WutYee/nicholas_sparks_series · Datasets at Hugging Face

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seniors headed off to college and came face-to-face with all
the fornicators. He was that kind of guy, you know, always
wanting to save us from temptation. He wanted us to know that
God is out there watching you, even when you're away from
home, and that if you put your trust in God, you'll be all
right in the end. It was a lesson that I would eventually
learn in time, though it wasn't Hegbert who taught me.
As I said before, Beaufort was fairly typical as far as
southern towns went, though it did have an interesting
history. Blackbeard the pirate once owned a house there, and
his ship, Queen Anne's Revenge, is supposedly buried
somewhere in the sand just offshore. Recently some
archaeologists or oceanographers or whoever looks for stuff
like that said they found it, but no one's certain just yet,
being that it sank over 250 years ago and you can't exactly
reach into the glove compartment and check the registration.
Beaufort's come a long way since the 1950s, but it's still
not exactly a major metropolis or anything. Beaufort was, and
always will be, on the smallish side, but when I was growing
up, it barely warranted a place on the map. To put it into
perspective, the congressional district that included
Beaufort covered the entire eastern part of the state-some
twenty thousand square miles-and there wasn't a single town
with more than twenty-five thousand people. Even compared
with those towns, Beaufort was regarded as being on the small
side. Everything east of Raleigh and north of Wilmington, all
the way to the Virginia border, was the district my father
represented.
I suppose you've heard of him. He's sort of a legend, even
now. His name is Worth Carter, and he was a congressman for
almost thirty years. His slogan every other year during the
election season was "Worth Carter represents ---," and the
person was supposed to fill in the city name where he or she
lived. I can remember, driving on trips when me and Mom had
to make our appearances to show the people he was a true
family man, that we'd see those bumper stickers, stenciled in
with names like Otway and Chocawinity and Seven Springs.
Nowadays stuff like that wouldn't fly, but back then that was
fairly sophisticated publicity. I imagine if he tried to do
that now, people opposing him would insert all sorts of foul
language in the blank space, but we never saw it once. Okay,
maybe once. A farmer from Duplin County once wrote the word
shit in the blank space, and when my mom saw it, she covered
my eyes and said a prayer asking for forgiveness for the poor
ignorant bastard. She didn't say exactly those words, but I
got the gist of it.
So my father, Mr. Congressman, was a bigwig, and everyone
but everyone knew it, including old man Hegbert. Now, the two
of them didn't get along, not at all, despite the fact that
my father went to Hegbert's church whenever he was in town,
which to be frank wasn't all that often. Hegbert, in addition
to his belief that fornicators were destined to clean the
urinals in hell, also believed that communism was "a sickness
that doomed mankind to heathenhood." Even though heathenhood
wasn't a word-I can't find it in any dictionary-the
congregation knew what he meant. They also knew that he was
directing his words specifically to my father, who would sit
with his eyes closed and pretend not to listen. My father was
on one of the House committees that oversaw the "Red
influence" supposedly infiltrating every aspect of the
country, including national defense, higher education, and
even tobacco farming. You have to remember that this was
during the cold war; tensions were running high, and we North
Carolinians needed something to bring it down to a more
personal level. My father had consistently looked for facts,
which were irrelevant to people like Hegbert. Afterward, when
my father would come home after the service, he'd say
something like "Reverend Sullivan was in rare form today. I
hope you heard that part about the Scripture where Jesus was
talking about the poor. . . ."
Yeah, sure, Dad. . . .
My father tried to defuse situations whenever possible. I
think that's why he stayed in Congress for so long. The guy
could kiss the ugliest babies known to mankind and still come
up with something nice to say. "He's such a gentle child,"
he'd say when a baby had a giant head, or, "I'll bet she's
the sweetest girl in the world," if she had a birthmark over
her entire face. One time a lady showed up with a kid in a
wheelchair. My father took one look at him and said, "I'll
bet you ten to one that you're smartest kid in your class."
And he was! Yeah, my father was great at stuff like that. He
could fling it with the best of 'em, that's for sure. And he
wasn't such a bad guy, not really, especially if you consider
the fact that he didn't beat me or anything. But he wasn't
there for me growing up. I hate to say that because nowadays
people claim that sort of stuff even if their parent was
around and use it to excuse their behavior. My dad . . . he
didn't love me . . . that's why I became a stripper and
performed on The Jerry Springer Show. . . . I'm not using it
to excuse the person I've become, I'm simply saying it as a
fact. My father was gone nine months of the year, living out
of town in a Washington, D.C., apartment three hundred miles
away. My mother didn't go with him because both of them
wanted me to grow up "the same way they had."
Of course, my father's father took him hunting and
fishing, taught him to play ball, showed up for birthday
parties, all that small stuff that adds up to quite a bit
before adulthood. My father, on the other hand, was a
stranger, someone I barely knew at all. For the first five
years of my life I thought all fathers lived somewhere else.

seniors headed off to college and came face-to-face with all

the fornicators. He was that kind of guy, you know, always

wanting to save us from temptation. He wanted us to know that

God is out there watching you, even when you're away from

home, and that if you put your trust in God, you'll be all

right in the end. It was a lesson that I would eventually

learn in time, though it wasn't Hegbert who taught me.

As I said before, Beaufort was fairly typical as far as

southern towns went, though it did have an interesting

history. Blackbeard the pirate once owned a house there, and

his ship, Queen Anne's Revenge, is supposedly buried

somewhere in the sand just offshore. Recently some

archaeologists or oceanographers or whoever looks for stuff

like that said they found it, but no one's certain just yet,

being that it sank over 250 years ago and you can't exactly

reach into the glove compartment and check the registration.

Beaufort's come a long way since the 1950s, but it's still

not exactly a major metropolis or anything. Beaufort was, and

always will be, on the smallish side, but when I was growing

up, it barely warranted a place on the map. To put it into

perspective, the congressional district that included

Beaufort covered the entire eastern part of the state-some

twenty thousand square miles-and there wasn't a single town

with more than twenty-five thousand people. Even compared

with those towns, Beaufort was regarded as being on the small

side. Everything east of Raleigh and north of Wilmington, all

the way to the Virginia border, was the district my father

represented.

I suppose you've heard of him. He's sort of a legend, even

now. His name is Worth Carter, and he was a congressman for

almost thirty years. His slogan every other year during the

election season was "Worth Carter represents ---," and the

person was supposed to fill in the city name where he or she

lived. I can remember, driving on trips when me and Mom had

to make our appearances to show the people he was a true

family man, that we'd see those bumper stickers, stenciled in

with names like Otway and Chocawinity and Seven Springs.

Nowadays stuff like that wouldn't fly, but back then that was

fairly sophisticated publicity. I imagine if he tried to do

that now, people opposing him would insert all sorts of foul

language in the blank space, but we never saw it once. Okay,

maybe once. A farmer from Duplin County once wrote the word

shit in the blank space, and when my mom saw it, she covered

my eyes and said a prayer asking for forgiveness for the poor

ignorant bastard. She didn't say exactly those words, but I

got the gist of it.

So my father, Mr. Congressman, was a bigwig, and everyone

but everyone knew it, including old man Hegbert. Now, the two

of them didn't get along, not at all, despite the fact that

my father went to Hegbert's church whenever he was in town,

which to be frank wasn't all that often. Hegbert, in addition

to his belief that fornicators were destined to clean the

urinals in hell, also believed that communism was "a sickness

that doomed mankind to heathenhood." Even though heathenhood

wasn't a word-I can't find it in any dictionary-the

congregation knew what he meant. They also knew that he was

directing his words specifically to my father, who would sit

with his eyes closed and pretend not to listen. My father was

on one of the House committees that oversaw the "Red

influence" supposedly infiltrating every aspect of the

country, including national defense, higher education, and

even tobacco farming. You have to remember that this was

during the cold war; tensions were running high, and we North

Carolinians needed something to bring it down to a more

personal level. My father had consistently looked for facts,

which were irrelevant to people like Hegbert. Afterward, when

my father would come home after the service, he'd say

something like "Reverend Sullivan was in rare form today. I

hope you heard that part about the Scripture where Jesus was

talking about the poor. . . ."

Yeah, sure, Dad. . . .

My father tried to defuse situations whenever possible. I

think that's why he stayed in Congress for so long. The guy

could kiss the ugliest babies known to mankind and still come

up with something nice to say. "He's such a gentle child,"

he'd say when a baby had a giant head, or, "I'll bet she's

the sweetest girl in the world," if she had a birthmark over

her entire face. One time a lady showed up with a kid in a

wheelchair. My father took one look at him and said, "I'll

bet you ten to one that you're smartest kid in your class."

And he was! Yeah, my father was great at stuff like that. He

could fling it with the best of 'em, that's for sure. And he

wasn't such a bad guy, not really, especially if you consider

the fact that he didn't beat me or anything. But he wasn't

there for me growing up. I hate to say that because nowadays

people claim that sort of stuff even if their parent was

around and use it to excuse their behavior. My dad . . . he

didn't love me . . . that's why I became a stripper and

performed on The Jerry Springer Show. . . . I'm not using it

to excuse the person I've become, I'm simply saying it as a

fact. My father was gone nine months of the year, living out

of town in a Washington, D.C., apartment three hundred miles

away. My mother didn't go with him because both of them

wanted me to grow up "the same way they had."

Of course, my father's father took him hunting and

fishing, taught him to play ball, showed up for birthday

parties, all that small stuff that adds up to quite a bit

before adulthood. My father, on the other hand, was a

stranger, someone I barely knew at all. For the first five

years of my life I thought all fathers lived somewhere else.