“Well, that's a impressive name. But, they look like just the kind of cutthroats and scallywags to live up to it.”
He held out his hand and introduced himself.
“I’m Chairman Tusdale, the Lighthouse keeper for Cape Lookout. But, you fellas can call me Tizzy.”
He shook hands all around, and as we introduced ourselves, I evaluated our host.
His face was tanned and his skin was deeply cured by the Carolina sun and the salty ocean wind. He was slightly below average height with a neatly trimmed white beard that covered his cheeks from side to side. With a rounded frame and beaming smile, he might have resembled Santa Claus, but his carriage was more a salty veteran sailor than a jolly old elf. He wore leather deck shoes, khaki shorts and a light cotton shirt unbuttoned at the top where an abundance of graying chest hair curled outward. His face was wrinkled from squinting in the sun and smiling. And, I could not help thinking he looked like that Hemingway guy we talked about in English class.
Toby was curious. ”What are you chairman of Mr. Tusdale?”
Our host's grin grew even larger.
“Well, I was a banker in Nebraska for thirty five years – but I was never chairman of anything – except my own name.”
“I don't understand,” Toby responded.
“My given name is Chairman,” the old fellow explained. “You see, my Father was a Nebraskan sodbuster who believed that the right name could help a person along in life. So, he gave each of his four children a moniker that he hoped would encourage us to a lifetime of achievement. He named me Chairman Tusdale. I have three siblings: Judge Tusdale, Colonel Tusdale and Senator Tusdale.”
“Did it work?” asked Toby. “Did you live up to those names?”
Tizzy laughed. “Well, I was a bank president, but I never made it to chairman. My brother Colonel was a lawyer and my Brother Judge became a doctor.”
“What about Senator Tusdale?” I asked.
“She's been in the Nebraska legislature for 20 years. But, ironically, she's serves in the House and not the Senate!”
We all chuckled.
“Enough about me,” said our host. ”Let's talk about why you fellows are here.”
Tizzy walked us all outside and began a speech about the Lighthouse.
“The Cape Lookout Lighthouse is 169 feet tall. It was built in 1859 to herald the dangerous 14 mile long Lookout Shoals. This part of North Carolina juts out into the Atlantic Ocean towards the Gulf Stream. Vessels sailing up the Eastern Seaboard hitch a ride on the Gulf Stream which is like a river of ocean currents that flow northward about 3 or 4 miles per hour. But, if ships come along here at night or in a fog, they can run aground on the outstretched shoals before they even realize where they are. The Carolina shores are so dangerous, they are called the ‘Graveyard of the Atlantic'. A lighthouse was desperately needed to warn those unsuspecting vessels.”
He continued.
“Several smaller lighthouses have stood upon this spot. The first one was erected in 1812. But, the current tower was built in 1859. And, when her 1st order Fresnel lens was installed, her kerosene lantern light could be seen for 19 miles. She was a technological miracle of her day.”
Hearing the words ‘technological miracle' our Bogdon Peabody perked right up.
“Why do you say she was a technological miracle?” Bogdon asked. “I understand she was tall, and she had a light on top, but how was that high tech?”
Tizzy's eyes twinkled.
“I am glad you asked that. You see, the Fresnel Lens was the pinnacle of 19th century optical science. If consisted of hundreds of prisms encased in brass that caught light and focused it into four concentrated beams, one for each point of the compass. Light came off the lantern flame in a full 360 degree circle. Each of the four sides of the lens caught 90 degrees of light and used prisms to bend them together into an arc of around 15 degrees. The focused light shot out like a 19th century laser beam for 19 miles before it dissipated.”
“Wow!” said Bogdon. “That is amazing technology for the time.”
“Oh, but that's not all,” Tizzy continued. “The lens and entire 4000 lb internal structure of the lighthouse rotated. And, that was 50 years before electric motors and gasoline engines were common place.”
“How did they do that?” I ask. “How did they rotate two tons without an engine or a motor?”
“It was a giant clockwork,” Tizzy explained. “And, every two hours the light keeper walked up 203 cast iron steps to wind the springs.”
“Amazing!” declared Bogdon. “It must have had huge springs!”
“It didn't need huge springs,” Tizzy corrected. “The two ton clock was suspended by an almost frictionless rotation circle that was as much a marvel as her lens.”
“Frictionless rotation? You mean like magnetic levitation?”
“In 1859?” asked Tizzy.
“That's true,” admitted Bog. ”Magnetic levitation would require superconducting magnets and liquid nitrogen. Both of which were unknown in the 19th century.”
“Well, what did they use?” I asked. “How did they do it?”
“They floated it,” Tizzy said triumphantly. “The entire assembly floated frictionless in a ring of quicksilver.”
“You mean liquid Mercury? Like in a thermometer?” asked Toby.
“That's right. Like in a thermometer.”
“What an elegant solution,” marveled Bogdon. “It would have been frictionless and would have required just a small push to rotate. You were right, Tizzy. It was a technological wonder.”
Tizzy’s smile broadened.
“In 1972 the Coast Guard installed the rotating aircraft beacons that are in the tower today. The quartz halogen lamps burn brighter and the rotating motors don't have to be wound like clocks.”
“But, that's just raw power,” noted Bogdon. “It's newer but not nearly as efficient or as graceful compared to the original technology.”
Tizzy shook his head in proud agreement.
“Pam was right about you guys. They are a cut above our average visitors. In fact, I believe I like you fellas.”
Tizzy paused, raise his hand and inquired.
“Which of you Rangers wants to climb 200 steps to the top of the tower?”
Pam answered for us before we could.
“Can we do that?” she asked. “I thought the tower was only open one day a year.”
“That's normally true,” agreed Tizzy, pulling something out of his pocket. “But I know the fellow who has the key.”
Tizzy held up a small circle of rope. On one side, the cord ran through an unpainted cork. On the other was a shiny silver key.
*************
It seemed like the rotating stairwell went on forever. Around and around we went inside the giant cylinder. And, it was stuffy and dark with only a handful of windows to illuminate our 169 foot climb. But, as we moved higher and higher, our excitement level rose higher too. Then, finally, we climbed out onto the observation deck and into bright sunshine and cool sea breezes.
That was the day I found out what it really meant to be ‘On Top of the World.'
Gazing out on the clear morning – I could see 19 miles in every direction! Azure skies reached from horizon to horizon. Across the emerald water, we saw giant cargo ships passing along the edge. Small coastal villages, swamps and waterways filled in miles and miles of Carolina low country to the north and west.
Looking almost straight down, we could distinguish sailboats, cabin cruisers and even jet skis transiting the inner coastal canal and across the sound. Just up the island a group of wild banker ponies grazed freely through the brushy scrub, as they had done 150 years before the American Revolution.
“Wow!” Freddie exclaimed, overcome by the vista.”This is outstanding! Why, we could spot our whale real easy from up here!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before he realized what he'd
done. Charlie frogged his arm and the rest of us gave him dirty “don't spill the beans” glances.
“Uh… I mean… uh… If we had a whale.” Freddie said trying to recover. “But what would a bunch of guys from the mountains be doing with a whale?” he asked, looking even stupider!
Freddie finally got smart enough to shut his mouth. With his lips closed tightly he still looked stupid. But, at least he no longer sounded that way.
I scouted the observation deck. Lucky for us, Tizzy and Pam were on the other side trying to answer one of Bogdon's questions about the curvature of the Earth. I don't think they heard the outburst.
However, from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of surfer blonde hair and Ray Ban frames disappearing around the catwalk.
*************
Returning home from our visit to the Light House, we found a note from Miss Mynah. It explained she had gone into town for groceries. But, she left a pile of sandwich makings in the ice box and bread on the well worn Formica counter.
We were responsible for making our own noon day meal.
Of course, you don't have to call us twice when it comes to food. We attacked the sandwich pile like Sherman marching through Georgia. And, our scorched earth policy was equally as ruthless when it came to devouring chips and pretzels.
There were a variety of lunchmeats and spreads available, along with three fresh loaves of bread: two ‘Sunbeam' white and one whole grain. So, we sat right to our task.
For about ten minutes we munched deliberately and without restraint. Then Donnie walked into the kitchen drying his hair.
“Hey Donnie! Check this out,” said Shad, holding up a Dagwood masterpiece, containing four layers of lunchmeat and five slices of bread.
“Well, I guess your stomach is finally getting back to normal?” Donnie replied jokingly.
“It sure is. And, I have a lot to make up for.”
Donnie leaned into the pile and began assembling items necessary for his own sandwich.
“Can someone pass me the bread?” he asked.
Since I was pulling out the last two pieces of the first bag of Sunbeam, I told him. “If you want white bread, you'll have to start the next loaf.”
Donnie reached across and picked up the fresh white bread and began untwisting the plastic tie.
“Peanut butter?” he inquired.
Thor pushed over a giant unopened jar of Peter Pan.
Excitement began to creep into Donnie’s voice as he request the final ingredient.
“Jelly?”
“I think there’s a new jar of grape in the cabinet,” Pam answered matter of factly.
Donnie picked up the peanut butter in one hand, and the bread in the other. He strode with purpose over to the cabinet and opened the door. Putting the Peter Pan on the counter, Donnie pulled an unopened jar of Welch's from the lower shelf.
“Eureka!” Donnie exclaimed, taking us by surprise. “It's a Virgin Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich! I can't believe it. This is my lucky day!”
He broke loose a dance move there on the kitchen floor.
By now we were staring at Donnie like, he'd been out in the sun too long.
Charlie gingerly requested an explanation. “What, may I ask, is a Virgin Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich?”
“You don't know about the VPB&J?”
“It's sounds like something inappropriate for younger audiences,” suggested Pam.
“Oh! Get your mind out of the gutter,” Donnie reproached.
He turned back to Charlie.
“A virgin peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a culinary equivalent of hitting the lottery,” he explained. “On rare and unexpected occasions, time and space come into synch. And, the tumblers of the Universe align in sandwich precision.”
Donnie flashed his arms in circles like a mystic.
“First, a fresh loaf of premium white sandwich bread is unwrapped. And, from out of that plastic covering the two freshest slices of soft white goodness are removed. No following slices will be as soft or give out that fresh baked aroma like these first two pieces. With those two pristine slices you have the first essential pillar of the Virgin PB&J.”
Donnie removed two slices of bread and laid them out like treasure upon his plate.
“Next,” he explained, moving onto the PB, “comes the second required portion: the unopened jar of Peter Pan. As you twist open that plastic cover and pull back the silver wrapping – you senses are overcome by the perfume of roasted peanuts! Since that jar left Virginia, still warm from the factory, the peanuty goodness has been restrained. But, now it's ready to explode across some discerning palate. The top layer of the spread has been infused with a peanuty goodness. When you dip your knife into the golden peanut paste for the very first time – this super saturated surface layer is removed from the lesser substance below.”
Donnie spun loose the red plastic top. With a firm and deliberate pull, he removed the silver cover. Then, Donnie thrust his knife into the peanut butter and removed a large glob which he subsequently spread lovingly across one slice of bread.
“Finally, from purple concord orbs harvested at their flavor filled peak of ripeness, the good folks at Welch's somehow create a jam that is so crowded with condensed grape essence that it is has been unequalled by jellies selling at three times the price. And as we remove the cover for the very first time – the zenith of grapiness overwhelms us. Because the Welch's people fill the top of their jars with inert gasses – the grape jelly inside has been protected by the ravages of oxidation. After this first scoop is removed – oxygen will begin crystallizing the sugars and blunting the flavors below. But now – at this premier opening – the jelly is at a peak that it will never reach again.”
Donnie removed a knife full of purple fortune and spread it across the remaining naked slice.
“So, with this triangle of ingredients at their unrivaled apex, one single Virgin Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich can be created.”
Picking up peanut butter covered bread in his right hand and the jelly covered bread in his left, he lifted the two slices up in front and gently mashed them together.
“There you have it, gentlemen and lady! It is the envy of all its bread covered brethren. It is the single most majestic sandwich – since the ancient Jewish sage, Hillel the Elder, placed Paschal lamb and bitter herbs between two Matzo crackers. It can never be surpassed. And, it will not be equaled again until, on some far distant day – the culinary pendulum of providence swings round once again to favor some other fortunate mortal.”
Donnie finished his monologue and raised high the plated virgin peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his right hand.
It was the most amazing ode to lunch food that I had ever witnessed. I did not know whether to applaud Donnie – or to fight him for his sandwich. Luckily, for me, and for all of us present, Donnie lay down his plate and picked up a fresh knife. With precision he trimmed the crust from his creation. Then, he carefully divided the sandwich into 9 equal parts. Walking around the room, he presented each one of us with the plate and handed over a small piece of his treasure.
When we had all been served, (seven rangers, Pam and Donnie), he raised his small square and proposed a toast.
“To good friends,” Donnie said. “To world peace and true love.”
Not ever having toasted with a sandwich before – I went ahead and tossed the piece into my mouth. And, as I bit into the morsel, a water balloon of flavor exploded across my tongue.
Peanut butter! Grape Jelly! Fresh soft white bread! It really was the greatest sandwich I have ever tasted.
I looked around the room at the blissful faces of my fellow rangers. Shad was obviously on cloud nine.
That’s when I realized that Donnie had not yet eaten his piece. Instead, holding it out between two fingers he delicately placed it into the surprised mouth of Pam Rockhart.
Without thinking, Pam responded like a bride shar
ing wedding cake. She placed her small section on Donnie’s waiting tongue.
As I grow older, I know I will often think back on this day when I tasted my first virgin Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich. And each time I reminisce, I will remember that look – the one that passed between Pam and Donnie when they shared a bit of sticky magic.
**************
After lunch, we relaxed and passed the heat of the afternoon on the observation balcony that pushed up from the center's main building. Armed with root beer, high power binoculars and a telescope Charlie brought from home, we sat up there scanning the nearby ocean just ‘to see what we could see.'
Gazing out across the water, we did not spot any whales, manatees or wayward fur seals. However, we did have a great time watching a pod of bottlenose dolphin playfully rolling down the island towards the Cape. Directly, in front of us, the dolphin surrounded a tremendous school of herring called menhaden, consuming minute plant life just off the beach. The densely packed menhaden turned the green waters into a muddy brown ameba flowing fifty yards in each direction. The dolphins expertly circled the school, like they were cowboying a herd of Texas Longhorns.
Occasionally they slashed and cut into the center, gobbling up herring at will. After half an hour, the grinning, gray finned cowpokes got their fill of fish and meandered on down the island.
Across the sound and on the far shore, we spotted giant menacing thunderheads crawling our way. The clouds, energized by hot afternoon sun and feeding on moist ocean breezes, billowed up like heaps of lumpy mashed potatoes five miles high. Their ivoried cauliflower tops were streaked with reflected yellow sunlight and spilled over into the high altitude blue. Down towards the center, off white vegetable gave way to smoky clusters of lumpy charcoal. At its base, the squall was rooted in dark and sinister angles that released curtains of black precipitation to drown the far horizon. Occasional detonations of lightning peaked through the curtains, but thundered rumbles were silenced by the distance.
We executed three root beer six packs roosting in our lookout's perch, and kept watch on the tempest making it's slow and steady crawl towards our position.