My attempts to continue posting to this blog, documenting the events of my travels from Kansas to the east coast of North Carolina, have been fraught with one difficulty after the next - of which lack of time has not been. No, for the most part, I have written nothing because nothing is available to write. I have ventured out nowhere; I have met no new people; I have seen nothing out of the ordinary. My days have followed the same standard script of wake up, drive over to Edenton for coffee, return to The Beechtree Inn to work on my videos, drive into Elizabeth City for either a late lunch or early dinner at Chick-Fil-A, and then return to the inn for an evening of watching "Crossing Jordan" with Jackie Hobbs (the proprietor of the inn) until 9:00 when husband Ben returns to watch whatever might be featured on TV at that hour. Such has been my past couple of weeks here.
Mixed into this routine, I add my own continuing thoughts on what my next move should constitute. Realistically, my road out of here was drawn the day after my failed return from Virginia, which followed my disappointment at the Perquimans County Courthouse, where I discovered nothing pertaining to the Darby Sexton local historian Raymond Winslow the week earlier.
I knew of Darby Sexton through my research on ancestry.com. There were a couple records of him, which I added into my family tree as the earliest direct ancestor. What Raymond Winslow added was a record in one of his books, which stated Darby Sexton, back in 1680, appeared in a Perquimans County Courthouse to claim his "headrights" claim for 300 acres of land.
As I understand 'headrights', it was a policy of North Carolina, during that time period, to offer 50 acres of free land to any individual moving into the province. Darby Sexton brought with him six people, thus permitting him to acquire the 300 acres. My naivete suggested the record for this should be located in the Perquimans County Courthouse. The county was formed in 1670; they should hold a record for something that occurred in 1680.
The best I could come onto was a few land transactions conducted by Darby Sexton's son-in-law, Elihu Albertson in the early 1700s. There was no mention of Darby Sexton, nor his daughter Sarah (who married Elihu), nor the son William.
Discouragement set in; yet hope was not entirely vanquished. Though I held no port in Virginia through which Darby Sexton came to the American colonies back in the 17th century, I decided to proceed with my trip into Virginia, hoping I might discover something.
Hope springs eternal, but it does not guarantee success. My trip into Virginia on that Tuesday was a disaster. I departed the inn here plenty early, forecasting an hour to reach an amenable coffeehouse in which to begin my day, but as I drew closer to the Interstate leading into the Chesapeake/Norfolk/Portsmouth/Virginia Beach area, I found traffic bottled up to a standstill and a wrong turn led me nowhere.
I believe it took me three hours, from the time I departed Beechtree to the time I finally stopped for coffee (Panera Bread is wonderful); and after those three hours of non-stop nonsensical driving, I was sporting a rather sour disposition.
Panera Bread was the only positive for me on that day; for after I left there, I searched out a library to dig into some genealogy work. My GPS declared a library in downtown Norfolk; but after several attempts to find a parking space, and even the library itself, I threw in the towel, opting to search elsewhere. This led to the library in Portsmouth, which did show a very nice library; I must admit. My problems arose, once again, with the parking. While I found a space to park absent any charge, the space came with a two-hour time limit.
Okay. Not a problem. In the genealogy room of the Portsmouth library, no further doors were opened - only erected. Like in other forays into libraries and courthouses, I gathered more names of people who may, or may not, be related.
This experience may not have deflated my enthusiasm, as it did, if not for the realization some of the new names and places found were names and place unearthed already - from other libraries courthouses perused. Why, I asked myself, continue with the charade of visiting the locations of your ancestors, if every place you visit carries the same pieces of information?
Thus my quest stalled.
I considered an earlier thought of renting an apartment for a month, continuing my search with a months' addition of time, while also investigating any job opportunities out and about. This idea led me to my most vexing experience of my entire travels. The following day, after leaving the coffeehouse in Edenton, rather than returning immediately to the inn, I opted for a foolish venture over to Plymouth, thirty miles distant along a winding array of one-lane roads. If I remained, perhaps Plymouth could offer me something. A parishioner at the church Ben and Jackie attend, emailed Jackie a listing of about twenty Sextons buried in the cemeteries around there, Washington County. I turned off highway 17, leading out of Edenton and towards Hertford, and began my disastrous trek in the direction of Plymouth.
When I reached the city limits, I spotted a McDonalds on the left side of the road, and I decided to stop and see if I could pick up an Internet signal. If I logged onto the Internet, perhaps it could provide some information on Plymouth; perhaps I could discover some direction of where to look and for what.
It was less than half a second after I signaled to turn into the left-hand lane to make the left turn ahead that a state trooper vehicle comes racing up behind me. I'm thinking he wishes to get around, as his lights are blazing, so I move back into the right lane. He flies into the right lane, behind me, on my bumper. I pull the car over to the side of the road. He steps out. I roll down my window. What on earth is going on?
He proceeds to tell me he pulled me over because I was not wearing my seat belt.
!@?!???@#$???
I am aware of seat belt laws. They flood the states. I would imagine all fifty states sport them with the same standard highway patrol threat of 'click it, or ticket'. I also realize how utterly intrusive, unconstitutional, and inane such acts are. If a driver does not wear a seatbelt, the only person that driver is harming, if they have a wreck, (and not everyone who sits behind the wheel of a vehicle is going to have a wreck) is themselves. I don't wear a seat belt because it is an annoyance, and it is uncomfortable. The constraining of the straps, in my view, could cause the same impediment to safe driving that wearing it is meant to avoid.
However, my view means nothing. I am an American, and that is supposed to stand for the right to an opinion; but when facing an overzealous state trooper, who obviously is so bored he needed to act on this highly illegal and criminal activity of non-seatbelt wearing, my rights as a citizen are non-existent. All that matters is the high and might monolith of the state. Nothing else.
Needless to say, I did not remain in Plymouth. Such a greeting into their community spoke volumes to me of 'GET OUT.' I turned around and headed back the way I came; and as I drove the same two-lane roads that would lead me back to Hertford and The Beechtree Inn, I could not help but consider one striking characteristic to my experience in North Carolina that differed from my time driving through Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee.
I have seen more state troopers, with people pulled over to the side of the road, than in all those other states combined. In fact, I took note of the decidedly absent presence of law enforcement in Kentucky and Tennessee. Certainly, they were out and about; but they never made their presence as pronounced as what I have observed here in North Carolina.
Were all those stops justifiable? Were they people speeding? Or driving in a reckless manner? Such was my initial impression when arriving in this area, my impression prior to my own stop. Now, reflecting on these things as I drove back to Hertford, I had to wonder if all of those stops were also for the dastardly crime of ignoring one's seatbelt. And if so, why the zealotry? My belief, on the enforcement of this stupid law, has been, up to this point, law enforcement would only enforce it if they pulled a driver to the side of the road for something else. I could never envision a state trooper chasing down a driver because he wasn't wearing a seatbelt.
Obviously, it happens; it happened to me. It probably happened to all those people I saw, pulled off to the side of the road, having committed no crime, having merely fallen into the sites of an overzealous state trooper looking to fill out his quota of tickets for the day.
Thus, I am fighting through a despondency that tells me you are a fool. You will never fit in anywhere. Your efforts to accomplish anything in life are so nonsensical, the nonsensical (being pulled over for not wearing a seatbelt) will continue to haunt you all your days. Common sense, which I care to pursue, so inane ideology of the Gestapo doesn't befall me too, is falling out of favor, as people assume surface-level reporting of events as the cardinal truths of life. No one investigates. No one asks questions. No one seeks to search deeper. What is the truth? What is right? What is the pathway God set up for right and wrong, good and bad, truth and lie? No one puts in the effort to make that determination; and thus, people get pulled over for not strapping a belt across their chest.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Something about girls - and the mystery of attraction...
Time for a new blog post.
It's not that the subject I entitle this post with is one which has not been explored ad infinatum, over and over, upside down and right side out. It may possibly have been. Romance. Lust. Carnal Delight. Relationships that endure the wearing thin of any sensual delights. In one way or the other, writers, and artists, and stoic philosophers, and all souls who see beyond the mere immediate of the present circumstances, the sites titulating us for either good or for ill, these individuals have pondered these matters throughout the epochs of time.
I suppose it is my time to add my small voice into the mix.
Yesterday was a rather good day. I explained to one afterwards, when asked, it was approximately 90% good and 10% bad. The bad, to extricate it from the discussion, came in the form of a lack of historical records I sought from the courthouse, as well as the library, in Hertford North Carolina. I hoped, and quite frankly expected, to discover records pertaining to an ancestor of mine, Darby Sexton, who entered North Carolina somewhere in 1680 to claim 300 acres of land via the headrights policy in those days invoked (50 acres offered to every settler who enters the province; Darby brought with him six people).
As the county involved in this action, Perquimans County, was founded in 1670, and as the record must exist somewhere (otherwise, how would I know about it), I anticipated finding it at the very courthouse where he stepped to make this claim.
There was nothing.
The closest bit of information I could find was for his son-in-law, Esau Albertson, who made several land transaction in the early 1700s. Esau was the man who married Darby's daughter, Sarah.
Over the course of the day, I managed to find a number of new names and some new information, but I found nothing pertaining to the direct ancestors I sought. The discoveries through my exhaustive research of the materials available in both the courthouse and the library were solid discoveries, but they were nothing to what I hoped to learn further of Darby, or his wife Dorothy, or his daughter Sarah, who was born and died in Perquimans County.
So my day was 90/10.
Then I drove into Elizabeth City for an easy late lunch, or early dinner, at what was becoming my readily frequent haunt, Ruby Tuesdays.
My first stop in Ruby Tuesdays came when driving into Elizabeth City the first time a week earlier. Why I chose it as my restaurant of choice, I couldn't say. 'It was there' probably stands as good a reason as any. I certainly never intended revisiting it, and revisiting it, and revisiting it. The food was good, but it was no better, nor any worse, than any other restaurant in the neighborhood. Why continue returning, when I frankly had no need to?
Why does a guy do anything that makes little to no sense?
The first time I walked in, my server was a girl named Ally. Yesterday, following my 90/10 day, my server was Ally. It was the third time she waited on me.
If I were smart, I would conclude this post right here. I cannot place words to these three experiences in Ruby Tuesdays being waited on by Ally; and thus I am found, here and now on the following day, musing over the interpersonal relationships between men and women. Why are we attracted to certain people and not to others? And when attracted, how is one to interpret said attraction? Is it purely a carnal reaction? Is it an inward desire recognizing something significant and of substance in the other person we have yet to learn how to vocalize, to articulate in some coherent, discernible form? Can such an inherent longing even be categorized by some insipid attempts to add science into the mix?
Questions, Questions, Questions... Where do they end? How did they ever begin? In continuing to muse over my attraction to this girl, I can declare only a few things for certain. One, she made me smile. Her genuine and honest treatment of me - as a "person" and not just as a customer - made me feel important and I appreciated that. Who among us would not?
Naturally, the cynical exist who always view the mysteries of life through the spectrum of self-interest, i.e. the girl, in the operation of her job, was merely seducing me into buying more product, adding more food to my tab. Such is a real possibility which did cross through my mind, and it is something I cannot discount entirely. I will never claim myself as an astute observer of human nature, having been fooled by people time and time again. However, a story a former pastor of mine told me once applies here.
When asked about the benevolence of the church, the willingness of the church to assist whoever came to them for whatever need, he explained he fully understood the possibility of being taken advantage of by people merely seeking the church's small amount of funds. Such was a real possibility he was certain had occurred in the past. Yet to deny people help when they asked for it was to deny oneself of the blessing one would receive when the need was genuine. If he was to err, as all of God's children did, he would rather err on the side of trying to do something good than to withhold that good from someone who truly need a touch from God's grace.
In short, to me, this meant people are worth the benefit of the doubt. Yes, I have been fooled, time and time again. I have found myself disappointed by people I trusted as genuine, only to discover afterwards their 'genuineness' was a facade. Yet if I decide to see all people with whom I interact as phony, I miss out on the ones who are not.
Ally, I believe, was genuine. If I ever met her within a different setting, I believe she would be a warm and charming as she is when serving me meals at the place where she works. If she was not, I do not see myself as being as attracted to her as I am. Is this attraction lust? No. Lust is nothing more than a one-dimension reaction to a carnal desire. It carries no substance beyond what the eyes relay is there. I found Ally attracting because of her extraordinary personality, her focus on her future, her professionalism in her job, her absolute charm in washing away the regrets of the day. I hope one day I can meet someone like her in the more personable atmosphere such desired relationship challenges demand.
It's not that the subject I entitle this post with is one which has not been explored ad infinatum, over and over, upside down and right side out. It may possibly have been. Romance. Lust. Carnal Delight. Relationships that endure the wearing thin of any sensual delights. In one way or the other, writers, and artists, and stoic philosophers, and all souls who see beyond the mere immediate of the present circumstances, the sites titulating us for either good or for ill, these individuals have pondered these matters throughout the epochs of time.
I suppose it is my time to add my small voice into the mix.
Yesterday was a rather good day. I explained to one afterwards, when asked, it was approximately 90% good and 10% bad. The bad, to extricate it from the discussion, came in the form of a lack of historical records I sought from the courthouse, as well as the library, in Hertford North Carolina. I hoped, and quite frankly expected, to discover records pertaining to an ancestor of mine, Darby Sexton, who entered North Carolina somewhere in 1680 to claim 300 acres of land via the headrights policy in those days invoked (50 acres offered to every settler who enters the province; Darby brought with him six people).
As the county involved in this action, Perquimans County, was founded in 1670, and as the record must exist somewhere (otherwise, how would I know about it), I anticipated finding it at the very courthouse where he stepped to make this claim.
There was nothing.
The closest bit of information I could find was for his son-in-law, Esau Albertson, who made several land transaction in the early 1700s. Esau was the man who married Darby's daughter, Sarah.
Over the course of the day, I managed to find a number of new names and some new information, but I found nothing pertaining to the direct ancestors I sought. The discoveries through my exhaustive research of the materials available in both the courthouse and the library were solid discoveries, but they were nothing to what I hoped to learn further of Darby, or his wife Dorothy, or his daughter Sarah, who was born and died in Perquimans County.
So my day was 90/10.
Then I drove into Elizabeth City for an easy late lunch, or early dinner, at what was becoming my readily frequent haunt, Ruby Tuesdays.
My first stop in Ruby Tuesdays came when driving into Elizabeth City the first time a week earlier. Why I chose it as my restaurant of choice, I couldn't say. 'It was there' probably stands as good a reason as any. I certainly never intended revisiting it, and revisiting it, and revisiting it. The food was good, but it was no better, nor any worse, than any other restaurant in the neighborhood. Why continue returning, when I frankly had no need to?
Why does a guy do anything that makes little to no sense?
The first time I walked in, my server was a girl named Ally. Yesterday, following my 90/10 day, my server was Ally. It was the third time she waited on me.
If I were smart, I would conclude this post right here. I cannot place words to these three experiences in Ruby Tuesdays being waited on by Ally; and thus I am found, here and now on the following day, musing over the interpersonal relationships between men and women. Why are we attracted to certain people and not to others? And when attracted, how is one to interpret said attraction? Is it purely a carnal reaction? Is it an inward desire recognizing something significant and of substance in the other person we have yet to learn how to vocalize, to articulate in some coherent, discernible form? Can such an inherent longing even be categorized by some insipid attempts to add science into the mix?
Questions, Questions, Questions... Where do they end? How did they ever begin? In continuing to muse over my attraction to this girl, I can declare only a few things for certain. One, she made me smile. Her genuine and honest treatment of me - as a "person" and not just as a customer - made me feel important and I appreciated that. Who among us would not?
Naturally, the cynical exist who always view the mysteries of life through the spectrum of self-interest, i.e. the girl, in the operation of her job, was merely seducing me into buying more product, adding more food to my tab. Such is a real possibility which did cross through my mind, and it is something I cannot discount entirely. I will never claim myself as an astute observer of human nature, having been fooled by people time and time again. However, a story a former pastor of mine told me once applies here.
When asked about the benevolence of the church, the willingness of the church to assist whoever came to them for whatever need, he explained he fully understood the possibility of being taken advantage of by people merely seeking the church's small amount of funds. Such was a real possibility he was certain had occurred in the past. Yet to deny people help when they asked for it was to deny oneself of the blessing one would receive when the need was genuine. If he was to err, as all of God's children did, he would rather err on the side of trying to do something good than to withhold that good from someone who truly need a touch from God's grace.
In short, to me, this meant people are worth the benefit of the doubt. Yes, I have been fooled, time and time again. I have found myself disappointed by people I trusted as genuine, only to discover afterwards their 'genuineness' was a facade. Yet if I decide to see all people with whom I interact as phony, I miss out on the ones who are not.
Ally, I believe, was genuine. If I ever met her within a different setting, I believe she would be a warm and charming as she is when serving me meals at the place where she works. If she was not, I do not see myself as being as attracted to her as I am. Is this attraction lust? No. Lust is nothing more than a one-dimension reaction to a carnal desire. It carries no substance beyond what the eyes relay is there. I found Ally attracting because of her extraordinary personality, her focus on her future, her professionalism in her job, her absolute charm in washing away the regrets of the day. I hope one day I can meet someone like her in the more personable atmosphere such desired relationship challenges demand.
Monday, July 16, 2012
The Start of Another New Day in North Carolina
As I begin my day with some good coffee, a bagel with cream cheese, and provoking conversation via the social medium the world knows today as Facebook, I cannot help but consider what adventures lie on my pathway ahead, while I likewise consider the road I have traveled laying behind.
Am I indeed moving forward? Is the road I perceive as behind my feet - having I actually left it behind me - or am I still traveling along it? Back and forth; up and down; right and left; etc. etc. The conclusion of my journey, when I departed from my home state of Kansas one month ago, it was set here in North Carolina, Elizabeth City per se. This is where my ancestry.com research place, pd my earliest ancestors, Jeremiah Sexton, as having been born and died. Other names preceded his, but I looked upon those name as suspect, not holding any concrete evidence to them beyond a scant few mentions here and there.
With my discoveries of a Darby and Dorothy Sexton, parents of a Sarah Sexton, who married an Esau Albertson in January of 1700, I find there is a measure of hope my tree was true.
The question to answer, for myself, is what should be done now, where should I go, how do I proceed? The month I permitted myself is up. The coast I aimed myself toward, it has been reached (I visited North Carolina's 'Outer Banks' last Wednesday). What is the next step in my goal of moving forward, along a road, which leads somewhere?
Last Friday I spoke with a Southern gentleman, a genealogist by trade, who graciously discoursed with me for an ample amount of time on these questions. He conveyed to me what I need to search for are court records (as those were the means through which people of the earlier years, circa 1700s) recorded their activities. I also needed to look into all manner of deeds; and, if I wished to travel to Virginia's state capital of Richmond (I expressed my ideas of venturing into Virginia, as that seemed the logical place from whence my ancestor Darby Sexton came) I could peruse the land grants which were kept there. Court Records, and Deeds, and Wills could be found at the individual county courthouses (in Virginia, he told me this was the standard practice); land grants, being a state-governed activity, they were all kept at the state capitol
Initially, my intent was to venture into Virginia bright and early on Monday morning. At church yesterday, though, attending the morning service of the people where I have been staying this past week, I met a man who told me he knew of lots of Sextons over in Washington County, which is, I believe (my sense of direction is still a bit off) west of where I have been staying in Hertford. The counties in Virginia pertaining to my interests would lie east.
The man's wife emailed the lady where I am staying, Jackie, yesterday afternoon. It fascinated me because she offered a list of some twenty new Sexton names I did not contain in my ancestry family tree. I wanted to investigate these names, learning how they fit into my family ancestral map, but I knew my focus needed to remain on the earlier name, this Darby Sexton who apparently emerged out of Virginia sometime in the mid-to-late 17th century.
Is this the first Sexton, journeying across the ocean from Europe, ('Darby' sounds like, to me, more of an Irish name than English.), who landed on the shores of Virginia before emigrating into North Carolina with his family of, at least, two children? I decided the prudent coarse of action from this point would be a perusal of the Perquimans County Courthouse records, as I know he resided in this county, to see what information it might be able to convey. If it has some record as to where Darby and his family emerged, I have my next step in the road long traveled.
While none of the content of this post carries anything of 'picture' quality, what follows are a few random snapshots from my past week here in North-eastern North Carolina:
Am I indeed moving forward? Is the road I perceive as behind my feet - having I actually left it behind me - or am I still traveling along it? Back and forth; up and down; right and left; etc. etc. The conclusion of my journey, when I departed from my home state of Kansas one month ago, it was set here in North Carolina, Elizabeth City per se. This is where my ancestry.com research place, pd my earliest ancestors, Jeremiah Sexton, as having been born and died. Other names preceded his, but I looked upon those name as suspect, not holding any concrete evidence to them beyond a scant few mentions here and there.
With my discoveries of a Darby and Dorothy Sexton, parents of a Sarah Sexton, who married an Esau Albertson in January of 1700, I find there is a measure of hope my tree was true.
The question to answer, for myself, is what should be done now, where should I go, how do I proceed? The month I permitted myself is up. The coast I aimed myself toward, it has been reached (I visited North Carolina's 'Outer Banks' last Wednesday). What is the next step in my goal of moving forward, along a road, which leads somewhere?
Last Friday I spoke with a Southern gentleman, a genealogist by trade, who graciously discoursed with me for an ample amount of time on these questions. He conveyed to me what I need to search for are court records (as those were the means through which people of the earlier years, circa 1700s) recorded their activities. I also needed to look into all manner of deeds; and, if I wished to travel to Virginia's state capital of Richmond (I expressed my ideas of venturing into Virginia, as that seemed the logical place from whence my ancestor Darby Sexton came) I could peruse the land grants which were kept there. Court Records, and Deeds, and Wills could be found at the individual county courthouses (in Virginia, he told me this was the standard practice); land grants, being a state-governed activity, they were all kept at the state capitol
Initially, my intent was to venture into Virginia bright and early on Monday morning. At church yesterday, though, attending the morning service of the people where I have been staying this past week, I met a man who told me he knew of lots of Sextons over in Washington County, which is, I believe (my sense of direction is still a bit off) west of where I have been staying in Hertford. The counties in Virginia pertaining to my interests would lie east.
The man's wife emailed the lady where I am staying, Jackie, yesterday afternoon. It fascinated me because she offered a list of some twenty new Sexton names I did not contain in my ancestry family tree. I wanted to investigate these names, learning how they fit into my family ancestral map, but I knew my focus needed to remain on the earlier name, this Darby Sexton who apparently emerged out of Virginia sometime in the mid-to-late 17th century.
Is this the first Sexton, journeying across the ocean from Europe, ('Darby' sounds like, to me, more of an Irish name than English.), who landed on the shores of Virginia before emigrating into North Carolina with his family of, at least, two children? I decided the prudent coarse of action from this point would be a perusal of the Perquimans County Courthouse records, as I know he resided in this county, to see what information it might be able to convey. If it has some record as to where Darby and his family emerged, I have my next step in the road long traveled.
While none of the content of this post carries anything of 'picture' quality, what follows are a few random snapshots from my past week here in North-eastern North Carolina:
 | |||||
| me at the Elizabeth City sign along highway 17 |
 | ||||
| Cape Hatteras Lighthouse |
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| memorial to Orville & Wilbur |
 | |
| Sexton family graves discovered in the Old Hollywood Cemetery in Elizabeth City |
Friday, July 13, 2012
WENDALL EXPERIENCES WENDELL on his way to Elizabeth City
The time has passed with a fluidity to it I honestly forget time has. One day, trouble and dire circumstances haunt me with my car; the next day, possible answers to prayer gently push me into directions of discovery and great elation. Does the time actually go somewhere? Or do we try and stop, thus allowing time to continue along the journey without us?
Maybe it never stops. Perhaps it is always with us. As with the fallacy of judging truth and what is real through the faulty lens of any TV camera's non-objective view...
Does anyone ever realize people in different parts of the county live lives different to people in other parts of the country, and yet they only learn of each other and their differing lives through the insular study of the aristocratic class of people in the metropolises and their monopoly on the camera lens to, and of, the American populace as a whole?
Sorry to divert into this realm, but it is becoming gradually apparent the reality of any part of the country is not the reality painted for other parts of the country through the media. How can people in New York or Los Angeles tell people in my state of Kansas what people in North Carolina are like? Does that make any sense? To know what North Carolinians are like, one needs to speak to North Carolinians.
Okay, back to my week. When last you heard from me, I believe, I was on the move from my campgrounds outside of Raleigh North Carolina into my next - and undetermined - place of stay in Elizabeth City. Elizabeth City is the seat of Pasquotank County, the area which boasted the most prominent record for my ancestors, prior to their residency in Wake County, which preceded Tennessee, which preceded Illinois, which preceded Kansas.
I found a place - miraculously - called the Beechtree Inn. It is located just outside the county seat for the adjoining county to Pasquotank, Perquimons County, roughly twenty miles southwest of Elizabeth City.
I was minutes away from checking into a disastrous stay at a local hotel, when I tried the number for the Beechtree Inn. It is a bed & breakfast, which I love far superior to the cloistered atmosphere of the sheltered hotel rooms, but at a hundred dollars a night, it was outside of my budget. Yet, for some reason, I asked of renting for the week.
The cost I was quoted, while not the $200 I was searching to find, was something I felt I could afford.
Since it is a week later, and I am still here, I guess you know how that came out.
Before I proceed any further to detail my week, I should remark on an enjoyable little side diversion which occurred between my trip from Raleigh to Elizabeth City. Along the road, I came upon this sign...
How interesting. A town with my name attached to it. Could it be they knew I would be heading that way? Would they honor me with parades? And floats? A grand marshal with a key to the city? Would a regal status be bestowed upon my shoulders as if I were some long-searched-for royal lineage to the town's ancient past?
Uh, since the community was founded only in 1903; and since this was rural America, and not medieval Europe; and since it was intended as an honor to Oliver Wendell Holmes - rather than Wendall Paul Sexton - the answer to all those inane questions would probably be no.
Nevertheless, it beckoned me, and I had to check it out. How often does one come across a community with one's own name?
Venturing down Main Street, I discovered a place that was not ashamed to proclaim who they were. "Experience Wendell" might be a good campaign slogan - if I ever decided to throw my hat into the 'political ring'. If not, perhaps, I could use this as my next Facebook picture.
Or even better snapshot might be myself standing out front of my very own library. One of the cardinal truths I adopted back in first grade (when every kid knew everything about everything) was when your name is on it, you own it.
So, go figure. Wendell has his own branch library. Not everyone could make such a daring claim.
Perhaps, such is the reward for any soul who broaches that century mark in life. After Willard Scott retired... didn't he?
What would you rather prefer: a town with your name? Or your face on a jar of jelly? Not that jelly is all that bad. My mother love grape jelly toast in the morning. For my taste, though, my name on every store and every sign, that might trumped the jar of jelly.
The question of how the town got its name (as much as my ego might have wished it was named after yours truly, reality often impedes the regressive progress of such inflated fantasies of self-importance) was the main thrust for my entering 'my' library. The library is where all the answers are supposed to be kept; it is where all the secrets are meant to lie open for view. While the librarian who greeted me warmly (obviously recognizing my aura as a true 'Wendell' stepping into the town's circle) first spouted the tride-and-true line of it being named for Oliver Wendell Holmes, a differing tale of origin spoke out clear from the town's own official history...
Maybe it never stops. Perhaps it is always with us. As with the fallacy of judging truth and what is real through the faulty lens of any TV camera's non-objective view...
Does anyone ever realize people in different parts of the county live lives different to people in other parts of the country, and yet they only learn of each other and their differing lives through the insular study of the aristocratic class of people in the metropolises and their monopoly on the camera lens to, and of, the American populace as a whole?
Sorry to divert into this realm, but it is becoming gradually apparent the reality of any part of the country is not the reality painted for other parts of the country through the media. How can people in New York or Los Angeles tell people in my state of Kansas what people in North Carolina are like? Does that make any sense? To know what North Carolinians are like, one needs to speak to North Carolinians.
Okay, back to my week. When last you heard from me, I believe, I was on the move from my campgrounds outside of Raleigh North Carolina into my next - and undetermined - place of stay in Elizabeth City. Elizabeth City is the seat of Pasquotank County, the area which boasted the most prominent record for my ancestors, prior to their residency in Wake County, which preceded Tennessee, which preceded Illinois, which preceded Kansas.
I found a place - miraculously - called the Beechtree Inn. It is located just outside the county seat for the adjoining county to Pasquotank, Perquimons County, roughly twenty miles southwest of Elizabeth City.
I was minutes away from checking into a disastrous stay at a local hotel, when I tried the number for the Beechtree Inn. It is a bed & breakfast, which I love far superior to the cloistered atmosphere of the sheltered hotel rooms, but at a hundred dollars a night, it was outside of my budget. Yet, for some reason, I asked of renting for the week.
The cost I was quoted, while not the $200 I was searching to find, was something I felt I could afford.
Since it is a week later, and I am still here, I guess you know how that came out.
How interesting. A town with my name attached to it. Could it be they knew I would be heading that way? Would they honor me with parades? And floats? A grand marshal with a key to the city? Would a regal status be bestowed upon my shoulders as if I were some long-searched-for royal lineage to the town's ancient past?
Uh, since the community was founded only in 1903; and since this was rural America, and not medieval Europe; and since it was intended as an honor to Oliver Wendell Holmes - rather than Wendall Paul Sexton - the answer to all those inane questions would probably be no.
Nevertheless, it beckoned me, and I had to check it out. How often does one come across a community with one's own name?
Or even better snapshot might be myself standing out front of my very own library. One of the cardinal truths I adopted back in first grade (when every kid knew everything about everything) was when your name is on it, you own it.
So, go figure. Wendell has his own branch library. Not everyone could make such a daring claim.
Perhaps, such is the reward for any soul who broaches that century mark in life. After Willard Scott retired... didn't he?
What would you rather prefer: a town with your name? Or your face on a jar of jelly? Not that jelly is all that bad. My mother love grape jelly toast in the morning. For my taste, though, my name on every store and every sign, that might trumped the jar of jelly.
The question of how the town got its name (as much as my ego might have wished it was named after yours truly, reality often impedes the regressive progress of such inflated fantasies of self-importance) was the main thrust for my entering 'my' library. The library is where all the answers are supposed to be kept; it is where all the secrets are meant to lie open for view. While the librarian who greeted me warmly (obviously recognizing my aura as a true 'Wendell' stepping into the town's circle) first spouted the tride-and-true line of it being named for Oliver Wendell Holmes, a differing tale of origin spoke out clear from the town's own official history...
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Cars & Horses
I would rather own a horse.
'Nuff said.
Everything considered, I would rather own a horse. With the unceasing anguish the automobile causes me in this current day and age, I would rather ride a horse as my transportation for one place to the other. My great-grandfather raised horses for a living. Perhaps, some of his astute abilities transferred down through the years to this lonely soul. I certainly never inherited my dad, or my granddad's penchant for cars. In their quest to reach an equal status to the complexity of the human body, they wallow in a complexity so inane...
I would rather own a horse.
It's not that I have anything against my car. I love my car - as much as one can 'love' an inanimate object. I enjoy driving it. I am thankful for how it moves me from one point to the next, opening vistas for me to explore with opportunities yet untapped. The problem I find myself with is something called trust. I trust people to honor their work, to comply with the unwritten code of integrity in their work, to seek a solution to every problem, an answer to every question.
Unfortunately, my life experiences have someone created me as an idealistic and extremely naive fool. The goals I have to always exceed expectations, to never settle for second best, to never quit until the job is done - people don't believe in truth, justice, and the American way anymore.
Forgive me for my pessimism. It never lasts, though it always seems to return. It is the constant battle all carry on with the forces of good and bad in this life - and, for today, I am losing...
As I write this, I sit in the customer service lounge of a Chevrolet dealership in Smithfield North Carolina. Yesterday was Independence Day. No mechanic or dealership was open - though, it appeared to me, all other businesses were. The day before Independence Day, I recorded the events of that day in total with its aggravation and disappointment. Now I sit here wondering...
My car is my horse. I am wandering across the country like a cowboy of the Old West days, searching for a family he doesn't know, hoping for a link to a place where he belongs. I would like my car restored to health for me, and I would hope my faith in people can be met. Does anyone believe in quality? Is there any soul out there who believes in truth? Can I claim to believe it myself, if I succumb to the frustrations of the absence of any standards so easily and quickly myself?
'Nuff said.
Everything considered, I would rather own a horse. With the unceasing anguish the automobile causes me in this current day and age, I would rather ride a horse as my transportation for one place to the other. My great-grandfather raised horses for a living. Perhaps, some of his astute abilities transferred down through the years to this lonely soul. I certainly never inherited my dad, or my granddad's penchant for cars. In their quest to reach an equal status to the complexity of the human body, they wallow in a complexity so inane...
I would rather own a horse.
It's not that I have anything against my car. I love my car - as much as one can 'love' an inanimate object. I enjoy driving it. I am thankful for how it moves me from one point to the next, opening vistas for me to explore with opportunities yet untapped. The problem I find myself with is something called trust. I trust people to honor their work, to comply with the unwritten code of integrity in their work, to seek a solution to every problem, an answer to every question.
Unfortunately, my life experiences have someone created me as an idealistic and extremely naive fool. The goals I have to always exceed expectations, to never settle for second best, to never quit until the job is done - people don't believe in truth, justice, and the American way anymore.
Forgive me for my pessimism. It never lasts, though it always seems to return. It is the constant battle all carry on with the forces of good and bad in this life - and, for today, I am losing...
As I write this, I sit in the customer service lounge of a Chevrolet dealership in Smithfield North Carolina. Yesterday was Independence Day. No mechanic or dealership was open - though, it appeared to me, all other businesses were. The day before Independence Day, I recorded the events of that day in total with its aggravation and disappointment. Now I sit here wondering...
My car is my horse. I am wandering across the country like a cowboy of the Old West days, searching for a family he doesn't know, hoping for a link to a place where he belongs. I would like my car restored to health for me, and I would hope my faith in people can be met. Does anyone believe in quality? Is there any soul out there who believes in truth? Can I claim to believe it myself, if I succumb to the frustrations of the absence of any standards so easily and quickly myself?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
A Terribly Horrible Day
All started well enough. I awoke early; got myself around; left the campground where I am staying; and almost immediately ventured out onto the Interstate that would lead me back into Raleigh. I knew, though, with half a tank of gasoline, it would probably be a wise thing to stop at the nearest gas station for fill up. As I also need a quarter of oil, I tracked down the nearest O'Reilly Auto Parts store, purchased an over-priced quart of motor oil, and was on my way.
The day before, I wasted far too much time searching out, not only a parking space that would not cost, but also a coffeeshop I could awaken fully to the day within. Today I decided a trip to a Panera Bread would be more in order. Coffee and pastries? Can't beat it.
Here is where my day assumed the harsh right turn of the Arkansas River.
My car began lurching: forward, stop; forward, stop; forward, stop. I feared it was on its last gasp of gasoline-fumed breath. I envisioned it collapsing into an immovable 'cow-in-the-middle-of-the-road/donkey-with-its-rump-nestled-into-the-earth' moment.
Thank the Lord I made it to a section of the road where I could stop, and park, and try not to burst into typical panic mode. This was a problem. Every problem carries solutions. Difficulties are meant to confront us with the challenges meant to stir the creative action within the human soul, to grow us into something better and more improved tomorrow than what we found resonant within our being today.
Okay. So what was the solution?
The previous week, when arriving in Tennessee at my stopping place, I considered the problems with my car (its idling would intermittently roar to life one moment, and collapse into a near death the next) and found a garage where I believed it would be taken and solved.
It was.
Then I arrived in North Carolina, where the same problems resurfaced with a vengeance. This needed to be fixed.
The garage in Tennessee, their work came with a warranty. I called the number I was given. The man listed for me several mechanics in the area who were under their certification to work on my car under warranty. I stopped at the first place on the list - less than two miles from where I sat parked - walked into the building expecting service.
I got nothing but obfuscation.
These guys made excuses, and I could tell they carried no intent to work on my car. Rather, the man was trying to pawn off the responsibility towards another garage - who likewise had no intent to work on my car.
I was incensed.
After traveling through Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee, and experiencing what must have been true genuine Southern hospitality, I arrive here in North Carolina where there is anything else but. If this had been a problem of a recent nature, absent the history from my visit to Tennessee, it might be possible to excuse the absence of any assistance of these peoples' part. There are, after all, instances where no one is available to attend to the work.
However, I consider the role of any business. If everyone is busy with work, do they refuse to attend to another customer? How long can a business continue that turns away paying customers?
Couple this with my combined frustration over a belief the problem was solved in Tennessee and my distance of over a thousand miles from my home state, I was quite upset.
I tried another garage - this time calling the number given to avoid a length trip for nothing. The man I talked to was friendly, but he was equally unhelpful. All he could tell me was his mechanic was on vacation, and he wouldn't return to work before Monday.
How a garage can operate without their mechanic is beyond me. But then, I am not a mechanic, so maybe their are some secretive mysterious rites of ascension this order of the mechanics operate underneath that prohibits them from closing their doors when no one is there to do the actual work. Go figure.
This man told me I should take it to a dealer. He gave me a number. I called the dealer. Half an hour later I drove it to the dealer's property, and six hours afterwards, nothing was resolved. My car still carried its problems. I was even more incensed. These people, they seemed as reluctant to resolve the issue as the others. They wasted my day, and showed a measure of incompetence in their profession that was mind-numbing.
They 'guessed' it was an electrical short;but they had no clue as to where said 'short' might be. I suppose I can now expect, the next place I go to eat, the cook to only 'guess' how to cook my food; or the doctor to 'guess' why my stomach is suffering from cramps (gotta be in the feet!); or the airplane pilot to 'guess' how to fly the big 747 into Chicago's airport.
I suppose such is to be expected in these new 'dark ages' days. No one desires to know the truth of how problems are fixed and solutions are used to resolve crises. They only look to wander about in the dark, hoping to run into the door leading out.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The First Day of July
I arrived at my latest stop in this cross country - or 'half' cross county venture - earlier this afternoon. Sometimes I think I'm nuts for doing this; and other times, I still think I'm nuts. The rest of the time, I believe I must be asleep.
As for the adventure of the day, it was one long trek along Interstate 40, from Dandridge Tennessee to where I now sit, Four Oaks North Carolina, chugging on down the road inch by inch and mile by mile. There was no race to it; I felt under no compulsion to rush, rush, rush. I took my time, and made great time. Chaos may have been lumbering, and dashing, and zipping zapping all around me. I just kept moving forward.
...offering the small respite (and the wonderful coffee) that spurred me forward.
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