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Mayor on a Mission: Mayor Bradley Davis of Jamesville

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By Eliza Williams – 2014

JamesvilleSign

“I never actually wanted to be mayor,” he states as we sit inside Jamesville’s Town Hall. Taylor and I are across the table from Mayor Bradley Davis, asking him questions about his role with the town and how it has developed over the years. Shockingly enough, he explains that he was coerced into the job by a group of townspeople who witnessed his devotion to the town during his early morning walks, when he would gather pieces of trash lying on the ground. Perhaps, he admits, it was the work of one elderly woman who began calling around the Water Tower Town (yes, I am referring to Scotty McCreery’s country anthem) in order to get people to vote for him – despite his name not even appearing on the ballot.

JamesvilleWallofPicture

Upon getting off the “new” Highway 64 and entering Jamesville’s City Limits, Taylor and I followed our dependable GPS’s directions (honestly, what would we do without it?) and were surprised to find ourselves parked in front of a one-story brick building with the words “JAMESVILLE TOWN HALL” printed in white block letters on the front window. About a week or so prior to our NC road trip, I found Mayor Davis’ number on the town’s website and gave him a ring to see if he would be open to us interviewing him when we came to Jamesville. Given the hospitable southern culture in this state, the mayor graciously offered to meet us at the town hall. So, here we were. Unsure of what to expect, Taylor opened the door as I followed behind, notebook in hand and ready to write. A friendly voice greeted us before we were even through the front door and instructed us to “come on in!” We shook hands with the mayor, much younger than what I was expecting, and took a seat opposite him at the main desk.

We sat casually for a half hour or so, during which time we asked questions regarding the history and Highway 64’s impact on this small town along the Roanoke River. Similar to what we had heard from other interviewee’s in towns along the Roanoke, many of the benefits that Jamesville has seen came from being located right on the river. Thus, shipping and transportation to other towns were made exponentially easier. Another staple event for years was the Herring Festival, a fishing tournament and festival brought about by the abundance of herring in the river. Unfortunately the festival does not happen on the same scale anymore due to the overfishing of the species. After giving us a tour of the town hall building and giving us some more information on his duties, Mayor Davis wandered into a back room and, shortly thereafter, presented us with a manila envelope on which he had scribbled, “Herring Festival, 1949.” It wasn’t until getting in the car and driving away from this charming, riverside town that I had the opportunity to discover the time capsule of information that was contained inside.

Upon completion of the tour and receiving this generous gift, Mayor Davis pointed to his SUV parked out front next to Taylor’s Mazda and joyfully exclaimed, “Why don’t you hop in my truck and I’ll give y’all a tour of the town?” I’m pretty sure that he could read the excitement on our faces! For two students travelling to several places that we had never been to (or really heard anything about), this was the best gift we could have possibly received. We climbed up into his truck, backed out of the spot in front of town hall and rolled down Water Street, what used to be the main street in Jamesville prior to the fishing industry dying out.

B&WBus

Among the notable sites Mayor Davis pointed out to us were the Cypress Grille and River’s Edge restaurants, Weyerhauser & Domtar Paper Mill, Jamesville Middle School, and the newly implemented “NERSBA” school focused on educating students in the fields of biotechnology and agroscience. Two locations that truly captivated my mind were the oldest standing Civil War house, thought not to have been burned down by Union soldiers when they captured the town because the inhabitants at the time were secretly supporters of the Union, and the old African American-only church, which has since been converted and is still in use today. Mayor Davis’ tour provided Taylor and I with much more information about Jamesville and its history than we would have been able to gather independently and for that, we are forever grateful.

We ended our time in Jamesville with a stop down to the docks by the river. Keeping up with the times, Mayor Davis asked to take a picture of Taylor and I for the town’s Facebook page – naturally, we eagerly agreed. Being the mayor of a town with a small population has many perks – one of which being the ability to know your residents on a personal level. The mayor demonstrated this throughout the afternoon by stopping and rolling down his window to greet a passerby or with a jovial wave to someone in a passing car. Not much to our surprise, he was quick to converse with two little boys fishing off the docks that afternoon. Kindly enough, he introduced us to the boys, Noah and Colby. Their thick southern accents rolled off their tongue with each word smoother than butter. What an afterschool activity, I couldn’t help but think to myself. A few feet away from the two boys was an older man plopped comfortably in a foldable chair with a fishing pole between his palms and a crate placed next to him. He energetically waved us over. We approached him and introduced ourselves, following which he gave us an overarching life lesson about doing good work and praising God for what we are given in this life. He asked us if we accepted Jesus; having come from a Catholic family and attending a Catholic middle school, and Taylor being a Young Life leader, religion is one thing that is important to both of us. Uncertain of how we should approach this conversation, we said yes, with some hesitation. “Grace is what it’s all about,” I recall his deep and soothing voice proclaiming. After giving us some advice on how we can worship God and give thanks for all that we have been blessed with, he followed up a second time with the question, “have you accepted Jesus Christ as your savior?” To which we responded with a fervent, “YES!” His wicked laugh bellowed and a smile of joy spread across his wrinkled face. Taylor and I shared a glimpse and I couldn’t resist thinking that this was something we could only find in the South. Somehow, we had been blessed.

The mayor brought us back to town hall, where we exchanged contact information and planned to keep in touch in the future. Taylor hopped in the car, turned up the Country station, and merged back onto Highway 64 en route to discover our next town. As we pulled out of town, I began to open the manila envelope we had received as a gift, in which I was astounded to find black and white pictures from the 1949 Herring Festival with a detailed description and information on every person pictured. You know, I have seen first-hand how something so small can impact me in such a great way through several instances in my life; and this is absolutely one of them. And mayor, if you’re reading this, I hope you were serious about us coming back to Jamesville in the spring and riding down the Roanoke on your boat because that is definitely number one on my list of things to do before graduation.

 

 

 

Meeting an Old Friend in Robersonville

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By Kyle Lynch – 2014

Carol’s Home Cooking sat right on the edge of the town of Robersonville, if you want to call it a town. With a total area of only 1.2 square miles, you are out of Robersonville as quickly as you went through it.

Carol’s was the local eating hole, known for their classic home cooking and friendly service. As I ordered my meal of fried chicken (my waitress said it was the best in North Carolina), I started chatting with my neighbor at the table next to me.

James was an older man, most likely in his early 70’s, who was born and raised in Robersonville. He said most people in town his age had been in Robersonville their whole lives, and it was apparent when every person who came into Carol’s seemed to be a relative or best friend of somebody already enjoying their southern comfort food.

Growing up on a farm on the outskirts of Robersonville, James lived the “regular life” of a boy in a small town: up early to help on the farm, off to school, back to the farm. In his free time, he played baseball on a local field that no longer existed, but James would tell you it was “right down the road there.”

It seemed like everything in Robersonville was “right down the road there,” according to James. He told me about Ann’s House of Nuts, which was of course, right down the road. The factory opened in 2002, a date he didn’t think twice about. Ann’s is an international company, and their website claims to be the number-one provider of trail mixes in the United States. Their factory in Robersonville holds the largest oil nut roaster. This fact allowed James to tell his “Robersonville has the biggest nuts in North Carolina” joke, one he had clearly told hundreds of times yet always seems to make him chuckle. There’s nothing like an older man with a child’s humor.

While Ann’s was the only real big business around Robersonville, it had only been around for less than fifteen years, a smaller part of James’ life in town.

For years before Ann’s came to town, there were local businesses that were passed down from generation to generation, something James said has stopped in recent times. He talked about the old drug store and local supply shop that no longer existed but were once run by men who James described as if they were his best friends. Everyone James knew was a “good man” or a “friend of mine.”

I couldn’t tell if that was the norm for a small town like Robersonville or if James was just truly the most popular guy around.

As I finished up my meal (the chicken lived up to the hype) I felt like I had just gotten the old “Back in my day” speech from my grandfather. And that was the type of guy James was, the town grandfather that everyone loved to listen to.

Sunny Side Oyster Bar

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By Taylor Logeman and Eliza Williams – 2014

Peering out the car window, camera poised against my face, I did my best to keep up with our unofficial tour guide’s rapidfire flow of synopses of each town’s point of historical interest.  It seemed that no sooner would he conclude one tidbit of the town’s railroad background, when he change gears and move straight into the role the Roanoke River played in the town’s history. Brent Kanipe, the leading PR figure for the little town of Williamston, had graciously offered to drive us around this quaint riverside North Carolina community.  He never ran out of fun facts and points of interest to share with us.  From the passenger seat of his jeep, Eliza continued to ask him questions, as I snapped photos and furiously scribbled notes in the backseat.

But as the afternoon reached its end, Brent announced, “Oh, and you simply cannot leave Williamston without checking out Sunny Side Oyster Bar.”  So there we went.  A small wooden – for lack of a better word – shack, which sat placidly off the side of a vacant road, appeared in sight minutes later.  Strains of classic rock instantly greeted our ears, and a colorful collection of neon beer signs stretched across the back wall.  To our left stood a wrap-around bar, with tables, chairs, and booths on our right.  Though the next room housed several pinball machines and other barfly classics, this front room had only a game of “hook and ring,” which would later keep several young men busy as activity would pick up that night.

Brent introduced us to the owner.  We began asking her questions, to which she had several long-winded responses.  They’d bought the bar years ago, and were most famous – obviously – for their oysters.  Patrons from hours away made the trek to little Williamston to enjoy this seafood delicacy.  Although in recent seasons had forced them to raise the price of their oyster dishes, business nevertheless remained consistent, and prices had begun dropping once again.

Then she offered to show us around in the back.  An entire other room lay behind the liquor bar, which held a centered horseshoe-shaped oyster bar that pointed toward the kitchen.  Walking around, I noticed buckets placed periodically around the bar – shucking buckets.  Then she opened a door on the right, and beckoned us outside.  A pair of small brick rooms, attached to the building only by the roof, housed all the oysters (buckets by the dozen!), a rinsing sink, and the steamer, an archaic, copper-colored mammoth that looked like a misplaced anachronism from the 1930s.  Given the owner’s tone, it was a miracle that it still even functioned.  We all laughed at its expense.

We vowed to return for dinner that night, and we did a few hours later, after compiling our findings from the day’s discoveries.  When we’d first visited, a mere dozen or so people had been in the building, probably ten of who were employees.  Now, the parking lot was packed, as were the entrance, the bar, and the tables – even the pinball and ring toss games.  This was definitely the town’s culinary pride and joy, and that Friday night was teeming with lively activity.

We were told the wait would be around forty-five minutes to an hour, and determined to join the experience – we plopped down to settle until they called our name.  We didn’t mind; we had grabbed our laptops to synthesize all of our photographs, not to mention attempt to make sense of all our scrawled notes from the past few days.  It didn’t take long for one of the older locals, a friendly gentleman named Francis, to come wander over to ask us where we were from (because we had clearly come from elsewhere).  We enjoyed a jovial conversation, sharing with him the reason for our visit and all that we’d learned throughout it.  Francis was fascinated, and he was happy to add his own two cents of knowledge regarding the town’s history.  I continued to pull together my notes, strewn among scrap pieces of paper and my notebook, rapidly typing away, adding occasional tidbits Francis would share.

After a while, one of the waitresses entered the room, and announced with finality that the restaurant’s capacity had lengthened the wait – to a minimum of two hours.  Most, crestfallen by this discouraging news, left.  Some, like us, stayed put.  At the very least, we reasoned, we’d be up that long working on our piece.  Might as well wait to be fed!

But only twenty more minutes passed until we were called to be seated at the shucking bar in the back.  This, as we’d witnessed earlier, this was where the magic happened.  The shuckers suddenly appeared from the kitchen, walking toward us to claim their own grouping of four customers each.  A well-seasoned looking gentleman, who appeared quite well accustomed to and not the least bit fazed by the madness of the scene, approached us to take our orders.  Floyd, we later learned, had been employed at this oyster bar for forty-one years.

Originally from the Eastern Shore of Maryland myself, and an avid lover of quality seafood, of course we would be ordering plenty of their oysters and shrimp.  In addition to our shrimp platter, which we generously doused in cocktail sauce, Floyd placed before us each a small porcelain dish, in which he would plunk a freshly shucked oyster, and here would continuously replenish our dishes throughout the meal.  He was quite deft – it was clear this certainly wasn’t his first rodeo.  The moment I finished an oyster and placed down the shell, before I knew it a new one had taken its place.

Our fellow patrons were wonderful.  I could go on and on sharing the conversations from that evening.  To my left was a couple that frequented the bar, despite that they were from Raleigh and drove three hours each way to get there.  To Eliza’s right sat a trio of duck hunters who visited the area for obvious reasons.  After they finished up and left, a younger couple replaced them, also regulars of Sunny Side.  Upon their suggestion, and continued prompting, Eliza tried what they referred to as a Red Rooster.  A Sunny Side specialty – a hot-sauce-drenched oyster atop a Saltine cracker, topped with a jalapeno pepper, and capped once again with their bright orange house habanero sauce – was a fiery favorite, at least among the select few who could handle it.  As if throwing back shots of liquor, the three of them tilted their heads back, downed their Red Roosters entirely, and waited as their mouths and throats were rendered afire.  The couple, heavily tattoo-clad, shared with us that they’d seen plenty of full-grown men dissolve into tears after braving the flaming hot dish.  (And, thankfully, I captured the entire ordeal on video.)
Thoroughly and happily stuffed, we thanked Floyd and returned to our hotel room.  I fell asleep that night, dreaming of dancing red roosters atop piles of bivalve mollusks.

Dunes Burger

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By Ja’Mei Bess, 2013

I patiently waited for the slow mini van to chug on by as I pulled into the parking lot beside the entrance I meant to turn into. Having had a long day of horrible GPS directions, I found myself not caring. I chose to stay put in the lot and walk over to the window. Little did I know this would take away from part of my experience. I stood waiting at the window as a lively blonde woman came up to take my order. As I placed my order for the Dune Cheeseburger I quickly realized that I would have to awkwardly wait by the window for my order to come, because of where I parked. Meanwhile, everyone else sat in their cars because that was the custom. When the food was ready, she would bring the food to the customer.

Since my driving partner, better known as Bubba, complained that I had a tendency to eat on the go (though that is the purpose of fast food) we decided to sit in the car and enjoy the burger. I have to say it was what I would call a pretty darn good burger. First of all, I was eating real beef, which was great. It was a bit heavy on the mustard but it was still good. I don’t know what type of cheese they used. It wasn’t cheddar. Whatever it was, it made it even better. The fries were covered in what tasted like fresh sea salt and ground pepper. The seasonings gave it a bit of a kick. The fries were crispier than I usually prefer, but your common food lover would’ve enjoyed them. I’m not going to lie, I still say Five Guys has the best “fast food” burgers that I’ve ever had, but this was a pretty strong second – minus the mustard.

Front Porch Cafe

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By: Dannie Cooper, 2013

On the third day of our travels along Route 64, we woke up in Plymouth and drove out to Manteo. Finding ourselves without caffeine and a little hungry, we decided to stop somewhere in Manteo.  One of our travel mates had heard of the Front Porch Cafe, so we thought we’d give it a try.  Unfortunately, the address listed on their website did not exist.  Luckily, we stumbled across the actual location as we drove past our hotel. 

I liked the place the instant I walked in.  It felt like a festive, locally-owned Starbucks. The room felt like it was lit with natural light – not too dim and not too bright – and it was very spacious, with a variety of seating options. The walls were shelves packed with their wares, including local coffees, coffee syrups, teas, wines (including select Vineyards on the Scuppernong labels), Island-made jams, artistic mugs, tea kettles and greeting cards. The radio played a selection of popular songs, and not just the Top 40 on repeat. The staff was super friendly.  Overall, the place had that nice local feeling without making me feel like the tourist or outsider. In fact, when we stopped in the next day on our way out, the barista recognized us, which added to the place’s great feel. 

I ordered a plain bagel with butter and a hot chocolate.  The bagel was nicely toasted, but not burnt, and the butter was applied in a nice amount – not too greasy, but not too dry.  My first sip of hot chocolate was amazing.  It was the perfect temperature, and I was very happy to not have to worry about burning my tongue.  The best part was really that the hot chocolate didn’t have an aftertaste to it.  Bitter aftertaste is the reason I have a love-hate relationship with most hot chocolates, but the Front Porch Cafe’s hot chocolate was all love.

Yet what really stood out to me as I walked around was the bra-ha-ha entries at the back of the room.  According to one of the staff members, the bras are part of a national bra-ha-ha which is meant to raise breast cancer awareness.  All of the bras are made by local students of all levels and are meant to raise awareness within the community.  For me, this was just another aspect of the Front Porch Cafe that illustrated their friendly, local charm.

For more information on the Front Porch Cafe, please visit: http://www.frontporchcafeonline.com/

Tarboro Calvary Episcopal Churchyard

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By: Dannie Cooper, 2013

On our way home, we stopped in Tarboro to visit the Tarboro Calvary Episcopal Church.  One of my travel mates had seen pictures of the cemetery online and wanted to explore it in person.  I didn’t have many expectations going to the church yard.  I figured it was another old church with parishioners buried on the grounds. 

My feelings changed as I walked around the grounds of the church.  The looming flora and fauna of all varieties made the yard feel more like a historic garden, with tombstones marking lives as moments in time, all part of a bigger picture.  I learned that Reverend Joseph Blount-Cheshire, the founder of the church in 1833, was not just a rector; he was also an acclaimed botanist. Many of the trees that he planted would not typically survive in North Carolina. By grafting foreign trees onto native plants, Blount-Cheshire created a unique garden for his beloved congregation. History was replete in the churchyard- certain family names reappeared over and over again, showing continuous lineages of parishioners.  Sculpted lambs sat atop small stones, marking the graves of children that passed too soon.  Confederate crosses marked the burial sites of Civil War soldiers.

Being among so many stories was overwhelming.

Some stories stood out more than others.  I stumbled across the grave of William Dorsey Pender, the youngest Confederate general of the Civil War who died in combat at 29 years of age. His grave was special, marked with cannon shells surrounding his above-ground coffin.  More touching were the twin graves of two young girls, marked with beds of white flowers; one had tried to save the other from drowning in a river, and neither had survived.  Reverend Janey Wilson told us all of these stories with a learned disconnect that comes from working next to a graveyard every day. The Reverend noted that, when doing funeral processions, they always pass the girls’ graves on the way into the churchyard.

Janey Wilson is the first female reverend of Tarboro Calvary Episcopal, and has dedicated herself to the maintenance of her congregation and the church, by any means necessary. She jokes, “The normal congregation doesn’t all come, but I have my Facebook congregation.”

I had not entered the churchyard with expectations, but I left feeling at peace.  And if I ever drive through Tarboro again, I’ll be sure to stop at Calvary Episcopal to visit the graves and to soak in the history and the serenity that emanates from the churchyard.

For more information on the Tarboro Calvary Episcopal Church, please visit http://www.calvarytarboro.org/

Review of Highway 64 Diner

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By Mei Bess, 2013

The Highway Diner 64 is a quaint restaurant right off of Highway 64 (as one might guess) in Rocky Mount. Hearing the word ‘diner’ I expected the place to resemble the local-scum-bucket-Landford-Lunch-Box from Roseanne type of place.

My expectations were absolutely wrong. It had a 50s diner theme, fully equipped with a serving counter/bar and red pleather booths, surrounded by a silver exterior, that was possibly aluminum. It was decorated with bits and pieces of history from the ‘40s to present day. It contained old plaques, license plates, and signs that said Coca-Cola and other commercial items from previous decades. It appeared to be a popular place for customers, both locals and visitors. To no surprise, I later found out that it is known for its architecture.

Our server was very kind and welcoming. I also found out that they’re known for their friendly servers. I was still recovering from breakfast, so I decided not to order an entrée, but I ended up kicking myself for not ordering the chicken tenders like one of my group members. They looked as if they were perfectly cooked, with the right amount of crunch on the outside and juicy tenderness on the inside. Not to mention, the portions were huge; talk about getting your money’s worth. Usually, the sight of food repulses me when I’m full, but those chicken tenders were definitely an exception. Though still too full for an entrée, I had just enough stomach space to fit in some sort of dessert. Oddly enough, they did not have plain chocolate cake, but they did have apple pie, which is my personal favorite. I was excited to see this on the menu, for I’ve found that I now have to search to find apple pie at restaurants. I remember when I was younger every restaurant we went to had it.

The apple pie from Highway Diner 64 was served just right, warm with a couple of scoops of vanilla ice cream. The crust was perfectly crisp on the edges and soft on the inside. The apple filling tasted heavenly with the ice cream. There was nothing left on the plate by the time I finished. It was the perfect ending to a long trip, and it’s definitely a diner worth going back to. If nothing else, to get those chicken tenders.

Elizabethan Gardens

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By Mei Bess, 2013

Elizabethan Gardens, home to the largest bronze statue of Queen Elizabeth I and ten acres of beautiful landscaping in Manteo, NC. Construction began on June 2, 1953, the same day Queen Elizabeth II was crowned Queen of England. As we drove past the entrance to find a parking spot the beauty of its exterior stunned me. “We should’ve filmed as we were driving by!” Bubba exclaimed. She was my entertainment and driving companion for most of the trip. The history was clear from the parking lot. We could already see the historical iron gates and antique furnishings – which we later found out was obtained over the years through donors.

A young woman who managed the gift shop greeted us. There were wonderful trinkets and decorations in the shop, all of which would look excellent inside or outside of anyone’s home. The prices were a bit steep, but would definitely be a notable piece to any guests who visited the home of those who purchased an item. Soon, we were overwhelmed by the artificial scents of the little shop, so we made our way to the main attraction.

The garden was quite peaceful and serene.  They say you can tell how prestigious a college is by its number of bell towers and fountains, and in this case, it applies to this fountain-filled garden. In fact, the first décor, that everyone who walked into the garden would spot, was a fountain. There were at least three others that we came across, each one more elaborate than the last. The garden was decorated with a variety of statues, including Roman gods and goddesses and Virginia Dare, the first child of European parents to be born on American soil. There was a great lawn hidden in the right lung of the garden where, to no surprise, many weddings are held each year.

My favorite part had to be the colony walk. It was a dirt trail that led to a gate. Behind the gate were crashing waves and a massive body of water. Not only could I see the history all throughout the garden, I could smell it in the salt of the sea. We spotted what appeared to be a sailboat off in the distance. It was a beautiful ending to a wonderful visit to a glorious location that is a must-see if another trip is made to the coast.

Jenkins Antiques

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By Noah Manneville, 2013

Along the route to Williamston, North Carolina by way of Highway 64, a house stands quietly alongside the narrow two-lane road. A large display reads, ‘Jenkins Antiques’ in cursive, and from one look at the building one is struck with an irrepressible idea that more than just history is housed inside.

The owners, Ronnie and Becky Jenkins, have owned the building for 28 years, having bought the house in 1985 and remodeled it from its previous usage as a bar and restaurant. Though they’ve owned it longer than I have been alive, the peg-built antebellum farmhouse has survived for many more generations than nearly any building in the area. It was erected in 1857, and survived through the American Civil War. Perhaps most astounding — and a testament to the love the Jenkins have for the house — the building remains in its original condition today, aside from minor renovations made to the interior by the Jenkins’ over the years. With over 10,000 square feet of space, the antique shop houses thousands of items spanning the past two centuries, and some items dated to even more ancient times. In a move of brilliance, the Jenkins decided to house goods on consignment; people bring in antiques they want sold, and for a fee, the Jenkins’ exhibit the goods.  When they sell, Jenkins Antiques receives a percentage of the profit. Often the antiques come in from professional appraisers, which ensure that the antique shop stays full of unique and interesting items that come from around the area.

Digging through the displays, I found an American army infantry helmet used during the Vietnam War, a Ku Klux Klan token from the early 20th century used to signify membership, a bottle of bourbon in the shape of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s head, and a string of Chinese coins and small tools that were remarkably dated to the 1st century CE. Unlike some antique stores, the objects on display were not tossed about in an unorganized fashion. Instead, they were arranged in precise aisles and designated areas that reminded me of a scene in an interior decorating magazine. Coca-Cola bottles and mason jars were set against a backdrop of lace with a soft light casting shadows on the objects, and for a moment it seemed I was in a coastal cottage, not wandering about an old antique shop. The neatness of the place was certainly a result of loving care, and, after nearly three decades, the expertise of the owners.

When I first opened the door to Jenkins Antiques, Becky Jenkins was measuring two boat oars that a man had brought in that morning. Ronnie, her husband, was reclining listening to headphones.   Becky’s initial assumption was that the oars, which were 16-feet long well-worn and splitting, had possibly been used on slave ships that brought Africans to North Carolina to work on cotton and tobacco fields. Ronnie removed his headphones to hear the hypothesis, and nodding his head in approval, returned to his music. Ronnie was listening to Dixie 105.7, a local country music station. He used to listen to classic rock from the ‘60s, but needed a change. Becky doesn’t like country, so instead of playing the music on the speakers in the store, Ronnie is forced to keep the music to himself).

It seems that without trying, the Jenkins’ have become antique experts by nature. After Ronnie retired, the Jenkins made the antique shop a full-time gig. Becky created a website for the store, which is constantly updated whenever new items are sold or brought in. Samurai swords are on display that their son, now married, contributed when he decided he no longer had the space or desire to keep them. There is furniture all around the house labeled and tagged with prices, ready to be sold at a moment’s notice. A box of objects brought in from a friend to be put on consignment sits in prominent display near the front door — the friend is an appraiser using some of his most sensational antiques to help pay for cancer treatment.

It would seem that after two centuries of history, the house itself has adopted a personality of its own. When I ascended the stairs to the empty second floor, the house seemed to greet me, creaking as if in memory of every step that came before mine. Perhaps the antiquity of the house itself has rubbed off on the Jenkins’, or perhaps the love for the job has brought the old house back to life. It seems that there is a symbiosis between Becky, Ronnie and the old farmhouse that can only come from prolonged contact and loving care. It is not something that can be understated, nor replicated. It is a true display of what a home can be, and what a homeowner can aspire to become.

 

Garden Spot Cafe and Bar

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By Noah Manneville, 2013

At midday on the Friday in October when we arrived in Plymouth, the town seemed to be at a standstill. Every door was shut and locked, and the only signs of life were outside the town hall and the police precinct. We had stopped in downtown Plymouth to find a bite to eat, but were disappointed to find the town empty. Just as we were about to leave to find a fast food joint, we passed a building with a sign reading “The Garden Spot.” I peered in through the window and noticed a young man looking back at me. Just as I was about to break the awkward eye contact by walking to the car, the man strode over to the door, opened it, and said we should come back in a few minutes when they opened. Instead of making us stand on the front porch while the restaurant prepared to open, he asked us what we were doing in Plymouth, and suggested we check out the Port ‘O Plymouth maritime museum down the road. After wandering through the museum (which was closed, except for the pier where a replica of a Civil War era ironside was moored) we returned to The Garden Spot and took a seat by the window.

The restaurant was cozy- I faced a mural of a garden scene that featured quotes encouraging good living. The young man introduced himself as Hunter Askew, a native to Plymouth and a waiter at The Garden Spot. After taking our orders, we sat enjoying sweet teas while scanning the quiet street outside the window.

Askew, wearing an Orange Slice soda tee shirt, answered all our questions about Plymouth. After learning we were writers, he offered to introduce us to his father Dennis, the manager of the Domtar Paper Mill, which is the largest employer in Eastern North Carolina. Shortly after this conversation, our food arrived. Both plates looked delicious. I had fried flounder and grilled lemon pepper scallops with a side of red skin potato salad and hush puppies. The cocktail sauce and the tartar sauce were both homemade, which added to my delight. My classmate, with whom I was traveling, ordered the flounder as well, with grilled shrimp and fried okra. The Southern comfort food was filling and flavorful, and despite being a Northerner and having post-unhealthy meal guilt instilled in my very psyche, I had to stop myself from ordering seconds.

After eating, we decided to tour the upstairs bar. Exiting the café, we took a left and turned the corner. A fried oyster was drawn on the wall next to a stairwell that led to the second floor of the building. At the top of the stairs was a small art gallery, and past that the walls opened up to the Garden Spot Oyster Bar. Grabbing two seats at the empty bar, we were greeted by Tim, a local to Plymouth who had spent most of his life in New Jersey. Being the only customers at the time, Tim struck up a conversation with us. I told him where we were from, and he reciprocated. I ordered a dozen oysters, which Tim shucked at the bar while telling us about his personal friendship with First Lady Michelle Obama that had formed while he was bartending in New Jersey. “She sure loved to dance,” Tim said. “She was a great dancer.”

Locals began to trickle into the bar around six o’clock, at which point I pushed back from the bar, satisfied with a belly full of seafood and beer. Before the room filled, we paid the tab and thanked Tim and Hunter. Though Plymouth itself seemed asleep, by the time we left the Garden Spot bar it was as lively as any big city restaurant. I couldn’t help but feel that perhaps I had not given people in Plymouth as much credit as they deserved. Though the streets were empty, the people in the Garden Spot seemed at home.