New Bern, North Carolina, February 3, 2012 – Every generation has its bragging rights and stories about “when I was a kid”— some of them are true and some are exaggerated. But author Alva Harris, in his eight decades of life so far, truly has lived life as was possible then, but will never be again, beginning with his childhood in 1930s North Carolina.

Experiencing a freedom in youth, that even in country settings, our world doesn’t now allow, Harris had harrowing encounters with wildlife, yet knew exactly what to do. “A sow black bear and two cubs—barely perceptible in the evening gloom—graze in a winter wheat patch some 200 feet beyond my bike. While I approach, she quietly stands guard as the cubs continue feeding. I keep my head bowed in an act of submission and do not return her direct gaze. She never moves nor makes a sound, except as her glistening, prehensile nose grabs air in long, sucking draughts as she tries to catch my scent, trusting her nose over her eyes to decide if I was friend or foe.”

As he grew, his independence was cultivated and expected by his father in a world and setting that required both. “During the fall of 1940, shortly before my twelfth birthday, Daddy gave me a dozen steel traps. They were No. 1 single-spring Victor traps, and the first two years that I trapped, I did not have the hand strength to set them without a solid piece of ground or some other object to stand on. I used one foot to depress the spring while I spread the jaws and set the treadle with my hands. I knew nothing about trapping. The first muskrat I saw swimming in the creek behind the house I mistook for a puppy and tried to whistle him ashore. I did know the value of fur. Two men in the neighborhood supported their families primarily with proceeds from trapping.”

When adulthood arrived, Harris knew he had to venture away from North Carolina to discover the world and even find himself. “We left home on Easter Sunday in 1949 on a trip of high adventure with Fairbanks in the territory of Alaska as our destination. . . .The Jeep we drove was fairly new, a 1948 civilian model with a four-cylinder flathead engine that squeezed out twenty-five miles per gallon at the steady speed of thirty-five mph. A panel body made is almost airtight, and the heater kept the inside temperature above freezing except during extreme conditions, more than meeting our expectations.”

In the 50s, marriage and a family was a duty we were all expected to fulfill, and practically penniless, but with good intentions, Harris took a trip to the altar. “During the reception, between cutting the cake and wishing to be on the way to Raleigh, Lib whispered to me that it was customary for the groom to pay the preacher for the wedding ceremony. Twenty dollars would be sufficient. Lib already knew I had little money so she slipped me two ten-dollar bills. Preacher Ashley was a cultured man: college-educated, owned a large farm, preached to a huge congregation, and was enjoying the cake and finger foods. He was definitely of the upper class. I gambled he would understand his fee would be coming from a college student and not from the Honeycutt family. When I gave him ten dollars, he just smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’”

The Korean war interrupted life for Harris, the way it did for many, and he spent those years in the United States Coast Guard. “I was the designated towline-splicer. Against the bottom of the hull two decks down, the rope locker was the aft-most compartment on ship. As I climbed down the vertical steel ladders, I descended into an alien place. . .The pitch and roll of the ship in a turbulent, invisible sea added to the sensation of being in a different world, where balance was not instinctive and down was confused with up. . .Half an hour later, I completed the eye splice and was cutting the end off of the 200-foot coil of rope, putting my full strength downward on the sharp blade of my self-made knife. The razor-sharp blade completely severed the rope, but before I could let up, it plunged into my left thigh between the knee and hip, passing clean through from inside to outside, grazing the femur, and severing arteries and nerves. There was no pain as I watched in amazement at blood spurting out through the hole in my jeans with each heartbeat. Instinct took over.”

With adventure seemingly a part of his DNA, Harris continued to face life full-on with a tough exterior, gentle heart, and a sense of humor, which life often requires from all of us. He went on to be the first student to receive a PhD in animal ecology from North Carolina State University and spent twenty-five years at Nicholls State University as a professor and environmental consultant, after which he returned to the home of his youth to live his later years with his fourth wife and soul mate, Donna.

Age often throws harsh challenges at many of us and Harris is no exception. “Winter comes and goes with Gray Ghost (a duplicate of a Core Sound Skiff that I had owned years before) impatiently awaiting my promised pull on her oars or maneuvering the sculling oar in her wake as she glides across the river. But she is not as impatient as I, handicapped by age and frailties. Spinal stenosis had forced me to abandon commercial fishing when I was seventy-five. Now Parkinson’s Disease adds its effects at seventy-nine. My mind and body has never accepted my physical limitations.”

As the Parkinson’s and spinal stenosis continue their attack, Harris, the author and communicator, continues to persevere as he writes—“Both working in harmony are resulting in my one fingered pecking, which will soon cease, my speech is diminishing, my balance is precarious and I am in a wheelchair.” Yet, Harris feels the satisfaction of a life well-lived, which he has recorded in his memoir, Born on a Buzzard’s Stump: The Epic Journey of a Man and His Myth, with hopes that his adventures and memories will rekindle those of his readers’ or bring the enjoyment of a story well-told.

Harris’ book is available through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books a Million and as an ebook from Kindle, Nook, and the iTunes store.