THE FIVE-FINGERED TYPIST
WHO CHRONICLED
EASTERN NC

© 2001 James David Pearce

The writer who probably put on paper more words than any other about the small towns and villages of Eastern North Carolina was a born-and-reared Yankee.

Gordon Allan (Jack) Aulis was born in New Hampshire and grew up in Vermont. After World War II, he found his way south, working as a reporter, editor and columnist at the Norfolk Virginian-Pilot, the Elizabeth City Daily Advance and the Raleigh News and Observer.

He was the first newspaper man I ever knew (other than Roy Parker Sr. and J. Mayon Parker of Ahoskie) who thought "Poor Town" deserved a few lines of printer's ink. He did this as a columnist for The N&O when he learned the place was selling its own auto license plates.

After Aulis had been at The N&O for a short time, his bosses ~ Sam Ragan and Woodrow Price ~ realized what they had on their hands and told him to hit the road, with full pay. His assignment was to ride around Eastern North Carolina and write everything he could think of about the people and the place, as many times a week as he possibly could.

He did this for years, and later his columns and other stories were collected and published in a number of books that are in a lot of public libraries in Eastern NC.

~~~

There were a lot of things that made Jack Aulis special.

Tall and Lincolnesque, he was a totally unflappable man. He had a deep, evenly modulated voice that was rarely raised or lowered. He spoke (and wrote) in a manner that could be understood clearly by everyone.

He was never angry, never upset, never irritated, never flustered.

He had a wonderful wit, and a sharp sense of satire.

And only one arm.

He had left the other arm on Iwo Jima in the South Pacific in World War II.

~~~

In those days of newspapering, when the newsroom work was done by manual typewriters and pencil, that one-arm business would quickly have ended the careers of many would-be writers.

But if the missing arm ever bothered Jack, you never would have known it by watching him work or listening to him talk ~ or reading what he wrote. He accepted neither pity nor sympathy. He brooked no discussion of handicap.

~~~

A co-worker related that one evening when Jack and some of his buddies were having dinner at a restaurant, a youngster from a family at a nearby table walked by ~ and stopped short when his eyes fell on Jack.

"Hey, mister," he inquired, loud enough for all to hear, "where's your arm"?

It immediately was obvious that the young boy's family members were mortified, to say the least, and Jack's friends squirmed nervously, wondering what would come next.

Jack's long arm came around in a wide sweep, and clutched the empty sleeve on his opposite shoulder. With an air of mock astonishment on his face, his deep steady voice intoned:

"Well, damn, fellow!" he said. "I knew I was leaving something back there at the office."

And he rewarded the youngster with a huge smile.

~~~

Over the years, Jack's stories covered just about every place in Eastern NC, from Poor Town to Bob Melton's Barbecue Restaurant on the Tar River in Rocky Mount. But once he wrote about a trip he took to the NC high country, traveling down the Blue Ridge Parkway.

He took that trip with his wife, to whom he always referred in his writing as "that blonde I live with."

They took their trip in one of the foggier seasons, and anyone who has been on the Parkway when the fog was up could readily recognize the situation. Jack said he could see a little for about 30 feet in every direction, but after that point everything just faded into a gray haze.

Coming upon a pullout overlook, Jack pulled over, and leaving his "blonde" in the car, made his way through the fog to the wooden sign that offered information about the visual wonders of that particular spot.

He put his nose against the sign, and was able to make out the words: "From this spot you can see four states."

Jack pulled his nose away from the sign and slowly turned and stared into the fog covering all four corners of the compass, and then made his way back to his auto and his "blonde."

"What did the sign say?" asked the blonde.

"Nothing," said Jack, aiming his auto once again for the low country.

~~~

In another newsroom discussion, a book editor was discoursing about a new work by an author whom he described as "apparently having the idea that he had won World War II single-handedly."

"That's really funny," said Jack, "I thought that I was the one who did that."

~~~

Jack helped to found and publicize the "Man Will Never Fly Society," a club that spoofs Wilbur and Orville Wright at Kitty Hawk and uses its only meeting each year as an excuse for members to tell funny stories and share drinks.

He and his cohorts always used the occasion of the night before every official "First-Flight Anniversary Ceremony" for their assemblage. Their motto was "Birds Fly. Men Drink."

~~~

He could type faster with one hand than many of the newsmen of his time could type with two hands. And he could handle an editor's pencil far, far better than most.

But pencils presented one of the few problems in his life that Jack Aulis ever publicly acknowledged.

Once in a newsroom discussion about inventions of the 20th Century that had contributed much to the general well-being, Jack's response was quick and to the point:

"The electric pencil-sharpener," he said.

~~~

Until I heard that anecdote, I'd never thought much about the quandary of a one-armed writer with a worn-down pencil ~ faced with a manual pencil-sharpener.

Since hearing it, I've never been able to get it out of my mind.

~~~

A lot of Jack's columns and other stories were collected and printed in books. The book titles themselves are rich examples of his wit and his steadfast determination not to knuckle under to life's smaller problems. They include:

Butterflies and Other Birds
Plants Don't Do What You Tell 'Em To
Eagles Have Bad Breath
How Porcupines Make Love
Never Hug an Octopus

~~~

Jack died in 1999 at the age of 73.