Splintered Intervention

If a tree falls during a bad storm and no TV crews show up, did that family of woodchucks die in vain? A stupid question, certainly, but when you’ve been tasked with turning three day old weather damage into fresh television, you take your conundrums where you find them. Just ask Charles Ewing. The weekend meteorologist slash weekday reporter was just walking by this morning when my vacation came to a crashing halt. Storm damage. Randolph County. Charles and I took turn rolling our eyes as we saddled up in Unit 4 and punched an address into the GPS. For fifteen miles we wallowed the inanity of it all. Surely whatever destruction Friday night’s windstorm has left had long since been cleaned up. Most likely we would only find tidy tree stumps, empty neighborhoods and few other elements from which to craft ninety seconds of newscast. Still, we made a beeline to the scene in question with the steadfast knowledge that no matter how lame the assignment, we had to flesh it out or find better. And get lunch. Lunch is very important.

A few minutes later we arrived in Worthville - a tiny community outside the mean streets of Randleman that neither Charles or I had ever head of. Well, perhaps Charles had. Dude does point at maps of the Piedmont for a living. But the electronic squiggle that signifies this old mill village couldn’t possible do it justice, for the pastoral splendor of inner Worthvillle is - ahem - well worth your time (Sorry!). Best of all, when Charles and I rolled into town (or lack thereof), the place was draped in broken tree limbs. Sure, a stretch of bent twigs is no Sasquatch footprint, but when you’re resigned to shooting everything out of focus in hopes it looks more devastating, actual damage is heaven sent. But ninety seconds of news story isn’t built on broken lumber alone. We needed sound. To do that we needed to knock on a few doors and as Charles picked a porch to climb, I once again implored him to tell whoever answered the door that he was there to deliver their personal forecast, then launch into some nonsense about low pressure systems. As usual Charles declined, but I’m always hoping he’ll surprise me.

Instead, Charles protected his AMS seal by playing it straight with the grandmother behind door number three. That however didn’t stop her from joining us out on her back lawn, where a Walnut tree estimated to be three hundred years old had given its life for the sake of better television. Charles and I exchanged knowing looks as Granny described to our microphone how the massive hardwood came crashing down a few night before. Despite her freewheeling soliloquy, I was skeptical. Could we wrap an entire news story around a single fallen tree? You’re damn skippy we could, but does that make it right? I never really had to decide, for five minutes into our visit Granny invoked the Deity. For years she and her family had feared the old Walnut would topple any storm now; the only question being whose home would it crush on the way down. As luck (or the Lord) would have it, the old tree spared every domicile as it fell to the Earth without so much as scratching a single structure. Okay, so a few sections of a neighbor’s fence disappeared, but these kind of details hardly matter when you’re spotlighting a case of divine intervention - which is exactly what Charles and I did.

Then we got lunch. Very important.

The Vacation Papers

Even though I'm back in my upper lair, I'm still picking sand out of my cerebellum. If you think that's something, you should see my garage. It's like Jockey's Ridge in there. But I didn't log in to talk about my pet starfish. Rather, I'm came to extend my break, to relive my coastal sojourn even before I get around to spraying that dried up sea urchin off the lawn chair. That's right, I got vacation slides, No, WAIT!!! Don't go...

I said Sunset was soothing; I didn't say it was deserted. In our time there, we saw the island's tidal pools swell with suburbanites and all their detritus as the July 4th crowd rolled in. By week's end, there were more nuclear units on the beach than most reactor sites. With that level of distilled domesticity, it wasn't at all uncommon to spot the occasional father wandering dazed and irritated into the surf. Usually some older gentleman would break away from his bocce ball match and guide the poor sap back to his inverted beach umbrella, but twice I saw a babbling patriarch lunge into the drink with that certain suicidal look in his eye. Ya know, they really should post a lifeguard...

But then again, that might interfere with how folks enjoy the beach. And God knows there's as many ways to kick back on the shore as there are sandspurs in my tenderloins. There's the age-old practice of burying one's siblings in unwanted dribble-castle, there's Lounge Chair Chess - in which players move their encampments back just far enough to afford another six minutes of leisure before the riding tide makes them move all over again. Man, that never gets old! Of course heartier souls take to the breakers, where threat of jellyfish, twelve year old elbows and the occasional urine cloud make one yearn for the relative safety of the cement pond. Me, though - I scans the horizon...

Blame my hyperopia. Farsightedness, for those of you lunging for the thesaurus. Unlike my wife, who could walk for miles looking down through two feet of cloudy surf and still find suitable living quarters for the girls' hermit crab, my natural field of focus lies somewhere between here and Uranus. That's a hell of a thing for a guy who makes his living with a tiny TV screen jammed in his face. Speaking of which, I didn't see a single camera crew clamoring over this shrimp boat - no matter how many cups of Corona I poured down my sunburned gullet (No glass containers on the beach, don't ya know). Anyway, maybe the photogs were belowdecks. After all, if they weren't shooting some kind of reality show out there, what were they doing? Fishing? PFFFT!

Of course there's more to vacationing by the bay than sleeping with your eyes open while you pretend to read. There's getting there in the first place. See, unless your beach cottage has a giant gold Trump sign on it, you're gonna have to hoof it over a sand dune or two if you want to get wet. That's okay if it's just you and your toothbrush, but if you're like most of the Sunset bunch, you got a small living room to drag to the waterline. These days of course, they rent fancy carts like the one Junior has here, but back in my day we schlepped our crap to the shore on our backs! Our sunburned backs! With wooden chairs that wore splintery grooves in our shoulders while slathered head to bloomer in sunscreen made from castor oil! And WE LIKED IT!

A-hem. Sorry, slipped into Dad Mode for a minute there. I've been doing that a lot lately - perhaps because my kids haven't left my sight in nine days, ten hours, forty minutes and a half dozen bags of Cheesy Poofs - but who's counting? Not me! I'm loving all this generational interaction, even if the little crumb-snatchers do roll their eyes every time I launch into a tirade about we used to have to get off the couch just to change the channel! Okay, so perhaps it is time to go back to work. Sure there's probably a ribbon-cutting or cop car ride-along waiting for me, but at least I'll have fresh memories of all that saltwater togetherness to reflect upon while I'm babysitting the trainwreck - or factory tour - or meth lab - or marching band camp - or...

You get the idea.

One More Sunset

Enough politics, let's talk about the weather. Here on the Carolina shore, it's nearly perfect - though the returning humidity is enough to wilt that beach umbrella you schlepped in from the cottage. Speaking of schlep, it won't be long until I'm back under the yoke of my own Sony and sticks, traversing the foothills in search of broadcast flotsam and newscast scraps. Oy. Still, if I stayed on the coast forever I'd turn into one of those leathery, shirtless types you see stumbling through the surf every so often - a frothy fate the women in my life say just ain't gonna happen. Sooo, I'll soon pack my sandy brood into the evil SUV and head uphill, poorer for the expense but richer for the experience. Just don't expect a savage tan, as I'm of Irish descent and covered in fur. Too Much Information I know but it beats watching a middle-aged Sasquatch wallow in the undertow. Now if you'll excuse me, I got nine Coronas I gotta drown. Wife says they won't fit in the car and I'm not about to leave them to the deadbeats who'll soon be lounging in my favorite deck chairs. Now bring me my limes!

Hmm? Yeah, on second thought, I'll get them...

The Dark Knight

I was picking up subs at a surfside deli when the TV in the corner caught my eye. Onscreen, a horn-rimmed and dark-haired Jesse Helms clutched a podium as he railed against something or another. I grabbed some extra napkins and headed for the door, happy again not to be in the newsroom. But back on the beach, I found I couldn't escape the shadow cast by this man's passing. Jesse Helms: polarizing patriarch, Southern-fried icon, one-time face of the Old North State, patron saint of racist assholes everywhere. Were it only that simple...

I came of age in the 80's. By then Helms was a local legend of course, but in my little circle of dirt I didn't give him much thought. Never all that politically astute, I lived a full, young life without ever forming an opinion on him one way or another. It wasn't until later that I realized my least favorite playmates called him 'Uncle' Jesse. Small-minded and ball-capped, the redneck junior set parroted the dogmatic bromides they no doubt heard at home. Dismissing them as simple, I was as convinced their hero was a cretin as I was certain that David Bowie was really, really, really cool. It wasn't until years later, however, that I realized how far Jesse's legacy had traveled. Fresh aboard my first Navy vessel, I found most of my shipmates from up North identified my beloved state with the laser-focused fanaticism of Senator Helms. Of course, I fought this stereotype by quoting Ziggy Stardust lyrics and deconstructing Andy Griffith episodes, but more than a few salts remained unconvinced.

Fast forward several years. Thousands of angry tobacco growers stormed the very steps nation's capitol in a nicotine-drenched protest of President Clinton's plan to hike the tax on cigarettes. There amid the throng of Carrharts and camouflage, a young punk with a fancycam on his shoulder paced, fidgeted and wondered why he wasn't allowed to use his tripod. Before I could figure it out however, the Friends of Tobacco lost their collective shit as none other than Jesse Helms stepped before the podium. On instinct, I centered my lens on him - but the sound of gnashing of teeth drowned out whatever message he brought the tobacco nation that day. Afterwards, Helms stuck around to shake hands and bless babies. Moving in, I shot footage of the Senator and his syncophants from just a few foot away until an opportunity presented itself. Signaling a print photographer friend, I took the Senator's hand in a friendly embrace and gave my best shit-eating grin as my buddy reluctantly triggered the shutter. I had great hopes for that photo, but my photographer friend never coughed it up. It occurs to me now he probably never pushed the button.

Less than eight years later, our paths would cross again at Senator Lauch Faircloth's campaign headquarters in Raleigh. It was election night and the avuncular Faircloth was getting his political ass handed to him on a hundred dollar plate by the far more telegenic John Edwards. The evening began as festive, with happy families clapping (almost) in time to a banjo-playing Uncle Sam band. But as the returns came in, the room went ugly. Soon the same pickled old ladies who'd just hours earlier toasted my lens, mouthed curses as I panned from them to the network feed of their defeat. With every update it became apparent to all that Lauch was going to have alot more time to spend with his grandkids. Smelling blood, even more camera crews arrived until the ballroom floor teemed with reporters, Republicans and other breeds of drunken fat-cat. Just when civilization threatened to collapse, a spotlight hit the stage and out rolled a gaunt and grinning Jesse Helms. The crowd began to mumble in tongues, acting in a manner I would witness one year later when another Jesse (by the name of Jackson) healed the woes of a hundred flood victims merely by showing up at their shelter. I didn't understand a damn word the marble-mouthed Helms said that night, but I credit his message with allowing me to escape unharmed.

And now, Jesse's dead. The pasty lawmaker with the familiar twang and wholesale derision of those unlike himself is explaining it all to his Maker. Try as I might though, I can't hate him. His naked campaigns against African Americans, Homosexuals and his political enemies still piss me off. But the Senator who rose to power on the strength of his rabid WRAL editorials has my begrudging respect - if only because of his mastery of the media. No North Carolina politician ever played the press as deftly as Jesse Helms. He knew his base and he knew how to get into their homes, their hearts and their hate. That doesn't make him any less misdirected, but it does complicate his canon. I'm reminded of a piece Neill McNeill and I produced recently on Helms' latest biography. During the interview, author William Link confirmed my suspicion that the Senator everyone loved to hate deserved more than plain vitriol. Then Neill further muddied the waters with a back-scenes anecdote he shares here. Really now, can a man who stops to talk fancycams really be all that bad?

Don't bother answering; I'm on vacation...

Never at Dusk

Halfway through our sand-filled sabbatical, and I'm running dangerously low on angst. Maybe it's because I haven't worn sensible shoes in half a fortnight. Maybe it's because my biggest tactical decision has been when to flip the steaks. Maybe it's because of the freewheeling conversations I've had with my kids. Maybe it's because occupational frustrations tend to dissolve in saltwater. Maybe it's just the Maker's Mark. Whatever the reason, your normally coiled cameraman is only a notch or two above comatose. Personally, I blame the location.

By far the quietest of Brunswick County's three barrier islands, Sunset Beach is delightfully sequestered. To even get on the place, vacationers have to drive over a single lane pontoon bridge, one of - if not the - last of its kind still standing. That rickety treasure will soon be replaced by a concrete abomination, but for now travelers still thrill to its every staggered crossing and curse it when they have to pee. Once on the island however, suburban fanilies quickly find a lack of fast food places, a dearth of urban sprawl and an overwhelming absence of hassle. You might say there's nothing to do.

Which is exactly why families from up and down the East Coast seek it out. Unlike nearby Myrtle Beach - that wretched hive of tattoo parlors, trinket emporiums and cheesy theaters, it's a challenge to catch the clap at Sunset Beach. Sure, someone has - but most seven day inhabitants revert to more wholesome diversions. Sun worship, civilized sibling interaction, seashell procurement: these are the activities on Sunset's agenda. Why else would I drive four hours away from home just to play house? It ain't because of the flat as hell mattress I been riding all week. It's the scenery, the serenity, the seclusion that makes me forget how to even spell T-V.

Don't worry though; I'll be awash in flopsweat and apoplexy by late Tuesday. Wednesday, tops.