Highway 27 Hero

On my drive to Buies Creek this morning, I noticed a strange sight as a man had parked his car off of highway 27 and was walking into the road for no apparent reason. And then I saw it. The man had stopped because a turtle was stuck in the median of the road and the driver, fearing for the safety of the turtle, had stopped and risked his own life in making sure the little guy made it across the road. It was one of those moments that make you feel all warm and sweet inside.

Then I started thinking, “how often do I help others like that?” countless times I have seen people stranded on the sides of roads but have never stopped to lend a hand. I have tried, in vain, to save a dying squirrel on the road beside my house. But does the satisfaction you get from helping others in the act or the resolution? For instance, would the man this morning still feel sense of pride in saving that turtle from oncoming cars just to know that it was run over by another car hours later? Would a graduate student still feel like he/she did a great job on their paper even when it is returned to them with a “F” on the cover?

These are all important questions to ask for we cannot know what will happen, or what people will think when we try to help then. We only know that what we are doing at the moment is the right thing to do. The future for them, better of worse, remains uncertain for us all. All we can try to do is the best we can each and every moment, hoping and praying that the future is better than the present for every person and thing we come into contact with.

Green Thumb

With my brother in Chi-Town and Daniel preparing to be arrested in Atlantic City, I find myself being the only member of the Dirty 30 in NC for a few days. Currently, I am at home in St. Pauls, preparing to celebrate a joint family birthday this evening for 2 of my aunts. All day, I’ve tried to stay busy doing something outside. If you know me at all, you know that yard work is one of my favorite drugs, and today I’ve had an extra long fix of it.

I can’t remember just when I began to really love doing yard work. Growing up, I detested it. Pushing a mower through knee high grass in the blazing sun was not the way I wanted to spend my free time, especially in the summer. When I was younger in fact, Zach and I would go to my Great-Grandparents house down the street, in hopes of doing some yard work for a little bit of money. As Zach toiled in the yard solo, I would join the company of my Great-Grandfather (Chewy as we called him), helping myself to a Cokie (Just regular Coke) and crackers. As Zach finished a hard days work in the yard and as my television program went off, we would both receive $5, a hug, and a goodbye.

But, as I got older, I began to find an outlet in yard work. I loved being able to zoom across the yard on the riding mower, and I felt like Picasso, as I made sure every sprig of grass stood just right. I cannot begin to tell you how many weeds I have pulled from the soil of the earth with my bare hands. Just today, I’ve probably pulled up close to 100 dandelion weeds. Nothing says progress than a wheelbarrow full of green refuse.

Perhaps the most enticing thing about yard work is the serenity I find in it. My quiet neighborhood offers a peaceful environment in which to connect to nature and to my thoughts. No, I’m not some hippie, but I believe you can learn a lot about yourself just by being outside and feeling dirt between your fingers.

Mission: Jersey

Many the time was it my displeasure to walk into my apartment in the Dirty 30 and behold my questionable roommate watching The Sopranos. Despite this unwholesome obsession with the lives of the Jersey-Italian mafia, I have not allowed it to tarnish my understanding of the beauty of Atlantic City.

At approximately 1:00am on Friday, April 23rd, I shall again begin a venture to Atlantic City. I will of course cringe at the gangs and their obvious, broad-daylight activities... until, that is, my arrival at the valet parking of The Bally's! Once there, I shall be greeted by a life of hot tubs & complementary massages; enticing cocktail waitress with comparably enticing cocktails; and the oh-so-inspiring illusions of becoming a millionaire. In sum, all of the components of Materialistic America await me for a weekend of utter relaxation and living above my means. And I cannot wait.

However, this adventure is not without its ancillary purposes. Of course the main objective is to enjoy Western luxury at its finest. However, alternative motives enhance my anticipation. For example, the plans to network with the finest of the Jersey Mafia under an alias (Daniel Tyler Ward). And do not think for a moment that the on-going mission of bankrupting Tyler in gambling fees is lost on me. Oh, no. And to my delight, there is quite possibly no locale which is finer for the accommodation of such aspirations.

My friends, in two days time... Mission: Jersey will be "in progress."

Cash'd Out

Earlier this week, I was excited to receive an update from the official Johnny Cash website about the release of a collection of Cash’s albums from the 1970’s. For any avid Cash fan, this is great news…at first. Now, don’t take me wrong and think that this music is bad, as I have not listened to a large amount of it. But, what I do know is that Cash was definitely out of his element, musically speaking, from the late 70’s into the early 90’s and I fear that much of this collection would echo such material.

By the early 70’s, Cash was at the top of his game. He had kicked drugs, married June Carter, begun a successful TV show on ABC and was expanding his musical creativity in a variety of forms. However, with such success, Cash let his creativity flounder. Instead, he sought to continue doing those things that had made him successful in the first place. It can even be argued that his renewed spirituality attributed to his lack of creativity in the recording studio, seeing as his passion and focus had been directed instead towards his faith and family. However, when he began to realize that the times were changing, he began to play music and write songs that were not true to the essence of who he was, and the fans refused to listen to this man claiming to be Johnny Cash.

It stands in contrast that these recordings are being reissued and released just 2 months after the last collection of Cash’s work with Rick Rubin on the American Recording series, ”American VI: Ain’t No Grave” was released. If there is one line to be drawn between the Cash of the 70’s and 80’s, and the Cash of the early 2000’s, it is that Cash was still writing a wealth of songs 30 years ago, as opposed to the numerous cover songs that dominated his last collection of albums.

But no matter what song he has ever touched, Cash has made them all his own. From gospel standards to Nine Inch Nails covers, Cash turned all the music that passed before his eyes a darker shade of black after he was done with them.

Extreme Parenting: Radical Unschooling

I came across this earlier and wanted to hear other thoughts/reflections on this concept.

- Is this too idealistic?

- Will it adequately prepare kids for the real world? College?

- Can this type of learning be more meaningful than a traditional classroom setting?

Cow Shit & Honeysuckle

In reflecting on my favorite memories from this time of year, two incidents in particular come to mind, both of which pertain to my childhood. As a child, I was a raised on a farm where my dad brought up cows to sell at the local stock market—and by this, I mean a livestock market, not the one on Wall Street. It was on a farm one raunchy spring day that my dad and I were walking out to the truck, and there is a bull…mounted on a heifer in the pasture. My dad simply points to it and says “Son, that’s love.” That was all of “the talk” I ever received from him. And, surprisingly, it really was enough.

The second favorite spring-time memory also pertains to cows and their unwholesome activities. It is this time of year that the honeysuckle starts really exerting its fragrance in the wild. The drive up to our house from the road always smelled of honeysuckle, and cow shit, and it was an oddly enjoyable combination to smell. I always associated with it home.

I suppose here I will leave you, excepting the final statement that sharks are indeed magnificent creatures, and never have I been so grateful to have met one as in the incidence which Tyler describes below.

Springtime in the Mountains

After a lazy morning yesterday, I decided to spend the afternoon in one of my favorite places here in the High Country: Valle Crucis. Settled in a quiet valley (hence the valle part), this little community has its natural beauty intact, free from any type of commercial development. It is also home to the original Mast General Store; the rustic charm and vivid history of that place is a reminder of a simpler (and perhaps nobler) America of yesteryear. I particularly enjoy the Mast Store on the weekends due to the fine pickin' (i.e.-bluegrass music) that takes place on the back porch.

I went into the Store to buy my drink of choice( a bottled RC Cola, of course) and happened to notice a grandfather and grandson at the nearby pocketknife display case. The grandson's eyes were wide open, gazing upon those knives with such a sense of desire and adoration. I could overhear the grandfather telling the young boy about the importance of a good pocketknife and the responsibility that comes with owning one (a responsibility the grandfather said would come in "due time"). They continued looking for a little while longer and then moved on to other merchandise in the store. After exiting myself, I couldn't help but think about the correlations to my own life. Growing up, no one enjoyed a good pocketknife more than me. Whether it was carving, cutting, or whittling, I looked for any excuse to brandish the knife I was most likely carrying. I remember the joy of buying an older looking knife at a Civil War reenactment (thinking it to be an impressive piece for my collection) and the disappointment I felt upon finding that said knife was made in Pakistan. While lacking in comparison to other "firsts" in life (girlfriend,dance, car, and so on), it seems receiving your first pocketknife leaves some indelible mark on boys in the South and signifies an important step in the maturation process. I wonder how much longer it will be before that grandson experiences that feeling....

Jaws of Life - Tyler

With the waves of pollen now gone from every outdoors surface (including my shoes) and with the temperature steadily rising with each passing week, I can once again welcome warm weather and springtime back into my life. I’ve always thought how funny it was that as soon as the temperature drops into the 60’s in the fall, everybody throws on hoodies and jeans; and inversely how everyone throws on shorts and t-shirts and soon as it hits the 60’s in the spring. It is a fair assumption to say that all humans are walking contradictions of themselves.

Some of my favorite springtime memories are very generic: Easter egg hunts, playing outside, seeing my many caterpillars I could find roaming the sidewalk, etc. One memorable spring outing occurred 3 years ago when Zach, Daniel, and myself took a weekend trip down to Sunset Beach. Walking along the shore, we reached the inlet that separates Sunset Beach and Ocean Isle Beach. The inlet area is great for several reasons. For one, it is one of the most secluded areas on the shore, as well as containing numerous tide pools to wade around. As we strolled out to a sandbar in the tide pool, we thought nothing about the aquatic life that surrounded us.

The sandbar was barely visible because of the water flowing over it with each wave. But there it was, a small rounded sandbar inviting us to stand on top of it. I stood there, gazing out over all of the water, feeling one with nature. That’s when we spotted it. Some giant fish that was on the other end of the sandbar where the sand dropped off was resting in the water. As I approached it with curiosity, a gentle waves caused the fish’s body to move ever so slightly. At that moment, I realized 2 things: it was a shark, and it could still be alive.

With those 2 things in mind, I got the heck out of dodge. Before Daniel and Zach could see my reaction, they could hear my body racing through the tide pool and back onto the shore. My fears were calmed but for a moment when Daniel reached into the water and pulled the dead, lifeless shark out of the water. I say I was calmed but for a moment because I knew that Daniel would use that shark to torment me…so I kept on running. As sure enough, Daniel kept on coming, cradling that dead shark and sporting a satisfied grin that I knew was intended for me. As we had our standoff on the shore concerning what to do next with the killer of the ocean, Daniel thankfully opted for a picture with the beast, leaving it on the beach instead of strapping it to the hood of our car to bring back to Campbell (which was his first option).

Springtime is a great season for new beginnings and expectations. It is that preparatory time before summer comes and the warm weather of springtime turns into the sweltering heat and humidity of summer. But how cool the breeze can still feel when you are running from your roommate and a dead shark.