From Post No 13 about Manus Fulcher

"Besides doing odd jobs as a carpenter on homes and boats, he (Manu Fulcher) also was a gunsmith and the neighborhood handyman for sharpening saws and knives, and especially for repairing and servicing small motors. Old mower engines were his specialty. It was said that he could fix any motor as long as it was still in one piece. My father once took an old "grass cutter" to Manus because he could not get it to "fire" and start, no matter how many times he yanked on the rope. The next time he saw Manus and asked him if he had been able to get the motor running, Manus' response was that not only did he get it started, he had to remove the wire from the spark plug "cause every time the door slammed (and jarred his back porch) the engine would start!"

No. 120 In Memory of Phyllis Willis, "This Life is the Test!" 1 May 2013

On Wednesday (1 May 2013) I spoke at the funeral service for a good friend, fellow traveler, first cousin - once removed, Phyllis Willis. In her honor I am posting the notes I used in remembering her to our friends and family. These notes are unedited, at least for now, so please excuse any errors -- grammatical or otherwise.

It is a truism that funerals are more for the benefit of the living than for the one whose memory we honor. Because many of those who today honor her memory are here because of a relationship with Phyllis's family rather than directly with her, it is understandable that we follow that outline once again.

But in this case, and especially in this case, and for the edification of those who knew her only through her children or grandchildren, it is not only appropriate, it is necessary, even obligatory, that I began at least by telling you not just about what and who Phyllis Willis Willis was, but also about who and what she came from, and was a part of, and about what remained an essential part of her to the very end.

Some of the things I will speak of have been told, and some of you have heard them, many times before. But Phyllis never grew tired of hearing or telling them, and since it is in her honor that we are assembled today, I will proceed like she would have wanted me to, and like she told me to many times.

Phyllis was my first cousin once removed --- and for several reasons we felt even closer than that! I knew her all of my life, and for most of my life she was a regular part of it — and I would like to think that I was a part of hers.

I mention that because the matter of where she and I came from is what placed us on a path that would cross literally thousands of times in the years we shared together.

Her paternal grandparents, Joe Wallace and Margaret Willis, were my maternal great-grandparents. In short, my grandmother Bertha was her father’s sister. That relationship was far deeper than the bloodline itself would suggest. That is because something happened to Bertha when she was still a little girl that would have a profound effect on her soon to be born younger brother. In fact, his very name was in honor of the Mormon Elder who quite literally, by healing his sister, changed not just her life, but that of her parents and her brother from then and for forever — and we believe, for an eternity!

As late as when Phyllis could last bring herself to hear and listen, were you to have asked her to tell you who she was, or something about her, very early in that response she would have said something explaining that she was one of “Telford's crowd.”

If she had the strength and you had the time, she would have been glad to explain to you just what that meant. Because she no longer can, I will try to do it for her, and hopefully this won't be the last time it is told or remembered.

The Island on which she and I grew up was made up of what we called “crowds.” There was a time when those crowds were not just names but also neighborhoods. From Shell Point to Rush Point could be found crowds, even neighborhoods centered around family names like Yeomans, Davis, Rose, Gaskill, Nelson, Johnson, Hamilton, Fulcher, Russell, Salter, Fulford, Moore, Hancock, Styron, Brooks, Guthrie and Lewis ---and then even more Lewises and more Guthries. And finally everywhere, literally everywhere, there were Willises! So there were more crowds within the bigger Willis crowd.

And in that crowd of Willises, no crowd was more distinct than was the crowd that belonged to Telford Willis. For after he married Gertie Guthrie he built her a house, and there at the foot of Red Hill, between the oaks, the two of them raised a family — not just children, but a real family.

Scores of other men of Harkers Island did something very similar, but there was something special about Teff’s family, Teff’s crowd, for Teff was what he most often was called.

As his oldest son, Bertie Clyde, might have described that difference, “Always has been, and always will be!”

It was not just that he was a born leader - and he was (fishing crews, long-haul stations, or fish house positions).

It was not just because of his intellect and wit which were exceptional. (Tell the story of Brady Lewis building his boat).

And It was not just his powerful personality that set him apart and caused him to be mourned so intently that when he died to soon — with the whole Island weeping and wailing and a visible sadness that seemed to shroud the whole island like a somber veil.

No, it was more than that. It was I believe the combination of his personality and energy, with his enormous faith and spiritual devotion, the latter of which he somehow was able to instill into his children with a type of spiritual umbilical cord that was just as real, and not all that different, from how Gertie had nurtured them in her womb.

That is a fitting analogy, since when those children were infants the lay in bed beside both their mother and their father.

Bertie Clyde, Guy, Margaret, Francis, Joyce, Carol, and especially Phyllis, each in their own way became an extension of their fathers being.

As might be assumed, they were close to each other. When Fran or Bert or Guy came home, you could almost feel the whole generation swarming together at one or more homes or other places, and when it was time to go it was not all that unlike a funeral viewing as they bid their parting goodbyes.
But as each of them in their own way fashioned their own lives, there was something unique about Phyllis - what might be described as a special sensitivity that she was not just “a” link, but “the” link between the world of her parents and the world of her children, her nieces and nephews, and just as importantly, to an extended family, and especially to our church family.

Please don’t misunderstand me, as each of those siblings did their part, but time and space and distance do sometimes matter, and that was where, for those of us who were not Teffs and Gerties, that Phyllis played the most important part. She did that with Joyce and Carol always beside, but always standing just a little behind her, as she was the one who assumed he father’s role in the forefront of the family.

That was in no small part due to the fact that in terms of time and space and distance and place she was always there! To be even more precise, she was always here! She was always a part and in 100 ways she was always reminding us of who she was and why she was what she was.

When Phyllis married William Reed, from another Willis crowd, she still never skipped even a single beat in her assumed role as the heart and soul of the Telford Willis crowd. I imagine that might of posed some challenges for Bubble, as he was called, but she never let it slow her down, much less stop her. Eventually, after some initial kicking and screaming, her husband pretty much surrendered, and before long he was as much a fixture in the family as she was. Indeed somebody had to stay home and tend to the children all those nights and weekends that Phyllis was involved with the choir or with her extended family.

Let me add here that just a she and her siblings were a testimony to her parents and what they believed, I hope that her children and their children will remain a testament to her for many years to come.

Speaking of children, many here will acknowledge that in a very real sense, Phyllis Willis, had another child that was just as real as were her two sons and three girls — and only a little removed in terms of the role it played in her life and legacy.

That child was called the Harkers Island Girls Chorus. It was organized by another Mormon Elder (Elder John Thompson) when the girls were still in their early teens. And while Phyllis was still just an early teenager like the rest, she somehow became a vital part and eventually, and evidencing the spirit of her father, she became the acknowledged leader of that group.

I don't know that they ever voted or appointed her as such, but ask any of them then or now who was in charge, and they would not have the hesitated for even a moment in their response. When I was Bishop and somewhat involved in making their arrangements and schedules, I could talk to any of the ladies, even my own sisters, one of which had a pretty strong personality of her own, but they would always say, I'll check with Phyllis and then I’ll let you know.

[Tell the story of Joyce’s hesitation and Phyllis’s response of “You can and you will!”]

A decade ago an oft-repeated goal of the general leadership of our Church at the national and international level was to “bring the church out of obscurity.” I hope it will never be forgotten the vital role that the Girls Chorus played in our little corner of the world in bringing not just this ward or branch, but this church out of obscurity.

For years, our congregation was known as “the church were those girls came from,” as much or even more than as they being “some girls that came from our church.”

Literally all over Eastern North Carolina, in other churches, in government and civic events, and especially at funerals, they could be seen and heard and always were remembered.

O morn of you beauty, Today on the Highway,Master the Tempest is Raging, This is my Country, This I Believe, or I have a Testimony — just saying those words even now can summon up in many of us a mental image of those girls, ladies, women, old women, as they stand with their hands on each others’s waist or shoulder, tuning to a little "pitch pipe," then harmonizing and in parts, often a' capello, with Phil either standing in front and directing with her hand, or sometimes just standing at the end of the front line, leading with her exaggerated breathing, or just the movement of her head and shoulders; or if she was really intent, with the expression on her face!

I have lost count of the number of times that I have spoken at occasions like this, standing up after those girls sat back down, always hoping that my words could tap into the spiritual awareness that had been aroused by their sacred and sweet voices. One reason for their impact was that hey believed what they sang! For example, I share the words of this song that was one of their trademarks.

This I Believe!
As sung by the Harkers Island Girl's Chorus

In our home up in Heaven we were prepared
to come to earth as a goal
With earthly parents we would be shared
And cared for body and soul
The plan was laid up in Heaven
The choice was left up to men
To follow freedom or force commend
Which one did we defend?
This I believe, the Gospel was fashioned for men
That we might have joy in our earthly state
The live with God again
This I believe, we cherished the choice to be free
We followed our Savior who said with Love,
Come Follow Me!

In the last 30 years I have traveled extensively in Eastern North Carolina and throughout the state, and even the inter-mountain west. It would be impossible to number the times I have been asked, when someone learned where I was from or heard my accent, the following question. “Are those girls still singing together?”
Every time I have heard that, it was an unspoken tribute to the energy and diligence of Phyllis Willis.
It would be incomplete, even unfair, to focus entirely on her work with a chorus without mentioning the other service that she rendered – although usually much more in the shade than when she was displaying her musical talent.

She was always a leader, and never content to just sit back and not be heard or involved. This included gatherings of men as well as women, and was not just with the sisters of the relief society. Although she was usually a leader, she was always a self-starter, especially when it came to compassionate service for others, even though it was usually done in the shade, and no one other than her and the Angels knew just what she had accomplished.

What I do today is a "labor of love," but a labor none the less. One of the reasons I do is that Phyllis and the other girls taught me long ago by their examples that sometimes we have to do things like this, no because we enjoy it, or because it is easy, but because it is our obligation and duty. The funerals she participated in numbered in the hundreds. I am confident that there were times when she did not feel like doing it, or when she herself was one of those who were grieving, but it is to her credit that she never begged-off for any of those reasons.

When I served as Bishop, early on she taught me a lesson that served me well during the time that I had the responsibility for shepherding a ward, and then a stake. At 32 I had more energy than wisdom. I’d like to think that while I have lost much of that energy, that loss has been balanced by having gained at least some wisdom.

“Good judgment comes from experience, which often comes from bad judgment.”

One of those occasions of bad judgment was punctuated by a lesson that Phyllis taught me as together we pondered how to deal with a particularly difficult situation – one where it would have been easy to have dismissed the whole matter by saying that the person got only what they deserved. That was I was disposed to do, until Phyllis asked me to hear and then memorize a little couplet that she had relied on many times in similar situations.

“I have wept in the night, for the shortness of sight, that to someone else’s needs made me blind. But I never have yet felt a tinge of regret for being a little too kind!”

Which brings me ultimately to this question, "Who is entitled to the honor and blessing of being called a follower or disciple of Christ?" That is something that has been often and publicly discussed of late. Rather than looking to those definitions that others have volunteered I will mention the ones that Christ himself seemed to emphasize.

In the 25th Chapter of Matthew, only days, maybe just hours, before he offered himself up for sacrifice, he left a memorable lesson about he would separate his "sheep from the goats."

The Least of These!
31 ¶ When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:
32 And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:
33 And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.
34 Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
35 For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
36 Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
37 Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
38 When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
39 Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
(New Testament | Matthew 25:31 - 40)

In my life, one that now spans sixty years, I have never known someone more willing, indeed more comfortable, at ministering to the "least of these" than was Phyllis Willis!

Love one Another!
3 Little children, yet a little while I am with you. Ye shall seek me: and as I said unto the Jews, Whither I go, ye cannot come; so now I say to you.
34 A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.
35 By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.
(New Testament | John 13:33 - 35)

Like the rest of us, Phyllis Willis had her weaknesses. She had her crosses to bear - some of which weighed so mightily upon her that she wondered if she could even bear them. She made her share of mistakes, which from what I could tell were always of the head and not of the heart.

But no one could ever accuse Phyllis Willis of not loving -- not just showing affection, but truly loving, No one would ever suggest that she was not answering the call to "love one another," sometimes she offered her love to those who never seemed willing to return it, but that became their burden to bear and not hers. If we are to take the Savior at his word, and I do, then by the standard that he proclaimed, the dear sister that we honor today was not only a sister, a cousin, a mother and grandmother --- she was also a disciple of Christ, and she was willing to do his work in serving others.

So, as we lay her to her rest this morning, let me one more time mention her crowd, that crowd that she came from and never grew out of, by recalling that her father, Telford Willis, died in 1949. Now, sixty plus years later we still speak of him in no small part because of his children, and because they embodied in their lives the things that he believed and loved. What a wonderful tribute it would be to his daughter if ten, twenty, or even sixty plus years from now in a place and setting something like this, people will still speak of Phyllis Willis as well because her children and grandchildren have done for the very same thing! And, hopefully, they will evidence in their lives the truths that flowed not just from her lips but also from her head and her heart as she sang and led others in singing.

Corey [Willis] closed his remarks by sharing his testimony. I will close mine by sharing hers. These word were sung by her hundreds of times, and they express, I believe, how she really felt.

I have a testimony, sacred and dear to me
Something that lies within my soul
One that I cannot see.

When life seems dark and its shadows
Hides all the brightness of day
I feels God’s arms around me
Leading me on each day.

Trials and tribulations oft have come my way
But I felt Him near me
And I knelt to pray-

Pray to God in heaven
Thank him fervently
For the blessings from his store
Giv’n unto me

I know that I shall meet Him
Some bright and glorious day
When all the world is free from sin
And shadows pass away.

He’ll take my hand and we’ll wander
Thru flower gardens fair.
Where all the land is peaceful
And far from toil and care

I know that He liveth
Reigneth up above
May He always guide me
Bless me with his love

I’ve a testimony- Sacred, dear to me
One that lies within my soul
Something I cannot see!

Amen, amen!

Addendum to No. 20 "Miss Ollie & Dr. Moore"

Originally posted on 2 April 2011

Willard Willis told me on 3/8/2013 that Dr. Moore got the money to pay for medical school at Wake Forest from a gold medal his father (Tyre Moore) had earned while serving as a surfman on a rescue team at Cape Lookout before the turn of the 20 century. According to the story, Tyre Moore had buried and hidden the medal soon after he received it, knowing its value and fearing that he might someday lose it or have it stolen. When at long last, his son decided he was not cut-out for fishing, and wanted to be a doctor instead, the old man dug up his treasure and presented it to his son, saying, "Now, you sell this and it will pay for getting you started up there." So, off to Wake Forest went Laurie Moore, and all of DownEast was blessed with a wonderful family doctor and friend for the next half a century.

No. 119 Archie Fulford, "You look enough alike ..."

Archie Fulford was loved by everybody. I mean exactly that! He was loved by everybody who knew him. Although in another place or at another time he might have been known as the "town drunk," he was loved way too much to ever have been called that here. Besides, when Archie drank he became even more lovable and was never a problem for anyone - that is, anyone other than himself. He was die-hard fan of the New York Yankees, but that was about the only other bad thing you might ever say about him.

Archie Fulford (left) with Donald Guthrie & Ronald Davis

The youngest son of one of the Island’s longest standing families, one that had been here for more than a century before the exodus from the Banks, he never had children of his own. By the time I came to know him he was an old man, hardly more than five feet tall, with a face that evidenced the life he had lived with heavy wrinkles and a ruddy complexion. But that same face always had a smile, and when he passed his time telling boys like me his farcical stories, his grin was often a hardy laugh.

Near the end of his life he was all but adopted by Billy Best who ran the biggest grocery story on the Island. By then he had given up the bottle, and he was used by Billy as a combination stock boy and night watchman. He even spent most nights sleeping on a small cot, what we called a "day bed," in the office enclosure hidden in the very back of the store.

It was around the store as he discussed the latest news and sports, and shared his yarns with other old-timers that I came to know him. Billy’s son, Alton, was one of my best friends, and his father’s store was just across the road from ball field that lay behind out church. So, part of every day was meeting him and others at the store to organize a game, and going back to the same place to get a soft-drink and nabs when the game was over. Archie grew so used to seeing the two of us together that he once grabbed us both by our arms and stated, "You boys look enough alike that you could be neighbors!" It was years later before I realized the full irony of how we had interpreted his statement.

Archie seemed to have a particular affection for Alton, and he was always picking on him in one way or another. He seemed especially to enjoy commenting on Alton’s hair after it was tousled by swimming in the sound or playing in the woods. "Your hair is just like fine marsh grass," he once observed as my friend removed his cap after a playing ball on a hot summer day.

But the remark I remember most is from one day when we were a little older, and were dressed to go out in Al’s car on a Friday night. As Alton walked into the store, probably to get some gas money from his father, Archie commented on his good looks, and then feigned an added compliment as he expressed that Alton had really "kind hair." When my friend smiled in response, the old man added, "the kind that grows on a dog’s tail." (Actually he was even more explicit than that.)

Any use of the adjective "kind" to describe a person or object has had another connotation for me ever since.

　

No. 118 "Where did you get that shirt you're wearing" A Christmas Story

Like most every mother of the era, mine was a seamstress of sorts. Beyond sewing buttons, darning holes, and hemming cuffs, she would tackle the bigger jobs of making dresses for my sisters. Usually, but not always, she would use a paper pattern that had been come from Roses “dime store” in Beaufort, and often ones that had been used several times before.

And sometimes, if money was especially tight, she would use the material left over from those dresses to make shirts for her boys. I wore those shirts through most of my elementary school years.

For these she didn’t need or use a pattern. Instead, she fitted them on us individually as we stood erectly in front of her. All the while she sat and swiveled in front of the Singer sewing machine on her kitchen table. Within a few minutes, which sometimes felt like an hour, she would have fashioned our sleeves, collars, and shoulders — all held in place by small straight pins saved from unpacking the “real” garments bought in stores at town.

An hour or so later after she started, a new shirt would be laid out and ready to wear.

At least to us, over time it was easy to lose track of which shirts were mom-made and which ones were store-bought. I eventually learned, however, that some others were more discerning than me.

In December of 1963, when I was in the fifth grade, my mother made Teff and me special “Christmas shirts.” She used a dark green fabric that was almost like velvet. Because they were meant to be special, I didn’t wear it out of the house until the night of the annual Christmas festival held at the school. But when I finally did, I was so proud to have a new shirt for the event, and one that was fashioned for just such an occasion.

Just after getting to the school, and as I headed through the entrance and down the hall toward the auditorium, an older boy tapped me on the shoulder. He was almost ten years older than me, but I knew who he was because he played ball on the high school team, and I knew all of the players, especially those from the Island.

As soon as I turned, he seemed to give me a “once over” that caught me a little by surprise – I didn’t recall that he had ever noticed me in any way before. Then he just looked me in the eye  and asked,“Where did you get that shirt you're wearing?”

Without any hesitation I replied, “My mama made it for me.”

Just as quickly he responded, “You can tell that by looking at it,” followed by a wink and laugh.

I was so naive that I didn’t even consider that his comment wasn’t meant as a compliment! A second later he was somewhere else and it would be years afterward, when it was “me” who was playing basketball on the high school team before he ever spoke to me again.

That was it! I paid little or no attention to it then and not much in the years that followed. But recently, especially as I have observed the emphasis of a new generation of children on brand names and logos, my mind has been drawn back to that encounter.

Reflecting upon that occasion, and perhaps countless others that I may simply not have noticed, I have come to a simple conclusion. Just as I had no misgivings at the time I wore those “tailored” shirts to school, I have concluded that even if I did, those feelings now have been replaced with an appreciation and even a pride for both the rough cloth that became my shirts, and even more for the hands that fashioned them for and on me.

No. 117 Mullet Roe

Like ‘em or not, mullet roe were very much a part of life from the first full moon in October until well into the first new moon of November. Mention them to others, and even to some Islanders, and you’ll see a wrinkled nose and often a question such as “how can you eat that stuff?” But “eat” it was an understatement for many of my family and friends and others on Harkers Island. Whether fried or baked, fresh or frozen, salted or dried, fall would not be fall without at least one special meal of red mullet roe.

A fresh red roe waiting to frozen, salted, dried, or eaten

“Big mullets” is the name given to the fish when they swell to more than double their normal size while growing their eggs, literally millions of eggs. When the wind turned to the no’thard, these mullets would school by the tens of thousands, and dozens of crews would leave the Island trying to find them. Seeing even one of them jump would create a stir among the fishermen, causing them to let out a gill net in a wide circle that was then pulled together, if they were lucky, with hundreds, even thousands of pounds of the swollen and silvery fish caught in or rolled into the mesh.

In my early youth the fish themselves were discarded after the roe was harvested — only the “livers and gizzards” saved to be served as yet another delicacy. But not many years later, locals came to love the bulging fillets of the roe mullets, with its flaky white meat, almost as much as the roe itself.

During a mullet blow, people would gather at the fish houses just to get their hands on half a dozen fish, almost always given for free, to take home. Others would buy a hundred pounds or more so they could have enough to roe to freeze, salt, or dry, and to last them through the winter.

A small portion of the roe were white rather than the “reddish orange” that was everyone’s favorite. I never heard of anyone eating any of the white roe, and it was standard practice to squeeze the belly of any fish just enough to see the color of the roe that was squeezed out before choosing one to take home.

At our house, my father preferred a combination of dried and salted roe to any other. A yearly ritual was to lay several dozen on the south facing porch to dry in the autumn sun for several days. When at last they were ready, he would ship some by mail to my brothers who were living away at the time, and the rest he would keep in a large sealed can until all were finally shared or eaten.

In recent years, with the fish houses all gone, you consider yourself lucky to get even one roe in the fall. But even that one is worth the wait and trouble for those who grew up as accustomed to enjoying a mullet roe in October as to having a turkey in November.

No. 116 Roasting Conchs

In early Spring and late fall the waters of Back Sound can sometimes be as clear as glass. A    combination of lower temperatures and calming winds combine to remove whatever it is that makes the water so thick the rest of the year.

Besides offering a pristine view of the sandy bottom, the clear cool water allowed us to see the conchs [and welks] that hide in the grass lumps that dotted the tide line. With nothing more than a skiff and an ore, my brother and I would scour the bottom from David’s dock to Billy Hamilton’s landing. When we were lucky, we would see one or more, and sometimes as many as a dozen conchs nestled among the swaying sea grass. One of us would hold the skiff steady while the other would lean over and reach for the conch.

One thing about the clear water that we sometimes lost sight of was that it could be a magnifying lens, distorting how deep the water under us really was. Sometimes we would lean, and then stretch farther than we had expected, finally reaching so far that our rolled-up shirt sleeve would get wet all the way to our shoulder. Other times the cool clear water would reach to our neck and hairline, but in spite of that we never gave up or pulled back until we had that conch firmly in our grasp.

A live conch washed up on the shore at flood tide

Once we had gathered all we could find, we would hurry home to enjoy what we had taken. Sometimes that meant “beating them out” so Mama could stew them for us and the whole family. But other times, especially when the weather was bright and sunny, we would cook them ourselves.

That meant roasting them over an open fire. This required gathering sticks or tearing apart fish boxes to use for kindling. Believe it or not, we sometimes made our fodder from old wooden decoys that Edith’s Darrel (Willis) had thrown behind his old shed. Once the flames were burning, we would drop our catch into the flame and watch them as they began to sizzle. We could soon hear them “popping” as the outer shell began to crack in the searing heat. After a few minutes we would begin to poke and probe the smaller oval and outer shell that protects the living conch as it withdraws into the hollow of the bigger shell. We had learned from experience that when the oval shell falls off, the conch is ready to eat.

Then would begin the most delicate part of our operation; pulling the white hot conch out of the fire and dropping it into a bucket of fresh water we had pumped from a shallow well. Once it had cooled enough to be handled, the fleshy core could be pulled out and was ready to clean — that is if we had correctly determined that the conch was fully cooked. If in our haste we had jumped the gun, it would require using a hammer to break open what was left.

Almost all of a roasted conch could be eaten, even the “cheese” that was nestled in the point of the cone. Only a small gut on the inside of the muscle was usually discarded.  Once that was done, and what was left was washed off one final time, we would begin to tear off chunks of the meat to savor and enjoy.

One thing about roasted conchs that made them even better than stewed ones for some of us was that they were so very “tough” that every bite you took could take minutes to chew on and swallow. The longer that took, the longer you had to taste and enjoy it. And the happier you were that you had gone to the trouble of doing the whole thing in the first place.

No. 114 Why is it called Shell Point?

Why is it called Shell Point? I’m pretty sure it is because of the massive mound of sea shells that once were piled high at the far eastern end of the Island. It was said that the shells had been piled there over many generations by native Americans, supposedly to build a bridge from the Island to Core Banks. Almost all of the shell mounds were gone by the time I can remember, although on low tide you could see remnants of the pile that headed out to the eastward.

Where did all those shells go?

Watching the sun go down at Shell Point with
my granddaughter, Eden.

One of my father's oft-told stories was that as a young man his earliest driving experience was with a truck. It was used to haul shells from Shell Point to dump along the path that became the main Harkers Island road. According to the story, his co-worker was Henry Davis, the son of Cleveland Davis.  Those shells were the initial bed for what is now Island Drive. I vaguely recall him saying that after their project was completed even more shells were transported elsewhere in the County for similar purposes.

My father explained that Cleveland, and Daddy's father, Charlie Hancock, had a contract or job to move the shells for one of the New Deal operations, so this would have been in the mid 1930s. He recalled it as the WPA, but it could have been one of the several others.

His anecdotes were mostly about how the shells would puncture the tires on the truck and that he and Henry would sometimes have to remove the tire and patch the tubes several times in one journey to and from the Point. Even with all the delays, their job was eventually done, and when it was, the shells at Shell Point became just a memory.

No. 113 "Feelin' for clams"

When most people think of clamming, they imagine someone standing on a shoal, bending over a rake, and pulling and pushing it back and forth. With each pull they would try to feel or hear the scrape of the rake tongs on a solid shell. That is indeed how most people did it.

But on the Island, the most serious clambers left their rake in a skiff, and stayed far from the more shallow shoals. Instead they would squat or kneel in hip-deep water with a floating bucket strapped to their waist. There they would grope with both bare hands and bare feet to feel the clams with their fingers and toes and an acute sense of touch. “Feelers,” as they called them, could usually fill a bucket much faster, and easier, than someone toiling with an iron rake.

One family that I knew would go clamming as a group; father, mother and all six children. They would spends hours at a time, as long as the tide would allow, in Banks Bay or on Twelve O’clock Shoal, nestled together while working the bottom for “littlenecks,”  “cherrystones,” or “chowders.”

Working as a team they could scour an acre or more of sandy bottom in less than a day. In fact, one of the little girls was so energetic in churning the bottom with her ten fingers and ten toes that her brothers and sisters called her “Maytag.” When asked, why, one of them explained that the only other thing that could stir up as much water as she did was a Maytag washing machine.

No. 112 "If they fire us, they'll have to pay us right away ..."

In the summer of ‘42 (sounds like a movie title doesn't it?) my mother, not yet thirty, awaited the birth of her seventh child. The first six had been born at home with the delivery overseen by Mama’s mid-wife grandmother, whom everyone, even her grandchildren, called “Aunt Marg.” But Aunt Marg was now more than eighty years old, and calling on her for the delivery was no longer a viable option. It was agreed that this time  Mama would have to go to the hospital in town.

Without insurance or a steady income, plans had to be made for how to pay for the doctor and several days in a hospital room. It was thought that the total cost would be almost exactly one hundred dollars. Wartime concerns had caused the Navy to impose restrictions on fishing on the ocean side of the Banks, so there was little hope of earning that much in the water.

But there was one almost sure way to make the money. The Army recently had commissioned the building of a station at Ocracoke on Pamlico Sound that included a long wooden dock for servicing the boats that patrolled the nearby Banks and Inlet. Word had quickly spread that workers on the dock were paid a dollar an hour, far more than any of the laborers along the Sounds had ever even heard of. So early one Sunday morning Daddy headed up and along Core Sound towards Ocracoke, looking for a job working on that dock.

Sure enough, he was hired as soon as he presented himself to the foreman supervising the project. Working as much as twelve hours a day, seven days a week, he began to count both his earnings and how much longer he would have to stay there before he could go home with the money he would need.

In less than two weeks he figured he had enough wages coming his way to gather his belongings and head back south down the Sound. But upon confronting his foreman he was flabbergasted to learn that he would  have to wait until the next pay day, more than week later, to collect his final earnings.  Bitterly disappointed he returned to his work with his sadness so evident that one of his coworkers asked him what was wrong?

When Daddy explained his situation, his friend commiserated with his predicament, and then suggested a plan for how both of them could get their money without having to wait.

"The foreman is right about having to wait until payday," he conceded to my father, "but only if you quit before the project is finished."

"On the other hand," he explained, "if they fire us, they will have to pay us right away and probably order us to get off of their dock as quick as possible. You just follow me and we'll both be out of here before the day is over."

My brother Mike, in the middle, with Denny (b. 1944)
and Telford (b. 1950)

So, together, the two laid down their tools, and then sat down on the edge of that portion of the dock that was already completed, sometimes laying back as if to take a nap in the summer sun. When told to get back to work they just ignored the order and continued to waste away their time as the other workers toiled on busily all around them. Finally, the foreman gave the two malingerers exactly what they had wanted.

"Both of you are fired," he shouted so loudly that others could hear, and hopefully learn from the example. "Go straight to the paymaster and get you wages and don't let me see either of you on this dock ever again!"

Within less than an hour Daddy was back in his boat with $115 in his pocket. Not long after sundown he tied up at the landing and ran up the path to let Mama know that he had the money they would need to allow for her to have her new baby in a hospital. Four weeks later my brother Mike was born in Beaufort, and Daddy paid both the doctor and the hospital for their services before carrying his wife and his new baby home in the same boat he had used to get to Ocracoke.