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Cat Tales

Spring of 2010, there was a hidden litter of kittens born under our house. We noticed a grey female occasionally wandering the property, but unaware of any newborns. Then on a Sunday morning in May, the mother was struck by a car. She crawled to our driveway where I discovered her broken body and a tiny suckling kitten. Dare County Animal Control arrived quickly to put her down. It was heartbreaking and now we were stuck with five unweaned kittens. It took some time to nurture and gain their confidence.

After three months, we took them to a TNR clinic sponsored by Hatteras Island Friends of Felines. They got fixed and had their shots. Now what! We fell for them and continued caregiving.

A year later when Hurricane Irene flooded the villages, I remember scooping them up one at a time in rising water to bring them indoors. The storm surge was higher than ever, the power out, and we were all huddled inside as gusts pounded the house. It was an unforgettable night!

At 11 months old I cornered them on the front porch for a family portrait. In front (left to right) is Hairy, Bigfoot, and Shy One. Greyguy and Darkguy are in back. Hairy, like his mother was hit by a passing car. He was only 18 months old. At 3 years old, Shy One was trapped by a neighbor and taken a few miles away and despite weeks of searching, never recovered.

Years later as indoor cats, Greyguy and Darkguy both succumbed to cancer and had to be put down. Bigfoot was diagnosed diabetic in 2019, at the age of 9. We administered insulin twice a day for nearly 7 years and he survived really well. Just recently though, he developed an untreatable health issue and had to be put down the day after Easter. He was 16 years old and very special, outlasting his siblings.

Each had a different personality and we named them descriptively. They were beautiful polydactyl males that over the years, took us on an unforgettable bitter-sweet journey. They were about unconditional love, life experiences and inevitable loss. I miss them.

Why I Live Here

People ask, how’s the photography going? My answer can vary, but it depends what I’m working on. Nowadays I’ve cut back shooting, to spend more time editing and archiving what’s accumulated. I’m a photographic hoarder. I maintain and store what I shoot in a reasonably categorized fashion, so when looking for particular images, I can almost always find them. There are a few missing in action, others may have been inadvertently tossed. I just do the best I can.

I have boxes of saved work prints. Many shot with film, others taken with digital cameras that I began using in 2003. For the above image I spread some 10 inch prints across my work table and photographed them from above.

They show some of the reasons why I live here. So to answer that first question, it’s good!

A Cold Winter

When first settling down on Hatteras Island, I was impressed how temperate winters were. Those first few years, never dipped below 40°. By1977 though, that changed when I watched Pamlico Sound freeze. Combined with hard northwest winds, it made life a bit uncomfortable, especially since I heated with a tiny wood stove. Still in my early twenties, I was a lot tougher then.

Exceptionally cold winters seem to come in cycles. This year was proof, when it dropped to 22°. We had only a couple inches of snow, while up north it was measured in feet.

Behind my house, the Pamlico Sound froze 200 yards out from the shoreline. It was unusual, yet not totally unheard of.

A few times in the past, I’d seen it freeze hard for as far as one could see. In 1996, it did just that. It was thick enough for Gary Midgett to drive his truck out on it.

During that same event, Temperatures were in the teens as I drove out on the beach. Waves lapped on shore freezing instantly. The atmosphere had an eerie, static feeling. I set up a tripod with a mounted Pentax 6×7 film camera in the bed of my Dodge, snapping several exposures of a rare frosty occurrence.

As the sun set behind me, I took the last shot. It was and still is the coldest day I’ve ever experienced on Hatteras Island.

The Return of Old Buck

Locally, the tradition of celebrating Old Christmas continues. A throwback from the Julian Calendar, it’s ongoing today. When the Gregorian Calendar was put into effect sometime in the 18th century, folks here were late to change. In the isolated village of Chicamacomico, they kept Christmas celebration at the old date. Nowadays this community must be one of very few in the country celebrating Christmas twice.

Going for a couple hundred years, Old Christmas has morphed into what it is today, most recently this past January 10th. My favorite part is feasting on roasted oysters and waiting for the arrival of Old Buck, the legendary steer that comes out of Trent Woods to join celebrants.

There are plenty of oysters. These were roasted in the same homemade cooker as mentioned in my previous post.

The community skatepark was as popular as ever!

The weather was great. Lots of people were outside for oysters and others indoors for chicken and pastry.

Oyster shucking is an art unto itself, requiring care and concentration.

Owen O’Neal arrives with Old Buck. Caretaking of the symbolic creature has been passed down for generations through family members or relatives.

Old Buck is led into the community building greeted by excited revelers. At times it seems chaotic.

I had to watch myself as Old Buck got a bit rambunctious.

It’s good luck to touch Old Buck. Before you know it, he’s out the door and gone another year!

This year, Old Buck’s appearance was expedited by his handlers. Thanks to Owen O’Neal, Willy Smith and Andrew Midgett.

The Art of Roasting

As autumn transcends to winter, folks here think about oysters. Community oyster roasts are as popular as ever. It seems there’s always one happening somewhere nearby. They are usually fundraisers for nonprofits.

This year in Rodanthe the 4th annual Shuck Hatteras was celebrated December 20th to benefit Chicamacomico Banks Fire and Rescue. Lots of people pitched in to help prepare and serve wild caught oysters from Swan Quarter.

They started with 75 bushels.

Owen O’Neal began cleaning them with a power washer.

Ronnie and Tyler Jarvis worked fire pits, made from stacked cinder blocks and sheet metal shelves to spread out the oysters. Wet towels hold in the heat, to steam them nicely.