North Carolina: Day 2

As the "Jackpot!" post mentioned earlier, today began with a call from Earl telling about the "git tagether" tonight at Rhonda's.

I made my way from the hotel back down to Fayetteville in search of the Johnson Family Cemetery "on Johnson Road just off of Melstone Road next to the Goodyear tire plant." Or so Myrtle posted in 2001. Let me tell you something, Myrtle, your directions leave a lot to be desired. Quite frankly, they suck. Please make the following addition:

"Oh, by the way, it's not really next to anything, especially the Goodyear plant. I fudged a little to make you think you were legally insane. Here are the real directions. Most of what I said was right, but you know how I said it was "just off" Melstone, well like the hound dog saying he was "high class," that was just a lie. Actually, turn onto Johnson Road and go about 2 miles until it dead ends at the Johnson Family Cemetery. The End. Love, Myrtle."

So I got to cemetery, parked the ride and exited the vehicle with the camera in tow for my duties as the Johnson family genealogical photographer. There were only about 25 gravestones in this particular plot of land and the soil was rather sandy, as seen here:Again, I take photos of any stones with any names I recognize (I'll sort them out later). I skipped a few because I didn't know them. Once I finished, I realized that there were only about six stones that I didn't photograph, so I may as well get them all so I took shots of the first five.

I then headed over to the final stone, which had broken off it's base years ago and was laying flat on the ground. There was some vine-like grass growing over it like I had seen yesterday, so I pulled some of it out and brushed off the stone and started taking the photos. I took the first one of the entire stone and then attempted a close up since it was pretty worn. That's when I felt something on my ankles that distracted me from my shutter closure.

Unlike yesterday, when I wore shorts and short socks, today I had on jeans, which was actually worse for the situation at hand.

What I didn't notice was that while pulling up the grass from the sandy soil, I had stepped on a fire ant hill. By the time I looked down, there were hundreds of those crimson devils swarming over my shoes, into my shoes, into my socks, up my pant legs...every preposition you can use here. Then I started to feel the biting. That didn't stop me from snapping the close up shot (seen here)......and then sprinting over to the asphalt road to brush off the tiny invaders. The don't call them fire ants for nothing. Short of "stop, drop and roll," I was trying to squelch the flames. I probably looked like a stuntman when the crew puts out the fire the way my arms and legs were flailing. Maybe I was doing the "fire ant polka." Whatever it was, the asphalt was safe. I had to take off my shoes and socks to eradicate the minuscule beasts, but then I felt a few bites at the back of my knees.

IF YOU WORK WITH ME, STOP READING. I WON'T BE EMBARRASSED, BUT YOU MAY BE.

After the second or third piece of flesh was pulled from my walking limbs by the jaws of a diminutive pest, I realized that simply brushing off my jeans would not suffice. Thus, I had to remove them at the end of a dead end road and not next to the Goodyear tire plant. At that point, I was happy about Myrtle's non-descriptive directions. Fewer people to see a grave hunting nerd strip to his skivvies due to a fire ant attack. This was not a time for modesty. It was a time to live. Once I reassembled my wardrobe, I decided I had to have a photo of the little bastards who caused so much destruction.

So I tiptoed back over to the worn tombstone that I last left in a Carl Lewis-like sprint, careful to steer clear of fire ant hills, and snapped my photo. I then returned to sprint mode and got back to the car in 1.6 seconds. Here's the photographic evidence of the flaming hill of death. By the way, this photo represents 1,000,000 fewer mini balls of flame than just 10 minutes earlier.I hate them and hope they die. I know they are God's creatures, but in this case, he made a terrible mistake. Thanks God.

The rest of the day doesn't really measure up, but I feel that I must report on it. I went to find my great uncle's (Henry Elmer Johnson), home in 1962 when he died to find that it had been torn down and replaced with a planned parenthood clinic. He would be so proud. I then went to the Fayetteville Library again to do some more book worming.

After that, I headed to Rhonda's for the git tagether. There was a good number of kinfolk there, but the one guy who has done some family research wasn't able to make it, so that was a bit of a downer, but they were really nice and welcoming people, so it was worth it. Rhonda shared what she had with me, including this photo of here great grandparents, William James Johnson and his wife, Kate McDaniel. William James is my grand uncle (my grandfather, Walter's, brother).

They also had cats, which, of course, I enjoy. There were eight of them, double of my brood, but two were particularly awesome. I was too busy petting them to take any photos, so imagine two small cats and me petting them and you get the idea.

I stayed a good while and was invited to go to the "fair" on Saturday to see the monster trucks. I've never done that before for many reasons, but I just might do it. I figure, when in Rome. And what happens in North Carolina, stays in North Carolina.

Up next: Lunch with the mayor on Friday...