Mystery Solved ... Sort Of

I  just received the DNA analysis of Beau, and drum roll please … he’s a Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier, Keeshond, Shih Tzu mix. Of those three breeds, I was familiar only with Shih Tzus.

Shih Tzus, I know are fairly common, I’ve seen many of them before. One named Tripod lived just up the street from us on Sunset Drive in Alexandria. Tripod as you might guess was missing a leg, I think from a bout of cancer or maybe it was an unfortunate automotive encounter. I never really knew.

But he was a happy pleasant dog who had no idea he was missing a limb. I like to think Beau has similar traits from his ancestry. The other two breeds mentioned in the report, I have no clue about and had never heard of them until I opened the analysis report.

These just aren’t two breeds that roll off the tongue or you point out on the street and say, “Ahhh, yes there goes a Soft-Coated Wheaten, such lovely dogs don’t you think?” or encounter an owner by saying, “Well I see you have Keeshond there, I hear they're pleasant dogs but just a bit barky.”

So, how did these, what I believe to be, relatively obscure dog breeds find each other in the rough-and-tumble world of doggie dating and mingle together to become Beau? This is the new mystery of Beau, and one that will probably never been solved.

 

I’ve always thought he was a pretty unique dog, and this definitely confirms it.

A Torn-Down Palace

Nothing’s left of the house where I grew up.

It was demolished a couple of years ago for reasons, I’ve never clearly understood. All I know is the guy who built this monstrosity of a faux Chateau next door bought my family’s old house and then bulldozed it into the dirt.

Driving down Valley Brook Road still looks much the same until you reach the cul-de-sac. The little knoll where the house sat looks so forlorn now and small, so small. The house seemed so big to me when I was kid. But as I aged it grew progressively smaller and just seemed to recede quietly into the hillside.

After the house was torn down, my sister salvaged a few decorative bricks from one of the patios. I have that brick sitting near the entrance to my garage now—a reminder of a home that once was.

The house was no architectural marvel just a typical split-level ranch—very plain and kind of ugly by today’s standards. Construction on the house started in 1959, and we moved in June of 1960. I was three years old, and it was the only home I knew until I moved away from Charlotte for good in 1988. Even though I did spend time in Chapel Hill and worked in Atlanta for a couple of years out of college, 7545 Valley Brook Rd. was my homestead—a place I could always return and be at home.

My father died in the house the first of May 1995. In many ways after that point, the house ceased being home for me. My mother sold the house in 2004 and moved to a retirement center in Northeast Charlotte—a good 25-minute drive and worlds away from where I grew up.

While it was an very ordinary looking house, the yard was spectacular. From the back of the house, it looked like parkland—green and well-manicured. And I did most of the yard work to make it that way.

The entire yard was huge nearly two-and-a-half acres, and it took five hours to cut the grass using a riding mower with a 48-inch mowing deck. I probably spent two years of my life cumlatively cutting that grass … and at least a year repairing broken-down lawn mowers.

All of the yard, even the house, was flood-prone. I had no input into where my parents built our family home, but my older brother did. He wanted a creek in the yard. Well we ended up with two creeks.

McAlpine Creek, one of the largest in Mecklenburg County, was about 75 yards out our back door. A small tributary to McAlpine, bordered the south end of the yard. Both creeks would flood after heavy rains.

After really big storms, we would be marooned. Flood waters would fill the cul-de-sac and edge up our driveway—making it impossible to drive out. Three times water actually entered the house. The final and biggest flood of all was in late August the year my father died. A microburst from a tropical storm cell sent water rushing down the street like a brown tsunami. The lower level of the house ended up knee-deep with  the yucky brown waters of McAlpine Creek.

Since the land is in a flood zone, nothing will ever be built where the house once stood. This pleases me. Mecklenburg County actually condemned the land and took it from the guy who bought the house and razed it. I believe the recession may have been unkind to him, because I saw the Chateau monstrosity was for sale last time I drove down Valley Brook Road.

The yard still looks like a park and has become part of the McAlpine Greenway. It’s very fitting for such a lovely and memorable place.

Lawrence and the Holy Polaroid

I hadn’t thought of Lawrence A. Guay in years, until a recent e-mail from my friend Jim Metesky jarred that memory loose.

In his e-mail, Jim quoted a short passage from what he and I consider to be the greatest letter written during the 20^th Century. Lawrence authored this rambling, disjointed and yet extraordinarily lyric masterpiece slightly more than 30 years ago in which he beseeched my older brother and his wife to help him market a holy Polaroid photo of Jesus Christ.

My brother, his wife and a friend had come up with the potentially million-dollar idea of printing and marketing Shroud of Turin tablecloths. The payoff could've been huge with a possible whole line of shroud products, beach towels, bed sheets and bath mats. Problem was the idea was ahead of its time with no Internet to market it. An ad in the National Enquirer was probably the best option at the time, but the response was disappointedly tepid except for the letter from Mr. Guay.

In his letter, Lawrence explained in some detail how his bedroom ceiling opened one night as he slept, and Jesus appeared. He described how he was first frightened by the appearance of misty golden clouds and bright shining light as trumpets sounded a fanfare and a chorus of angels sang.

He wrote that dozens of “somewhat shrubs” (Lawrence’s words) flitted about on heavenly wings and joined in singing the glory of Jesus. The square footage of his bedroom ceiling must’ve been the size of a tennis court to accommodate such a heavenly host. Amongst all this angelic carousing, Jesus appeared, spoke to Lawrence in a calm and quiet voice and handed him a Polaroid photo. Jesus said the photo would offer proof that he was still watching over his earthly flock, and Lawrence’s mission was to spread the gospel of the Polaroid.

The Shroud of Turin ad somehow struck a chord with Lawrence who must’ve thought he had discovered his marketing soul mates. A follow-up phone call to Lawrence didn’t reveal much, just that he obviously hadn’t shared his sacred photograph with his mother. He agreed to send a copy of the photo, but the Xerox copy was very blurry and looked more like a Shetland Pony than our Lord and Savior.

We never heard from Lawrence A. Guay again, and even now I have to wonder if the Polaroid existed and what if it were actually signed. Just imagine what an autographed photo of Jesus could be worth.

Jim’s e-mail set me to thinking about Lawrence again, and I Googled his name. It isn’t a common name, but one or two Larry Guay’s are lurking about on Facebook. One Google hit, however, was quite intriguing. Lawrence A. Guay Sr. is a former evangelical minister from Southern Maine. The postmark on Lawrence’s letter was from Portland, Maine. Lawrence Sr. is now in his early 80s and a GOP member of the New Hampshire State Senate from a district that sits right on the Maine border.

I wondered if it could be a coincidence or possible relation. If it is a relation maybe even his father, then poetic symmetry is such a beautiful thing.

Beau, Dawg of Mystery

We could soon solve the mystery of Beau.

Beau is a rescue hound. He came into our lives six years ago, when we picked him up from a rescue group. Maybe we should’ve named him Vlad, since he came from Transylvania County. But “Beau” does suit him well. We tend to call him Beau-Beau, and as I say it now his freakishly long tail just starts thwapping against the floor.

We have no idea what kind of dog Beau is. He is … well simply put an American dog. Not too long ago, we took Beau and our Yorkie Ivy to Savannah. I totally expected people to stop and ooh and ahh over the cuteness of Ivy. But instead people stopped and asked me about Beau.

“What kind of dog is he?” is the usual question. And frankly, I don’t have a good answer. I usually say: “he’s a mutt,” “a mixed breed” or “just unique.”

Beau’s vet told me once that he’s some sort of terrier probably Jack Russell mixed with something “very hairy.” Heather, the vet, also calls Beau a “terrorist,” cause frankly, he can be a bit cranky. She once called him “a land shark” as he barked and snapped at her aides. More than once, the vet's aides have confidently told me, “Oh we can handle him, he’s not that big.” Only to have them, five minutes later appear and sheepishly ask, “Mr. Leonard, could you help us back here?”

Beau really is a good dog. He can be a sweet puppy and loves certain people. He totally loses bladder control when people, whom he likes, visit, and he has peed on them just from pure glee. Some have been lucky to have only their feet irrigated, while others haven’t been so fortunate.

Beau is an inside dog who loves his creature comforts, and prolonged stays in the outdoors appall him. We have taken him camping, and Beau’s reaction is: “Seriously, you really expect me to stay out here with no couch or arm chairs, what are we barbarians?”

So he usually ends up hanging in the car, lounging in the back seat and barking frantically at every bicycle and golf cart that happens by.

 

He’s a barker for sure, and the UPS truck can send him into hysterics. He's become pretty sedentary as he ages but still will run to the window and bark whenever I say: “Hey Beau, a rabbit" or "the president is outside.” He certainly knows what a rabbit is and goes ballistic when he sees one out the window.

I’m not so sure that he would recognize the president, but as often as Obama visits Asheville, Beau’s always ready for him. All this means is that Beau is one unique hound, and I finally broke down and ordered a doggie DNA test to find out just how unique.

Just What Is It About Polkville?

My daughter has a minor obsession with Polkville, N.C.

I’ve been driving through Polkville most of my life, and never really thought that much about it—until now. Polkville really isn’t much of a town. The 2010 census pegged the population at 544—a huge increase of nine people since 2000.

The tiny town has just one stop light where N.C. 226 and N.C 182 intersect. Just to the north of the stoplight, N.C. 10 forks off from 226, heading toward the even smaller town of Casar. I have been going up and down 226 about as long as I can remember. The highway is one of the nicest and most scenic drives in all of North Carolina as the road rolls and dips across the western edge of the Piedmont between Shelby and Marion.

To me, Polkville has always been where I was forced to slow down after driving through what always feels like a fluid and rapid dance through the undulating Golden Valley and past the sweeping curves and bluish haze of the South Mountains.

Heading south from Marion, Polkville rises up to greet you just past the eastern shoulder of Cherry Mountain. The highway flies up out of the narrow defile of Duncan’s Creek curves slightly to the right and straightens out on the broad flat plain that marks the point where mountainous Western N.C. ends and the Piedmont begins.

Polkville has the requisite Methodist and Baptist churches that nestle up close to the highway. The Methodist church looks a bit older with architecture, weathered bricks and spindly boxwoods that clearly date back to the 1920s—maybe even earlier. The Baptist Church was built later and possesses a late 50s or mid-60s ranch house feel to it.

All this fascinates my daughter. She looks at Polkville as the prototypical small town. But what puzzles her to no end is the apparent lack of a school or even a grocery store. I do believe Polkville has an elementary school tucked away off of N.C. 226, but retail is definitely limited to the two … maybe three combination gas station/convenience stores.

Houses are scattered haphazardly and sometimes sit at odd angles to 226—the main drag of Polkville. Some of the homes are well kept, while others look decrepit and weedy. Large rolling fields of winter wheat press against the tiny town from the south and east. To the north, freshly planted White Pine saplings stand in straight rows as the progressively older pines of the tree farm finger their way toward the base of Cherry Mountain.

Polkville has its own roller skating rink, but I’m not sure it’s actually even open for business. Broad red and white stripes painted in wavy lines across the corrugated tin building are fading from too many years sitting in the N.C. sun. Typically a lone pickup truck is parked in a parking lot of broken pavement and stagnating puddles.

I always pass through Polkville either thinking of the promise of barbecue and sweet tea in Shelby, which lies 15 miles further to the south and east, or the promise of the cool nights and rushing mountain streams of the Blue Ridge, which hover quietly on the northern and western horizons.

My daughter has other thoughts about Polkville though. She wonders who these people are and how they can sustain such a tiny town. She has asked me why did they ever build such a nice fire station, which is all gleaming steel and glass and close to a city block in length.

Her questions have led me to wonder about places that are so familiar to me, but I know so very little about.