As a child, somewhere between when girls had cooties and The Dukes of Hazzard were “makin’ their way the only way they knew how”, I tinkered with toy airplanes. I was most adept with the paper kind and would test my designs at the most inappropriate times.
I’ve always had a certain awe, much like a metal head might have at a Metallica concert, of people who could get things airborne and keep them there, safely. Pilots, if you will, are an icy bunch. The better ones, the ones I prefer to ride along with, are stone cold serious at their craft. If you’ve ever listened to aviators talk to one another, while in flight, they ooze gravitas. Their speech is measured, direct and, if you listen long enough, has a hypnotic effect. I truly believe, if the “Calm” app could record just a few minutes of air traffic control comms, ocean waves and rain drops would no longer be the favorites to soothe our restless minds.
I received a text from one such pilot last evening. My good friend, Tal Holloway, wrote “Are you interested in bbq for lunch tomorrow?” We’ve been friends long enough, he already knew the answer to his inquisition. Twisting my arm, not only hurts but, is unnecessary when I’m invited to eat the other white meat. Although eating bbq with a buddy could be considered, by some, benign, it’s never just a run down the street to the local hog joint when your buddy has his own airplane, which, by the way, he built himself.
So, there we were, airborne from Sanford, North Carolina at 12:43 and not more than 25 minutes later, we’re landing in a soybean field somewhere in outback South Carolina. And there, like a beacon of light, a Mountain Dew sign seemed to rise along the two lane road littered with honeysuckle vines and road kill with the words “Stanton’s Bar-B-Q Fish Camp”. I’m not sure anyone, except the locals, knew exactly the name of the crossroads of which we had dropped into, but that’s ok. The sweet tea was sweet, the pork was delicious and the flounder was breaded and fried just right.
Needless to say, it was a great day. My inaugural flight in a fixed wing aircraft, which can accommodate not more than four passengers, was smooth and Xanax free. I trusted Tal implicitly. My life and my stomach were in his hands. He did not fail me.
Thank you, Tal, for the ride along. I say next time we hop, skip and jump over to Lexington for some succulent red sauce and Brunswick stew. I’m clear for take-off!
It sometimes seems the two most used pieces of furniture in our home are the front porch rocking chairs in which we come to rest in many days.
There are few things I truly love. I love the outdoors, my family, college football, mama’s fried chicken, and I love sweet tea, the nectar of the south. I also love special places. Places like old diners, muddy duck swamps, and the State Fair on a clear, crisp, October day. But there’s a place I especially love not far from where I lay my head at night. It’s right beyond the threshold of my front door.
As if stepping through a portal to when life was seen in black and white, a good front porch is a salve for the senses. It’s a place where a simple offering of a swing, a cold drink, and soft shell peanuts are sufficient to pass the time. Some say the kitchen is the heart of the home, but I believe the front porch is its soul. The squeal of the floor planks as the rocker presses against its bones and the creak of the chain that suspends the faded wooden swing is like a welcoming committee to a road weary traveler. It’s a magical place where boys kiss girls, families reunite, lies are told, and life is celebrated, even the hard parts.
Some say the kitchen is the heart of the house, but I believe the front porch is its soul.
– Steve Wade
As a child, our front porch was always a cool retreat suggesting the hot days of summer had somehow been omitted from the party’s guest list. Growing up, it was a place where we shelled peas, snapped beans, and shucked corn from our garden. Hummingbirds, like the Red Baron, flew sorties hither and tither, stopping only briefly to slurp the red Kool-Aid provided for their sipping pleasure. The smell of honeysuckle vines and gardenias pushing through the rail pickets would well up in me a craving for popsicles and fresh squeezed lemonade.
I don’t see folks lounging on front porches much anymore. Perhaps it’s because of air conditioning, mosquitoes, or people just do not like people like we used to. What once was an open invitation to sit a spell has become a moat for solicitors and those who cycle two-by-two.
Most new homes now have porch stoops which are perfect places for plants, rocking chairs need not apply. Backyard patios seem to be where the action is, but it is not the same. As the late comedian and writer, Lewis Grizzard, once wrote, “It’s hard to get drunk and fall off a patio”.
Wherever your proverbial “porch” may be in life, whether at home or some other proverbial special place, find those you love, swing in the dark, snap some beans, wrestle with truth, tell some tall stories, but some true, too, and kiss your main squeeze until mama flickers the porch light, as the next kiss will have to wait until tomorrow.
Because my memory tends to slop around like an old wet mop inside a galvanized wash bucket, there are few things I can remember beyond yesterday’s lunch, some of which has rendered me paralyzed when called upon by my wife to bring forth truth of important dates in our lives that not even the Dewey Decimal System could find. Only because of picture shakin’ cameras and Super 8 film can anyone prove I was ever the mischievous child my mother said I was. Now, at 6’-4” and tipping the scale just under the allowable weight limit of most commercial step ladders, the ballast in my mind equals that in my trunk. However, there is one memory which shook me to the core, and one I’ll never shake…Plebe Parent Weekend.
There is simply no reunion, on this side of heaven, any sweeter, as if dipped in Godiva chocolate, than the moment your plebe, the child you birthed, reared, and set afloat along the Severn, appears from the sea of exuberant mayhem while wearing their new angelic summer white uniform. You may hyperventilate from excitement, but that’s ok. It’s expected. Fainting is not. Stoicism is in short supply on this day and big salty tears are encouraged to walk the plank of gratefulness as you behold who your son or daughter has become over the six weeks since you left them at Alumni Hall. The United States Naval Academy is presenting to you their newest and best for you to enjoy this weekend. It’s as if your child has been born again.
But in all this, don’t miss the moments. The moment when you embrace your child for the first time in six weeks. It’ll be a moment, even a forgetful mind such as mine, will never forget. Cherish the conversations. Take advantage of the tours. Relish in visiting Bancroft and going “on deck”, a top secret place parents rarely see. Visit PEP at 0600, you’ll be glad you did. Walk the Yard, engage together, and hug, a lot. Buy gobs of N*AVY spirit gear, feed your plebe well and often, and say goodnight, only when you have to.
Take lots of photos. Like most of us, they’ll soon adorn your home, office, and social media. Also, take lots of time. Our youngest mid’s “love language” is quality time. I believe your plebe might agree, at least this weekend, their’s is too. They need to know, no matter their circumstances, struggles, disappointments, desires and successes, you have their six. Their is no one who holds more dear the heart of your child than you. Certificates, medals, and trophies need not apply.
For those parents who cannot see their amazing kids this weekend, find comfort in knowing you have grown some of the finest young men and women this great country has to offer. Your children are among accomplished people who have their best interest at heart. We are one big Navy family. We take care of our own and we will take care of your’s too.
Our second midshipman is a Firstie now. She’s pictured below. I had to pry Mama Bear away from her sweet cub. Each of our two PPW reunions were a gift and ones we still display on our shelves and will always bear in our hearts. Bring boxes of Kleenex, shout wipes, and lots of love, hugs, and kisses. You simply cannot over deposit those.
Our family will be there this weekend too with our firstie to celebrate the retirement of her sponsor dad, a Navy Commander. I’m sure we’ll reminisce a little about this day three years ago, when we too were spread out along Stribling Walk and Tecumseh Court. If I happen to stroll by, I’ll be the big guy holding the box of Kleenex under my arm trying not to hyperventilate while watching y’all love on your kids. ⚓️
Someone once said, “red sky at night, sailor’s delight”. Though I was never a sailor nor even a dock mate, I found great delight in this red sky moment, as if I were a boatswain minding my vessel’s bow while chasing the setting sun. If I were the captain of my own ship, long and grey, I would summon my soul’s wit and heart’s passion to this spot each evening to advise my wandering canvas as to which strategic brushstroke to make or Naval story to paint.
Our USNA officers in training will one day be issued their own canvas to paint. Some days may resemble the smooth ways of Rembrandt, when tides are at ease. While others will be scattered, chunked and diced, reminiscent of Picasso on his best day. When seas become turbulent and sailors and Marines grow weary amidst the chaos of the fight, our children will have learned and trained to be the calm in the storm, the master painter for their crew to guide them through, not the bliss of the red sky at night, but the warning of a red sky morning.
Our Navy daughters are becoming courageous, warrior minded officers I could never be. USNA is producing artists with the budding military talent to prod, teach and mentor their squads, battalions, and maybe a whole fleet, in due time, to inspire those they lead as much as God’s canvas, which has been spread across the sky, has inspired me.
Because duty does not call me when the whistle blows, I shall wait a bit longer until the sun tips its hat to the rising moon. I will ponder and pontificate on the beauty which lies before me and think of all those deployed, those we know and those we don’t, as they ride the bow of the ship they sail, fly through the heavens that spread wide and high and those who reside in each camp protected by a wire that only the most courageous of us will cross. I pray that they too can see the setting sun as I do. Let their canvas always be a delight as they push back from this dock and head their compass into the night of which I care not to do.
I am grateful to all those willing to serve in my stead. I am grateful for your kids and mine who said, “I DO!”, when many others never did. ⚓️
I’ve often thought the real joy of fishing, when saddled on the steed of anticipation, is found in places where n’er a grain of sand sticks to my tires, nor salty champagne tickles my toes. Places like bait and tackle shops, where breeze shootin’ is an art, and fish frys, that come with sides of tall tales of trophies caught, mostly half true. Surf fishing memories, which swirl like rip currents in my mind the night before the first big cast, keeps me awake as I wonder which hole I’ll fish.
Like children on Christmas Eve, I dream of my new toys propped up in beach carts and pickup trucks just beyond my front door threshold. Shiny things, like new fancy lures tethered with luck and hope conspire with my tackle box to determine which magic bait will draw the fish to my rig is a craft only mastered by few.
The joy of harvesting fish from the surf, whether one or a gaggle, is a tradition often rooted in my childhood when I lifted my first spot and croaker for a Polaroid photo. In my mind, exploits in the tidal pools hoping to capture a minnow to offer my quarry that hole up just beyond the break, were mostly fruitless, but fun. Unlike freshwater fishing, the tap of the tide which vibrated the rod tip was sure to be a fish, but often, just lead bouncing along the sandy bottom. Like bird dogs on point, my eyes trained and tail straight, I was ready to break on the anticipation of a real bite. The glory days of old are still glorious and that inner child is still there.
My optimism is not rooted in the fish I’ve caught, but it’s rooted in those I’ve yet to catch
– Steve Wade
Anyone who loves fishing as I do, knows dropping sustenance in a cooler is the end game, but it’s the game I plan which brings the excitement of what may come. There’s no wonder, “just one more cast”, like Pavlov’s dog, makes me salivate with anticipation. My optimism is not rooted in the fish I’ve caught, but it’s rooted in those I’ve yet to catch. Some say the early sun, which peaks over the horizon, is company for the lonely fisherman, but really, the salty memories of buddies who’ve fought the current beside me, coupled with what the tide may bring, is what keeps my heart and mind company.
Wishing all a bushel full of fishing tales, tight lines, and salty memories of childlike awe of what patrols the surf just in front of those who hunt the surf.
Anyone who loves fishing as we do, knows dropping sustenance in a cooler is the end game, but it’s the game we plan which brings the excitement of what may come. There’s no wonder, “just one more cast”, like Pavlov’s dog, makes us salivate with anticipation. My optimism is not rooted in the fish I’ve caught, but more, it’s rooted in those I’ve yet to catch. Some say the early sun, which peaks over the horizon, is company for the lonely fisherman, but really, the salty memories of buddies who’ve fought the current beside us, coupled with what the tide may bring, is what keeps our hearts and minds company.
I was recently organizing some old memories I keep in a shoe box and came across a half-completed painting along with a few other wildlife drawings I did circa 1994. Nothing special, but they reminded me of my love of duck hunting from when I was a younger man not afraid of sitting in an icy beaver swamp at four in the morning and in awe of God’s amazing creation. Any soil I trod upon to reach my destination buried deep in the dark waters was worth the plow I pushed through the hardened clay of central North Carolina. The plan formulated in my mind the night before the big hunt often caused my sleep meter to slow as I laid awake anticipating the coming dawn. It was a sweet time still tucked away in my Dewey Decimal mind I still search from time-to-time.
Watching the sun tip its hat over the swamp littered with summer’s decaying cattails, rotting tree stumps and the faint sound of a beaver minding its dam was one of the most exhilarating ways to pass a frosty winter morning. Some mornings, the air was so cold, my breath appeared as if a thick cloud of cigar smoke billowed from my mouth. The moist steam condensed on my beard and would freeze within what seemed like seconds. The ice around my lips was uncomfortable. My facial hair transformed from a fur like throw rug to a corse shag carpet. I recall a few January hunts where, with every step through the swamp, the padded knees of my neoprene waders would break loose another shard of ice. The air was still and felt sharp on my exposed skin.
After setting a couple dozen decoys, all a replica of the birds I hoped to harvest, the ripples from each man-made duck being dropped moved to the outer edge of their pool. Once I returned to my blind, the swamp I sat in was once again placid and still. The anticipation of what was to come caused my heart to race. My mind rehearsed each gunning scenario and my eyes focused on the dark holes in the swamp where a duck might lie in wait before it takes flight. It was still dark.
The only light I could muster was from a flashlight held in my cold, shriveled hand. The neoprene gloves I wore soon became ineffective. The smell of organic mud and stained water from the tannins released from decaying leaves submerged below the surface was pungent but was an aroma that set my mind at peace like comfort food after a stressful day’s work.
Only thirty minutes before the ducks began to fly, I would build a makeshift blind hoping to conceal myself enough to fool my prey.
As the sun begins to rise, I would hear the hurried flutter of wings above. Somewhere between dark and dawn, the silhouettes of ducks would begin to emerge from their murky roosts. Tufted Titmice and Black Capped Chickadees would dance in the flora around me. I was never sure if their song was a serenade or simply a fuss of annoyance as if I had somehow invaded their domain.
Only five minutes until I could legally allow the gun powder and steel to combust inside my Browning Gold shotgun . By this time, my heart was pounding and it took all I could muster not to pull the trigger as ducks flew above.
Finally, as I looked at my watch, it was legal shooting time, almost three hours after beginning my cold and dark journey through the oak and pine inhabited woods. My truck, parked along the gravel rural road, was but a faint memory of the warmth of civilization. My feet and hands were numb but my heart and mind were alert as if God Himself had called me to attention.
I pursed my lips on the duck call that had so many times before coerced even the most wary drake Wood Duck into my decoy spread. And then, as the pink and red hues of nature began to explode, my gun raised from my lap as if it were attached by strings directed by a master puppeteer.
As I sighted my barrel on the first duck of the morning which had foolishly chosen to approach my spread, wings cupped, twisting and turning to navigate the right opening amongst the plastic replicas of it’s kind, I pulled the trigger.
From its flight of which it had once mastered, it fell from its graceful approach which, in my opinion, is unmatched by any other sporting experience being afield has to offer. As I collected my quarry from the icy water, I reveled in the beauty of God’s creation. It was hard to think then, as it is now, that a master craftsman had not carefully constructed each feather on the bird I held in my hand. Its colors were magnificent, like royalty held on high. As I made my way back to my post, I was as content as an old dog lying under a shade tree on a hot summer’s day. Although the heat of summer felt as far away as the warm bed I had left a few hours earlier.
It was a good morning. All my mornings in the swamp were good, even the days when the ducks and I had conflicting schedules. Even if they couldn’t join me, I was ok with that. Mornings when my only company were the Titmice, Chickadees and an occasional beaver that made his displeasure of my presence known, still fulfilled my spirit.
So my journey began, in reverse. As I picked up my decoys and retreated back to my truck, I felt a lot of things, not including my fingers and toes. I mostly felt grateful. Grateful that I was allowed a few hours, out of an otherwise hurried life, to find peace in the swamp amongst the creation that God had so graciously allowed me to share.
As I think back to those days, I now realize how much I learned along my journeys to the murky beaver swamps that speckle the landscape of Chatham, Wake, and Orange counties. I learned that life is not lived on a couch or behind a desk. Life is lived by pursuing our passions.
In my early to late twenties, one of my passions was waterfowl, whether it was painting, drawing, carving, hunting or reading, I consumed every detail of every feather I could. Time with hunting buddies and the bonds we developed have made us brothers forever. Even though we are now separated by distance, our love of waterfowl and for one another has not diminished.
Now that I’m fifty, I’m remembering the things that once made my heart pound and mind race as if it was given a direct injection of serotonin. I have decided that life is better when we pursue our passions.
So, perhaps I will strap on some chest high waders, grab my old Browning and head afield. Or, maybe I will finish those old paintings, pencil sketches, and wood carvings which are scattered about between the dust of my attic and buried deep in my chest of drawers.
My hope is, life will yield good fruit and allow each of us to pursue that which we love so much. For me, it is ducks. May my body also be brave enough to leave the warm confines of my soft and inviting bed at some insane hour, hop in my pick-up truck and continue the journey I began thrity years ago.
I’m grateful to have shared a little of nature’s handmade delight over the years, even if it is icy, pungent, and sometimes too cold to bear.
Somewhere, in the back country of Pitt County, where roads are bestowed the names of patriarchs, black birds huddle, like a battle brigade, along high strung power lines and whole towns are condensed into Xroads, there’s a cotton field ready to be plucked this time of year.
Cotton, like the metamorphosis of a regal butterfly, is picked, pulled, twisted and combed to create beautiful finery for kings, costumes for thespians, coats for the cold, bathing suits for beachgoers who dare and for those who believe it’s ok to shop Walmart in their sleepwear any hour of the day. Not since Adam and Eve has there been a more sought after necessity than that which covers our loins.
All hail to this southern crop of warmth and comfort, which thrives in the black soil of eastern North Carolina. On this day, I was blessed, if just for a moment, as I was steppin’ high to walk through this great big ol’ field of cotton.
This is Mr. John Tunnell. He’s in his 77th year as an employee at the Sanitary Fish Market in Morehead City. He began washing dishes there in 1944, and since then, has cast many nets inside this storied seafood restaurant.
Being a cold, dreary day in early November, there were about four people shy of a twelve pack scattered around the restaurant gnawing on fried shrimp, flounder and everyone’s favorite appetizer, hush puppies. I’m a butter spreader, but ketchup on my puppies will do in a pinch.
After pushing my full, yet satisfied, self away from the table, I noticed this rather seasoned gentleman passing the time, seemingly alone in an empty booth. I thought, “perhaps he’s been misplaced”. “Maybe a loved one is wandering about, panicked as to where he’s been left”. He seemed content not doing anything at all. As I passed by, not a single thought germinated in my mind as to how he might get home, or Heaven forbid, he didn’t have one.
I paid my check and as I began to push on the exit door, one that’s been pushed a million times, for some fishy reason, I felt compelled to saunter myself back to his booth to introduce myself. Turns out, he’s the most well known and beloved old salt Moreheadians can claim as their own. He’s, “The Memory Man”. He can call most folks by their last name, those he’s most partial to, their first.
He knew family lineages, generations of those who call this town their home, their children’s accomplishments, and who they became along the way. And everybody knows him. He’s a wonder of historical knowledge and can spin yarns which are impossible for a stranger to untangle. He’s truly a treasure.
At the time, I was just an ol’ hungry, no name foreigner passing through town on my journey back to Raleigh, just looking for some seafood sustenance. But now? I’m a somebody! I’m Mr. Tunnell’s newest friend.
If you’ve ever been to this iconic fish house, you’ll remember seeing the couple hundred framed photos that’ve adorned the waiting area for decades. Celebrities, governors, presidents, potentates, old friends, outlaws, in-laws and a couple pirates drip from the heart pine walls like the “who’s who” of Neptune’s galley. Ol’ Mr. Tunnell is the main feature in some, many way back in black and white. He says he knows all the characters that’ve forever been cast in the Sanitary Fish Market hall of fame theater.
In closing, as I know eyes are beginning to roll and heads bob, I’ll wrap this up.
Meeting Mr. Tunnell was such a delight. We talked for over an hour, I mostly listened, along with another gentleman I met, a local writer who wrote a book about Mr. Tunnell. It only took a little gumption on my part to enjoy a whole trawler brimming with fish tales, some tall and some true, a crab trap full of local lore and who’s married to who.
I walked away from that place convinced, although Mr. Tunnell may be an “employee”, he’s really less of a worker bee and more of an ambassador of peace, a friend to many and promotional guru, not of the restaurant, but of mankind itself.
He addressed me as, “Mr. Wade”, as I said my goodbyes and I was ok with that.
Mister Pompadour is more than a barbershop where men with beards mingle. It’s a place where those wielding the tools of their trade cut, coif, and craft that which Solomon coveted and Rip Van Winkle aspired to. Living bearded is not simply a mantra to be tossed around like corn hole bags. It’s a lifestyle. Unlike the “He Man Woman Hater’s Club”, there’s no hate here. All are welcome, even those shaven faces only a mother could love.
Living bearded is not simply a mantra to be tossed around like corn hole bags.
It’s where Sasquatch and The Beast, like frogs, transform into well manicured gentlemen. Leather tool belts, like quivers of ancient warriors, hold scissors, trimmers, and other magic wands that mold even the most unkept bed heads.
C’mon by. Grab a beer. Have a seat and sit a spell. This old school approach to exceptional beard cuttery in a new school world is worth your green bills. My man card has been punched, my ego lifted, and those jagged edges that once slowed my roll have been made strait again (I think there’s a country song in there somewhere, but I digress).
I’m a blind fool when it comes to fried chicken and I rarely mind who cooks it. Gas station fried fare is amongst the most overlooked delicacy since boiled peanuts were first drowned in a glass bottle of Pepsi Cola.
Although your local Crunch and Pump may not offer this delicious breaded poultry, do not let your hearts be troubled. Somewhere down the backroad of every rural zip code, there’s the aroma of deep fried yard birds beckoning to the tastebuds of country boys and girls everywhere.
I recently read this article in Our State magazine and ‘bout stripped a gear to get to Betty’s for some finger lickin’ greasy goodness. It’s the kinda place your heart valves dread, but in the court of fried chicken opinion, it’s a risk worth the reward.
Facing Southward 