My wife and I are now in the stage of life where our number one threat is the terrible deliberating disease called Alzheimer’s. At our ages, it is only natural there are times we wonder if we will be next. Alzheimer’s is like death in that it is no respecter of persons. Even a President of our nation, Ronald Regan, did not escape it. We joke about it because of the many blunders we make, but it is a possible reality that awaits us. At this time there is no know elixir for long life or cure for Alzheimer’s so until that time all people our age can do is to attempt preventive medicine.
My Preventive Medicine for Worry About Alzheimer’s and Death is Mental Exercise.
When I go to my favorite spot on the Hatteras south beach and look out over the ocean and view the sky above, I am aware that somewhere out there is a pool of knowledge unimaginable to mankind. It is this pool of knowledge that we will merge into at our death. Death is a transformation from a physical body to a spiritual body. It is the knowledge or the ability to know and learn that gives us the power to rise above our fears and human frailties.
My New Years Resolution is to Learn Something New Everyday. By doing this I do not have time to think about death. Learning is what will keep you youthful. Learning is what separates you from those classified as old people. Old people generally stop learning and looking to the future. Old people spend their days reliving and talking about the past. They often speak about things that happened yesterday, rather than today or hopes for the future. They live up to the level of expectation set for them by the world in general. They are like race horses that are no longer useful and sent to pasture.
I implore you who are older to stop listening to those who want to put you into a little box because of your age. Don’t fall for the constant reminder that your body is getting old by those who constantly tell you it is time to slow down. So you can’t do the things like you used to. It is not time to hang it up or crawl in a box waiting for someone to shut the lid. It is time to change courses.
Nowadays when I head to the beach the Cape Hatteras Light House reminds me that there comes a time in life when it is time to change your course. In times past it sent a light streaming out into the ocean to warn the ships at sea to change their course so they would not run aground on the dreaded diamond shoals. In all of our lives regardless of age there comes a time when we need to alter our course.
For we who are older it is time to seek new adventures that require less strenuous physical activity. The greatest enjoyment I had as school teacher was opening the lid of “the boxes” that children had been placed into by other teachers. By the time many of them came to me in the fifth grade their level of expectation had already been set and they accepted it as a fact. The biggest problem with our school system today is that children are not challenged to seek a higher level of expectation.
I could not but help but notice recently at a Church I have been visiting they have set aside a special parking close to the door for people over seventy. Evidently they assume if you are over seventy you are old and need to be treated different and act the role. In no way would I want to change the concept of respecting the elderly. I enjoy the senior citizen discount. I definitely enjoy the Senior Citizen Menu at the Buxton Captain’s Table Restaurant. I am not saying do away with all the goodies for we who have been fortunate to live longer. I am simply saying don’t put us in a box and say now this is the way we expect you to act and live. I am not ready for the lid to be shut on the box. I hope you are not either.
The body can be old and yet the mind can be young. It is mind over matter. The secret to a long happy productive life is Learning Something New Everyday. We who are older need to free ourselves from the darkness of the past and walk in the light of the new age.
When I was a child growing up on the Island in the 1930’s my access to knowledge was limited. Books and a set of encyclopedias were not the rule of thumb in our Buxton home. My exposure to the outside world came primarily from the Buxton School at the end of the Dark Ridge Road or (Light Plant Road). Most of the knowledge I was exposed to was my own experience with nature and overhearing adult conversations in the general stores.
Just as we set up a scheduled time for exercising the body we need to do the same thing for exercising the mind. I have scheduled a time everyday to learn something new. Since I started seeking new knowledge the biggest problem I have encountered is to know when to cut it off. There is so much knowledge floating around as a result of the computer that you become overwhelmed. It would take a thousand life-times and then some to exhaust the pool of knowledge.
Regardless of your age, be it 1 to 100 acquire a computer. I encourage anyone that is bored with life to engage in learning something new everyday. If you are confined to a bed ask your family to get you a laptop. Standard equipment for every nursing home should be a laptop. Better yet get a hobby. Go on a quest to seek information about it. Mine is learning all I can about shells and the animals that live inside of them. Nursing homes should be buzzing with senior citizens talking about the new knowledge they have learned rather than their aches and pains.
My Computer Has Become My Primary Access to the Pool of Knowledge
Wake up world. With the advent of the computer and the World Wide Web, things will never be the same. Never again will anyone be deprived of learning. You are only limited by your desire to learn.
There is one other important feature of my new year’s resolution I forgot to mention. Learn Something New Everyday and find someone to share it with. Knowledge has little meaning if you cannot share it. I love living on an Island, but I realize no man is an Island unto himself. Everybody needs somebody. If you have nobody, once again the computer can help you relate to others as well as increase your knowledge through social networking. This is an area I have not fully learned how to navigate but I am finding it has unending possibilities for making new friends from all over the world. I say, to all who have allowed others to put them in a box and classify them as Old People, remove that title by becoming a part of a social networking group. Join these youthful groups. Stumble your way through them and learn with millions of others the joy of sharing. Become a Twitter-Bug. Show your face on Face Book. Reserve your Space on Space Book.
If you have taken time to read my New Years Resolution to Learn Something New Everyday, I want to thank you. I thank you for feeling my thoughts are worthy of your time. I would welcome hearing from you.
As I look over the ocean from my favorite spot on the South Beach of Hatteras Island I can visualize my final access to the unending pool of knowledge that will take me into the Eternal Pool of Knowledge. Until that time comes I will be content with dipping into the limited pool of knowledge in this world.
One of the best places I have found to begin dipping into the pool of human knowledge is Wikipedia. I am thrilled that through the efforts and dreams of the founder of Wikipedia, The On-line Encyclopedia, the children of Hatteras Island and the world are no longer limited to acquiring knowledge as I was as a child.
"Imagine a world in which every single person on the planet has free access to the sum of all human knowledge."
Jimmy Wales, Founder of Wikipedia
I too have a dream. It is my dream.
“Never will there be a time when every single person on the planet be denied free access to looking over the ocean from the South Beach of Hatteras Island and visualizing the Eternal Pool of Knowledge that awaits them.”
Friends of The Old Gray House: If you have any comments you can contact us at
OuterBanksShells.com
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| Hatteras Beach Rock Update |
published on: Thursday, November 06, 2009
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Hatteras Beach Rock Update
By Dewey Parr
Pictures of Rocks Brought To Me
I want to take this opportunity to say thanks to all of you who have been bringing rocks to the Old Gray House since the first article I wrote that was published in the Island Breeze in June of 1999. I now have rocks brought to me from many different states including Canada. In that article I revealed my love for rocks and visitors to the Island are still bringing them to me. I guess you would call this new story on rocks and an update to that story. I will do my best in this up date not to repeat what I said previously about rocks. One sure sign of old age is when you start babbling over, and over about the same thing, and never talk about something new. A lot has changed in my life since then, but there has been no change in my fascination with rocks.
Since my first article I am a little more sophisticated in my terminology and classification of Hatteras beach rocks. When you walk our beaches you find five types of rock. Coquinite, Marl, from the continental shelf, Ballast Rock from ships, Lightning Rock, and Black Rock, (Coal) from ships. As s child on our beach even finding a piece of coal created excitement for me. I envisioned slaves on ship stoking a coal furnace. My main experience with coal was when I went to College in Kentucky. It was there I experienced what it might have been like to be a slave aboard a ship on the end of a shovel. I shoveled coal all winter long to feed the school furnaces in order to help pay my tuition. Occasionally you will find a piece of rock that has been brought to the Island for fill or even a piece of rock from the old lighthouse that was blown up, like the two rocks at the entrance to the Old Gray House.
Finding a rock, coal, or a brick on the Hatteras sand beach, no matter how small it might be, has always been a treasure. I am not a rockologist and have a very limited knowledge of how to classify rocks with the exception of what a learned at a very young age on the Island. I was told there are three basic forms of rock: Soft (Sedimentary), Hard (Metamorphic), and Harder (Igneous). Each one was associated with heat, pressure and depth. I was also told the inner core of the earth was hot and the deeper you go the hotter it gets. I guess that is why in our Buxton Churches they always referred to Heaven as being up and Hell being down.
As you walk the Gray House Garden Path You Will See Sedimentary or Coquinite Rocks Found on the Beach. Many of these Rocks Are Gifts From Visitors To the Old Gray House Who Find Them On the Beach While Vacationing.
When I walk the Hatteras beach the majority of the rocks I find are Sedimentary or Coquinite Rock. They are a conglomerate of bits of shells, whole shells, and anything else that is cemented together with sand. It is stuff that falls to the bottom of the sea and is bound together with heat and pressure. It is like what my Mary does in the kitchen. She takes some of this and some of that tosses it in a bowl and sticks it in the oven and out comes something good to look at and eat. Now that is creating a conglomerate. If you look closely at the coquinite rocks you find on the beach they will reveal clues to the past history of the many types of shells and sea life that has been available at Hatteras.
Coquina is the Spanish word for cockleshells or shell fish. It is a rock composed of shell fossils, and minerals bound together as a result of wave action, pressure and low heat not much more than 100 degrees C. Often you will find whole shells incorporated into this rock formation. When you look in some of the shells you will notice crystal formations taking place. It is fun to see how many different types of shells are within a rock formation.
My knowledge of the technical terms for various rocks I have found over the years is limited. I just know from looks and experiences that there is definitely a difference between the two major rock formations you find on the Hatteras beach. In addition to Sedimentary or what I call common beach rock, you find a heavy dense gray rock that has fossil impression in it. This rock is called Marl or Marlstone.
What is Marl? This definition is provided by my favorite encyclopedia, Wikipedia the free encyclopedia.
Marl or marlstone is a calcium carbonate or lime-rich mud or mudstone which contains variable amounts of clays and aragonite. Marl was originally an old term loosely applied to a variety of materials, most of which occur as loose, earthy deposits consisting chiefly of an intimate mixture of clay and calcium carbonate, formed under freshwater conditions; specifically an earthy substance containing 35-65% clay and 65-35% carbonate. The term is today often used to describe indurated marine deposits and lacustrine (lake) sediments which more accurately should be named marlstone. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marl
The thing that sets Marl apart besides its weight and clay appearance is that it is not flat like the common beach rock. It is often in oval heavy chunks with fossils or imprints of fossil formations. This rock is composed of soft clay dating back to the Miocene Age (23.7 to 5.3 million years ago). It breaks off of the continental shell and washes up on our beach after intense storms. Think of the stories this rock could tell if it could talk.
Fulgrite
Lighting Rock (Fulgrite) found on the beach
Another rock like formation is what we call Lighting Rock. This rock formation is of such a nature that I feel it merits a little more attention than I gave it in my first article. The best place to find it is near or on the sand dunes. I guess the reason is that when lightning strikes the beach it usual hits what ever is the highest. This is one reason why when you hear thunder it is best to clear the beach because you are the tallest structure on the beach, which makes you the number one target for a lightning bolt. In times past we have had individuals killed on our beach as a result of lightning. The scientific name is Fulgrite. Some people confuse this freak rock of nature with that of our common beach rock. In fact I have seen crafts in the stores mounted on our common beach rock with labels on it describing it as Fulgrite. There is no comparison between the two formations.
Wikipedia, the free on-line encyclopedia provides this explanation of Fulgrite
Fulgurites (from the Latin fulgur meaning thunderbolt) are natural hollow glass tubes formed in quartzose sand, or silica, or soil by lightning strikes. They are formed when lightning with a temperature of at least 1,800 °C (3,270 °F) instantaneously melts silica on a conductive surface and fuses grains together; the fulgurite tube is the cooled product. This process occurs over a period of around one second, and leaves evidence of the lightning path and its dispersion over the surface. Fulgurites can also be produced when a high voltage electrical distribution network breaks and the lines fall onto a conductive surface with sand beneath. They are sometimes referred to as petrified lightning. The longest fulgurite found is approximately 4.9 meters (16 ft) to 5 meters (17 feet) in length, and was found in northern Florida http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fulgurite
Should you be fortunate enough to find a piece of fulgrite while walking the beach come by the Old Gray House and show me.
 Of the different type of rocks you find on the Hatteras beach the most historical is that of the Ballast rock. What are Ballast Rocks? Ballast Rocks were used by sailing ships to stabilize the ship. Rocks, gravel, sand, iron rods, barrels of wine or water, old cannon balls, or whatever was available was loaded in the hull of sailing vessels to equalize the ships depth in the water. It is similar to what the Chamber Nautilus animal does with the empty chambers in the Nautilus Shell. These rocks did not always indicate a given area from which the ship came from. The rocks were discharged from the ship, or added from different ports throughout the journey. Without accurate scientific testing of these rocks it is impossible to determine their origin or how long they may have been on the ocean floor. One can only come up with mental pictures in their minds of what ship or country these rocks originated from. We cannot even be sure that the ballast rocks we find on our beaches are from a sinking ship, Many times they were thrown overboard to stabilize or correct the draft of the ship during storms or entry into ports.
Ballast Rocks
I found it interesting that ballast rocks were being used to determine if the discovery of the shipwreck in the Beaufort Inlet, NC is actually the pirate Black Beards ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge. Scientific testing is being used to determine if the ballast rocks found at the wreck site came from known ports visited by Edward Thatch know as Blackbeard the pirate. I was not aware that rocks had DNA tracks that were traceable similar to human DNA.
Large ballast rocks are not found often on our beaches today except for bits and fragments. In times past it was not uncommon to find good size ballast rocks as a result of an angry ocean that tossed them up on the beach from shipwrecks. As a general rule, they were round or smooth without rough edges except irregularities caused by erosion and wave action. The reason they chose round smooth rocks to place in the ships was that it was dangerous to have rocks with sharp points that might cause damage to the ship’s hull due to shifting in rough seas. Islanders collected ballast rocks to use around their yards and even incorporated them in foundations or their chimneys. Each rock was considered to be a treasure to talk about. There was always much speculation as to what shipwreck or what country these rocks might have originated from.
Much can be learned about stabilizing the balance and level in the water of ships and how this affects our ocean ecology today. We have replaced ballast rocks with ballast water. This has led to problems throughout the world due to the discharge of ballast water from ships. Often this water is contaminated and it releases alien creatures as well as harmful bacteria into our waters that cause severs ecological problems as well infecting our food chain. This is especially true throughout the Great Lakes and parts of Canada that are suffering from an infestation of such creatures as the Zebra Mussel, Sea Lamprey, European Green Crab and the Chinese Mitten Crab which is a host to the lung fluke (Paragonium Westerman) and who knows what else has its origin in the release of ballast water from foreign ships. Once alien creatures are released into the waters unless preventive steps are taken immediately, they spread throughout the waterways of the entire nation causing billions of dollars of devastation. It is estimated that Zebra Mussel alone is responsible for losses of millions of dollars annualy to the fishing industry. People who swim love to see crystal clear water but they are not often not aware that many fish such as the Wall-Eye along with some plant life prefer cloudy water. If you are interested in the problems created by ballast water and the Zebra Mussel clearing up cloudy water and clogging intake valves then check out this web site.
Click here to learn more about Ballast Rocks.
My explanation of the different types of rock that I find on the beach may not be as accurate as yours might be but it satisfies me and my curiosity. Until someone like you takes the time to correct me I will continue with my unscientific classification of rocks I find while walking the Hatteras Beach. Should you know better I will remain in my little world of limited knowledge of rocks until you supply me with more up to date knowledge? Don’t hesitate to let me know if I am mistaken, I have been told that many times before and it never has offended me if you supply me with correct information.
I am indebted to Andrew Alden for all the information he supplies on About.com concerning rocks. He sure knows his subject even though I am not able to fully understand it. I thought it was quiet commendable that he took the time to promptly answer my questions about the rocks I find on the beach. Below is his reply that substantiates what I have said about Hatteras Beach Rocks.
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Hello Dewey,
Those rocks would definitely be sedimentary. Marl is an impure limestone
that would be typical of the continental shelf, ripped up by heavy surf
and carried onto the beach. Lightning strikes upon sand would create
fulgurites:
http://geology.about.com/od/rocks/ig/fulgurites
Thanks for writing.
Andrew Alden
Guide to Geology
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If you have any questions about rocks you definitely need to take the time to check out what Andrew Alden has to say about them. Click here for rock information. http://geology.about.com
Picture of WV Bowling Rock
Thanks again for bringing me rocks for my rock garden. Someone from WV brought me the bowling ball and sign you see in my garden. They called it a WV Bowling Rock. I guess it is some kind of Hill Billy joke. Now you know what to do with old bowling balls. Bring them to me for my rock garden.
Friends of The Old Gray House: If you have any comments you can contact us at OuterBanksShells.com
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| Feeding Birds is a Priority At The Old Gray House |
published on: Thursday, November 05, 2009
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Feeding Birds is a Priority At The Old Gray House
By Dewey Parr
As you can see from the pictures, I have a small area that I have designated in my garden to let all birds know they are welcome. With the help of my friends’ everyday I try to provide them with feed and water. Others feel the same way I do about birds. Recently when I went to put feed in the bird feeder there was a $20.00 bill stuck in it. I and the birds thank whoever left it. It went a long towards purchasing better bird seed.
Notice the twenty dollar bill stuck in feeder.
The Birds and I Thank You
I love all birds. I have always loved all birds. Regardless of what our National Park,
Defenders of Wildlife, and the Audubon Society do to our Island as a result of their stupid
ideas to protect the piping plover. I will still love all birds including the Piping Plover.
I am not like the environmentalists who are selective when it comes to birds or people.
I do not believe in putting one bird or person above another. We are all God’s creations
and should be respected and treated alike.
After a long summer of not being able to walk or drive to my favorite spot on the Island, finally the Park Service opened limited access to South Beach. When my friend Clarence and I approached our favorite place on South Beach we spotted a sea gull in distress. As you can see from the pictures the poor little thing was doomed to die without any help.
My first thought was what we can do to help this poor bird. As I was getting ready to call the Park Service office I spotted a Park Service vehicle coming down the Beach. As they approached they spotted the bird and stopped.
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Hooray! Help Is on the Way. Here Comes the Park Rangers
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I walked over to them and asked what could be done to help this sea gull. They said, “We have a program with a person designated to take care of wounded birds and we will call it in.” After they called we talked for awhile and I discovered they where summer employees. Before they left they asked if we would hang around to help the person coming out to get the bird locate it. We gladly said we would.
At last, I thought I was going to have the opportunity to praise our Park System, but once again I found it was not the case. What a disappointment.
We waited and waited so I called the Hatteras National Park Headquarters three times asking when they where coming to get the wounded sea gull like the two rangers said they would. The person on the other end of the phone acted like it was a joke. After a long time, and the Bird Ambulance did not arrive, we had no other alternative but to leave the poor little sea gull on the beach and head back home. Before doing so I made one last call to the Park office and with the comment, "Why don't you admit it you don't care about a wounded bird unless it is a piping plover".
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It Really Hurt Us to Leave That Little Bird to Die
Because of the Park Service’s Lack of Concern |
The rest of the evening and that night all I could think about was the picture of that Sea Gull sitting there helpless left to die. The more I thought about it the more I decided to find out just what the Park Service did to help birds other than Piping Plovers so a I sent an e-mail to the Park Service Superintendent's Office. Much to my surprise after 12 days they did respond. Evidently my request precipitated some discussion. You will notice copies of the e-mail were sent to other park officials. Read it and you will conclude what the Cape Hatteras National Park’s attitude is about wounded birds or animals that are not declared as endangered.
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My e-mail to the Cape Hatteras National Park
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8/19/2009
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To Cyndy Holda@nps.gov |
Does the Cape Hatteras National Park have a formal policy on how to take care of injured birds. May I receive a copy of what is done for sea gulls that are found on the beach that have been injured? Are sea gulls classified as predators? If you have a written policy may I receive a copy of it?
Dewey Parr - P.O. Box 1002, Buxton, NC - 27920
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Reply From National Park
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8/31/2009
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From Cyndy Holda@nps.gov
CC Thayer Broili@nps.gov
Paul Stevens@nps.gov
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Mr. Parr,
I've checked service-wide and with our park Resource Management staff for a
policy regarding injured birds.
Neither the National Park Service nor Cape Hatteras National Seashore has a
formal written policy regarding the care of injured birds, including gulls.
In general, at most units of the National Park System, the long-standing
informal policy is to let nature take it's course. The exception to thisis that in some cases involving rare, threatened or endangered species, if
there appears to be a chance for the injured bird's survival, park
resources management staff may deliver an injured bird to a wildlife
rehabilitator or veterinarian. In most cases, as with other agencies, we
let nature take it's course for injured seagulls. The Roanoke Island
Animal Hospital in Manteo has taken injured birds of special interest in
the past.
Gull are native species that are generally considered to be scavengers
since they eat dead fish or other animals, human food, or other items that
they consider to be food. They can prey on small live fish and animals
such as crabs, bird chicks, which could be construed as being a predator.
The park does not have a formal written policy on how to care for injured
birds. I hope this is helpful in answering your questions.
Cyndy Holda
Superintendent's Assistant &
Community Liaison
252-473-2111 ext. 148
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Please note the Phrases, "LET NATURE TAKE ITS COURSE", AND "NATIVE SPECIES".
Our Park Service is definitely not practicing what it preaches. If you let nature take its course then you don't kill off all the other animals you feel are undesirable. If you check out the mandate of the National park you will find it is their obligation to protect and preserve all wildlife in their natural state. I would also question their concepts of putting the protection of outside species above native species. Their argument for removing all the foxes is that they are not native to the Island. That is baloney. I am 78 and foxes have been here all my life and the life of my Island ancestors.
To me this picture I took of a sea Gull is the biggest joke on Hatteras Island
Our National park has probably killed and maimed more animals in the last few years than anyone. Look at the Chart that Barbra Ackley prepared of their recent activities.
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| Cape
Hatteras National Seashore Recreational Area Predator Removal |
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2002-2007
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2007
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| Species |
Wildlife Services
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NPS Resource Mgt. Staff
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2008
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Totals
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| Feral Dog
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1
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0 |
0 |
1 |
| Feral Cat
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26
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38 |
53 |
117 |
| Raccoon
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133
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101 |
77 |
311 |
| Mink
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0
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1 |
31 |
32 |
| Opossum
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46
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57 |
60 |
163 |
| Muskrat
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0
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1 |
1 |
2 |
| Otter
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0
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2 |
5 |
7 |
| Grey Fox
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30
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3 |
6 |
39 |
| Red Fox
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70
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6 |
9 |
85 |
| Nutria
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0
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23 |
49 |
72 |
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0 |
| Total
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305
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232 |
291 |
828 |
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| Source: 2007 & 2008 CHNS Piping Plover annual reports |
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I am sure there are hundreds of destroyed animals we know nothing about. What are the real statistics of how many animals the Park Service has destroyed or removed from the Island?
I recall a few years back the park service brought in a special person and paid them to eliminate all the feral cats. Maybe that is why this Island is become overrun with mice and rats. Don't mess with Mother Nature. Our National Park needs to take a look at the lesson learned from the attempt to alter nature by removing all the cats on Macquarie Island as reported by CNN.
(CNN) -- Efforts to remove cats from Macquarie Island, a sub-Antarctic island and World Heritage Site, have indirectly led to environmental devastation, according to a report published in the Journal of Applied Ecology.
Take time to read the full account by Dean Irvine for CNN how messing with mother nature led to trouble just like it is here on Hatteras Island.
Click here for the rest of the story.
I keep asking myself how can the members of the Defenders of Wild Life and the Audubon Society condone the unjust killing and maiming of innocent animals. It is gross to walk our woods and see bits of animals in traps where they have gnawed off a foot or other body part to escape.
I along with other Islanders grew up under the policy, “LET NATURE TAKE ITS COURSE”. To us it means try to help anything, animals, birds, or people in need. We did not show preference to one species above another. .In our world only God had the right to decide who should live or die. Not the National Park…. To walk away from one animal and let it suffer in preference to another is cruel and inhumane. Everything has a purpose for living. Sea gulls are classified as scavengers and predators to Piping Plovers the “Royal Bird”. When I look at a Sea Gull I see a bird that has a purpose for its existence. Scavengers are important. They clean up the mess left by others. If it was not for the sea gulls our beaches would be a stinking mess. The Park Service should be protecting them. They do the job for them. What does a Piping Plover do to help?
In no way am I an authority on Birds or anything else. The bases of my conclusions about managing birds are based on nothing except my personal observations from walking our beaches and watching the birds on my property. If you Let Nature Take Its Course the birds will take care of themselves and work things out. It could well be that Nature has decided it is time for some birds to become extinct just as it did concerning the dinosaurs. Of course if our environmental friends, who are hell-bent and determined to destroy Hatteras Island, lived back then they would probably want to enact laws to protect Tyrannosaurus Rex.
What Would This Sea Gull Say To the National Park?
If this sea gull could talk to us from Bird Heaven I am sure it would have something to say about our National Park such as: Why does the Park Service say I deserve to die? Am I not a bird? I thought the National Park was dedicated to preserving and protecting me and all other wildlife. Why, oh why, did you look the other way and let me die?
If I had known then what I know now, I might have been able to save this poor little bird. I would have called Lou Browning. He is trying to help all birds. I e-mailed Lou and asked him, “Do you consider a sea gull a predator not worthy of being helped if it is injured?” He replied, “I rehab lots of gulls. The only ones that I think are very predatory are the black backs, but I rehab them too. I don't figure they had any choice as to what they were born as.”
What Lou Browning is doing is commendable. He is preserving the Island Tradition of helping to preserve all life. My advice to all the members of the Audubon Society and the Defenders of Wildlife is stop sending your money to support their efforts to destroy the economy of Hatteras Island and remove all predators (that includes people). Send your money to Lou Browning to help out with his efforts to preserve all wild life, including the Piping Plover. Take time to check out Lou Browning's web-site. He is doing what the National Park System should be doing. Send a donation. I am doing it today.
Click here to visit Lou Browning's web-site:
http://www.hiwr.us
Once again I say to the Cape Hatteras National Park, “It is time to practice what you preach. "LET NATURE TAKE ITS COURSE." Stop your meddling with Mother Nature.
Friends of The Old Gray House: If you have any comments you can contact us at OuterBanksShells.com
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| Outer Banks Bike Week |
published on: Sunday, August 23, 2009
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Outer Banks Bike Week
By
Dewey Parr
V- - - - R - - - - O - - - - - O - - - - - O - - - - - U - - - - - -M
is the all day and late evening sounds you hear on Hatteras Island as groups of Bikers pass through going and coming from Ocracoke. To many Islanders it is an unpleasant sound but to others it is a welcome sound. It leads to another sound the K- er – chinging of cash registers. This year in particular it was a welcome sound to local businesses that have been suffering from the economy and the closure of the beaches. To our little shop, off of highway 12 on Light Plant Road, the sound had no meaning for no bikers darkened our doors.
Neither the sounds of bikes passing, nor the fact no bikers came to our business bothered us. It is easy for us to understand why the bikers do not take the time to visit with us. We are a Mom and Pop business located off the main road. We do not advertise nor do we have the type of merchandise that the average biker is seeking. Our business consists of shells, nautical gifts, and homemade crafts and gifts. Regardless of the absence of Bikers at our business we are happy that the Bikers have chosen to visit our Islands annually.
We heard that in Myrtle Beach Biker week has been banned because of complaints from the citizens because of the noise. To us that is selfish on the part of the people who should be thankful
for the help bikers give to the economy of the area. It is our hope that the Outer Banks will never do likewise.
The noise bikers make during the Annual Outer Banks Bike Week is a happy sound that brings back memories from eighteen years ago. That was the first year we opened our retirement hobby, The Old Gray House. One day suddenly a loud sound erupted that sounded like the walls of our old house where tumbling down. Mary and I rushed outside to see what was happening and lo and behold we were blessed with a group of bikers coming to visit with us. It was a friendly fun loving group of people, which we have found to be the case with most bikers.
I remember that day well. I had placed a huge box of shaving lotions and colognes on a table outside that had been given to me as Christmas presents by my students when I taught school. Even though I requested no presents every year students would give me bottles of cologne and shaving lotions. After all, what else can parents think of to have the kids take to a man teacher. It would have taken me five life times to use it all. Besides that when you live in a mosquito and green fly infested area it is not wise to be smelling sweet like a flower. The sign on the box said, “FREE TAKE ONE”. The box had been sitting there for weeks and no one took any. It was not that we did not have customers it was they were leary of anybody giving anything away free.
As our biker friends were getting ready to leave I said to the men, “I have what you guys really need to make your girls happy”. Then I turned to the ladies and said, “I know your girls will agree with me. After riding on those bikes all day long in the heat I imagine these guys don’t have the sweetest smell.” The gals all said, “You can say that again”. I jokingly said, “Ladies here is the solution to your problem”. I offered them my huge box of shaving lotions and colognes. It was fun to watch them divide with the ladies laughing and dobbing different smells on their men. As they went on their way it was no longer just sounds that preceded their arrival but smells as well.
Notice the Oak Tree By The Ramp Going Into The Gray House. There have been a lot of changes at the Old Gray House since the day of the visit by these bikers eighteen years ago. Raging storms and hurricanes have made a lot of changes. Lightning struck the tree three times and is no longer there. I also wonder what types of changes have occurred in this fun loving group of biker’s lives.
Not only have things changed at the Old Gray House since that day but attitudes about Bikers have changed. Years ago when you saw a group of bikers roaring down the road you conjured up pictures in your mind of a wild unruly group. You associated them with wild wicked living. Bikers in the past have been considered to be dangerous and to be avoided.
Today you will find that Bikers are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. They are average hard working family types of people. The bikes many of them ride cost more than your automobiles or even the home you live in. They are often professional people such as lawyers, doctors, teachers, business owners, and the trades. The bikers I have been associated with over the years go out of their way to be helpful.
When my daughter was married her wedding took place in the Hilton Hotel in Charlotte, N.C. while a Bikers convention was being held there. It was the bikers who helped us tote things in and out for the wedding. When it came time for picture taking a bridesmaid went into the hall and rounded up a biker to pose with my daughter for fun. The bikers also joined in when it came time to send off the Bride and Groom. It was a fun time for all of us.
Since the visit by bikers that first year we opened, we have only had an occasional visit by a couple of bikers such as the one this year. Each time it is always a joyful experience. Just getting a close-up look at the bikes and talking with their owners is a pleasant experience. When I see a motorcycle I just naturally think of adventures and marvel at the many experiences bikers have to share. With gas prices the way they are today those who ride bikes are the smart ones. It is not often these days we see Bikers at the Old Gray House but when we do it is definitely a time to enjoy.
We felt honored to have Bill and Janet Bartsch from Wantage, N.J. to swing in off Highway 12 to visit with us at the Old Gray House.
Even though we at the Old Gray House will probably never be honored with a visit from those who participate in the Annual Outer Banks Bike Week we want to thank them for their annual noise that brings back fond memories to us of that first year we opened our Gift Shop.
Click Image To Logon to HarleyBay.com
Island Business that profited from the 7th. Annual Bikers Week
need to thank the following Harley Davidson Dealerships for sponsoring the event.
Sponsors
Friends of The Old Gray House: If you have any comments you can contact us at OuterBanksShells.com
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| In Loving Memory of Buster
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published on: Thursday, July 23, 2009
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By
Dewey Parr
It was lonely walk this morning from my house to what I called Buster’s House. Buster’s house was my garage which is about forty feet from my house. It is not the average type of garage. My son and I had remodeled it and turned it into a workshop for crafts and a hangout for my wife, Mary and I. Every morning, for seventeen, years my close friend Buster was waiting for me at the door to walk with him from my house to his house. When we arrived at his house it was his practice to scratch on the molding beside the door prior to entering. After his short scratching session we would enter his world and I would prepare his morning meal.
After I prepared Buster’s morning meal he and I did our exercises together. As I went through my morning routine Buster would lay on the floorhen I laid down to do my floor exercises he would reach a paw over and tip me and then I would scratch under his chin.
Next I would go to my computer to check my e-mail and Buster would join me. He would lay his head on the left side of my keyboard and occasionally tap the cap lock buttons causing me problems which I enjoyed. I soon learned over the years this was his way of getting my attention so I would scratch under his chin so he could go to sleep. His method of sleep was keeping one eye slightly open so he could watch my every move. When I moved he moved.
This morning it was not easy for me to go through the steps of my exercises and check my e-mail without my close friend Buster. It seemed like things were hollow or un-natural. At first I thought I would skip exercising, but then I recalled the advice that I had often given to others when I was a minister that when you loose a loved one it is important that you continue your regular routine. Buster’s body was not with me this morning but his spirit was with me every where I looked. I told myself that Buster was not really dead and he would want me to and carry on as usual. You are only dead when no one is left to remember you. As long as I am alive Buster will always be alive. I will never forget him.
With these chores finished it was time to continue on with our routine. Together we walked from his house back to my house and he went inside and crawled up on Mary’s lap while she was drinking her morning coffee. He usually fell asleep while she petted him and scratched his ears. They stayed there together until Mary began her morning.
I guess it is time I tell you Buster Gray was my feral cat. Otherwise you might be wondering who was sitting on Mary’s lap. Buster came to me the second year we opened the Old Gray House Gift Shop. Larry Bates and I were doing repairs on the Old Gray House when a cat appeared out of nowhere. The cat hung around, disappeared, and kept reappearing. Of course I did what I often told my kids not to do with stray animals. I fed him just as my ancestors had fed feral cats. I cannot stand to see anything hungry. It is a Hatteras thing. The people on the Island did not have much in the way of material things, but they always had food to share, especially fish, with anyone who came along. Fish and cats just naturally go together. Over the years I realize that feeding strays has led some to take advantage of me. I recall when I was minister in Bluefield, Va. we had a family that lived up a holler who walked the railroad tracks to their home. The mother always had a baby in arms with little children following. Mary and I went to the store on Thursday and it became a habit for the mother to be at our door with those sweet little children looking at us as she asked us for food. We did not have much to share with anybody in those days. It was all we could do to feed our own babies, but we always managed to find something to give them even though we realized that mother was taking advantage of us. We knew that same mother could find money for cigarettes and beer. We shared our food anyway. As I look back I don’t think we were none the less for having given her food for the kids. At least we felt good about it.
I felt good when I fed the feral cat that later became Buster. This cat seemed to be different than other strays I had met in the past. This one did not meow. Never did I ever hear him make sound until his last few days on earth. I realized after feeding him I had made a tactical mistake for he decided to adopt me and the Old Gray House as his home.
The first major problem I encountered with him was the minute the Gray House door opened he would dart in and run up the stairs and plop himself on Grandmother Grays old iron bed. It began to create a real problem for Mary because she was using the bed to display handmade fabric products for sale. Time after time Mary would find him snoozing away in the middle of the bed on top of her merchandise. It was amazing how he would sneak in right past her with the costumers.
Seeing the problem, I decided this cat has got to go so I decided to let him take a little ride with me when I went down the road. We took three rides together and each time he came wandering back looking at me with those big eyes. Larry laughed and said, “He has decided you are it.” It was after the third trip Larry said, “Let’s name him”. Larry started calling him Buster so I did likewise. I guess Buster knew he was working his way in now. In order to solve the problem of him getting in the middle of the bed at the Gray House I moved him over to my house.
I told Larry I really did not want to be tied down with a pet so he said he had a solution. A friend of his a hundred miles away was looking for a cat to replace his cat that had died. He wanted a cat that would be compatible with his wife’s cat. I said, “That would be great”. Larry contacted his friend and he came to Buxton to meet Buster. The friend liked Busters friendly attitude and he thought it would work out so he took Buster on one condition. The condition being if things did not work out that I would agree he could bring him back. Of course I agreed for I figured now Buster would have a good home and that would solve my problem.
Well, guess what? A week later here came Larry’s friend bringing Buster back to the Old Gray House. He said, “That is the wildest cat I have ever seen.” He chased and attacked my wife’s cat constantly. Finally my wife said, “Either that darn cat goes or you go”.
Buster is back. Larry is laughing. Mary is frantic. I am perplexed. No way is Buster going to stay over at the Gray House. With Buster gently rubbing around my legs it is decision time. I looked at Buster and said, “What am I going to do with you?” In my heart I already knew the answer. I think Buster did too.
Now here it is seventeen years later and I am reminiscing over the many hours of enjoyment Buster and I had together. There were times during those seventeen years Mary and I would look at Buster and say to ourselves who are you. Now I don’t believe in reincarnation, but if I were to do so I would be led to think Buster was the reincarnation of someone that loved Mary and I. Or he could have been a guardian angel sent to comfort us as well as protect us. He had traits that reminded Mary of her father as well as mine. His ever watchful eyes of our every move were uncanny at times. It was like he was our parents protecting and caring for the both of us.
Buster was primarily an outside cat. During the day he spent his time wandering and checking the premises that he had staked out to see if anything had crossed it. I watched him walk his boundary lines daily. When I was working in the yard or walking on my back lot he was never more than five feet from me. In the mornings when I would walk to the road to get my paper he would strut in front of me scanning the path ahead to be sure all was safe. For that reason I dubbed him my, “Secret Service Cat”. At night time Buster would stay up on the roof of my house so he could watch over the property. Many were the times you could hear him come plopping down the steps to my lower deck as he ran down to drive away any intruder such as mice, snakes, deer and raccoons. Buster did not seem to known the word fear.
Whenever Mary and I would leave the property he would plant himself near our drive way waiting for our return. If either one of us was away he would not rest until we returned. No matter how late we would be out at night he was there waiting for our return. When we started down our drive you would see Buster running to greet us as we stepped out of the car.
Two of the many memories I recall of Buster I found very unusual. My son and I, with a group of friends, were working on an addition to my house and my son’s dog kept leaving our property. My son would scold his dog for doing so in the presence of Buster. The dog paid little attention to my son, but he started encountering trouble every time he left our property. Buster would follow him and chase him back. We all watched this over and over in amazement. It was this same time another strange thing occurred in regard to Buster. My daughter who lived away had a cat that died and her heart was tender over the loss. She came home to visit with us. The day she arrived here came Buster bringing a kitten. This was very unusual for a male cat seldom tends to kittens. I had noticed Buster disappearing from time to time. What he had been doing is tending to this little female kitten that was probably from a litter that he had fathered. My daughter took one look at the little kitten and that was all it took. The kitten became known as Hattie, short for Hatteras. Hattie, who is the spitting image of Buster, now resides happily in Charlotte, NC with my daughter.
Over the years I have heard many speak of the nine lives of a cat. If there is such a thing, Buster used his up many times over. Time after time he came limping in from the battles he had engaged in with some animal. Mary would watch me treat his wounds in amazement that he would allow me to do so even though it was painful for him. Never did he ever offer to scratch or snarl at me as I did so. It was due to two of his older wounds that led to his final demise.
A snake bit him right above his eye. It became infected and I would clean it out every day and apply ointment until it healed. As time went by his eye began to cloud and it was apparent that he was losing the sight in the eye. In no way did this deter Buster from continuing on with his protective services to our family. Toward the end of his life he encountered another bite only this time it was near his other eye. This finally led to him being totally blind. Even in that state Buster carried on. Being a male cat he depended on the scent he created to mark his trail. If you have never known what it is like to be without sight it is probably hard for you to realize that those who become blind find ways to adapt to their situation. Having been in a similar situation as Buster for three years of my life I learned to appreciate Buster’s circumstances. I related to Buster and he related to me. For a period of time, especially after a hard rain that would remove his scented trails, I had to direct Buster to the door of his house and his food.
As I watched Buster through these hard times I recalled how he watched over Mary and me. When we had physical problems and returned home from the hospital Buster seemed to sense our needs. He stayed even closer to us than before. It was during these times that he would snuggle up to us as if he was attempting to comfort us.
Is there a Heaven for animals and Buster to go too? I do not have the answer for that. Buster is gone, but he is not dead. For you see in Mary’s and my heart he will always be alive.
My Buddy Buster
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| The Unwelcome Visitors |
published in: April 18, 2009 |
By
Dewey Parr
I remember the good-ole-days on Hatteras when every stranger that came down the sand road was a welcome guest in our house. The word stranger was not a word that carried any connation of fear with it. Strangers were viewed as someone that brought us information from the outside world. Today children are told over and over to beware of strangers. As an Island kid I never feared a stranger. Strangers brought excitement and fun to my life.
Hatteras, at that time, was a world to itself. It was as if our customs and way of life had been frozen in time since the days of our forefathers. The rest of the world was racing as fast as it could go to be a part of an industrialized society and here we sat happy with our slow-paced way of life. Yes, I remember well hearing my father say, "Welcome stranger. Come on in. Supper time is coming soon and we would love to have you put your feet under our table and eat a bite with us."
As an adult today I still enjoy meeting and greeting strangers. Granted the times we live in call for being careful not to be taken in by strangers, but it still does not interfere with meeting and greeting new people. My joy in my retirement years at the Old Gray House Gift Shop has been greeting strangers and then watching the stranger become a Friend. It is an entirely different relationship when you say, Welcome Friend.
In our business we have people that never get out of the category of being strangers. These are people who think Islanders are naive and try to take advantage of us or steal stuff from us. Not long ago Mary and I had a stranger visit our home that turned out to be one of the most unwelcome guests that ever entered our home. This stranger turned our lives upside down and we are just now putting the pieces back together. This stranger is called Cancer.
Cancer is the unwelcome visitor that I hope and pray never enters your home. You need to do everything possible to keep this stranger from coming to your house. There are some things you can do to help prevent him from visiting you such as annual physical exams, a proper diet, rest and exercise. Even so you still can not prevent him from entering your life for he will even enter your home when you least expect him. Some times he announces his arrival by little signs such as a sudden loss of weight or a little inflamed or changes in the appearance of mole on your body. Other times the only way he can be detected is through x-rays, body scans or other tests. This is why it is ever so important that men and women have yearly checks ups. Early detection is the difference between life and death.
Probably the most nerve racking portion about Cancer's arrival is when it is suspected this unwelcome guest is on the horizon. When the Dr. is suspicions he will begin to order additional tests. This can be a trying time for the family as well as yourself. The waiting and wondering can be a traumatic period for all concerned. Restless nights, longs days of wondering what will be, can wear everyone down.
Once the news gets out to family and friends that there is a possibility that Cancer might make a visit to your house it becomes story time and a renewed awareness of how many people have been visited by Cancer. Seems everyone has a story to tell about others who were visited by Cancer and how they came out after his visit. Every time you pick up the paper it seems like the headlines are screaming at you about the many victims of cancer. You cannot help but notice that Cancer is not a respecter of persons. He claims the lives of the famous, rich and poor. It seems like waiting to get the final word of cancer's arrival goes on forever. Surely there must be a way to shorten the time period between suspicion of cancers visit and the diagnosis that he has entered your life.
At the time the unwelcome guest visited our home the tourist season on Hatteras Island was well under way and our little shop, Old Gray House Gifts, was in full swing. When the Doctor gave us the final report I remember how hectic it was for Mary and me. Being an understanding person he took the time to go over all the alternatives concerning the surgery before us and left the final decision to us. Those couple of days before we where to give him our final decision were even more traumatic than all the other things that had preceded the final diagnosis. Not fully understanding about this unwelcome visitor I sought any information available. We listened to friends who had similar problems and I contacted the American Cancer Society who provided me ample information concerning the particular type of cancer we were dealing with. They talked with me at length and sent me helpful literature. With their help we made our decision. I say we because when you are dealing with this unwelcome visitor it becomes a family matter.
Prior to scheduling surgery our doctor discussed with me our situation with our little shop and it was his opinion that we should not close but keep it intact. From what he said to me, I concluded that the greatest weapon one has against the unwelcome visitor is to continue living a normal active, positive life. After the surgery I continued running the shop until Mary was able to return. As you know our shop is different from others in that over the years those who have visited with us have become friends. They all wanted to know, "Where is Mary"? Their genuine concern led to some of the most amazing and revealing stories I had ever heard. They shared with me how the unwelcome visitor had visited to their homes and how they had defeated his attempts to steal away happy lives. Some of the ladies in particular, with tears in their eyes, related to me how cancer had led to divorce. Each evening I came away from the Old Gray House with joy in my heart for those that had defeated Cancer, and tears in my eyes for those whose happy marriages had been destroyed as a result of his visit.
When dealing with Cancer surgery is not the final solution. There are many emotional aspects after surgery. The type of follow up that takes place to prevent a reoccurrence of the cancer, and the downsides of the treatments, such as chemo, radiation, and medication are in themselves problems that have to be continued for years.
What a happy day it was for me when Mary was able to return back to the counter at the Old Gray House. There is no doubt in my mind that the following advice given to me by our doctor, friends, and the American Cancer society in particular is the right way to go in dealing with the unwelcome visitor
Accept the reality of cancer and don't hide from it. Openly talk about it and don't isolate yourself or feel like a freak. Bald is Beautiful
Support and participate with Support Groups such as the American Cancer Society. Hopefully in time a cure will be found to keep the Unwelcome Visitor Away.
Be Positive. Enjoy every day to its fullest attempting to squeeze out as much enjoyment as possible. Be willing to laugh at yourself and with others.
Decide, no matter what, you will not let the Unwelcome Visitor disrupt your life and those around you. Be a Survivor and be proud to share it with others.
A good example of all of these ideas I gleaned from the guests at the Old Gray House, and with the professional advice I received, is that of one of our crafters, Jeff, who is a cancer survivor. Jeff sent me this e-mail that I would like to encourage you to read and then check out his page on the American Cancer's Society Relay for Life. Click Here for Jeff's story.
Hello All,
Just wanted to let you all know that I will be participating in the American Cancer Society Relay For Life coming up on May 8th. I wanted to send you the link to my personal Relay page and hope that you may consider supporting not only my team, but all of those still fighting their own battles. I am truly blessed to be able to say I am 2 years, 6 Months, 1 Week, 6 Days Cancer Free. I am hoping that in some way my participation in the Relay for Life will help others be able to one day say they are cancer free.
Thank you all..... Jeff
What can you do to help destroy the Unwelcome Visitor? Find someone in your community like Jeff and Help them. If you have no one then I know Jeff would appreciate your help in fighting cancer by sending your support, in his name, to the American Cancer Society.
Friends of The Old Gray House: If you have any comments you can contact us at OuterBanksShells.com
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| An essay on Change and Progress |
published in: June of 1996 |
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.
Friends of The Old Gray House: If you have any comments you can contact us at OuterBanksShells.com
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| A Cemetery Never Ceases To Be A Cemetery |
published in: July of 1996 |
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.
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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.
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| Give me that old-time Hatteras Island religion |
published in: August of 1996 |
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.
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| Advice from a man who planned his retirement (early) and worked his plan |
published in: September of 1999 |
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.
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Island Lore
The legend of the lucky sea bean |
published in: may of 2002 |
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 Ocracoke 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 Ocracoke 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.
Larger Image
This shiny sea bean was carried in the pocket of Dewey Parr's father for many years.
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| The mystery of the cat’s eye shell |
published in: august of 1995 |
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.
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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.
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The gathering of the grandchildren
is a rite of summer |
published in: September of 1995 |
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.
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| the whelk is one of the most interesting of the Outer banks |
published in: August of 1997 |
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 condition of the flange on the shell. Look at the back to see if there has been a slit cut in the shell. If there is a slit, it means the animal inside has been extracted for food and the price should be a lot less than one that does not have a hole. The hole, however, can be valuable to you if you want to hang the shell or insert a light inside it. An easy way to display a shell with a hole in it is to put a nail in a board and sit the hole over the nail. The word roller is a term used for a conch that has rolled in the surf breaking off the flange. The flange has usually been filed even, so that it is not rough.
We humans seem to want everything smooth and neat looking even though nature doesn't work that way. Our gardens usually portray this attitude. We put everything in neat rows. God's garden is not planted in rows. Look closely at Hatteras and Ocracoke and you will find that most of the vegetation is helter-skelter. It was planted by bird droppings from the trees and animals flitting through the forest.
So it is also with the shells that you find on the beach. I am sure if you were tossed around day in and day out by the ocean surf, you would have a few blemishes and rough edges to show. I guess the reason the Carolina conch or whelk shell is my preference of all the shells found on our beaches is that it depicts the rough, rugged natural beauty of Hatteras and Ocracoke.
When you pick up a Carolina conch, or any shell, you need to consider the fact that the shell is someone's empty house. In dealing with children, we need to create an interest in getting them to learn more about the creature that lived in the shell. To do so will help them develop a deeper appreciation for preserving our natural resources. Some good questions to ask children about a shell they find on the beach are: Who lived in this empty house? What did it look like? What did it eat? How did it move around? Is it beneficial to us? Will it harm us?
The animals that live in the shells are seldom seen by visitors to the beach. In fact, many would find these animals rather repulsive, even though they have a natural beauty and interest all their own. Take a close look at the animal that lives in the whelk shell, for example. In many ways it resembles a large, elongated snail. The thought of eating such an animal could easily turn a lot of people's stomachs, yet in many European societies such an animal is considered a delicacy and good source of protein.
I am not aware of anyone on the island who eats the whelk, but it could be some do. I just learned recently that some islanders make a stew out of the small, colorful coquinas found on our beaches. I would not find eating a whelk anymore distasteful than eating an eel. Many of the islanders ate eels. I recall watching my Grandmother Gray slice and fry eels on her kerosene stove. Watching them hop in the frying pan was bad enough, let alone eating the things. I wondered if they wiggled as you swallowed them.
To some, another past island practice of going out in the sound and collecting a wash tub of oysters in the shell for an evening meal might not be appetizing either. The family gathered around the fireplace with a pan of biscuits and a knife for opening the oysters. The oyster shells served as their own plates. You opened an oyster and ate it from the shell with a few bites of biscuit and shared in the conversation. This process continued until the food and conversation were consumed. The part I remember most about the oyster supper was the little juicy baby crabs that you sometimes found inside the raw oyster.
While I am on the subject of past island dietary habits, it might be of an interest to you to know that many islanders, including my family, ate robins. In the late fall, the robins migrate in large numbers to the island. Throughout the winter months, when food was not plentiful, fried robin was a welcome treat on many dinner tables. My mother, Melissa Gray Parr, considered robin legs and breast a delicacy and said they were much tastier than chicken. She also mentioned that it took a considerable number of birds to feed the family, even though the robins were fat from feeding on the variety of island berries that were available at that time.
Over the years, the islanders found many uses for the whelk other than eating the animals. They have used them for door stops, liners around their flower beds or walkways, holders for loose change, etc. One common use was to surround grave sites. I also remember well the big shells that always seemed to be handy when you needed a dipper for watering plants in the garden.
One enjoyable use I have found in my retirement years for the whelk shell is making what I term "Hatteras holders." With a little effort, I like to transform the shells into useful objects, such as holders for plants, loose change, soaps, candies, nuts, and paper clips. It gives me a great sense of pleasure to see how many practical uses I can come up with for the whelk shell. I guess you could say I have found a therapeutic value for the shell. It gives me a feeling of peace and serenity as I transform the whelk into various types of holders. The biggest problem I encounter in working with the whelk shells these days is finding sufficient shells on the beach. The days of going to the beach and coming home with a bucket load of empty shells has definitely ended.
Most island children learned from experience at an early age not to disturb whelk shells away from the ocean's edge. To kick or pick up a shell in someone's yard could well be an invitation to trouble. Wasps and spiders seem to think an empty shell is designed for their use. While my wife, Mary, and I were shelling out at Cape Point, I also learned there is another slimy creature that thinks an empty whelk shell makes a good home. I waded out in shallow water and picked up a Carolina conch, and much to my surprise a small octopus plopped in my hand. Not being a connoisseur of octopus meat, I was glad to let him go. The common practice of picking up a shell and putting it to your ear to hear the ocean might not always be in your best interest. You never know what may crawl into your ear.
A unique feature of the female whelk is the method in which she lays her eggs. As you walk the beaches of Hatteras and Ocracoke islands, you often come upon a strange looking piece of flotsam — a string of flat, button-like discs joined by a band at one side that looks like pieces of dirty rope or snake skeletons. Before toys were available on the islands, some children imagined them to be the lost sea necklaces of the legendary mermaids. Some even playfully wore them like a Hawaiian lei.
Actually, these strange strings released from the sea are the egg cases of the Atlantic whelk. Female whelks lay long strings of egg capsules. Each egg capsule is formed in a round pore near the end of the foot. About 100 eggs are sealed in each egg capsule. The mother attaches one end of the egg case to whatever is available, such as a rock, dead shell, or sea fan. The size of the egg case depends on the age and size of the mother.
If you are fortunate enough to find an egg case washed up on the beach before the baby whelks break free in the sea from the opening in the capsule, you will see a secret of the sea. Clip the end of an egg capsule with scissors or a knife. Gently shake the baby whelks out into the palm of your hand and you will see a miracle of the sea. The babies are miniatures of the mother whelk shell. Over the years, the baby animals remain in their original shell. The shell grows in proportion to the animal inside. It differs from the chambered nautilus in that as the animal inside the nautilus shell grows it produces a new and larger chamber to house it and then moves into the new chamber, sealing off the old.
Another point of interest about the Carolina conchs you find on the Hatteras and Ocracoke beaches is that some are left handed and some are right handed.
The next time you kick a shell, take time to remember that you just kicked someone's house. Hope you have good luck shelling on our Hatteras and Ocracoke beaches. Remember the early bird gets the worm, and when it comes to shelling in the summer, I do mean early.
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| An idea for building those precious family memories |
published in: July of 2003 |
String of Ark Shells
|
Ark Shells
|
by dewey parr
As I sit here at my computer with my trusted friend Buster, my wild cat, nuzzling his purring head on my keyboard and occasionally tapping the keys with a front paw, I am reminiscing about the good times at Hatteras and Ocracoke. Those were the times when people could come to the islands with their families and have a whole summer's worth of fun on a shoestring.
I am sure that some of you who now live here full time can remember those good old days. Many of you have shared with me that before you finally came to Hatteras to live, your true love for the islands began in camping experiences in a tent or low-rent housing in not-very-fancy motels or cottages. With a joyful gleam in your eyes, you have related that you had little money while rearing a family, but that you were still able to have a wonderful island vacation.
I love to hear the stories people spin about good times at Hatteras and Ocracoke — such as the night the tent blew down or a 'coon came to visit. Crabbing, clamming, and fish stories are now treasured family memories of those bygone days of vacationing in leaner times.
Dave and Karen Kelmer love to tell about how their three boys — Kenneth, David, and Jonathan — fell in love with Hatteras when they came here every summer. At that time, Dave and Karen were short on extra money to burn, but long on family togetherness and love for each other. They found, as many others did, that they could come to the islands and have a wonderful time together on little or nothing — on a shoestring, so to speak.
The boys found great enjoyment in just being on Hatteras. They learned to be in tune with nature and to bask in the joy of the wonderful things nature provided for them, such as ocean waves, sandy beaches, fresh air, and a maritime forest full of exciting adventures around every tree. There were no amusement parks or places to spend money. Gift shops did not abound, and those who came felt that the only gift they needed was the gift of being together. The biggest expense was food, which they usually brought with them or fished for from the sound and ocean beach.
Food selection was not as plentiful as it is today. Back then, we did not have the modern grocery stores we are blessed with today. Before the paved road came, we depended on the general stores to provide us. Right after Highway 12 was built, cars became more numerous on the islands. We would make a day trip to the big city of Manteo with our coolers to load up on meats and other commodities at a lower price. I am sure that many islanders can remember those good times. In fact, it was the paved road and the Navy commissary out by the lighthouse where the Coast Guard Station is now that brought about the demise of the little general stores.
Old Gray House, that young adults have shared with us the joy they had as children coming to the island to camp with their parents. With fondness for family togetherness, they relate their experiences on Hatteras and Ocracoke. Many times it is in a tone of respect and awareness of moments shared with a departed mother or father. I suspect their annual pilgrimage to the islands was not merely a time for fun and laughter in the sun, but a living memorial to their loved ones that chose to share the greatest gift they could give them as children — time together in a place where they and they alone were the center of attention and the recipient of their parents' love. Time together is probably the greatest legacy we can leave our children.
As I look back on my life as Dave and Karen and others do, it was the living on a shoestring that seem to bind us affectionately and snugly together.
This year in particular has become a year of memories for Mary and me because we celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. I remember the time Mary and I ran out of gas on a mountain without a nickel to our name, and she had to get out in the snow and guide me back down that big hill with cliffs on the side. Oh, well, you have stories like that you have probably forgotten — stories that end up with some good Samaritan whose name you have forgotten or never knew who gave you a helping hand. When God calls me home I hope that someone greeting me will point a finger at me and say to the Master, "Why that is the guy, whose name I never knew, who helped me that day I was stuck on the beach at Hatteras. He said it was his pleasure to help me and he hoped I would come back to visit his beautiful islands."
Have the living on a shoestring days ended on Hatteras and Ocracoke? I guess we will have to agree it is not like it used to be. I never thought I would live to see the day that our access to the beaches would be in question and that we would have million-dollar homes all over the islands. Nor did anyone ever imagine that the time would come when you would have to pay to climb the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse or fight your way through the traffic to get to the Ocracoke Lighthouse. Why, I remember the good old days when the doors of the Hatteras lighthouse were open all the time, and we kids ran up and down it at will.
Things have changed, but there are still a few things a family can do together on a shoestring. One good example is entertaining your family on the beach. Give each member of your family a long string with a big knot or shell tied on the bottom. Tell them this is going to be the only evening entertainment for the week of vacation. Tell them that you are going to take a beach walk together every evening and collect shells with holes in them and string them on this so-called shoestring.
While you are at it, take time to help your children appreciate the wonders of the beach and ocean creatures by sharing with them why many shells on the beach have such precision-cut round holes in them. Explain to them that it is not just a matter of wear and tear from rolling in the ocean waves, but the work of a creature of the sea. That creature is the moon snail or, as we call them on the islands, shark eyes.
Moon Snail Shells
I believe that the Hatteras driller, my name for the moon snail, is probably the greatest friend a shell crafter has. This little sea creature is equipped with a radial tooth that can drill a neat little hole in other shells that provide it with an ample supply of food. When animals in shells are attacked by their enemies, they are like the proverbial turtle. They pull back into their shell and shut their trap door. Their trap door is called an operculum and is usually carried around on the bottom of their foot. It is composed of a tough substance that is impregnable to their enemies. Some trap doors, especially that of the tapestry turban shell, are so solid and beautiful they are used by crafters to make jewelry. Cat's eye jewelry is made from the operculum, or the trap door, of the Tapestry Turban Shell.
When true specimen shell collectors see a shell with the trap door (operculum) displayed, it is a signal to them that the shell is of high quality. It was either taken live or immediately after the natural death of the animal inside and has not been damaged by the rolling waves or effects of the sun from lying on the beach.
However, the moon snail is not in any way thwarted by the mere closing of a trap door. It says, "Go ahead. Close your trap door. I will huff and puff and drill a hole in your shell and eat you anyway." And so it does.
It climbs aboard, wraps his foot around its prey to hold itself in place, and slowly begins to drill a neat little hole. As it drills, the moon snail spits out an acid to lubricate its drill bit. When finished drilling, it extends its proboscis, or snout, into the little hole and sucks out the succulent flesh of the animal inside the shell. The moon snail is not picky. It will also eat its own kind, along with any other marine gastropods it can find.
Isn't it amazing the way the Good Lord equipped the creatures of the sea with the ability to survive, just as he provided our ancestors the ability to survive the harsh environment of Hatteras and Ocracoke.
Back to your having a good time on a shoestring. As you are walking along the beach, you will find different species of shells that have holes in them, but there is one in particular that always seems to be on the beach that others do not collect. They pass it by because it usually has good-size holes in it at the top. These holes are initially caused by the moon snail, but the action of the waves tossing and turning the shells in the surf, widens the hole. This shell is called the "arc" shell. It is called that because it arcs or twists at the top.
Even when people will say to you there are no shells on the beach, you will probably find arc shells or other shells with holes in them. Remember that what most people mean when they say there are no shells on the beach is that they cannot find that perfect shell. Never forget that true beauty is not always found in perfection but surrounds us on every side. Add the unwanted arc shell to your shoestring, along with all others you find, such as the common oyster. To others they might not reflect beauty, but to you they will have a value beyond money.
You might even mark your string so that you can recount each individual day's walk. Or as a project later, you might take the time to organize your collection on your string by size or species from the greatest to the smallest.
At the end of your vacation before you leave the islands, take time to gather together and reflect not only the number and type of shells on your strings but the good times you had together strolling the beaches. Parents, long after you are gone, these shoestring memories will remain. Maybe somebody else in a little island shop like mine will hear your children and grandchildren tell them about the moments shared with you on these beautiful islands.
It is not the luxurious houses, amusement parks, or fancy restaurants with delicious food that keeps people of all ages coming back year after year to these islands. It is the shared moments of family love, combined with the wonders of the sea, sound, and sky found only on Ocracoke and Hatteras islands.
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| The creatures of Hatteras and Ocracoke |
published in: June of 2000 |
Buster
|
by dewey parr
Many flying, swimming, crawling, creeping, and clawing creatures inhabit Hatteras and Ocracoke islands. And islanders have always had a love for — or at least a respect of — these creatures. It is debatable how they got here. Some say they were brought here from the mainland, or they arrived on the islands off ships that ran aground.
Most island homes had at least one dog as a pet, and another one just for hunting. The hunting dog was treated differently from the pet dog. My favorite island dog was Queenie. Queenie stayed by my side through my earlier years, and remained day and night at the foot of my bed during the year I was confined as a result of an accident in which I was burned.
As a child, I was surrounded every day by nature. In the evenings, I would listen to tales of the many adventures in the woods as a result of encounters with the wild animals. I always looked forward to the evening gatherings at the general stores or at the Old Gray House, the home of my grandparents. They were precious moments. It was a time when family and friends would get together and share the events of the day and stories from the past.
I can recall, even to this day, sitting on the porch of the Gray House and hearing William Alfred and Thelma (Barnette) Gray making their way down the Dark Ridge Path to the family gathering. Uncle Alfred hated snakes and mosquitoes. He would beat the air with a branch to chase everything away, while Aunt Thelma carried the lantern and sang hymns. It was swish, swish, and "When the saints go marching in," as they made their way through the woods.
You didn't roam our woods at night back then without a lantern. The nights were pitch dark, except for the flashing of the lighthouse. Is it any wonder the Ocracoke and Cape Hatteras lighthouses were almost revered by the islanders? They were our only man-made lights in the night sky. When you walked our woods at night, you knew there were many animal eyes watching every move. The nights were majestically dark back then, and on a clear night, the sky sparkled, revealing the mysteries of the universe. The night sky provided hours of entertainment as we learned from our elders about the constellations and planets. As we sat on the screened-in porch looking up at the night sky, it not only sparked tales from mythology but also of night-time adventures at sea. The islands at night were an astrologer's paradise. Things have sure changed since I was a small Buxton boy. Now I can hardly see the dippers, or the flashing of the light from the lighthouse, because of all of the bright shining towers and lights. A lot of people must have a lot of money to burn because they burn unnecessary lights all night long.
When the family gathered, we sat on the porch of the Old Gray House, swatting mosquitoes until dark, and then we moved into the kitchen around the old stove. In the flickering of the kerosene lamp, we listened to stories about how some of the Islanders were chased up trees by wild boars that roamed the Buxton woods. We no longer have wild boars in our woods. They have been replaced with the nutria or what we call the Russian rat. If you have never seen one, you are in for a treat. It is an animal I would not advise you to try to housebreak. I’m not sure it came from Russia, but it is impressive, aggressive, and downright scary. Rumors have been flying that the animals have been attacking cats on the Buxton Back Road.
Many of the wildlife stories were told over and over. They involved huge snakes and the dangers that lurked in the sound and woods. Snakes were always a favorite topic. One of our family members liked to roam the swamps, capturing cottonmouth moccasins and rattlesnakes to get their skins to make belts, pouches, and wallets. Some would tell of adventures in the sound with stingrays. I can still recall times when we were in the sound crabbing with a dip net or clamming, and we would come across a stingray. We knew better than to hit at it. If you made it mad, it would run ahead of you and then back up and ram its jagged tail into you.
I recall only one person getting speared by a sound stingray. It was his fault because he hit the creature with a dip net. He had a bad leg for a long time. Some said the reason he got hurt was because he broke the island rule that prevailed with the creepy creatures. You avoided them, got out of their way, or left them alone. It was a "you don't bother me and I won't bother you" attitude. We kids roamed the island barefooted, wading the swamps and sounds, without fear of the wildlife that lurked there. I am sure that many a time, we were close enough for a snake to bite us without even knowing it, but for some reason the wildlife seemed to avoid hurting us.
Of course, you must understand island kids did not do the things you hear about children doing today, such as torturing animals. Our generation respected nature and took from it only what was necessary for our survival. We didn't kill for pleasure. We killed animals to feed our families.
Now I want to digress here for a minute, and ask you if you know anything about the blue racer snake? One day when I was 8 years old, I was walking alone up the Dark Ridge Path from my house to the Buxton school. I heard this swishing sound and saw the bullrushes shaking and falling over as something cut through them. I asked my dad about it when I got home from school. He said it probably was a blue racer. He said for me to avoid them because they would chase you down, back up on you, and cut you to ribbons with their razor-like tails. You know, ever since then I have wondered about that. Is that a true story or is it like the one that my wife's father liked to tell about the hoop snake that rolls up like a hoop and rolls across the fields out west?
There was one animal that was always present everywhere you went on the islands. You would see them darting throughout the woods or creeping around the house in search of food. It was the wild cat. Cats roamed the island, and you did not reach your hand out to pet them like everyone does today without first knowing that your intentions would be acceptable to the cat. The little furry creatures that roamed the island freely were a breed of cat that hunted to exist. Their claws and teeth were sharp and ready to sink into their prey. They, along with the islanders, learned over the years how to adapt to our harsh environment. Some said they came to the islands by boats or shipwrecks. We kids thought some of them must have surely been the pets of pirates who came ashore to bury treasure chests. We often wondered, if we followed them, if they would lead us to a pirate's treasure. Most of the islanders always had a few cats at their doors waiting for scraps. In fact, they
encouraged them to hang around to help keep the snakes and rats away. As the years have passed, many of the wild cats have become domesticated, but you will still occasionally run across one that has that wild look in its eyes. Not long
ago, I had one that kept coming to me, but would never let me pick it up. It did get so that, while I was feeding it, I could gently rub its head. It came to my
door daily for food and a kind word. No matter how hard I tried to domesticate that cat, it still heard the call of the wild and strayed off in the woods.
I have an unusual Hatteras "wild cat" now. It appeared one day at the Old Gray House while Larry Bates and I were working on the tin roof. I told Larry I was not going to feed it and maybe it would go away. Larry watched the cat fly up a tree after squirrels and birds and decided it was used to fending for itself.
Larry called the cat "Buster." It hung around for days and drove my wife, Mary, crazy. Every time the door would open, it would dash up the steps and get in the middle of Grandmother Gray's old iron bed, right on top of all of the linens Mary had on display. I tried everything to get rid of that cat, without having to turn it over to the animal control folks. I have too much island culture in me to destroy animals unnecessarily.
Finally, in desperation I loaded the cat up and took it to my home so that Mary could have some peace at the shop.
Did I feed it? Of course, I did. You knew from the beginning of this story that the cat outsmarted me and finally won me over. They call them "dumb animals," but I think they are smarter than we are. If you own a cat, you know exactly what I am saying. You don't really own the cat. The cat owns you.
After I worked with the cat, I talked Larry Bates' friend, who lives up in Kill Devil Hills, to take the cat on a trial basis. I thought the darn cat was finally gone. Five days after he took the cat, the friend brought him back. He was tearing things apart.
Now that has been over a year ago and guess where the ferocious Hatteras wild cat is today? You got it. Sleeping right now on a towel on my couch in my workshop, while I am sitting here at the computer writing. Usually when I am writing, it is lying on my scanner, reaching its paws over and clicking the mouse. If Mary is on the phone and the cat wants attention, it will push the button on the receiver to hang up. Another of its tricks is to push the button to turn my printer on, so the machine will warm up while the cat is lying on it. The only nice thing about Buster is that he is still wild enough that he does not require a cat box and likes to roam outside all night.
I justified feeding this cat by deciding it was cheaper to keep it around than having to pay exterminators to help with the mouse problem we were having. The cat must have heard me because it started bringing me mice that it had killed and laying them down at my feet for me to inspect. It was as if the cat knew that if it didn't earn its keep, it was gone.
I have also dubbed Buster my "Secret Service Cat," in addition to the title of "Computer Cat." Every morning, Buster is waiting me for me on the edge of my outside shower roof to serve as my escort. He walks proudly by my side, looking in every direction as if he is guarding me, as we walk to the top of the hill to get the morning paper. As we make our journey back, Buster dashes to the workshop for the morning feeding and then a snooze.
I have been laughing lately at Ray Schaaf of Avon, who never really liked cats. Seems like a hungry cat begging for food has finally won Ray over. While up at his house, I happened to notice a cat come walking across the yard and rub up against his leg. And then without thinking about it, I saw Ray reach down and gently pet it. Looks like another cat hater has fallen by the wayside.
Yes, times have definitely changed since my childhood days on this island, but I still see evidence of the love and appreciation that islanders and visitors who come here regularly have for all of the creepy critters that roam our Banks. It thrills my heart to see our wildlife being preserved on the islands for future generations to enjoy. It is a joy to live on an island where you see people taking time to give a turtle the right of way as he crosses the road.
I hope that you will be inspired to pass on to your children or grandchildren a feeling and appreciation for all life forms, no matter how insignificant they might seem to be. If you have nothing else to do, drop around the Old Gray House. I will be sitting under the old oak tree, waiting to share cat stories with you.
Buster
|
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Buster The computer Cat Rules the roost at our house.
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| Beach rocks |
published in: June of 1999 |
by dewey parr
Rocks have always held a fascination for me. This year I decided to start a rock garden at the Old Gray House composed of rocks brought to me by family and friends from off the island. The first rock in my collection is from Newfoundland. It was brought to me by Rich Moorefield. My rock garden was prompted by a big blank spot in my garden due to the loss of my treasured wild cherry tree during Hurricane Bonnie. This fascination with rocks is a result of my formative years on Hatteras Island. Children who grow up on Hatteras and Ocracoke in the early days did not have the privilege of seeing any rock other than what we call beach rock. When we found anything other than beach rock it was something to treasure and to talk about.
I recall finding black rock on the beach occasionally. I would wonder where it came from and how it was formed. Dad said it was from ships that passed or sank off the coast. I also learned that black rock would burn when ignited. It was something to see rock that would burn and could be used to power ships as well as heat homes and cooking stoves. I do not recall anyone on the island heating or cooking in their homes by burning black rock. Little did I realize that world events would later lead my family to live in an area where the mining of black rock was the major industry. During the big war my Dad was put on Naval Recruiting in Huntington, West Virginia. It was there that I met and married Mary, my wife of 45 years, and became aware of just how important rocks were to the world. They not only mined black rock, or coal, but had huge quarries extracting all types of ore from the earth, including just plain rock for building roads, walls and buildings. It was something to see how little regard the mining companies had for the environment or the future welfare of the people. They stripped the hillsides bare leaving the soil and the people who lived nearby to suffer the ravages of flooding and erosion. West Virginia was plagued with absentee land owners whose main objective was to make money without regard of the cost to the State. The reason I am taking the time to point this out to you is that I see a parallel between the plight of West Virginia and Cape Hatteras Island. Now that it has been announced to the world that we are one of the last undeveloped areas on the East Coast, combined with all of the national attention we are receiving from the moving of the lighthouse, makes us a desirable area for quick growth. I am sure many an investor is now taking a long hard look at our little island. You think it is congested now in the summer. Just wait a couple of years. The major difference between the Barrier Islands and West Virginia is in the area of reclamation. West Virginia has been able to restore a major portion of their land abuse through good conservation methods such as reforestation, whereas on Hatteras and Ocracoke once the land is cleared of vegetation there will never be an opportunity to reclaim it. The old-timers on the islands can tell you from experience that once you clear a piece of land and let it go to blowing sand there is never a point of return.
A few fragments of rock that caught my attention in early 1930 was the ones we kids found while playing at the Upper Landing as you come into Buxton. On the sound-side in the proximity where the old dump used to be we unearthed some bones and pieces of smooth rock. Some were slick, grayish, and pointed. We ran these rocks home, wondering what great treasures we had found. We were told it was flint and shown how the Indians used to make arrowheads and spears from it. That evening at the regular family gathering around the wood burning cook stove we heard tales about the Indians that lived on the Islands. Grandmother Melissa Farrow Gray from Avon, said that she was told that the Indians helped some of the early islanders by sharing information with them. She said the method she used to plant her garden, by putting a seed in the ground and then skipping a space and burying a dead fish between the rows was taught to the early settlers by the Indians. I don’t know if it was true or not I only know it worked. Her root crops, collards, beans and corn were fantastic. I notice that some of the islanders still bury dead fish in their gardens. If I did it at my Buxton home, I would heap a huge crop of raccoons digging up dead fish, rather than baskets of vegetables.
Rocks were not a part of our daily conservation like you find in most areas. When we went to church and the preacher spoke of the foolish man who built his house on the sand and the wise man who built his house on the rock, he took time to explain rock meant a firm foundation. Because of no rock formations visible the Islanders interpreted that to mean it would be foolish to build on the beach rather than in the woods away from the water and wind. You didn’t hear islanders talking about people having rocks in their heads, but you might hear it often said to a fidgety kid, “You got sand in your breeches.” Little off-the-island pleasures, like throwing flat pieces of rocks in a pond to see how many times you could make them skim over the surface of the water did not exist here. We threw shells. If you had a large rock, you treated it like an antique, like the two red rocks at the entrance way to the Gray House. They were brought in by my ancestors from the beach right after they blew up the first lighthouse.
David Stick in his book entitled, “The Outer Banks of North Carolina,” gives a vivid description of the first Cape Hatteras Lighthouse which was about 600 feet south of the present lighthouse that is before it is moved. It was commissioned by Congress on May 13, 1794. The location where it was is now under water, which gives you some idea how bad the erosion has been. Stick points out that in 1806 William Tatham described it as being composed of two kind of stones that made it an architectural Eye Sore. Tatham’s suggestion was that the white stones should be painted the same color as the red stones. After much debate about the effectiveness and the structural condition of the first Cape Hatteras Lighthouse it was decided by Congress to build a new lighthouse, which is the present day one. A short time after the second lighthouse was lit for the first time on December 16, 1870 the first lighthouse was blown up and the rocks were strewed on the beach. The islanders made it a point to collect these rocks from the beach to keep as a memory of the first lighthouse that served the ships at sea. If you notice large reddish or white rocks around your property, you can rest assured is one of the original stones from the first Cape Hatteras Lighthouse that was brought in from the beach by one of your ancestors or the former property owner. The one mystery I would like to have solved for me by someone who might know is where did the reddish stones that were used in the first Cape Hatteras Lighthouse come from and how did they transport them to the island. By the way if you have not read David Stick’s book you need to drop by Gee Gee Rosell’s quaint Buxton Book Store and see if she can get you a copy. Her bookstore is a bit of Island history in itself.
Another rock that brings back sweet memories to me were the beach bricks that we used to find on the beach. They were not like the manufactured bricks of today. These were bricks that did not have any rough edges. The edges had been worn smooth by the grinding sand as they rolled for years in the ocean wash. My fondest recollection of these rocks was the chilly winter evenings when my mother would place them on our only source of heat, which was the wood burning stove in the kitchen, to get them toasty warm. She would then wrap them with a clean chicken sack and lovingly place them at the foot of my bed to warm my feet as she tucked me in. I often think of those chilly Hatteras winters and my mother’s love for me when I am walking the beach and spot an ocean sanded brick rolling in the surf. I was told that the origin of some of these bricks could well be from the load of bricks that was lost at sea when they began to build the second lighthouse or from the many ships that sunk off of the coast.
There are two other types of rock formations you will find on our beach. One of them is what I called Lightning Rock. It was frequently found on our beaches in the thirties. In fact you could find large chunks, but today it is not very common due to all the beach traffic and people trampling it underfoot. This formation was a result of the lightning striking the sand on the beach. It strikes with such force and intense heat that it melts and solidifies the sand producing a gray chunk of light-weight rock. The scientists of today call it Fulgrite and have an explanation for it, but all I know is the lightning strikes the sand and up pops this strange looking formation we call Lightning rock. A lot of people confuse Fulgrite with the other type of rock we call Beach Rock. Lightning rock is created from the sky in a flash and beach rock is a product of a lengthy process.
Beach Rock is my favorite rock. Years ago islanders collected it as it washed up on the beach after storms and piled it up to form barriers around their properties. It reminded you of the many inland farm fences made of rocks stacked on top of each other that the farmers collected out of their fields as they cleared them for cultivation. The practice of collecting beach rock disappeared from the island because the stacked up rock became a great place for snakes, spiders and wasps to hide. It is not often that you see huge chunks of beach rocks on our beaches today. I am not sure how beach rock is formed. My guess would be that it is formed as a result of shells and sand accumulating on the ocean floor and the pressure being exerted on them bonds them together. If you look close at a piece of beach rock, you can find evidence of thousands of pieces of shells representing hundreds of species bound together by nature’s cement. Sometimes you find whole shells such as whelks, quahogs, and moon snails imbedded in the rock. I have even found whole shells that have beautiful rock crystals being formed inside of them.
If we really take time to look at our beaches we can find there is beauty in places we never thought about looking. Having had a period of blindness in my life prior to an operation to restore my sight, I learned that beauty abounds in everything regardless of how insignificant it might appear to be. Even though it grieves me to see the change in the amount of trash that is being thrown on our pristine beaches I even appreciate the fact I can see the trash. When I walk our beaches I see the footprints of those who are looking only for that perfect shell without any blemishes rather than taking the time to behold the beauty they crush under their feet in the quest for the single perfect shell. It also bothers me to see the insensitivity of people who drive their four wheelers right down the middle of the shell line on the beach. I guess they get a kick out of crushing the shells so others can not collect or enjoy them.
Next time you walk the beaches of Hatteras and Ocracoke take the time to pick up a piece of beach rock and take a close look at its composition. See how many species of shells you can recognize imbedded in the rock. Ask yourself how many shells are represented in this rock and how deep in the ocean was it? If you have nothing else to do, bring your beach rock by the Gray House and we will chat about your adventures on our beautiful beaches. You can usually find me strolling round the yard, or sitting under the old oak tree.
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| How communicating on the island has changed |
published in: April of 1999 |
by dewey parr
In this computer age, talking is becoming a lost art. Little by little, we are becoming a world of people who talk by exercising fingers rather than mouths. How we communicate with each other has been the area in which I have seen the greatest changes in my lifetime.
It was the field of communications that gave me the privilege of growing up on Hatteras Island. My father, Dewey Parr Sr., a radioman in the Navy, came to the island in 1920 as a young man stationed at the Buxton Wireless Radio Station.
How we communicate on this island has changed drastically since I walked these old sand roads as a boy. Here I sit with my Pentium processor with MMX technology, hooked up to the Internet, with my local scanner, telephone, radio, stereo, VCR and television, all in arm's reach from my easy chair. I can control it all with a click of a button without leaving my chair. To add to my confusion about what to do with all of these gadgets, my wife gave me a digital camera for Christmas. The thing doesn't use film but has a computer disc that will take 10 million pictures. I can load the pictures into my computer and print them out, or e-mail them. By this time next year, they tell me, there will be television sets so thin I can hang them on the wall, and I will have to dress up to talk on the telephone or when I am using e-mail, because you will be able to see me.
The early means of disseminating information on the island was by word of mouth. When you walked the village sand roads and passed someone's house, they came out and chatted with you. They always gave you an invitation to come in and sit a spell. "Sit a spell" meant, let us share with each other what is happening on and off the island. It was always a welcome guest who had adventures and news to share.
Another good source of news was the daily trip to the post office. I often thought the reason Mom sent me up the hot sand road to the post office was not so much to get the mail, which we didn't get often, but was in hopes we would get some publication like a Sears catalog that we could use in the outhouse. (As you who are older know, paper was at a premium in those days.) The post office usually kept the villagers informed of the major happenings in the outside world. The mail boat captains not only brought the mail but also provided word-of-mouth news. My grandfather, William Hawkins Gray, carried the mail from the landing to the post office for many years.
Photo from Standard Oil of N.J. Collection.
Photographic Archives, University of Louisville
The daily trip to the old Buxton Post Office was one
way we stayed informed about the news of the day.
During my childhood in the '30's, the person in charge of the post office was Mrs. Maude White. "Miss" Maude, in my estimation, was probably one of the most knowledgeable and intelligent persons on the island at that time. You will notice on many of the older deeds that Miss Maude did the notarizing. The White family and their descendants in many ways were the ones responsible for helping to keep Buxton in tune with the outside world.
In many ways, the old-fashioned process of spreading the news has not changed much even today. It is still a pleasure to visit many of our general stores, tackle shops, post offices, and churches throughout the islands and receive a friendly smile and island information.
I remember well all the things I learned about our island and the world from hanging around Halloway Gray's general store. The store was directly across the road from our house. Mr. Halloway had me run errands for him and keep the wood floors swept for the price of those old-fashioned candy sticks. Just by being there, which I dearly loved, I was exposed to the island news — such important things as when the fish were running and who killed a large cottonmouth moccasin. You know, that kind of big news stuff that really mattered back then.
One snake that I can still see in my imagination is the one that was laid out on the store's porch. It lay there all day and overnight so that everyone could count its rattlers and hear the tale of how it was killed. Now mind you, I was a small kid living right across the sand road from that aggravating snake all stretched out. I listened all day long as the snake tale was told over and over with all of the other island "can-you-top-this" snake tales. They said the snake was so powerful that it jumped from the side of the road, making a loud thud, into the flat bed of a truck. Each time they told the story of the struggle by the truck driver to kill the snake, that beach rattle snake grew another 10 feet in my eyes. That night I fought to stay awake, armed with my ball bat, watching my bedroom window and waiting to beat that snake away should it come back and search me out. To this day, as my neighbor Johnny Conner, owner of Conner's Supermarket, can tell you, I am not a fan of snakes. He still chuckles about the day, while putting the motor on my boat, I fell into the Muddy Marsh Ditch with a water moccasin. The poor little water snake took one look at me and I took one hard look at him, and we both scooted in opposite directions as fast as we could go. There are times when it pays to be so ugly you can scare things away.
One exciting thing I did at the store was deliver messages up and down the sand road when the crank telephone rang. Back then the only phones that existed on the island were the ones in the general stores. Sometimes I would have to run across the cut-over from the front road, now Highway 12, to the Buxton Back Road to deliver the telephone message. If the messages were important, they would have a call-back time. It was an exciting time to receive a call from someone off the island. Usually some member of the family, or the whole family, would hurry back with me to the store to wait for the call-back. On the way, they would express their worries that it might be bad news about someone living off the island or in the service. If the call-back brought good news, there was a sigh of relief, but if it was bad news, there was much sadness and tears. In those days every call that came to the island was something to talk about.
Later on, the importance of the general store as a community center of communication began to diminish. Those who could afford it had party-line telephones in their homes. When your phone rang, so did everyone else's and they were ready to listen in on your conversation and then call a friend on another party-line to share the news with them. This was our substitute for a daily newspaper, which we still do not have. In a matter of hours, everyone knew the major happenings of the day. When it comes to telephones, times have definitely changed. It is interesting for me to notice how many people on the island now have those cell phones growing out of their ears as they zip by me while I am waiting for 20 minutes to get out of my driveway onto Highway 12 in the summer.
In many ways, it saddens me to go up to Canadian Hole and look out over the sound-side of our island and count the tower lights that blink in the night. It seems like it was just yesterday that the only light at night on our skyline was the flashing of our beloved lighthouse. If you have not looked across the sound at night lately, I suggest you do so. It will make you realize that things will never be the same on Hatteras and Ocracoke again. You will see lights blinking from towers for the communications centers of the island such as, cell phones, emergency services, police and fire departments, radio stations, and so forth. These tower lights indicate that we are no longer an isolated fishing village but a part of the new age of communications.
The villagers who spent their time mending and setting nets have traded their nets for the Internet. My second cousin Gary Gray, the village barber and a life-long commercial fisherman, is a good example. I never thought I would live to see the day when you went into his barber shop and you would see a computer hooked up to the Internet. Our youth are paving the way for the new life that is overtaking the island by becoming computer knowledgeable with the help of our superb school system. I think you will find all of the islanders my age have concluded that we either join the parade of progress or we will be left sitting in the lurch.
I never realized until I got on the Internet how small this world really is. Now in a matter of moments I can communicate with people from all over the world and tap into information banks on any subject. The old adage, "No man is an island" applies to our island. No matter how much we idolize the past life on the island, changes are here to stay. We have arrived. We are now a part of the new world. There awaits a new and exciting adventure that we who are older need to approach with a sense of excitement and anticipation rather than fear and distrust. Granted it is overwhelming, as Neil Tawes said to me recently, but I am learning it is worth taking the time to learn how to be a part of the new age of communication.
My only concern is that we not lose the quaint and unique characteristics that sets our island culture apart from the mainland. At least for the moment, let us be thankful we are still in many ways fantasy islands, possessing natural charms with peace and quiet.
I would welcome your e-mail, but don't be surprised if I don't reply soon. I am still trying to figure out how to use this "cotton-picking" thing they call a computer.
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