Tarboro -- Town by the River

TARBORO – TOWN BY THE RIVER
by Roberta Cashwell

I.
The River.

A source of Life – and livelihood.
A source of strength – and redemption.
A source of growth – and destruction.

Our river – the source.

Our town was born of the Tar River – even named for it,
As well as for our State.

Tarborough
on the Tar River
in the Tar Heel State.

Whether for the naval stores that were the products of our eastern
North Carolina pine trees,
or for the turned up heels of retreating soldiers,
we were baptized and christened
for both the sap that ran through North Carolina pines
and the river that carried away its products.

How do you harness – how do you live with –
a force that can trickle
with three inches one week
and surge to 30 feet the next?

Harness it? You don’t.

You learn to respect it.
To ride it.
Hope that it doesn’t harness you.

And be grateful for what it gives you.

II.
Rivers and railroads have threaded the seams of North Carolina,
Providing transport and commerce –
Linking towns to markets
and people to each other.

The East Carolina Railway
The Atlantic Coastline Railroad
The Eastern Coast Line
The Wilmington and Weldon Railroad

Names that once meant empires.

Some lines still thunder through town in the hours just before dawn.
Others have gone the way
of the ghost tracks on which they ran.

III

Tarboro Telephone Company was started in Tarboro
in 1895 by George Holderness and W. H. Powell.

The telephone was the phenomenon
that created the links through the air
that the rivers and railroads forged
in the water and on the land.

And Tarboro Telephone, which became Carolina Telephone and Telegraph, provided jobs – and livelihoods – as men and women left the farm and moved to town.

Imagine!

You could hear someone’s voice miles away
as if they were right there beside you.

A miracle!

IV.

Land. Farms.
Big and small.
Blounts. Norfleets. Clarks.
And Pippens.

The “Grove” rolled down to the river. Its stately house sat
on the highest point for miles around.

It still does.

The grounds overlooked the work of hundreds.

Cotton and tobacco were king and queen.

At the bottom of the hill lay the river,
ready to move the harvest
to points North, South, East and West.

Norfolk. Baltimore. Savannah. Liverpool. Raleigh.

Shiloh Landing was a bustling dock.

Its traffic, a noisy crescendo
That roared into a war
From which it never emerged.

In time, the farmland receded.
The fields lay fallow.

Houses moved in.

The house on the hill
now looked down on a town – downtown.
City government. Commerce. Banking.
Boarding and eating establishments.
Even an opera house.

V.
And it looked down to Main Street.
To the Town Common.
A small piece of green Heaven on 15 acres.

Second in age only to Boston’s famous Common.

A place for all seasons.

VI.

But. . . Summertime. Ah, summer.
The season of fullness,
when the Town Common comes into its own.

Tarboro’s Common has a rich history of Summertime living.
Within the last half-century, we’ve seen:

The town’s 200th birthday.
Thirty-five Happenings
Over 15 North Carolina Symphony Concerts
History Day Celebrations

Flag raisings – and retirings
And unofficially:
Weddings
Engagements
Birthdays
Christmas trees
Easter egg hunts
Ghosts and goblins

VII.

Tarboro is a sports town.

She loves her teams and their players.
What the sport is hardly matters,
but Baseball has long been close to her heart.

A minor league team!
We were a contender!

Games were played on the Common.
And later in the ball park,
where the crack of the bat
and the roar of the crowd
still resound.

VIII.
Walk around the Common
And you will find memories . . .
And memorials.

To those who have gone before us.
In battles, in War.

Those who fought for beliefs, for honor, for freedom.
So that we might live free

And walk where we choose.

May we never take that freedom for granted.

IX.

Born in Colonial America,
Tarboro has known war – close to home
And from a distance.

But no matter the distance,
If your own native sons or daughters are fighting,
It’s always close to home.

We’ve been called up, drafted, commissioned and imprisoned --
And sent around the world
to defend the honor of our Country
and to preserve Democracy wherever we find it.

We’ve considered it our right and privilege –
Not merely an obligation –
To go wherever we’re called.

It would always be safer, more comfortable,
To stay home
On our farms,
Beside our river,
In our houses.

But when we are called, we go.
When we are chosen, we serve.
When we are hit, we fall.

And when we come home –
However we come home –
We are honored.
Because we have served.

X

The river carries us,
Looping through the fields and woods.
It wraps itself around our town
And rocks us. . . gently,
For a hundred years.

A hundred years of peace. . .
Like a river.

And then there’s peace no more.

The river betrays itself.
And us.
Nature takes her own.

And when it passes,
We are safe -- and marked –
For another hundred years.


Have you ever lost it all?

Have you ever listened for a sound
Knowing it can only be an echo?

Have you ever inhaled
A loved one’s fragrance
Knowing it’s a phantom scent?
Have you ever glimpsed your home
Flying like a Dutchman
Inside your eyelids. . .

Have you ever lost it all?

XI
Home.
Our home within a home.

Tarborough
on the Tar River
in the Tar Heel State.

Tarboro is my home.

North Carolina is my home.

XII
We grow children here –
Several varieties,
All good ones.

Some grow up to be doctors,
Senators, teachers,
Shopkeepers.
Most grow up –
Somehow.

Some stay here,
Some move away,
And some come back home.

We grow children here.

XIII

The ultimate act
Of optimism and faith
Is to send our children forward
Into a future we have planned for
And over which
We have no control.

We birth them,
We rear them –
To the best of our abilities.

We let them go.
And we hope.

We hope that, somehow,
Their lives will be better –
Always better.

This is the American Dream.

XIV

We are a town of churches.
Houses of faith.

Sunday mornings are quiet
But for bells tolling,
Eleven o’clock chimes,
Organ music,
And choirs of angels.

We don’t dictate
Our faith or denominations
We don’t need to.

We know that prayer is private.
Worship is public
And all are welcome.

Our home, wherever we find it,
Is God’s Home.

XV

We are a town by a river.

Like God’s love,
It flows through us –
And around us.
It takes us back
And it carries us forward.

It is life –
And death.

It carries us forward.

It is our source.
©Roberta Cashwell 2010

The Tar River Players

The Tar River Players have just published a new blog/website.

http://tarriverplayers.blogspot.com/p/shows.html

250th Birthday Paean to a Town

COMMUNITY CHORUS CONCERT

TARBORO’S 250^TH CELEBRATION

NARRATION

by Roberta Cashwell

©Roberta Cashwell 2010

(SONG: AN AMERICAN SONGBOOK)

I.

The River. A source of Life – and livelihood.

A source of strength – and redemption.

A source of growth – and destruction.

Our river – the source.

Our town was born of the Tar River – even named for it,

As well as for our State.

Tarborough on the Tar River in the Tar Heel State.

Whether for the naval stores that were the products of our eastern

North Carolina pine trees, or for the turned up heels of retreating soldiers,

we were baptized and christened for both the sap that ran through North Carolina pines and the river that carried away its products.

How do you harness – how do you live with – a force that can trickle with three inches one week and surge to 30 feet the next?

Harness it? You don’t. You learn to respect it. To ride it.

Hope that it doesn’t harness you.

And be grateful for what it gives you.

(SONG: THE WATER IS WIDE)

II.

Rivers and railroads have threaded the seams of North Carolina,

Providing transport and commerce –

Linking towns to markets and people to each other.

The East Carolina Railway

The Atlantic Coastline Railroad

The Eastern Coast Line

The Wilmington and Weldon Railroad

Names that once meant empires.

Some lines still thunder through town in the hours just before dawn.

Others have gone the way of the ghost tracks on which they ran.

(SONG: I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THE RAILROAD)

III.

Tarboro Telephone Company was started in Tarboro in 1895 by George Holderness and W. H. Powell.

The telephone was the phenomenon that created the links through the air that the rivers and railroads forged in the water and on the land.

And Tarboro Telephone, which became Carolina Telephone and Telegraph, provided jobs – and livelihoods – as men and women left the farm and moved to town.

SCENE: THE WOMEN ON A “PARTY LINE”

#1: Hello? This is Maisy.

#2: Maisy, did you hear what Selma did?

#1: No. But nothing would surprise me.

#2: I heard. . . that she wore bloomers into town!

#1: Is that so? With or without her skirts?

#2: Sh-sh! Shame on you. . . With, of course. (uncertain pause) I think. . .

#1 Humph!

#2 And you know what else. . .?

(Selma clears her throat and announces herself.)

#3 Excuse me ladies, if you don’t mind, I’ll give it to you from the horse’s mouth – herself.

(Mortified, all hang up at once.)

Imagine! You could hear someone’s voice miles away as if they were right there beside you.

A miracle!

(SONG: THE TELEPHONE SONG)

IV.

Land. Farms. Big and small.

Blounts. Norfleets. Clarks. And Pippens.

The Blount Farm rolled down to the river. Its stately house sat

on the highest point for miles around.

It still does.

The grounds overlooked the work of hundreds.

Cotton and tobacco were king and queen.

At the bottom of the hill lay the river, ready to move the harvest to points North, South, East and West.

Norfolk. Baltimore. Savannah. Liverpool. Raleigh.

Shiloh Landing was a bustling dock.

(SONG: HEAR THAT FIDDLE PLAY)

In time, the farmland receded. The fields lay fallow.

Houses moved in.

The house on the hill now looked down on a town – downtown. City government. Commerce. Banking. Boarding and eating establishments.

Even an opera house.

V.

And it looked down to Main Street.

To the Town Common.

A small piece of green Heaven on 15 acres.

Second in age only to Boston’s famous Common.

A place for all seasons.

In Autumn, a colorful setting made bright by deciduous trees in reds and golds – and even brighter as those trees grew over the years from seedlings to stately maturity.

Here in the South, we’re not known for our white winters.

But when the requisite meteorological events collide, we can have snow and ice – and even a white Christmas.

Then the Common is in its icy winter glory.

Life begins in Spring. Eggs hatch – unless, of course, they’re hunted on the Common at Easter.

Love blossoms. Each spring there’s a new crop of it.

And daffodils – God’s rainbow assurance among flowers – turn the Common yellow.

VI.

But. . . Summertime. Ah, summer.

The season of fullness, when the Town Common comes into its own.

(SONG: SUMMERTIME)

Tarboro’s Common has a rich history of Summertime living.

(SONG: IN THE GOOD OL’ SUMMERTIME)

Within the last half-century, we’ve seen:

The town’s 200^th birthday.

Forty Happenings

Over 15 North Carolina Symphony Concerts

History Day Celebrations

Flag raisings – and retirings

And unofficially:

Weddings

Engagements

Birthdays

Christmas trees

Easter egg hunts

Ghosts and goblins

VII.

Tarboro is a sports town.

She loves her teams and their players.

What the sport is hardly matters,

but Baseball has long been close to her heart.

(SONG: TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME)

A minor league team!

We could’a been a contender!

Games were played on the Common.

SCENE: Home plate. Batter, Catcher, Umpire.

(Imaginary ball whizzes by into catcher’s mitt.)

Ump: Strike one!

(Catcher grins and gives a high sign to the “pitcher,” whom we, of course, can’t see.)

Batter: (chewing an imaginary wad of something, stoically silent, grips the bat hard, and steps firmly back in place)

(Ball approaches again. This time the batter swings hard – and misses. The CHORUS, as the home crowd in the stands, groans in unison.)

Ump: Strike Two!

(Catcher can hardly contain himself with glee. Practically dances on his haunches, catcher’s mask on his face, mitt held in front. Another “signal” to the pitcher.)

Batter: (unfazed, he chews harder, tightens his grip around the bat, paws the dirt around the plate, steps into place once more, looks down into the catcher’s mask and sees a challenge, a dare there, just what he needs . . .)

(Once more, the “ball” is pitched, and in a second we hear the crack of wood against ball. The crowd goes wild. Everyone watches it soar, soar out of the park.)

Ump: Home run!!!

(The Catcher stands and disgustedly throws down his mitt – or mask – as the Batter drops the bat, slightly incredulously, and prepares to trot at a not quite leisurely pace, around the bases, towards home.)

(SONG: YOU RAISE ME UP)

VIII.

Walk around the Common

And you will find memories . . .

And memorials.

To those who have gone before us.

In battles, in War.

Those who fought for beliefs, for honor, for freedom.

So that we might live free

And walk where we choose.

May we never take that freedom for granted.

(SONG: FROM ITALIAN OPERA)

IX

If you stand on the banks of the river at sunrise,

You can hear it.

Sounding again and again. Echoes of itself -- a canon

Reminding us that there will be fire next time.

(SONG: TENTING TONIGHT)

Born in Colonial America,

Tarboro has known war –

close to home

And from a distance.

But no matter the distance,

If your own native sons or daughters are fighting,

It’s always close to home.

On our own soil,

We’ve been occupied, raided, robbed and violated

By hostile troops.

We’ve been called up, drafted, commission and imprisoned --

And sent around the world

to defend the honor of our Country

and to preserve Democracy wherever we find it.

We’ve considered it our right and privilege –

Not merely an obligation –

To go wherever we’re called.

Not only because we are Americans

And proud of it –

But because we are, first of all, human,

And when humanity hurts and bleeds,

So do we.

It would always be safer, more comfortable,

To stay home

On our farms,

Beside our river,

In our homes.

But when we are called, we go.

When we are chosen, we serve.

When we are hit, we fall.

X

And when we come home –

However we come home –

We are honored.

Because we have served.

(SONG: TRIBUTE TO THE ARMED FORCES)

ACT II

(SONG: DOWN TO THE RIVER TO PRAY)

XI

The river carries us,

Looping through the fields and woods.

It wraps itself around our town

And rocks us. . . gently,

For a hundred years.

A hundred years of peace. . .

Like a river.

And then there’s peace no more.

The river betrays itself.

And us.

Nature takes her own.

And when it passes,

We are safe -- and marked –

For another hundred years.

(SONG: OLD MAN RIVER)

(SONG: OLD AMERICAN SONG)

XII

Home.

Our home within a home.

Tarborough

on the Tar River

in the Tar Heel State.

Tarboro is my home.

North Carolina is my home.

(SONG: NORTH CAROLINA IS MY HOME, NOTHIN’ COULD BE FINER))

XIII

The ultimate act

Of optimism and faith

Is to send children forward

Into a future we have planned for

And over which

We have no control.

We birth them,

We rear them –

To the best of our abilities.

We let them go.

And we hope.

We hope that, somehow,

Their lives will be better –

Always better.

This is the American Dream.

(POEM: “TOWN SONG”)

(SONG: I BOUGHT ME A CAT)

XIV

We are a town of churches.

Houses of faith.

Sunday mornings are quiet

But for bells tolling,

Eleven o’clock chimes,

Organ music,

And choirs of angels.

(SONG: OLD TIME RELIGION MEDLEY)

We don’t dictate

Our faith or denominations

We don’t need to.

We know that prayer is private.

Worship is public

And all are welcome.

Our home, wherever we find it,

Is God’s Home.

And God does not differentiate

Color, class, nationality or sex –

Or religion.

(SONG: SPIRIT OF THE LIVING GOD)

XV

We are a town by a river.

Like God’s love,

It flows through us –

And around us.

It takes us back

And it carries us forward.

It is life –

And death.

It carries us forward.

It is our source.

(SONG: GOOD NEWS, CHARIOT’S COMING!)

Tar River Players plan busy season

Tar River Players plan busy season

Charlotte's Web

A delightful slide show!

http://www.facebook.com/l/56ab7XzXPT5AOq-APvZQ7xV_mhQ;s870.photobucket.com/albums/ab270/christopheredmonston/Charlottes%20Web%202010/

Closing

The house is dark and most of the set has been struck.

Despite a sweep and pick-up crew, a few programs still hide under seats.

The Greenroom needs a good mopping, but it's pretty much unscathed.

A yo-yo and a pair of pigs' ears have escaped notice in the wings.

Soon the last vestiges of this show will disappear, but the sound of laughter, the butterflies that attack as we wait to go on, and the sea of upturned faces that illuminate a darkened house -- these will be with us always.

Dog Days of Summer

102° is too hot -- for humans and dogs.

So we all piled into the house today. I shifted the cats from their usual three rooms to two, closed them off, and invited Wilson and Lady inside for the afternoon.

They were grateful and very good, flopping down onto the floor in front of the fan I had turned on to assist the straining AC. They are outdoor dogs and generally happy to be so (at least, that's what they tell me). But when the temperatures get extreme, they get to come inside. The last time was this past winter when the mercury plunged to single digits for a couple of nights. I invited them in and they gave me no argument.

Of course, on these rare occasions, the cats become indignant, swishing their tales and hissing at each other for no reason. Suddenly, the only place they want to be is the very room in which they're not allowed. They smell the dogs through the crack under the door. Rather than becoming intimidated by the scent, their hackles are raised and their yowls are expressive.

"Let me at 'em.!" This from a furry feline who weighs less than a tenth of the weight of the lighter dog. Plus, she has no front claws!

Nevertheless, she is fearless and mad . . . and insistent. She can't wait to jump on the back of the larger dog, dig her back claws into the dog's hide and ride her out of town triumphantly and in a blaze of glory.

She's describing that scene quite vociferously between paces in front of the door. She has become obscene with the names she calls the intruders. I'm afraid for the door, which, after all, is merely wood and was never meant to be a barricade. I cross to it and turn the knob, planning to slip out to check on the defenseless dogs, who by now have their noses trained on the space under the door.

Cautiously, I open the door a crack, barely a crack. Already, the dogs are excited at the prospect of bounding into a new room with new toys and places to sniff.

I turn around to shush the cat, but she has vanished without a sound. There isn't even a grin to prove she was there. In place of her courage, there's a small clump of fur.

Music in the air

We know it's summer here when the Symphony comes to town.

We anticipate its arrival for months. Weeks ahead, the posters go up. As the day nears, the letters on the old movie house marquee announce the event, and the time and temperature display at the savings bank flashes a reminder.

We are one of the few towns in the state lucky enough to host the Symphony. With the exception of last year, townspeople have enjoyed the music for 20 straight summers. We're a charming, historic town, but we're small, hardly the sort of place you'd think would bring this renowned orchestra summer after summer.

But we do.

We invite them -- and they come. We have a secret draw, in addition to the home-cooked supper the local symphony chapter fixes for the musicians. We have the Town Common. A greensward in the middle of a forty-five block historic district, our Common is the 2nd oldest in the country -- right there behind Boston. Commons and Pops -- two things we share with Bean-town. But I digress.

The perfect venue. The town raises a large tent for the musicians. The local chapter starts making pimento cheese, and families volunteer to get there early and spread a blanket for the picnic they will share with neighbors they haven't seen since Christmas.

The first to arrive about an hour before the concert starts are families with children old enough to behave and . . . young enough to behave. They set up camp for the evening, laying out a kitchen, a bedroom for sleepy toddlers, and a living room for watching the show -- all on a pattern of adjoining blankets. Following the young families are the elderly couples with comfortable camp chairs and a folding table for two, complete with bud vase and wine glasses --
not plastic. Finally, those of us who forgo the picnic and some of the gnats, wander onto the Common thirty minutes ahead of the curtain and wiggle our way between family and friends. Single or in pairs, we don't take up too much room, and nobody seems to mind.

At precisely 7:30, the maestro steps forth, welcomes the townspeople to their Common and thanks them, in return, for their gracious welcome. And then. . . even the children are quiet, breathless but unsuspecting.

The conductor raises his baton . . . and the air is transformed. Not only can you hear it, you taste, smell and touch it. Your skin bristles. The grass is pungent. There's a salty zest on your tongue. Not to be outdone, the cicadas' song swells and recedes, a metronome of sorts.

It is summer. . .and there's music in the air.

For the life of a spider

For the life of a spider

A Life in the (Community) Theater

June 17, 2010

It's always at this point in the production cycle that I leave the theater at 11:00 at night, shaking my head and howling to the moon that I am too old for this.

Open dress rehearsal with 5 baby spiders, 4 goslings, 5 barnyard animals (including 1 rat) and a pig. Not to mention assorted human adults and kids -- and one adult spider.

All for the love of theatre? Well, I think so. And the love of children -- young and old -- discovering it for the first or fortieth time.

Community theatre is non-professional -- meaning we aren't paid for it. "Amateur." But that should not mean of lesser quality. In fact, the word "amateur" comes from the Latin words for "to love" and "to do." Literally, it means "love what you do." In some sense, amateurs are even more dedicated to the theatre, because we aren't paid for it.

That thought, at least, is one of things that keeps me going.

That and opening night when everyone--actors, crew and audience alike--are smitten and starlit. For the love of magic.