Infiltrating Alcatraz

This story is about Mr. R. C. Nanney, the first property owner I ever interviewed almost ten years ago. Up until I met him, my weekend hobby of photographing and poking around in old houses was just that. But after meeting him, my love for abandoned houses evolved into something with a much higher purpose that felt more like a calling. His charming story became the driving force behind my newfound determination to knock on more doors and introduce myself to strangers, eager to learn and preserve their one-of-a-kind tales.

In the Beginning

It was April 24, 2016 and the warm embrace of brilliant spring weather added to the significance of the day that would soon become firmly etched in my memory. I’d been riding around on the backroads of Avery County, North Carolina and had already photographed several other homes. On the way back, I spotted a small, weathered window and siding barely visible through tangled vines and brush on the roadside. Had I blinked, I would’ve missed it.

I turned the car around and pulled into the driveway of the nearest neighbor, looking for the owner of the abandoned home across the street. The woman who greeted me at the door said it was owned by a 93 year old man that lived on the same property as the house, just farther back in the woods down a long, dirt road. She offered to call him on my behalf to request permission to photograph and reappeared just a few moments later with the smile and head nod I was hoping for.

In the beginning of my exploring days, I wasn’t as cautious as I am now about barreling my way through underbrush that was certainly full of tics, snakes, and poison ivy in order to find a door to gain access. I found a deteriorated porch with no stairs, grabbed onto a post, and hoped it didn’t bring the roof down when I used it as leverage to hop up. I walked through what had been the front door and was greeted by a fireplace and a room packed full of discarded belongings.

Most houses I photograph are empty with hardly anything left behind, but most of the contents of whoever lived here last were still here. A 1983 calendar on the wall hinted at how long it had been vacant. The windows were covered in tattered lace curtains and the walls were papered in layers of vintage prints and artwork. Pantry items and spices were still on the kitchen shelves, dishes were on the table, old trunks filled with clothes were in the bedroom, and purses and shoes were scattered about. Each room read like a mystery and I couldn’t help but wonder where the family went.

After I got done photographing the house, I once again approached the neighbor and asked if she thought the property owner would be willing to talk to me. Again, she disappeared long enough to call him and came back to the door with his reply. She said he was somewhat hesitant, but agreed on the condition I not stay long. I could respect that. I hopped in my car and traveled down a dirt road into the woods, not sure what to expect. When I came to the end of the road, I found myself idling in front of the tiniest house I’d ever seen. Comparable to a large, but tidy, yellow shed, I hesitantly approached and knocked on his door.

Prisoner of the Past

On the other side, I could hear him fumbling with clunky deadbolt after deadbolt, from the top of the door to the bottom, to the point it became awkward while I stood there waiting on him to open the door.  Either this old man was a firm believer in industrial strength security, or he was hiding one too many mason jars of money or moonshine in his floorboards. Either way, I felt like I was on the brink of infiltrating Alcatraz and I was determined to make my stint inside count.

The door finally opened and a somewhat frail man stood looking back at me with curiosity from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His shirt was tucked in neatly, his pants were held up on his slender frame with black suspenders, and he wore a lemon yellow ball cap too big for his head that read “Jesus is Lord”. After introducing myself in his doorway, he cautiously invited me in and waved his hand over his shoulder as he turned away, inviting me to follow behind. We walked though a kitchen no bigger than a large closet into his living room that had just enough space to accommodate a loveseat and small end table that held a lamp and his Bible.

The wood paneled walls were overly crowded with framed depictions of Jesus and faded photos of a woman with long brown hair. It was as if he’d constructed his own private prison, a sanctuary of memories where he could take comfort in his Savior, as well as worship this beloved brunette from afar. Intrigued, I scanned the photos wall to wall and noticed him gazing at them the way a prisoner stared longingly at pin-ups of his favorite movie star, finding solace in the beauty he longed to hold.

Selma and R.C.

He gestured towards the photos and said, “That’s Selma, my wife.” The man next to her was him, Mr. R. C. Nanney, a local entertainer featured in statewide commercials. He pointed at different photos and shared a bit of background about each; one in particular was of Selma standing next to Ginger Alden, Elvis’ fiancee at the time of his death. He explained that he and his wife never had any children, and instead spent their married life starring in commercials and directing small time movies together. After explaining that he had no family or friends nearby or still living, it seemed Mr. You-Can-Come-But-Can’t-Stay-Long was suddenly eager for human interaction and invited me to sit down and stay for a bit.

His energy became vibrant the moment he started talking about the way he met Selma and eventually married her. They met in the late 1930’s while he was on a date with a different girl and met Selma for the first time. She was out with her girlfriends, and while his date wasn’t looking, he slipped his name and address in Selma’s coat pocket. He grinned from ear to ear when he recalled this detail.

Two weeks later, Selma finally wrote him a letter and they began writing back and forth. At the time, they lived 32 miles apart and he didn’t own a car to be able to go see her. Determined, he caught a ride with a traveling salesman from his hometown to his sweetheart in Lawndale. From there, he caught a ride back home again.

They got married in 1941 and moved in with her parents and grandparents in what was now the abandoned homeplace next door, built in the late 1800s. He and Selma were married for 67 years when she passed away in 2010 at the age of 89. It was abundantly clear how much he adored and missed her in the solitude of his tiny house in the woods. He didn’t say why the old homeplace had become abandoned, nor did I press him.

A Local Star

He told of how he got his start in the music industry at 15 years old after winning $10 at a theater. With it he bought a $5 guitar and a $5 pig. He sold the pig and used the profits to buy a western shirt and hat to wear while performing country music at local venues. That eventually led to him meeting celebrities like Ernest Tubb, a honky tonk pioneer in the 1940’s and 50’s, playing on country music programs in Gastonia and Spartanburg, SC, and over the airwaves of the Shelby radio station WADA 1390.

He loved photography, served in the military, and carried a loaded revolver in his pocket to kill snakes when they made their way indoors. He and his wife improvised their way through commercials they starred in together selling appliances, Pontiacs, and Town and Country Fords in Charlotte, NC, capturing public attention and fans requesting their autograph while out in public.

He directed and appeared in two low budget movies (one in the mid 1980’s and the other in 1992) when he focused his attention on Knobby, a Bigfoot like creature some Cleveland County, NC residents claimed to have spotted. He said one of them was a popular rental at video stores and Knobby t-shirts are still sold in local gas stations. In 2015, he was awarded the Heritage Bridge Award by The Cleveland County Arts Council, in recognition of his career and contributions to the musical fabric of the area.

Farewell Transmission

He patted the cushion of the sleeper loveseat he sat on and told me that’s where he slept. His voice cracked with emotion as he proceeded to tell me that after folding his bed up every morning, he started the day with a prayer and thanked the Lord for everything he’d been blessed with and then studied his Bible, or the “good book”, as he called it. What a sweet, simple lesson it was for me to meet this man that lived such a modest life without a soul to talk to throughout the day, but never failed to pray to God and share his gratitude for all that he had.

Before leaving, I promised him I’d come back to hear more of his stories and he seemed delighted at the idea. But before I could get back to him, about a month after our visit, he passed away. He’d suddenly become ill and when he went to the doctor, found out he was stricken with cancer from head to toe. While I was saddened at not being able to see him again, my old soul was thankful for my brief encounter with him and so, so honored to hear him tell his stories one last time, to one last person, and that I was that person.