The golf sport issue 2 febmar2014 by Ryan Stalvey

Golf Sport Signature Magazine for the Golfing Lifestyle

Feb./Mar. 2014

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Volume 2 • Issue 1

Winter Dreams 20

As snowflakes flutter outside, a fire burning within and your own “golden girl” for added warmth, rekindle the memory of “Winter Dreams,” a short story by one of the true greats who ever dared to pick up the pen. By F. Scott Fitzgerald

a neat pour 48

Any discussion of whiskies must start with a fundamental truth: There is no such thing as a bad whisky. By Jameson Parker

Features

Death of a Pinehurst Princess

With a stern resolve to revisit, and investigate, one of the most profound unsolved mystery’s linked to the golfing world, Diane McLellan, the self-proclaimed “average person that you’d probably walk by on the street and never notice,” became the catalyst to Steve Bouser’s Death of a Pinehurst Princess.

the Despicable Darby Wexler

Sometimes the most unpleasant members of the human race get what’s coming to them and sometimes it arrives in the most sinister of ways. Fiction by Walter Adamson Beech

Grand Accommodations

Every great player in the annals of the game has played here, for St Andrews is as much the “Mecca of Golf” to the great champions as it is to the mere devotee. No golfing life is complete without the experience of St Andrews.

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Cover: Legendary illustrator J. C. Leyendecker created this image for Kuppenheimer Clothier circa. 1920. Right: This photo from 1894, featuring Old Tom Morris, demonstrates that, other than fashion trends, little has changed in St Andrews.

Contents

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12 Fulbari Resort & Spa14 Liaoning Gold Time Club16 Lost City Golf Course

The Course

Space

Audio accent

Symbol Audioâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Modern Record Console.

Substance

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Armand de Brignac Champagne.

Strokes in Time

Style

Ace of Champagnes

Jaermman & StĂźbi Watches: The Timepiece of Golf.

elegant accoutrements

MODA manhattan baggage by Stewart Golf.

Collectibles

Leatherheads

Replica football helmets by Past Time Sports..

4 Contents

Advertising Space Full-Page Ad

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URBAN GOLF

In three different locations throughout downtown London, these popular venues are revolutionizing the way the game is being played and perceived. By Josh Wolfe

Art with Hy Humor

96 Art

Henry â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hyâ&#x20AC;? Hintermeister worked for nearly every major calendar company in his day, painting primarily nostalgic and sentimental themes that remain enormously popular today. Here is a Golf Sport Gallery of our favorites.

110 Fashion

a shot of perfection

Elegant waxed jackets, moleskins, tweeds & cashmeres from the House of Purdey.

128 Parting Shot

Far from it.

Contents

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silver streak

Stewart X7 Lithium Remote Trolley.

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www.golfsportmag.com

Publisher/Creator-In-Chief – T. Ryan Stalvey • Josh Wolfe – Publisher/Editor-In-Chief National Advertising – CMG Marketing & Events, LLC Cathy Williams – (843) 410-2739, x101 • Kelsey Williams – (843) 410-2739, x102 Selective Advertising – (256) 990-7128 – Carolyn Laffitte The Golf Sport is represented by National Publisher Services, LLC Ron Murray • Jim Smolen and Circulation Specialists, Inc. Jared Katzman, Director Business Development • Laurie Levasseur, Consumer Marketing Director Proudly Printed in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania by Fry Communications, Inc. Please Call 888-315-2472 for Subscription Information The Golf Sport is published bi-monthly by Stalvey & Wolfe Partners LLC., Columbia, S C. All rights reserved, reproduction in whole or in part without the written consent of Stalvey & Wolfe Partners LLC. is prohibited. Subscription prices: One year $39.95; two years, $74.95. (Canada, Mexico and all Foreign – add $42 per year.) Single copy $8.95. Subscription and change of address should be mailed to: The Golf Sport Subscriber Service Center, P.O. Box 23902, Columbia, SC 29224. Allow six weeks for entry of new orders or renewals or change of address. Periodicals postage paid at Columbia, SC and additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes and inquiries to The Golf Sport, Subscriber Service Center, P.O. Box 23902, Columbia, SC 29224. Printed in the U.S.A.

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Masthead

e find ourselves ready to send the sophomore issue of this magazine to press. And with it, the holidays and winter have come and gone. It’s a time when many of us put away our golf clubs and dust off our hunting gear, for golfers, the majority of whom are sportsmen at heart, do not rely solely on the links to satisfy an innate desire to be outdoors. As you can see, when I do wear something upon my head, which generally only happens on the golf course or the game fields, it’s a Duck’s Unlimited hat. Because first and foremost, I am a conservationist. And I sincerely believe that the positive impact that organizations such as DU have on golf courses is far greater than the general public realizes. The United States’ wide array of courses, many of which reside in our quickly disappearing wetlands, are home to more and more species of waterfowl each year. Just the other day, as I played a course down the road from my home in Asheville, North Carolina, I couldn’t help but notice the considerable amount of ducks, mainly mallards, on each pond. As the temperature continues to drop in this little mountain town and precipitation looms ominously to the northwest, I can foresee that I might have one, maybe two, rounds of golf left before winter covers us in her blanket for the next few months. But with that comes new opportunities. The migration has begun and big bucks are heartily roaming the woods. Even though our shots will be fewer this winter, we will still hold onto the special memories made afield as the season again transitions to green leaves and grass, and golf. As you’re reading this, I hope the temperature is dropping past freezing, maybe snow spitting outside as a fire roars, and perhaps a bird dog or two warm your lap. I think we have put together a very special winter issue with fantastic coverage of a new trend happening over in London in “Urban Golf,” a sad tragedy at one of the nation’s premier golfing destinations in “Death of a Pinehurst Princess,” and we are once again honored to have an outstanding article by Jameson Parker on the finer points of whisky. Not to mention “Winter Dreams” by F. Scott Fitzgerald. All of that and more are patiently waiting for you in the coming pages. Whether it’s in deer camp, duck camp or just sitting around the clubhouse waiting for spring to arrive, we hope you enjoy every last page. See you out there.

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Josh Wolfe

Editor-In-Chief

From the Publishers

From Our Readers Finally. A different kind of magazine altogether. Way to fill a void in the golfing realm and magazines in general. Donald, Martinsville, VA

At first, I wasn’t so sure. But after flipping through the pages, it only gets better and better. There is literally something for everybody within the pages of The Golf Sport. Carol, Orlando, FL

I don’t play golf all that much, but I loved the stories and especially the fashion section. Keep up the good work. Daphne, Seattle, WA

Great magazine. When I saw the finished product, I could hardly believe that this publication is the work of just two guys. Kent, Columbus, OH

This is the classiest golf magazine I have ever seen. Nikki, Columbia, SC

I don’t see how the second issue can possibly be better than the first. Regardless, thank you for giving us something different. Jim, San Luis Obispo, CA

he older I get the more briskly time passes me by. Though I try to slow it down and savor each precious second, my vain attempts are unmercifully stymied by the ever-fleeting moment. Still, time marches on. So here we are, now two issues into a title when it seems as if we had just began work on the premier. By now you should have noticed The Golf Sport is not your ordinary golf publication. Within you’ll find no statistics on the favorite to win the Open or if Tiger will surpass Jack’s all-time major mark. There are no secrets to hitting it farther or chipping it closer. It is our utmost conviction that golf is a game played for the simple enjoyment of doing it. It is a thing of heart and spirit and not a matter of exact technical qualifications. Although golf is at the core of this magazine’s basic makeup, one of the tenets of our fundamental philosophy is a preoccupation with a lifestyle consisting of not only the finer things the sport of golf has to offer, but sport in general and the activities and interest of our readers beyond the course. From bourbon and baseball to yachts and shaving kits, football and fashion to interior design and the shooting sports, you can never be quite certain what lies in wait with the turning of each page. Otherwise noteworthy on many accounts, it is this diversified presentation which we feel makes The Golf Sport truly unique. And while we can’t slow down the ticking of the clock, we hope you will find the perusing of this issue as time well spent. So without further ado, stoke the fire, kick back with a soothing libation and enjoy.

T. Ryan Stalvey Creator-In-Chief

From the Publishers

The Lost City Golf Course Sun City, South Africa

The Course

The Fulbari Resort and Spa

Pokhara, Nepal

Image courtesy tid griffin â&#x20AC;&#x201C; elitegolfcourses.com

The Course

Liaoning Gold Time Club

Yingkou, China

The Course

Ace of Champagnes

Armand de Brignac Champagne

â&#x20AC;&#x153;A single vintage is like a solo violinist, whereas a multi vintage like ours is like an entire orchestra playing together. That is what we have tried to achieve with our Champagne.â&#x20AC;? - Jean-Jacques Cattier, patriarch of the Cattier family and owner of Armand de Brignac

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Substance

the tiny Champagne village of Chigny les Roses, the Cattier family, producers of Armand de Brignac, has owned and cultivated family vineyards since 1763. Their cellars are among the oldest and deepest in Champagne, with three styles of architecture represented in the cavern â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Gothic, Renaissance and Roman. Armand de Brignac is aged in a special, gated section of the deepest part of these cellars, 119 steps underground, where cooler temperatures allow for a slow aging process. The independently owned company staffs only eight people, giving special attention to each and every bottle where the artisanal winemaking traditions will be keep on living for generations to come. They have just introduced a special green bottle to honor the 2014 Masters. A bottle of the Brut Gold will run you about $300. Visit ArmanddeBrignac.com.

winter Dreams

Whether you are a literary or not, you’ve undoubtedly seen his name. He composed what some call a “flawless novel,” The Great Gatsby, which has the unique capacity to withstand the test of time; raised hell in the streets and bars of Paris in the Roaring 20s with the likes of Hemingway and Eliot, Dali and Ray. But one little-known fact about F. Scott Fitzgerald was his love and passion for the game of golf. So, as snowflakes flutter outside, a fire burning within, perhaps a neat pour and your own “golden girl” for added warmth, rekindle the memory of “Winter Dreams,” a short story by one of the true greats who ever dared to pick up the pen. By F. Scott Fitzgerald with illustrations by Edward Penfield

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ome of the caddies were poor as sin and lived in one-room houses with a neurasthenic cow in the front yard, but Dexter Green’s father owned the second best grocery-store in Black Bear – the best one was “The Hub,” patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island – and Dexter caddied only for pocket-money. In the fall when the days became crisp and gray, and the long Minnesota winter shut down like the white lid of a box, Dexter’s skis moved over the snow that hid the fairways of the golf course. At these times the country gave him a feeling of profound melancholy – it offended him that the links should lie in enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged sparrows for the long season. It was dreary, too, that on the tees where the gay colors fluttered in summer there were now only the desolate sand-boxes knee-deep in crusted ice. When he crossed the hills the wind blew cold as misery, and if the sun was out he tramped with his eyes squinted up

The Classic

against the hard dimensionless glare. In April the winter ceased abruptly. The snow ran down into Black Bear Lake scarcely tarrying for the early golfers to brave the season with red and black balls. Without elation, without an interval of moist glory, the cold was gone. Dexter knew that there was something dismal about this Northern spring, just as he knew there was something gorgeous about the fall. Fall made him clinch his hands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to himself, and make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary audiences and armies. October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fleeting brilliant impressions of the summer at Sherry Island were ready grist to his mill. He became a golf champion and defeated Mr. T. A. Hedrick in a marvelous match played a hundred times over the fairways of his imagination, a match each detail of which he changed about untiringly – sometimes he won with almost laughable ease, sometimes he came up magnificently from behind. Again, stepping from a Pierce-Arrow automobile, like Mr. Mortimer Jones, he strolled frigidly into the lounge of the Sherry Island Golf Club – or perhaps, surrounded by an admiring crowd, he gave an exhibition of fancy diving from the spring-board of the club raft… Among those who watched him in openmouthed wonder was Mr. Mortimer Jones. And one day it came to pass that Mr. Jones – himself and not his ghost – came up to Dexter with tears in his eyes and said that Dexter was the best damned caddy in the club, and wouldn’t he decide not to quit if Mr. Jones made it worth his while, because every other caddy in the club lost one ball a hole for him – regularly – “No, sir,” said Dexter decisively, “I don’t want to caddy any more.” Then, after a pause: “I’m too old.” “You’re not more than fourteen. Why the devil did you decide just this morning that you wanted to quit? You promised that next week you’d go over to the State tournament with me.” “I decided I was too old.” Dexter handed in his “A Class” badge, collected what money was due him from the caddy master, and walked home to Black Bear Village. “The best damned caddy I ever saw,” shouted Mr. Mortimer Jones over a drink that afternoon. “Never lost a ball! Willing!

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Intelligent! Quiet! Honest! Grateful!” The little girl who had done this was eleven –beautifully ugly as little girls are apt to be who are destined after a few years to be inexpressibly lovely and bring no end of misery to a great number of men. The spark, however, was perceptible. There was a general ungodliness in the way her lips twisted, down at the corners when she smiled, and in the – Heaven help us! – in the almost passionate quality of her eyes. Vitality is born early in such women. It was utterly in evidence now, shining through her thin frame in a sort of glow. She had come eagerly out on to the course at nine o’clock with a white linen nurse and five small new golf-clubs in a white canvas bag which the nurse was carrying. When Dexter first saw her she was standing by the caddy house, rather ill at ease and trying to conceal the fact by engaging her nurse in an obviously unnatural conversation graced by startling and irrelevant grimaces from herself. “Well, it’s certainly a nice day, Hilda,” Dexter heard her say. She drew down the corners of her mouth, smiled, and glanced furtively around, her eyes in transit falling for an instant on Dexter. Then to the nurse: “Well, I guess there aren’t very many people out here this morning, are there?” The smile again – radiant, blatantly artificial – convincing. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now,” said the nurse, looking nowhere in particular. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll fix it up.” Dexter stood perfectly still, his mouth slightly ajar. He knew that if he moved forward a step his stare would be in her line of vision – if he moved backward he would lose his full view of her face. For a moment he had not realized how young she was. Now he remembered having seen her several times the year before in bloomers. Suddenly, involuntarily, he laughed, a short abrupt laugh – then, startled by himself, he turned and began to walk quickly away. “Boy!” Dexter stopped. “Boy –” Beyond question he was addressed. Not only that, but he was treated to that absurd smile, that preposterous smile – the memory of which at least a dozen men were to carry

The Classic

into middle age. “Boy, do you know where the golf teacher is?” “He’s giving a lesson.” “Well, do you know where the caddymaster is?” “He isn’t here yet this morning.” “Oh.” For a moment this baffled her. She stood alternately on her right and left foot. “We’d like to get a caddy,” said the nurse. “Mrs. Mortimer Jones sent us out to play golf, and we don’t know how without we get a caddy.” Here she was stopped by an ominous glance from Miss Jones, followed immediately by the smile. “There aren’t any caddies here except me,” said Dexter to the nurse, “and I got to stay here in charge until the caddy-master gets here.” “Oh.” Miss Jones and her retinue now withdrew, and at a proper distance from Dexter became involved in a heated conversation, which was concluded by Miss Jones taking one of the clubs and hitting it on the ground with violence. For further emphasis she raised it again and was about to bring it down smartly upon the nurse’s bosom, when the nurse seized the club and twisted it from her hands. “You damn little mean old thing!” cried Miss Jones wildly. Another argument ensued. Realizing that the elements of the comedy were implied in the scene, Dexter several times began to laugh, but each time restrained the laugh before it reached audibility. He could not resist the monstrous conviction that the little girl was justified in beating the nurse. The situation was resolved by the fortuitous appearance of the caddy-master, who was appealed to immediately by the nurse. “Miss Jones is to have a little caddy, and this one says he can’t go.” “Mr. McKenna said I was to wait here till you came,” said Dexter quickly. “Well, he’s here now.” Miss Jones smiled cheerfully at the caddy-master. Then she dropped her bag and set off at a haughty mince toward the first tee. “Well?” The caddy-master turned to Dexter. “What you standing there like a dummy for? Go pick up the young lady’s clubs.” “I don’t think I’ll go out today,” said Dexter. “You don’t –” “I think I’ll quit.” The enormity of his decision frightened him.

He was a favorite caddy, and the thirty dollars a month he earned through the summer were not to be made elsewhere around the lake. But he had received a strong emotional shock, and his perturbation required a violent and immediate outlet. It is not so simple as that, either. As so frequently would be the case in the future, Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

ow, of course, the quality and the seasonability of these winter dreams varied, but the stuff of them remained. They persuaded Dexter several years later to pass up a business course at the State university – his father, prospering now, would have paid his way – for the precarious advantage of attending an older and more famous university in the East, where he was bothered by his scanty funds. But do not get the impression, because his winter dreams happened to be concerned at first with musings on the rich, that there was anything merely snobbish in the boy. He wanted not association with glittering things and glittering people – he wanted the glittering things themselves. Often he reached out for the best without knowing why he wanted it – and sometimes he ran up against the mysterious denials and prohibitions in which life indulges. It is with one of those denials and not with his career as a whole that this story deals. He made money. It was rather amazing. After college he went to the city from which Black Bear Lake draws its wealthy patrons. When he was only twenty-three and had been there not quite two years, there were already people who liked to say: “Now there’s a boy –” All about him rich men’s sons were peddling bonds precariously, or investing patrimonies precariously, or plodding through the two dozen volumes of the “George Washington Commercial Course,” but Dexter borrowed a thousand dollars on his college degree and his confident mouth, and bought a partnership in a laundry. It was a small laundry when he went into it but Dexter made a specialty of learning how the English washed fine woolen golfstockings without shrinking them, and within a year he was catering to the trade that wore knickerbockers. Men were insisting that their Shetland hose and sweaters go to his laundry just as they had insisted on a caddy who could find

golf balls. A little later he was doing their wives’ lingerie as well – and running five branches in different parts of the city. Before he was twentyseven he owned the largest string of laundries in his section of the country. It was then that he sold out and went to New York. But the part of his story that concerns us goes back to the days when he was making his first big success. When he was twenty-three Mr. Hart – one of the gray-haired men who like to say “Now there’s a boy” – gave him a guest card to the Sherry Island Golf Club for a weekend. So he signed his name one day on the register, and that afternoon played golf in a foursome with Mr. Hart and Mr. Sandwood and Mr. T. A. Hedrick. He did not consider it necessary to remark that he had once carried Mr. Hart’s bag over this same links, and that he knew every trap and gully with his eyes shut – but he found himself glancing at the four caddies who trailed them, trying to catch a gleam or gesture that would remind him of himself, that would lessen the gap which lay between his present and his past. It was a curious day, slashed abruptly with fleeting, familiar impressions. One minute he had the sense of being a trespasser – in the next he was impressed by the tremendous superiority he felt toward Mr. T. A. Hedrick, who was a bore and not even a good golfer any more. Then, because of a ball Mr. Hart lost near the fifteenth green, an enormous thing happened. While they were searching the stiff grasses of the rough there was a clear call of “Fore!” from behind a hill in their rear. And as they all turned abruptly from their search a bright new ball sliced abruptly over the hill and caught Mr. T. A. Hedrick in the abdomen. “By Gad!” cried Mr. T. A. Hedrick, “they ought to put some of these crazy women off the course. It’s getting to be outrageous.” A head and a voice came up together over the hill: “Do you mind if we go through?” “You hit me in the stomach!” declared Mr. Hedrick wildly. “Did I?” The girl approached the group of men. “I’m sorry. I yelled ‘Fore!’” Her glance fell casually on each of the men – then scanned the fairway for her ball. “Did I bounce into the rough?” It was impossible to determine whether this question was ingenuous or malicious. In a moment, however, she left no doubt, for as her

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partner came up over the hill she called cheerfully: “Here I am! I’d have gone on the green except that I hit something.” As she took her stance for a short mashie shot, Dexter looked at her closely. She wore a blue gingham dress, rimmed at throat and shoulders with a white edging that accentuated her tan. The quality of exaggeration, of thinness, which had made her passionate eyes and downturning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly beautiful. The color in her cheeks was centered like the color in a picture – it was not a “high” color, but a sort of fluctuating and feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede and disappear. This color and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality – balanced only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes. She swung her mashie impatiently and without interest, pitching the ball into a sand pit on the other side of the green. With a quick, insincere smile and a careless “Thank you!” she went on after it. “That Judy Jones!” remarked Mr. Hedrick on the next tee, as they waited – some moments – for her to play on ahead. “All she needs is to be turned up and spanked for six months and then to be married off to an oldfashioned cavalry captain.” “My God, she’s good-looking!” said Mr. Sandwood, who was just over thirty. “Good-looking!” cried Mr. Hedrick contemptuously, “she always looks as if she wanted to be kissed! Turning those big cow eyes on every calf in town!” It was doubtful if Mr. Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal instinct. “She’d play pretty good golf if she’d try,” said Mr. Sandwood. “She has no form,” said Mr. Hedrick solemnly. “She has a nice figure,” said Mr. Sandwood. “Better thank the Lord she doesn’t drive a swifter ball,” said Mr. Hart, winking at Dexter. Later in the afternoon the sun went down with a riotous swirl of gold and varying blues and scarlets, and left the dry, rustling night of Western summer. Dexter watched from the veranda of the golf club, watched the even overlap of the waters in the little wind, silver molasses under the harvest moon. Then the moon held a finger to her lips and the lake became a clear pool, pale and quiet. Dexter put on his bathing suit and swam out to the

The Classic

farthest raft, where he stretched dripping on the wet canvas of the springboard. There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Over on a dark peninsula a piano was playing the songs of last summer and of summers before that – songs from “Chin-Chin” and “The Count of Luxemburg” and “The Chocolate Soldier” (Note: All were popular Broadway musicals of the day) – and because the sound of a piano over a stretch of water had always seemed beautiful to Dexter he lay perfectly quiet and listened. The tune the piano was playing at that moment had been gay and new five years before when Dexter was a sophomore at college. They had played it at a prom once when he could not afford the luxury of proms, and he had stood outside the gymnasium and listened. The sound of the tune precipitated in him a sort of ecstasy and it was with that ecstasy he viewed what happened to him now. It was a mood of intense appreciation, a sense that, for once, he was magnificently attune to life and that everything about him was radiating a brightness and a glamour he might never know again. A low, pale oblong detached itself suddenly from the darkness of the island, spitting forth the reverberate sound of a racing motorboat. Two white streamers of cleft water rolled themselves out behind it and almost immediately the boat was beside him, drowning out the hot tinkle of the piano in the drone of its spray. Dexter raising himself on his arms was aware of a figure standing at the wheel, of two dark eyes regarding him over the lengthening space of water – then the boat had gone by and was sweeping in an immense and purposeless circle of spray round and round in the middle of the lake. With equal eccentricity one of the circles flattened out and headed back toward the raft. “Who’s that?” she called, shutting off her motor. She was so near now that Dexter could see her bathing suit, which consisted apparently of pink rompers. The nose of the boat bumped the raft, and as the latter tilted rakishly he was precipitated toward her. With different degrees of interest they recognized each other. “Aren’t you one of those men we played through this afternoon?” she demanded. He was. “Well, do you know how to drive a motorboat? Because if you do I wish you’d drive this one so I can ride on the surf-board behind.

My name is Judy Jones” – she favored him with an absurd smirk – rather, what tried to be a smirk, for, twist her mouth as she might, it was not grotesque, it was merely beautiful – “and I live in a house over there on the island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I’m his ideal.” There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Dexter sat beside Judy Jones and she explained how her boat was driven. Then she was in the water, swimming to the floating surfboard with a sinuous crawl. Watching her was without effort to the eye, watching a branch waving or a sea gull flying. Her arms, burned to butternut, moved sinuously among the dull platinum ripples, elbow appearing first, casting the forearm back with a cadence of falling water, then reaching out and down, stabbing a path ahead. They moved out into the lake; turning, Dexter saw that she was kneeling on the low rear of the now uptilted surfboard. “Go faster,” she called, “fast as it’ll go.” Obediently he jammed the lever forward and the white spray mounted at the bow. When he looked around again the girl was standing up on the rushing board, her arms spread wide, her eyes lifted toward the moon. “It’s awful cold,” she shouted. “What’s your name?” He told her. “Well, why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night?” His heart turned over like the flywheel of the boat, and, for the second time, her casual whim gave a new direction to his life.

ext evening while he waited for her to come downstairs, Dexter peopled the soft deep summer room and the sun porch that opened from it with the men who had already loved Judy Jones. He knew the sort of men they were – the men who when he first went to college had entered from the great prep schools with graceful clothes and the deep tan of healthy summers. He had seen that, in one sense, he was better than these men. He was newer and stronger. Yet in acknowledging to himself that he wished his children to be like them he was admitting that he was but the rough, strong

stuff from which they eternally sprang. When the time had come for him to wear good clothes, he had known who were the best tailors in America, and the best tailors in America had made him the suit he wore this evening. He had acquired that particular reserve peculiar to his university, that set it off from other universities. He recognized the value to him of such a mannerism and he had adopted it; he knew that to be careless in dress and manner required more confidence than to be careful. But carelessness was for his children. His mother’s name had been Krimslich. She was a Bohemian of the peasant class and she had talked broken English to the end of her days. Her son must keep to the set patterns. At a little after seven Judy Jones came downstairs. She wore a blue silk afternoon dress, and he was disappointed at first that she had not put on something more elaborate. This feeling was accentuated when, after a brief greeting, she went to the door of a butler’s pantry and pushing it open called: “You can serve dinner, Martha.” He had rather expected that a butler would announce dinner, that there would be a cocktail. Then he put these thoughts behind him as they sat down side by side on a lounge and looked at each other. “Father and mother won’t be here,” she said thoughtfully. He remembered the last time he had seen her father, and he was glad the parents were not to be here tonight – they might wonder who he was. He had been born in Keeble, a Minnesota village fifty miles farther north, and he always gave Keeble as his home instead of Black Bear Village. Country towns were well enough to come from if they weren’t inconveniently in sight and used as footstools by fashionable lakes. They talked of his university, which she had visited frequently during the past two years, and of the nearby city which supplied Sherry Island with its patrons, and whither Dexter would

October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fleeting brilliant impressions of the summer at Sherry Island were ready grist to his mill.

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return next day to his prospering laundries. During dinner she slipped into a moody depression which gave Dexter a feeling of uneasiness. Whatever petulance she uttered in her throaty voice worried him. Whatever she smiled at – at him, at a chicken liver, at nothing – it disturbed him that her smile could have no root in mirth, or even in amusement. When the scarlet corners of her lips curved down, it was less a smile than an invitation to a kiss. Then, after dinner, she led him out on the dark sun-porch and deliberately changed the atmosphere. “Do you mind if I weep a little?” she said. “I’m afraid I’m boring you,” he responded quickly. “You’re not. I like you. But I’ve just had a terrible afternoon. There was a man I cared about, and this afternoon he told me out of a clear sky that he was poor as a churchmouse. He’d never even hinted it before. Does this sound horribly mundane?” “Perhaps he was afraid to tell you.” “Suppose he was,” she answered. “He didn’t start right. You see, if I’d thought of him as poor – well, I’ve been mad about loads of poor men, and fully intended to marry them all. But in this case, I hadn’t thought of him that way, and my interest in him wasn’t strong enough to survive the shock. As if a girl calmly informed her fiancé that she was a widow. He might not object to widows, but – “Let’s start right,” she interrupted herself suddenly. “Who are you, anyhow?” For a moment Dexter hesitated. Then: “I’m nobody,” he announced. “My career is largely a matter of futures.” “Are you poor?” “No,” he said frankly, “I’m probably making more money than any man my age in the Northwest. I know that’s an obnoxious remark, but you advised me to start right.” There was a pause. Then she smiled and the corners of her mouth drooped and an almost imperceptible sway brought her closer to him, looking up into his eyes. A lump rose in Dexter’s throat, and he waited breathless for the experiment, facing the unpredictable compound that would form mysteriously from the elements of their lips. Then he saw – she communicated her excitement to him, lavishly, deeply, with kisses that were not a promise but a fulfillment. They aroused

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in him not hunger demanding renewal but surfeit that would demand more surfeit . . . kisses that were like charity, creating want by holding back nothing at all. It did not take him many hours to decide that he had wanted Judy Jones ever since he was a proud, desirous little boy.

began like that – and continued, with varying shades of intensity, on such a note right up to the dénouement. Dexter surrendered a part of himself to the most direct and unprincipled personality with which he had ever come in contact. Whatever Judy wanted, she went after with the full pressure of her charm. There was no divergence of method, no jockeying for position or premeditation of effects – there was a very little mental side to any of her affairs. She simply made men conscious to the highest degree of her physical loveliness. Dexter had no desire to change her. Her deficiencies were knit up with a passionate energy that transcended and justified them. When, as Judy’s head lay against his shoulder that first night, she whispered, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Last night I thought I was in love with a man and tonight I think I’m in love with you – ” It seemed to him a beautiful and romantic thing to say. It was the exquisite excitability that for the moment he controlled and owned. But a week later he was compelled to view this same quality in a different light. She took him in her roadster to a picnic supper, and after supper she disappeared, likewise in her roadster, with another man. Dexter became enormously upset and was scarcely able to be decently civil to the other people present. When she assured him that she had not kissed the other man, he knew she was lying – yet he was glad that she had taken the trouble to lie to him. He was, as he found before the summer ended, one of a varying dozen who circulated about her. Each of them had at one time been favored above all others – about half of them still basked in the solace of occasional sentimental revivals. Whenever one showed signs of dropping out through long neglect, she granted him a brief honeyed hour, which encouraged him to tag along for a year or so longer. Judy made these forays upon the helpless and defeated without malice, indeed half unconscious that there was anything mischievous in what she did. When a new man came to town every one

dropped out – dates were automatically canceled. The helpless part of trying to do anything about it was that she did it all herself. She was not a girl who could be “won” in the kinetic sense – she was proof against cleverness, she was proof against charm; if any of these assailed her too strongly she would immediately resolve the affair to a physical basis, and under the magic of her physical splendor the strong as well as the brilliant played her game and not their own. She was entertained only by the gratification of her desires and by the direct exercise of her own charm. Perhaps from so much youthful love, so many youthful lovers, she had come, in self-defense, to nourish herself wholly from within. Succeeding Dexter’s first exhilaration came restlessness and dissatisfaction. The helpless ecstasy of losing himself in her was opiate rather than tonic. It was fortunate for his work during the winter that those moments of ecstasy came infrequently. Early in their acquaintance it had seemed for a while that there was a deep and spontaneous mutual attraction that first August, for example – three days of long evenings on her dusky veranda, of strange wan kisses through the late afternoon, in shadowy alcoves or behind the protecting trellises of the garden arbors, of mornings when she was fresh as a dream and almost shy at meeting him in the clarity of the rising day. There was all the ecstasy of an engagement about it, sharpened by his realization that there was no engagement. It was during those three days that, for the first time, he had asked her to marry him. She said, “Maybe some day,” she said, “Kiss me,” she said, “I’d like to marry you,” she said “I love you” – she said – nothing. The three days were interrupted by the arrival of a New York man who visited at her house for half September. To Dexter’s agony, rumor engaged them. The man was the son of the president of a great trust company. But at

The quality of exaggeration, of thinness, which had made her passionate eyes and down-turning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly beautiful.

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the end of a month it was reported that Judy was yawning. At a dance one night she sat all evening in a motorboat with a local beau, while the New Yorker searched the club for her frantically. She told the local beau that she was bored with her visitor, and two days later he left. She was seen with him at the station, and it was reported that he looked very mournful indeed. On this note the summer ended. Dexter was twenty-four, and he found himself increasingly in a position to do as he wished. He joined two clubs in the city and lived at one of them. Though he was by no means an integral part of the stag lines at these clubs, he managed to be on hand at dances where Judy Jones was likely to appear. He could have gone out socially as much as he liked – he was an eligible young man, now, and popular with downtown fathers. His confessed devotion to Judy Jones had rather solidified his position. But he had no social aspirations and rather despised the dancing men who were always on tap for the Thursday or Saturday parties and who filled in at dinners with the younger married set. Already he was playing with the idea of going East to New York. He wanted to take Judy Jones with him. No disillusion as to the world in which she had grown up could cure his illusion as to her desirability. Remember that – for only in the light of it can what he did for her be understood. Eighteen months after he first met Judy Jones he became engaged to another girl. Her name was Irene Scheerer, and her father was one of the men who had always believed in Dexter. Irene was light-haired and sweet and honorable, and a little stout, and she had two suitors whom she pleasantly relinquished when Dexter formally asked her to marry him. Summer, fall, winter, spring, another summer, another fall – so much he had given of his active life to the incorrigible lips of Judy Jones. She had treated him with interest, with encouragement, with malice, with indifference, with contempt. She had inflicted on him the innumerable little slights and indignities possible in such a case – as if in revenge for having ever cared for him at all. She had beckoned him and yawned at him and beckoned him again and he had responded often with bitterness and narrowed eyes. She had brought him ecstatic happiness and intolerable agony of spirit. She had caused him untold inconvenience and not a little trouble. She had insulted him, and she

had ridden over him, and she had played his interest in her against his interest in his work – for fun. She had done everything to him except to criticize him – this she had not done – it seemed to him only because it might have sullied the utter indifference she manifested and sincerely felt toward him. When autumn had come and gone again it occurred to him that he could not have Judy Jones. He had to beat this into his mind but he convinced himself at last. He lay awake at night for a while and argued it over. He told himself the trouble and the pain she had caused him, he enumerated her glaring deficiencies as a wife. Then he said to himself that he loved her, and after a while he fell asleep. For a week, lest he imagined her husky voice over the telephone or her eyes opposite him at lunch, he worked hard and late, and at night he went to his office and plotted out his years. At the end of a week he went to a dance and cut in on her once. For almost the first time since they had met he did not ask her to sit out with him or tell her that she was lovely. It hurt him that she did not miss these things – that was all. He was not jealous when he saw that there was a new man tonight. He had been hardened against jealousy long before. He stayed late at the dance. He sat for an hour with Irene Scheerer and talked about books and about music. He knew very little about either. But he was beginning to be master of his own time now, and he had a rather priggish notion that he – the young and already fabulously successful Dexter Green – should know more about such things. That was in October, when he was twentyfive. In January, Dexter and Irene became engaged. It was to be announced in June, and they were to be married three months later. The Minnesota winter prolonged itself interminably, and it was almost May when the winds came soft and the snow ran down into Black Bear Lake at last. For the first time in over a year Dexter was enjoying a certain tranquility of spirit. Judy Jones had been in Florida, and afterward in Hot Springs, and somewhere she had been engaged, and somewhere she had broken it off. At first, when Dexter had definitely given her up, it had made him sad that people still linked them together and asked for news of her, but when he began to be placed at dinner next to Irene Scheerer people didn’t ask him about her any more – they told him about her.

He ceased to be an authority on her. May at last. Dexter walked the streets at night when the darkness was damp as rain, wondering that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him. May one year back had been marked by Judy’s poignant, unforgivable, yet forgiven turbulence – it had been one of those rare times when he fancied she had grown to care for him. That old penny’s worth of happiness he had spent for this bushel of content. He knew that Irene would be no more than a curtain spread behind him, a hand moving among gleaming tea-cups, a voice calling to children… fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the varying hours and seasons… slender lips, down-turning, dropping to his lips and bearing him up into a heaven of eyes . . . The thing was deep in him. He was too strong and alive for it to die lightly. In the middle of May when the weather balanced for a few days on the thin bridge that led to deep summer he turned in one night at Irene’s house. Their engagement was to be announced in a week now – no one would be surprised at it. And tonight they would sit together on the lounge at the University Club and look on for an hour at the dancers. It gave him a sense of solidity to go with her – she was so sturdily popular, so intensely “great.” He mounted the steps of the brownstone house and stepped inside. “Irene,” he called. Mrs. Scheerer came out of the living room to meet him. “Dexter,” she said, “Irene’s gone upstairs with a splitting headache. She wanted to go with you but I made her go to bed.” “Nothing serious, I – ” “Oh, no. She’s going to play golf with you in the morning. You can spare her for just one night, can’t you, Dexter?” Her smile was kind. She and Dexter liked each other. In the living room he talked for a moment before he said good night. Returning to the University Club, where he had rooms, he stood in the doorway for a moment and watched the dancers. He leaned against the doorpost, nodded at a man or two – yawned. “Hello, darling.” The familiar voice at his elbow startled him. Judy Jones had left a man and crossed the room to him – Judy Jones, a slender enameled doll in

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cloth of gold: gold in a band at her head, gold in two slipper points at her dress’s hem. The fragile glow of her face seemed to blossom as she smiled at him. A breeze of warmth and light blew through the room. His hands in the pockets of his dinner jacket tightened spasmodically. He was filled with a sudden excitement. “When did you get back?” he asked casually. “Come here and I’ll tell you about it.” She turned and he followed her. She had been away – he could have wept at the wonder of her return. She had passed through enchanted streets, doing things that were like provocative music. All mysterious happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her, come back with her now. She turned in the doorway. “Have you a car here? If you haven’t, I have.” “I have a coupé.” In then, with a rustle of golden cloth. He slammed the door. Into so many cars she had stepped – like this – like that – her back against the leather, so – her elbow resting on the door – waiting. She would have been soiled long since had there been anything to soil her – except herself – but this was her own self outpouring. With an effort he forced himself to start the car and back into the street. This was nothing, he must remember. She had done this before, and he had put her behind him, as he would have crossed a bad account from his books. He drove slowly downtown and, affecting abstraction, traversed the deserted streets of the business section, peopled here and there where a movie was giving out its crowd or where consumptive or pugilistic youth lounged in front of pool halls. The clink of glasses and the slap of hands on the bars issued from saloons, cloisters of glazed glass and dirty yellow light. She was watching him closely and the silence was embarrassing, yet in this crisis he could find no casual word with which to profane the hour. At a convenient turning he began to zigzag back toward the University Club. “Have you missed me?” she asked suddenly. “Everybody missed you.” He wondered if she knew of Irene Scheerer. She had been back only a day – her absence had been almost contemporaneous with his engagement. “What a remark!” Judy laughed sadly – without sadness. She looked at him searchingly. He became absorbed in the dashboard. “You’re handsomer than you used to be,” she

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said thoughtfully. “Dexter, you have the most rememberable eyes.” He could have laughed at this, but he did not laugh. It was the sort of thing that was said to sophomores. Yet it stabbed at him. “I’m awfully tired of everything, darling.” She called every one darling, endowing the endearment with careless, individual camaraderie. “I wish you’d marry me.” The directness of this confused him. He should have told her now that he was going to marry another girl, but he could not tell her. He could as easily have sworn that he had never loved her. “I think we’d get along,” she continued, on the same note, “unless probably you’ve forgotten me and fallen in love with another girl.” Her confidence was obviously enormous. She had said, in effect, that she found such a thing impossible to believe, that if it were true he had merely committed a childish indiscretion – and probably to show off. She would forgive him, because it was not a matter of any moment but rather something to be brushed aside lightly. “Of course you could never love anybody but me,” she continued. “I like the way you love me. Oh, Dexter, have you forgotten last year?” “No, I haven’t forgotten.” “Neither have I!” Was she sincerely moved – or was she carried along by the wave of her own acting? “I wish we could be like that again,” she said, and he forced himself to answer: “I don’t think we can.” “I suppose not… I hear you’re giving Irene Scheerer a violent rush.” There was not the faintest emphasis on the name, yet Dexter was suddenly ashamed. “Oh, take me home,” cried Judy suddenly; “I don’t want to go back to that idiotic dance – with those children.” Then, as he turned up the street that led to the residence district, Judy began to cry quietly to herself. He had never seen her cry before. The dark street lightened, the dwellings of the rich loomed up around them, he stopped his coupé in front of the great white bulk of the Mortimer Joneses house, somnolent, gorgeous, drenched with the splendor of the damp moonlight. Its solidity startled him. The strong walls, the steel of the girders, the breadth and beam and pomp of it were there only to bring out the contrast with the young beauty beside him. It was sturdy to accentuate

her slightness – as if to show what a breeze could be generated by a butterfly’s wing. He sat perfectly quiet, his nerves in wild clamor, afraid that if he moved he would find her irresistibly in his arms. Two tears had rolled down her wet face and trembled on her upper lip. “I’m more beautiful than anybody else,” she said brokenly, “why can’t I be happy?” Her moist eyes tore at his stability – her mouth turned slowly downward with an exquisite sadness: “I’d like to marry you if you’ll have me, Dexter. I suppose you think I’m not worth having, but I’ll be so beautiful for you, Dexter.” A million phrases of anger, pride, passion, hatred, tenderness fought on his lips. Then a perfect wave of emotion washed over him, carrying off with it a sediment of wisdom, of convention, of doubt, of honor. This was his girl who was speaking, his own, his beautiful, his pride. “Won’t you come in?” He heard her draw in her breath sharply. Waiting. “All right,” his voice was trembling, “I’ll come in.”

May at last. Dexter walked the streets at night when the darkness was damp as rain, wondering that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him.

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was strange that neither when it was over nor a long time afterward did he regret that night. Looking at it from the perspective of ten years, the fact that Judy’s flare for him endured just one month seemed of little importance. Nor did it matter that by his yielding he subjected himself to a deeper agony in the end and gave serious hurt to Irene Scheerer and to Irene’s parents, who had befriended him. There was nothing sufficiently pictorial about Irene’s grief to stamp itself on his mind. Dexter was at bottom hard-minded. The attitude of the city on his action was of no importance to him, not because he was going to leave the city, but because any outside attitude on the situation seemed superficial. He was completely indifferent to popular opinion.

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Nor, when he had seen that it was no use, that he did not possess in himself the power to move fundamentally or to hold Judy Jones, did he bear any malice toward her. He loved her, and he would love her until the day he was too old for loving – but he could not have her. So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness. Even the ultimate falsity of the grounds upon which Judy terminated the engagement that she did not want to “take him away” from Irene – Judy, who had wanted nothing else – did not revolt him. He was beyond any revulsion or any amusement. He went East in February with the intention of selling out his laundries and settling in New York – but the war came to America in March and changed his plans. He returned to the West, handed over the management of the business to his partner, and went into the first officers’ training camp in late April. He was one of those young thousands who greeted the war with a certain amount of relief, welcoming the liberation from webs of tangled emotion.

his story is not his biography, remember, although things creep into it which have nothing to do with those dreams he had when he was young. We are almost done with them and with him now. There is only one more incident to be related here, and it happens seven years farther on. It took place in New York, where he had done well – so well that there were no barriers too high for him. He was thirty-two years old, and, except for one flying trip immediately after the war, he had not been West in seven years. A man named Devlin from Detroit came into his office to see him in a business way, and then and there this incident occurred, and closed out, so to speak, this particular side of his life. “So you’re from the Middle West,” said the man Devlin with careless curiosity. “That’s funny – I thought men like you were probably born and raised on Wall Street. You know – wife of one of my best friends in Detroit came from your city. I was an usher at the wedding.” Dexter waited with no apprehension of what was coming. “Judy Simms,” said Devlin with no particular interest; “Judy Jones she was once.” “Yes, I knew her.” A dull impatience spread

over him. He had heard, of course, that she was married – perhaps deliberately he had heard no more. “Awfully nice girl,” brooded Devlin meaninglessly, “I’m sort of sorry for her.” “Why?” Something in Dexter was alert, receptive, at once. “Oh, Lud Simms has gone to pieces in a way. I don’t mean he ill-uses her, but he drinks and runs around.” “Doesn’t she run around?” “No. Stays at home with her kids.” “Oh.” “She’s a little too old for him,” said Devlin. “Too old!” cried Dexter. “Why, man, she’s only twenty-seven.” He was possessed with a wild notion of rushing out into the streets and taking a train to Detroit. He rose to his feet spasmodically. “I guess you’re busy,” Devlin apologized quickly. “I didn’t realize – ” “No, I’m not busy,” said Dexter, steadying his voice. “I’m not busy at all. Not busy at all. Did you say she was – twenty-seven? No, I said she was twenty-seven.” “Yes, you did,” agreed Devlin dryly. “Go on, then. Go on.” “What do you mean?” “About Judy Jones.” Devlin looked at him helplessly. “Well, that’s, I told you all there is to it. He treats her like the devil. Oh, they’re not going to get divorced or anything. When he’s particularly outrageous she forgives him. In fact, I’m inclined to think she loves him. She was a pretty girl when she first came to Detroit.” A pretty girl! The phrase struck Dexter as ludicrous. “Isn’t she – a pretty girl, any more?” “Oh, she’s all right.” “Look here,” said Dexter, sitting down suddenly, “I don’t understand. You say she was a ‘pretty girl’ and now you say she’s ‘all right.’ I don’t understand what you mean – Judy Jones wasn’t a pretty girl at all. She was a great beauty. Why, I knew her, I knew her. She was – ” Devlin laughed pleasantly. “I’m not trying to start a row,” he said. “I think Judy’s a nice girl and I like her. I can’t understand how a man like Lud Simms could fall madly in love with her, but he did.” Then he added: “Most of the women like her.” Dexter looked closely at Devlin, thinking

wildly that there must be a reason for this, some insensitivity in the man or some private malice. “Lots of women fade just like that,” Devlin snapped his fingers. “You must have seen it happen. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how pretty she was at her wedding. I’ve seen her so much since then, you see. She has nice eyes.” A sort of dullness settled down upon Dexter. For the first time in his life he felt like getting very drunk. He knew that he was laughing loudly at something Devlin had said, but he did not know what it was or why it was funny. When, in a few minutes, Devlin went, he lay down on his lounge and looked out the window at the New York skyline into which the sun was sinking in dull lovely shades of pink and gold. He had thought that having nothing else to lose he was invulnerable at last – but he knew that he had just lost something more, as surely as if he had married Judy Jones and seen her fade away before his eyes. The dream was gone. Something had been taken from him. In a sort of panic he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to bring up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf links and the dry sun and the gold color of her neck’s soft down. And her mouth damp to his kisses and her eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness like new fine linen in the morning. Why, these things were no longer in the world! They had existed and they existed no longer. For the first time in years the tears were streaming down his face. But they were for himself now. He did not care about mouth and eyes and moving hands. He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never go back any more. The gates were closed, the sun was gone down, and there was no beauty but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished. “Long ago,” he said, “long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.” Note: This short story originally appeared in Metropolitan Magazine in 1922.

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Strokes in Time

Jaermman & Stübi Watches: The Timepiece of Golf

he system is much like that of a chronograph. There is one counter for strokes per hole, a second counter to keep track of total strokes per game and a retrograde counter to display holes played. A secure pusher resets the first counter automatically and the others can all be reset when the game is finished. This new invention has gone beyond telling time, which of course, all Jaermann & Stübi watches do, accurately. And if Urs Jaermann was an avid golfer, this new golf watch may have never been invented. Inspired by the interference to his concentration counting strokes during a round, Jaermann promptly set out to take that equation out of his game. This, in fact, was not only the birth of innovation, but also of the company itself. It was Jaermann’s dream and Pascal Stübi’s experience creating watches that forged a partnership nearly unmatched in the watch industry. Visit Jaermann-Stuebi.com.

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Queen of Golf QG4 For golf-loving ladies, a golf watch with a 38 mm stainless steel case with rounded pushers and a mechanical counter for the number of strokes at the hole to be played and a totalizer for the score after 18 holes. Comes with an A10-2 caliber automatic movement, visible through the glass back and protected by a shock absorber.

Queen of Golf QG6 For golf-loving ladies, Jaermann & St端bi has reinvented the golf watch Seve with a mechanical golf Ballesteros counter: a 38 mm stainless SB1 steel case with rounded A golf watch and with a mechanical pushers a case forged from counter for the number of the steel of theatgolf strokes the hole to be clubs with which played and a totalizer for Seve Ballesteros the score after 18 holes wonhave the Chunichi been played. Comes Crowns with Openan in A10-2 caliber 1991 in automatic a strictly movement, limited editionthrough of visible the glass 50 watches for back and protected by a the entire world, shock absorber. with the personal signature of Seve Ballesteros.

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Trans Atlantic TA3 For the first time, a watch by Jaermann & St端bi is equipped with a COSCcertified A10 caliber automatic chronometer movement. A table on the rotary bezel of this model shows the most common golfing distances in both meters and yards. The Trans Atlantic model has a mechanical counter for the number of strokes at the hole to be played, a totalizer for the overall score after 18 holes played and a retrograde display for the hole being currently played. The rotary bezel allows players to compare their scores after a round of golf with their handicaps.

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Referred to as simply “the Master,” Sir Pelham Grenville “Plummie” Wodehouse was perhaps one of the finest, and funniest, golf writers of all time. And “The Clicking of Cuthbert” only strengthens that argument. Sit back, relax, and listen closely as the Oldest Member leads us all on a little lesson in golf . . . and life. By P.G. Wodehouse

audio Accent

Billie

the Modern Record Console by Symbol Audio

Holiday melodies were meant to crackle and pop. Sure, remastered tunes have their place, but a music collection consisting of downloads, audio files and even CDs, is incomplete and lacking without that tangible quality found in original vinyl. Slip it from its sleeve, drop the needle and Billie performs a private concert for you and yours. As the flagship of the Symbol Audio line, the Modern Record Console pays homage to “all in one” console Hi-Fi’s of the 1950s and is the perfect wood-cased arena of solid American walnut where Billie can belt out the blues. Lift the lid and expose the hand-built tube amplifier and turntable set into patinated steel plates. Here you’ll begin to discover, or rediscover, a one-of-a-kind music console that integrates traditionally styled, yet custom-built electronics with

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modern wireless capabilities. The hand-wired tube amplifier delivers a warm, pure signal to the two 6.5-inch full-range speakers. A second dedicated amplifier and subwoofer, tucked into the steel base, are designed to extend the low-end frequency and provide added richness to the sound. The built-in turntable has a carbon fiber tonearm fitted with a Sumiko Blue Point #2 cartridge for playing vinyl. In comes modern technology. Switch the selector from turntable to Wi-Fi and stream from any digital source through the built-in wireless router and control music selections from your iPhone, iPod, iPad or computer. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s truly the best of both worlds, designed seamlessly into a bespoke piece of fine furniture. No doubt this swanky sideboard will be the focal point of any interior and sure to be a gathering place while entertaining guests or wooing your woman. Visit SymbolAudio.com

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Stewart X7 Lithium Remote Trolley

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tewart’s X7 Lithium Remote Trolley is great for your game, allowing you to comfortably walk while enjoying the day without having to tote a heavy bag. With its remote control, which allows the user to move it forward, back, left or right, the X7 is completely hands-off. The 50-meter range grants golfers the freedom to make last-minute club-changing decisions without having to walk back to the bag. The X7 Lithium is the latest generation of the multi-award winning X-Series from Stewart Golf. Originally launched in 2003 as the X1 Remote, the X-Series is recognized as one of the world’s finest remote-controlled machines. Not only is it fun to use, the X-Series will help your game by allowing you to walk the course unencumbered by your equipment. With the X7 Lithium, all you do is walk. Retail is $1,635.00. Visit StewartGolf.co.uk.

Gear

elegant accoutrements

MOda manhattan baggage by stewart golf

ODA is a brand directed at the discerning lady golfer and is owned and operated by Stewart Golf Ltd, the British manufacturer of premium golf trolleys, bags and accessories. MODA was conceived after a chance conversation left Stewart Golf executives looking at the available range of golf products aimed specifically at the ladies who enjoy spending time on the links. They quickly realized that most “ladies” products were derived from men’s products with a few flashes of pink or baby blue rather than black or red. Since launching in 2010, their designers have created a full range of stylish items, including head covers, shoe bags, handbags, luggage and more that revolve around fashionable golf bags. And in case you were wondering, MODA is the Italian word for fashion. Visit MODAGolf.com.

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Any discussion of whiskies must start with a fundamental truth: There is no such thing as a bad whisky. By Jameson Parker

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llow me to present my credentials. I am something of an authority on whisky. Other outdoor writers may know more than I about ballistics, or wingshooting or stalking techniques, or survival skills, but when it comes to the water of life (the word “whisky” comes for the Gaelic uisge beatha, which means, literally, water of life), I bow my head to no man. Any discussion of whisky must start with a fundamental truth: there is no such thing as bad whisky. Some whiskies are better than others, but any whisky is better than no whisky, and more is usually better than less. Whisky is the traditional libation taken at lunchtime during driven shoots in Scotland and northern England. These shoots normally occur at a time of the year when either whisky or antifreeze would be equally welcome. Of course, in some parts of Scotland it is also the traditional libation taken at breakfast, teatime and dinner, as well as at lunch. They’re wonderful people, the Scots. Also, please note the spelling: whiskey refers to the product from Ireland or America. In this article, we will concern ourselves only with the Scotch variety, and savor the others another time. Whisky has probably been in existence

Substance

for at least a thousand years, but the first known record of whisky-making dates from 1494. However, it wasn’t until two hundred years later, following the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie at the Battle of Culloden (where, I am proud to say, half of my ancestors, the Buchanans, did their bit and were buried in a mass grave for their pains) that the Highlands of Scotland were opened up and Highland whisky became known to the world. Unfortunately, it was not known in any positive sense. The British repression of the Scots following Culloden was brutal, and whisky was taxed so exorbitantly the Scots resorted to manufacturing it secretly in hidden glens. In 1823, the Duke of Gordon made a deal with the British government, agreeing to pay a reasonable tax for his whisky in exchange for suppressing the illegal stills of other less Machiavellian distillers. Then came the questions of what precisely was whisky. The Highland whisky of those days was a massively potent and inconsistent libation distilled in pot sills. For reasons that no one seems to understand, the shape of a pot still influences the taste of the whisky, and each distillery had – and has to this day – distinctly shaped stills which, along with the water – and possibly even the air – in specific glens gave their product its unique flavor. In contrast, the patent still, or continuous still, developed in 1831, could be erected anywhere and allowed the distilling of grain for a milder flavor and more consistent product. The patent still soon became associated with the Lowland, and Highlanders cried foul. The upshot was a Royal Commission, appointed by Parliament, that ultimately ruled both products could be called Scotch whisky. A happy thing for us that they did so, for while the single malts are justly revered, many of the blends are every bit as fine. Remember: there is no such thing as bad whisky. So what’s the difference between grain and malt whisky? Grain whisky is made from corn and is generally purer and milder than malt. Malt whisky is distilled from fermented barley malt and can range in taste from very subtle to almost overwhelming. And just as there are single malt whiskies. And just as there are blended (grain) whiskies, there are also blended malt whiskies.

photo by T. ryan stalvey

Most malt whiskies come from the Speyside region of northeastern Scotland, followed by the Highland, Lowland and Islay regions, each of which has its own distinctive style of malt whisky. Most of the grain distilleries are in central Scotland. Blended whisky generally means a ratio of roughly 60 percent grain to 40 percent malt, but that blend may contain as many as 50 different malts and two or three grains.

here are all kinds of frightfully snooty rules governing how one should drink one’s whisky: in a “nose glass,” never in a snifter or tumbler; with just a few drops of water, never anything so barbaric as ice; soda only for blended whiskies, never for single malt; and only a cretin mixes his whisky with anything other than water or soda. Oh, poppycock. Get a life. Really good whisky, like Cognac or fine wine, should stand on its own, but if that ain’t your style, so be it. I would recommend that if you are trying a new whisky for the first time, sip it straight or with just a touch of water to see if the two of you will get along. After that, if you want to mix with RC Cola or Dr. Pepper or whatever, that’s your business. Drink it in whatever ways suits your fancy. One of my best and most cherished whisky experiences is of sharing the stuff, straight out of a stainless steel flask, with a beautiful girl as we sat in a pickup truck on an isolated country road well after midnight, waiting for the owner of the flask to deliver two horses. I remember thinking that it was one of the most exquisite single malts I had ever had the privilege of tasting. I was a little stunned to find out, when the owner of the flask finally arrived with our horses, that is was actually a perfectly mundane commercially blended Scotch. It was the girl beside me who made it so outstanding, and I married her promptly. Is there a best Scotch, one which stands out above all the rest? Of course. Whichever one you like the best. If you haven’t found it yet, you have a merry journey ahead of you. There are about 125 distilleries in Scotland, and Heaven only knows how many blended whiskies, so it’s going to take some serious research on your part to find the one you like the best. If you should want some company on this quest, I’m available.

photo by T. ryan stalvey

Leatherheads

Classic Football Helmets by past time sports.

1940s-style Notre dame and Michigan Yellow Wing Leather Football Helmets.

oday, football helmets are an ever-changing design. From paint and logos to the very foundation of why players wear them – to avoid concussions. Long ago, before Gerald Ford became president, he was a star football player at the University of Michigan. But do you think his helmet brandished the famed wolverine claws along its exterior? No. Ford’s helmet, like many of that era, was made of leather. In fact, the first record of any headgear being worn on the gridiron took place in 1896, when Lafayette College half back George “Rose” Barclay began using straps and earpieces to protect his ears. It wasn’t until the 1900s that hardened leather was used to somewhat protect the skull from direct blows. However, those helmets had many downfalls. They were still very soft and

Collectibles

1905-1914 Flat top helmet

lacked facemasks, making injuries very common, much more so than today. They also didn’t breathe well, causing overheating during the warmer summer months. Another downside was the tight earflaps that made it difficult to hear. While undoubtedly drowning out crowd noise, not hearing your quarterback audible at the line probably caused some broken plays. It’s kind of hard to imagine having such little protection in one of the fastest, most reckless sports on Earth. By the 1950s, polymers and plastics ended the leather football helmet era as advanced research sought out ways to avoid concussions, broken noses, shattered teeth, you name it. Facemasks were added to protect, well, the face, and especially the eyes. By the 21st century, teams began changing the design on helmets as if they were home and away jerseys. Past Time Sports of Richardson, Texas, is bringing back some of that early football history with their wide array of handcrafted, leather football helmets, which they’ve been making since 1996. The helmets are the exact size and texture of what you’d have been wearing in the early days, and have been sold to the Pro Football’s Hall of Fame store, as well as universities around the country where they are featured in collections and catalogs. Even though the gift-giving season has recently passed us by, consider one of these unique, historical replicas to showcase in your rec room or man cave. And don’t forget to check out Past Time Sport’s other memorabilia, including handcrafted, replicated baseball gloves and old balls symbolizing the Golden Era of sports. If you’re looking to add traditional and nostalgic memorabilia to live on in your own sport’s collection, look no further. Visit PastTimeSports.biz.

Collectibles

DEATH of a

Pinehurst Princess

With a stern resolve to revisit, and investigate, on one of the most profound unsolved mystery’s linked to the golfing world, Diane McLellan, the self-proclaimed “average person that you’d probably walk by on the street and never notice,” became the catalyst to Steve Bouser’s Death of a Pinehurst Princess.

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was a single old photograph, picked up at a yard sale, that turned Diane McLellan into a history detective. She found it among a mixed bag of old black-and-white scenes from the golden age of Pinehurst, most of which involved golfers, racehorses and hunting dogs. But she kept coming back to that one battered old print, bent and torn around the edges and aged to subtle tones of sepia and walnut brown. At first glance, the image looked like little more than a snapshot of a halfdozen guys killing time in front of a low building. But a more careful look revealed layer after layer of detail, and there were intriguingly cryptic, handwritten inscriptions around the edges. It wasn’t hard to guess who the six men in the foreground were: hotshot photographers, apparently from bigcity newspapers and wire services. But what were they doing down south in Smallsville? Covering a major story of some kind, perhaps. They wore wellpressed three-piece suits with razor-

Mystery

sharp creases in the pants and folded handkerchiefs in their breast pockets. They were standing in a dirt street or yard in front of a simple one-story wooden building, evidently during a recess in some kind of official proceeding. All six proudly displayed the latest thing in state-of-the-art imaging devices: bulky Speed Graphic cameras with shiny new leather gadget bags and identical flash attachments the size of satellite dishes. The ample margins of the photographs displayed a random assortment of semidecipherable notes. “Larry ‘Nuts’ Byrd” read the large, flourishing signature at the bottom. Somebody named Al identified himself as “the city boy from the country.” In the lower right corner was this message: “Hope you are in Cuba when I spend my honeymoon in N.Y. – A.E. Scott, Wash DC.” But it was the scribbled notation angled across the upper left, with one word she could only guess at, that grabbed Diane and wouldn’t let her go. CHAPTER I: OCCURRENCE AT EDGEWOOD COTTAGE

hortly after 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday, February 27, 1935, butler Emanuel Birch went to the front room of Edgewood Cottage, parted a curtain and glanced outside. It was going to be a cold, sunny morning – downright frigid for the normally temperate little inland resort colony of Pinehurst, North Carolina. The diminutive Birch, a black man of indeterminate age whom everyone called “Mannie,” expected to see an automobile sitting out there – the twelve-cylinder Packard convertible roadster whose upkeep was his responsibility. But on this morning, the horseshoe drive stood empty, except for a scattering of longleaf pine needles that had fallen onto the white pea gravel. Birch’s newlywed employers, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Bradley Davidson, had come home from a night of partying at who knew what hour. Normally they would leave the car in the driveway. But they had the use of a garage at the back of the nextdoor neighbor’s house, and on this night

Elva Statler, who was an accomplished athlete, playing golf at Pinehurst in 1932.

image courtesy the tufts archive

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they apparently had decided to drive the Packard back there and put it away before they and their houseguests came inside to sleep off their hangovers. After doing some routine chores, the butler made his morning drive to the Pinehurst Post Office to check on the box the Davidsons maintained there. It was well after 8:00 a.m. when he pulled back into the rear yard of the leased “cottage,” really a ten-room mansion. He walked toward the porch with the frosty grass crunching under his feet. As he stepped into the kitchen next to his servant’s quarters and took off his jacket, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted him. Pearl Watson, the cook and maid, was grinding for the descent of the white folks. As they waited, the two domestics exchanged clucks of disapproval about the sometimes scandalous goings-on involving the girlish mistress and older master of the house and their racy circle of friends, who acted as if this were still the Jazz Age of the twenties instead of the Great Depression of the thirties. The usual practice at Edgewood Cottage was for the two servants to awaken the residents and guests at 9:00 a.m. if they weren’t already up by then. As that hour approached, Birch helped Pearl start breakfast. But he kept going to the window and looking out at the garage across the way. Was the car there or not? What if Mrs. Davidson had taken one of her early morning drives and fallen into some kind of trouble? In any case, if the car was there, he ought to see if it needed cleaning up. Birch put his jacket back on, went outside and crossed to the garage. Arriving at the rightmost of the three segmented wooden doors, he took hold of its steel handle and hefted it upward, waiting as it completed its smooth course along the curved metal tracks and stopped overhead. The twang of the vibrating springs faded to silence. The black Packard sat there against the right wall, having been backed in. Birch took a step inside the dim building and reached up to begin pulling the door closed behind him. Then, as the warm air inside started flowing out, it hit him in the face: the powerful, stifling odor of

Mystery

trapped exhaust fumes. Birch coughed and covered his mouth. He pushed the door back open and again stepped outside to take a few gasps of fresh, cold air. Then, turning back towards the garage, he saw that the driver’s side door of the Packard was open. And something was protruding from beneath it: a woman’s foot, wearing a house slipper. “I was scared,” Birch would later recall. “But I walked over and looked. It was Mrs. Davidson.” She was clad in a light wool sweater and skirt that didn’t seem warm enough for this bitter weather. And what was she doing in that odd, contorted position, sprawled half in and half out of the car, one knee on the running board, face downward, arms extended across the seat and floorboard? Still coughing and covering his mouth, Birched stepped around the driver’s door – glancing at the dashboard to notice that the ignition switch was still on though the engine had stopped running – and tentatively approached his mistress. He knelt and placed his hand on her shoulder, which still felt warm. “Mrs. Davidson, get up!” he cried, shaking her. But she didn’t move.

urtis Campaigne and his wife, Edna, visitors from New Jersey, were still sound asleep in the downstairs guest room of Edgewood Cottage at 9:00 a.m., so they never heard Birch’s anguished cry at the door of Brad Davidson’s room upstairs: “My God, Mr. Davidson, Mrs. Davidson is dead!” But they knew at once that they had a bad situation on their hands when the maid, Pearl, came banging on their door seconds thereafter and jolted them awake with an urgent notification: “Something has happened to Mrs. Davidson in the garage!” The Campaignes followed the agitated Pearl through the house to the back door. There, Edna paused while Curtis proceeded across the frosty backyard, half-walking and half-running as he approached the three-car garage in the adjoining lot. Inside, he could dimly see the tall figure of Brad Davidson, who had thrown on a pair

of trousers and a sweater over his pajamas. He was standing with the shorter Birch on the far side of the 1934 Packard, which sat parked with its chrome-emblazoned front end facing the open sliding door, its shiny black finish emitting a sinister glint. As he walked around the open driver’s side door, Campaigne saw it: the youthful, athletic body of Elva Statler Davidson, motionless as a wax museum figure and wearing a brown sweater, wool skirt and slippers, lying oddly crouched in the car’s doorway, half in and half out. She looked still and small and alone, dwarfed by the massive car, her short-cropped, dark blond head bowed in final defeat. Brad Davidson knelt at his wife’s side, feeling for a pulse and finding none. There were no funeral homes in Pinehurst, no ambulance service anywhere near. Brad had Pearl telephone the house physician for the Carolina Hotel, Dr. M.W. Marr, who lived across Linden Road and down a few houses. As Birch waited for him out by the street, Brad took hold of Elva’s body as if intending to pick her up or make her more comfortable. But at that moment, Curtis Campaigne blurted something out. “Don’t touch her!” he cried. Davidson looked up at him questioningly. Campaigne explained that he had “read someplace that a body shouldn’t be touched under such circumstances, if there was a chance of murder.” Murder? Who said anything about murder? Ignoring Campaigne’s advice, Brad sat on the running board and cradled his wife’s head in his lap. As they waited there, Campaigne asked the seemingly distraught Brad what he thought had happened. He said he had no idea. The last time he had seen his wife, he said, was when they parted sometime before 5:00 a.m., more than four hours previously. The last words she spoke, he said, were, “Goodnight, darling.” When Dr. Marr finally arrived at Edgewood Cottage, carrying his black bag and not even having bothered to dress fully, he was quickly escorted back to the garage. There was no time for even subdued handshakes. He got right to his grim work. As the other looked on anxiously,

Marr knelt there amid the tools and garden implements, applied his stethoscope and lifted a half-closed eyelid to check on Elva’s reflex responses. He took only a minute to ascertain that, alas, it was too late for him or any other person on Earth to do any good. No heartbeat, no breath. Elva Davidson was quite dead. Though the fit young body had begun displaying the first signs of rigor mortis, he was surprised at how warm it still felt. The coloration of the face, which Dr. Marr described as markedly “flushed,” provided him with a broad hint as to the cause of death. Still, whether acting on the off chance that the girl could be revived or going through the motions in an effort to make her distraught husband and friends feel that something was being done, Dr. Marr stood up. “Let’s get her to the hospital,” he ordered. Brad Davidson, with assistance from Curtis Campaigne and Birch, wrapped Elva in a blanket, picked her up and laid her as gently as possible in the cramped back seat of the low-slung Packard. Her body, weighing about 130 pounds, was all dead weight, still awkwardly limp even if it was just beginning to stiffen. Then Brad, with Campaigne sitting next to him in the shotgun seat, pulled out onto McKenzie Road, drove up to Linden Road, turned right and stepped on the gas. Dr. Marr followed in his own car. he new Moore County Hospital, a source of great community pride, stood three miles away on the other side of town. It fronted on Page Road, named for the family of the man who had sold the logged-over land that would become Pinehurst to James Walker Tufts in 1895. The route taken by

Then, turning back towards the garage, he saw that the driver’s side door of the Packard was open. And something was protruding from beneath it: a woman’s foot, wearing a house slipper.

Mystery

the little two-vehicle convoy, skirting the village on the south, took less than five minutes. The men got help conveying Elva to an examining room inside the hospital, where Dr. Marr and two attendants, using a respirator, began trying to revive her. They gamely continued to press their futile efforts for nearly two hours before the doctor finally gave up and officially declared his patient deceased at 11:20 a.m. Scarcely twelve hours earlier, Elva Statler Davidson, a bride of a few weeks, superb athlete, hotel heiress and society darling, had been hobnobbing with other socialites at a fancy charity dinner to benefit this very hospital. Now she lay cold and lifeless in one of its rooms. As mysterious as the circumstances leading to her death that morning were, several curious details that Dr. Marr and his assistants discovered: her body bore a number of bruises, some of them evidently fresh. Despite the raw February morning, she had been dressed inappropriately for a cold snap, wearing a sweater and a mismatched skirt that seemed way too big for her – so much so, it was later said, that if she had stood up, it might have fallen off. Rolled up in the hem of the sweater were a tube of lipstick, several golf tees and about thirteen dollars in cash. And, perhaps strangest of all, she wore no undergarments.

And there were the nagging questions raised by the bits and pieces of evidence that had so far surfaced. No matter how you looked at them, they didn’t seem to add up to a story that made a lot of sense.

CHAPTER II: A MELANCHOLY GYPSY TUNE

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he news raced around the village grapevine like fire along a fuse. By noon, almost everyone in the close-knit winter colony knew what had happened at Edgewood Cottage out on the corner of Linden Road and

Mystery

McKenzie. At that early point, many of the gossipers were attaching the “s” word to it: suicide. Locking oneself in a garage and turning on the engine had, after all, become a standard way of ending it all in the three decades since the advent of the automobile. “A horrible day,” Hemmie Tufts, granddaughter-in-law of Pinehurst founder James Walker Tufts and the friend who had introduced Brad and Elva just a year earlier, wrote in her diary. “Got word Elva had attempted suicide. Then Allie [Hemmie’s sister-in-law, Allie Vail] came in with the news that Elva was dead. Carbon monoxide. It all seemed so horrible after being together just last nite . . . We went to movies for escape. ‘All the King’s Horses.’ Took a walk alone. Couldn’t talk about it . . . All so horrible and unreal . . . Deadly sorry for Brad.” But some thoughtful residents had doubted from the beginning that a troubled Elva Statler Davidson had simply gassed herself and that was the end of the story. For one thing, there was the question of motive. “What people in Pinehurst’s winter playground of the rich cannot understand,” a United Press correspondent later wrote, “is why Mrs. Davidson should want to take her life. Outwardly, she had everything to live for: beauty, youth, wealth, social position and a husband who is a member of a prominent Washington family.” And there were the nagging questions raised by the bits and pieces of evidence that had so far surfaced. No matter how you looked at them, they didn’t seem to add up to a story that made a lot of sense. Whether or not there was going to be a trial, as such, this was clearly not going to be a cursory examination that would go away quickly – especially given the prominent cast of characters.

f all the mysteries hovering around the case of Elva Statler Davidson, none was so puzzling as the inexplicable, illogical position in which her body was found. At this early stage of discussion, every plausible explanation – suicide, murder or accident – seemed to leave a big question or two unanswered.

Elva Statlerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s adoptive father, Ellsworth Statler Sr., poses with his adoptive son, Ellsworth Jr., while playing golf at Pinehurst in January 1928. Ellsworth Jr. is thought to have been Elvaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s twin brother. Ellsworth Sr. died four months later.

image courtesy the tufts archive

Suicide: If a despondent young woman were determined to kill herself with carbon monoxide inside a closed garage, surely she would sit down comfortably behind the wheel, start the engine and lean back to let the gas do its work. As a poor second alternative, she might go sit or lie near the tailpipe in hopes of getting a quicker, more potent dose. Murder: On the other hand, if someone else were intent on murdering a young lady and making it look like suicide, wouldn’t he take care to place her body (presumably already dead or incapacitated through other means) behind the wheel? Surely the last thing he would do is to dump her in a pile sure to arouse suspicion and then go away. Accident: First of all, it was hard to imagine, under the circumstances that prevailed in this case, and considering how long it takes a lethal dose of monoxide to build up, how a fit young woman could possibly end up dying by accident in that garage, which had plenty of windows that could be broken out. And even if she had, was it likely she would end up being huddled how and where she was found? As described by that small group of heartsick and helpless witnesses who had seen her, the position almost sounded like that of one who had collapsed while climbing uphill on hands and knees. Or backing downhill. “If you were stepping out of a car backward and suddenly fainted,” a shaken Edna Campaigne told others in attempting to imagine a scenario that would somehow fit the awful thing she had seen that morning, “that would be the position her body was in.” An anonymous correspondent who

Lots was going on that night. “Mrs. Myron Marr [wife of Dr. Marr, who would have his hands full in a few hours] and Mrs. Percy Thomson will be in charge of a ‘take a chance’ booth, where the customers may win a small fortune or lose their shirts,” . . .

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Mystery

filed an Associated Press story on that first day seemed to lean toward the theory that Elva, known to suffer from insomnia, had taken an early morning drive and then somehow died accidentally while preparing for a trip to the golf course. But why would a young woman choose to take a drive or play a round of golf while wearing house slippers, someone else’s ill-fitting skirt and no hat, panties, girdle, brassiere, camisole or stockings?

ne of those harboring early misgivings about the case was Moore County sheriff Charles McDonald. Described as “a squared-away guy,” he had one of North Carolina’s most expansive counties (at more than seven hundred square miles, half the size of Rhode Island) to look after. And Pinehurst, an unincorporated village – really more of a company town – with no police department and no crime to speak of, was part of the sheriff ’s beat. The village had a lone constable, a man named Deese, but he seems to have bowed out early and left the investigation up to the high sheriff. McDonald himself took his own sweet time picking up on the gravity of what had happened. It was 10:00 a.m. on that first day – while Dr. Marr was still working in vain to bring some life back to the body – when somebody called the sheriff ’s office in Carthage with the news of “a lady dead at the hospital.” McDonald didn’t arrive in Pinehurst (twelve miles away) until 11:30 a.m. The hospital called again at noon, only to find that the sheriff had gone off to his weekly Kiwanis Club lunch. McDonald still had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth when he finally walked into the hospital a little after 1:00 p.m., but he quickly got down to business. He might have been a country boy, but he new right away that he had a big case on his beat, and it didn’t take him much longer to recognize that certain pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit together quite right. He made sure that another man became involved in the investigation from the start: Acting

Coroner Hugh Kelly. (Coroner Carl Fry was out of town.) McDonald and Kelly paid their first visit to Edgewood Cottage between 3:00 and 4:00 p.m. Neither had ever handled a case quite like this before, and they improvised as they went along. First of all, they wanted to find out more about what had happened the previous night, most of which the Davidsons and their friends had partied away.

he first party that the group had gone to after putting on their tuxes and evening gowns was the premier local social event of the year: the annual Hospital Ball at Pinehurst Country Club. “Everything that can be done to make a party a roaring success has been done by the finance committee of the hospital auxiliary, which is sponsoring the Charity Ball on February 26,” The Pilot had reported a few days before the event. “Fred Kibler’s Casa Nova orchestra will play, and we all know what excellent dance music that is.” Mr. and Mrs. Herb Vail, close friends to the Davidsons, weren’t just attending the dance. They were part of the entertainment. “At intervals during the evening,” the paper reported, “the Casa Novas will be relieved by the local amateur orchestra known delicately as the ‘B.O.’s,’ consisting of Mrs. Herbert Vail, Herbert Vail, Bob Page, John Leland and Liv Biddle… The dancing will take place in the regular ballroom. Specialty acts and stunts have been arranged to entertain between dances.” Herb Vail had become part of the Tufts family when his sister, Allie Vail, a goodlooking, dark-haired horsewoman and tournament-class tennis player, married Richard S. Tufts, grandson of patriarch James Walker Tufts and son of Leonard Tufts, president of Pinehurst Inc. Herb and Minnie could always be counted on to be the life of the party. Lots was going on that night. “Mrs. Myron Marr [wife of Dr. Marr, who would have his hands full in a few hours] and Mrs. Percy Thomson will be in charge of a ‘take a chance’ booth, where

the customers may win a small fortune or lose their shirts,” the paper advised. “Donald Sherrerd will act as official barker to lure suckers in!... Tickets for this gay three-ring circus are $5.00 for a couple and $3.00 for a single person.” So a good time would be had by all at the charity ball. Or almost all. There was one exception: Mrs. Henry Bradley Davidson. She was not having any fun at all. And she continued to be a party pooper all night, try though the others might to cheer her up and make her get with the program. Nothing seemed to go right in that regard. Local artists had contributed “posters of various kinds, amusing, decorative and even sketches of local celebrities,” which could be bought at auction. They were described as “just what you’ve been looking for to liven up some particular corner of a room that has never looked just right.” So Elva bought one of them, but Brad had been overheard harshly disapproving of her purchase in mock playful fashion rebuking her in front of others and plunging her even deeper into her apparent despair. Not even the strolling accordionist who had been engaged to wander among the seated guests, “playing any tune anybody asks for,” did anything to improve Elva’s spirits. In fact, he later made things even worse.

ont e s a nt i’s Sp a g h e tt i Camp was a roadhouse loc at e d n e a r a c re e k b ott om of f t h e O l d Morganton Road, which wound a kind of back route between Pinehurst and Southern Pines. The “camp” was really just an Italian restaurant housed in a rambling, wooded structure that looked as if it might have evolved section by section as a one-story wing was added on to an early two-story farmhouse. It had once served as a hunting lodge. There was an ancient stone chimney and weathered wooden siding that appeared never to have felt the touch of a paintbrush. Angelo Montesanti had brought his tribe to Moore County in 1912. Besides running

Mystery

the camp on the side, Angelo was the chef at the Highland Pines Inn during “the season.” In the summer, when Pinehurst mostly shut down, the family traveled to Charleroix, Michigan, to work at a sister inn. The casually inviting spaghetti camp was a popular spot with the fast Pinehurst crowd, which admittedly didn’t have a wide array of choices for evening entertainment. The central village had always been known for rolling the sidewalks up and storing them away at 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. Angelo w as s ou nd asle e p w he n someone came pounding on his locked door and demanding service sometime between 2:00 and 2:30 a.m. on Wednesday, February 27. He looked out into the yard to see a party of eighteen people, some yawning and a little unsteady on their feet, climbing out of a convoy of snazzy automobiles. The women wore rumpled evening gowns, the men tuxedos with their ties loosened. They had just come from the charity ball at the Pinehurst Country Club, they informed the proprietor, and they were starving. Whether welcoming an opportunity to live up to his own advertising slogan, “Where Hospitality Rules,” or (more likely) responding to the promise or expectations that this bunch of rich playboys and party girls would make this wee-hours imposition more than worth his while, Angelo complied and invited the gang of impromptu guests in. Soon he was turning up the lights, firing up the stoves and waking up the help.

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he inte r v ie we d spaghetti camp employees in the harsh light of that same day, Sheriff McDonald quickly zeroed in on one witness: a waiter named John Nostragiacomio, whom newspapers later would invariably describe as “bushy-haired.” The thing that struck him, the waiter said, was that while seventeen of the guests who had barged in were having a good time around the pulled-together tables, one of them most clearly was not: Elva Statler Davidson. “Everybody in the party except Mrs. Davidson was laughing

Mystery

and having fun,” he said. “She sat at the head of the table and her husband sat several chairs away from her. They had brought a harmonica player with them from the dance at the Country Club, and there was some music.” Nostragiacomio was wrong about the “harmonica” player. The musician was the aforementioned strolling accordion player, one Carlo Restivo, who had been brought along from the ball. But the waiter was certain of one thing: he didn’t see Elva Davidson smile once during her stay at his establishment. “Her eyes were wet,” he said, “and she finally began to cry. She cried very hard.” The bitter weeping continued for a long time, Nostragiacomio told investigators. He would notice it each time he brought another plate of steaming pasta, basket of crisp garlic bread or a bowl of salad to the table. The waiter also made a point of saying that he had not noticed Davidson’s husband making any attempt at all to comfort or console her. Rather, he seemed cold and remote, largely ignoring his conspicuously distraught bride as he talked, laughed and danced with others. Though not everyone who had danced at Montesanti’s could swear that they had seen Elva crying, and no one saw her quarreling with her husband at that stage, several friends recalled that she had “feigned gaiety but seemed depressed,” both at the charity ball and later at the spaghetti house. When the accordionist stopped near Elva, she requested a song. But when he played it, his fingers racing like spiders across the black and white keys, it only made Elva sob louder. The song that so affected her was described only as “a melancholy Gypsy tune.” The winter’s dawn was less than three hours away when the members of the party, suspended somewhere between intoxication and hangover, finally paid their bills and tips, toddled out into Montesanti’s sandy parking lot, bid each other adieu, slipped into their cold car seats and departed in their separate ways with their minds on a good day’s sleep. At that point, several in the party agreed, tears were still welling in Elva’s eyes.

heriff McDonald and Coroner Kelly had heard more than enough. Here they had a wealthy young woman who displayed signs that something was deeply troubling her at a couple of parties. Her husband of seven weeks turned his back on her. Back home, there was an oddly extended, wee-hours quarrel between the two of them about who would park the car. Hours later, she was found dead amid highly peculiar circumstances. The doctor who examined her body told of bruises and baffling attire or lack thereof. A husband/beneficiary who stood to become instantly wealthy as a result of his new wife’s death seemed to have some explaining to do on several points. McDonald and Kelly lost no time deciding what to do: they would order an autopsy. And they would call a closed-door inquest immediately, barring the press and everybody else except witnesses. They would order all those involved to show up, take an oath and come clean on what they knew – beginning that very afternoon, while their memories were fresh. The six humble, homegrown, hardworking members of the hurriedly assembled coroner’s jury might not look much like “peers” of the idle, fun-seeking, uppercrust northern transplants who would be required to testify before them, but the two men resolved that they would damned well get to the bottom of this puzzling and increasingly sensational story. And they would resist those forces that could be expected to try to cover the whole thing up – forces whose attitude was summed up in the phrase that had already become a standing local joke: “Nobody dies in Pinehurst.” CHAPTER XXIV: A DISTANT AND FARAWAY LOOK

a story loaded with twists and tangles, here is yet another odd footnote: L. M. Tate, the stable manager who testified in the caveat hearing that Elva had confided in him about her problems, was none other than the L. M. Tate who had served a year earlier as the jury foreman in

the coroner’s inquest! This gives rise to questions of its own: Did Tate make this conflict known? Did he share the stable conversation with his fellow inquest jurors? Did that revelation affect their verdict? Even if he kept it to himself, didn’t it color at least his own vote? For that matter, did Tate know even more than he told? Though L. M. Tate apparently never shared those secrets publicly, his son, Floyd Tate, was still alive in Pinehurst at this writing – and was privy to some details that his father had told him many years ago about his role in the Davidson case. But he was suffering from a stroke that had severely affected his speech, making it all but impossible for him to communicate. That became clear in a telephone call to his house. His wife answered. After being filled in on the case and the information being sought, she put the phone down and asked if he wanted to talk about it. He could be heard in the background groaning, “No, no!” Mrs. Tate returned to report that her husband definitely wanted no part of an interview. But she agreed to ask him just one more question: whether his father had thought Elva’s death was a matter of murder or suicide. More labored conversation was audible. Then Mrs. Tate came back to the phone, apologizing that she couldn’t get much more than a word out of her husband. “Please,” she said. “He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It gets him too upset. But he says – suicide.”

When the accordionist stopped near Elva, she requested a song. But when he played it, his fingers racing like spiders across the black and white keys, it only made Elva sob louder. The song that so affected her was described only as “a melancholy Gypsy tune.”

Mystery

In three different locations throughout downtown London, these popular venues are revolutionizing the way the game is being played and perceived.

UG rban

olf By Josh Wolfe

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the 18th at the renowned Pebble Beach, commonly referred to as the greatest finishing hole in golf. Waves crash against the seawall below, but you’ve managed to not let the Pacific Ocean creep into your head this day. You are on the verge of completing the best round of your life – a memory that will last forever, bragging rights to all your buddies and business associates. The approach shot is solid, less than eight feet to the hole. A birdie would bring you down to six over. Not a bad score for a notorious 15 handicap. And then the putt is away, rolling toward the Pacific and picking up speed at an alarming rate and you know that your only chance to stay on the green is to hit the cup, which it does. The ball hits the back of the cup, kicks up in the air and settles an inch behind, dead still. You are relieved yet ready to scuff the green and throw your club, but then you realize quite the crowd has gathered round. Your etiquette remains in tact, as does your integrity. Then another startling realization reaches your brain – you are not actually at Pebble Beach, or in California, or in the United States for that matter. There isn’t a blade of grass in sight and as the screen fades, the Pacific becomes a microcosm of blurred pixels. Blinking eyes refocus to the crowd that has gathered; the lush leather couches behind them and the bar just a bit further beyond. And then you remember. The night is cold and rainy in downtown London, and it’s Urban Golf that has allowed you to take your mind off the bone-chilling winter and get in a quick 18 at sunny Pebble Beach, a world away.

Urban Golf

London-based architectural firm, Squire and Partners, found their inspiration in designing the Urban Golf venues from English country homes and gentlemenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clubs, making the interior atmospheric and comfortable.

ames Day, Urban Golf â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s co-founder and CEO, conceived the idea when he was the club professional at Stoke Park, a course just outside of London, recognizing the demand for access to more golf within the London area. This is a course you can walk to, pay less, dress down and have drink and food during your round.

“It was a need, not only to stay polished on your golf game during the winter months, but also a form of entertainment for any time of the year,” said Day. “So I went out, found some investors. We had this great idea, you see. But the idea is only a small part of the greater picture. It’s the execution that makes a business successful and we’ve been very fortunate in that regard.”

Not only were they able to successfully market the company to consumers, Urban Golf actually thrived during the recession. Like they say, despite hard times, it’s human nature to stick to what makes us feel comfortable, and golf is one of those variables. But bring the game closer to home for a lower rate and include a bar and social atmosphere and, well, there’s certainly something to fall back on there. From the get-go, Squire and Partners, an architectural firm in London, was very instrumental in helping Day get the company off the ground. In fact, Henry Squire had been a friend and mentor to Day, becoming one of his key partners when he came up with the idea. When Day approached Squire and Partners, they immediately recognized his intentions that were backed by a sound business plan. The firm initially decided to undertake the interior design project on the pilot scheme, Urban Golf Soho, and the second one at Smithfield, and then eventually High Street Kensington, which is markedly different from the other two in that it is “Inspired by English country homes and gentlemen’s clubs, making the interiors atmospheric and comfortable, furnished with traditional Chesterfield sofas and chairs, dark walnut paneling and floors, and Victorianinspired wallpaper.” In 2008, Squire and Partners bought Urban Golf outright in what Day described as a pivotal moment for the company and its investors who took a risk and believed in him from the very beginning. “It was a good feeling that these friends and associates, who took the initial risk, were getting a good return on what they put in,” Day said. The locations were designed with the themes of golf and urbanity; each taking inspiration from the immediate location. Ultimately, they were breaking down barriers, making the game of golf stylish and hip. In the beginning, Urban Golf used infrared club tracking systems that Day describes as “just good enough to practice effectively on.” The problem with club head tracking simulators is they are limited in their application because they are only capable of suggesting the reaction of the ball depending on which way the club head is moving. Even though the company was doing great, Day knew they could provide a better service. It wasn’t long before he set out to find improved simulators – ones that were more

Urban Golf

engaging in terms of graphics and places, and most importantly, more accurate in ballflight readings. Working with a close friend who just also happens to be a leading expert in camera tracking, Day was given insight as to what simulators could do with the use of accurate cameras. He traveled around the world, attending trade shows and visiting the headquarters of various companies looking for the perfect technological partner. And that’s when he met Bill Bales of aboutGolf.

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2009, Urban Golf partnered with the Ohio-based aboutGolf, a world leader in indoor simulators, using their PGA Tour Simulators as its exclusive gameimprovement golf technology. Day was instantly impressed with Bales’ enthusiasm for the indoor golf model and the radar tracking system aboutGolf was using behind their simulator screens. While the radar tracking systems don’t necessarily function better than infrared, Day believed that Bales and aboutGolf were on to something bigger. And when Bales showed him the prototype of the 3trak system at the PGA show in Orlando a couple years later, Day knew they had a winner. “I have played golf all my life and been a PGA member since I was 18 years old,” said Day. “And on the 3trak system, even in its early stages, I could shape the ball as I would outside on the

Urban Golf

course or driving range. Even today there is not another simulator that functions this well.” But there was still a lot of work to be done to get the 3trak system ready for commercial use. Over the next couple years, Day flew to Ohio several times where he watched aboutGolf engineers work day and night to perfect the system. “One of the things that struck me was their research and development department compared to the other firms,” he remembers. “At that time they had a team of engineers working every day on tracking golf balls using 3trak. I had great fun watching them fire golf balls out of a specially designed cannon, which could actually generate precise launch and spin conditions. They had a range with tracking devices positioned up to 300-plus yards so they could cross check the balls flight in reality against the system readings.” It wasn’t long thereafter that Urban Golf installed eight of the 3trak systems in their Kensington branch. Given the expense of completely changing out systems, failure was not an option. It would have to catch on, or the company would presumably come to an abrupt end. “I will always remember the team here walking in a few days after opening (with the 3trak system) with their own clubs and golf shoes. This never happened on the old systems and at that point, I knew we had made the right call.” By the end of 2010, Urban Golf changed out the rest of the simulators at their other locations.

Even though the expenditure and risk bared its ugly teeth once again, there was proof that the 3trak technology was going to be the difference in the company becoming absolutely viable. Not only does Urban Golf allow its customers – who, by the way, are not required to purchase a membership – a chance to play some of the world’s best courses, they also provide lessons, club fitting, special events (corporate and private) and social gettogethers. Urban Golf is revolutionizing the way the game is being played and perceived. You certainly won’t find a stuffy atmosphere and sour faces. In fact, it is quite the opposite. “We are knocking down that age-old threshold of dress code and behavior,” said Day. “This is all about grabbing a quick nine during your lunch break or having beers, golf and dinner with friends on Friday night. I guarantee nobody will be looking down their nose when you enter Urban Golf.” So if you’re ever out London way, drop in and check out one of the three Urban Golf locations. The beautiful designs by Squire and Partners are synonymous with some of

the finest interiors in the world. Adorned with fully stocked bars, plush leather couches, and of course the eight simulators with the ability to literally take you around the world, what is there to lose? Even the artwork is top notch. “The full height of murals this time (in Urban Golf Smithfield) document the transition from the harsh reality of the butcher with his knife to a scene of a golfing paradise behind the reception,” describes Squire and Partners’ website. No more trudging after your ball in the rain-soaked grass and thick rough. Scuffing your clubs on the cart path or bogging down in a deep sand trap. And Urban Golf is not just for the golfer. Non-golfers can also find something within, and who knows, it might just be the ticket to turn a few more onto to this great ol’ game of golf. Visit UrbanGolf.co.uk. Beyond keeping your golf game in top form during the winter months, or when time just doesn’t allow you to be on the course, Urban Golf also serves food, spirits and an all-around good time.

the Despicable

DarbyWexler

Sometimes the most unpleasant members of the human race get what’s coming to them and sometimes it arrives in the most sinister of ways. Fiction by Walter Adamson Beech

“

EWARE.”

The foreboding warning fell hard from the pulpit of the overzealous Vicar, overwrought with dismay towards his diminishing congregation. A golf club had recently opened nearby and the quaint little village, lack in extracurricular activities, had seen a surge in the interest of its townspeople with this newfound sport. “Beware and deny the devil his distractions. Find your pleasure here, safely in the fold at Sunday Mass, lest you fall prey to the traps and snares Satan has set for the wrongdoer. For evil lurks in the shadows and your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking those whom he might devour.”

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he following Sunday was rainsoaked and cold, and the club superintendent, being a good Godfearing Catholic, thought it best to close the course. The Vicar’s prayers had been answered and church pews overflowed from an outpouring of the town’s faithful. Yes, it had seemed as though the entire village had turned out and all were accounted for. All, that is, except for a one Darby Wexler.

Fiction

arby Wexler was the most odious of people. He was despised throughout the borough where he was known as a liar and a cheat, a welcher and a fink for he was the poorest of sports and the worse of winners. He embellished his golf balls with an X and was often seen prior to a match, walking the course, whereby he would strategically place these balls along the right-side edges of the rough. For Darby played a vicious bending slice which more oft than not found the deep rough. But oddly, Darby would almost always seem to happen upon his X-adorned orbs twenty-or-so yards longer and twentyor-so yards nearer the fairway than his shot had appeared to finish, thus frustrating anyone unfortunate enough to be playing alongside or against him. A piece of work, this Darby Wexler, this unscrupulous shyster and master of the foot wedge. All in all he was a sinner of the worst sort and if ever there were a worthy rival for old Lucifer himself, it might just be Darby Wexler.

ord spreads quickly in a small community. So when Darby heard the news of a day of rest for golfers, he snickered, “Mass? Huh! Let the fools sit in their plush-padded pews. I’ll have it all to myself and once I’ve planted my stash, the suckers will be paying their tithes to me come Monday morning.” And it did seem the Vicar’s warning – the damp cold – and the superintendent’s closed sign kept everyone away and when Darby sneaked through the fog and onto the course, he proclaimed “I do, I do have it all to myself!” Or so he thought . . .

arby’s first drive peeled a wicked right and nestled among the tall heavy grass and gorse. The skies seemed to darken and an icy wind began to swirl as he trounced in after it. All at once, a bevy of grouse flushed from beneath his cleats, their cackles echoing a highpitched “Bewwwaaaarre, Beewaaaaarrrre.” This somewhat unsettled the heathen Darby, but he shrugged it off muttering, “Goblins and spooks, indeed.” He then picked up his ball, carried it further up about twenty yards, and dropped it in the fairway. Alongside it he handily hid a second ball just inside the neat rough. “X marks the spot,” the old cheater chuckled to himself.

here is an old loch on the property and the scraggly course weaves its way around the edges. It is an ancient body of water and heavily present in local legend and lore. The lake is most daunting on two holes: the par-five eighteenth, where a hefty portion makes for a long carry; and then on two, where slivery fingers meander their way green side, swallowing any weakly struck shot. It was here at the second hole where Darby Wexler now found himself once more searching for lost balls, having just dumped three in the drink. Again ominous clouds began to gather and an ill wind chilled him through his blazer.

Can’t be! thought a bewildered Darby, standing center fairway where his drive had ended. Still puzzled, he pulled a niblick for his approach and again the ball rocketed off the clubface, launching into a high, magnificentlooking flight before falling from the sky and landing mere inches from the cup.

e then observed something so strange. A being rose up from the burn just beneath the cobblestone bridge. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Impossible, he thought, and as the presence neared him, he could tell it was a man, for it had a man’s face and was dressed in fine tweeds. It, or rather he, had a very toad-like appearance. He was of a squat build and his skin was reddish green, more red than green and with a murky hue not unlike the burn from where he had emerged. He had squinted eyes, one more so than the other, and a tiny pipe with a long stem protruding from his mouth, which seemed to stretch from ear-to-ear in a wide grin. Odd looking fellow, mocked Darby, and he scurried away to avoid the intruder.

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he thin lips of the man curled upward, revealing a most impressive and horrifying assemblage of sharp and jagged teeth. “In a spot of trouble are we laddie?” he

Fiction

asked Darby, sneering. The inquirer’s voice and spectacle within his mouth startled Darby. It was as if he had a full set of fangs. “I’m ju ju just fine, be on your way stranger,” Darby stuttered. “Tssk, tssk,” snickered the man, “now lets have none of that. I have just what you need.” “What . . . who are you? What are you doing here, . . . the course,” Darby paused, “the course is closed!” “Call me, hmmm,” the man pondered momentarily. “Call me Mr. B. Yes, Mr. B.! And I am here for you, Darby.” “For me?” Darby contested “Whatever do you mean and how do you know my name?” “Let’s just say I have been around and I am here to help you.” “I don’t need help from you, now leave me be!” Darby pleaded. “Sure you do, you do need help, . . .” again the man paused, “with your game.” “My game is just fine,” Darby declared. “Now Darby, hear me out. I have something for you.” The creature’s red palm opened, revealing a round pearl-like ball, similar in shape and size to a golf ball. The smooth orb seemed to rise from the toady hand amidst a shimmering light. This piqued Darby’s interest, “Exactly what is that supposed to be?” “I call it my little wonder,” said Mr. B. “And it is exactly what you have been searching for.” “Nonsense,” replied Darby, “All I need is to fish out a couple of the balls I just lost. Is that even a golf ball?” “Golf ball,” the creature’s eyes began to gleam, “yes, but not your ordinary ball. This one has a history of making dreams come true.” This further intrigued Darby. “Fine,” he demanded. “What do you want for it? Looks like that is the only way to get rid of you.” “Aye, Darby, but a treasure such as this might come with a high price.” “Just name it or be on with you,” Darby replied, obviously frustrated. “Darby,” Mr. B. assured, “I like you, so I’ll tell you what, take it and try it a round, we’ll settle up on eighteen.” Darby hastily plucked the ball from Mr. B.’s hand and proceeded to the next hole, glancing over his shoulder, just as the mysterious Mr. B., eerily slunk back beneath the shadow of the bridge. Merely a trick of the light Darby reasoned and hurried on his way.

was two holes and four lost balls later before Darby put the pearl-like ball into play. Well, let’s give this thing a whirl, he thought as he positioned it on a tee. Crrraaaacck, sounded the driver and just like a bullet, the ball bored its way through the stiff breeze and bounded up the fairway. It was undeniably the longest, straightest drive he had ever hit. Can’t be! thought a bewildered Darby, standing center fairway where his drive had ended. Still puzzled, he pulled a niblick for his approach and again the ball rocketed off the clubface, launching into a high, magnificentlooking flight before falling from the sky and landing mere inches from the cup. Darby couldn’t believe what was happening as the enchanted little ball produced one outstanding shot after another with nothing but birdies over the ensuing holes. There was no doubt this was an exceptional ball, magical even. And what did he say his name was, Mr. B.? Mr. B. . . hmmmm, Darby puzzled. Then all at once he began to feel very sick . . . BEELZEBUB! He considered leaving the ball – this devil’s device – more than once. He even tossed it away only to retrieve it again. Then the old sinner’s true colors shown through as the gluttonous Darby Wexler envisioned the piles of money he’d hustle and the club championship he’d certainly win. So he began to devise a scheme. It was a simple one really. He would play out the next few holes and then ditch the old demon by slipping off the course on the wooded path on fifteen that would lead him home. Only he didn’t stop on fifteen, sixteen or even seventeen. Greed had gotten the best of him and he stepped up to the final hole with visions of setting the course record dangling in his mind. What was left of the best of Darby pleaded within him to abandon this deal with the devil. But the club mark was seven under, and with a big drive he might make the green in two, one putt and the record was his. He had never heard of anyone, anywhere, shooting an eight under before.

ight away he stood by his shot center fairway. He had never driven a ball so far on any hole and felt he could easily reach the green. All was going his way. He was hopelessly entranced and had forgotten all about the sinister Mr. B. Darby took his stance, made his back swing and unleashed a majestic strike. The ball rose

higher and higher, dead on line with the flagstick. Darby’s eyes bulged, his heart beat speedily, and just as the ball seemed it would descend onto the green, it transitioned its course and plunked into the lake. And as he approached the loch, never had Darby felt so disheartened, so glum. The sky had darkened to twilight and a familiar eerie chill began to creep over him. “Wait, what’s that?” Darby asked himself. There was a shimmer of white reflecting from the water’s edge. Could it be, he wondered. Yes, it is, it is. Now if I can just reach . . . No! A jolt shot through Darby’s body as he remembered Mr. B. He frantically surveyed the area, especially the greenside bridge, but there was no one to be seen. Maybe he got tired of waiting, thought Darby. Quite mortal after all. Alas, Darby began to reassure himself. He exhaled a long frosty breath and looked on the submerged sphere. He began to reach as the ball seemed to be calling out to him, luring him in. Closer. Reach. Just a bit more, it beckoned. He almost had it. Darby leaned in. Suddenly, a fiery, crimson pool gathered beneath the ball. Still Darby reached. All at once a red hand plunged from the loch and clasped Darby by the wrist. Catching him off balance, Darby could muster little fight and he was pulled headlong into the loch. The next day his bag of clubs laid by the lake, but no Darby. In fact, he was never seen again.

he townspeople continued to revel in the sport and after a while the course reopened on Sundays. And they, being the good Catholic folk, don’t mention the matter of Darby’s disappearance. They never liked him anyway and silently bid him a good riddance. Still, rumors persisted that he had given the game up all together and moved off and taken up croquet. Others claim his departure was supernatural and that an evil force had spirited him away. But, the villagers will have none of that, although you better believe they don’t miss Mass on Sunday morning. “A Penfold Man” This 1950s Composition Counter Display at Heritage Auction somewhat represents how we envisioned Mr. B. in W. A. Beech’s “The Despicable Darby Wexler.” Image Courtesy HA.com

Fiction

Grand Accommodations Every great player in the annals of the game has played here, for St Andrews is as much the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mecca of Golfâ&#x20AC;? to the great champions as it is to the mere devotee. No golfing life is complete without the experience of St Andrews.

“We are excited about the development opportunities for Hamilton Hall, and appreciate both the support and enthusiasm the local community has for the property.” – Herb Kohler.

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ould you imagine playing a round of golf at the famed St Andrews course in Scotland and then returning to an apartment . . . that you own? A place where you can relax, replay the day’s game in your mind’s eye and comfortably enjoy a neat pour from your own bottle. As of last July, this is all possible. As one of the newest real estate properties in St Andrews, Hamilton Grand, with its modern lifestyle and historical flair, started with 26 apartments, ranging from 1,330 to nearly 2,800 square feet that are available for purchase. It’s believed that more than half have already been bought or reserved. Residences range from two-, three- and four-bedroom apartments, including a penthouse with expansive 360-degree views and a private balcony. The sales and reservations so far make it Scotland’s most expensive residential accommodation. Hamilton Hall was originally opened as the Grand Hotel in 1895 to capitalize on the rapid expansion of St Andrews as a popular tourist destination for golf and sea bathing. Founder Thomas Hamilton is said to have commissioned the construction immediately after his application for membership had been rejected by the Royal & Ancient Golf Club. In an attempt to draw attention away from the Royal & Ancient, Hamilton constructed the much larger and more extravagant building. A chosen retreat boasting infinite views of the Old Course at St Andrews, West Sands Beach and North Sea, it was also the first building in Scotland to have a pneumatic elevator and hot and cold water running in every bathroom, setting the benchmark for the

Grand Accommodations

ultimate in luxurious hospitality. The hotel even managed to attract royal clientele in the early years of the twentieth century. The Second World War saw the Air Ministry of the United Kingdom requisition the Grand Hotel, transforming the landmark into a training headquarters for the Royal Air Force. It looked as though the Grand Hotel would never host high society again. Following the end of the war, there was a proposal to sell the building to the Roman Catholic Church as a residence and

seminary. This plan caused much alarm among the more traditional Presbyterians in the town and was soon abandoned. Shortly after the war, the University of St Andrews acquired the building and opened it as a residence hall under the name Hamilton Hall, named after the current Duke of Hamilton, in 1949. For 56 years, it faithfully served St Andrews’ student body. And now history has called it for a new purpose. A new chapter, if you will, is beginning and this one promises to be the greatest of all.

Enjoy the comfort of your own home after a day on one of St Andrews’ numerous courses. Amenities are tailored to fit residents’ needs, including a Links Ticket for those living at Hamilton Grand at least six months per year.

Grand Accommodations

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Grand Accommodations

Known as the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mecca of Golf,â&#x20AC;? thousands flock to St Andrews each year to experience some of the rich traditions surrounding the community. This photo from 1894, featuring Old Tom Morris, demonstrates that, other than fashion trends, not much has changed in St Andrews.

erb Kohler, Chairman and CEO of Kohler Co., purchased the Old Course Hotel, which overlooks the 17th hole, in December 2009. The Old Course Hotel is the second most photographed building in the world of golf, right behind the Royal & Ancient Golf Club, and features 144 lavishly refurbished bedrooms and suites, many designed by French designer Jacques Garcia. Kohler then purchased Hamilton Hall, the red sandstone building that nearly sits upon 18, for $18.5 million. Hamilton Hall was acquired from the Bank of Scotland who had repossessed the property from American developer David Wasserman. Wasserman originally bought the five-story building in 2004. Jack Reese, lead interior designer for the renovation, is applying his signature s t y l e of “ T h e at r i c a l R e n a i s s a n c e” throughout the building. Nuances in architectural detailing, unique pairings of contemporary and classic period pieces, and multi-layering of textiles, fabrics and finishes are some of his hallmarks. Reese’s previous work has included historical home and yacht interiors, and home entertainment complexes. His projects have spanned the globe, from New York to French Polynesia, Beirut and Abu Dhabi, but none are as unique as Hamilton Grand. For those unfamiliar with the Kohler brand, they are a global leader in kitchen and bath products, engines and power systems, furniture and decorative tile, hospitality and real estate. Kohler is the third-generation head of one of the oldest and largest privately held companies in the United States, which his grandfather started in 1873 by buying an iron and steel foundry. His father took over in 1941, growing the business – which then specialized only in plumbing fixtures,

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After the original dome was destroyed by a fire in 1976, it was replaced with a fiberglass replica. The new dome - made in Scotland is a lead-clad timber frame weighing 3.5 tons, true to the original structure.

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engines and generators – to a book value of $300 million. In 1972, Herb Kohler, Jr. became chairman and CEO and added upscale furniture, tile and a hospitality component of the aforementioned golf courses and resort destinations. In conjunction with the Kingdom of Fife, Kohler Co. held a two-day public consultation and welcomed St Andrews’ citizens to learn more about the plans and to provide feedback for restoring the building

Grand Accommodations

to its former glory. The meetings were met with overwhelming support, underscoring the fact that Kohler Co. is sensitively developing one of the town’s most famous landmarks. Kohler Co. intends to create a unique and economically viable product that will enhance St Andrews as the world’s premier golf destination. “We are excited about the development oppor tunities for Hamilton Hall, and appreciate both the support and

With its roots firmly planted in antiquity, time has stood still in St Andrews from its ghostly ruins and cobbled streets to stained glass windows within Hamilton Grand.

enthusiasm the local community has for the property,” said Herb Kohler. “We look forward to gathering input from the townspeople and the Fife Council as to what the name of the building should be along with its future use.” Wit h t h orou g h i nput f rom t h e townspeople and the Fife Council, Kohler Co.’s first step was to officially change the name to “Hamilton Grand,” combining the titles of the building’s previous uses,

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the Grand Hotel and Hamilton Hall. “Despite its overwhelming popularity, the Old Course holds fast to tradition, retaining the traditional ballot to give golfers the opportunity to play,” explained Daniel Pereira, Resort General Manager. “The ballot reflects the public’s spirit of St Andrews Links – to s t ay a s op e n a n d a c c e s s i b l e f or a l l g o l f l ov e r s .” Kohler also owns St Andrews’ Duke Course and The American Club in Kohler, Wisconsin, which opened in 1918 as a dormitory for immigrant factory workers. That property was restored and reopened as a resort hotel in 1981, and today stands as the Midwest’s only AAA Five Diamond Resort Hotel, a recognition that has recurred for 25 consecutive years. The American Club is included on a list of Historic Hotels of America by the National Trust for Historic Preservation. It appears Kohler knows what he is doing.

Grand Accommodations

esidents at Hamilton Grand will have unparalleled views of the Old Course as well as access to play St Andrews’ many courses. Resident concierge, daily maid service – basically every amenity – is tailored to fit specific needs. Some other privileges include a Links Ticket, giving owners who are residents for more than six months per year, immediate access to the Old Course and the other six courses of the Links Trust; admittance to the Kohler Water Spa, one of the leading spas in the world, at the Old Course Hotel; transportation and a personal assistant to manage each and every detail of the trip. The Links Ticket can be purchased for a minimal annual fee. From Dunbar, North Berwick, Muirfield and Gullane on the south side of the Firth up to the great bridges and back along the north shore, past Burntisland, Leven, Lundin, Elie, Anstruther, Crail and Kingsbarns,

through St Andrews to Scotscraig and Carnoustie, the great links land courses are strung like a necklace of pearls about the throat of the Firth of Forth. All are readily accessible from St Andrews, but in the town itself, the St Andrews Links Trust-managed courses offer the tough tests of the Old, New and Jubilee courses as well as the more benign Eden and Strathtyrum, which are within walking distance. Then, just a few minutes away and contrasting with the links, there is The Duke’s course, one of the United Kingdom’s heathland marvels. The magnificent Kingsbarns Course, as well as the Castle Course, which was recently opened by the St Andrews Links Trust, has also added to the caché of St Andrews. There are more than 20 courses of great antiquity and beauty within a 20-minute drive of the town. All courses listed, except The Duke’s, are independently owned and managed.

With its modern lifestyle and historical flair, apartments at Hamilton Grand range from 1,330 to nearly 2,800 square feet with options of two-, three- or four- bedrooms, including a penthouse with a 360-degree view.

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Hamilton Grand also features several restaurants and bars, open to the public, and a Members’ Library on the ground floor. For an added premium, a private chef (and sommelier) is available to cook in the comfort of your apartment. Residents will have exclusive membership of The Duke’s Course, Kohler Waters Spa and all the amenities of the Old Course Hotel including 4 distinct dining experiences. The Road Hole Restaurant, rated three AA Rosettes, and Sands Grill, both in the Old Course Hotel, are accessible to residents of Hamilton Grand. At the Road Hole Bar, patrons can (but probably won’t be able to) sample more than 300 Scotch malt whiskies. Apparently, it is known worldwide for its selection of whiskies. Representing every operational and many mothballed (inactive) distilleries in Scotland, aficionados flock to the Road Hole Bar from around the globe.

Grand Accommodations

Tullibardine (the hotel’s own label malt), Highland Malt, 1988, which is only sold in the top 10 percent of bars in the United Kingdom, and a rare Ben Wyvis, Highland Malt, 1972, are all available at the Road Hole. The bar also serves an array of cocktails, champagnes and wines and the daytime menu ensures the Road Hole Bar is the most coveted viewing gallery in the world of golf. But perhaps golf ’s most famous 19th hole sits just next door at The Jigger Inn (also owned by Kohler Co.). The building dates back to the 1850s when it was the

Boasting views of the Old Course, West Sands Beach and North Sea, Hamilton Hall was also the first building in Scotland to have a pneumatic elevator and hot and cold water running in every bathroom, setting the benchmark for the ultimate in luxurious hospitality.

stationmaster’s lodge. Today, it is home to a plethora of golfing memorabilia, openhearth fires, fine table fare and a superb selection of Scottish beers. The pub’s own Jigger Ale is available at The Jigger Inn (St Andrews) and The Horse and Plough at the resort’s stateside sister resort, the American Club (Kohler, Wisconsin).

Beyond the links and historical aspects of the community, residents at Hamilton Grand will enjoy unlimited admittance to the Kohler Water Spa, one of the leading spas in the world, at the Old Course Hotel.

ith its roots firmly planted in antiquity, time has somehow stood still in St Andrews. Cobbled streets, the ancient tower of St Rule standing in the ghostly ruins of the Cathedral, the Castle with its bottle dungeon and subterranean passages, echo the past. And none more so than the crosses set in the streets to mark where Catholic and Protestants alike were martyred in the fire of their faith. But in many respects the town has assumed

modernity with grace. To say the least, St Andrews is one of Scotlandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most beautiful towns, successfully blending traditional character with a vibrant mix of outstanding recreational facilities, a burgeoning cultural scene and many exciting visitor attractions, including shopping. And unlike many medieval townships, St Andrews has not allowed itself to be burdened by history. Indeed, the town delights in its ancient University and its great heritage, as much as it does in the Regency, Victorian and Edwardian

Grand Accommodations

Enjoy sampling the local fare and especially the variety of Scotch whisky. Or, for an added premium, a private chef (and sommelier) is available to cook in the comfort of your apartment.

contributions to St Andrewsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; architecture. Like the university, the pubs and golf clubs have retained what is best from the past all the while continuing to move ahead with the times. The overwhelming characteristics of St Andrews are the ease with which ancient and modern have blended to produce a township enjoying a unique way of life. It is said that you do not pass through St Andrews en route to anywhere. But its isolation is what has set it apart and made it a very special destination. And from the cinema to the local pubs and golf club, there is entertainment aplenty. This is truly the heartland of golf. It is

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where it began and then spread to the rest of the world. Although there may be a sense of timelessness about golf here, the courses have evolved as the game has changed and they present the same challenges to the players of today as they did to Tom Morris, Bobby Jones, Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus in times past. Every great player in the annals of the game has played here, for St Andrews is as much the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mecca of Golf â&#x20AC;? to the great champions as it is to the mere devotee. No golfing life is complete without the experience of St Andrews. Visit HamiltonGrand.co.uk

Art with

Hy Humor Henry â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hyâ&#x20AC;? Hintermeister was an exceptionally talented and prolific illustrator who generated countless images for the calendar market. He worked for nearly every major calendar company in his day, painting primarily nostalgic and sentimental themes that remain enormously popular today. Here is a Golf Sport Gallery of our favorites.

Banana Ball

Image courtesy copley fine Art Auctions, llc â&#x20AC;&#x201C; copleyart.com

A Tough Club Choice

Image courtesy copley fine Art Auctions, llc â&#x20AC;&#x201C; copleyart.com

Art

A Good Left Punch

Image courtesy Heritage Auctions â&#x20AC;&#x201C; ha.com

The Sandlot

Image courtesy Heritage Auctions â&#x20AC;&#x201C; ha.com

Art

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In the Pond

Image courtesy copley fine Art Auctions, llc â&#x20AC;&#x201C; copleyart.com

Art

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The Expert, Shaw-Barton Calendar Company illustration, 1957

Image courtesy Heritage Auctions â&#x20AC;&#x201C; ha.com

Art

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In the Sand

Image courtesy copley fine Art Auctions, llc â&#x20AC;&#x201C; copleyart.com

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Art

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Art

Lining It Up

Image courtesy copley fine Art Auctions, llc â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Copleyart.com

perfection a shot of

Elegant waxed jackets, moleskins, tweeds & cashmeres from the House of Purdey.

FLORENCE WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT BRAMBLE KNIT CASHMERE SCARF CASHMERE WRIST WARMERS HAND SEWN CAPE LEATHER GLOVE

£875. £185. £185. £325.

Left to Right: AUDLEY WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT DRY WAX WATER PROOF CAP £70. MOLESKIN TROUSER BRIDLE CARTRIDGE BELT HAND PLAITED LEATHER DOG SLIP LEAD

£875. £195. £250. £195.

MADE TO MEASURE PURDEY WATERPROOF TWEED JACKET & WAISTCOAT FROM £1100. HOUNDS TOOTH CHECK SHIRT £110. KNITTED TIE £85. BROAD WALE CORDUROY BREEK £195. KNITTED SOCK & GARTER £140 GRAIN LEATHER SHOE £360.

Ladies FLORENCE TWEED SHOOTING JACKET £625. COTTON SHIRT £110. MOLESKIN BREEK £225. HAND-KNITTED CASHMERE SOCK AND GARTER £395. GRAIN LEATHER ANKLE BOOT £395. BRAMBLE KNIT MERINO SCARF £70.

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MANTON TWEED WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. CABLE KNIT MERINO SCARF £70.

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CARTRIDGE SHOT GLASS POSITION FINDER £565. STAGHORN THUMBSTICK ON HAZEL SHANK £145.

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FLORENCE WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT £875. BRAMBLE KNIT CASHMERE SCARF £185. MOLESKIN BREEKS £225. GRAIN LEATHER ANKLE BOOTS £395. CASHMERE WRIST WARMERS £185. HAND SEWN CAPE LEATHER GLOVE £325. THUMB STICK £145.

MEN’S GRAIN LEATHER TWIN STRAP BOOT £695.

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Opposite: BALMANGAN TWEED WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. BALMANGAN WATERPROOF TWEED CAP £79. HAND SEWN CAPE LEATHER GLOVE £325. Ladies FLORENCE WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT £875. BRAMBLE KNIT CASHMERE SCARF £185. CASHMERE WRIST WARMERS £185.

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It isn’t a shoot without bullshots.

The PURDEY BULLSHOT 11⁄2

(Per Gun)

oz dry sherry 3 oz beef consommé A few dashes of Worcestershire sauce A splash of Tabasco & celery salt . . . Serve hot, between drives.

Left: HAVERSON TWEED WATERPROOF TWEED CAP £79. MANTON WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT £875. CABLE KNIT MERINO SCARF £70. CALF LEATHER SHOOTING GLOVE £210. MANTON TWEED BREEKS £450. KNITTED SOCK & GARTER £140. BRIDLE LEATHER GUN SLIP FROM £595. BRIDLE LEATHER CARTRIDGE BAG FROM £360.

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Right: BALMANGAN TWEED WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. CALF LEATHER SHOOTING GLOVE £210. BALMANGAN WATERPROOF TWEED CAP £79. HOUNDSTOOTH MERINO SCARF £70. BROAD WALE CORDUROY BREEKS £195. KNITTED SOCK AND GARTER £140. GRAIN LEATHER TWIN STRAP BOOT £695.

BALMANGAN TWEED WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. HOUNDS TOOTH CHECK SHIRT £110. KNITTED TIE £85.

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Left to Right, Man 1: WATERPROOF TWEED CAP £79. VENTILE & LODEN WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. MOLESKIN BREEK £195 KNITTED SOCK & GARTER £140. Man 2: AUDLEY WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT £875. DRY WAX WATER PROOF CAP £70. MOLESKIN TROUSER £195.

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Man 3: BEAUMONT WATERPROOF TWEED CAP £79. BRAMBLE KNIT CASHMERE SCARF £185. DRYWAX WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £825. MOLESKIN BREEKS £195 STAGHORN THUMBSTICK ON HAZEL SHANK £145. Man 4: MANTON WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT. £875 CABLE KNIT MERINO SCARF £70. MANTON TWEED BREEKS £450. STAGHORN THUMBSTICK ON HAZEL SHANK £145.

Man 5: DRYWAX WATERPROOF CAP £70. BRUSHED COTTON TATTERSALL SHIRT £110. WOVEN WOOLLEN TIE £100 DRYWAX WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £825. DOG WHISTLES ON HAND WHIPPED LEATHER LANYARD £425. Woman 1: MANTON TWEED WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. FELTED WOOL TRILBY £150. CABLE KNIT MERINO SCARF £70. MOLESKIN BREEK £225. HAND KNITTED CASHMERE SOCK & GARTER £395. GRAIN LEATHER ANKLE BOOT £395.

Woman 2: FLORENCE WATERPROOF TWEED FIELD COAT £875. BRAMBLE KNIT CASHMERE SCARF £185. MOLESKIN BREEKS £225. GRAIN LEATHER ANKLE BOOTS £395. CASHMERE WRIST WARMERS £185. Man 6: BALMANGAN TWEED WATERPROOF FIELD COAT £875. BALMANGAN WATERPROOF TWEED CAP £79. BROAD WALE CORDUROY BREEKS £195. KNITTED SOCK & GARTER £140. GRAIN LEATHER TWIN STRAP BOOT £695.

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20 BORE SIDE BY SIDE WITH FINE ROSE & SCROLL ENGRAVING POA For Bespoke & Fine Sporting Apparel & Firearms Visit Purdey.com

Far From It.

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Gladys. – Is Ferdy suffering from paresis? Ethel. – Suffering? Dear me, no! Why, he thinks he’s a golf champion!? From Puck, April 30th, 1902.

Parting Shot