My father-in-law, who passed away in 2017, would’ve been 81 years old today. As I marinate on his life, I retreated to the archives of my journal and found this entry regarding a few thoughts surrounding the day we laid to rest, Tom Wilson, one of the greatest men I ever knew.

To most, this photo may seem like a benign climb along a path shrouded by Rhododendrons and White Pines. To dreamers, a simple question may arise. Where does the path lead? For goal setters, where does it end? For the pragmatic minded, why is it here and what’s its purpose? And, for the imaginative amongst us, we create characters in our minds of mythical creatures formed from the silhouettes of tree limbs and the sounds of critters moving about.

A journey of many families who have walked this old fire road for decades. The effort put forth, never so in vane. The reward realized, never disappointing. The sense of peace, never hard to find. It’s a path which leads to inspiring mountain vistas where silence is sought and rest is assured.

A thousand tales told by dozens of families fills a guest book that reads like a Hemingway novel. The adventure, romance, wildness, and spiritual connection to God’s creation is a common theme that runs through this land at Cherry Lane Farm in Sparta, NC. However, on this day, this climb was of a more somber tone.

Today, we buried the ashes of Tom Wilson, husband of Alice Wilson. His ashes were placed in a small, nondescript White Oak box made by a local mountain carpenter, and nestled carefully and peacefully into a small grave, dug by human hands, hands of those who loved and cherished Tom. As Genesis testifies, we were formed from the dust of the ground and true to scripture, Tom returned to the ground as dust today. But, we rejoice as his body has now been made whole in Heaven.

As I reflect on those faithful friends and loving family climbing that hill today to Tom’s internment, I wonder if I’ve lived a life worthy of that climb? Will I be loved such that those who dream will rejoice in the journey to where my life’s path had lead? Will the goal setters be encouraged and pleased with where my path had ended? Will the pragmatic minded understand what my purpose was and why it was so important? And, will the imaginative see the creativity of life in me they so hoped for?

Only time will bear out who will make a similar climb on my behalf. However, the path I will walk will not be one paved with conviction of who I want people to think I am, but by who God has created me to be. Upon that path, I will stake my life and upon that hill, I will rejoice with Tom in Heaven one day.

As a middle school kid, I burned through several college ruled, spiral bound notebooks writing these dreadful sentences. It was my own fault, I suppose. My teachers insisted scribble was unacceptable which made this monotonous task of mid-evil torture even more effective as a means to cease and desist my wayward classroom behavior.

Even worse, was the public shame that oozed from my hand as I would write these same six prophetic words on the chalkboard while my “friends” snickered behind me. Because the school principles and P.E. coaches of my day carried big wooden paddles and were well trained in guerrilla warfare, this little exercise usually was the medicine that cured my mischievous ways.

It’s a crying shame public humiliation and corporal punishment are no longer accepted by the Helicopter Moms and Dads of America as a means of reinforcing proper manners and respect for those in authority. I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits. Although pens and paddles may not be the swords of justice they once were, perhaps they should be.

Or, as an alternative, those of us who gave birth to these precious dumplings who lurk through the hallways of our institutions of learning, we could begin holding our own more accountable when they misstep, allow them to feel the consequences when they misjudge, encourage them to take responsibility for their behavior when they’re misdirected, and stop handing out trophies for doing little at all. I’m afraid if we don’t, our altricious offspring will live on the perpetual chalkboard of life writing the words, “I will not…” after every poor decision they make because they knew no better.

Skylight Inn BBQ is one of my go-to’s for delectable down east wood smoked pork. A place where Carhartt and plaid meet the dress code of the day. Men, with their names embroidered on blue collar shirts and ladies dripping with southern charm, all converge on this little place along the vein of country life most days between high noon and sunset.

Over the years, Skylight Inn BBQ has graced the pages of Our State Magazine, Southern Living, and Garden & Gun. There’s a reason for their notoriety…they simply serve some of the most mouth watering whole hog you’ll find anywhere east of Lexington. Low and Slow Smokehouse in Johnston Co., B’s in Greenville, and Wilber’s in Goldsboro, rank in my top four. Well, Sam Jones, too, but he’s an automatic shoe-in.

Since 1947, the Jones family has remained true to their holy hand raisin’ craft and for that, they’ve enriched the bellies of many North Carolinians, and some foreigners, too! Founder, Pete Jones, once said, “A place like this don’t need any sign”. I suppose word of mouth and wood smoke wafting across Pitt Co. is all the persuasion needed to attract us flies to the honey.

Me? I recently had the medium pig tray with a slice of corn bread and baked beans. I was feeling a bit weak in the knees so I sprung for some tater salad and ‘nanner puddin’, too. The other white meat was so tender with a sweet sauce just slightly doused on top like a blanket of love. It was as if I was consuming pork flavored cotton candy. I’ll save the details for my food blog one day, but rest assured, it’s worth the hour and fifteen minute hunt from Raleigh. My only regret? I didn’t order the large.

Like a young child, clinging to his parent’s leg, sheepishly peering around the side as a stranger bids a salutation, the shyness of the morning sun peeks through the shroud of clouds as if its courage is yet to be mustered for another day. The sun’s hues are but a blush one may feel when afforded an unexpected compliment. As the moon drops below the horizon, it tips its hat as if to bid adieu to its daytime friend.

Several summers ago, the First Lady and I rented a vintage 1930s beach cottage on Pawley’s Island named, ”Eaves Drop”. It was a special place where gobs of families had gathered over the decades to share their lives together, break bread to celebrate their connections, and were certain to build new memories worth writing a book about someday. It is a no frills type of place. No paint had ever adorned its rustic exterior shell. It appeared as if only a few gallons of varnish had graced its cedar scales. The salt had grayed its skin, rusted its joints, and laid low the limbs of its youth. Some may say this place was undesirable, void of the trappings found in most vacation homes. We thought a little benign neglect should never douse the dream of a charming beach cottage. We found it perfect.

Its rear porch was connected to the island’s sandy shore by a long, splinter riddled boardwalk. Like a stone, rounded by the friction of the stream that runs over it, each board had been whittled by the blowing sand that crossed its bones. Silence on this island is a commodity, peace, an amenity, and people are scarce, but polite. No buildings rise above the horizon there, only shore birds as they search for their next meal. Maybe old bait left by a solitary fisherman or a Nabs cracker dropped by a child.

For some, reading is a pastime best enjoyed resting along the shoulders of water. Whether it be beside a pool or on the precipice of champagne foam as it runs up the beach and tickles your toes. Books are the foundation of education. Most are good in training our brains how to think, behave, and do, or not do, what others have done who’ve come before us. Fiction can entice our imagination and tease our senses. But, among the many things a good book is useful for, propping a window to invite the ocean in, is undoubtably one of the best.

The sandy beach, just outside our bedroom window, sat all night like a faithful wife awaiting her sailor to return home from battle. The shore, scattered with shells and ghost crabs, welcomed the roll of each wave throughout the sky’s slumber. It was like comfort food for my ears. As my eyes began to focus that morning, I was drawn ever near to my old, salty friend. The air was still and the birds were just beginning to rise from their night’s rest. The ocean beyond the break was remarkably calm, unfettered by the wind. The sound of the incoming tide hitting the beach was familiar, one which I enjoyed as I periodically awoke while the moon was still on watch.

I’m thankful for that book which lent its strong spine to conspire with the window to welcome the ocean in. It laid steadfast on the sill as we slept through the night.

But, I thought, the next night I should choose another spine, one also well known, upon which to press the window sash upon. It wasn’t fair that just one book serve to indulge our senses as we slept. I was sure jealously would soon creep from the shelf upon which they perched. Not just one book should lie in servitude to lift my spirit and galvanize my salty soul. So, who received the nod on night number two? If I recall, Hemingway was next in line as his book, ”The Old Man and the Sea”, fit the moment and the scene as well as any.

Palm readers are a suspicious lot. For ten dollars, they’ll tickle your hand, pique your curiosity and then push you down the splintered path in search of the Candy Castle only to find a Kale milkshake wrapped like a Snickers bar eagerly awaiting at the cliff of despair. Instead of prognosticating my future by studying the lines engraved across my hand, they’d be better suited predicting what I had for lunch simply by noticing the bbq sauce still stuck under my pinky fingernail.

Unlike the hocus-pocus of palm ticklin’ that transpires behind the neon signs that dot the highways and byways of rural America, the lines that develop on one’s face, over time, tells bushels of stories and all are mostly born in truth. Some, we’d love to share, while others are simply too painful.

The four lines on our brow might represent the passing years of harboring, feeding and transporting our little lambs hither and tither with cab fare being paid only in Goldfish and boogers they wipe on any surface their little hands can reach.

For some, our etched lines have evolved from worry, anxiousness, loneliness, addiction or anger. While others, the crimps we see, like small ripples in the champagne surf, are cultivated with smiles, laughter and the funny faces we made with our children when we, as parents, were still the cool ones.

Our lines are indistinguishable unless we know the origin from whence they came. Although each little facial tributary is different in size, shape, and depth, I believe each is unique and have carefully formed as we’ve mounted the peaks and slunked through the valleys of our lives. It’s too easy to hang the mantle of facial crinkle on gravity, old age or genetics. Years have been laid down, like fossils, that are eager to be discovered, their stories told, and for others to embrace. Erasing those lines with creams and potions is akin to tearing pages from our history books. There’s wisdom, experience, heartache and accomplishments that reside on a face only a mother could love.

I marvel and wonder with awe at the stories this gentleman might tell. He looks like he’s lived a hard life. His complexion is a bit salty. Perhaps the neon moon has taken its toll. Maybe those he loved, somewhere along the way, stopped loving him. I guess we’ll never know. Only conjecture can satisfy our sense.

This is the face I want to listen to. To read, like a history book. To discover his past, the wisdom he’s netted and delight in the real life he’s lived. Palm readers need not apply. I got this one.

I awoke this morning with an epic eggnog and skillet brownie hangover. One that no amount of red Gatorade or black coffee could cure. It’s a new year and a new opportunity to be a new me. Unlike the fairy dust, fireworks and fanfare that had laid me to sleep, I surprisingly felt and looked the same this morning as I did the morning after Cinderella dropped her slipper.

As I often struggle to remember what I had for lunch the day before, I have an overall sense that 2021 was a partly cloudy year. Though I may not recollect all the peaks and valleys, I feel certain of the plateaus. The level places in life where I seem to find the most comfort. The current is calm, the wind is light and the sun shines upon my face just enough to keep me warm. Some may believe aspiring to reside on a flat rock lacks ambition, gumption and vision. I see it differently.

Life will always, and faithfully, fill its coffers with shadowy paths of despair and disappointment. Although not promised, most of us will, at times, plant our flags of delight on the mountain tops of exhilaration and accomplishment. But mostly, I hope to dwell somewhere in the middle as one cannot live within the beauty of the Caribbean coral and the hurricane winds of destruction where days seesaw between the doldrums of the deep and the towers of ivory which flirt with the sky.

As I coax my crystal ball to divulge its secrets for the new year, it feels more like asking the mirror on the wall “who’s the fairest of them all”? The answer can be more truthful than I wish and typically is, “not you.” It’s akin to a mirror hung above the barkeeps shoulder with the words inscribed, “No wonder you’re going home alone tonight”. The check mate of reality shows me the mirror simply reflects what it sees, not what it’s seen or will see. The mirror is but an honest evaluation of the present day. In its truest sincerity, the mirror can only analyze the life created by the person standing before it.

So, let’s start this year begging for more cowbell. Seek others that make us better. Peer across the crevasse of the great glacier to others different than ourselves. Let’s not just build a bridge to assist the proverbial chicken to cross the road, but build relationships with those who will enrich us and us, them. Doing so takes little talent and never requires us to stop eating Bojangles.

There are no tricks, spells, or magic potions of success in the new year. Hard work, focus, prayer, and loving thy neighbor usually seems to bring the increase. I hope for valleys not as deep and my fair share of peaks to mount. I pray my reflection in 2022 will resemble more the goodness of God’s glory which surrounds me and less the flesh of my bones that comes to steal and destroy abundant life.

For now, I’ll enjoy my plateau of solace and dream of what’s to come. Cheers to you 2022, but please cool your heals of anticipation as I have no plans to develop an intimate relationship with my local gym, divorce my Chick-Fil-A habit, pour my sweet tea down the drain and, I’ll be sure to ring my big, boisterous bell ‘til all the cows come home.

Happy New Year, y’all!

I received a text from my pilot buddy this morning asking if I would fly air gunner to a new bbq joint in JoCo. I knew it would be some good hand raisin’ holy hog as he has yet to point his pit cooked aircraft in the wrong direction. So I did, and like other swine hunts we’ve endeavored upon, this new restaraunt, which sits high atop the Johnston Regional Airport, as if it were the culinary penthouse of all things good, did not disappoint.

Philip Bailey, the proprietor and pit master who toils over the cookers to create the delectable bbq found at his “Low and Slow Smokehouse” restaurant, is a true entrepreneur of the other white meat. He’s thirty days into a culinary adventure which should prove to be a thirty year business plan as his bbq plates, with fixins, are spot on. The service was excellent, the sweet tea thick and the sauce was devine. It’s a place where, eventually, everyone will know your name.

Low and Slow is a point of destination for cars, SUVs, trucks and especially those who choose to drop-in from four thousand feet. Just be sure to let the tower know you’re coming lest they scramble the jets from Seymour Johnson Air Force Base to intercept your wayward bbq sky wagon.
Once we taxied from our lift off point we were on target within twelve minutes. A drive which would’ve taken me, assuming no interruptions from the state highway patrol, fifteen minutes shy of an hour. It was the best touch and go one could hope for. And, if you choose to dine on the terrace overlooking the concrete vein of flight inspiration, as I did as a kid, it’s worth the time to watch the planes taxi and go. BBQ, mac-n-cheese, baked beans, coleslaw and cornbread were my garnish of a perfect, blue bird sky, day.

Come on down to Smithfield, North Carolina’s newest hog joint. No pilot’s license needed. Just bring a big appetite and an aptitude for fun. Bring your kids, too! They’ll love the planes as they buzz hither and tither. I have a hunch they’ll also love the ‘nanner puddin’. Thanks, Philip, for the great Q and wonderful southern hospitality! I’m sure I’ll sneak back down soon, even if my wing man is unavailable. Me and my steel stead will travel about anywhere to pray over Heavenly hog.
https://www.lowandslowsmokehouse.com