Facing Southward

A Time To Decompress

/ Steve Wade / Leave a comment

For those of us who mount up our trusty steel steeds to navigate the ruts and humps of the desert by the sea, we do so with, not only the hopes of catching passels of fish, but also to decompress following the toil of a tenuous work week.

Our Friday afternoon minds wander as to which beach we may squat on for the weekend, baits we may use to entice our quarry, half truth stories we may tell, or what we may hoist from the frothy sea. Whether you’re a sun riser or a sun setter, life on the beach is perfect no matter the time.

When the only worry we have is, as Zac Brown once crooned, “will the tide reach my chair”, count that as a better day than most. When your lucky rod, which stands at attention in the sand spike before you, begins to bow in deference to the tide, you know the frying pan, which patiently awaits your return, will not be lonely tonight.

Though my choices of tackle may fail me, my choice to immerse myself in the moment does not.

Life is full of choices. For fishermen, most of which involves gear, time honored tricks, and old wives tales that seem to steer the lures we find in our tackle boxes. Choices of where to fish, who to fish with, the snacks I pack or, is there time for just one more cast, are ones I relish.

As I look through my rearview mirror, I cannot see one choice I’ve made where sitting on a beach was stressful, chaotic, or detrimental to my health, with the exception of my leathery and freckled skin my dermatologist scolds me for each time I visit his office.

So, all you beach wagon warriors, it’s time to gas up and air down as you prepare to wander through the ruts and humps, or simply dream as if you were. The sticky salt that clings to the sheet metal may wear thin that which holds it all together, but that salty seasoning is just what the chef ordered.

Grab a rod, some stink bait, and your best bud (or sweetheart) and hit the surf this weekend, or any weekend. Be sure to bring big expectations, but a humble heart, cause the fish are often the ones in charge so check your ego at the gate.

Wishing y’all tight lines!

The Journey of a Thousand Memories Begins in a Single Shoebox

/ Steve Wade / 1 Comment

Being a hopeless romantic and one who enjoys the roundabout of nostalgia, it doesn’t take much prodding for me to point my compass down memory lane.

Because my odometer continues to spin like a hamster wheel, my check engine light of amnesia illuminates now, more than ever. When my dash begins to flicker, I find myself rummaging through an old shoebox from my youth chock full of warm fuzzies and a mound of evidence that proves me guilty of conspiracy to commit a life well lived in the third degree.

This ol’ Timberland shoebox, which once harbored leather boots that have long since decomposed in some landfill, now harbors memories only seen from my rear view mirror. This treasure trove contains letters, cards, and notes of encouragement penned of me as if I were the dashing hero who saved the planet. Most of those I didn’t deserve.

Love letters from my steady, now betrothed bride, Dear John letters from others who knew no better, and thank you letters for time well spent spill over the gunnel of this cardboard Love Boat. There are photos of best friends, in the least mature of times, born from disposable cameras and developed at the K-Mart one hour photo lab. There may even be a Polaroid or two lurking about.

…and thank you letters for time well spent spill over the gunnel of this cardboard Love Boat.

Ribbons, accolades, report cards, and trinkets of endearment now lie dormant waiting to be mined from the holder’s abyss. It brings me comfort knowing these few small pieces of my past are being preserved for all those who don’t care. I’ll probably be remembered as a hoarder of trivial sentimentalism and I’m ok with that.

The shadows of grey that now blanket my memory of days gone by are forever there but a bit harder to recall. This cauldron of personal treasures is less a casket of dying nostalgia but more a vessel of tribute to those I love and who’ve loved me, even when I was the most unlovable.

Little Rocket

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Farmville, NC is more than just farms. It’s also about food. Delicious southern food. The type of food typically found on the grounds following a holy hand raisin’ Sunday morning Baptist revival. Lip smackin’ and finger lickin’ kinda good. Just walk up, order, wait, and behold, an angel of deep fried goodness will bring forth the most mouth watering food a person’s pallet could ever hope for.

Me? I sauntered back to my truck with a Small Wing Ding Dinner and an apple pie turnover afternoon snack. All this for the low, low price of a Lincoln and a few presidential jingles . Winner, winner, chicken dinner! And, for the road, I tucked away a pint of their famous chicken salad. It’s out of this world scrumptious, which may be why they call this little road side slice of apple pie, “Little Rocket”.

Bon appetit!

Small Town Livin’

/ Steve Wade / 2 Comments

Unlike the kale smoothies and endless asphalt veins of the more progressive thinking urban centers, the yellow brick road of small town livin’, greasy spoon diners, and sittin’-a-spell attitude is as sweet as the tea I’m known to hold in my right hand. Climbing the oak branches of memories to better see the past of easier times is an exercise in good mental health.

Days when dinner on the church grounds was a bushel basket full of fun, fellowship, and deep fried food. The social committee was run by the lady’s bridge club and we knew they meant business. The meals they concocted in casserole dishes and steeped in crockpots are legendary.

As kids hopscotch through the sandbox of country living, they learn lessons not known to children reared inside the big city limits. Wrangling frogs, crawfish, bluegill, and an occasional feral cat are embedded in the syllabus of southern backroad upbringing. Grown men cook pigs all night, swirl secret vinegar sauce recipes, and can feed a whole VFW Post from one hog who sacrificed its all to delight our stomachs. Honeysuckle vines are nature’s sweet nectar which we once politely shared with butterflies and hummingbirds. Tonka trucks hauled our little plot of earth from one side of the backyard to the other. The red clay mud puddles we trod strengthened our constitution to fend off any virus which dared cross our path.

Small towns are places where thoughts are encouraged to meander, ideas are allowed to simmer, and the pace of life is invited to stop and smell the Gardenias.

Front porches are a commodity, rocking chairs a necessity, and sidewalks are the pathways to friendships. Life is best lived beyond our front door, not sequestered by windows and walls. It seems as though we’ve divorced ourselves of front porches. Where we once perched, eagerly awaiting a neighborly delivery of snap peas, has morphed into rear patios, like hiding places from the girl scout paparazzi.

I don’t see folks lounging on front porches much anymore. Perhaps it’s because of air conditioning, mosquitoes or people just don’t like people much anymore. What once was an open invitation to sit a spell has become a medieval moat for solicitors and those who cycle two-by-two. The late Lewis Grizzard once said, ”It’s hard to get drunk and fall off a patio”. I believe that to be true and not nearly as fun.

Mass transit in cozy little towns south of the Mason-Dixon line is typically defined by the rear gunnels of a pick-up truck loaded with passels of little leaguers, leather gloves in hand, with sandlot dreams with hopes of hitting a walk-off home-run. Sprinkled about the acres of farm land and row crops are big green, red, and blue tractors that rumble down thinly laced backroads as if they own it. Loud pipes, lifted chassis, and oversized tires are essential equipment for those who embrace the monster truck life. Moms in grocery getters look different here. Absent are the european SUVs and Prada accessories. Here, we have country Cadillacs, 4×4 suburbans, which double as huntin’ buddy haulers, and an occasional modified school bus ‘bacca wagon when needed in a pinch.

There’s poor people, rich people, good people, bad people, and just plain ol’ people. There’s those who’s hearts are wrapped with a selfless desire to serve their community. We call them, “salt of the earth”, people. Citizens of all religions live here, but we know for certain the southern baptists throw the best picnic parties and the local Pentecostal Holiness Church can raise the roof as well as any WWE wraslin’ show.

County roads are named for patriarchs, matriarchs, war heroes, and first responders who’ve passed much too soon in the line of duty. We’re a group who deeply care for our neighbors, even those who’ve made poor life decisions and just need a hand up. There’s nothing a neighborly food tree can’t cure when convalescing at home due to some unfortunate ailment.

Time is abundant and it’s the currency of our lives. Without it, I’m afraid our souls would become bankrupt. We steward our time well by sitting still. Our ears delight in the softness of silence. As we ruminate on the sweet cud of country living, our hearts connect with all the gifts only a small town can bequeath.

So, grab a Rand McNally and find your next small town destination. Here, you’ll find a cold Mason jar full of sweet tea and a rocking chair reserved just for you. You may even meet a friendly neighbor with a Tupperware bowl full of snap peas. Slop some authentic sausage gravy on a homemade buttermilk biscuit, savor the gas station fried chicken just off Main, and be sure to stop and smell the honeysuckle. The hummingbirds and butterflies here are cotillion cordial and don’t mind sharing.

Do Not Try This at Home

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I have done some dumb things in my life. Depending on one’s perspective, this monster I am leaned against could certainly qualify as residing somewhere in the top ten. There was nothing “sub” or “urban” about this 1983 restored Suburban. On the scale of city living decorum, this beast fell well off the spectrum for the proper manners required to live within the confines of the town limit sign. Living in the buttoned-up Cary, NC community at the time, one can imagine the horror that fell upon the Prius family who sidled up to me at the traffic light. Dual exhaust that made quite a clamor and the unleashed smell of carbureted fuel which had not yet made friends with a catalytic converter made for a beautiful aroma appreciated by only a few, and I was happy.

Dual exhaust that made quite a clamor and the unleashed smell of carbureted fuel which had not yet made friends with a catalytic converter made for a beautiful aroma appreciated by only a few, and I was happy. 

I purchased this ill advised mammoth in a far away city only a few days before Christmas, unbeknownst to my wife, and had it shipped to a local garage. I was over the redneck moon. My larger than life man toy had arrived. I was like Augustus Gloop, the husky kid in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, with my eyes on the candy prize. Actually, the more I ponder, this covert action may be in the top five dumbest things I have managed to convince myself was a good idea. 

I consider myself brilliant in a lot of ways. Like a child who sticks a fork in a receptacle, more than once, kinda brilliant. My plan, which even a five year old would have thought was lame, was to park the slightly lifted all terrain vehicle in our driveway on Christmas Eve pretending Santa Clause somehow left it there. As my brilliance began to dim, I thought it to be a good idea to surprise my sweet wife Christmas morning with my new acquisition. Check that…this just became the third dumbest thing I have ever done. The number one dumbest thing I have slid into is super classified top secret. 

I will allow the reader’s mind to wander as to the fallout that ensued at my compulsive, unauthorized, purchase . What I thought would be a merry mountain moment quickly fell off the cliff of misery. What had I done? Mrs. Clause was not amused. I got the look. The look your mama gives when you cannot stop fidgeting in the pew during the preaching hour. Well, I thought, at least my children still like me. I was embarrassed, but tried to lasso what joy was left.

I enjoyed that truck for about six months and then off she went, traded for a boat. My decision making prowess continued to tank, but my marriage was still in tact. A lot of lessons learned. It was fun while it lasted but glad when it ended. The First Lady only climbed in once, reluctantly, for a trip down the main drag. We were a sight for sore eyes. George Straight on the radio and my steady Betty by my side. She and I, high atop our fuel sipping brethren. It was one glorious ride in time.

East vs. West: The Great BBQ Sauce Debate

/ Steve Wade / Leave a comment

I suppose one could percolate on the connotations when considering the title of this little thread. To be clear, my recollections are not pertaining to “BBQ’ing” as this is northern code for backyard grilling hamburgers and hotdogs. I’m talkin’ ‘bout pig pickin’, hog smokin’, sauce slatherin’ on the other white meat cooked over oak hot coals for what often seems like a fortnight while tellin’ fish stories of broken lines and broken hearts. Some prefer a little fermented libation to accompany their all night journey. Me? Make my tea extra sweet with lots of caffeine.

Before I lead you astray with my layman’s knowledge, I must admit, I’m not a professional food critic, connoisseur of fine cuisine, purveyor of exquisite culinary fare or a Julliard’s trained chef but, I know a good sauce when I taste it.

A long-standing feud amongst North Carolinians, which seems to have raged longer than any skirmish the ancient Romans ever had with, well, anyone, is which pork BBQ sauce is better, a peppery vinegar saline swill or a sweet tomato and molasses dressing.

This somewhat dysfunctional, but saucy debate, has ruined many friendships and a couple marriages over the years. Out of respect for all pit masters and weekend swine warriors from Murphy to Manteo, I’ll remain neutral in this debate as to which sauce I prefer. I don’t have the courage to confess nor the time to read the nasty comments I’d receive from the opposing team. However, for the uneducated reader, this is serious and saucy business. Serious enough I feel it’s time we resolve our differences, kiss and make up, cool the coals, and practice a little active listening or otherwise, we may all be looking down the proverbial barrel of a sweet and tart civil war swirling in our tea glass. Right, when pigs fly. I get it.

I saw a t-shirt once depicting the Ol’ North State with an epic fissure slicing our precious piece of real estate heaven in half with the words, “tomato” to the west and “vinegar” to the east. My heart skipped a beat. My brow began to sweat. I thought, could this one little woven, unfettered piece of fabric, seemingly harmless garment be the fuel that rekindles the fire leading us into BBQ armageddon? Well folks, no surprise, this fire has been burning for what my Mother would call a “month of Sundays”. As long as whole hogs have been grilled over hot coals, so this debate has raged.

A word to the wise, make sure you’re in the right jurisdiction when you proclaim your allegiance lest you be accosted by an ol’ pit boss in overhauls wielding a sauce brush. There have been debates, rallies, cook-offs, contests, backyard brawls and an occasional healing at the local Holy Pentecostal Church, only for those, of course, who had to be exorcised for the notion that vinegar was the best concoction for pork consumption, when it’s really tomatoes, or vice versa.

Whichever flavor pleases your palate, be proud. However, as Grand-momma used to say, “pride cometh before the fall”.

Honestly, I enjoy both and feel uncompelled to argue. I also enjoy sweet tea but, for as long as I’ve lived in the South, I’ve never heard anyone argue over which is better, sweet or unsweet. That’s just plain unnatural.

So, whatever flavor causes your tongue to arise from it’s dull existence, be encouraged, there are many great pork patriots who’ve come before us who fought for our right to choose the dressing which tempts our taste buds.

Not to be an Eeyore but, I presume the flame of passion, which causes us to take sides, will never be extinguished. However, I wish for a kinder, gentler state where we, as North Carolinians, will all get along, take a collective deep breath and relax with our forks in hand. Let’s take off our rubber gloves, put down our sauce brushes and hide our secret BBQ brew long enough for one big virtual hug. I truly believe with the right amount of understanding and a few group therapy sessions, we may all one day begin to see better our opponent’s point of view.

When pigs fly? Oh, yeah, right! But what a glorious day it would be.