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.

On this morning, it wasn’t the view that garnered my attention, but the sound.

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.

There’s not much to do on the island. No putt-putt, go carts or arcades. Only water, sunsets, nature, and lots of time to read books.

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.

Melville, Lee, Twain, Steinbeck, Faulkner, O’Conner, and E.B. White could have all worn the yoke of service well.

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

Although I’ve not spent much time in barns, I’ve been accused of being raised in one.

The iconic southern rural barn, which once dotted the landscape with gambrel roofs, painted red clapboard siding and large doors suitable for an International tractor to pass through, are slowly melting into the ground from which they sprouted many decades ago.

Now, many new farm structures are metal, which ring hollow and lack the warmth and soul of old heart pine beams and hay lofts, where children misbehaved and an occasional kiss was stolen.

Places where livestock were reared, grain was stored, tools were forged, tobacco hung and moonshine steeped, are now antiques left over from the early working farm. Now, many new farm structures are metal, which ring hollow and lack the warmth and soul of old heart pine beams and hay lofts, where children misbehaved and an occasional kiss was stolen.

Now, old barns are being dismantled and sold, piece by piece, for the valuable relics they’ve become, not in whole, but in part. Ingredients used to construct these hubs of farm life are now coveted by milling companies for furniture, flooring and repurposed for new home construction. All are honoring gestures to that which gifted its pieces, but the land it once anchored is missing a piece of its history.

Like hungry hippos, buyers are scrambling to find the next tobacco barn slated to fall. Old growth trees, which were once harvested and shaped by the caring hands of skilled carpenters who lived in these farming communities, are now the cats meow of fine living.

Because I am a writer, not a fighter, I could dream up a dozen metaphors and analogies to pair with this little lamb’s wool thread I am spinning. I believe the one which weighs heaviest on my pitchfork is, some of us have lost a vital connection to our past. Divorcing our association to the southern farm has distanced our understanding of where our food comes from.

We’ve forgotten the value of our ancestors. Those patriarchs and matriarchs who have melted into the soil where they were last laid, have been written off as a non-essential piece of our historical fabric. The generations, from which we were born, cultivated and harvested what they needed to build the foundation for their families. It is a fountain of wealth and wisdom we seem to no longer tap.

Our “grands” and “great grands” honed their lives for what was good, pure and right. They built life giving structures for us to admire, but now, some of these structures have been left for ruin. If only we could, like pickers at an antique show, sift through these old proverbial barns of the past, take what is valuable to repurpose, but also search for that which our ancestors intended to leave behind, which has grown exponentially in value. Things like wisdom, resourcefulness, respect, character and the dignity found in hard work and providing for your neighbor.

The investment they once made in us are yielding dividends we can now claim as our own. They have passed down their precious legacy for us to enjoy. We just gotta reach back far enough to find it.

The right words, when thoughtfully strung together, can inspire, motivate and bring purpose to a charge that otherwise may never care to suit up on game day. If words matter, as these have for so many who’ve donned the Athens Drive uniform, it’s the man behind the words, and his heart, that matter more.

Athens Drive Baseball Coach Dave Randall Ebert (‘83-‘91) is the man, and his heart is the reason we gathered yesterday to honor his tenure. His dedication to Athens Drive High School spanned well beyond the field of dreams he diligently cultivated, but it was his teams of sand lot players he seemed to care about most and we knew it.

“Coach E” was a mentor, teacher, friend and could lay down tough love that hurt at times, but deep in our core, we knew he cared as if we were his own blood. Like a good father, he demonstrated his love through his actions. He spent countless hours, most unbeknownst to his players, building the foundation necessary to not only create a quality program, but to create quality young men. We left his well manicured diamond better ball players than when we entered, but more importantly, we left better people.

Along the way, I met a man who’s sole purpose in life was not the numbers on the scoreboard, but more a man who’s scoreboard was numbered with the boys he sharpened into men, men who still care enough to stand by his side thirty years after his last round of infield.

– Steve Wade on Coach Dave Ebert

I’ll save the rest for a book someday, one which would require a thousand pages to hold the stories, memories, and lessons learned between the dugouts. As fish tales grow larger with time, often based in little truth, my memories of Athens Drive baseball are steeped in honest tales of hard work, earned success, and a purpose to achieve beyond what I thought I could muster.

Thanks Coach! Job well done!

So, is it PEE-CAN or PUH-CON? I believe the most citified among us would vote for the latter. Us southern folk, I would bet, prefer the correct pronunciation which resembles something a teenager may do in a can on a road trip in a pinch. Either way, these nuts are hidden gems in a milk chocolate colored shell.

Like manna, which lay about the ground, it only takes a quick crouch to gobble up a handful. These delectable nuts rain from on high. Though like fruits of labor snatched from the fertile soil by both mechanical harvesters and human hands, pecans are equally as satisfying. Kale, not so much.

These sweet nuts perform best when swimming inside a pie shell doused in gooey goodness. Pecans, House Autry breading notwithstanding, are a southerner’s secret ingredient we sneak in to about any baked good we deem necessary. If you happen to have a bottle of bourbon born in the bluegrass state and a bit of bitter sweet chocolate, throw together a Kentucky pecan pie. Just be judicious with the liquor. Your six-year old needs not any additional aid to misbehave at the family gathering.

As most mischievous boys under the age of 12 might do, I spent many days coercing my nutty snacks from the trees they were attached to with whatever I could throw high enough to relieve them from their high perch. Footballs worked best. I paid no mind to the ones under foot as I pursued my quarry. It was way too much fun doing it my way. As I aged, and my enthusiasm for working harder waned, I began to adopt what smart southern pecan harvesters have done for generations…lay down a tarp for a few days and, like a hungry hippo, gather those which have jumped to their demise by the hundreds. Tossing pecans in a tin pail from on far, was also a great way to pass the time and improve my hand-eye coordination.

Be sure to grab a slice of sweet pecan pie, pecan clusters or pecan pralines, along with a frosty mug of eggnog this Christmas, an alcohol spike is optional. I promise this fruit born from heaven will not disappoint. There’s also a sense of satisfaction, whether cracked by hand two by two or with a tool, the effort is worth the work.

To say southerners place these oblong nuts close to the top of the dessert food pyramid of ingredient goodness is no exaggeration. Fresh from the tree is best and the most fun, but if you find yourself with an hankering for pee-cans, Elizabeth’s Pecans in Turkey, NC has a respectable offering of all kinds, but like gambling, commit to a quota of how many you plan to eat or the bag will be empty before you hit your front door.

In spite of my effort to bury the hatchet of sleeplessness, I awoke this morning before the rooster could muster his first gesture of gratitude to the new day’s sun. My slumber had abruptly ended for no defendable reason. My brain was like, “good morning, Sunshine”, but my body was not feeling sunny or shiny. I had come alive about the time the nocturnal predators were punching the time clock and heading to the comfort of their daytime lair.

As a child, about the time when Garanimals were pre-school chic, TV was my main source of entertainment, but only when the outside elements were not conducive for a five-year old to be unaccompanied by a grown up. As adults, TV can still be the consummate pacifier. Nowadays, we binge watch Yellowstone while eating Cheetos and sour worms on the sofa. So, I decided to take a little sip of LED bliss to pass the time.

After reaching for, but fumbling the remote to the floor from the bedside table it slept on overnight, my belly ballast shifted, almost rolling me out of bed. I managed to upright myself to a place where my equilibrium was more satisfied. My plan was to lie there until my stomach expressed its need to be filled.

I love black and white television shows and, at 6:00 am, there’s a gaggle of ‘em to be found all across my over the air antenna. We cut the umbilical cord long before Beverly Hills 90210 became a thing.

Sometimes, I ponder what life was like living in black and white. No cell phones, laptops, or kids on a couch playing Call of Duty. Bicycles littered driveways, ice cream trucks made their rounds, a garden hose was a source for mischief and capture the flag ruled the day, until the street lights lit up. I guess there were no Chick-Fil-As or Bojangles’ either. I may need to rethink my ponderin’.

Because brevity is the soul of wit, I feel obligated to express my point and then quickly, but quietly exit this stage of prognostication.

There’s not much good to be gained from living in the gray, fifty shades or one. Gray seems uncertain, indistinguishable, and just blah. I was taught something was either one way or the other. Living life in black and white gives me clarity, decisiveness and direction. It’s right, or wrong. Knowing the rules just makes life work.

The Andy Griffith Show is one I still watch. Of all the things this program gets right, the one which has had the most impact on me and other well meaning men is, the fictional, but identifiable, Andy Taylor.

He showed us how to be a loving and engaged father, a trusted and revered pillar of the community, and a loyal friend. There wasn’t ne’er a problem Sheriff Taylor couldn’t solve. He cared deeply for his family, had the compassion of an angel and loved those he disagreed with without condition. He was dependable, reliable and always put other’s interests ahead of his own. He’s who I want to be, but sometimes my good example blinker is broken.

I owe a great sense of gratitude to Andy Taylor for helping to shape me into the person I’ve become. As a father, husband, and friend, I often pause in moments of indecision and ask myself, “what would Andy do?” Andy Taylor is more than just a fictional character. He’s a connector, a path maker, a model of all things good but, most importantly, he’s a man of character and integrity, two traits I covet.

I’ll close with one of my favorite quotes Andy ever uttered on the show, and one that envelops my heart with each re-run I watch; “When a man carries a gun all the time, the respect he thinks he’s gettin’ might really be fear. So I don’t carry a gun because I don’t want the people of Mayberry to fear a gun. I’d rather they would respect me…”

The point at Cape Lookout, NC can be as docile as it is violent. As it recedes twice a day, it exposes the sandy underbelly of that which holds the fish we hunt. The sandbar just below the froth that floats above it is like a refuge for unsuspecting prey. As the tide rises, so does the opportunity for drum and others of their ilk to rise with it.

Like hungry beach goers standing in line at the local seafood shack at supper time, I imagine the predators that lurk in the deep follow their instinct to keep their bellies full. It’s at these times, when the opposing tides from the north and south side of the point, which flow and blend over one another, resemble a civil war battlefield of strength and power. It’s also a time to retreat from the surf lest your salty beach wagon be consumed by that which we love…the ocean.

I’ve had good luck here, but luck is all I’ve ever had. Some days, although my fishing calendar doesn’t always align with the quarry I pursue, sitting in my beach chair at the point feels as if I’m a boatswain minding my bow with nothing but ocean all around.

Some friendships here are made between tides, when times are slow and stories are traded like baseball cards on the playground of our youth. Surf fishing alone never really feels lonely here, or really anywhere as long as sand sticks to our tires and salt to our skin.

It’s a site to behold and one which is cherished by anyone who’s been there. Whether camping, fishing, shelling or just wading in the frequent tidal pools, it‘s a destination of which takes effort to reach but its effort worth giving.

Tight lines y’all!