August PineStraw 2020 by PineStraw Magazine

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McDevitt town & country properties

MEDICAL EXPERTISE

Y O U ’ R E G O I N G T O L O V E W H AT R E S T Y L A N E K Y S S E ®

DOES TO YOUR LIPS For anyone seeking natural-looking, fuller lips, call us today and find out how Restylane® Kysse will have you loving your lips again. (855) 294 2639 Pinehurst Surgical Clinic Plastic & Facial Plastic Surgery is ready to hear from you.

Jefferson K. Kilpatrick, MD • Russell B. Stokes, MD • Hannah Parbst, Esthetician

Caring For People. Then. Now. Always. Coronavirus has changed almost everything, but our resolve is stronger than ever.

We have been committed to our core purpose – To Care For People – since the beginning. We are committed to it now. And we are committed to it in the future. We are ready to serve you in new ways, but you can still expect to receive the excellent care you always have. FirstHealth is here for you and we’re ready when you are.

www.FirstHealth.org

FirstHealth Patient Care Team: Jane Claire Dawkins, R.N., Petra Service, R.N., Lacey Hughes, R.N. and Medina James, R.N. 540-170-20

August �� FEATURES 69 Ritual Revived Poetry By Barbara Baillet Moran 70 Great Beginnings

Rosalie Goodbody By Celia Rivenbark Being the Record of Hannah King By Lee Zacharias The Last Wedding By Frances Mayes The Pressing Spirit By David Payne Why I Love Pool Halls By Bland Simpson What the Cat Knew By Ruth Moose Die Trying By Michael Parker

80 Running Man By Bill Fields

The unquenchable passion of Jef Moody

84 Fair Winds and Following Seas By John Wolfe USCGC Diligence departs Wilmington

88 Sycamore No More By Deborah Salomon Classic cottage becomes a serene showcase

97 Almanac

By Ash Alder

DEPARTMENTS 19 25 27 29 33 37 39 41 45 49 53 55 56 61 62 65 106 111 112

Simple Life By Jim Dodson Instagram Contest Good Natured By Karen Frye The Omnivorous Reader By D.G. Martin Bookshelf Hometown By Bill Fields The Kitchen Gardener By Jan Leitschuh In the Spirit By Tony Cross Home by Design By Cynthia Adams True South By Susan Kelly Mom Inc. By Renee Whitmore Out of the Blue By Deborah Salomon Sandhills Photoclub Birdwatch By Susan Campbell The Naturalist By Todd Pusser Golftown Journal By Lee Pace Arts & Entertainment Calendar PineNeedler By Mart Dickerson Southwords By Jim Moriarty

Cover photograph by John Gessner, shot on location at

The Country Bookshop

PineStraw

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Lingerie Sale 20% off

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Talent, Technology & Teamwork! Moore County’s Most Trusted Real Estate Team!

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PINEHURST • $345,000

SEVEN LAKES WEST • $328,000

PINEHURST • $310,000

130 TAMARISK LANE Lovely 3 BR / 3.5 BA home in desirable neighborhood close to the Village and to Pinehurst CC – very private location! Exterior is hardiplank and stacked stone offers lots of curb appeal…..a must see!

102 JOSEPHS POINT Beautifully maintained 3 BR / 3 BA home on large corner lot! Home offers bright and open layout in great location. Master bedroom has lots of windows overlooking beautiful water views!

3 MITCHELL COURT Outstanding 4 BR / 3 BA brick home in Popular #6. Layout is inviting and features two master bedrooms as well as large covered deck in back.

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PINEHURST • $450,000

PINEHURST • $340,000

PINEHURST • $390,000

90 E. MCCASKILL ROAD Nice 3 BR / 3.5 BA home w/cozy ‘Cottage’ vibes in great location. Situated in the heart of the historic Village the house is just around the corner from The Carolina Hotel.

12 KAHKWA TRAIL Custom built 3 BR / 2 BA all brick home in popular #6 neighborhood. Home is golf front w/views of tee box and 15th hole.

16 DUNGARVAN LANE Charming 3 BR / 2.5 BA home w/impressive views overlooking the 7th and 8th fairways of Pinehurst course #9. Spacious layout w/master bedroom on main floor.

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SEVEN LAKES WEST • $435,000

WHISPERING PINES • $330,000

PINEHURST •$313,000

106 BROWN COURT Splendid 4 BR / 3.5 BA custom home in gorgeous location! Meticulously maintained w/spacious layout and tons of curb appeal.

6 PRINCESS GATE DRIVE Amazing two-story 4 BR / 2.5 BA brick home w/spacious layout, sunny Carolina Room and great in-ground pool…..a must see!

7 PINYON LANE Adorable 3 BR / 2.5 BA home on large lot corner lot in great location near Lake Pinehurst. Beautifully renovated, this home won’t last long.

IN MOORE COUNTY REAL ESTATE FOR OVER 20 YEARS!

Luxury Properties Moore County’s Most Trusted Real Estate Team!

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PINEHURST • $535,000

PINEHURST • $715,000

PINEHURST • $795,000

49 GREYABBEY DRIVE Contemporary 4 BR / 4.5 BA home on 7th hole of Pinewild CC’s Magnolia course. Interior is light and open w/beautiful gourmet kitchen.

102 STRATHAVEN COURT Elegant 4 BR / 3 full BA 2 half BA golf front home located on the signature hole of Pinehurst #9 course.

26 OXTON CIRCLE Appealing 4 BR / 3.5 BA home in great location w/ spacious layout, gorgeous with views of golf and water. Tons of appeal inside and out.

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PINEHURST • $585,000

PINEHURST • $529,000

PINEHURST • $610,000

51 STONEYKIRK DRIVE Stunning custom 5 BR / 3.5 BA brick home in beautiful Pinewild CC. Home offers exquisite finishes and detail throughout w/spacious layout and gorgeous kitchen.

13 HALKIRK DRIVE Nicely maintained 4 BR / 4.5 BA brick home in Pinewild community. Home offers nice layout w/ beautiful hardwood flooring throughout.

70 PINEWILD DRIVE Amazingly beautiful 4 BR / 4.5 BA home situated on large corner lot. The private back yard showcases gorgeous landscaping and in-ground pool.

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PINEHURST • $855,000 24 ROYAL COUNTY DOWN Gorgeous 5 BR / 5 Full BA 2 half BA custom home located on 13th fairway of Pinewild CC. Home features amazing in-ground salt water pool and perfect golf views.

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PINEHURST • $531,000

PINEHURST • $580,000

11 EDINBURGH LANE County Club living at its finest w/all the bells and whistles! Amazing 4 BR / 3 BA home on 15th green of Magnolia course w/panoramic golf views.

80 FIELDS ROAD Quintessential 4 BR / 3.5 BA Old Town Cottage with all the charm and style expected in a vintage 1920’s property. Great in-ground pool is an added bonus!

Re/Max Prime Properties, 5 Chinquapin Rd., Pinehurst, NC 910-295-7100 • 800-214-9007 • Re/Max Prime Properties 5 Chinquapin Rd., Pinehurst, NC hE ENTRY EAM COM

www.T

• 910-295-7100

French country cottages

M A G A Z I N E Volume 16, No. 8 David Woronoff, Publisher Jim Dodson, Editor

910.693.2506 • jim@pinestrawmag.com

Andie Stuart Rose, Creative Director

910.693.2467 • andie@pinestrawmag.com

Jim Moriarty, Senior Editor

910.692.7915 • jjmpinestraw@gmail.com

Alyssa Rocherolle, Graphic Designer

910.693.2508 • alyssa@pinestrawmag.com

Lauren M. Coffey, Graphic Designer

910.693.2469 • lauren@pinestrawmag.com CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Deborah Salomon, Staff Writer Mary Novitsky, Sara King, Proofreaders CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS

John Gessner, Laura Gingerich, Tim Sayer

CONTRIBUTORS Tom Allen, Jenna Biter, Harry Blair, Tom Bryant, Susan Campbell, Bill Case, Wiley Cash, Tony Cross, Brianna Rolfe Cunningham, Mart Dickerson, Bill Fields, Laurel Holden, Jane Lear, Jan Leitschuh, Meridith Martens, D.G. Martin, Lee Pace, Todd Pusser, Joyce Reehling, Scott Sheffield, Stephen E. Smith, Angie Tally, Kimberly Taws, Ashley Wahl, Renee Whitmore

Chanticleer at Forest Creek • Pinehurst Rosecomb Cottage, shown here, is one of a selection of charming French Country Cottages all designed by Mark Parsons and under construction on Chanticleer Drive in Forest Creek Golf Club. The property is ideal for a first home buyer, second home golf retreat or a downsize location in an upscale gated community. Choose from one of the cottages completed, or select from the remaining 14 lots and work with the builder to custom detail the property to your liking. Painted brick, arched entry, and signature French Country roof pitch set an inviting entry to this interior that boasts an open floor plan. The gourmet kitchen looks over a generous island into the living room with fireplace. The main floor master suite features a luxury bath and walk-in closet. Highlights include hardwood floors throughout the main floor, covered outdoor porch with fireplace and built in grill, 2 car attached garage, & two upstairs bedrooms with shared bath. Lovely quality in the details. Agent on duty to assist with showings or membership questions. (910) 725-1967 ext 221.

Offered a $538,000.

To view more photos, take a virtual tour or schedule a showing, go to:

Maureen Clark

www.clarkpropertiesnc.com

when experience matters

Pinehurst • Southern Pines BHHS Pinehurst Realty Group • 910.315.1080 ©2015 BHH Affiliates, LLC. An independently operated subsidiary of HomeServices of American, Inc., a Berkshire Hathaway affiliate, and a franchisee of BHH Affiliates, LLC.

PineStraw

ADVERTISING SALES

Ginny Trigg, Advertising Director 910.693.2481 • ginny@thepilot.com Jennie Acklin, 910.693.2515 Samantha Cunningham, 910.693.2505 Terry Hartsell, 910.693.2513 Perry Loflin, 910.693.2514 ADVERTISING COORDINATOR

Emily Jolly • pilotads@thepilot.com

ADVERTISING GRAPHIC DESIGN

Mechelle Butler, Scott Yancey

PS Steve Anderson, Finance Director 910.693.2497 Darlene Stark, Circulation Director 910.693.2488 SUBSCRIPTIONS

910.693.2488 OWNERS

Jack Andrews, Frank Daniels Jr., Frank Daniels III, Lee Dirks, David Woronoff 145 W. Pennsylvania Avenue, Southern Pines, NC 28387 www.pinestrawmag.com ©Copyright 2020. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. PineStraw magazine is published by The Pilot LLC The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

10 Village Green Road, Pinehurst $2,989,999

5 bed / 4/2 bath Pamela O’Hara 910-315-3093 Emily Hewson 910-315-3324

2310 Midland Road, Pinehurst $2,250,000

Original schoolhouse on 1 st fairway of #2 golf course. Totally renovated. Enclave blends tradition with luxury amenities. Garage apartment.

B H HS PRG .CO M

MLS 182223

$925,000

Stunning contemporary on Pinehurst #2 — open interior and spectacular views.

Kay Beran 910-315-3322

MLS 200399

3 bed / 3 bath

130 S Bracken Fern Lane, Southern Pines

$347,500

Stunning home in the Arboretum. Main level living with guest rooms upstairs. Natural gas, hardwood on main level, office with french doors, fenced in yard. Open floor plan.

3 bed / 3 bath

Debbie Darby 910-783-5193

11 Oxton Circle, Pinehurst $899,000

4 bed / 6.5 bath Patricia Wright 910-691-3224 Kay Beran 910-315-3322

70 S Surry Circle, Pinehurst $250,000

Great Pinehurst location! Close to golf courses. Three bedroom, two bath all-brick single story home with Carolina Room, fireplace, a large eat-in kitchen, and twocar garage.

MLS 200870

Gorgeous Country French home in Pinewild Country Club – spectacular landscaping. MLS 195762

95 Forest Lane, Pinehurst $343,500

4 bed / 3 bath

Debbie Darby 910-783-5193

Lovely brick Pinehurst home. One level with split floor plan. All wood floors, gas fireplace, new kitchen/appliances. Tankless water heater. Fenced landscaped yard.

1220 Aiken Road, Vass $825,000 3 bed / 3 bath

Pamela O’Hara 910-315-3093

285 Olmstead Blvd, 201 #9, Pinehurst $169,000 Marie O’Brien 910-528-5669

Great office space located in Pinehurst. Close to Moore Regional Hospital. Offers reception area, +5 private offices, kitchen facilities, private restroom. Elevator available.

“Monreve Farm” — Beautiful equestrian property adjacent to the Walthour-Moss Foundation. Eight-stall Morton barn, two run-in sheds, 10 paddocks, and a riding ring.

MLS 198891

35 Woodland Cir, Foxfire $309,900

3 bed / 2.5 bath Frank Sessoms 910-639-3099

MLS 200594

MLS 200975

Marie O’Brien 910-528-5669

Pamela O’Hara 910-315-3093

MLS 192774

15 Inverrary Court, Fairwoods on 7

3 bed / 2 bath

4 bed / 4 bath

The chance of a lifetime to own a special property. 16.74 prime acres with four houses only minutes to Pinehurst Village. R-210 allows many uses from horse farm to golf course.

Brick and vinyl, built in 2006. 2567 sq ft three bedroom, 2/1 bath home with an office, Carolina room, oversized twocar garage, and wonderful landscaping in beautiful Foxfire Village East.

MLS 200429

Forest Creek Golf Course Kay Beran 910-315-3322

Golf front lots in Forest Creek Golf Club — spectacular sites.

MLS 200118

Pinehurst Office • 42 Chinquapin Road, Pinehurst, NC 28374 • 910 -295 -5504 | Southern Pines Office • 167 Beverly Lane, Southern Pines, NC 28387 • 910-692-2635 ©2020 BHH Affiliates, LLC. An independently operated subsidiary of HomeServices of America, Inc., a Berkshire Hathaway affiliate, and a franchisee of BHH Affiliates, LLC.

Always a Step Ahead

Introducing Introducingaabrand brandnew newCaviness Caviness a brand new Caviness Land development in NC. LandIntroducing development inAberdeen, Aberdeen, NC. Land development in Aberdeen, NC.

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Pre-Selling Now! Winds Way Farm Way Farm Winds Way Farm Set among beautifully beautifully manicured Set manicuredgrounds groundswith withaaspectacular spectacularwooded wooded

Set among grounds with a spectacular wooded backdrop. upon lots access totoan backdrop. Each beautifully home is set setmanicured upon ½ ½ acres acres lotswith with access animmaculately immaculately backdrop. Each home isopen-air set uponcovered ½ acresBBQ lotsarea. with access to an plans immaculately presented are presented pool and open-air coveredBBQ area.Open Openfloor floorplans are presented pool and open-air covered BBQ area. Open floor plans are generously proportioned proportioned and generously and flow flow effortlessly effortlesslythroughout throughoutfrom fromthe theliving living generously proportioned and flow effortlessly throughout from the living room through can enjoy the stunning room private covered patio where you can enjoy the stunning roomthrough throughtotoyour yourprivate privatecovered coveredpatio patiowhere whereyou you can enjoy the stunning views. Gourmet with double oven and soft-touch cabinetry are just a aa views. Gourmet kitchens with double oven and soft-touch cabinetry are just views. Gourmet kitchens with double oven and soft-touch cabinetry are just couple with these homes. These couple features that come asasstandard standard with these homes. These coupleofofupgraded upgradedfeatures featuresthat thatcome comeas standard with these homes. These brand and brand provide all the elements for relaxing, comfortable, and brandnew newhomes homesprovide provideall allthe theelements elementsfor forrelaxing, relaxing,comfortable, comfortable, and easy-care way ofof life. easy-careliving. living.See Seeour ourfloorplans floorplansand anddiscover discoveraanew anew new way of life. easy-care See our floorplans and discover way life.

Serving Moore County and Surrounding Areas! 910.684.8674 | 120 N ASHE ST | SOUTHERN PINES, NC 28387

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MLS 199829 121 NEWINGTON WAY Aberdeen, NC • $250,000

MLS 200327 599 FOOTHILLS STREET Aberdeen, NC • $295,000

MLS 199659 581 FOOTHILLS STREET Aberdeen, NC • $302,500

MLS 199863 443 PALISADES DRIVET Aberdeen, NC • $305,000

MLS 199657 575 FOOTHILLS STREET Aberdeen, NC • $306,500

MLS 199422 716 WINDS WAY Aberdeen, NC • $309,500

MLS 199892 437 PALISADES DRIVE Aberdeen, NC • $310,500

MLS 199419 707 WINDS WAY Aberdeen, NC • $318,000

MLS / 199420 712 WINDS WAY Aberdeen, NC • $318,500

MLS 200324 711 WINDS WAY Aberdeen, NC • 199421

MLS 199474 938 WINDS WAY Aberdeen, NC • $322,500

MLS 199382 349 R SANDS ROAD Aberdeen, NC • $160,000

Buy, Sell or Rent through us - we do it all! 910.684.8674 | 120 N ASHE ST | SOUTHERN PINES, NC 28387

Moments like these are missed but not gone forever...

Our Our OurLife Life LifePlan Plan PlanCommunity Community Community has has hasserved served servedolder older olderadults adults adultssince since since1964, 1964, 1964, As restrictions are loosened in North Carolina, please know that we were early to put measures the racially bifurproviding providing providing exceptional exceptional Independent Independent Living, Living, Living, in place to protect our Penick Village family and that meansexceptional we will also beIndependent the last to loosen. cated world where I

Our Life Plan Community grew up.

has served adults since 1964, Home Home HomeCare, Care, Care,Assisted Assisted Assisted Living Living Living &older &&Plan Skilled Skilled Skilled Nursing. Nursing. Nursing. Our Our Our Our Our Life Life Life Life Life Life Plan Plan Plan Plan Plan Community Community Community Community Community Community As our community remains closed to visitors, we will continue to utilize alternative means providing exceptional Independent Living, has has has has has has has served served served served served served served served older older older older older older adults adults adults adults adults adults since since since since since since 1964, 1964, 1964, 1964, 1964, to facilitate communication with loved ones. We find ways to be innovative in providing providing providing providing providing providing providing exceptional exceptional exceptional exceptional exceptional exceptional exceptional exceptional Independent Independent Independent Independent Independent Independent Independent Independent Independent Living, Living, Living, Living, Living, Home Care, Assisted Living Skilled Nursing. providing services to and engaging with our residents daily. Our Our Life Life&Plan Plan Community Community has has has served served served& older older adults adultsNursing. since since 1964, 1964, Home Home Home Home Home Home Home Care, Care, Care, Care, Care, Care, Care, Assisted Assisted Assisted Assisted Assisted Assisted Assisted Assisted Living Living Living Living Living & & & & &Skilled Skilled Skilled Skilled Skilled Skilled Skilled Skilled Skilled Nursing. Nursing. Nursing. Nursing. Nursing. providing providing providingexceptional exceptional exceptional Independent Independent IndependentLiving, Living,

Thank you for your patience, support andHome prayers during thisLiving time. && Skilled Home HomeCare, Care, Care, Assisted Assisted Assisted Living Skilled Skilled Nursing. Nursing. We look forward to seeing everyone, whenever that time may arrive!

PineStraw

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Our Life Plan Community Our Our OurLife Life Life Plan Plan PlanCommunity Community Community

SIMPLE LIFE

In the Sweet By and By Until then, the dance of life continues

By Jim Dodson

The Great Pandemic Summer of

2020 is drawing to a close.

How have you coped? As you read this, I am coping by being thigh-deep in a tumbling stream at the base of Mount Mitchell, deep in a national forest, amusing a few sleepy rainbow trout with my rusty fly-casting skills. If ever there was a summer to get away to the wild, this is it. For me, fly fishing has long provided relaxation and unexpected answers to questions that seem to resist easy answers. Twenty-five summers ago, during an unexpected family crisis, my daughter Maggie and I spent a glorious summer camping and flyfishing our way across America. Maggie was 7 years old. Our old dog Amos was pushing 13. It was a summer to remember chasing trout in some of the West’s most iconic rivers. This summer, Maggie and her fiancé, Nate, and their two rescued pups are retracing portions of our route through the West as they head for new jobs in Los Angeles, camping and hiking. The other night, Maggie phoned from the banks of Shoshone River in Wyoming just to hear her old man rhapsodize about the summer night we spent camped by the swift blue river beneath a quilt of glittering stars. Such nights stay with you. Throughout this devastating pandemic and summer of social discontent, many of us have faithfully sheltered in place and adopted wearing face coverings in public. We have placed our trust in science, avoided crowds, dutifully washed hands and learned new phrases like “safe distancing” and “community spread.” We’ve also marveled at the human capacity for finding meaning, change and creativity in the midst of a crisis our children will probably tell their grandchildren about in tones of wonder and solemnity, and maybe even gratitude. Change and history move in halting steps, stumbling before we who are living through them finally come to terms with the truth. To many in America, a racial awakening in the midst of a worldwide pandemic either seems like a cosmic piling on or a clear message from

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

the universe that it’s time for America to face up to the sins of our collective past and finally take steps to end systemic racism, a reckoning long overdue. One man’s awakening, I suppose, is another’s End of Days. For what it’s worth, a different metric on this time of trials comes from leading astrologers who point out that for the first time in thousands of years, half a dozen planets are simultaneously in retrograde and the rare success of three consecutive eclipses, two lunar, one solar, combined with the planet Pluto — the diminutive power broker of darkness and chaos — passing through America’s chart in almost the exact location at the time of our country’s founding, indicates a period of feeling “stuck” in a protracted time of intense disruption and bitter division. As the planets move forward, or so we are told, we may experience a vast spiritual awakening, possibly even a new age of enlightenment springing from lessons of the past. Whether the problem lies in our stars or ourselves remains an open question. In the meantime, lacking the gift of celestial prophecy, I stand in tumbling waters thinking how this year of chaos and change reminds me of valuable lessons learned early in life in the racially bifurcated world where I grew up. My father was a newspaperman with a poet’s heart who lost his dream in 1958 when his partner cleaned out the operating funds of their thriving weekly newspaper in coastal Mississippi, disappearing without a trace. One day later, his only sister died in a car wreck on an icy road outside Washington, D.C., and my mother suffered her second late-term miscarriage in three years. We left Mississippi with everything we owned in a Pontiac Star Chief and drove all night to Wilmington, where my dad worked for several months at the Star News before moving on to a better job in South Carolina. I started first grade in Florence, a pretty Southern town of old houses and shady streets. I was the only kid in my class who could read chapter books and had perfect attendance at school. At year’s PineStraw

SIMPLE LIFE

end, Miss Patillo presented me with a small brass pin shaped like an open book with Perfect Attendance inscribed on its pages. I still have the pin. For my parents, however — something I learned many years later — Florence was like a silent ordeal, a twilight world between the unyielding values of the Old South and a brave new world of tomorrow. The summer before second grade, a lovely African-American woman named Miss Jesse came to help my mother get back on her feet. She was said to be a natural healer and a woman who knew how to take care of families like ours. My mother held strong views about race and resisted the notion of having a maid like other women in town. But her health was dangerously frail. So Miss Jesse came. It is no longer the fashion to speak of having someone like Miss Jesse in your privileged white life. I get that. But for one summer this kind woman took me everywhere with her to keep me out from under my mother’s feet — to the public library, to the Piggly Wiggly, to and from vacation Bible school at the Lutheran Church. I adored riding around town with Miss Jesse. The radio of her blue Dodge Dart was always tuned to a Southern gospel station. I can almost hear her singing “In the Sweet By and By” and “I’ll Fly Away.” I sang along, too. She and my mom quickly became friends. Among other things, Miss Jesse introduced my mother-a former Maryland beauty queen-to flower gardening and turned her into quite a respectable Southern cook. Her beauty and vitality returned. One evening while the two of them were cooking supper, a lively

gospel tune came on the transistor radio and Miss Jesse invited me to hop on her strong feet, sashaying us both around the kitchen floor. She called this “feet dancing.” One night that autumn of 1959, my father’s boss came to supper. He was a thin old man with loose change jingling in his pants pockets. Miss Jesse was cooking supper. The adults were all standing in the kitchen talking about “protests” that were suddenly happening across the Deep South. My father’s boss jingled his change and declared, “Fortunately, we don’t have that kind of trouble around here, do we Jesse? That’s because we have good nigras round these parts.” “Jimmy,” my mother chimed instantly, “could you come with me, please?” I was barely into the hallway when she took hold of my ear and perp-walked me to the bathroom, leading me in and shutting the door. Over my protest, she ordered me to sit and hush up. As I watched, she calmly opened a new bar of Ivory soap and held it inches from my face. “If I ever hear that word come out of your mouth,” she said, restraining her Germanic fury, “you’ll be sitting on this toilet with this new bar of soap in your mouth for an hour. Is that clear?” I knew exactly the word she meant. She explained that “nigra” was the way “supposedly educated white people in the South” said the word my brother and I were forbidden to ever use, though I heard it often used in those days. For what it’s worth, I can’t stomach the smell of Ivory soap to this day.

Lin gets Results!

GET TO KNOW COTSWOLD A true “Lock-it and Leave-it Community off Linden Rd ” • Private Community Pool for personal and area gatherings • HOA for maintenance of yard and shrubs, gutter cleaning, outside irrigation and well maintenance, common areas and pool maintenance • All brick, custom homes with high ceilings, hardwood floors and deep molding • Less than 2 miles from the Historic Village of Pinehurst

ENERGY. EXPERIENCE. EFFORT. 20

PineStraw

8 STANTON CIRCLE 4BD, 3BA, FULL BASEMENT OFFERED AT $475,000

2 TEWKESBURY CT 4BD, 2BA OFFERED AT $350,000

5 SODBURY CT 3BD, 2 1/2BA OFFERED AT $315,000

Lin Hutaff’s PineHurst reaLty GrouP Village of Pinehurst | 910.528.6427 |linhutaff@pinehurst.net The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

PineStraw

FOR THE LOVE OF TENNIS

Framer’s Cottage

162 NW Broad Street • Downtown Southern Pines • 910.246.2002 22

PineStraw

SIMPLE LIFE

Weeks later, shockingly, Miss Jesse went into the hospital and we went to visit her in its “colored wing.” She passed a few days later. We went to her funeral service at the little brick church she attended. The place was full of flowers and people, including a few white women who’d benefited from Miss Jesse’s healing presence. The music was pure gospel. My mother cried. I remember meeting Miss Jesse’s daughter, her pride and joy whom she called “Babygirl,” an art teacher from Atlanta. A few weeks later, my dad took a new job and we finally moved home to Greensboro, where I started mid-way through the second grade. Just days after my brother and I got our new library cards, our history-mad father mysteriously turned up at school to spring us for the afternoon. He drove us downtown to stand near the “colored” entrance of the Center Theater and watch as four brave students from A&T attempted to integrate the Woolworth’s lunch counter across Elm Street. “Boys,” he said to us. “This isn’t just going to change life in Greensboro. It’s going to change America.” That event is considered a watershed moment of the nonviolent Civil Rights Movement of America. It was my 7th birthday, February 2, 1960. Sixty years later, as statues of Confederate generals and segregationists topple and sweeping racial reckoning has finally commenced, I’ve been playing a lot of Southern gospel in my car, thinking about Miss Jesse and the first music I ever learned to sing. Embarrassing to admit, I’m having trouble remembering her last name. To me she was always Miss Jesse. As I cast after slumbering trout in a gorgeous mountain stream, far away from that strained and vanishing South, I find myself humming “In the Sweet By and By” and wishing I could properly thank Miss Jesse for saving my mother’s life and unexpectedly shaping mine. Maybe someday, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to feet dance with her again. And learn her whole name. PS Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot. com. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Hiatt’s Vision is a Guiding Compass One Man’s Vision in 1952 is now one of the Sandhills’ largest networks of specialty & primary care providers. Dr. Joseph Spurgeon Hiatt, Jr. founded Pinehurst Medical Clinic with one idea in mind, “to give the people of Moore County and surrounding communities the best medical treatment available, anywhere.” Celebrating 68 years, Pinehurst Medical Clinic is an established healthcare leader in Moore County and continues to expand upon Dr. Hiatt’s vision. Attracting and retaining some of the regions most talented physicians, PMC is committed to providing the highest quality care to the Sandhills and the patients they serve. Hiatt’s vision remains the compass for Pinehurst Medical Clinic currently, consisting of over 100 primary and specialty care providers, approximately 650 employees and 18 locations. www.pinehurstmedical.com • 910.295.5511

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ADVANTAGE

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G O O D NAT U R E D

Secrets from the Blue Zones Get a running start on a long life

By K aren Frye

Living to a ripe

old age, with clarity of mind and freedom of movement, is what many of the people who live in areas of the world called the “Blue Zones” enjoy. About 15 years ago, their lifestyles were studied by a group of doctors and researchers, with the help of National Geographic, to shed light on the amazing good health and longevity of folks living in these specific areas.

The Blue Zone areas are Sardinia, Italy; the island of Okinawa; Ikaria, Greece; Costa Rica’s Nicoya Peninsula; and Loma Linda, California, home to a large community of Seventh Day Adventists. The people living in these areas live well into their 90s and beyond. They are active, moving about freely throughout their community, often choosing walking over driving a vehicle. Most of them do not rely on modern day conveniences. They have gardens and eat a healthy diet. They socialize regularly with family and friends and have a sense of purpose and responsibility for their family, community and the following generations. They are healthy and energetic. The diets vary, but upward of 90 percent are plant-based foods — fruits, vegetables, seeds, nuts, beans and whole grains. They do eat some meat and fish, but only small amounts several times a week. With modernization arriving to many of the areas in the ’70s, members of the younger generations began following a fast food, processed food, standard American diet. The consequences were alarming. The rate of diabetes escalated, and the life expectancy dropped. The older folks remained vigilant in their way of living, and their health stayed robust. In all five Blue Zones, beans are a staple of the diet. Inexpensive, versatile and easy to prepare, they contain adequate amounts of protein, fiber and antioxidants. Blue Zone diets use the same 20 or so ingredients consistently. Less variety may keep them from overeating

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and help keep the immune system strong. Cruciferous vegetables such as broccoli, cabbage and cauliflower are consumed regularly, protecting the heart and reducing risks of cancer. They use olive oil to finish off dishes instead of heating it to sauté or fry. Add olive oil after cooking for the greatest benefit, by drizzling it over veggies and salads, soups, stews and breads. Fiber is also a very important part of any diet. Seeds, nuts, whole grains and beans contain adequate amounts. Reduce the consumption of refined sugar. Enjoy a little red wine with meals. Red wine contains high amounts of antioxidants. Remember, it’s not only what you eat for longevity, but how you eat. Dining with friends and family and expressing gratitude are important parts of the longevity lifestyle. Here’s a recipe from Ikaria, Greece, perfect for the summer.

Black-Eyed Pea Salad with Mint and Onions

1 pound dried black-eyed peas, or four 15-ounce cans, drained 3 green onions, tops removed and coarsely chopped 1 carrot, peeled and chopped 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar 1 cup chopped mint 1/2 red onion, chopped 1 cup chopped greens (spinach or baby kale) 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil Salt and pepper Fresh dill for garnish If using dried beans, place in pot with water. Bring to boil; reduce to simmer; cover with lid, tilting the lid so some of the steam can escape. Cook for an hour, or until done. While the peas are still hot, mix all remaining ingredients together in a large bowl, and toss to combine. Add salt and pepper to taste. (If using canned beans, just drain, rinse and heat on a stove on medium heat. Mix with all other ingredients until warmed through, 5-6 minutes.) Garnish with fresh dill if you like. Serve hot or cold. Enjoy! PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio. PineStraw

54 holes of original Donald Ross work

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Welcoming Southern Pines Golf Club to the Pine Needles and Mid Pines family. 290 Country Club Circle • Southern Pines, NC 28387 • (910) 692-6551 • southernpinesgolfclub1906.com

THE OMNIVOROUS READER

Portrait of “Little Thunder” Sue Monk Kidd imagines the wife of Jesus

By D.G. Martin

“It could have happened.”

My friend was talking about The Book of Longings, the latest novel from Sue Monk Kidd, the bestselling author of The Secret Life of Bees that sold over 8 million copies and appeared on The New York Times bestseller list for 2 1/2 years. The central character and narrator of Kidd’s new book is Ana, who opens the story with the following, “I am Ana. I was the wife of Jesus ben Joseph of Nazareth. I called him Beloved and he, laughing, called me Little Thunder.” It could have happened, just as my friend asserted, but it is a stretch to believe Jesus was married. No, it would be many stretches, and Kidd, the expert storyteller, uses each one to build a rich, complex, and almost believable tale of a woman who became Jesus’ wife. Although the book is set in the Middle East of 2,000 years ago, the coming together of Jesus and Ana was framed in North Carolina, where Kidd wrote her book. That came as a complete surprise to me. I knew Kidd had deep roots in Sylvester, the town in Georgia where she grew up. Until I learned about her new book, I did not know that she and her husband moved to Chapel Hill a couple of years ago, a place they chose, never having seen, after reading articles about best places to live in America. Her move to our state solidifies North Carolina’s claim to be a home and refuge for the nation’s best writers. The book’s story begins in the year 16 A.D. Ana is the teenage daughter of the head scribe of Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great, and, subject to the Roman overlords, the ruler of Galilee. We know this Herod Antipas as the King Herod from the Bible’s account of his ordering the execution of John the Baptist. Ana and her mother, father, aunt and servants live near Antipas’ palace in Sepphoris, a thriving city. Ana’s cousin and adopted brother, Judas, has left home to join with Zealots fighting against the Roman occupation. Near Sepphoris is the poor village of Nazareth, where Jesus lives in a less-than-modest hovel with his widowed mother, Mary, and his siblings. Unlike most other young women of the times, Ana is well-educated and writes stories of women heroes of the Bible. Although she cherishes her unmarried status, her parents arrange for her betrothal to an elderly, unattractive but wealthy man. She is distraught. When he dies before the wedding, she is relieved. Then her parents push

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

her to become Antipas’ concubine, a position that would provide security for her and her parents. Meanwhile, she has encountered the young Jesus, who walks each day from Nazareth to Sepphoris to work on a massive construction project for Antipas. The spark is immediate. She appreciates his deep connection to God, or as Jesus calls him when he prays, Abba or Father. He appreciates her education and aspirations to write and promote the place of women. Their marriage transforms her privileged life into hand-to-mouth poverty in the crowded house in Nazareth, where Ana does not get the warmest of welcomes from Jesus’ brothers and their spouses. Kidd describes the smells and the constant chores of cooking, milking, feeding, sewing, petty jealousies and resentments that fill the lives of the struggling poor family. Jesus is often gone for long periods to work on projects in other parts of Galilee, sometimes even going as far as the Sea of Galilee to work with fishermen. Jesus’ search for God leads him to the preaching of John the Baptist. He becomes a follower, and when John is arrested by Antipas, Jesus becomes a leader, leaving Ana alone with his family in Nazareth. When Ana offends Antipas, she becomes another of his targets. For safety, Ana’s aunt takes her to the great library city of Alexandria in Egypt, where she encounters another set of conflicts and challenges. Ana waits and waits for a message from Jesus telling her to return. The message finally comes in the form of a letter from Judas, who urges her to hurry. She arrives in Bethany near Jerusalem just in time for a Passover dinner with Mary, Martha, Lazarus and Jesus, but Jesus is not there. He is on trial in Jerusalem. The next day Ana hurries to Jerusalem just in time to watch as Jesus carries the cross toward the execution site. He collapses. Ana rushes to comfort him and say goodbye. Kidd reconstructs the crucifixion experience in a way more horrible and poignant than any of the four Gospels. PineStraw

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OMNIVOROUS READER

She also offers a surprising explanation of why Judas betrayed Jesus. Many deeply faithful religious people have never understood Judas’ motivation. Was it simply for the 30 pieces of silver? In Kidd’s version, it is not for the coins, but rather his belief that Jesus’ death at the hands of the Romans would ignite a rebellion against those occupiers, a goal Judas and his fellow Zealots shared, but Jesus rejected, working instead to prepare for the coming Kingdom of God. “One of the biggest questions in the Christian crucifixion story is why Judas betrayed Jesus,” Kidd says. “I wanted to give him a motivation for his betrayal, to humanize him, too, and cause our thoughts about him to be less black-and-white and more complex. In my imagined version, Judas is Ana’s adopted brother who was orphaned when his father was crucified and his mother sold into slavery after a failed Jewish revolt against the Romans, a historically real insurrection by the Jews of Sepphoris in 4 BCE. I portray Judas as a child consumed with hatred for Rome, as a radical Zealot, and as an ardent disciple who believes Jesus is the Messiah destined to deliver them from Rome. His betrayal of Jesus is a piece of intricate and earnest political theater. It speaks, I think, to the danger of hyper-idealism, how a person overly possessed by a principle can begin to justify almost anything for his cause.” That Ana’s story continues after Jesus’ death emphasizes Kidd’s and Ana’s belief that excluding and minimizing the role of women in the days of Jesus and today has been a tragic mistake. For many years, Kidd has been interested in feminist theology and has written “about silenced and marginalized women and the missing feminine within religion. I can only speculate that the premise for the novel bloomed out of that exploration.” Whether Kidd’s readers are true believers or skeptical inquirers, whether they are strong supporters of an expanded role for women in religious organizations or resisters of change, The Book of Longings will be an enriching and challenging read. PS D.G. Martin hosts North Carolina Bookwatch Sunday at 3:30 p.m. and Tuesday at 5 p.m. on UNC-TV. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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BOOKSHELF

August Books FICTION

NONFICTION

The Boy in the Field, by Margot Livesey

The New York Times bestselling author of The Flight of Gemma Hardy delivers a novel written with with the deceptive simplicity and power of a fable. One September afternoon in 1999, teenagers Matthew, Zoe and Duncan Lang are walking home from school when they discover a boy lying in a field, bloody and unconscious. Thanks to their intervention, the boy’s life is saved. In the aftermath, all three siblings are irrevocably changed.

Squeeze Me, by Carl Hiaasen

Brightening even the darkest of days, Squeeze Me is pure, unadulterated Hiaasen. Irreverent, ingenious and highly entertaining, it captures the absurdity of our times. A prominent high society dowager suddenly vanishes during a swank gala, and is later found dead. She was an ardent fan of the Winter White House resident just down the road, and a founding member of the POTUSSIES, a group of women dedicated to supporting their president, who immediately declares that Kiki was the victim of rampaging immigrant hordes, which is far from the truth.

Migrations, by Charlotte McConaghy

In an effort to find the last flock of Arctic terns, a young Irish woman with a tragic past finagles her way onto a fishing boat in Greenland to follow their migratory path. This is a staggering tale of hardship, loss, danger, adventure and, most of all, it is a wake-up call that the humans of this world need to answer.

The Wright Sister, by Patty Dann

An epistolary novel of historical fiction, The Wright Sister imagines the life of Katharine Wright and her relationship with her famous brothers, Wilbur and Orville Wright. After Wilbur passed away, Katharine lived with and took care of her increasingly reclusive brother Orville, who often turned to his more confident and supportive sister to help him through fame and fortune. When Katharine became engaged to their mutual friend Harry Haskell, Orville felt abandoned and betrayed.

The Orphan Collector, by Ellen Marie Wiseman

From the internationally bestselling author of What She Left Behind comes a gripping and powerful tale of upheaval: a heartbreaking saga of resilience and hope perfect for fans of Beatriz Williams and Kristin Hannah, set in Philadelphia during the 1918 Spanish Flu outbreak, the deadly pandemic that infected one-third of the world’s population.

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The Smallest Lights in the Universe,

by Sara Seager In this luminous memoir, an MIT astrophysicist must reinvent herself in the wake of tragedy and discovers the power of connection on this planet, even as she searches our galaxy for another Earth. With the unexpected death of Seager’s husband, the purpose of her own life becomes hard for her to see. Suddenly, at 40, she is a widow and the single mother of two young boys. For the first time, she feels alone in the universe. Seager takes solace in the alien beauty of exoplanets and the technical challenges of exploration. She also discovers earthbound connections that feel every bit as wondrous.

Life of a Klansman: A Family History in White Supremacy, by Edward Ball

A descendant of a carpenter in Louisiana who took up the cause of fanatical racism during the years after the Civil War, Ball reconstructs the story of his great-great-grandfather, who had a career in white terror of notable and bloody completeness: massacres, night riding, masked marches, street rampages. It was all part of a tireless effort that he and other Klansmen made to restore white power when it was threatened by the emancipation of 4 million enslaved people. Ball seeks out descendants of African Americans who were once victimized by “our Klansman” and his comrades, and shares their stories.

Livewired: The Inside Story of the EverChanging Brain, by David Eagleman

The magic of the brain is not found in its parts, but in the way those parts constantly reweave themselves in an electric, living fabric. With his hallmark clarity and enthusiasm, the renowned neuroscientist reveals the myriad ways the brain absorbs experience: developing, redeploying, organizing, and arranging the data it receives from the body’s own absorption of external stimuli, enabling us to gain the skills, facilities and practices that make us who we are.

Reaganland: America's Right Turn 19761980, by Rick Perlstein

From the bestselling author of Nixonland and The Invisible Bridge comes the dramatic conclusion of how conservatism took control of American political power. Backed by a reenergized conservative Republican base, Reagan ran on the campaign slogan “Make America Great Again” — and prevailed. Reaganland is the story of how that happened, tracing conservatives’ strategies to gain power and explaining why they endure four decades later. PineStraw

BOOKSHELF

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Summer Song, by Kevin Henkes

COMBINING NEW TRADITIONS & CLASSIC CUISINE

The song of summer is loud sprinklers and lawn mowers and thunder, and also quiet dragonflies and lightning bugs and foggy mornings. The song of summer is long, long days until summer is bored and ready for a new song. The latest in Henkes’ wonderful season series, Summer Song will have young readers running through sprinklers in their minds long after the orange oak leaves begin to fall. (Ages 3-6.)

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by T. L. McBeth Randy is a beautiful horse. Everyone says so. With his flowing mane, long powerful legs, culinary expertise and stunning visage, Randy knows he is practically perfect — until one day he sees his reflection and begins to doubt what he is certain is the truth. This hilarious adventure in self-confidence and believing in yourself is perfect for story time or together time and is sure to have young readers begging: Again! Again! Randy is a real hero for our time. (Ages 4-7.)

Soaked, by Abi Cushman

Ugh, days and days and days of rain are just TOO MUCH, so Bear and friends head into the cave. Once inside, moose becomes too much when he begins to juggle hula hoops in an attempt to change the mood of the crew. Readers who adore Ryan Higgins’ 1 Grumpy Bruce will adore this grumpy rain-soaked crew, who finally come around to some serious joviality. (Ages 3-6.)

I Got the School Spirit, by Connie Schofield-Morrison A new school year, whether virtual or in person, just begs for a rush of school spirit! Fresh kicks, new friends, new backpacks, and fun energetic teachers are amazing opportunities just filled with discovery and delight in this new back-to-school book that celebrates a spirit of discovery and joy. (Ages 5-7.) PS Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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HOMETOWN

The Bellhop

Summer days that weren’t so lazy By Bill Fields

Mid Pines

POSTCARD COURTESY OF JOHN GESSNER

Club — known now as Mid Pines Inn and Golf Club — wasn’t open during the summer for its first halfcentury of operation. But when I consider this time of year, Mid Pines is always in my mind.

That’s because, by the mid-1970s, Mid Pines had a new owner and was open year-round. For a golf-loving local teenager (me) who needed a summer job, this was a wonderful development. Some of the club’s longtime staff still migrated north that time of year, to Nantucket, Fire Island or other spots, which created some positions between spring and fall. I worked a handful of summers at Mid Pines, as a cart attendant during high school and two stints as a bellman while in college. I earned money for gas, golf balls, green fees (when I wasn’t playing at Mid Pines) and expenses going to UNC-Chapel Hill. To be able to get an employee discount on All-Star gloves, Pickering shirts and other pro shop items seemed almost better than a paycheck. Making me the part-time cart guy was Mid Pines head professional Jim Boros’ generous way of helping along my golf game, for which I had more enthusiasm than skill, or certainly consistency. (I made six birdies at Mid Pines and shot 78.) The cart gig was just a couple of hours each evening, waiting for the later groups after the shop had closed. The fact that I could spend a lot of my time on the practice green when I wasn’t parking a cart or picking the range made it hardly seem like work. Unless the course was busy with conventioneers, I usually would have played before my shift. Most evenings, after I’d cleaned and plugged in all the carts, I would rush out to join assistant pros Barry and Lloyd Matey — brothers from Connecticut — and Gary Dixon to play as many holes as possible before dark. When I recall that era of persimmon, polyester and possibility, the golden-hour spins around that fine course with those friends simply having fun are hard to beat. There weren’t many teenage guests, but one girl whose name I can’t remember — and who probably tried to forget mine quickly, as you shall

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

see — was up from Georgia for a short golf trip with her parents. We chatted and ended up going on a date, which took an embarrassing turn when I got sick before I could pull the car over. She was very kind, but I doubt anyone was ever happier when a date was over. I had one more Mid Pines-related date, much more pleasant, in my bellhop days. Sue was a fellow UNC student, and I think she was impressed when I procured cheesecake from an unlocked kitchen refrigerator — the pastry chef was kind that way — to close the evening. I was judicious about enjoying those complimentary sweets but probably didn’t need to be given the workouts from carrying suitcases up two or three flights every day. Combined with some running that I had started to do, along with some softball action with the Mid Pines team, I was probably in the best shape of my life. I also mastered driving a stick shift by using the club’s small Toyota pickup to go to the Golfotel near the fourth hole, the rental houses along Midland Road, or when taking the deposit to First Union downtown. The bell shifts were either 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. or 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. You’d often work late then early, and one honeymooning couple was surprised when I helped them into their room late one night, then brought them room service eight hours later. I misplaced some keys recently, and it got me thinking about the time that caused the most anxiety during my bellman days. I had gone with my parents to Cherry Grove for a weekend. Back home in Southern Pines, I couldn’t find the ring containing all the Mid Pines master keys. I searched all over the house without success and was just about ready to call the Mid Pines manager, Dick Davenport, to break the news. Then I looked in one more location, a drawer I never used but apparently thought a burglar wouldn’t ransack in our absence. Not long after, I found my first gray hair and believe it was related to this folly. When Mom died last year, we had lunch after her service on the Mid Pines terrace. Everyone enjoyed the food and drink, but to me, the location meant everything. PS Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent. Bill can be reached at williamhfields@gmail.com. PineStraw

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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

THE KITCHEN GARDEN

Goo Gone Okra’s slime problem

By Jan Leitschuh

Okra has an image problem.

During the blast-furnace days of August, tropical okra thrives, throwing off pods with merry abandon, challenging growers to pick faster before the pods grow too long and tough. This finger-shaped Southern vegetable is rarely available in grocery stores or supermarkets. You’ll either have to search it out at local farm stands or farmers markets, or grow it yourself (no difficult task). So it isn’t necessarily a familiar vegetable for many transplants and town dwellers. Lots of people around here still have no idea what to do with the pinkie-sized, ridged green veggie, or how to cook it. And unless you grew up with it, you may not know it as culinary real estate on your dinner plate. Even for those who do know okra, there may lurk an underlying aversion: slime. Talk about okra, and a good number of people make that face, wrinkling their noses and calling its texture “slimy.” Okra is rich in a gel-like substance called mucilage. Turns out that slime is actually good for you. It's healing for an irritated gut, helps with digestion, and it can help lower cholesterol by binding to it. It puts the “gum” in gumbo. But if slime ain't your bag, nothing I say — such as okra is full of antioxidants and contains lectin, which is a type of protein that can inhibit the growth of human cancer cells — will turn you on. I get it. My husband is in your tribe. If you’re a Southern cook and grew up eating okra, well, do your thang, sugah. Pickled okra all the way! Stewed garden tomatoes, onions and okra. Chopped okra in soups and gumbos. Steam it till the slime squeaks. But if this veggie is less familiar to you and you’re determined to hold your nose and have your “when-in-Rome” encounter, perhaps you’d like to start with a slimeless way of getting to know this stellar hot-weather veggie. The most delicious cop-out, er, method of consumption, of course, is breaded and fried. Almost everyone likes fried okra, all crispy and salty fried crumbs with a vegetable patina. They are the French fries of the produce world. But if you don’t want to get this fussy/fried, let’s look at other methods of de-sliming this worthy Southern vegetable. High heat and longer cooking time will eliminate the slime factor (but also some of the health benefits). The simplest way to de-slime okra is to roast it. Rinse a batch, and dry thoroughly to prevent steam. Cut the stem ends off. Slice pods in half, toss in olive oil and layer in a baking dish or sheet pan. Add salt and pepper. Simple, and so good! Typically, we will toss other veggies in the mix as the garden allows: green pepper slices, halved cherry tomatoes, onions sliced into rings, zucchini

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

or yellow squash slices, green beans and more. Roast (bake) at 375 for 30-45 minutes. Remove from the oven and sprinkle on a little garlic powder. Add a slice of melon, a chicken breast or a burger and you have a meal. Or, turn your oven up higher, to 425. Prep a bag of a few teaspoons of garlic salt and shake pods vigorously. Let sit for 10 minutes to draw out moisture. Then add a cup of cornmeal and perhaps some Creole seasonings, shake again. Rest another 10 minutes. Remove pods onto a foil-lined sheet pan, and spritz with cooking spray. Bake for 15 minutes, turn pods, bake another 15. Oven-baked crunchy goodness, without frying. Grilling is another simple method of removing the goo. Lay the pods directly on the grill or skewer sideways for easier handling. Another option is to skewer with small onions and cherry tomatoes. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, perhaps some cayenne pepper. Depending on the heat of your grill, this will take 10-20 minutes. Remove and shake some Parmesan shreds on top. Serve with your grilled chicken. Searing in a cast iron pan is easy and will reduce slime. Just don't add so many that the crowding causes steaming — steaming increases slime. The acid of lemons or tomatoes can cut the consistency down a bit. Stewed tomatoes and okra are classic. Finally, selection can play a role in low slime — choose small, fresh pods. The smaller the pod, the less slime you’ll get. The largest pods can be fibrous and tough. You can store your farmers market finds in the fridge for a day or two, but too long or too much causes black spots to appear. Fellow garden enthusiast and neighbor Cameron Sadler of Southern Pines recently shared her okra enthusiasm, and I will pass it along:

Cameron Sadler’s Garlic-Roasted Okra Get a large sheet pan, and lay your okra on top of it. Okra should be sliced in half, long way. It’s good to use about one clove of garlic per cup of okra. Slice the garlic cloves into skinny slivers, or mash with crusher. Put garlic on top of the okra. I like to melt a stick of butter, then spoon it over the garlic and okra. Top with sprinkles of some really good salt, pick your favorite one. Stir it around halfway through cooking, so everything is coated. I roast mine for one hour at 350 degrees. PS Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of Sandhills Farm to Table. PineStraw

IN THE SPIRIT

The World of Del Maguey Mezcal so good, I forgot how to count

By Tony Cross

PHOTOGRAPH BY TONY CROSS

Back in June, I was invited to dinner

and a mezcal tasting by my good friends Bo and Suze. I first met the couple six years ago when I was tending bar. Bo and I bonded over our love of spirits and cocktails. He was one of the few people I knew at the time that shared the same knowledge and appreciation of everything from cocktail books, to bars across the U.S. and the great drinks they are known for. Needless to say, we’ve been pals ever since.

In the time we’ve known each other, we’ve shared lots of great drinks, many of which were imbibed in his bar, The Bo Zone. That’s right. He’s got quite the selection, and almost everything on hand for most cocktails across the board. Along with his invitation, he informed me he’d just received a huge delivery of spirits online. Yes, you can order spirits online and have them delivered to your home in North Carolina. I’m not going to name names, but do your research and thank me later. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

The majority of bottles from Bo’s latest shipment was mezcal from Del Maguey. Pronounced ma-gay, the single village Mezcal was founded in 1995 by Ron Cooper. Each bottle is made by individual family producers and, as the website states: “We are the first producer to credit each product after the village where our liquid is made. When you see our beautiful green bottles, you know it’s Del Maguey.” After the three of us enjoyed a fabulous dinner, we retired downstairs to The Bo Zone, where many beautiful green bottles awaited us. Here are a few of my favorites from that evening. I’m including the tasting notes that Bo provided, along with my recollections. I took pictures so I would remember just in case I time-traveled — I didn’t, but I’m glad I have the pictures to remind me. They were all excellent. The mezcals, I mean.

Del Maguey Tepextate ($115)

This was the first bottle we got into. What a great start. Bo’s notes: This glorious mezcal made from wild agave is the work of the same master mezcalero that produces the legendary Tobala (see below) bottled by Del Maguey. Tepextate expressions are rare, to say the least, and the extreme conditions that the plant grows in result in mezcals with concentrated, sweet tones of pure nectar.” My recollections: Honeysuckle. It was a touch sweet. The problem with all of these great mezcals is you want to have another taste — there’s so much going on that you need one more little sip to figure out what your palate is picking up. PineStraw

IN THE SPIRIT

Del Maguey San Pablo Ameyaltepec ($130)

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Number three on the list was this beauty from Puebla. For “mezcal” to be printed on a label, the agave has to originate from one of eight Mexican states. Puebla is now on that list. Bo’s notes: With this extraordinary bottling from master mezcalero Aurelio Gonzalez Tobnon, Del Maguey takes a big step forward with their first official bottling from the state of Puebla. The wild Papalote agaves for this spirit were harvested after 12 to 18 years maturing to full ripeness in the remote hillsides outside the city limits. Showing off an incredible range of complexity, the spirit resolves to an umami-like level of intensity and harmony with notes that hit on the tropical, floral, spicy, savory, salty, mineral and more. My recollections: We all agreed that the Ameyaltepec left a savory, umami flavor on the finish. What’s fun about tasting mezcal (or spirits or wine) is how there is no right or wrong. You taste what you taste. Over the years I’ve looked at tech sheets on spirits/ wine provided for staff by a distillery/winery and thinking, “Nope. That’s not what I taste at all.” This was one of the times where we all thought the notes hit the nail on the head. What a finish.

Del Maguey Madrecuixe ($110)

Bo’s notes: Not far off the banks of the Red Ant River in the dense, green village of San Luis del Rio in Oaxaca, Paciano Cruz Nolasco produces some of the most traditional mezcals on Earth. This rare bottling was made from the wild grown agave species of Madrecruixe. The opening notes are herbaceous and green in nature, then slowly, layers of tropical fruit are revealed spiked with earthy, edgy flavors that all seem to fit together thanks to the gorgeous texture and elegant medium body.” My recollections: I remember loving this. I also remember humming some Jimi Hendrix tune that was on in the background. Let’s go with: What tastes like bananas, silk, and something green for $300, Alex?

Del Maguey Tobala ($120)

When we finished tasting the recent acquisitions, Bo pulled two more off the shelf. I’ve had this one before, but it had been

so long I was forced to say, “Hey, man, lemme taste that one again” out loud. Notes from Del Maguey’s website: The Tobala maguey is found growing naturally only in the highest altitude canyons in the shade of oak trees, like truffles. It takes about eight piñas (agave hearts) to equal one piña from either of the more commonly propagated and cultivated magueys. Our Tobala has a sweet, fruity nose, with a mango and cinnamon taste and long, extra smooth finish. My recollections: “Ahh, man, that’s awesome!” At this point I was texting certain friends (who could care less) with pictures of the different, beautiful green bottles I was sipping from. My laugh was getting audibly louder and somewhat obnoxious, even in text form.

Del Maguey Pechuga ($200)

This is the showstopper. Bo had a little more than half a bottle of the Pechuga that had been on the shelf for five years — or did he say three? — and I was honored he would share this beautiful spirit with me. The first thing I learned about Pechuga involved the use of a chicken. Don’t be afraid. A whole skinless chicken breast (pechuga) is washed thoroughly to remove any grease, then hung by a string within the still for 24 hours while a second or third distillation happens. It’s not voodoo, it balances the native apples, plums, plantains, pineapples, almonds, and white rice that were already added to the 100 liters of mezcal. My recollections: I remember taking a few sips, smiling, saying something brainy, and then tuning out. I was transported immediately to Santa Catarina Minas. I’m a donkey. Kind of like Eeyore, but not melancholy; my mood was the equivalent of being in a commercial for unwanted facial hair where everyone is really, really, happy. Oh, and I was a cartoon. I’m in the middle of grinding piñas during mezcal production. And then I came to. Maybe I did time-travel a little. This mezcal is classy. PS Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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HOME BY DESIGN

Simply Irresistible Bitten by the design bug

By Cynthia Adams

Skimming the auto classifieds recently,

an ad set in a retro font called Courier New tripped the circuitry of my brain to a repressed memory. I froze, slopping my morning coffee as I recalled another ad entry from the past, under “Antique Cars” (with a nod to the Robert Palmer song).

SIMPLY IRRESISTIBLE. 1971 Volkswagen Convertible; electric blue. New paint, top and tires. Restored. Garaged. Winston-Salem. The price, a gulper, reflected its merit. My eyes raked over the thumbnail-sized picture. The unfurled soft top combined with its rounded wheelhouses made me nostalgic for the, well, freewheeling days of the counterculture era. Not to mention the near indestructible, classic four-cylinder air-cooled boxer engine — a tribute to German engineering for sure — strategically placed in the rear of the car. It was love at first bug bite! As I dialed, hand trembling with excitement, I feared it was already gone. The owner, who sounded elderly (ah, perfect!) said I could see it that afternoon. He had fielded several inquiries. If serious, “bring cash. Not many cars like this.” “She’s anything but typical,” I heard Palmer singing in my head. At that, I scurried off to withdraw the exact price (“nonnegotiable” the owner made clear), shivering with excitement. I had long wanted a vintage VW convertible — what our architect friend, Greg Koester, jokingly tagged “a bitch bucket.” This was the one! I hummed, “She’s a craze you’d endorse,” from Palmer’s song. Leaving the bank, I called my husband. “I need for you to take me to Winston- Salem in a couple of hours.” He agreed. On the drive over, he negotiated. “Don’t do it,” he pleaded. “Nonnegotiable,” I replied sassily, quoting the seller. Then I sang, “She’s a craze you’ll endorse, she’s a powerful force/You’re obliged to conform when there’s no other course.” He gripped the wheel. “Look, it’s an old car. I think it’s a bad idea.” Unfazed, I felt bubbling anticipation.

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

The owner’s hip bothered him, so he took a while ambling out when we arrived. He retreated to the garage, reappearing in the adorable blue car. Exiting stiffly, he patted the pristine white top. “Cute, huh?” He didn’t need to sell me, as I was silently singing, “She used to look good to me, but now I find her/Simply irresistible . . .” As my knees weakened at the sight of her, the seller mentioned he was a Shriner. “We take an oath; we cannot lie. Truth is, this car is worth a lot more than I’m asking.” While I didn’t buy that line wholesale, I was still thinking of Palmer’s lyrics: “It’s simply unavoidable/The trend is irreversible.” “Can you drive a straight?” he asked, interrupting my silent singing. “Wanna drive it?” I grinned. He handed me the key. I slowly circled the drive, singing, “She’s all mine, there’s no other way to go.” “Hasn’t been out much,” he observed when I rolled back, having never gone faster than a few miles per hour. “Needs the carbon blown out.” Of course, I thought, the old guy probably hadn’t driven it since 1975. With that, I shook his hand and we were off to handle the transaction. My husband, looking beyond perplexed, tried again. “You need to check it out,” he pleaded. “He’s a SHRINER,” I repeated. “He can’t lie.” My husband glowered. The bundle of cash, all hundreds, was exchanged, for the title. Back at the Shriner’s, I climbed into the car and cranked open the window. (A crank! How deliciously retro!) “See you in Greensboro!” I shouted gaily, fumbling to find first gear. It had been a while since I’d owned a straight shift. As I advanced uphill toward the road, the driver’s seat shot backward. It was all I could do to keep control of the car. My heart pumped. When the car crested and I headed downhill, the seat suddenly shot forward, giving the adrenaline rush of Disney’s ill-fated Rocket Rods. When I pulled over to examine how to lock the bucket seat into place, I discovered it was not anchored — nor could it be. PineStraw

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HOME BY DESIGN

It slid freely to and fro. (No big deal, I thought. Missing a screw.) On the open road, I tried to familiarize myself with the clutch while also trying to keep the seat from rolling back so far on hills that I couldn’t reach the accelerator. I held onto the door in order to steady my seat, like a captain on the high seas. But only a few miles down the Interstate, the car spluttered. My husband had long since left me behind, eager to leave me to my stupid fate. I slowed and pulled over. The car gasped and died. I noted the fuel gauge registered full. Not out of gas, then. Flooded? I managed to restart it after a while. (“She’s so fine, there’s no tellin’ where the money went,” I thought.) Somehow, I leapfrogged back to Greensboro, driving straight to our mechanic. He was outside the garage chatting to a customer. He grinned at the shiny blue Beetle, which choked as soon as I downshifted, hurtling me forward. I gasped and caught myself. “Sure is cute!” he greeted, as I rubbed my wrist, which had banged against the dashboard. Explaining my conundrum, I handed over the keys — as the mechanic kept repeating how great the car looked. Reluctantly, I called home to ask for a ride. Palmer’s voice grew louder in my head. “She’s unavoidable, I’m backed against the wall.” One of my husband’s finest qualities is his ability to repress the words, “I told you so.” The mechanic phoned later that week with a report. “It’s real unusual, this car,” he prefaced. The car had died because the fuel tank was all-but-empty. All the dashboard gauges worked BACKWARD. It was as if a mischievous chimp had restored the car. A Bonzo Beetle? “It’s not safe to drive,” he cautioned. The Shriner may not have outright lied, but he was quite capable of omissions. The bitch bucket held more surprises. The mechanic called again. “I have a buyer if you’re selling.” A customer had seen it on the lift and had to have it. “But the car isn’t safe!” The mechanic replied slowly, “But she wants it.” I spluttered. “It was overpriced to begin with and now there’s an additional garage bill.” The next night, someone as smitten with the car as I had been phoned. “Think it over,” I advised. “The car is simply irresistible.” She thought briefly and called back. “We’ll pay your price and the garage bill. Consider it sold.” The mechanic called too. “I could have sold that car several times.” The blue Beetle was the automotive equivalent of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. As soon as I had the title back from the DMV, the potential owner was eagerly waiting at the garage. I allowed myself a last look; “‘She’s a The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

HOME BY DESIGN

craze you’ll endorse, she’s a powerful force,’” I hummed sadly. A month later, the Beetle was in the Fresh Market parking lot, top down, sporting an adorable vanity plate: WEEKENDS. “Gosh, it’s cute,” I gushed in spite of everything. I had owned the car a few weeks and only driven it 35 miles. Now it became a sport to spot WEEKENDS around town. It presented as an electric flash of color, the top down, the driver’s blonde hair flying. A few months later, we spied WEEKENDS being loaded onto a tow truck. “Oh, no!” we both exclaimed passing it, then fell silent. I struggled to not look back; then, in a low voice, I sang. “‘She’s a natural law, and she leaves me in awe/She deserves the applause, I surrender because/She used to look good to me but now I find her/Simply irresistible.’” PS Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry.

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TRUE SOUTH

Girl Gigs

When the going gets tough

By Susan S. Kelly

Like you, I’ve missed a lot of things

during the spate of gloom we’ve been living though — truffle fries still sizzling from fry vat grease being at the top of my list. But of all the bust-out activities that we’ve been waiting for, the one I most look forward to is a girl gig. Book clubs, garden clubs, philanthropic lunches, girl gigs all. Meetings that require makeup, a date on a calendar, and lemon squares dusted with powdered sugar and/or marinated asparagus spears sprinkled with lemon zest — lemon is a common denominator in a lot of girl gigs, from iced tea to platter garnish.

But a real-deal girl gig is an out-of-town trip. The only requirement is that you can’t care. About what you eat, what you look like, what you say, when you go to bed, who you share a room with, how much you drink. Females who fit these simple criteria are girl’s girls. Others need not apply. I have a Yankee friend who was invited on a girl trip to Sea Island. The minute we’d loaded the last cooler and bag into the car into which we were all smushed, she said, “I’m so excited. I’ve never been on a girl’s trip. What do you do on one?” To which my unspoken reply was, Honey, if you got to ask, you got no bizness going. Such an utterance didn’t even warrant a Bless Your Heart. (This anecdote has nothing to do with aspersions against Yankees. Another Yankee friend comes on a girl trip that eight of us take to Linville every February. She flies in, bringing nothing

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

but a mink coat and four pairs of pajamas. When it’s time for the afternoon segue into cocktails, she takes a shower and changes into a fresh pair of pajamas. She flies back home wearing the same thing she flew down in.) I’ve been on girl trips of every conceivable stripe: boarding school reunion. Sorority reunion. Enlightenment and educational forays. Hiking trips. Card-playing trips. Et cetera. And plenty where we sit around looking awful, eating things that are terrible for us, and drinking too much. Just like we’ve been doing since March, come to think of it. A great thing about a girls’ trip is that girls do not have that weird hang-up about sleeping in the same bed together, so you can get a smaller house. What girls do have is food issues, which might be more trouble. Most girl trip meals begin with good intentions (clementines and hard-boiled egg breakfasts, salad lunches, vegetable dinners) and begin instantly deteriorating into daylong noshing on peanut M&Ms, pimento cheese, store-bought guac for hors d’oeuvres mid-afternoon, and whatever-else-is-lying-aroundon-the-counter for dinner. This process extends to alcohol as well, though people bring their own chardonnay because chardonnay drinkers are notoriously picky. It’s helpful to have an IT person along to manage the music and all the people you’re stalking on social media, and because everyone has numerous questions about their computer or cellphone, from font size to getting rid of determined error messages. In one of my girl trip groups, we come from so many different places — Charleston, Atlanta, Greenwich, Charlottesville, Wilmington, Winston-Salem — that the IT person kindly maintains a spreadsheet of what’s happened to whom (child married, grandchild born) so you’re able to consult it and get your facts straight ahead of time. Usually, the first night of a girl gig means dancing. (During Miley Cyrus’ various shenanigans, my gang went on YouTube for a twerking demo. We’re still working on Bruno Mars moves.) But PineStraw

Walter’s wife called and said this:

“ Walter, don’t forget your

swimsuit – water’s just fine!

”

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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

TRUE SOUTH

the real, authentic, non-educational, nonphysical girl gig is all about . . . talking. The exchange of vital information and useless trivia, registering of complaints, and confessions ranging from ludicrously hilarious to swear-to-God-secrecy are the soul, the essence, of girl trips. On one of my annual trips, everyone is tasked with bringing one piece of usable info, which is how you wind up returning home knowing nonessential but conceivably worthwhile minutiae such as smearing baby oil on your legs makes them look shiny, like a model’s, and that Sally Hansen makes a product that makes them look just the opposite: like you’re wearing stockings. You go home with a list of what everyone else is reading and streaming and cooking and buying and where they’re traveling. You find out what internet site to go to order those labels, those shoes, that shower gel, that fan that attaches to your cellphone. At girl gigs you find out that it’s OK not to know what garam marsala is or understand Brexit. It’s best to stay away from Brett Kavanaugh, but if you need an opinion or help with a decision, there is nothing like a dame. If you want someone to stare at you and say, “No, you cannot use blue sheets instead of white.” Or, in a slipcover conundrum: “I would never use a fabric I can write my name in.” There goes the brushed corduroy you were debating. Or, “The first thing that dates a house is chintz.” “No, it’s your lampshades.” “No, it’s chintz.” See? Never mind the talking about people, which might elicit gems along the lines of, “She looks like she grew up on a golf course,” or “Anyone over 40 with hair that long is bound to be tough.” All of which is why girl gigs are empirical evidence of a familiar nugget of wisdom, and possibly the best justification for their continued existence: if five people sit around a table and put all of their dilemmas and distresses, issues and idiosyncrasies, obsessions and obligations in a heap, would you swap yours for anyone else’s? Nope. Time to go home. PS Susan S. Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and a proud grandmother. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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Parenting Points The situation is fluid

By R enee Whitmore

I used to give out parenting advice. It was very popular, and free.

No video games. No fast food. No sugar. Early to bed, early to rise. Of course, this was before I had children. Our family of six — my husband, my 16- and 11-year-old boys, my two fur-bearing children and me — have been inside since March. MARCH. Confined by COVID. School is starting back this month. Hopefully. But before that reprieve, let me give you a peak into what our life was like. To put it nicely, it was a transition. At 3:17 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I hear yelling coming from the living room. “Duuuuuuddde NO!” This is the universal call of the video game addict. Then I hear the buzzer in the kitchen. The oven door opens. The oven door slams. It’s David, the 16-year-old. He’s playing Fortnite online with his friends. At 3 o’clock in the morning. He’s cooking frozen french fries, destined to be smothered with ranch dressing. At 3 o’clock in the morning. It’s OK. He’s going to sleep until noon. When he finally gets up he’ll start his online schoolwork, finish around 4 p.m., and pop more frozen french fries in the oven. I don’t even care. At least he’s safe. And he still likes me, most days. I pull a pillow over my head and go back to sleep. At 7 a.m. I sit in the kitchen drinking my coffee with my Rottweiler, Baily, sprawled out by my feet. If I wanted to go anywhere my first move would have to be a standing broad jump. My cat, Libby, is sitting on the table watching me sip my dark roast with The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

that judgmental feline stare. You know the one. Kevin, the 11-yearold, shuffles in, still drowsy. He walks to the cabinet, grabs two packages of Jolly Rancher Green Apple Pop Tarts and asks me if I can make him hot chocolate with marshmallows. I break the news. We’re out of marshmallows. So, he doesn’t want hot chocolate anymore. According to him, hot chocolate is undrinkable without marshmallows. Might as well be a cup of hemlock. Instead he grabs a Sunkist from the fridge and consumes each Pop Tart in two bites. Chomp. Chomp. Sip. Gone. When Kevin was 3, I got a call from his preschool teacher. He’d repurposed Jasmine’s and Miguel’s cupcakes from the snack table, sneaking off to the bathroom and stuffing them in his mouth. The teacher’s report went something like this: “I was banging on the bathroom door and when he answered his cheeks were full of cupcake and I could smell frosting on his breath.” Perry Mason couldn’t get him off. “I don’t think I’m going to do any schoolwork today,” Kevin informs me, Baily and Libby as he goes to the back-up package of Pop Tarts. “I’m just not feeling it.” Huh. Me neither. “Can I take a break?” “You’ve had a break. You’ve been home for two months,” I say. “What will you do on your break?” “I don’t know. Will you make me a grilled cheese?” “I’ll make grilled cheese for lunch.” He looks at me as though lunch is in December. I don’t even care. At least he’s safe. And he still likes me, most days. Since the real kids — not the virtual ones — came along, I don’t give advice much. If anyone asks I say, “Whatever works.” And welcome back to school. I hope. PS When Renee isn’t teaching English or being a professional taxi driver for her two boys, she’s working on her first book. PineStraw

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OUT OF THE BLUE

Corona Catalog

Makin’ a list, checkin’ it twice By Deborah Salomon

Please don’t think I think the

coronavirus pandemic is over because it isn’t, and I don’t. But a time comes in every momentous happening, tragic or otherwise, when folks step back and consider its direct impact on their lives.

How many columns have you read about what transpired during the stay-home? And how many of those were about cleaning out closets, files, basements, pantries? Others found desperadoes painting, plumbing and baking. Many bored-silly souls tracked down long-lost friends or relatives. Let me assure you that my closets, pantry and files remain intact. I bake anyway, so that doesn’t count. I dug up no skeletons. Perchance, then, I can share 10 other observations emblematic of confinement: 1. TV trafficker: I have premium cable and On Demand but no streaming, so I wasn’t drowning in the really good stuff. That’s OK. What I wanted was mindless marathons. The Golden Remote goes to Grey’s Anatomy — sappy and addictive. I found Blue Bloods uncomfortably uplifting. Looks like SVU’s Mariska Hargitay won the eat-a-thon. What I was looking for was an ER or NYPD Blue mulligan. Now, those were worth watching. 2. Hunger games: Home alone means three meals devolve into 10 (or more) snacks, which means a parade of egg rolls, baby carrots, grilled cheese, roasted eggplant, corn muffins, egg salad sandwiches, fruit Popsicles, cottage cheese, hummus on crackers, canned peaches on no specific timetable. 3. Fear and loathing: Every morning, before getting out of bed, I still complete a checklist of virus symptoms: sore throat, dry cough, headache, body aches, upset tummy. Couldn’t test loss of taste until I made it into the kitchen for half a banana. Between arthritis and spring allergies duplicating several symptoms I was never out of the woods.

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

4. Kitty love: I work mostly from home, so my two kitties reap laptime. Now, the weather was nice so they reaped the joys of going in and out, in and out, in and out. 5. Wakey, wakey: To make up for rising before dawn I take naps, which doubled during the stay-home. I am now proficient at nodding off while watching rants by some blondish, Creamsicle-faced pitchman (in baggy blue suit) with a limited vocabulary and mostly lurid adjectives. 6. Fashion: Sweat or yoga pants. Hoodies. Ratty T-shirts. Clogs. Comfort clothes. Divine. 7. Horror: How could this be happening . . . now . . . to us? Aren’t we the chosen people living in the richest, healthiest, most civilized country ever? No, obviously. Well, maybe, since the virus thrives in disadvantaged surroundings. Then why is it thriving here? 8. Forays: Trips to the grocery store netted several “Hi, Jennifers” because the hair and body looked like Jennifer but, behind the mask, it wasn’t. Tried talking with my eyes, conveying desperation over lemon meringue pie selling out. I really lost it when our favorite Fancy Feast flavor disappeared. 9. Get over it: By June, everybody felt spent. Precautions became a bore. I could almost hear Doris Day chanting “Que Sera, Sera,” whatever will be, will be. Red flags went unnoticed. Eat, drink and be merry because tomorrow . . . you know the rest. 10. Summon strength for an ongoing battle: Dr. Fauci (Isn’t he adorable? I wanted a Fauci bobblehead but they sold out.) predicts a resurgence come fall/winter. In other words, it ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings. Not you, Mariska. PS Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

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Sandhills Photography Club

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CLASS A

The Sandhills Photography Club meets the second Monday of each month at 7 p.m. in the theater of the Hannah Marie Bradshaw Activities Center of The O'Neal School at 3300 Airport Road in Pinehurst. Visit www.sandhillsphotoclub.org.

1st Place: Dale Jennings - Rising Tide

2nd Place: Debra Regula - Wing and a Prayer 3rd Place: Pat Anderson - Proof that Man Can Fly 56

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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

1st HM: Jim Davis - We Have Lift Off

2nd HM: Darrell Benecke - Drying Out

3rd HM: Carroll Williams - Beauty is in the Details

4th HM: Grace Hill - Please Mom The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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CLASS B

1st Place: Diane McKay Just Before the Launch

2nd Place: Diane McKay - Early Morning Walk with Friends 3rd Place: Susan Batts - In Preparation

1st HM: Bess Fulcher - Rest in Peace 58

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2nd HM: Tom Batta - Sunday Dinner The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

CLASS C

1st Place: Dee Williams Just Landed 2nd Place: Donna Ford Heaven Sent

3rd Place: Neva Scheve Egret in Flight

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

B I R D WA T C H

Chip on Your Shoulder

Listen for the machine-gun call of the feisty chipping sparrow By Susan Campbell

Here in North Carolina,

we’re lucky to have so many species of sparrows. As a group, sparrows can be a challenge to sort out. But one, the chipping sparrow, stands out. Even though Chippings are the smallest in the group, do not let their stature fool you! They are tiny — but feisty. And they may be found just about anywhere at any time of the year.

Only slightly larger than a chickadee, chipping sparrows have a chestnut cap and a black eye line, set off against a pale face and white eyebrow. The pale gray breast is unmarked and the back is a mix of browns and blacks typical of most sparrows. Young of the year have a brown, streaky head and pale streaks on the chest and flanks. In winter, all “chippies” will have, more or less, this same muted plumage. This bird gets its name from its frequent “chip” calls. The bird’s song, however, is a long, staccato trill that is said to have a machine gun-like quality. Males will sing throughout the day, even on the hottest afternoons. They are territorial little birds and so are constantly on the lookout for interlopers. Trespassing is not taken lightly with shoving matches typically followed by a dogfight that gives the unwanted guest a clear message.

The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Chipping sparrows are found almost statewide and they tend to favor pine forests. However chippies are not fussy when it comes to neither the type of pine nor the abundance of trees. They do require clusters of needles toward the ends of branches as nesting substrate. Come nesting season, a loose cup of stems and fine grasses will be constructed. They almost always incorporate some type of hair in the nest: In the Sandhills, this is often horsehair. But it is a flimsy affair and will barely last the few weeks it takes to raise a brood of three to five young. Energy is directed toward producing multiple sets of young quickly in this species. The approach surely is successful given how well the population is doing in our area. Chipping sparrows are drawn to feeders if small seeds such as millet or chipped sunflower seed are available. Otherwise they can be found foraging at ground level for tiny grass and weed seeds. Like most of our breeding birds, adults also seek protein-rich insects in summer to feed their voracious youngsters. So keep an eye and an ear out for these little birds. They are not shy — in summer they can be downright approachable when distracted by family rearing activities. And come winter, chippies will form large flocks. A congregation of 75 to a hundred individuals is not unusual. They may be joined by migrant birds from further north, increasing the local population to astronomical proportions. PS Susan would love to hear from you. Feel free to send questions or wildlife observations to susan@ncaves.com

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T H E NAT U R A L I S T

The Road Home Well-traveled trails still hold surprises

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

Unlike much of the rest of Moore

County, State Road 1137 has changed very little since the days of my youth. Running north to south for just over 4 miles and through two different ZIP codes, the weathered two-lane blacktop is still bordered by open fields and pine forest. Interspersed here and there along its route is the occasional ranch-style house and doublewide trailer, all pretty much looking exactly the way they did in the early 1970s.

About the road’s midway point, in a sharp bend that cuts through a patch of turkey oak and longleaf, is my childhood home. It is a modest, single story, red brick house, with tall white columns extending up from the front porch, and a grey tin roof surrounded by a large well-manicured yard of centipede grass and acres of forest. The property sits atop a gently sloping hill in the far western edge of the Carolina Sandhills, near where the sandy, xeric soils of the Coastal Plain meet the densely packed clay-based soils of the Piedmont. The skies here are wide open and free of light pollution. At night, the stars shine thick and bright and the Milky Way feels so close you can almost reach out and touch it. By day, the sky is the

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most brilliant shade of blue. On summer afternoons, deep purple clouds mushroom up from the east, and the sound of thunder echoes through the pines. During mid-winter, on those rare days when snow falls from somber grey clouds, one can actually hear the flakes hitting the ground. The road itself is not much to look at and is easily taken for granted. It is not an especially scenic drive and looks pretty much like any other rural strip of asphalt throughout the Sandhills. The fields and forests that line its border do not reveal their secrets easily. But rest assured, there are wonders here. Drive its route often enough and pay attention, as I have for nearly 47 years, and you will learn its rhythms. On most winter evenings, as the sun dips over the horizon, herds of white-tailed deer feed in the open fields that border the north end of the road near its junction with Hwy. 211. By day, brightly colored kestrels, North America’s smallest falcons, perch on the power line that cuts through those same fields. Early mornings in spring will find shiny black fox squirrels, the size of housecats, standing upright on the road’s shoulder near grandmother’s house with pine cones clasped tightly between their front paws. Blue flowers from Sandhills lupine brighten the roadside. Drive slowly on moonlit nights in May, with the windows rolled down, and you will be serenaded by the frenetic calls of whip-poor-wills. Come summer, abundant blackberries provide tasty treats for those who know how to spot their thorny shrubs growing beneath the power line cut. Heat lightning dances across the sky on most humid evenings, and fireflies blink on and off beneath the pines. The turkey oak leaves turn a deep burnt umThe Art & Soul of the Sandhills

T H E NAT U R A L I S T

ber color in late October signaling the onset of fall. Eyeshine from grey foxes slinking across the road in front of the car late in the night is a common sight this time of year. Yet, for all its familiarity, the road can still surprise. Just this past January, on an evening when torrential rains had supersaturated the ground for much of the day, the car headlights revealed a miniature marvel not far from the driveway to the house. Hopping out into the steady drizzle with flashlight in hand, I approached to find a 6-inch-long spotted salamander, so named for the brilliant dayglow yellow spots decorating its body, slowly walking across the road. Over all the years and thousands of times driving the road, I have never before observed this beautiful amphibian here. Spotted salamanders need ephemeral ponds (temporary bodies of water that dry up for part of the year) to breed and lay their eggs. After a few weeks, the eggs hatch into a larval form complete with long tails and a bouquet of gills. When the ponds dry up in the spring, the larvae transform, like frog tadpoles, into terrestrial adults. The adults leave their pond and migrate far away, sometimes up to 1 mile, and then bury themselves underground, where they will remain for a year until the next breeding season’s rains begin and they start the cycle all over again. Considering the fact that spotted salamanders can live 30 years, I may well encounter the adult found near the edge of the yard once again. My whole childhood was oriented toward animals and the outdoors. The natural curiosity was innate. And, like many kids in rural towns, I longed to get away. Eagle Springs just seemed too

small. Magazines, such as Ranger Rick and National Geographic, as well as television shows like The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau, fueled my daydreams of exploring far-off lands in search of exotic beasts. I wanted to swim with the sharks and catch snakes in tropical jungles. Fortunately, I have been able to live out most of those daydreams. My work has taken me around the world. I have dived with great white sharks off Mexico and caught snakes in the rainforests of Panama. After two decades of travel, I have developed a deeper appreciation for the natural world and all its wonders, from the exotic to the familiar. Though I live far from the Sandhills today, I try to get back as often as I can. The last time I turned down the road home, it was just after sunset in late May and the sky was filled to the brim with stars. As I so often do here, I turned off the radio and rolled down the windows. About a halfmile or so from its junction with Hwy. 211, the bright beams of my headlights illuminated a herd of two dozen deer standing in the middle of the field, their eyes glowing a greenish yellow. Many lifted their heads with mouths full of grass calmly staring at the approaching vehicle. Another half-mile down the road and a grey fox dashed across the highway. Eagle Springs seemed anything but small. Rounding the bend to the old brick house, a whip-poor-will called. PS

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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

G O L F T OW N J O U R NA L

The Ross Trifecta A new direction for an old gem

By Lee Pace

Despite the oft-told and entertaining story of Pinehurst founder James Walker Tufts commissioning a golf course in 1898 after learning that guests had brought their own clubs and balls and were hitting little rubber spheres in the dairy fields to the aggravation of the cows, evidence exists that golf was already being played elsewhere in the Sandhills.

Southern Pines was incorporated in 1887, and in 1895 the Piney Woods Inn opened on high ground northwest of the little town. The grand hotel built in the late Victorian style stood four stories high with ornate turrets atop the four corners of the structure and could accommodate 250 visitors. It offered golf, tennis and fox hunting for recreation, and a newspaper account in 1896 noted: “The golf links at Piney Woods start off immediately at the hotel. They consist of a nine-hole course — some fine natural hazards. The turf is firm and hard and kept in good condition.” By 1906 another course was in operation on land to the south of the train depot and downtown. The evolution of Southern Pines Golf Club is a bit spotty, but the high points of a skeleton chronology include: nine holes open 1906; nine more by 1912; modifications in 1914; a third nine opened by 1924 with plans later in the decade for nine more (never executed amid the Great Depression); and sand greens converted to grass by the late 1930s. The design and construction were supervised by Donald Ross, the Scottish golf majordomo ensconced in Pinehurst. By the end of the 1920s, Ross had seven courses operating in the Sandhills — four at Pinehurst Country Club, one at Mid Pines Inn and Golf Club (opened 1921), one at Pine Needles Lodge and Golf Club (1928) and Southern Pines. A thread linking the three courses in Southern Pines is the flow of the land. Anyone who is a regular walker at any of the Southern Pines courses can attest to the strain of the fourth and 10th fairways at Pine The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Needles, up to the second and 14th greens at Mid Pines, and a half dozen holes at Southern Pines. “The hills are rugged little mountains, giving all the charm desired to a climb or a walk in the pursuit of the game or in a ramble among the pine woods, where walks and roads and springs and forest foliage suggest the primeval,” read a passage in a 1920s print advertisement produced by Southern Pines Golf Club. “Downtown Southern Pines is flat because it was located where the railroad ran, and it needed to stop on a flat part of the ground,” says Southern Pines resident and avid golfer Ran Morrissett. “But you get outside that little area and you start seeing quite a bit of land movement. Honestly, I think Southern Pines is the best block of land in Moore County. Think of these three courses — Mid Pines, Pine Needles, Southern Pines. Think of the land movement. To me, it’s the best topography in the area.” Southern Pines Golf Club has existed for more than a century, first under the auspices of the town, then after World War II a Connecticut businessman named Mike Sherman (who employed a young accountant named Julius Boros), and finally over more than half a century The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, one of the world’s largest fraternal organizations. Walter Hagen and Sam Snead played an exhibition there in 1924. The women’s Mid South Open was held there in the 1930s and ‘40s with Patty Berg, Estelle Lawson Page, Babe Zaharias and Helen Hicks among the competitors. But the course over much of its recent life has existed in relative anonymity as the Elks have had neither the financial nor management capital to elevate it to its potential. “Quite honestly, the Elks have no business running a golf course,” says Chris Deanes, Exalted Ruler of the Elks. “We’re a volunteer organization that focuses on charity and giving money away. Running golf courses is not what we do.” Which is why the news that the Elks have turned management and ownership over to the umbrella company that owns Pine Needles and Mid Pines is cause for celebration in the golf community. Kelly Miller, president and CEO of Pine Needles and Mid Pines, proposed to buy or lease the course as far back as 2005 to no avail with various other stabs ever since. “It’s been a long chase,” says Miller, who first came to Southern Pines in 1984, when he married Peggy Ann Bell, daughter of Pine PineStraw

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Needles owners Peggy Kirk and Warren Bell. “I have fond memories of playing Southern Pines years ago. We had a group of guys who played various courses around the area. Southern Pines was one of them. “I’ve always thought it a wonderful golf course,” he continues. “It’s one of the best routings in the area. It has great topography and a set of par-3s that are unmatched anywhere. The club has a lot of fascinating history, and I think it’s a perfect fit for us.” Pine Needles has been in the Bell family since 1953, and the Bells have been partners in owning Mid Pines since 1994. Miller and partners took over the keys to Southern Pines Golf Club effective July 1, 2020. “We’re happy the course is going to a family that understands the golf course management business,” says Deanes. “Kelly and his partners truly appreciate the essence of the course and are committed to preserving it.” Miller says an 18-month course improvement plan is being developed that might include any of the following: design tweaks from architect Kyle Franz, who has supervised restorations at Mid Pines (2013) and Pine Needles (2018); resurfacing the greens; and rebuilding the bunkers and cart paths. News of the transaction struck a chord across the golf universe on social media. “A massive addition!” enthused Ryan Hub. “I can’t wait to see what management has in store for Southern Pines. Extremely fun course with some awesome greens that will only get better with the new management.” “This is fantastic news!” said Jake Weaver, a South Dakota golfer. “Southern Pines deserves ownership that ‘gets it.’ I can’t wait to get back and see it like it was meant to be.” “The opportunity to do something magical here is immense,” said Tate Adkins, a Winter Park, Florida, golfer. “The restoration work at Pine Needles and Mid Pines was exceptionally well-executed. Massive fan.” Morrissett and Chris Buie are regulars at Southern Pines and have sung the course’s praises online (Morrissett is co-founder of Golfclubatlas.com, a site devoted to course architecture and history) and in print (Buie is author of histories on both the Southern Pines Golf Club and Donald Ross). “When in the Pinehurst area, head straight for this beauty — you will leave more invigorated than when you arrived,” says Morrissett. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

G O L F T OW N J O U R NA L

“The fact that Ross was able to forge not only fascinating individual holes but a masterful collection was an impressive feat,” says Buie. “As the course measures under 6,400 yards, it is playable to virtually all. Yet even at this length the sharp players find it curiously resistant to scoring. And it is amusing to see the college teams which regularly pass through puzzling over this while wandering back to their vans.” There is not a flat hole on the course, and level lies are found mostly on the tee boxes. The par-5 fifth requires a draw, the par-4 eighth and 10th demand a cut. The pins can be tucked in nefarious spots on the canted greens. The course can play 300 yards longer than posted because of numerous uphill carries. And the fact that the ninth hole doesn’t return to the clubhouse vouches for the routing being as good as the land offers; there was no artificial demand to route two separate nines. And there is little real estate and no pretension. “You have those brush-ups with the homes on four and five, but otherwise you are secluded in nature,” says Morrissett, who has taken numerous guests to Southern Pines over the years who have been nonplussed by the modest infrastructure but then wowed by the layout. “Even people surrounded by great golf in New Jersey and New York ‘get’ the relaxed atmosphere and low-key vibe the course evokes. It’s just a different experience. “I swear to God in its own charmingly befuddled way, it reminds me of playing in the United Kingdom, where it’s nothing to do with the club experience or the bar or the men’s locker room. It’s all about changing shoes in the parking lot, a quick hello to the pro and then off to the first tee.” Morrissett and Buie are devotees of the “golden hour” at Southern Pines, pegging it at 5 p.m. and finishing by dusk. Morrissett applauds the vision and golf chops of the new owners — with one caveat. “My worry is this little relatively undiscovered gem gains in popularity to the point you need a traffic cop at 5 p.m.,” he says. PS Author Lee Pace has written about Pine Needles and Mid Pines clubs in his book Sandhills Classics, first published in 1996 and updated in 2009. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

August �� Ritual Revived

She grows impatient waiting for gallons of water to boil in the massive vessel. Finally, back burner’s roiling ocean receives a steel rack of jars packed with marmalade — zesty orange, piquant cranberry. Ten minutes in water boiling inches above metal lids. A rest, and she lifts each glass carefully — straight up from scalding bath. A day to cool; labels affixed, and the ’lades are now gifts: holiday, birthday, any day . . . Sweet memories led to this labor: her parents on hot August nights, peeling, slicing crops green, yellow, red, filling Mason jars, hovering over the steaming kettle, putting up peaches, beans, tomatoes, from their small Victory garden, enough to feed their children, for yet another wartime winter. — Barbara Baillet Moran

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Great Beginnings Hooked on summer reading

Let’s be honest, who among us sails on through the master class on whale anatomy if Herman Melville doesn’t write “Call me Ishmael” right out of the blocks in Moby Dick? At the top of every writer’s job description is the ability to kidnap the reader’s imagination and keep it, at least for a while. Since everything in the Year of the Pandemic is cloaked in a bit of the unknown, our Summer Reading Issue of 2020 is all about capturing imaginations. Who better to learn from than seven of the best writers North Carolina has to offer? And who better to help them than seven terrific artists and photographers? Some of these great beginnings were written specifically for this issue, some are the first few words of books appearing in stores near you soon, and others were just kind of kicking around on laptops. Each one is designed to grab your attention and hold it. Feel free to fill in the rest of the story yourself. — Jim Moriarty

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Why I Love Pool Halls By Bland Simpson

From the open upstairs windows of a plain two-story commercial building overlooking a bricked side street, Colonial Avenue in Elizabeth City, as a boy I used to hear the pouring out of loud jolly talk and laughter but most of all the hard clicks of cue balls breaking the racks, and spoken and sometimes shouted encouragements and disappointments, and the lighter clicks of wooden scoring beads, as men I could not see slid them along strung wires above the green felt-covered slate pool tables in that magic room above. A small sign hung by the streetside door, stating simply: City Billiards, Home of Luther â&#x20AC;&#x153;Wimpyâ&#x20AC;? Lassiter, World Champion, 9-Ball. In the nearby corner movie theater, the Center, my friends and I often sat, enthralled and forgetting we were only a hundred yards from a swamp river on its way from the Great Dismal Swamp to the sound and the sea, believing instead that we were riding along on horseback as we wove with the cowboys through some saguaro range or that we were stomping or swinging along with Tarzan of the Jungle through mamba-snake-ridden equatorial brakes. We even saw Zsa Zsa Gabor there, in Forbidden Planet, and knew this short interlude of imaginary space travel had brought us to our worshipful knees before the most beautiful and powerful woman in the Universe. Yet when we emerged from these diversions, our riverport reality fell heavily upon us, and the sounds of smack and click kept spilling out from the pool hall on high, and we somehow knew that was where the real men, not boys, went to have their adventures, though all we could do, our ages still in single digits, was to stand on the sidewalk below and listen hard and try and make out what the hoots and hollers and howls, and the cussing, were all about, and what they all really meant. Bland Simpson is the Kenan Distinguished Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of North CarolinaChapel Hill, the author of nine books, and a longtime pianist and composer/lyricist for the Tony Award-winning North Carolina string band The Red Clay Ramblers. In 2005 he received the North Carolina Award for Fine Arts.

Photograph by Mark Wagoner The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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The Pressing Spirit By David Payne

And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day. — Genesis, 32:24 One minute I’m asleep, the next it’s as if the roof’s collapsed and pinned me under tons of rubble. Except it’s not the roof. The weight isn’t external; it’s inside me somehow. I’m paralyzed and pinioned. The greatest effort I can muster sets one eyelid aflutter, lets me crook — just barely — the digit of my index finger. And it isn’t dead, this weight, it’s living. There’s something with me in the bed, and not just with me, on me, and not just on me, in me. I fight and strain, and suddenly like someone with his shoulder to a door when the door flies open, I’m bolt upright in bed. What happened? What the fuck just happened? Sweat pours off me. Silver in the silver moonlight through the shutter, steam rises from my shoulders in 40-degree air of the unheated bedroom. Boom! says the surf outside my window. Boom! and Boom! again like the percussion section of an orchestra. And I’m alone here, alone in this unheated, flimsy summer house that thrums and trembles like a spaceship on the launch pad as the January gale blows off the ocean. The roof’s intact, there’s no intruder. The bedroom door I closed when I retired is still latched the way I latched it, from the inside. Yet for a moment, several, staring at that door, I have the sense that it, It, whatever pinned me, is still here, just beyond, listening as I listen, breathing as I breathe, aware of me, as I’m aware of It. Who’s there? I call. No answer. David Payne is the author of five novels and the 2015 memoir Barefoot to Avalon: A Brother’s Story, which The New York Times called “a brave book with beautiful sentences on every page.” A founding member of the Queens University of Charlotte Master of Fine Arts program, Payne also taught at Bennington College, Duke University and Hollins University. He recently completed a screenplay of Barefoot to Avalon for the Oscar-nominated director Giulio Ricciarelli.

Photograph by Laura Gingerich 72

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The Last Wedding By Frances Mayes

The wine spilled. As I reached across the table, my sleeve grazed Austin’s glass. The big Brunello globe fell over in a quick crash. Dark, that carmine red spreading on the embroidered linen tablecloth. Austin stood up so fast his chair tipped backward. He found two napkins on the sideboard and helped spread them over the stain. Instinctively, I glanced at Annesley as her mouth fell open. She knew I’d spent the afternoon lavishing my attention over every place card and dessert spoon. I moved the flowers and water carafe over the napkins. “Doesn’t matter, Kate, good as new,” Austin said. He has unusual eyes. Hazel, I guess, but it’s the way he looks at you rather than their color, as if he’s surprised to see you. But glad. I had the odd thought that he might say I see you. Do you see me? I rinsed his glass in the kitchen and refilled. All solved, except not. Frances Mayes is the celebrated author of the No. 1 New York Times bestseller Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. A poet, essayist, author and professor, her recent works include Always Italy from National Geographic Books and See You in the Piazza: New Places to Discover in Italy. Her excerpt is the opening of a new book, The Last Wedding.

Illustration by Laurel Holden The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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Being the Record of Hannah King, born April 14, 1681, Salem Village By Lee Zacharias

I was a girl, you understand. I had a girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sins. I wanted to know whom I would marry. We all did. Would our husbands be rich, would they have land? What would be their trade? Though Reverend Parris preached against magic as a trick of Satan, we knew ways to tell the future. And if we were predestined, what could be the harm? I was 11 that year, two years older than the Reverendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s daughter Betty, the same age as her cousin Abigail, who lived with them. Abigail was an orphan. Many of the girls who would be afflicted were living as maidservants with relatives or others who might take them in, Mary Warren with the Proctors, Elizabeth Hubbard with Dr. Griggs, Mercy Lewis with the Thomas Putnams and their daughter Ann. Only Mercy knew who her parents were. They had been killed by Indians at Casco Bay, and for a brief time she stayed with the Reverend George Burroughs, who survived. How she came to Salem and the Putnams no one knew, but we could guess. Reverend Burroughs had once been pastor of the Salem Village Church, but he had left for Casco Bay in dispute over his salary, forced to borrow money from Thomas Putnam, who was known to hold a grudge. Mercy was older, as were Mary and Elizabeth, 17 or 18, old enough to marry, but orphaned girls had no dowries, and the question of the future was of much urgency to them, for if they failed to marry or displeased their masters, they would have nowhere to go. The salary for Reverend Parris was also in dispute. The church in Salem Town accepted the HalfWay Covenant, but in the Village, Reverend Parris feared the Devil was among us and refused to

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baptize any child whose parents had not testified to how God had shown Himself to them. Only the converted could be members of the church. It was brutal cold that winter, with much snow, but the villagers refused to supply the Meeting House or Parsonage with firewood, and they argued with church members whether their tax revenues should be used to pay his wages. Betty was a sensitive girl, and though she was but 9, perhaps she too feared for her future. I was drawn by curiosity alone, for I lived with my parents, brothers, and one sister. Surely my dowry was secure. And though I was marked, for underneath my shift there was a small brown mole near my hip, not so different from the marks of Satan that the Court of Oyer and Terminer would soon look for on the accused, that small spot was my secret, and I kept my secrets well, just as I kept Betty’s. It was Abigail persuaded her. First they tried the scissors and the sieve, but when Goody Parris opened her basket, she did not find her scissors as they were, and she blamed their servant Tituba, the strange, dark-skinned woman Reverend had purchased in Barbados when he was a sugar merchant there. Nor were the girls discovered after they tried the Bible and a key, but neither sieve nor Bible yielded answers, and so they turned to the Venus glass. It is known that the shape an egg white takes when it is dropped into a glass of water will reveal your future husband’s trade. A plough foretells a farmer, a ship a man who sails the seas. Instead, Abigail saw a coffin, which caused her to faint dead away. In her fright, Betty became forgetful of her chores, her mind apt to wander during prayer, and when Reverend rebuked her, she fell into fits. They say she barked like a dog, crawled about the floor, and writhed most hideously. Abigail too took fits, but Reverend’s prayers failed to cure them, and he summoned Dr. Griggs, who could find no disease and concluded that they had been bewitched. When Reverend forced them to reveal who had possessed them, they named Tituba, the beggar woman Sarah Good, and the outcast Sarah Osborne, who was feuding with the Putnams over an inheritance. Tituba was examined first, and she confirmed the spectres of both Sarahs. Despite the faults in her English, the confession she delivered to the court held such power that many of those present trembled as if stricken or fell to the floor. She did not will to hurt the children, she insisted. A tall, white-haired man in a black coat had forced her to torment them lest she die. She had looked upon the Devil, who took many shapes, a big black dog, a hog, black and yellow rats, a yellow bird. Again she said that she had seen the spectres of Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne, and over the next weeks the afflicted girls, especially Thomas Putnam’s daughter Ann, would name many more. Once a month all that summer we gathered upon Gallows Hill to watch the witches hang, including Reverend Burroughs, whom Mercy had accused. When he recited the Lord’s Prayer upon the gallows, some protested he must be innocent, but he was not spared. All of the hanged pled innocence, though Giles Corey refused to plead and was pressed to death instead, which is more grievous to endure. But I have not yet told my part. I was a strong girl. I did not swoon or fall into fits. Neither accuser nor accused, I kept my secrets, that hidden mark, and this: for I too had gazed into the Venus cup, where I saw not ship, not plough, nor coffin. What I saw was a book. But I could not tell from the shape of it whether it was a Bible or that other book where the Devil made his minions sign their names in blood. I knew not whether I would marry a man of the cloth or pledge my troth to Satan. Lee Zacharias is the author of three novels, a collection of short stories and a collection of essays. Her most recent novel, Across the Great Lake, was named a 2019 Notable Michigan Book, took a silver medal in literary fiction from the Independent Publishers Awards, and won both the 2019 North Carolina Sir Walter Raleigh Award and the 2020 Phillip H. McMath Book Award. Her fourth novel, What a Wonderful World This Could Be, will be released in June 2021 by Madville Publishing.

Photograph by Andrew Sherman The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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Rosalie Goodbody By Celia Rivenbark

Rosalie Goodbody had been thinking lately when she woke up and felt every awful second of her 83 years that her last name was God’s ironic joke. But then she remembered, as she brushed her own teeth, stooped over the idiotic glass sink her son in Colorado had decided she needed on one of his rare visits home . . . God didn’t give her the name “Goodbody.” No, that honor belonged to her dead husband, Raymond, whose own body had been slowly twisted and tortured with a combo platter of arthritis and being “bad to drink.” Dead at 66. Goodbody indeed. So here she stood in her pink Walmart mules and a bright aqua housecoat she’d paid too much for just so she could talk to the nice lady at QVC, Rona something, spitting toothpaste with a pink tint of blood in it into this stupid sink. Damn this sink and damn Carl, who had flown in for just a couple of days. Rosalie had thought they’d talk, at last, about Cliff. What were we all going to do about Cliff? But Carl had had other ideas, ideas involving ridiculous glass sinks from Lowe’s that sit on top of the vanity instead of down in it like God intended. God. There was that name again. Rosalie realized that she was thinking a lot more about Him these days and whenever she did, she thought of Him in capital letters because to do otherwise might risk some kind of backlash. God. Him. Where was He, anyway? Didn’t He see how tired she was? It was almost time to wake up Cliff, a chore she dreaded every single morning. She lingered for a moment, thinking that if she flossed, she could put it off for a few more minutes. But she’d seen the blood in the sink, so it was probably better not to stir up anything else. Cliff was her big, retarded grown-up son. There was no nice way to put it so, for more years than she liked to think, if Rosalie saw someone eyeing them oddly in the Piggly Wiggly or wherever, she would just smile big and false and say, “Yes, that’s right. He’s my big grown-up retarded son and I love him!” Cliff would just grin, of course, when Rosalie made this pronouncement to a total stranger whose only sin had been to stare a half second too long. Cliff was much more interested in the way a shipment of beach balls was contained in this elasticized box on the end of the canned meats aisle. Looking around first, Cliff pulled on the elastic, pinching it good, making all the balls jump a little inside their rubber corral. He did it a few more times until Rosalie reminded him that they still had a few more things on their list and didn’t he want her to get those nice Duncan Hines frozen brownies? Good Christ, Rosalie thought to herself while running the same wide-toothed Goody comb she had used for more than two decades, through her sturdy gray hair. Good Christ but those brownies were

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her salvation some nights. If Rosalie was being honest, and she really was most of the time except when she was talking to the cable company and said she only had one month to live and didn’t want to spend it watching a snowy picture of The Young and the Restless (you shoulda seen ’em move; everyone should try it), she loved Cliff more than Carl. Celia Rivenbark is a New York Times bestselling author of seven humor collections, including You Don’t Sweat Much for a Fat Girl and We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier. Rivenbark writes a weekly political humor column syndicated by Tribune Media Services and is an award-winning playwright. Her next play, High Voter Turnout, will be staged in Wilmington in the fall of 2020, pandemic permitting.

Illustration by Harry Blair The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

What the Cat Knew By Ruth Moose

Under her feet the black cat lay curled. Occasionally he twitched his tail and half opened one eye, let the green of it shine meanly. The cat knew the girl in the chair was asleep; her breathing was slow and even. Sometimes she jerked her legs or let out a small, soft snore. The cat knew the noise he had heard was not a normal one for this house. It was not a clock tick, nor chime, not the rackety dump of the icemaker, nor hum of the furnace. The cat knew the footsteps that followed that small squeak when the front door opened did not belong to anyone heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d ever heard before. The cat raised his ears. The footsteps stopped, but there was the dull thud and a metal click of something heavy dropped in the hall. A recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, three Pushcart nominations and the Sam Ragan Fine Arts Award, Ruth Moose taught creative writing at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill for 15 years, tacking on 10 more at Chatham County Community College. Her fifth collection of short stories, Going to Graceland, was published by St. Andrews Press in 2020. She is the author of six collections of poetry and two novels, Doing It at the Dixie Dew and Wedding Bell Blues.

Illustration by Emery Tiptoe The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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Die Trying By Michael Parker

Carthage, Texas, 1973 Because his clothes were line-dried, they smelled to Earl of sun, grass, earth. But the girls on the bus said he smelled like creek mud. It was worse in the winter when he wore parkas donated by the Kiwanis Club coats-for-kids drive, easily recognized by the fake fur collars, which reeked of the kerosene used to heat their house. At home, his family treated him like a second cousin much removed. “Oh, look, Earl,” they’d say after he’d been sitting quietly in a room for a half hour. He knew he was creek mud to them, too. And so he refused celery filled with peanut butter and dotted with raisins, because, seriously? Ants on a log? Into the smoke from neighbors burning their trash in rusty barrels slipped Earl, on the lookout for someone to whom he might define himself. But he always ended up in the woods, listening to the transistor radio his father had given him, or reading aloud from the biography of Leadbelly he carried with him always. His people were proud Louisianans transplanted across the border to Carthage, Texas. His father was vaguely around. His mother talked all the time to her sisters in Bossier City, installing a 20-foot cord on the telephone so she could sit outside on the front stoop and smoke and ask her sisters about the fates of various men she might have married instead. Prison, preacherman, gay, career military, meth-head, Port Arthur were the answers Earl imagined coming across the line. “Shoo now, Earl,” said his mother when she caught him snooping. His father, when he worked, laid pipe. He claimed to be Acadian but his mother said he was out of Lawton, Oklahoma. Wherever he was from, his brothers and cousins soon arrived in Carthage and a compound of trailers and vehicles sanded down to primer or missing bumpers or outright wrecked beyond repair sprung up in the piney woods on the outskirts of town. Earl’s father once took him on a walk through the woods to a pond, where he taught him the words to “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry.” Even when he disappeared for weeks, Earl had his transistor radio, on which his father claimed to have listened to stations out of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and Matamoras, Mexico, when he was a boy in his bed at night. Is there anything in the world more romantic than listening to radio stations from other countries illicitly after lights out? Michael Parker was born in Siler City, North Carolina, and grew up in Clinton. He is the author of 10 books of fiction and taught in the Creative Writing Program at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro for 27 years. He currently lives in Austin, Texas. His excerpt is the beginning of his new book, Die Trying.

Photograph by John Gessner 78

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Running Man

The unquenchable passion of Jef Moody By Bill Fields • Photograph by Tim Sayer

ost mornings between 6 and 7 o’clock, Jef Moody laces up his running shoes and goes to the starting line, a sandy trailhead next to his driveway in Taylortown. He will travel a couple of miles on paths through the pines and scrub oaks in about 45 minutes. It is, at age 63, as far and as fast as his body will allow unless he wants to move around like a much older man the following day. He has logged 129,000 miles since he began keeping track as a child, more than half the distance to the moon or five times the circumference of Earth. “I remember once when I had gotten over 100,000, I finished my run and was sitting in the driveway and my wife (Nadine) asked me what was wrong,” Moody says. “I said, ‘I’ve run more than 100,000 miles and I feel like I did every one of them today.’” A while back, someone called Nadine, and told her “a man was hopping down the road.” It was Jef, who says these days he goes “jopping,” a hybrid of jogging and hopping, because of the decades of wear and tear. “I’ve got a good bad knee and a bad good knee,” he says of the arthritic joints, punctuating the description with a smile. “I wake up still thinking I can do a 4-minute mile, then my two feet hit the floor. But 90 percent of the time, the knees don’t hurt when I run unless I step wrong or go too fast. I’ve got to run slow. I hate running slow.” Although any running is better than no running, if Moody felt differently about the pace of his current workouts, it would be a news flash. He spent the first third of his life becoming an elite cross country and middle distance runner, one of Moore County’s best all-time athletes, after moving to Southern Pines to live with his maternal grandmother, Geneva Mincer, as a fifth-grader in 1968. He was a star at Pinecrest High School and Pembroke State University (now UNC Pembroke). A member of Pembroke’s 1978 NAIA nationalchampionship cross-country team and the 1979 NAIA 1500-meter national champion, Moody still holds eight UNC Pembroke school records, including the 800 meters (1:50.30) and 1500 meters (3:44.10) established in 1977. “I never saw him finish a race,” says Gary Barbee, a Pinecrest crosscountry teammate of Moody’s in 1972. “Jef would already have his warm-ups back on by the time I was done. He already was ‘the man.’” During his stellar prep career, during which he was a national Junior Olympic champion in cross-country and 800 meters, Moody was recruited by 175 colleges. Kansas was among the many prominent The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

schools to pursue him, and the Jayhawks enlisted a famous alum to make their pitch the second semester of Jef’s senior year at Pinecrest. “My Grandma said there was a guy on the phone named Jim Ryun,” Moody recalls. “She didn’t know much about track, but she wanted to know who he was. I just told her he was a big-time runner.” Ryun, the first high school runner to break the 4-minute mark in the mile and a three-time Olympian (1964, ’68, ’72), called Moody once a week for a month in the spring of 1975 to no avail. Pembroke coach Dr. Edwin Crain’s visits to the Moody home paid off. By 1980, the year following his graduation from Pembroke and an NAIA national championship in the 1500 meters, Moody was a good bet to qualify at that distance for the Summer Olympics in Moscow. That dream dissolved when the United States and some of its Allies boycotted the games in protest of the Soviet Union’s invasion of Afghanistan. When the 2020 Tokyo Olympics were postponed until 2021 because of the COVID-19 pandemic, it took Moody back 40 years. He was at the wheel of his red Fiat driving through South Carolina returning home from a race when he heard about the Olympic boycott on the car radio. “I had run a 5-miler in Columbia in 23:48, I think it was,” says Moody. “I was pretty much ready to go. The (Olympic qualifying) trials were coming up. I’d gotten my stuff for that. I was upset and decided I wasn’t going to go to the trials. When Nadine and I got married the previous November, I said to give me a year to get through the Olympics. I was crushed, but as they say, time heals.” Moody is sitting in his “Track Shack,” a small, detached man cave/ office in the shadow of the home where he and Nadine raised their children (Yarona, Jessica and Jeff II). The walls are covered with photos, ribbons, medals and uniforms — markers of Moody’s running life that began 475 miles and a world away from Moore County in a tough part of Philadelphia. “I was 5 or 6 years old,” Moody says. “The doctor told my mom I had a heart murmur and it’d be good for me to exercise a little. She let me go out and run a little bit — run around the corner. That’s when I started to love to run.” Moody found a kindred spirit in classmate Louis Pagano. From first through fourth grades the pair ran the half-mile to school in the morning, made a round trip at lunch and back home in the afternoon. The exercise and other hijinx — the boys rubbed the wax from NikPineStraw

L-Nip bottles on the soles of their dress shoes to slide across the playground — were a buffer against a difficult family situation. Mildred and Robert Moody Jr. separated. “My parents were apart and my mother was sick. We were homeless and it was North Philly, a rough part of the city.” On March 3, 1968, Isaac Mincer, the uncle of Jeff (it was two f’s then) and his younger brother, Robert III, intervened. He put the children — Jef was a month or so from turning 11 years old — on a train to Southern Pines. “I was like, ‘Man, we’re leaving everything we’ve known,’” Moody says. “I remember telling my grandmother the first week that as soon as I finished high school I was out of here.” But Moody made friends and charted a course for himself in the Sandhills, never returning North to live. Grandma Mincer’s yard with a large garden of fruits and vegetables was a stark contrast to Jef’s urban roots. “It was just a big garden,” he says, “but I felt like a farm boy.” He soon began to immerse himself in running, motivated at first to win a live turkey in a 2-mile race for middle-schoolers held on a Midland Road horse track located where the Longleaf golf course exists now. Moody didn’t bag the bird in two tries — he laughs about ending his career with a frozen fowl-earning victory at a mid-1980s Pinehurst Turkey Trot — but developed an indefatigable work ethic to complement his athletic talent and competitiveness. Moody’s Pinecrest coach, Charlie Bishop, an important mentor, told him to always win as convincingly as he could. And Moody trained to make that possible. “Since 1969, I don’t think I’ve missed a hundred days of running,” Moody says. “I had two streaks of six years and ones of five and four years where I didn’t miss a day.” And on almost all of those days, Jef — who began preferring to spell his first name that way in 1994, after someone misspelled “Jeff” in a letter — pushed himself hard. “He always ran one more lap after practice,” recalls Pembroke teammate Jim Miles, a pole vaulter who sometimes ran relay events. “I asked him why once, and he said, ‘Jim, somebody else out there is doing it too.’” Crain worked his distance men hard, rain or shine, a thunderstorm the only thing that paused the training. “When freshmen got to campus, they sometimes wouldn’t come to practice if it was raining,” Crain says. “Jeff would go to the dorm and tell them that wasn’t how it works. He was a great influence on his teammates.” Nothing could keep Moody away from his passion. During his final track season at Pinecrest, he suffered a stress fracture in his right foot running an indoor race in Greensboro. For a few weeks, he had the cast removed for a meet, then replaced. During the 1977 NAIA crosscountry national championship in Kenosha, Wisconsin, the 5-mile course went through some woods. After glancing back at a teammate, Moody collided full speed into a tree. “They said I finished the race but I don’t remember,” Moody says. “I don’t remember flying home. They were still pulling bark out of my eyes when I got to the infirmary. But the next morning I snuck out the window to go on a training run. I did the run and got caught climbing back through the window.” He ran a 5:30 mile in the seventh grade. In the eighth grade, he

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lowered his time to 4:51 after being motivated to break the school record of 5:14. As Moody got more serious about his training, he logged every workout on a calendar, a practice carried out with more detail in desk diaries and, later in adulthood, a computer. It was a habit, he discovered after his father died years later, that ran in his family. “Going through his things, we found notes he kept on his daily life,” Moody says. “He wrote down everything he did during the day.” Occasionally, the numbers Moody denoted in his log were staggering. As a Pinecrest sophomore, Barbee was on an activity bus making the 27-mile drive to Richmond County for a jayvee basketball game. As they passed through Pinebluff, Barbee saw Moody running beside U.S. 1. Later that evening, Barbee saw him in the stands spectating during the varsity game, having run all the way there. Pembroke was loaded with talent during Moody’s time on the Robeson County campus. “I had 15 guys who could run five miles in 25:30,” Crain says. “If you sneezed, two guys would pass you — all the guys were good.” Wayne Broadhead, who ran for the Braves with Moody, says, “We had to do 10 miles in under an hour just to get a uniform.” Ten miles was a normal afternoon team practice schedule, with runners having done five miles on their own in the morning before class. Crain rode a bicycle alongside his charges as they ran, but Moody never needed much prodding. For hill work, Crain drove the Braves to a steep stretch of Hwy. 74 east of Rockingham, where they ran up and jogged back a handful of times. “Jef didn’t miss a day of practice in four years,” Crain says. “He was a great leader, by voice and by example.” Moody has run distances from 200 meters through a marathon. As a 128-pound high school freshman who couldn’t do a single pull-up, he tended to get jostled on a crowded track or cross-country field. He realized he needed to get stronger. “A lot of people don’t realize you can only run as fast as you can pump your arms. If you can’t pump your arms fast, you’re not going to run fast.” By his sophomore year at Pinecrest he was up to about 150 pounds. When he graduated, he could do 40 or more pull-ups. “Remember those Michelin commercials with the tire digging into the road?” Miles says. “Most people ran on top of the track; Jef had a forceful stride that ate into the track. He could go sub-11 seconds in the 100 meters. That’s some great leg speed for a miler.” Moody was running a time trial during a 1978 practice on the Pembroke track when he bettered four minutes in the mile for the first time. His teammate Garry Henry, a star long-distance runner, was a formidable foe and had speed too. Moody set out to just stay in front of Henry and did. “We showered and got dressed and coach told us what we ran,” Moody says. “I was 3:59.2.” Moody’s confidence spiked when he defeated Dick Buerkle, world record-holder in the indoor mile, during a 1979 race in Georgia. Later that year he and Nadine, a fellow Moore County native, got married on the afternoon of Nov. 24 — after the groom tended to some other business in Raleigh. “The race was 6.2 miles but I think I ran 7 because I was hustling to the car to get home for the ceremony,” Moody says. He had begun what would be a long, successful career as The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

PHOTOGRAPH BY BILL FIELDS

an elementary school physical education instructor, guiding youngsters as Moore County educator-coaches such as John Williams, Joe Wynn and Nat Carter had influenced him, with direction and encouragement. “Jef is definitely a people person,” says Larry Rodgers, retired UNC Pembroke track and field coach for whom Moody worked as a part-time assistant in the 2000s. “He communicates well and always has a positive attitude. The athletes really listened to him, and he always made them feel like they could reach their potential.” As a teacher and coach, Moody always tries to connect with young people, often encouraging them to develop talents they weren’t aware they possessed. “He’s always been great with kids because he’s still a kid at heart himself,” says Nadine. Out of college and ineligible for the race he wanted to run more than any other, Moody was gearing up for a new school year teaching when the final of the 1500 meters at the Moscow Summer Olympics was held Aug. 1, 1980, at Lenin Central Stadium. Great Britain’s Sebastian Coe won the gold medal with a time of 3:38.4. It had required 3:43.6 to get through one semifinal and 3:40.4 in the other. The former time was just slightly better than Moody’s fastest time in the event. In advance of the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Moody considered taking a stab at the steeplechase. He learned the requisite hurdling technique but was hampered by not having an available training partner. Moody shelved his Olympic hopes for good. “I ran in some little races here and there, but basically after 1980 my racing career was over.” He competed for the last time 21 years ago, in a 3000-meter masters run in the same city he raced the day he got married 20 years earlier. Now a grandfather of five — “a relay team of boys and a girl,” he says — Moody continued to coach, including a stint at Sandhills Community College, where his expertise and dedication helped the Flyers succeed. It’s hard not to if you follow his mantra. “I want to always get 100 percent out of myself,” Moody says. “That might not be my best, but it’s my best on that day.” He remains a volunteer with Sandhills Track Club, eager to help youth with the will to find a way. “No, I didn’t get a shot at the Olympics, but I believe I’ve had a bonus of 52 years after moving down here,” Moody says. “I sit here and think about it and kind of tear up. Who knows what could have happened up in Philadelphia? It was a tough situation.” As long as Moody can run, he will run. It is 2020 and he is on a rural path, but it could be 1965 on a city sidewalk, his lungs and legs taking him to a new place. PS PineStraw

Fair Winds and

Following Seas

USCGC Diligence departs Wilmington By John Wolfe â&#x20AC;¢ Photographs by Andrew Sherman

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t’s a cool gray Memorial Day morning, and the tide is nearly full beneath the big white ship moored at the heart of Wilmington, this city on a river. The wharf bustles with last-minute preparations for departure. Sailors in blue coveralls load pallets of provisions up the gangplank; a life-jacketed crew prepares the ship’s small boat for launch as a team of line-handlers surveys the bollards and places fenders over the side. A few crewmembers are still arriving at the ship. Some come alone, with seabags slung over their shoulders, saluting the flag flying at the stern as they cross the ship’s brow. One petty officer tarries with his family in the parking lot, wearing sunglasses and crisp dress blues, his tight-lipped wife beside him as he hugs his children one more time. This is part of the service. Goodbye is a familiar word in every sailor’s vocabulary. But on this day, it feels a little more permanent. Their ship is the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Diligence, a 210-foot medium endurance cutter with a crew of 74. Commissioned in 1964, it has been stationed in downtown Wilmington since 1992 after undergoing a two-year, $28 million refit in 1990. After it departs it will spend the next two months patrolling the Atlantic, completing its missions of search-and-rescue, marine fisheries enforcement, counterdrug operations and migrant interdiction. To be diligent means to be persistent in application to one’s work, and Diligence lives up to its name: In 2011 it seized 3,000 pounds of cocaine in the western Caribbean, worth $34 million, and three years ago it intercepted three high-speed smuggling boats carrying $60 million worth of cocaine in the eastern Pacific.

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This is the sixth cutter to bear the name Diligence, an honor few ships share. The first Diligence was one of the 10 original revenue cutters, built by order of George Washington in 1791 to enforce customs and tariff laws and provide income for the fledgling nation, and sailed from Cape Fear the following year. It famously seized notorious French smugglers, an act which led to the mysterious disappearance of its master, Thomas Cooke, and his son in 1796. According to Coast Guard historian William H. Thiesen, the next three ships named Diligence were also based out of Wilmington. Diligence II served in the quasi-war with France in 1798 and now has a full-sized replica in the Independence Seaport Museum in Philadelphia. Diligence III was lost in a hurricane off Ocracoke in 1806, and Diligence IV saw action in the war of 1812. As of this morning, Diligence is the only cutter named for one of the Coast Guard’s original 10 revenue cutters still serving in its namesake’s home port. But when it casts off its lines, that comes to an end. After this patrol, its new home port will be Pensacola, Florida, where Diligence will be moored alongside three other ships in its class to make maintenance easier as they near the end of their service life. When Diligence is eventually retired, its name will live on. The Coast Guard recently announced plans to build 10 new ships: Heritage-class 360-foot offshore patrol cutters, which will become the mainstay of the oceangoing fleet. The first flight will include WMSM-922 (W means Coast Guard and MSM stands for maritime security cutter), the seventh Diligence, which will carry the name forward. But currently, the Coast Guard has no plans to home port The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

another cutter in Wilmington, although the dock will remain available to visiting ships. Cmdr. Luke Slivinski is the ship’s commanding officer. Lean and tan, with steady blue eyes and close-cropped sandy hair, he stands on the quay by the ship’s bow, talking to the press and the small group of civilians who have gathered. Even though the ship is leaving, he emphasizes that the Coast Guard will remain: Sector Headquarters for North Carolina will stay in Wilmington, and small boat bases at Oak Island and Wrightsville Beach will continue to stand ready to come to the assistance of mariners. “The Coast Guard has enjoyed a very special relationship with the city of Wilmington,” he says, and “that close relationship . . . will continue.” Calling Wilmington a “hidden gem in the service,” both captain and crew are sad to be saying goodbye. Though its home port will be different, the mission of the cutter remains unchanged. Life onboard, Slivinski says, is about how you’d guess it would be spending months at a time on a 210-foot ship with “70 of your best friends.” It’s nothing like a Carnival Cruise, he explains: The work is 24/7, and 16- or 18-hour workdays are typical. The types of missions and activities the cutter gets involved in are rarely scheduled. The Atlantic Ocean can be a harsh place, something they get exposed to quite regularly, and it’s tough to be away from family and friends (and for the younger sailors, cell service) for months at a time. “But there’s a certain allure and mystique about going to sea,” Slivinski says. “Every day is different — the environment is constantly changing. It never stops moving. And it certainly humbles you, in a way, because you’re at the whim of the ocean and Mother Nature. It’s certainly special for me, which is why I’ve made a career of it.” Working together in tight situations, while stressful, has the benefit of creating a floating family. “That’s what keeps people coming back,” Slivinski says. “It’s not the food, or the long work hours, or the constant motion or seasickness. It’s being part of a group and getting to accomplish some amazing things that no one person could do on their own. The camaraderie that you have on a seagoing ship can’t be replicated anywhere.”

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It’s time to say goodbye. The captain goes back onboard, and the only people left on the pier are the families of the men and women on the cutter, waving American flags and homemade signs. A banner saying “THANK U” billows from a window on a nearby building. On the golden river, an armada of local boats floats outside the perimeter made by a Coast Guard small response boat, waiting to wish the Diligence off one last time. The ship’s crew appears on deck, on the bridge, on the fo’c’sle and the fantail, bedecked in blue coveralls and orange life jackets. Gray smoke billows from the stack as the engines warm up. The clouds are parting, the sun is coming out. One prolonged and three short blasts on the ship’s whistle, a deep baritone bellow that announces it’s getting underway, and 228 years of maritime tradition come to an end as it clears its lines for the final time. The small boats in the river sound a chorus of horns in response; a cheer goes up. American flags wave everywhere. Diligence backs out, pivots to starboard, and slowly gathers way downriver with the falling tide. The Wilmington fireboat throws a sparkling cascade of water skyward as Diligence leads the parade south. The crowd onshore waves goodbye. No longer will their ship play soaring bugle calls when they raise the flag in the morning or lower it at sunset. No longer will their ship ring eight bells at noon, a naval tradition that dates back to the age of sail, when time was kept with sand-filled hourglasses and eight bells signified the end of a watch, that “all was well.” Part of the heartbeat of Wilmington leaves with this ship. Diligence, among other things, is the living counterpart to the old gray battleship North Carolina across the river — an active part of our nation’s tradition of service, a tradition as proud and colorful as the rainbow of signal flags she flew from bow to stern, dressed overall on the Fourth of July. The great white ship passes beneath the yawning span of the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge for the final time, leaving the city in its wake, and heads out to sea. PS John Wolfe enjoys life as a writer and mariner on the North Carolina coast. More of his work can be found online at www.thewriterjohnwolfe.com.

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STORY OF A HOUSE

Sycamore No More Classic cottage becomes serene showcase

By Deborah Salomon â&#x20AC;˘ Photographs by John Gessner

edia rooms come and wine cellars go, leaving turn-of-the-century cottages the true jewels of Pinehurst. Not that James Walker Tufts would recognize anything past the front door of Sycamore Cottage, where a yesteryear exterior surrounded by a well-tended garden becomes a study in clean, modern lines interspersed with textures bathed in Quaker gray. Soothing gray, serene gray fading to white, like pre-Technicolor movies. Gray, a suitable backdrop for fascinating light fixtures, weathered shutters hung as wall dĂŠcor. Smooth gray against a nubby chenille slipcover, raffia chairs, wicker baskets in their natural, neutral beige. Gleaming heart pine floors, a white marble hearth and breakfast bar, creamy upholstery, mirrors framed in steely, hammered zinc and a dining room table topped with beveled plate glass. No knickknacks. Airy, calm, simple. Gorgeous. Who wrought this environment? A new Pinehurst demographic: career couple, well-traveled, no kids, who retired early from tech companies located in frigid urban jungles. He plays golf, she indulges a passion for art, perhaps via interior design. They cook in tandem, entertain, participate in social/cultural events.

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They are busy, happy, productive. Their home will be a showplace — but tasteful, low-key, top-quality. “We’re the putt-and-putters,” says Roxanne Vaitkus. “My husband (John Hagstrom) putts and I putter around.”

n How they came to Pinehurst in 2016 reads like a fairy tale for couples of a certain age. Roxanne and John lived in a Chicago suburb, where they renovated a historic craftsman-style home built in 1928. They knew the ropes. In 2012, the retirement subject came up. “We should do something different,” Roxanne suggested. Like buying a beach cottage in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. Three years later they sold it during a real estate boom. Where now? Maybe Palm Springs. “We couldn’t find anything, and it got really hot,” Roxanne recalls. The couple had visited Pinehurst, where John played golf and Roxanne rented a bike to putter around the village. This time she sent him ahead to scope out possibilities. The very day he arrived, Sycamore (also called Welcome Cottage) went on the market. “He knew I’d like it.” They could walk to the village. The walled garden visible through the over-the-sink kitchen window was absolutely adorable. The mas-

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ter suite, created by removing a wall between two bedrooms, was on the main floor — a must for retirees. Roxanne could have a potting shed. Prices were good, compared to other areas. Best of all, previous owners had completed the major overhaul, including systems, leaving only cosmetic details to be addressed. Roxanne: “John put in an offer. When I came out and saw it I said, ‘You really do know me.’” Their only concern was living, for the first time, some distance from a big city. Now, the kicker. The buyer who snapped up the Carmel beach house wanted all their furniture. Roxanne and John had 10 days to vacate. “I only took six pieces,” Roxanne says. What fun . . . to putter through Habitat, estate sales, High Point showrooms, antique shops, fabric outlets feathering a retirement nest. They rented a house nearby while improvements in the bathrooms and elsewhere were made, doors replaced, moldings replicated and a roomy, south-facing porch with glass and screens added onto the back. “This is my favorite room,” Roxanne says. “We had one like it in Chicago.” Here, they lounge on a sectional sofa (gray, of course) and eat at a gray-washed wooden table. Even the carport visible through the The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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porch window wall is a vision in white, vine-covered trellises. Sycamore Cottage, built in 1896, probably had a sitting room, several bedrooms, small dining area, sun porch and kitchen on the main floor. Not all the cottages had eating and cooking facilities, since seasonal tenants took meals at the hotel. Upstairs, more bedrooms, perhaps for servants, in an attic-like space with angled ceilings. From documents on file at the Tufts Archives, it appears the cottage was rented out until 1918. Dr. Walter Page (Doubleday Publishing empire) “and household” arrived in December 1912 for the winter social season, according to the Pinehurst Outlook. In 1934, a fire destroyed most of the house, which was rebuilt by then-owner B.U. Richardson, who used an insurance payout to modernize, especially the bathrooms. “Slop buckets” listed on an early rental check list were replaced by porcelain “lavatories.” Shingles replaced lap siding, but charred attic beams remain intact.

n The floor plan in place when Roxanne and John took over bears little resemblance to the original. “Open but not wide open,” she describes it. Walls have been halved or removed for clear sight from the kitchen, at the back, to a conversation cove (originally a porch) with built-in cabinetry, at the front. In between, a compact dining The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

room and sitting room with the original fireplace, which sports a new hearth made of white Lincoln Memorial marble, quarried in Colorado. Furniture-style kitchen cabinets were retained, painted white. Across from the sitting room, a den with giant TV was chosen because it receives little natural light. Roxanne calls it their cocoon. In keeping, the furniture darkens, beginning with an antique hickory cabinet-bar from France, one of the six pieces she shipped east. Rugs throughout are simple, woven, striped or plain neutrals.

n Roxanne prefers contorted metal bed frames and mixed-media light fixtures, many with an element of surprise. “I call it playing with texture,” which might include dried flowers from her pollinator garden, or birds’ nests. In the dining room, a wicker circle hanging from the ceiling drips crystal teardrops. The main floor powder room has a massive, bumpy-textured crystal bowl for a sink. The master bedroom light fixture is covered in wooden beads for a serpentine effect. Surprises don’t stop there: A lamp base came from a Parisian bridge. Roxanne’s breakfront is draped to the floor in embroidered natural linen. Flanking it, two cylindrical baskets hold thousands of corks from good wine consumed on the premises. The base supporting that plate glass in the dining room originated as a French baker’s PineStraw

table. For a centerpiece Roxanne uses a 3-foot wooden baguette board, which can be filled with seasonal fruit or decorations. A rough ceiling tile from an old general store in Iowa texturizes a blank spot over the range in the galley-style kitchen. John compares an upstairs stall shower done in black with chunky, metal fittings to a bank vault. Even the laundry room has shadowy gray stripes painted on the walls and gunmetal gray appliances. Nothing looks better against gray than pale knotty pine. Another of the six holdovers — perhaps Roxanne’s most stunning piece yet tucked in a back hallway — is a glass-front buffet cabinet from the French countryside, displaying small treasures. Except for occasional streaks of blue and a stylized wine poster, Roxanne has avoided color completely. Bland? Heavens, no. Boring? Hardly. Her next puttering will be for art, maybe not gray but surely calm, soothing, with Zen that matches a Sycamore Cottage Mr. Tufts could never have envisioned. “Modern, but old,” Roxanne calls it, and pedals off in search of another treasure. PS

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Pickle Me This

A L M A N A C

August n

By Ash Alder

lways, always everything at once, and in August you can see it. Blackberry and bramble. Rose and thorn. Honey and hive. The sweetness and the sting. You cannot have one without the other. August is carefree. Bare feet. Soft grass and ant bites. Sandspurs and sweet peas. Long days and hot nights. Sweet corn and crickets. Sunburn and bee balm. Picnics and rope swings and cool, flowing water. Cool, flowing water . . . the one true remedy for the sweltering heat of summer. Ankle, shin, then knee-deep in the swollen creek, where the dog fetches driftwood and the snake rests coiled on the sunny bank, time slows down. If it’s true that water retains memory, then you are standing in a pool of ancient musings — an endless, ever-flowing cycle of beginnings and endings, life and death, sweetness and sorrow. The dog interrupts your own introspection with a playful shake — water spraying in all directions — and you admire the fullness and purity of his presence. Amid the sweetness and the sting, he’s just here, joyfully and without a care. And in this moment, so are you. You watch as a dragonfly kisses the water’s surface, wings glittering as it circles about this summer dreamscape. Even the dragonfly bites. We forget. And yet the sting is part of it, inseparable from the beauty of the bigger picture. Lose yourself in the bramble and remember: The sting makes the berries all the sweeter. Thank you, beloved August. Thank you for your thorns and fruits and wild honey. Thank you for all of it.

In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs. — Henry David Thoreau The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Want to savor the summer bounty while keeping things simple? Quickpickle it. Refrigerator pickles will keep in the fridge for several weeks. And all you’ll need is your harvest, white distilled or apple cider vinegar, canning or pickling salt (read: not table salt!), water, and any glass or plastic container with a lid. A “Simple Pickling Recipe” from The Old Farmer’s Almanac recommends 1 1/2 pounds of homegrown cucumbers, 1 cup of vinegar, 1 1/2 tablespoons of salt, 1 cup of water, and — if you’re feeling spicy — dill or mustard seeds, peppercorns, garlic cloves (peeled and smashed), or fresh dill, mint, or basil. Got everything? OK, here we go: If you’re flavoring your fridge pickles with herbs or spices, add that to your glass or plastic containers first. Next, wash produce, slice into spears or coins, then add them to the containers, leaving at least 1/2 inch of headspace up top. Time for the brine. Combine vinegar, water, and salt in a saucepan over high heat. Bring to a rolling boil, then pour hot brine over the veggies (cover vegetables completely with liquid but leave about 1/2 inch of headspace) and cover. Allow the jars to cool on the countertop for about an hour, then add your lids and pop those future pickles into the fridge. In three days to one week (the longer you wait the better they’ll taste), give them a try.

Natural Remedies

One of the highlights of porch-sitting in the summer is hearing the sweet, unmistakable buzz of hummingbird wings moments before it swoops in for a long drink from the feeder. One of the low points: mosquitoes. They also arrive with a buzz — arguably unsweet — and the only long drink they’re coming for is you. If you’re into natural mosquito repellents, you’ve likely tried citronella candles or added its oil to homemade sprays. But did you know that planting certain herbs and flowers in your garden might also help keep them at bay? Try lemon balm, marigolds, peppermint, catnip, lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus, neem, basil and thyme. Either way, you really can’t go wrong. PS

What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance. — Jane Austen

PineStraw

PS PROfiles The People & Businesses That Make The Sandhills A More Vibrant Place To Live and Work!

August PineStraw 2020

Articles inside

Fair Winds and Following Seas

Great Beginnings

Ritual Revived Poetry By Barbara Baillet Moran