Trust Me, Eat Here

If it weren’t for the picnic table perched atop the large brick and stone oven, I never would have noticed Scratch. It made be do a double take. Unfortunately, it was my last day in Johnson City, TN, and it would take me another year to get back. But the wait was well worth it.

Scratch Brick Oven is not your typical pizza joint. The jukebox is a turntable sitting next to a stack of vinyl and it’s totally self serve. It was also the first time I’ve ever seen my pizza weighed after its been cooked. I was told they do it for “inventory” purposes. Not sure I’d ever want to know the outcome.

You can get your pizza three ways: Trust, Limited Trust, or Make Your Own. With the trust, the pizza maker chooses the toppings for you and they can be a very eclectic mix, from homemade sausage to mandarin oranges and Granny Smith apples. Limited trust is crossing out what you don’t want on your pizza. And make your own is just that.

Either way, Trust, Limited Trust, or Make Your Own, you can’t go wrong.

Just don’t order a whole pizza by yourself. If you do, you’ll be eating pizza for the next several days out of the mini fridge in your hotel. Not that there is anything wrong with eating cold leftover pizza.

Trust me, I speak from experience.

Chile Today, Hot Tomorrow

It’s hard to drive through Hatch, NM, and not see the large statue of Uncle Sam sitting next to Sparky’s Burgers, Barbeque and Espresso. Especially considering there are probably no more than two roads that pass through the small town in southwest New Mexico. You’d have to be blindfolded or asleep not to see it.

But if you look closely, you’ll see in the outstretched hand of good ole Uncle Sam, there sits a green chile. Which is fitting, because Hatch, NM, is the “Chile Capital of the World.”

Each year on Labor Day the small town holds its annual Hatch Chile Festival, attracting upwards of 30,000 visitors. Not bad for a town of less than 2000.

But you don’t have to wait for Labor Day to enjoy Chile Capital of the World. Just stop at one of the roadside shops with strings of chiles hanging from the eaves. Or better yet, stop by Sparky’s for a green chile cheeseburger as you make your way along the Green Chile Cheeseburger Trail.

But if you get lost while you’re in Hatch, just look up and Uncle Sam will lead you there.

Hamming It Up

 

 

 

Walking into Johnston County Hams in Smithfield, NC, there’s a door just to the right behind the counter. I follow one of the workers through the door and down a hallway, past a big industrial-sized fan and into a room that would make any country ham lover feel like they’d died and gone to hog heaven.

 

Hanging from metal racks three high are country hams on top of country hams. This is one of the curing rooms at Johnston County Hams.

 

Rufus Brown is the current cure master for Johnston County Hams, a position his father held before him. Since 1967 the Browns have been responsible for some of the best tasting country hams in the country, getting nods from Esquire, Men’s Health and Southern Living magazines.

 

As someone born and raised in the South, I am all too familiar with the tastes and smells of country ham. For me, the smell brings back fond memories of Christmases past, waking up early and rushing to see what surprises lay buried beneath the tree. (I have to confess, there were a few times when I already knew what was under the tree because I had already snuck out in the middle of the night to see. What do you expect a kid to do when he on Christmas Eve?)

 

After unwrapping everything in sight with a bow on it, we would almost always sit down to a hearty breakfast cooked by my mom. It wasn’t an elaborate meal by any means; just eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits and country ham, enough to fill our bellies and put a smile on our faces. I think it was just my mom’s way of making us all sleepy so we’d crawl back in bed and give my parents a little more sleep time.

 

So it is without fail, whenever I get a whiff of country ham frying in a cast iron pan, I’m transported back to Christmas morning.

 

This past Christmas’ breakfast was just like the rest: eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits and country ham.

 

As the country ham sizzles in the pan, the bells are replaced by smells as I’m transformed into one of  Pavlov’s dogs. But I’m the only one. It’s good to know my dog has a thing for country ham as well. You could tell by the drool pooling on the floor.

Remembering Doc

 

 

 

 

I never intended on becoming a photographer. I wanted to be a businessman.

 

When I first set foot on the NC State campus, I was going to major in Business Management. After all, that’s where the money flows and I wanted to make money.

 

Then this thing called photography popped into my life about my second sophomore year. I was hooked and it showed. My grades started to go south. Big time. I was spending more time taking pictures and working in the darkroom than I was studying for my classes. But this was my new-found passion. And I wanted to make it my life.

 

Problem is, State didn’t offer a degree in photojournalism. And business management didn’t look like it was going to work for me. I needed to find a new way out.

 

As luck would have it, I found a program called multidisciplinary studies. It allows you to combine three areas of study and come away with a degree. Sign me up!

 

When I decided to change my major, I also had to find a new advisor. And I knew just the person. Dr. Frank Hammond. Or as we all called him, “Doc.”

 

Doc was the director of the marching band. As a member of the drumline for three years, I got to know Doc really well. He and I both shared a passion for photography and I knew he would be the perfect advisor. He was also the only advisor in my college career that knew my name and truly cared about my studies.

 

Whenever we got a new camera or lens at the Agromeck, I’d take it by Doc’s office and let him play with it for a little bit. When I needed a subject for an assignment on portraiture, Doc was there to be my model. When he decided to retire, he invited me to document his last trip with the music department’s British Brass Band. He had told me before we left that he was going to tell the band members he was retiring and wanted me there to document the trip. I graciously went along.

 

After I finally graduated, Doc and I kept in touch for a little while. But as time passed, we lost touch with each other. Then I saw the posting on facebook. Doc passed away a few days ago.

 

It’s ironic that I pulled this picture out of a box a few weeks ago. I never thought I’d be posting it on the web. Not like this.

 

Doc meant a lot to many people. He will be missed here on Earth, but Heaven just got a great band director. I can see him now, getting the band together for another performance, raising the baton and challenging the heavenly ensemble with his famous line, “Thrill Me Baby!”

Zipping Right Along

What do you do with over a mile of cable, a few trees and an entrepreneurial spirit? You build what’s called a zipline on the side of Purgatory Mountain outside Asheboro, NC.

Years ago, Buddy Hammer marveled as he watched on National Geographic as scientists used ziplines to study the Amazon Rainforest. That was almost twenty years ago.

That gave him an idea of what to do with the 50 acres surrounding his home.

Buddy waited for retirement and for his children to graduate from college. With plenty of free time, he decided to give that little pet project of his a try. Thus was born Richland Creek Zip Line.

I first met Buddy and his wife JoAnn a few years ago. Since that time, they’ve added new lines, (bringing the total to 15) and several sky walks. Their longest and fastest line runs 1400 feet long. But it’s probably not the most fun line.

That title belongs to what’s called the bouncy line.

As a rider crosses the creek bed below, one of the guides mans the end of the cable and literally puts all of his weight into pushing and pulling the line in every direction possible.

To say the rider is catapulted in every direction is an understatement.

It’s a jolting, scream-inducing thrill ride. And it’s the culmination of a two-hour fun-filled tour that will leave you wanting more.

Having a Field Day

With the smoke from campfires filling the air, random shots of musket fire crackling from across the field and soldiers and civilians going about their daily duties in period attire, you begin to believe you’re truly living in the time of the Revolutionary War. Of course, it’s the concession stand selling pizza that brings you back to the present day.

For over 40 years, the Historic Camden Revolutionary War Site in Camden, SC, has held it’s Annual Revolutionary War Field Days.

Around 500 reenactors have besieged Camden, SC, to recreate skirmishes between Continental and British forces. Everything from encampments to artillery demonstrations, even a period fashion show, litter the 100-plus acres of the Historic Camden Site.

Early in the afternoon, a soldier armed with a bullhorn addresses the crowd gathered safely across a ditch to see the day’s skirmish. He provides a little background on the day’s skirmish: the Battle of Hobkirk’s Hill, divulging the strategies deployed by the two armies.

Then the battle begins.

Two major battles: The Battle of Camden in 1780, which happened about nine miles away from the Historic Camden site, and a 1781 battle between General Greene and Lord Rawdon, sometimes referred to as the Second Battle of Camden, are the inspiration for the mock battles.

Later that day, after the carnage has been cleared, a new battle erupts.

After a day of trying to kill each other on the field of battle, the two sides come together again on that same field to play a friendly game of rounders. Not the game from the movie, but the inspiration for America’s favorite pastime: baseball.

What's in a Name?

 

 

Walking into High Rock Outfitters on a Tuesday night, you kind of expect to see the kayaks hanging on the wall, the life jackets on the racks and the wakeboards on display. What you’re not prepared for is the guy standing in front of the kayaks playing a saxophone.

 

But then again, it’s Tuesday night and that means an open jam. And on Wednesday nights, it’s bluegrass.

 

You may be asking yourself “Why does an outfitter have live music?”

 

Go ahead and ask yourself why they serve coffee and beer as well.

 

High Rock Outfitters doesn’t fit the status quo when it comes to retail shops in Uptown Lexington, NC. And that’s the point.

 

They’re a new kind of business, started by a younger generation that’s looking to revitalize the downtown. And they’re doing it one pint, one latte and one kayak at a time.

 

 

Congratulations! It's a Bouncing Baby Honda

 

 

Driving down I-95, south of Florence, SC, it’s easy to miss the white buildings along the interstate. They sit back a little from the zooming traffic. And if it weren’t for the water tower with Honda painted on it, you probably wouldn’t take note of them at all.

 

The Honda production facility in Timmonsville, SC, started out making all-terrain vehicles back in 1998. It started out producing about 50,000 ATVs a year. Today, with almost 600 employees, that number is nearly 300,000. They go by the names of Foreman, Rancher, Recon, Rincon, Rubicon and Sportrax.

 

But on April 12, 2011, the plant reached a milestone. The plant’s first 2012 Honda Foreman 500 rolled off the assembly line. But this wasn’t just any ATV. This was the first ATV to be designed and built at the South Carolina facility. It’s their first baby.

 

While the general public isn’t allowed into the delivery room at the plant in Timmonsville, they can check out the newborns in the nursery at a Honda dealer. They may even get the chance to adopt one.

 

 

 

 

 

Fishing for Family

If there is a Heaven on Earth, for me, it’d be the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

About 30 years ago, my father and grandfather introduced me to the Outer Banks. It’s had a special place in my heart ever since. I don’t get out there as much as I’d like. Maybe once or twice a year if I’m lucky. And then it seems likes it’s just for work. As my father gets older, each trip we are able to make becomes more and more special.

Going fishing on the Outer Banks is not about catching fish. I’ve learned my lesson on that. If you go just to catch fish, chances are you’re going to leave disappointed. It’s all about the people you’re with and enjoying yourself.

As my grandfather got older, he wasn’t able to go fishing much anymore. When he did, he’d sit in a chair, holding a rod and enjoying the salt air. I could tell that fishing for him wasn’t about catching fish anymore.

After our last fishing trip together, he gave me one of his rods, a pair of waders and a tackle box.

Inside his tackle box was an array of lures, rigs and weights. Some of the lures were hand made, utilizing old knife handles. It looked like he stole some of my grandmothers flatware, cut the blade off the knife, drilled two holes in either end of the handle and attached a treble hook to one end; his homemade lure for catching blue fish.

I still have that fishing rod my grandfather gave me. I just had it rewrapped and am ready to hit the beach with it. The waders? Not so much. They finally developed a hole, actually more like a six inch gash, that just didn’t make sense to repair. There’s nothing quite like feeling cold seawater leaking into your waders and flowing down your leg.

Back in college, I remember going down to Hatteras Village, crossing the dune and fishing on the beach. Just me, my grandfather’s fishing rod and his waders. I managed to reel in a good-sized puppy drum that day. Fishing on the Outer Banks can be hit or miss. That day was definitely special. It was like my grandfather was looking over me.

When I got home, I went over to my grandparents’ house. My grandmother fried the fish for my grandfather and I. We sat down at the kitchen table and enjoyed every last bit of that puppy drum. It was the best tasting fish I have ever caught.

Flying Through the Air with the Greatest of Ease

 

 

When I was a little kid, my parents decided it’d be a good idea to buy a boat and teach my brother and I to waterski. One of the biggest hurdles we had to overcome was where we were learning to ski.

 

At the time, we were living in Louisville, KY, and the nearest body of water was the Ohio River. There are really big barges that run up and down the Ohio River. And they make really big wakes.

 

I’ll never forget my first attempt at skiing. It’s not because I got up on the skis, but because of how much water I drank that day.

 

My parents coached me on how to get going: bend your knees, keep your skis straight and let the boat pull you out of the water. I was all set. Let’s get this party started.

 

I followed those instructions to a t. What they didn’t tell me to do was to let go if I fell. My dad most have dragged me for a hundred yards before I finally let go.

 

It took a while, but my brother and I finally learned how to ski. We even learned to slalom ski.

 

Then the kneeboarding craze hit andI had to get in on this.

 

We got a kneeboard and I started doing all of the little tricks: 360’s and sideslides mostly with a few jumps here and there. But one thing eluded me: getting enough air to do a flip. That is, unless my brother was driving the boat.

 

Scott loved pulling me on the kneeboard. Which essentially meant we were on the lake with some friends and he wanted to show off or get me killed. I’m not sure which.

 

He’d get me up on the board and in no time was making sharp turns and trying to churn up as much wake as possible for me.  He’d then go into what I consider the death turn, because I don’t think I ever made it out of this turn without wiping out.

 

Scott would get me outside the wake and make a really sharp turn. But instead of making a u-turn to change direction, he would cut back over the old boat wake and create an enormous tsunami of a wake.

 

I was holding on for dear life at this point.

 

They said I’d literally fly higher than the boat. I don’t remember much except seeing the water coming up fast as I nosedived into the lake, peeling back my eyelids as I crashed and burned.

 

I’d finally surface and the first thing out of my brother’s mouth would be, “Wanna go again?”

 

“Sure,” I’d say. I think I was still in shock at this point. Why would I ever subject myself to this much torture? Either that or there was a short period of amnesia from my head impacting with the water.

 

I never managed to pull many tricks on a kneeboard, so I have a lot of respect for people that can. That includes people who can throw some awesome moves on a wakeboard.

 

When I was in Roanoke Rapids a few weeks ago, I got to meet world champion wakeboarder Adam Fields. He’s from the area and learned to wakeboard on Lake Gaston where his family owns a house. It’s also where he operates AF Wake, his wakeboarding school.

 

I took a ride with Adam and some of his friends as they took turns wakeboarding, pulling flips and soaring through the air with the greatest of ease, just like the daring young man on the flying trapeze.

 

Their acrobatics were amazing. I never could have done that on a kneeboard. Of course they didn’t have to worry about my brother driving the boat.