islanders shipwrecks often brought supplies for their homes. In fact, when we were repairing our old island home, we found that a lot of the floor was made from crates that had washed up on the beach and the rafters were masts from old ships. The islanders over the years, because of their isolation, became ingenious people in learning how to utilize whatever the ocean brought them. This might account for why so many of their children in later life became so successful in their chosen professions when they left the island to find work. Their parents had passed on to them the secret of being satisfied with what you had and to rely on your imagination to make the best use out of what was available to you. Our boating adventure evolved into a memorial clam bake on a small island that had formed in the sound. We spotted the island while swimming in the sound off Captain Ballance's boat that he kept moored out in the sound. Someone suggested it would be fun to have a clam bake and oyster roast one evening there. That's all it took. We had an organizer who knew how to put it all together real quick. Before we knew what hit us, Eleanor Gray, daughter of Charlie Gray, the Buxton school principal, had us boys raking for clams, crabbing, and gathering oysters. At the appointed time, all boats were headed into the sound loaded with dry firewood, for an evening of fun on what we named Gull Island.

Now if you have never participated in a clam bake, I suggest you need to spend one evening with your family and friends either on the beach or at least around a grill roasting clams and oysters. The kids of today might not be enthusiastic about eating oysters and clams out of the shell, but it is an adventure they need to encounter for their sea-side education.

Needless to say, we had a wonderful evening of just laughing and joking and enjoying that quiet moment as we celebrated the sun slowly sinking into the sound, soon to be replaced with a full moon that had the water glistening like sparkling diamonds. Eleanor, being Eleanor, always had something for us to do. So with the help of her mother, Odessa Gray, she put together an old fashion taffy pull at her house. Have you ever been to a taffy pull? It seemed like we stretched the taffy from one end of the house to the other. We pulled, we kneaded, we laughed, we learned what a true taffy pull was all about. The sweet part of those old-fashioned taffy pulls was not the candy we ate, but it was the fellowship of being with friends. A taffy pull like the one we had that evening formed a bond among us that has cemented memories about the Charlie and Odessa Gray Home Place in Buxton, with its old-fashioned kitchen that will never be forgotten. Today when I drive by and see how Jack and Mary Gray have remodeled the old house, I wonder if maybe there isn't still a trace of candy some place still in that old house.

As with many summers on Hatteras, things began to change dramatically with the threat of an approaching hurricane. There was no doubt in our minds that a big one was on the way because all nature seemed to indicate it. Long before the sophisticated modern-day weather detection devices, the islanders had their own instincts that usually proved to be right about the approaching weather conditions. Even today, if I really want to know what weather to expect, I ask someone like my cousin Gary Gray, a commercial fisherman, who lives by the weather. If he starts to tie his boat to my oak tree like he did during Hurricane Emily, I know without watching the Weather Channel that it is time to head for high ground. One thing for sure, we knew when the sea gulls began to line up on the roof of the old house that things where getting rough at sea. As the wind started to pick up, Uncle Ken began to get excited about the possibility of gathering clams. He rounded up all the gunny sacks he could find, anxiously waiting for the right moment to head out for the sound. Finally he gave the signal to go. "Come on Sonny," he said. (That's what they use to call me.) "Lets go get those clams." We made a bee-line, carrying all the burlap bags we could, for the upper landing located at the end of Rocky Rollinson Road, which was the entrance-way to Buxton at that time. When we got there, it was a sight to see. The sound was emptying of water, and all you could see was ripples of sand with little puddles of water that reminded you of an old fashioned wash board. As fast as we could go, we began picking up clams. Uncle Ken would give me the full sacks to run back to the shore. It was as if he was possessed with clam fever and had a passion for clams. Each time I ran back bucking the wind, he would go farther and farther out in the sound gathering clams.

As I looked down the sound I could see others doing the same thing. This was serious business for many of the islanders who had learned over the years to take advantage of the opportunity provided for them by the approaching hurricane. As a young teenager, who wanted to be around as an old man, I considered it serious also. I kept looking back to the shore and glancing out over the sound, visualizing a wall of water that would soon be rolling back. Common sense told me all that water went some place and would be back with a vengeance when the wind changed. Each time I would suggest to Uncle Ken it was time to go he would say, "just a little longer," and toss me a sack of clams to run back to shore.

During my last run back to shore, the wind began to slack off. It seemed like Uncle Ken was a mile out in the sound. I yelled, "Uncle Ken lets go." He kept picking up clams. And then it got deathly still. I looked up and here came Uncle Ken, running and struggling not to drop his sack full of clams, yelling as he ran, "Sonny, here she comes." That day I found out I could run. When you have a wall of water nipping at your heels, it is amazing how fast your legs can move. We hit that shore and before we knew it we, and the water, were past the upper landing at Nacie and Lillian Midgette's house. After the storm subsided, we went back and retrieved all those sacks of clams that I had trotted to shore. I learned that summer the islanders were resourceful people, living on the edge, who over the years had learned to take advantage of the moment — even if it is a hurricane.

Well, I guess memory time is over, for here comes Grandpa Ray Miller, walking the Dark Ridge Road as he has done all his life. Ray plays grandpa every summer along with the rest of us. He has many wonderful memories to share also. Should you get bored or just want something to do, come sit under the old oak tree with me. We will share grandpa and grandma stories. One thing for sure, you will always find an island breeze waiting for you here under the trees.

the whelk is one of the most interesting of the Outer banks

by dewey parr

Of all the shells found on the Cape Hatteras beach, probably the whelk is the most interesting. When I was growing up in Buxton, I don't recall anyone calling the whelk shell a whelk. We always spoke of them as being conchs. Now that the islanders have become sophisticated, as well as scientific, we have learned to distinguish the difference between a conch and a whelk.

When you say conch, most people think of the pink conch that comes from Florida and Caribbean. The difference is not so much in the animal that lives inside the shell but the shell itself. The pink conch is foreign to the Carolina waters, even though they are plentiful in gift shops. Conchs are sold as a courtesy to tourists who want to take home a brightly-colored shell from the ocean.

When you buy a pink conch, there are a few things you need to check. The price depends on the size and conditio