When you and the guy walking across the top of    [Continue reading]]]> The Man and I recently got back from our spring road trip. We had our usual quirky time – we like back roads and waterfalls and dams and fish hatcheries and of course we met enough characters to people a couple of novels (I hope).

When you and the guy walking across the top of the Holston Dam are the only people in a two-mile radius, you tend to get into conversation pretty easily.

This one started with, “That sure is a purty dog.” (Rule #1 for fiction writers: Get a dog, preferably a purty one.)

The guy said he came to the dam every day to meditate and pray. It was easy to stand on the far side of the dam and feel a supreme peace as you looked out at the placid lake caressed by green mountains – as long as you could ignore the massive amounts of rock and blood, sweat and tears that made it all possible.

“My uncle worked on building this here dam.” He pointed to the sloping wall. “Guy’s buried somewhere down in there. Fell in and they tried and tried to get him out.” He shook his head. “Almost lost some other fellers too, trying to pull him out. Back then they just didn’t have the equipment they got now and it was too dangerous. Didn’t make sense to lose a couple more guys to save one already gone.

“So his bones and everything is still right there inside that wall.” He was silent for a few minutes.

“That there lake’s ‘bout 250 feet deep in places – built the dam and the water just kept rising over houses, trees, whatever else was left down there. Water’s cold, too – not much above 32 degrees.”

He pointed to a section of the spillway wall. “A catfish – mebbe 200, 250 pounds got stuck right there in the intake valve back then. They didn’t have no way to deal with something that size, weren’t expecting nothing like that. Mebbe it was more’n 250.” He shook his head again.

“No telling what all’s in that lake.”

He rubbed Polly’s head once more before getting back in his truck. “Purty dog.”

~

The narrow road curved around to follow the bends of a fast-moving stream. Where they both straightened out a bit, we saw what looked like a series of home-made wooden dams straddling the stream.

We stopped to take a closer look. Below each dam, there was a wooden corral-like box crowded with fish, all trying to swim upstream. We were at a trout farm. We were also trespassing, and when we saw someone staring at us from their front door, it felt like time to move on.

Later we passed the State Fish Hatchery and pulled into the parking lot. It was hot, and the guy who ran the place told me to bring Polly inside the building. “My dogs love it in here,” he said and Polly seemed to as well. It was cool and fresh spring water bubbled through a channel along the floor before flowing into the large concrete fish tanks.

Mark (that’s not his name but he reminded me of a Mark) started talking about what the fish eat and how fast they grow and when and where the fishery staff release them. It was interesting, but once he stuck his hand in his pocket, I forgot everything he’d just said.

He pulled out a round tin.

Oh no he isn’t…
Oh yes he is.

A single well-practiced move and he opened the tin, pulled out an enormous wad of tobacco and crammed it into his cheek. Without pausing in his narrative one tiny bit. He just kept talking, looking like a lopsided Alvin the Chipmunk on steroids.

By now, there were four of us who’d been listening to him but I think we were all wondering the same thing: where’s he gonna spit that stuff out?

Oh no he isn’t…
Oh yes he is.

Mark kept talking and then his mouth did a quick sideways flk-splat into one of the fish tanks. He talked some more and then flk-splat into another fish tank. Then flk-splat into another.

Honestly, in the greater scheme of things by the time those trout make it out to open water and then into the frying pan, their nicotine cravings will be long gone.

Still, later that night in the Copper Kettle Restaurant, I considered the house specialty, pan-fried local Rainbow Trout, only briefly.

“I’ll have the catfish plate.”

Yeah.

Yesterday I had an appointment to go in and prove to the DMV examiner that I knew the difference between    [Continue reading]]]> I guess the day you renew your driver’s license and they snap that picture that will follow you around for the next 8 years BEFORE you get the black eye qualifies as a good day, right?

Yeah.

Yesterday I had an appointment to go in and prove to the DMV examiner that I knew the difference between a stop sign and a cattle crossing warning so I could continue driving legally. The NC driver’s license office (note: different than the NC auto registration/license plate office) is located in this funky strip mall near a bunch of used car lots and fast food joints. The McDonald’s on the corner has been the scene of several drug busts in the last couple of years. If there were railroad tracks nearby, we’d be on the wrong side of them.

Here’s the roll-call for the strip mall tenants: the ‘anchor’ is a large pawn shop/check cashing/loan center in the middle of the mall. It’s surrounded by a Japanese deli and food shop, a laundromat, a loan company, dance studio, a temporary employment agency. Then there’s the NC license plate office, a Mexican mercado, the NC driver’s license office, two insurance agencies and a hair salon.

I mention this because, while I know there are all kinds of Idea Generators and Writing Prompts available, for me just walking around a place like this throws a whole slew of ideas into my brain. I can pick any two, maybe three, of the businesses in the mall, watch the people going in and coming out and all of a sudden I’ve got myself a cast of characters and some plot threads.

Two weeks ago when I first tried to renew my license and found three dozen people and a two hour wait ahead of me, ElderHaus was a tenant. It’s since been replaced by the dance and zumba studio. Why? The temporary employment agency doesn’t even open until 2 PM. Why not? I see some story possibilities here.

My current WIP has a scene in a pawn shop, so I thought I’d do some research. A sign on the front door reads: “Before entering shop, unload all firearms. Open action.” Uh, consider it done.

I’d been in the pawn shop before – when I got my first NC driver’s license, and it didn’t look like the merchandise had changed all that much in the intervening years. I had this central casting pawn shop in my head (and in my WIP, where I think/hope it fits), but this place knocked my expectation on its head.

“Can I help you?” A woman who looked like she was ready to dish me up some of her green bean casserole at a church supper smiled at me. “We have some good deals on jewelry today. Everything in these three cases is 50% off.” A gaudy diamond pinky ring plays a prominent role in my WIP so I was pleased to see one sitting in the display.

The woman was gracious and eager to show me whatever I wanted. I might as well have been in Zales. Though I was tempted momentarily by the NASCAR money clip – a half-off steal at $15.00 – I left the store with nothing but some good ideas and vivid images. (Yes, I walked through the stolen tools and guns just to make sure I had portrayed Mr. Earl and his pawn shop appropriately. I had.)

The black eye? Another reminder to me that pulling disparate, mundane pieces together at just the right time gives a story authentic impact. For example:

• a woman leaning down to pick up a piece of paper from the concrete
• a man opening the garage door
• a dog leaping from the first floor landing to the garage in a single, high-speed burst.

Ouch.

Booze? Hell, the Brew Thru, our drive-through beer and    [Continue reading]]]>
The North End of the island is one of the few places along the East Coast where you can legally drive your 4 wheel drive vehicle down the beach and set up camp right above the high tide line — tents, campers, campfires, dogs running free.

Booze? Hell, the Brew Thru, our drive-through beer and smokes store, does beer delivery right to your tent stakes 7 days a week during the summer. They’ll sell you firewood, too.

We don’t go there in the summer. Understandably, it gets kind of rowdy and crowded, but this time of year it’s perfect. The beach is long, wide and level. Polly can run.

And, of course, we can run into dog owners, locals mostly.

We’d just parked the car on the street and were headed to the beach when we saw this guy walking toward us with two little dogs on leashes.

GUY #1: Buffullowthuday. Dumwevzehuj!

ME: Can’t wait! Thanks!

Guy kept on walking.

A (to me, sotto voce): You understood him? What’d he say?

ME (nods): He said, ‘It’s beautiful out there today. Them waves is huge!’

Seven years ago when we moved here I couldn’t understand the locals either, and now sometimes I feel like one. I still need to stuff clamshells in my mouth to talk like that, though.

The guy was right. It was beautiful out on the beach. And the waves were huge.

We went back to the North End the next day, parked in the same spot even. Before we got out of the car, we saw a dog that looked very much like Polly trotting down the street. Alone.

We have pretty expensive leash laws on the streets, so you rarely see dogs padding down the sidewalk on their own. This dog looked lost.

We called the dog over and checked his collar and tags. I got out my cell phone to call Buddy’s owner.

GUY #2: Hello?

ME: Hey, you looking for your dog?

GUY #2: Sure am. Where you at?

His truck pulled down the street before I’d even finished giving him the address.

GUY #2 TO DOG: Buddy, you a bad boy!

BUDDY (wags tail happily): Woof!

GUY #2 TO US: Happens again, just drop him off at [insert name of local sleazy dive bar here]. Buddy knows the place. He’ll just wait for me to show up there, ‘cause he knows I will, sooner or later.

Buddy and he got into the truck and took off.

** Polly, A and I packed lunch, beach    [Continue reading]]]>
Lately I’ve felt like I’ve lost my touch in meeting up with local color and characters, so I was pretty happy with my day at the beach yesterday. (I changed some names just in case and I left out a bunch of the very scattered conversational threads.)

**
Polly, A and I packed lunch, beach chairs and books and thought we’d have a nice peaceful, productive read-in now that school’s in session and the beach is pretty empty.

We hadn’t counted on black flies, though.

Mr. Fun-in-the-Sun tried to distance himself from us as quickly as possible, since flies don’t attack him unless he’s with Polly and me. He buried his face in Programming in Objective-C 2.0 – his idea of a good beach read – and Polly and I started dancing around swatting flies.

We hung around the tide line until we met Carl. Carl was wearing a bright yellow NASCAR baseball cap and he had gold teeth and the stub of a cigar in his mouth. He was struggling with a cooler, fishing gear and a horny Jack Russell terrier named Petey.

His buddy, Irwin, pounded white PVC pipes into the sand to hold the fishing rods while Carl talked. Then Carl started rooting through the cooler and realized that he’d left the bait back in the truck. He took off for the parking lot.

While he was gone Irwin assured me that even though Carl was crazy – he never really recovered from Vietnam – he was perfectly harmless and Irwin would keep him in check in case he stepped out of line.

I nodded. I know that, like black flies, I attract every kook on the beach and that’s fine, as long as they don’t bite.

Carl came back, and kept right on talking.

“Been comin’ here for more’n forty years now. Hell, my gran’ pappy built Uncle Buddy’s restaurant in town. Come all the way down here to build that place. Built the other Buddy’s, too.

“Took us less’n 3 hours to get here now. Before they built the new road, used to take us all day. Drive from one town to the next – stop in each one for a drink before headin’ to the next town. All day, it’d take.”

Carl told me he had a Corvette, same color as his NASCAR cap. He’s not driving now – got a DWI a couple of weeks ago. His first, he said. I doubted that.

Polly was restless so we headed off down the beach.

By the time we came back, a third guy was standing around the fishing poles. Carl was pointing to his watch and telling him his Corvette’s upholstery was black with blue stripes, just like the watch. The new guy was Bill.

Here’s the thing about Southern good ole boys and their dogs – at least the ones I tend to meet. Big, burly guys with thick necks and tattoos, a wad of tobacco in their cheek or a butt dangling from their lips: they all have little wuss dogs. Bill had this yappy little Chihuahua type dog, Fred, with ‘Bad to the Bone’ embossed on its leash.

I did my one public service activity of the day: I told them that if they saw the park ranger coming they needed to hide their beer or else the ranger would make them POUR IT OUT in the sand. We’d watched that happen too many times this summer.

Carl started shifting things around in the cooler, covering stuff. “Don’t care about the beers – it’s the whiskey. Paid 47 bucks for it and I’m not gonna water no beach with it.”

A was still engrossed in Objective-C 2.0 when we sat down. We’d brought a swarm of flies and he encouraged us to keep walking, head out of town with Carl and Irwin, anything — as long as we took the flies with us.

I threw a tennis ball for Polly for a while, then we walked down the beach again. When we came back, Carl, Irwin and Bill were still looking out at the waves. The fishing poles hung lifeless, not even a hint of a nibble.

“Catch your dinner yet?” I asked.

“Not unless they’re having dog.” Bill offered this and pointed to Polly, the only one of the three dogs that would provide more than a mouthful.

Carl broke out into what I assume was Vietnamese for ‘barbequed dog’, then “No way! Never again!” and he kept on chattering. I couldn’t understand a word he said, which is probably just as well.

I checked to see if A was anywhere near ready to leave and finally he was. We folded up the chairs and gathered our stuff.

I walked back over to Irwin to wish him luck with the fishing. Carl had wandered off somewhere with Bill. I told Irwin not to let Carl drive. Irwin told me not to worry.

We were almost to the road when someone bellowed “Bye Natasha!” from the beach.

I turned to see Carl waving and I yelled back “Bye y’all.”

A: “You’re being loud.”

“Of course I am. Why do you think they like me?” I sniffed. “Nobody talking to you about Objective C Programming out there.”

We kept swatting at flies until we got in the car.