The Harricane: Land of Paradox

In February 1941, an article about the Harricane (or Harricanes as we’ve been kindly advised) appeared in the Wake Forest College literary magazine, The Student. A series of nine photographs accompanied the story, written by Neil Morgan. This is a slightly abridged version of that piece.

* * *

Within the shadow of the Wake Forest campus there lies the extreme eastern border of the Land of Paradox. Old timers and farm suppliers call it the Harricane. But most folks don’t know it’s there.

Follow the road behind the gymnasium, take a right turn, a left turn, another right, and another left, and travel five or six miles east by northeast; you’re in the middle of this Land of Paradox. I know. Because I spent six weeks last summer surveying in the heart of the Harricane. There are something like 80 square miles of it–in Wake and Granville and Franklin.

The country? Just like its people. The people? Paradoxical. Industrious, but poverty-stricken. Friendly, but hostile. Happy, and yet despondent. Rough, still genuine. Rugged, but ragged. Clever, but ignorant.

Rough, bouldered, red hillsides with scraggly growths of cotton, and here and there a cluster of two or three log buildings around an old-fashioned open well….

Precipitous, rutty one-way roads that curve and bend like the contents of a dish of spaghetti–rocks big and little strewn around–weeds growing down the center of the road….

Sprawling, dimly-lit, never-painted crossroad-stores with crushed RC-Cola crates for steps, flour barrels for chairs, oil stove crates for counters, and dingy shelves lined with Tube Rose, hominy grits, ten-cent socks, canned beans, Blueboy overalls, and sardines, all side by side….

Giant 500-acre farms deserted–their streaked red dirt covered on every hill by brush and small pines–the only vegetation that will subsist; wagon paths erased and shackly houses and barns collapsing under the weight of tin roofs that mark the industry of immigrant farmers who didn’t know that nothing will grow in the Harricane….

Two-room schoolhouses–relics of older days–still in use by white and black alike because the school bus, “don’t git that fur.”

An occasional lovely, painted home standing out in bold relief against the poverty of the Harricane to pay tribute to education and culture–owned by men who went out into the world to learn the new way of life and yet came back home–home to the Harricane….

Rickety A-model Fords whose brawn have been defeated by the stones, the soggy clay, the bumps of the Harriane but which have gained new leases on life with Willys wheels, tinned-up windows, homemade seats, and open-air windshields….

All this is the Land of Paradox, the Harricane.

When you go in search of the Harricane, don’t expect to receive guidance from the natives. If you stop and ask a group in the field, they’ll all look sheepishly at one another. Finally one of the old men will volunteer, take off his hat, scratch his white head, and striding toward you say as he points far off in any direction–it makes no difference which–say, “Over that-a-way!”

But any Hurricaner will gladly tell you how the country got its name. It seems that some generations ago–there is some disagreement as to whether it was during the lifetime of Great-great-grandpaw Ezekiel’s third or fourth wife–“there were a big blow come through these heah parts. It kilt all the cattle and swep’ down all the houses. Ruint all the crops that y’ar. We named this country the ‘Harricane’ an’ that’s what folks has been a-callin’ it ever since.”

The rocky red land that characterizes the Harricane is pitifully unproductive. Cotton and corn are the only two crops that the people attempt to grow; and even these are not luxuriant. I stood atop a hill with a farmer late one cloudy afternoon in summer and looked over almost 200 rocky acres. We had walked over his entire farm and the only crops I had seen had been two rows of cucumbers and a row and a half of “roasting ears.” The fellow was illiterate, generally ignorant. But he had a keen humor and insight.

“This country used to have two good things,” he said tersely. “Corn whiskey and good well water. Now it’s got so you can’t even get good corn whiskey.”

So we walked over to his well and took some deep draughts. It was then that I saw his home. It was a two-room log cabin without windows or chimney; he lived alone.

Some chance remark of mine led him to try to explain his pitiful condition.

“Well,” he said, “I had a little tough luck last year. I lost what little money I had in the bank, and then my wife and pigs died.”

He appreciated my interest. He hastened to bring me three skinny cucumbers and invite me to return when his pears were ripe.

Through the middle of the Harricane the winding Neuse River crooks its way. Harricane roads reach dead ends on both sides of the river; and families on opposite sides, within calling distance of each other, go through their lives without knowing each other. Harricaners could have these bridges built; they’re rugged, industrious people….

Friendly folks? Well, their attitude is dependent on the outsider’s approach. They hold no objection to an intruder so long as he holds none toward them; but let one display a feeling of superiority, and his position is precarious. Let one put himself at the Harricaner’s service, and everything the man may possess is in turn at the outsider’s disposal.

The mark of education is found even in the Harricane. One gracious fellow owned all the land on both sides of a road for over two miles. We rode in his 1940 Buick to look over his crops. They almost prospered in among the rocks and clay. His home was a two-story brick affair, lavishly furnished. His family was educated, brilliant. He was proprietor of an up-to-date cross-roads general store, and operated too a cotton gin, a grist mill, and a sawmill.

Before I completed work on his farm I learned his story. He had been the only child of a typical Harricaner far back in the Harricane. His father had been killed, his mother died, and he had been sent by welfare officers to an orphanage…. He gained some education. He studied modern agricultural methods at State College. Finally he returned to build up his oasis in the Harricane desert…. the Harricane still seemed home to him.

An interesting contrast of this fellow were the big bad men of the Harricane–men who might have been like this prosperous merchant had they received education. Neighbors warned me of one fellow in particular. He had a reputation for meeting visitors with a shotgun. He was down on mankind, folks seemed to think.

I reached his place early one morning. His kids peeped out from behind shades as I walked up his front steps, which were almost collapsing from rot. Then, arms on hips, he appeared at his door and asked me what in h– I wanted. He was a giant of a man…. His stride was like a panther’s. His dog, just as bad and worse, helped to circulate a bit of my blood with his hot breath at my knees.

I explained that I was representing the government and wanted to check over his farm, and asked him if he would please be so kind as to come along and help.

I backed gently off the steps as he exploded, and he followed me. This was his land, he said, and no blankety-blank government man had a right to be on it. Then followed an oratorical outburst which enumerated the injustices he had suffered at the hands of the United States government and the numerous letters of apology received form Henry A. Wallace. His forceful conclusion was:

“You can’t measure my land. I got rights and privileges. I been having rights and privileges ever since George Washington discovered America.”

But I listened to his troubles for half an hour, agreed wholeheartedly, finally got his consent and cooperation in surveying, and we parted firm friends. That’s the Harricaner.

There’s one more side to these people–one that an outsider wouldn’t expect to find…. It’s sentimentality.

I remember an old, white-haired, stoop-shouldered little man who walked with me around his small farm. He showed me one field, set off from all the rest, grown up in small pines and stubble. I asked him why that field was not under cultivation.

“We hain’t tended that since my son did back in 1917,” he said. “That was the y’ar he went over to France. He didn’t never come back.”

Raw and uncouth though he was, this man, I concluded, was paying his dead soldier-son a greater tribute than many other Americans ever did.

It must be a pretty big world, after all, if a community within fifteen minutes of a great educational institution can remain fifty years behind.

But the Harricance is dying.

I talked to many old Harricane couples who told me of sons and daughters “making good” in mills and factories in the distant cities of Raleigh and Durham and Henderson.

“Susie and Ned wants us to sell our place and come into town with ’em. Says we’s too old and decrepit to stay out here by ourselves!” they would tell me.

And I would back up Susie and Ned and ask the old folks why they didn’t go. They never seemed to know–quite. But I did. The Harricane is its people; its people are the Harricane. Few of them have gone outside of Their Country for generations. The Harricane’s life is their life–its habits their own.

But here and there new things are creeping in, and old ones are going. Radio, telephone, and improved methods of transportation are finally biting through the Harricane’s thick crust of antiquity. School buses are traveling deeper and deeper into this Land of Paradox; mail carriers are bringing daily news to many of them.

Old things are always being replaced by the new. There’ll come another “big blow” one of these days. And the Harricane will go with it.


  1. My grandmother was born in 1872 in the Harricane – Her mother told of seeing the stars fall as a child. The sky turned dark the mules came in from the field thinking it was night. The people shouted and prayed thinking that it was the end of the world.
    She told of the big storm, thought it may have been a tornado rather than a hurricane. Her Bailey Family hired tutors that taught school at the Old Bailey School House that stood as the Masonic Lodge until a few years back. She was well educated and knew Latin from her studies at the Bailey School House. I am proud of my family heritage and the wonderful stories my grandparents told. Grandpa played the fiddle and played at the many square dances in those days gone by.

  2. The Keith family was part of the Harricane history; owning property at The Falls of The Neuse, working in the cotton mill, trying to farm the land, producing and distributing good moonshine whisky. I am told that at night my dad ( as a young teenager ) would sit on the front porch of their dilapidated house with a sawed-off shotgun across his lap and Mason Jars of moonshine ready to sell to those who could come by with a thirst.

    1. I know someone who grew up near Brassfield Baptist Church on Hwy. 96 east of Creedmoor during the 50s and 60s and remembers the sound, at night, of glass jars full of moonshine rattling against each other on their delivery out of the Harricane.

  3. One of of the most distinguishing things about the “Harricane” was and is it’s elusive quality. My dad commented that folks in southern Granville County would often say, “it’s just down the road a way.” I really was amused when I recent asked a long-time resident of southern Granville County about the Harricane and he replied “oh, it’s up towards Henderson.”

  4. This was absolutely wonderful to read! I moved to Wakefield (North Raleigh) several years ago from New Jersey. I went to school at VGCC in both Franklinton and Henderson. I have a certain affinity towards the South and took a Southern culture class & also joined the History club at school. I love learning about where I live! Wake Forest is literally right across the street from my house! I would love for someone to take me out to this “Harricane” area.. it intrigues me so much! Especially places that have people who have lived at their whole lives! I will never know what that feels like for someone to say “this is where my great grand-daddy was born, and he’s buried here.. I was born here, my kids were raised here, etc etc” That is something so precious to me.. invaluable really! I love listening to people’s stories, from all walks of life.. so this article was right up my alley! The writer did a phenomenal job. I would actually love reading a book of theirs, if they decided to write one! I felt like I was there with the author, and listening to those people tell their stories with their accents. Nice job!!

    1. My ex husband and some of his aunt’s live there and there entire family was raised there and buried there.

    2. I live in the Harricans I am the last owner of a family farm and my great ,great great grandaddy and grandma’s grave is right across the road they died in 1909, We had 400.500acres and I only have 20 left,my. Great aunt was buried in 1974 ,she’s the only one who is there from my immediate family,the family moved to Durham to work on the depression

  5. All of my people started there in a small house just down the road from Vester ross store ,there names Ransom and Mamie Ross O’Neal .They brought up nine kids there ,the storm blowed over alot the store house did alot of damage to there property . i know where it is for sure,

    1. My father lived on Vester Ross’ property and worked for him until my father passed away in the early 60’s. I was approximately five years old then. My mother worked in Vester’s house for his wife Ruby and also worked on his tobacco farm. Vester had a son named Doug and a grandson named Tony. We moved into Wake County when my father passed away…….

      1. If this question is for my May 1, 2017 post, no I am not related to them that I know of. My father’s name was Sam Jackson. We lived across the road from the Shearney family. I remember they were the only Afro-American family that had a TV in that area and my father use to take me up there with him at night to watch Westerns. The grandmother was named Ms. Cora and the wife was named Mary Dorothy. They had a large family.

  6. The O’Neal yearly family reunion is held in the Harricans . Wonderful people that have what it takes to get along in this old world.

      1. Do you know the Name of the Keith man that married Glovenia O’Neil? My grandmother was a Keith==-Mary Elizabeth and called Bettie. She married Alfred Green Lowery (called Boss).

        1. Glovenia O’Neal married Foster Keith – more unfo – call Barbara Barham, 919 847 0781. Glovenia was my grandfather, A L (Lonnie) Bridgers’ first cousin. His mother being Delilah (Dille) O’Neal and Glovenia’s father was Dawson O’Neal. Their parents being Meddie Harrison and William O’Neal.

        2. Hilma: My husband’s great Aunt Livian Harrison married Average Lowery. I wonder if there is any kin there. Their youngest son was named Alfred and called Randy.

          1. Good Afternoon Hilma, The name you are looking for is John Foster Keith. He was married to Glovenia O’Neal. Their children were, John, Earley, Walter, Iva, Henry and James. They were my grandparents and they had a farm at the Falls of the Neuse. Wakefield High School now sits on the property that was their farm. I have a photograph and will be happy to send you a digital copy if you will send your e-mail address. Also please see Barbara Barhams notes on this site.

          2. Jane, did Miss Livian live on the road going up the hill past JCs store?.

          3. I am not absolutely sure where JC’s store is. I think they lived on 98 highway on the right side of the road headed away from 50 highway, and towards US 1.

          4. sorry, I remembered that this Miss Livian lived at the Falls. But I am trying to find Joyce O’Neal or her sister Shirley or brother J.B.

          5. Regarding JC’s store. There was a country store located on Possum Track Road on the right just after you turned off of Falls of the Neuse Road at the Falls. Mr J.C. Strickland owned the store.

          6. Indeed, Livian and Average Lowery have many kin still there, and the Harrison family reunion still happens every year, as it has for well over a hundred years.

          7. My husband Lloyd Harrison and our grown children attend the reunion every year. I wondered if they were kin to the Alfred Lowery mentioned in the original post.

      2. Ryan, have you been to Dawson O’Neal graveyard recently? It is now easy access.
        I can give you directions is needed. Barbara Barham

  7. In the late 80’s I used to backpack around some of these old fields and lanes mostly near the Wake-Franklin border north of Harris Road. At that time it was still largely as described….clay, rocky fields with crumbling shacks wedged in here and there.

    1. I live on an old farm about one mile east of the Rt 96 – Pocomoke Rd intersection. This area is almost certainly within the elusive boundaries of the “Harrikins” (my best shot at the local pronunciation) but one is not supposed to ever admit to actually living there. My farm has at least two old still sites and one of the old houses has the unmistakable smell of a still when the the heat and humidity are just right.
      Ron Penney

  8. I live on Woodland Church Road and when we moved here 23 years ago, a descendant of a harrcanes family showed me where a still sat for 40 years. Of course, the still was no longer there but he gave me a lot of history. I only understood the “harrcanes” to be in that Franklin, Granville, Wake County line area and had no idea it extended so far East and West of where I live.

  9. This was a great article. Loving about 5 miles from the Harricanes, in Youngsville, I always wondered about its origins. Thank you for the wonderful story.

  10. My great grandparents and great aunt lived where Stony Hill Fire Dept is now. The house was right around the corner from the Hockadays. They tore the house down years ago but I remember my mom and I lived there when I was a child. My great aunt was Lucille “Susie” Keith. She never married. And, her sister (my grandmother) left my mother there as a child to raise so I have never seen and have no information about my grandmother– I think her name was Virginia Doris Newcomb. From what little my mom has told me, they were extremely poor, grew tobacco, and her uncles ran moonshine. One of the uncles, (no one knew his real name) , was called “Slick.” I appreciate this article. And any information anyone has, I’d love to hear it. Whenever I’m going through something difficult, I always remind myself of who/where I came from. The poverty, the grit, the community. It helps. if anyone has any information they could share, please feel free to reach out to me at Thanks!

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