McDevitt town & country properties
2021 Start the new year off the best way in a brand new home! I’ve got new addresses waiting for you!
Jennifer Ritchie, REALTOR® Call/Text: 910-987-5565 JenniferRitchieHomes@gmail
Talent, Technology & Teamwork! Moore County’s Most Trusted Real Estate Team! T RAC
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PINEHURST • $425,000
PINEHURST • $375,000
PINEHURST • $385,000
22 KILBERRY DRIVE All brick 3 BR / 2.5 BA golf front home nestled in quiet and serene location in popular Pinewild CC.
675 LAKE FOREST DRIVE SE Custom 3 BR / 3.5 BA brick and vinyl shake home in beautiful location w/lake Pinehurst across the way. Truly beautiful and unique home!
43 LASSWADE DRIVE Charming 4 BR / 2.5 BA one-story brick home in Pinewild CC. Beautiful floorplan that is open with lots of natural light throughout.
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PINEHURST • $449,000
SOUTHERN PINES • $365,000
PINEHURST • $387,500
20 JUNIPER CREEK BLVD Amazing 4 BR / 3.5 BA custom home in popular #6. Bright and open layout w/special touches and features throughout!
107 W. CHELSEA COURT Lovely 3 BR / 3 BA townhome in the private community of Mid South Club. Nice layout and gorgeous kitchen.
18 KINBUCK COURT Custom contemporary 3 BR / 2 BA home located in Pinewild CC. Home is single-level and has been beautifully renovated!
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SOUTHERN PINES • $359,000
SEVEN LAKES WEST• $339,000
PINEHURST • $349,700
246 MANNING SQUARE Single family 4 BR / 2.5 BA cottage style home in popular Walker Station. Home is spacious, well designed and in great location.
339 LONGLEAF DRIVE Attractive 3 BR / 2.5 BA home on lovely, wooded lot in desirable 7LW. Split plan home offers hardwoods throughout common area in main living space and view of nearby Lake Auman.
1 BOB O’LINK ROAD Prime new construction located near the Village of Pinehurst! Home offers 5 BR / 3 BA with spacious living area. Near shopping, dining and schools.
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IN MOORE COUNTY REAL ESTATE FOR OVER 20 YEARS!
Luxury Properties Moore County’s Most Trusted Real Estate Team!
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PINEHURST • $785,000 20 WALNUT CREEK ROAD Custom 5 BR / 4.5 BA home w/over 5500 sq.ft of luxury living. Located in desirable Fairwoods on #7 this home offers open layout w/pool and patio in large backyard.
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PINEHURST • $545,000 18 KILBERRY DRIVE Beautiful 3 BR / 2 Full BA 2 Half BA brick home situated high on slightly sloping wooded lot. Luxury tile flooring and high ceilings are among the special features this home offers.
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PINEHURST • $812,500 126 BROOKFIELD DRIVE Stately 5 BR / 4 BA home in picturesque Forest Creek community w/postcard-like golf views among massive curb appeal and Southern Charm!
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PINEHURST • $810,000
PINEHURST • $510,000
PINEHURST • $764,000
16 BIRKDALE DRIVE Elegant 4 BR / 4.5 BA custom built home dripping in Southern Charm. Located inside distinguished Forest Creek this home offers the ultimate in upscale living!
47 PINEWILD DRIVE Spectacular custom built 4 BR / 3 BA home overlooking the 4th tee of the Azalea course in private Pinewild CC. Home offers special features and fine craftsmanship throughout.
28 MIDDLEBURY ROAD Extraordinary 4 BR / 4.5 golf front home located on north course of Forest Creek. Craftsman style home offers 4 large bedroom suites and gorgeous kitchen
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MCLENDON HILLS • $650,000
PINEHURST • $855,000
PINEHURST • $715,000
310 BROKEN RIDGE TRAIL Exquisite 4 BR / 3 full BA 3 half BA brick home located on over 3 acres w/spacious layout. Along with the home there is a barn and beautiful rolling pastures.
24 ROYAL COUNTY DOWN Gorgeous 5 BR / 5 Full BA 2 half BA custom home located on 13th fairway of Pinewild CC. Home features amazing in-ground salt water pool and perfect golf views.
102 STRATHAVEN COURT Elegant 4 BR / 3 full BA 2 half BA golf front home located on the signature hole of Pinehurst #9 course.
Re/Max Prime Properties, 5 Chinquapin Rd., Pinehurst, NC 910-295-7100 • 800-214-9007 • Re/Max Prime Properties 5 Chinquapin Rd., Pinehurst, NC
www.ThEGENTRYTEAM.COM
• 910-295-7100
January ����
FEATURES 71 What It Was about that First Marriage Poetry By Dannye Romine Powell
72 Theater in the Year of Corona
Indefinite Intermission
Magic in the Park
Stage Craft
By Morgan Sills
By Jonathan Drahos By Joyce Reehling
80 Return of a Classic The Blind Colt celebrates its
80th anniversary with a new edition
82 Cabin Country By Deborah Salomon
Historic homes and life lessons
89 Almanac
By Ashley Wahl
DEPARTMENTS
13 19 21 23
Simple Life By Jim Dodson PinePitch Good Natured By Karen Frye The Omnivorous Reader
Stephen E. Smith
27 Bookshelf 31 Hometown By Bill Fields 32 The Creators of N.C. By Wiley Cash
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37 In the Spirit By Tony Cross 39 The Kitchen Garden
By Jan Leitschuh
42 Weekend Away
By Jason Oliver Nixon
47 Character Study By Jim Moriarty
51 Home by Design By Cynthia Adams
55 Out of the Blue By Deborah Salomon 57 Mom Inc. By Renee Whitmore
59 61 65 90 92 95 96
Birdwatch By Susan Campbell Sporting Life By Tom Bryant Golftown Journal By Lee Pace Arts & Entertainment Calendar SandhillSeen PineNeedler By Mart Dickerson Southwords By Jim Moriarty
Cover photograph and photograph this page by L aura Gingerich The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
NTER SALE
OFF LINENS AND DOWN
NUARY 31ST
eason with products o help create your njoy 20% off all ean linens and down ets, cashmere throws, and our ever-popular w.
021 only. her offers or discounts.
Opulence of Southern Pines and DUXIANA at The Mews, 280 NW Broad Street, Downtown Southern Pines, NC 910.692.2744
at Cameron Village, 400 Daniels Street, Raleigh, NC 919.467.1781
at Sawgrass Village, 310 Front Street Suite 815 Ponte Vedra Beach, FL 32082 904.834.7280
www.OpulenceOfSouthernPines.com Serving the Carolinas & More for Over 20 Years – Financing Available
Always a Step Ahead
Introducing a brand new Caviness a brand new Caviness LandIntroducing development in Aberdeen, NC. Land development in Aberdeen, NC.
Pre-Selling Now!
Pre-Selling Now! Winds Way Farm Winds Way Farm Set among beautifully manicured grounds with a spectacular wooded
Set among grounds with a spectacular wooded backdrop. Eachbeautifully home is setmanicured upon ½ acres lots with access to an immaculately backdrop. Each home set uponcovered ½ acresBBQ lots area. with access to anplans immaculately presented pool andisopen-air Open floor are presented pool and open-air covered BBQ area. Open floor plans are generously proportioned and flow effortlessly throughout from the living generously proportioned and flow effortlessly throughout from the living room through to your private covered patio where you can enjoy the stunning room through to your private covered patio where you can enjoy the stunning views. views. Gourmet Gourmetkitchens kitchenswith withdouble doubleoven ovenand andsoft-touch soft-touchcabinetry cabinetryare arejust justa a couple coupleof ofupgraded upgradedfeatures featuresthat thatcome comeasasstandard standardwith withthese thesehomes. homes.These These brand brand new new homes homes provide provideall allthe theelements elementsfor forrelaxing, relaxing,comfortable, comfortable,and and easy-care living. See our our floorplans floor plansand anddiscover discovera anew newway wayofoflife. life.
Serving Moore County and Surrounding Areas! 910.684.8674 | 120 N ASHE ST | SOUTHERN PINES, NC 28387
www.maisonteam.com
MLS 202045 420 FOXCROFT CIRCLE Jackson Springs, NC • $142,000
MLS 201620 184 ENFIELD DRIVE Carthage, NC • $293,500
MLS 201622 188 ENFIELD DRIVE Carthage, NC • $313,500
MLS 202498 133 NEWINGTON WAY Aberdeen, NC • $329,999
MLS 202820 142 LANCASHIRE LANE West End, NC • $420,000
MLS 203362 453 HERITAGE FARM ROAD Carthage, NC • $450,000
MLS 201005 436 MCLENDON HILLS DRIVE West End, NC • $534,999
MLS 201781 85 STONEYKIRK DRIVE Pinehurst, NC • $35,000
MLS 200709 16 WHITHORN COURT Pinehurst, NC • $70,000
MLS 199382 349 R SANDS ROAD Aberdeen, NC • $160,000
Buy, Sell or Rent through us - we do it all! 910.684.8674 | 120 N ASHE ST | SOUTHERN PINES, NC 28387
Knollwood HeigHts Colonial Revival
M A G A Z I N E Volume 17, No. 1 David Woronoff, Publisher Andie Stuart Rose, Creative Director
910.693.2467 • andie@pinestrawmag.com
Jim Moriarty, Editor
910.692.7915 • jjmpinestraw@gmail.com
Alyssa Rocherolle, Graphic Designer
910.693.2508 • alyssa@pinestrawmag.com
Lauren M. Coffey, Graphic Designer
910.693.2469 • lauren@pinestrawmag.com CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
Jim Dodson, Editor Emeritus Deborah Salomon, Staff Writer
CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS
John Gessner, Laura Gingerich, Tim Sayer
CONTRIBUTORS Jenna Biter, Harry Blair, Tom Bryant, Susan Campbell, Bill Case, Mallory Cash, Wiley Cash, Tony Cross, Brianna Rolfe Cunningham, Mart Dickerson, Bill Fields, Laurel Holden, Sara King, Jan Leitschuh, John Loecke, Meridith Martens, D.G. Martin, Jason Oliver Nixon, Mary Novitsky, Lee Pace, Todd Pusser, Joyce Reehling, Scott Sheffield, Stephen E. Smith, Angie Tally, Kimberly Taws, Daniel Wallace, Ashley Wahl, Claudia Watson, Renee Whitmore ADVERTISING SALES
Ginny Trigg, Advertising Director 910.693.2481 • ginny@thepilot.com
205 Crest Road • Southern Pines Exhibiting the classic colonial revival style made popular in Southern Pines by architect Aymar Embury II in the 1920-30’s, this lovely home features exquisite architectural detail throughout. Sited on a generous 2-acre lot, with a large backyard pool, and multiple terraced garden rooms, the residence was built in 1930, with over 6,700 sq ft, 5 BR, 5.5 BA, and attached 2 car garage. Highlights include fireplaces in living, dining, master and garden rooms, original hardwood floors, slate roof. NEW LISTING. Offered at $995,000.
To view more photos, take a virtual tour or schedule a showing, go to:
Maureen Clark
www.clarkpropertiesnc.com
when experience matters
Pinehurst • Southern Pines BHHS Pinehurst Realty Group • 910.315.1080 ©2015 BHH Affiliates, LLC. An independently operated subsidiary of HomeServices of American, Inc., a Berkshire Hathaway affiliate, and a franchisee of BHH Affiliates, LLC.
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Jennie Acklin, 910.693.2515 Samantha Cunningham, 910.693.2505 Terry Hartsell, 910.693.2513 Erika Leap, 910.693.2514 ADVERTISING COORDINATOR
Emily Jolly • pilotads@thepilot.com
ADVERTISING GRAPHIC DESIGN
Mechelle Butler, Scott Yancey
PS Steve Anderson, Finance Director 910.693.2497 Darlene Stark, Circulation Director 910.693.2488 SUBSCRIPTIONS
910.693.2488 OWNERS
Jack Andrews, Frank Daniels Jr., Frank Daniels III, Lee Dirks, David Woronoff 145 W. Pennsylvania Avenue, Southern Pines, NC 28387 www.pinestrawmag.com ©Copyright 2021. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. PineStraw magazine is published by The Pilot LLC
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
5 Merion Place • CCNC • Pinehurst
123 Pinefield Court • Southern Pines
Rambling, fun-filled home on 5 acres, has it all for family living: 2 family rooms with fireplaces, 4 BR, 4.2 BA, guest apartment, main floor master, 5500 sq ft., 3 car garage. $899,000
Built in 2006, this 6580 sq ft residence on 8 acres includes 5 BR, 6.5 BA, theater room, billiard room, open living plan, wine cellar, 3 car garage and outdoor kitchen. Gated privacy. Offered at $1,900,000
Maureen Clark
910.315.1080 • www.clarkproperties.com
SOLD
490 Pee Dee Road • Whitehall
Historic estate, built in the 1920’s on 157 acre tract. Property borders the Reservoir Park in Southern Pines and hosts the popular Whitehall Trail, a winding 2 mile hike. 6200 sq ft rambling clapboard residence features 5 BR, 5.5 BA, outbuildings.
Chanticleer Cottages Under Construction
Chanticleer at Forest Creek • Pinehurst
Three more French country cottages designed by Mark Parsons in prestigious Forest Creek are underway for early spring competition. 109 Chanticleer, the Gourney design at $548.500. 113 Chanticleer, the Sebright design at $515,000 and 117 Chanticleer the Roscomb design at $556,500. 125 Chanticleer, the Gourney design at $548,500 due for completion mid-January.
under contract
451 Old Mail Road • Southern Pines The jewel of Moore County’s horse country, Fox Hollow Farm is secluded on 10.52 acres with easy access to thousands of acres of equestrian land. 4BR, 4.5BA, 5,276 sq ft. New Price $1,950,000
610 Old Field Road • Southern Pines
Charming cottage, built in 1923, on .9 acre lot in Weymouth Heights. Features 4 BR, 4 BA, and 3300 sq ft., original heart pine floors, back porch, fireplace. Guest house 2 BR, 1 BA, 780 sq ft. Located near the Weymouth Woods State Park and downtown Southern Pines. $795,000.
Berkshire Hathaway HomeSercies and the Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices symbol are registered service marks of HomeServices of America, Inc.® Equal Housing Opportunity.Housing Opportunity.
If Pinehurst has it, Lin can get it for you! Go to LinHutaff. com ER UND
315 N BEULAH HILL ROAD • OLD TOWN Elegant, historic, formal, “Cotton Cottage”. Restored Historic home with large Master Suite, indoor pool and elevator. New 3 bay garage. 6BD, 5 ½ BA. Offered at $1,250,000.
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80 COMMUNITY ROAD • OLD TOWN “Thistle Cottage” was home to Annie Oakley in the early days of Pinehurst. Built in 1916. Updated in 1998 including Gourmet kitchen with Viking gas range, double oven, stainless, etc. 4BD, 3 ½ BA. Offered at $845,000.
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22 KIRKTON COURT – PINEWILD Beautiful home on the LAKE in Pinewild CC. Situated on nearly two acres with gorgeous landscaping, brick walkways, a fountain and private dock. Gourmet kitchen. 5 BD, 3BA, 2 Half baths. Offered at $825,000.
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64 STONEYKIRK DRIVE • PINEWILD Design or quality was not spared. Two Master suites on main level. Gourmet kitchen. Expansive wrap around deck. Separate living quarters on lower level. 4BD, 4 1/2BA. Offered at $825,000.
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1 ROCKLAND COURT • DORAL WOODS LIKE NO OTHER. Surrounded by Golf overlooking 6 holes of Pinehurst Country Club’s original Course No. 1. Perfect for golfers & horse lovers. 3BD, 2 ½ BA. Offered at $679,000. SOL
14 GREYABBEY DRIVE • PINEWILD Stunning, golf front, contemporary home with walls of glass. Amazing gourmet Kitchen boasts Miele and Thermidor appliances, Miele stainless hood. Superb. 5BD, 4 ½ BA. Offered at $795,000.
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6 SQUIRES LANE • PINEHURST NO 6 Contemporary masterpiece with walls of windows to enjoy 10th Hole of Pinehurst No 6. “WOW” factor of golf, fairways, pond and lush fairway. 3BD, 2 ½ BA, plus office. Offered at $650,000.
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4 BANGOR LANE • THE WOODLANDS Fabulous location just a short golf cart ride to the Club. Located on the 15th Green of Pinehurst No 4. All brick with beautiful gardens and private back yard. 3BD, 2 ½ BA. Offered at $395,000.
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175 MIDLAND RD • OLD TOWN Completely renovated throughout including kitchen open to patio and pool with outdoor fireplace. Separate office on main level. Large rooms are light and bright. Handsome Master and Master bath. 4BD, 2BA, 2- 1/2BA. Offered at $750,000. SOL
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12 TROON DRIVE • PINEWILD Custom, white brick home with great kitchen, cozy breakfast area overlooking deck open to large family room. Woodworking shop in lower level. 4BD, 3BA. Offered at $484,000. SOL
1 STANTON CIRCLE • COTSWOLD Stunning home in Cotswold. All brick, custom, with large rooms. Handsome kitchen and sun filled Carolina Room with private courtyard. Bonus rm with chair lift. 3BD, 2 ½ BA. Offered at $380,000.
ENERGY. EXPERIENCE. EFFORT.
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1 GLEN ABBEY TRAIL • PINEHURST NO 6 Wonderful home on corner LOT with Pinehurst CC Membership. Seller did all the upgrades buyers are demanding. Great deck to extend outdoor living. 3BD, 2 ½ BA. Offered at $339,000.
Lin Hutaff’s PineHurst reaLty GrouP Village of Pinehurst | 910.528.6427 | linhutaff@pinehurst.net
SIMPLE LIFE
The Winter Woods
Among the bare-branched trees, nature speaks my favorite language By Jim Dodson
Half a century ago, a beauti-
ful, 50-acre woodland lay just beyond the backyard of the house where I presently live, which happens to be two doors from the one in which I grew up. That patch of suburban woods was full of wildlife — birds, deer, skunks, foxes, rabbits — and a winding creek where a small universe of aquatic life thrived. As a kid, those woods were my enchanted kingdom.
The eccentric millionaire who owned those woods vowed he would never allow them to be developed. But his body was barely in the ground before his heirs sold it off to a residential developer. The forest fell, and a new subdivision quickly rose, a story repeated endlessly across 1970s America. Fortunately, I was off to college by then and spared the sadness of watching my boyhood woods systematically plowed under. That vanished woodland was neither the first nor last magical forest that shaped my sensibilities, however. During the first seven years of my life, during my old man’s career as a newspaper executive, our family lived in a succession of small towns across the Deep South, places where fields and woods were always a short walk away. I was drawn to them like a child from a Yeats poem. In summer, the woods teemed with life. But curiously, it was the winter woods that fascinated me most. The quiet of the forest and the bareness of leafless trees amplified natural sounds and made seeing birds and movement easier. Even before I came to understand that life underfoot was actually busier than ever, I was drawn to the stark beauty and solitude of winter.
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
Scarce wonder after seven years of unceasing work as an investigative journalist in Atlanta, I took an arts fellowship in the Blue Ridge Mountains and subsequently fled to a bend of the Green River in Vermont, where I lived in a small house heated by a wood stove and fell even deeper under the spell of winter in the Great North Woods. It was there I walked snow-covered dirt roads in blue Arctic dusks with my young dog, Amos, and snow-shoed through the forest for the first time. During that quietest of all winters, I studied trees, read the complete works of a dozen poets, plus most of my favorite childhood books for the umpteenth time. Within five years, I’d built a post-and-beam house for my young family in a vast woodland of beech and hemlock on a coastal hill in Maine. Our closest neighbor was one-quarter mile distant. Winter nights were dark, cold and full of stars so crisp and vibrant you could almost reach up and touch them. Come the sub-zero nights of January, when a step on a wooden porch could sound like a pistol shot, I often donned a red, wool coat and toted bags of sorghum meal through knee-deep snow to where a family of whitetail deer (and the occasional moose) waited patiently in the silver cast of the moon for a midnight feeding. In the morning, we would find thousands of hoof prints where it appeared the deer stood on hind legs and danced in the woods, or so I told our two babes with a nearly straight face. Now on the cusp of their 30s, working in faraway Los Angeles and the Middle East, respectively, they still claim to believe the deer danced in winter moonlight. First frost was always the herald of my favorite season on the doorstep, beginning with the autumn stillness that was like that of an empty church, a cue to get my woodpile finished up and properly stacked. Ringed-neck pheasants and flocks of wild turkey appeared in the yard, feeding on the last seeds of summer, seemingly unmoved by our presence in their woodland world. Once, late for his winter nap, a medium-sized black bear crossed the ancient road directly in front of us, pausing only to glance indifferently at the dude in the goofy red coat with his small, astonished children PineStraw
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SIMPLE LIFE
before going on about his business. I turned that bear into a bedtime story, with a character named Pete the Bear, who along with his bumbling partner-in-crime, dimwitted but good-hearted Charlie the Cub, often broke into our house whenever we were away in order to help themselves to snacks, play board games and get warm by the fire. Pete and Charlie still reside somewhere in the forested memories of my far-flung children, not to mention their winter-loving old man.
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And so it was a nice surprise when, earlier this year, our friends Joe and Liz invited my wife, Wendy, and me to take a Sunday afternoon walk through the Hamilton Lakes Forest, a slim patch of urban parkland less than a mile from our house. Joe and Liz are trained foresters and ardent naturalists. Liz knows about every native plant in the wild and Joe can tell you all sorts of wondrous things about the life of trees. Late last winter, with traces of early spring appearing, we hiked with them up a small mountain near Asheboro, topped by giant stone monoliths that looked like columns from lost temples or bowling pins left by the gods. Joe explained that the unusual stones were visible for miles, navigational landmarks used by migratory birds and ancient native people in their annual seasonal movements from highland meadows to winter quarters in the flatlands, sacred grounds used for their spiritual observances. There were even traces of a vanished farmstead, not unlike the
hilltop where I built my house in Maine, evidenced by wild narcissus that grew in patches around a crumbling stone foundation. Daffodils reportedly found their way to the Americas via Holland about 1800, though how they found their way to that ancient hilltop in Randolph County will probably forever remain a mystery. “Humans come and go,” Joe summed up the moment. “But the earth and forest keep their own secrets.” Our Sunday afternoon walk through the Hamilton Forest wasn’t quite so wild, though it was revelatory in its own ways. Joe and I talked about our grown children and how to identify trees by their bark, old maples and beeches in particular, while Liz and Wendy walked ahead of us chatting about grandchildren and, well, whatever else a pair of wise and worldly female friends talk about on a winter Sunday afternoon with their husbands lagging well behind. At one point, Joe stopped dead and tilted his head to the bare limbs above us. “Listen. Hear that?” I did. He explained it was the perfect, three-note call of a white-throated sparrow, a bird famous for its melodic winter song. That seemed the perfect coda. On that tri-note, we shared a nip of good Kentucky bourbon. We rounded a lake and started back as the light grew thinner and longer. As the temperature dropped, we listened to woodpeckers patiently at work, spotted squirrel nests high in the leafless forest and greeted walkers with leashed dogs hurrying the opposite way through the woods, eager to reach home and warmth. PS Jim Dodson can be reached at jim@thepilot.com.
PRIVATE ESTATE IN FAIRWOODS ON 7
215 INVERRARY RD • FAIRWOODS ON 7
ENERGY. EXPERIENCE. EFFORT. 14
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PRIVATE Estate on over 4 acres within the gates of Fairwoods on 7, a gated Community minutes from the Pinehurst Resort and Country Club and the Historic Village of Pinehurst. Surrounded by over 1000 feet of golf frontage including golf holes #13, #14 and #15 of Pinehurst No 7. Gracious grounds, extensive covered porches, and gorgeous home with all the charm of a southern sanctuary. Open floorpan, lavish finishes, gourmet kitchen and walls of glass. An elevator goes to the second floor Home Theatre and Club room with entrance to roof deck for panoramic views of golf and private grounds. Spectacular! Offered at $2,475,000
Lin Hutaff’s PineHurst reaLty GrouP Village of Pinehurst | 910.528.6427 |linhutaff@pinehurst.net The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
We are all smiles (under our masks) as Penick Village re-opens the Village House to Residents
Start the new year with a new beginning at Penick Village, a Life Plan community for older adults neighboring downtown Southern Pines. A place to discover true retirement with services & amenities in the most friendly environment. Feel secure with the knowledge that healthcare services are offered onsite should they be needed. Homes & Apartments now available, call to schedule your tour! (910) 692-0386
HAPPY
NEWfromYEAR
BROWSE INVENTORY I GET PRE-APPROVED I COMPLETE PAPERWORK
CURBSIDE PICK-UP & DELIVERY OF YOUR NEW CAR!
INTRODUCING
910-684-4028 PinehurstToyota.com
10760 Hwy 15-501, Southern Pines, NC 28388
Medicine as it should be.
Brian Sachs M.D., family physician, has opened a new primary care clinic designed to give patients what they’re missing in the healthcare system – meaningful time and personalized care from their physician. Open since March, Longleaf Medical is a small membership medical practice which offers primary disease management, preventive health consultation, telemedicine, and home visits. By blending old-fashioned bedside manners with modern medical practices, Longleaf Medical brings a new style of healthcare to the Sandhills.
Brian Sachs, M.D.
For more information, or to schedule a free consultation: (910) 335-8581 • www.longleafmed.com 80 Aviemore Ct. • Pinehurst, NC 28374
Pine Pitch
TRUST BUT VERIFY: As our communities deal with the challenges presented by the novel coronavirus, please be aware that events may have been postponed, rescheduled or existed only in our dreams. Check before attending.
Dueling Authors In an embarrassment of riches, celebrated novelist John Grisham will join sixtime New York Times bestselling author John Hart to discuss Hart’s new novel, The Unwilling, in a free Zoom event at 6 p.m. on Wednesday, Feb. 3. Copies of the book can be obtained at The Country Bookshop. For information visit www.tickmesandhills.com.
Music to Our Ears The musicians of the North Carolina Symphony Orchestra will play personal favorites like Mozart’s Oboe Quartet to highlight their virtuosity on a streaming concert from Raleigh’s Meymandi Concert Hall on Saturday, Jan. 16, at 8 p.m. Then, on Saturday, Jan. 30, the orchestra will perform J.S. Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 and Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, also streaming from Meymandi, at 8 p.m. For more information visit www.ncsymphony.org.
PHOTOGRAPH FAR RIGHT BY JOHN GESSNER
Ruth Pauley Lecture Series Linda Carrier, the uber marathoner, will talk about “Seven Marathons, Seven Days, on Seven Continents” on Jan. 21 at 7:30 p.m. Despite having type I diabetes, she ran 183 miles in 168 hours — and intends to do it again. Her lecture can be streamed on Facebook at @RuthPauleyLectureSeries or through ruthpauley.org.
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
Return of the Stampede For a second year 12 painted horses will appear on the streets of Southern Pines beginning Jan. 30, and will graze there until the end of March in the Painted Ponies Art Walk and Auction. Afterward the horses will be sold to the highest bidder with the proceeds benefiting the Carolina Horse Park Foundation. For more information visit www.carolinahorsepark.com. PineStraw
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LUXURY
LUXURY
14 Cumberland Drive, Pinehurst
$1,545,000
3 bed • 3/1 bath Kathy Peele (312) 623-7523 MLS 203384
Downsizing done for you, without sacrificing space. This casual sophistication & timeless style are the hallmarks of this gracefully presented home in the prestigious gated, Forest Creek. Potential for another bedroom to be built above the garage. Expansive outdoor living on multiple lots.
LUXURY
$825,000
Pamela O’Hara (910) 315-3093 MLS 198891
“Monreve Farm” — Beautiful equestrian property adjacent to the Walthour Moss Foundation. 8-stall Morton barn, 2 run-in sheds, 10 paddocks, and a riding ring.
Jackie Ross (904) 613-4480 MLS 201087
$1,495,000
4 bed • 5/2 bath Kathy Peele (312) 623-7523 MLS 202572
This home performs perfectly for grand scale entertaining to casual everyday living all on one level. Dramatic wine cellar, home theatre, game room. A home you’ll never want to leave! Designed by Stagaard & Chao. Expansive terraces.
250 E McCaskill Road, Pinehurst
$785,000
Emily Hewson (910) 315-3324 Pamela O’Hara (910) 315-3093
Prime Old Town location. 2.23 commercial acres next to Pinehurst Brewery. Located on McCaskill and Magnolia roads. Zoned VMU — Village mixed use.
MLS 198787
112 Haddington Drive, Pinehurst
$89,000
228 Meyer Farm Drive, Pinehurst
178 Lost Trail Drive, West End
$875,000
4 bed • 4 bath
Jennifer Nguyen (910) 585-2099 MLS 196830
Peaceful horse farm and certified wildlife habitat. Custom home with wrap around porch, main floor master suite, and basement. 4 stall barn, riding area, and private trails.
LUXURY
1220 Aiken Road, Vass 3 bed • 3 bath
LUXURY
Stunning lot with panoramic views of the 12th fairway and green in Forest Creek. Conveniently located near the main gate and Clubhouse. Membership not required.
106 Elkington Way, Pinehurst
$65,900 Kathy Peele (312) 623-7523 MLS 203067
Private lot located on the corner of a cul-de-sac. Lot is perfect size to build a two story, but large enough to accommodate a one story. Located at Forest Creek Golf Club. Premier gated community in the Sandhills area.
231 Meyer Farm Drive, Pinehurst
$119,000 Kathy Peele (312) 623-7523 MLS 201666
Rare, oversized lot located inside premier gated community, Forest Creek. Lot nearly flat building envelope situated on more than 2 acres, plus another 2 acres offering privacy.
Forest Creek Golf Club Kay Beran (910) 315-3322
Visit us at Forest Creek today to see homes and lots in this premier, gated community. Ask about our new homes in Chanticleer! Our on-site sales team is available to meet you or call for an appointment.
Pinehurst Office • 42 Chinquapin Road, Pinehurst, NC 28374 • 910 -295 - 5504 | Southern Pines Office • 167 Beverly Lane, Southern Pines, NC 28387 • 910-692-2635
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G O O D NAT U R E D
It Works! A simple plan for happiness
By K aren Frye
T
he original copyright of It Works: The Famous Little Red Book That Makes Your Dreams Come True! was 1926. The author of the book did not want his name mentioned, only his initials, RHJ, believing that the greatest good comes from helping others without expecting praise. Even before the book had a title, he sent it to a friend for his appraisal. The friend returned it with a simple reply, “It works.” The title was born. RHJ believed he’d found an answer to the question “Why are some people so lucky and others are not?” He was successful using his plan and shared the simple instructions for his technique with friends who also enjoyed amazing results. But this isn’t necessarily about financial success. Your desires may include being healthy, enjoying happier relationships, having success in school or career, basically anything. The important first step is knowing what you want. You likely know people who, because of a mental roadblock, feel as though the things they desire will remain forever unattainable. But there is within us a “Great Power.” The power is ready and very capable of helping us achieve our desires, but you must be earnest about what you want. Half-hearted desire does not connect. You must be sincere and truthful about what you want — be it mental, physical or spiritual. The Plan Write down on a paper, in order of their importance, those things you really want. You can change the list daily, adding or removing things. Three Positive Rules of Accomplishment Read the list of what you want three times a day — morning, noon and night. Think of what you want as often as possible. Do not talk to anyone about your plan except the Great Power within you. The method of the accomplishment will unfold itself. Write down whatever your desires may be, even the ones that seem impossible. Don’t analyze the power within you to accomplish these things. If you follow the plan and carry out the three simple rules, the method of accomplishment will reveal itself. It is natural to be skeptical. When you have these doubts, get out your list and go over your heartfelt desires. Be specific about your dreams. As your plan unfolds, accept the accomplishment with gratitude, happiness and strengthened faith. PS Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
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2020 Coldwell Banker Advantage Awards Congratulations to this year’s Best of the Best agents! These Coldwell Banker Advantage agents represent over $100,000 GCI or over $5,000,000 in sales for 2020. They truly are the Best of the Best.
Victoria Adkins
Mary Margaret McGuire
Cristin Bennett
Ken Beckwith
Meredith Morski
Kristin Mueller
Amanda Bullock
Quent Neptune
Ketra Duchesne
Greg Sasser
Liz English
Beverly Gentry
Laurie Kornegay
Deborah Leonard
Sherree-lee Sferra
Southern Partners in Moore
Sandhills Real Estate Partners
The Home Team NC
Coldwell Banker Advantage Agent Awards Congratulations to the winners of our company awards! These REALTORs® were nominated by their fellow agents and have done exceptional work this year. Susan Williams
REALTOR® of the Year
Laurie Kornegay Rookie of the Year
Mary Margaret McGuire
Citizenship of the Year Award
Amanda Bullock
REALTOR®’s Choice Award
910-693-3300 | www.HomesCBA.com 130 Turner Street, Southern Pines, North Carolina 28387
THE OMNIVOROUS READER
We Got the Beat The richness of North Carolina’s music
By Stephen E. Smith
In his latest book, Step It Up and
Go: The Story of North Carolina Popular Music, from Blind Boy Fuller and Doc Watson to Nina Simone and Superchunk, music critic David Menconi lays it out in the prologue: “Music is North Carolina’s tuning fork — not tobacco, basketball, NASCAR, or even barbecue — because it’s not just in the air here, but also the soul.”
Barbecue gobbling, nicotine-addicted NASCAR/Carolina fans might take exception to Menconi’s premise, but for North Carolinians who have wandered through life with their ears pricked forward, there’s no denying that the state’s popular music scene has played a significant role in defining their identity. Charlie Poole, Blind Boy Fuller, Earl Scruggs, Doc Watson, Nina Simone, James Taylor, the Red Clay Ramblers, Ben Folds, Mandolin Orange, and hundreds of other talented musicians, have, at one time or another, called the state home, and although a self-serving parochialism is at work here, there’s good reason to take pride in the music North Carolina has contributed to the world. We can’t claim a Nashville or an Austin or a New Orleans, but popular music would be a lot less interesting without us. And although the state’s boundaries are an arbitrary and artificial device for identifying musical movements and influences, there’s nothing new in employing “sense of place” as an organizing element. The Oxford American, for example, publishes an annual state music edition, with North Carolina featured in their winter 2018 issue. If sex — oh, all right, true love — is the primary inspiration for most pop tunes, race has been a troubling subtext in much of the music North Carolina artists have created. What could be a more revealing example than the “beach music” craze of the 1950s and ’60s where crowds of privileged white guys, decked out in patch-madras britches and alligator wing-tipped tasseled Nettletons, shuffled to sexually implicit dance candy produced almost exclusively by Black artists who wouldn’t have been allowed admission to the venues where they were performing? Menconi’s compendium is generally arranged chronologically, with scant attention paid to music as folklore (we’re talking “popular” music here), and Bascom Lamar Lunsford is as close as Menconi comes to crediting traditional influences. The rough and tumble antics of Charlie Poole and his North Carolina Ramblers is his starting point in “Linthead Pop.” Poole, who was born and raised in Randolph
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
County and spent much of his life working in cotton mills, thrived musically in and around North Carolina in the 1920s and ’30s, and his influence on popular music has waxed and waned with changing tastes. Nevertheless, he remains an essential, almost mythical figure in the history of the state’s music. Piedmont blues artists who worked the Bull City tobacco markets receive their due in chapter two: Blind Boy Fuller, the Rev. Gary Davis, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Elizabeth Cotton and Etta Baker are credited with influencing popular artists well into the 21st century. “Through the Airwaves” is a much-deserved tribute to Charlottebased Arthur Smith, whose superb musicianship and entrepreneurial savvy brought North Carolina music into the mid- to late-20th century. Menconi writes: “Smith didn’t just figure out syndication and diversification but vertical integration, controlling the means of production” by establishing a studio in Charlotte that catered to “the likes of Statler Brothers, Flatt & Scruggs, James Brown, and Johnny Cash.” Smith’s copyright infringement suit over “Dueling Banjos,” a 1972 hit from the movie Deliverance, is explicated in detail, correcting lingering misconceptions concerning the tune’s authorship and Smith’s strategic lawsuit against industry giant Warner Brothers. Greensboro readers will appreciate Menconi’s focus on The 5 Royales, a Triad-based gospel-inspired group who enjoyed nationwide popularity in the ’50s and early ’60s. Best known for having written and recorded “Dedicated to the One I Love” — later covered by the Shirelles and the Mamas and the Papas — the Royales’ story is one of hard work and little pay. What should have amounted to considerable income from record royalties never materialized. After the Royales’ singer-songwriter Lowman Pauling’s death, his wife received a check for $6. “I hate to say it,” Pauling’s son observes, “but in the Jim Crow South, black people got the shaft.” Doc Watson, the Appalachian flat picker who’s an institution for North Carolinians, is the subject of a thoroughly researched chapter that will enlighten even longtime Watson fans, and the benighted beach music craze is given more than adequate attention in a chapter ironically titled “Breaking the Color Lines at the Beach.” The hit-andPineStraw
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OMNIVOROUS READER
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miss career of Eastern North Carolina’s Nantucket is detailed in “The Eight-Track Era of Rock and Roll,” and Chapel Hill is dubbed the “Next Seattle” in an essay that celebrates Ben Folds and the Squirrel Nut Zippers. Menconi examines the rise of North Carolina record labels, including Colonial, Sugar Hill and Merge records, and the popularity of Americana, Alternative, and Hip-Hop is explored through the music of the Avett Brothers, the Carolina Chocolate Drops, the Kruger Brothers, Mandolin Orange, the Backsliders, and 9th Wonder and Little Brother. Of particular interest is Menconi’s appreciation of the great Nina Simone, a Tryon native whose immense talent was shaded by her railings against racial injustice. She and other Black artists fled the state. “That’s especially the case with jazz,” Menconi writes, “starting with Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, and Max Roach. . . . And after Blind Boy Fuller died in 1941, his Durham blues peers Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee and Rev. Gary Davis all decamped to the North.” Sprinkled throughout the text are sidebars that recognize artists of particular merit — the Steep Canyon Rangers, Chatham County Line, Shirley Caesar, Tift Merritt, the Embers, James Taylor, John D. Loudermilk, Link Wray, Rhiannon Giddens and many others. Still, it’s impossible to get it all in. There’s just too much good stuff to fit into 300 pages, and many fans will be mildly disappointed to find their favorite musician omitted. Still, Menconi provides a valuable service to North Carolina music lovers, a wellresearched and beautifully written primer that’s essential in understanding the state’s contribution to popular music. Moreover, he establishes a jumping-off point from which yet-to-be-written books might explore with more specificity the state’s musical diversity by region and genre. PS Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He is the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press Awards.
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BOOKSHELF
January Books FICTION Nick, by Michael Farris Smith Before Nick Carraway moved to West Egg and into The Great Gatsby, he was at the center of a very different story — one taking place along the trenches and deep within the tunnels of World War I. A romantic story of self-discovery, this rich and imaginative novel breathes new life into a character that many know but few have pondered deeply. Nick reveals the man behind the narrator who has captivated readers for decades. The Fortunate Ones, by Ed Tarkington A teenage boy being raised in a low-income area of Nashville by a single mom receives a mysterious scholarship offer to attend an elite private school for boys. Charlie Boykin is thrust into the midst of the children of billionaires and socialites, and the trajectory of his life is altered forever. But was it all worth it? This is a character-driven novel with a storyline as opulent as the mansions within it. The Good Doctor of Warsaw, by Elisabeth Gifford Janusz Korczak ran an orphanage for Jewish children in Warsaw, where conditions became increasingly harsh during World War II. Gifford tells his story with moving details of daily life — struggling to find food and to avoid being killed by the Nazis. Over 95 percent of the 350,000 Jews in Warsaw did not survive the war. A story the world must never forget. The Prophets, by Robert Jones Jr. A singular and stunning debut novel about the forbidden union between two enslaved young men on a Deep South plantation, the comfort they find in each other, and a betrayal that threatens their existence. In the barn they tended to the animals, but also to each other, transforming the hollowed-out shed into a place of human refuge, a source of intimacy and hope in a world ruled by vicious masters. With a lyricism reminiscent of Toni Morrison, The Prophets masterfully reveals the pain and suffering of inheritance, but is also shot through with hope, beauty and truth, portraying the enormous, heroic power of love. The Last Garden in England, by Julia Kelly This is a sweeping novel of five women across three generations whose lives are connected by one very special garden — the Highbury House estate — designed in 1907, cared for during World War II and restored in the present day by Emma Lovett, who begins to uncover secrets that have long been hidden. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
The Divines, by Ellie Eaton Moving between present-day Los Angeles and 1990s Britain, The Divines is a scorching examination of the power of adolescent sexuality, female identity and the destructive class divide. Josephine inexplicably finds herself returning to her old stomping grounds of St. John the Divine, an elite English boarding school. The visit provokes blurry recollections of those doomed final weeks that rocked the community. Josephine becomes obsessed with her teenage identity and the forgotten girls of her one-time orbit. But the more she recalls, the further her life unravels, derailing not just her marriage and career, but her entire sense of self. A Mother’s Promise, by K.D. Alden In Virginia in 1927, Ruth Ann Riley was poor and unwed when she became pregnant. She was sent to an institution and her child given up for adoption. All the rich and fancy folks may have called her feebleminded, but Ruth Ann was smarter than any of them knew. No matter the odds stacked against her, she was going to overcome the scandals of her past and get her child back. She just never expected her battle to go to the United States Supreme Court, or that she’d find unexpected friendships, even love, along the way. The Narrowboat Summer, by Anne Youngson Eve and Sally are at a crisis in their lives when they each happen upon a narrowboat on a canal owned by Anastasia. Before they realize what they’ve done, Sally and Eve agree to drive Anastasia’s narrowboat on a journey through the canals of England, as she awaits a life-saving operation. The eccentricities and challenges of narrowboat life draw them inexorably together, and a tender and unforgettable story unfolds. At summer’s end, all three women must decide whether to return to the lives they left behind or forge a new path forward. NONFICTION Let Me Tell You What I Mean, by Joan Didion Twelve early pieces never before collected offer an illuminating glimpse into the mind and creative process of Didion. Drawn mostly from the earliest part of her astonishing five-decade career, these are subjects Didion has written about often: the press, politics, California robber barons, women, the act of writing, and her own self-doubt. Each piece is classic Didion: incisive and stunningly prescient. PineStraw
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BOOKSHELF
No Better Way to Celebrate the New Year than with a New Home! Call us to make it happen!
CHILDREN’S BOOKS Winter is Here, by Kevin Henkes and Laura Dronzek When winter comes, it comes soft like snowfall and hard like leaves frozen in ice. Winter comes white and gray and deep, deep blue. From the husband and wife team of Henkes and Dronzek, Winter is Here is the companion to the lovely When Spring Comes and is the perfect introduction to the seasons for young readers. (Ages 1-3.) A Busy Year, by Leo Lionni Winnie and Willie and Woody are friends. First, as January snow falls on Woody’s branches, later as her branches bloom and even later as her leaves begin to fall, the friends experience all a year has to offer. A fun way to learn about the seasons while also zeroing in on the qualities of a good friend, A Busy Year is a classic that deserves a spot on every child’s bookshelf. Arriving Jan. 12. (Ages 2-3.) Looking for Smile, by Ellen Tarlow Once in a while, when you least expect it, life gets you down, and you just lose your smile. But sometimes the quiet song of a good friend can make the world bright again. A great story of friendship and of dealing with the downs. (Ages 3-6.)
JESSICA ROWAN
Broker 910-585-5438
NIKKI BOWMAN
Broker/Owner 910-528-4902
760 B NW Broad Street Southern Pines, NC www.realtyworldofmoore.com
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Just Our Luck, by Julia Walton In this moving and absolutely hilarious tale, Leo is a high school boy caught up in his own anxiety. He normally keeps his head down, but a fight with another boy at school starts a chain reaction, entangling Leo in something he never would have been part of by choice. This amazing, touching masterpiece is perfect to the very last page. (Ages 13 and up.) — Review by Kaitlyn Rothlisberger. PS Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
THE LIGHTHOUSE GROUP
How can our wealth be a resource that grows consistently while having a positive impact on those who benefit from it? However you define it, we believe your wealth must have a positive impact on those who benefit from it. Beginning with the intentional efforts of family leaders who are unwilling to leave the ultimate fate of their wealth to chance, we help families organize their shared values and passions into a collective vision that prepares members to be responsible stewards of the family legacy. For those who believe successful wealth management must extend beyond their financial capital, we are here to guide them toward a confident life with wealth. With offices across the state, we are eager to show you what the pinnacle of wealth management can mean for you and your family. Pinehurst 100 Pavilion Way, Suite F, Southern Pines, NC 28387 910-992-3275 Raleigh Winston-Salem 3605 Glenwood Ave., Suite 400, Raleigh, NC 27612 110 S. Stratford Rd., Suite 400, Winston-Salem, NC 27104 919-571-1893 336-722-4702 BB&T Scott & Stringfellow is a division of BB&T Securities, LLC, member FINRA/SIPC. BB&T Securities, LLC, is a wholly owned nonbank subsidiary of Truist Financial Corporation. Securities and insurance products or annuities sold, offered or recommended by BB&T Scott & Stringfellow are not a deposit, not FDIC insured, not guaranteed by a bank, not insured by any federal government agency and may lose value.
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A Spring Backyard Paradise BUILT IN THE HEART OF WINTER
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HOMETOWN
How Southern Am I? The latitude changes, the attitude doesn’t
By Bill Fields
I can hear traffic on Interstate 95 from where I live. The cars and trucks are far enough away that the noise usually doesn’t annoy — you hear it, but you don’t. I became part of the automotive Muzak not long ago, heading down South, as I’ve done many times over decades, 620 miles from home to home, even if the latter doesn’t have four walls and a roof.
Thanks to cataract surgery I was seeing great — I would have been a formidable foe in the license plate game if there had been someone in the passenger seat — but my vision of who I am felt clouded. After almost 35 years in New England, how Southern am I? I’ve asked myself this question before, yet it seemed more acute during this journey. Near the tail end of a year when so many considered so much, it was natural to ponder the reach of one’s roots. Spending nearly two weeks in the South without having a bite of barbecue made it essential. I sound no different than childhood friends who stayed put. Syllables can still glide together as if there is WD-40 between them, same as when a college roommate from New Jersey made me the front man when we were subletting our apartment in Chapel Hill one summer. Yet I never called my parents “Momma and Daddy,” nor a store a “bidness.” A work colleague said I was driving “soft” two years ago in downtown Atlanta when I was less than aggressive making a left turn. That critique notwithstanding, I contend anyone who negotiated the toll area of the George Washington Bridge at rush hour in the days when you had to give money to a person is forever hardened behind the wheel. Commuting up North was no picnic either, in particular those The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
days when a lot of drivers seemed angry at the world not just their boss. Sometimes they were. In the mid-1980s, the first time my mother rode in a New York City taxi, not far from Penn Station after getting off Amtrak’s Silver Star, the cabbie jumped out and ran after a driver who had cut him off. I associate the South with good manners while acknowledging they sometimes are like one coat applied to an old house that needs more. Others can judge whether I’ve grown more blunt as I’ve grayed, but I’d like to think being nice endures. And I know, after many years as a transplant above the Mason-Dixon Line, that the South has no monopoly on kindness or treating others the right way. I’m proud of where I’m from, but during a time when there is heightened awareness about racial injustice, it’s jarring to be less than an hour from my hometown and drive past several Confederate flags flying in front yards a couple of curves down the road from the former North Carolina Motor Speedway. The symbols used to be plentiful at the track on race days; they wouldn’t be allowed were it still a NASCAR venue. I know folks who, for one reason or another, don’t ever go back, don’t long for a taste of the familiar, don’t enjoy a reunion with a place or its people. There are often good reasons for such judgments, but I don’t think I will ever feel that way. There was a distinct pace where I grew up, and that speed, or more to the point, lack of it, was related to the room we had. Much of what I recall — relish — as Southern simply was small-town. Much has changed, a point reinforced when I visited the Southern Pines cemetery where my parents are buried. It was a warm, clear morning in early November, and Boy Scouts were placing small American flags on the graves of veterans such as my father. As the teenagers did their service, I was alone with my thoughts and the sound of cars on Morganton Road, a noise not of memory but of now, that I heard but didn’t hear. PS Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent. Bill can be reached at williamhfields@gmail.com. PineStraw
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T H E C R E AT O R S O F N. C .
Bottling the Past
In Robeson County, where the grapes grow sweet, a Lumbee-owned winery thrives By Wiley Cash • Photographs by Mallory Cash
Two legends persist in
North Carolina, both of which have spread like twining vines from Roanoke Island westward across the state. One legend is about grapes, the other is about the Lost Colony, and both converge in Robeson County.
First, the legend of grapes: It is believed that when British explorers sent by Sir Walter Raleigh arrived on Roanoke Island in 1584, they were greeted by the sweet aroma of muscadine grapes hanging ripe on the vines. Centuries later, the “Mother Vine,” which is believed to be the oldest known grapevine in the United States at 400 years old, is still thriving on the Outer Banks, roughly two feet thick at its base and covering nearly a half-acre. The second legend is the legend of the Lost Colony. Most North Carolinians know that Raleigh’s 1587 expedition, led by John White, disappeared while White was making a return trip to England for
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supplies. Three years later, when White came back to the colony, he discovered that nothing had been left behind aside from the word CROATOAN, which was etched into a gate, and the letters CRO that had been carved into a tree. What happened to these British colonists? Among the many theories, one is that the settlers moved inland and befriended Native American tribes, eventually intermarrying and joining the vast network of Native people who had been living in the region for centuries before White settlers arrived. Many believe that descendants of the Lost Colony moved as far inland as present day Robeson County, eventually calling themselves Lumbee in honor of the Lumber (or Lumbee) River. Perhaps that would explain why the Lumbee Indians, the largest tribe east of the Mississippi River with a population of over 70,000, have always spoken English as their common language. Not so, writes Malinda Maynor Lowery, associate professor of history and director of the Center for the Study of the American South at UNC-Chapel Hill, who is herself a Lumbee Indian who was born in Robeson County. In her book, The Lumbee Indians: An American Struggle, Lowery writes, “The Lumbees are descendants of the dozens The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
T H E C R E AT O R S O F N. C .
of tribes in that territory, as well as of free European and enslaved African settlers who lived in what became their core homeland.” According to Lowery, the Lumbee’s use of English as their common language is not due to their being founded by the members of the Lost Colony, but was more a matter of convenience as a mixture of tribal communities began to coalesce in the area after migrating to escape disease, warfare and slavery. Native people have lived in what is now Robeson County for 13,000 years, long before Sir Walter Raleigh had his earliest notions of empire. If the Lost Colony cannot explain the existence of the Lumbee Indians in Robeson County, it probably cannot explain the westward expansion of the muscadine grape either. According to the North Carolina Muscadine Grape Association, “in the early 1800s, North Carolina was a national leader in wine production and in 1840 was the nation’s top wine producer, with an industry built entirely on muscadine grapes.” There are currently 200 licensed wineries in North Carolina, generating $375 million each year in wages and $89 million in state taxes. One of the 200 licensed wineries is Locklear Vineyard and Winery in Maxton, N.C. For the past 15 years, Charlie Locklear and his two sons, Charlie Jr. and Daryl, proud members of the Lumbee tribe, have been growing muscadine grapes and making a plethora of wines on the land that has belonged to the family for generations. The elder Charlie, who was born in 1942 and grew up farming tobacco, corn, cotton and “a little bit of hay” with his family, started making wine as a hobby. “I just loved to do it,” he says on one bright day in early fall, only a few weeks after the vines have been harvested.
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The operation is tightly run, primarily by family and close family friends, with everything from the growing to the harvesting to the bottling happening on the Locklears’ property, where an old barn has been converted into a winery that features a tasting room and retail space. Outside, the land stretches for miles. Charlie, whose likeness appears on all of Locklear Winery’s bottles, remembers a time when the family was no less tied to the land, but simply had more land to tie themselves to. His great-grandfather owned 3,000 acres, and his grandfather came to own and farm roughly 300. “If you’re not farming the big way now, you just can’t make it,” Charlie says, referring to the boom and bust of the agribusiness cycle that often finds farmers relying on huge yields to pay down debts for machinery and land. Now, the Locklears own 70 acres of land, considerably less than in the past, but the land is put to good use, much of it comprised of the vineyard where two variations of muscadine grapes — Noble and Carlos — are grown. The Noble muscadine is red, the wine sweet yet crisp. The Carlos is a white grape, resulting in wine with a sweeter, smoother finish. “I like to experiment with different ways to make wine,” Charlie says. “If you make a good product that tastes good, people are going to buy it.” And people have bought it, and word of the sweet wine from Robeson County continues to spread. While their sales are highest in the local market, Locklear wines are sold throughout Eastern North Carolina, across the Piedmont and into the western part of the state. The winery now employs more people than ever before. Robeson County can be a conservative place, and one has to wonder what the locals thought when Charlie Locklear decided to turn his
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T H E C R E AT O R S O F N. C .
wine-making hobby into a family business. “Most people embraced it,” he says. “Probably 90 percent of them. You’re never going to get 100 percent on nothing.” But folks will go easy on a local boy, especially when the family name is nearly as old as the land itself. Along with other surnames — Oxendine, Chavis, Dial, Lowery or Lowry or Lowrie among them — Locklears have a long history in the region, and Charlie has the roots to prove it. “I was born here,” he says, “and in 1948 we went straight across the road and built a house. And when I got married in 1964, we remodeled this house, which was my grandfather’s house, and we’ve been here ever since.” Locklear is a prominent name, he continues, and there are a lot of them. “Our ancestors were here, and we were people with high education and businesses. We’re just continuing to promote the family tree, businesswise.” And what does it mean to Charlie Locklear to work this land and create a family business from it? “Well, I hope it’s an encouragement to Lumbees,” he says. “And I hope it’s an encouragement to Whites and Blacks too: If you want to achieve something, you can achieve it. Don’t let other people tell you what to do. It’s like target
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practice: If you shoot at it long enough, you’ll hit it.” After centuries of his people being on this land, it’s clear that Charlie’s aim is pretty good. PS Wiley Cash and his photographer wife, Mallory, live in Wilmington, N.C. His latest novel, The Last Ballad, is available wherever books are sold.
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DON’T JUST LIVE HERE...
LOVE IT HERE.
Residents of Quail Haven Village love the living choices, abundant resort-like amenities and nearly endless social engagements available to them. Here, residents and their families will love the emphasis on nutritious dining options, whole-person wellness and the peace of mind that comes from having continuing care in place should they need it. Call 910.295.2294 to schedule a private tour and don’t just live here...LOVE IT HERE. 155 Blake Blvd., Pinehurst, NC 28374 The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
A Life Plan Community offered by Liberty Senior Living.
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IN THE SPIRIT
So Appalled
A duck walks into a bar and orders a diluted drink By Tony Cross
Last year my com-
PHOTOGRAPH BY TONY CROSS
pany launched a little promotion on social media letting folks know about our bottled cocktails. Previously, we dealt in and delivered growlers of carbonated cocktails, but now we’re offering stirred cocktails such as old fashioneds, Sazeracs and Manhattans, in addition to a few signature drinks of our own.
We’ve done a couple of different promotions, but the very first one got the most buzz in the comment sections. Everyone was kind and excited, tagging their friends and loved ones. A month after the first promo, I received a notification on my phone that we had a new comment. I pulled it up, and it read like this: “Why diluted? Never go into a bar and order diluted drinks.” This is interesting on a few levels, but first I need to explain this in context. In the promo, we listed the ingredients of the cocktails we were bottling and added that “Each bottle yields nine cocktails and is diluted with distilled water.” Dilute? What? Yes. Dilute. Why? Easy. When you order a cocktail — let’s say an old fashioned — the bartender will most likely create it with the following steps: She or he will take an aromatic bitters and add a few dashes to a chilled mixing vessel (perhaps with a dash or so of an orange or other bitters); then take sugar, in the form of either syrup or cube, muddle for a moment to break the sugar down to mix with the bitters (if it’s cubed) or use a spoon to mix (if it’s a syrup); then add a couple of ounces of whiskey (bourbon, rye or whatever is on the menu/house whiskey). Finally, the bartender will add ice and stir. Now, this is important. Why? Because ice is just as much an ingredient as the others. Some might argue it’s even a more crucial ingredient than the others. When the bartender feels that the cocktail is ready, he or she will stop stirring, possibly taste a small thimble of the drink to ensure it’s right, and then strain the old fashioned over a large cube of ice in a rocks glass. Next comes the garnish, and it’s done. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
How does the bartender know when the drink is ready to strain and serve? Temperature and dilution. Oh, snap! The bartender stirs the cocktail to make sure that it gets cold, but at the same time, the ice that’s spinning round and round like a carousel has another job: to melt. That’s right, water is an ingredient in the old fashioned. If the bartender simply mixed all of the ingredients together (without ice) and put it in the freezer for a couple of minutes, the cocktail would be cold, but it would also be unbalanced. Without the dilution, the old fashioned would taste hot, or too boozy. The very first cocktail book I read started off explaining that ice is as much an ingredient, if not the most important ingredient, as all the others in a cocktail. Admittedly, I was unsure if what I was reading was overly dramatic. It wasn’t. It was spot on. You want your ice made with water that you would enjoy drinking. Sulphur-rich town water ain’t it. Ice that’s been in your freezer with that half-opened box of frozen shrimp ain’t it either. Clean ice. You can have a great rye whiskey, a nice organic cane sugar syrup, and the perfect pairing of bitters, but once you add that old, cloudy ice to stir it with, none of those other ingredients hold as much weight. I mentioned earlier that the bartender might extract a touch of the old fashioned from the stirring vessel to taste. Many bartenders do this to make sure the cocktail is diluted enough. If it’s not, they’ll stir until it is. Now, in defense of the person that posed the question, we should agree that an over-diluted cocktail isn’t acceptable. I have never bellied up to any bar and ordered a diluted drink and, to my knowledge, I have never imbibed with any friend or date that has. It would not be a good thing if the bartender stirred your old fashioned for five minutes straight. No thanks. We add distilled water to our bottled cocktails so they’re ready to go — properly diluted with no stirring required. Pour it over ice (or neat), stay calm, carry on, and cheers. PS Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.
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THE KITCHEN GARDEN
It’s Not Easy Being Green
But a patch of parsley will do the trick
By Jan Leitschuh
If January finds you craving a little green, plant parsley.
Parsley’s kitchen presence ain’t what it used to be, when the culinary herb was ubiquitous. The classic lazy chef’s garnish — an afterthought to a side dish, an expected spot of green on the plate — parsley is not the first herb cooks reach for these days when tossing together a quick meal. And that’s a shame, because parsley is simple to grow and surprisingly nutritious for a bit of verdant fluff. That “spot of green” on the plate does equally well as a welcome spot of green in the garden in most Sandhills’ winters. Parsley is simple to grow. And in the old Simon and Garfunkel folk ballad “Scarborough Fair,” what gets first billing in parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme? As a mildly bitter culinary herb, parsley’s clean and peppery taste can offer folks weary of rich holiday fare a fresh, healthy switch-up. My friend Teresa’s introduction to parsley is probably typical. When she was traveling as a kid, her family would always stop at a roadside chain breakfast place on the interstate. “Seems like a sprig of parsley came on every plate as decoration,” she recalls. “I tried it and I liked it. To me, it was somewhat minty. My family would offer me theirs. My dad would always tease, ‘You want my rabbit food?’” Because its deep taproot tolerates our winters, some local garThe Art & Soul of the Sandhills
deners like to interplant the green herb with pansies and flowering kales. During warm spells, it grows vigorously. In cold weather, it can hold its own. I have brushed snow off a patch and harvested it. Some of the lushest outer sprigs may freeze, but the crown and core persist. My friend Elaine grows parsley for the kitchen. “It’s in a big pot on my back porch,” she says. “I’ll probably bring it in tonight because the temperature is going down into the mid-20s, and I have a lot of it I want to use.” Elaine, a retired nurse, likes to use it fresh in recipes. “There are some things that just taste better with fresh parsley rather than dried . . . a chicken dish, potatoes. I like tabbouleh,” she says. “The best thing I use it in, though, is a recipe for lemon-garlic roasted cauliflower rice that I got from our Jazzercize teacher, Debby Higginbotham.” Elaine shares that recipe below. To plant, pick up a few pots of parsley at a local garden center. If you can’t find parsley for sale now, it will be available in the earliest spring, when you really need a hit of green. Planting and care are easy. Pick a sunny spot, plant the crown at soil level, water during dry spells in winter. Parsley is a biennial, which means it will last two years, but I treat it like an annual. The leaves are still edible the second year but can get a little bitter sometimes if it bolts — grows a seed stalk — in its second spring. Wash fresh parsley right before using, since this tough-growing plant is fragile. Clean it just as you would spinach. Place it in a bowl PineStraw
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THE KITCHEN GARDEN
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of cold water and swish it around with your hands, allowing any sand to dislodge. Unwashed parsley stays fresh for up to two weeks, whereas dried parsley may last up to a year. To freeze, chop and layer in a plastic bag about a 1/2-inch thick. Press as much air out of the bag as possible, and freeze. Break off flat pieces as needed. Rich in antioxidants and nutrients like vitamins A, K, and C, parsley may improve blood sugar and support heart, kidney and bone health. Also a diuretic, parsley can help increase urine output and flush bacteria from the urinary system. It’s a superfood, but probably best not to juice in great bunches — a little goes a long way. Your tasty Argentinian chimichurri aside, WebMD says very large quantities of parsley are possibly unsafe, especially for those with kidney disease. Parsley is high in oxalates, which can contribute to kidney stones in some. Many tasty dishes sparkle with a teaspoon or two of fresh parsley. Couscous with red onion, feta, cucumbers and parsley is a classic. Whip up a chimichurri for skirt steak. Toss your zucchini noodle salad with a parsley-pistachio pesto, instead of basil and pine nuts. Tabbouleh with tomatoes, lemon juice and parsley is a great way to use up a bunch. Or enjoy the clean, winter eating of Elaine and Debby’s recipe:
Lemon-Garlic Roasted Cauliflower with Fresh Parsley Preheat oven to 425. Spray the bottom of a sheet pan or cookie sheet with olive oil. Combine about 16 ounces, (or a pre-riced bag) of riced cauliflower with a tablespoon of olive oil, 3 chopped or pressed garlic cloves and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Mix and spread on pan. Roast for 25 minutes. Halfway through, stir to prevent burning. Transfer to a bowl, mix with a teaspoon of fresh lemon juice and 2 teaspoons of freshly chopped parsley. Spoon over roasted chicken, salmon or another fish. Enough for two. PS Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of Sandhills Farm to Table.
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W E E K E N D A WA Y
Not Your Average Farm Town The Madcap gents lap up the small-town pleasures of Farmville, Virginia By Jason Oliver Nixon
When John and I think up ideas
for our weekends away, it’s easy to consider obvious road-trip destinations such as Charleston and Savannah (stay tuned . . . they’re on our list). But we also like to shake it up with locations that are off the beaten path.
Like Farmville in central Virginia. Situated 2 hours and 40 minutes north of High Point, Farmville, population 8,000, isn’t exactly your average farm town. In fact, it’s something of a design mecca. Truly. But that’s not all. It turns out that it’s a charming and supremely walkable college
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town with stately brick architecture, a handful of spot-on restaurants and heaps of green space, including the awe-inspiring High Bridge Trail with an entrance that sits smack on Main Street. Plus, the town serves as the perfect home base for visits to nearby historic sites such as Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello and lesser-known Poplar Forest — without the crush, say, of bustling Charlottesville. John and I discovered Farmville’s recently overhauled, 1930sera Hotel Weyanoke while trawling possible road-trip destinations online. We were smitten with the images of the hotel’s sympathetic renovation that mixes period architecture with modern flourishes. But the hostelry is, in fact, far better than the online images suggest. The Weyanoke boasts 70 sleek, contemporary rooms and two restaurants — the Taproot Tavern and Effingham’s. Expect craft beer, cool cocktails and smart cooking (think coal-fired pizzas, crab cakes with creamy rémoulade and a terrific burger with homemade pickles atop a brioche bun). It’s also dog-friendly. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
W E E K E N D A WA Y
The pound-rescue pups — Weenie, Cecil, Amy Petunia and George — accompanied us for the weekend, a frolicsome quartet that relished everything about the comfortable junior suite, including its sitting area, sprawling bathroom and Juliet balcony. And at just $150 per night, the room was a steal. The Weyanoke’s rooftop cocktail bar, the Catbird Rooftop Terrace, was closed for the season, but we plan to return in a more clement season for a little rosé with a view. We loved the hotel’s signature green bikes, perfect for exploring next door Longwood University with its pedestrian friendly, postcard-perfect campus. Hotel Weyanoke ticks off one Farmville design box. And then there’s Green Front Furniture, a sprawling discount furniture company that comprises 13 buildings over several blocks of downtown. Should you seek any type of furnishing, accessory, rug or patio set under the sun, Green Front is your nirvana. Its showrooms are housed within various storefronts up and down Farmville’s main street, including former department stores and dramatically lit tobacco warehouses that look as if they were plucked from the canals of Amsterdam. Traditional furniture brands such as Theodore Alexander make a big presence. As does Kindel. Gabby and Summer Classics. Hickory Chair. And on and on. Lest you feel overwhelmed, Green Front has a great map that will give you the lay of the land. We cross paths with the charismatic 20-something Den Crallé, a Farmville native and the force behind Green Front Furniture. “We love being an inherent part of the Farmville community,”
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
Crallé tells us. “The town is super dynamic and only getting better and better. You can shop for furniture, dine, spend the weekend at a great hotel, wander the wonderful campuses and really enjoy a classic American small-town experience.” John and I walked. We hiked. We trotted the dogs up and down Main Street. We browsed furniture at Green Front for clients. We visited nearby Hampden-Sydney College and brunched on BBQ at The Fishin’ Pig. We dined at Mex-centric one19, where we savored uber fresh scallop tacos paired with prickly pear margaritas and a mountain of chips and homemade salsa. Speaking of mountains, on Saturday morning, John and I made the hour-long, bucolic drive to Monticello in Charlottesville. Thomas Jefferson’s mountaintop masterpiece is stunning, of course, the iconic architecture paired with a gorgeous panorama. Visitors can learn about the plantation’s history, sip local wines, wander amidst the vegetable gardens and visit Jefferson’s grave. But be prepared for swarms of people, loads of guidelines and — should you miss your social distancing marks — a quantum dose of admonitions. “Don’t come any closer, stay away,” lectured a particularly Teutonic guide when I humbly asked for directions to the loo from behind my mask. Harumph. There went my warm and cozy feelings for Monticello. Sunday morning’s hour-long pilgrimage to Poplar Forest, Jefferson’s less-celebrated retreat near Lynchburg, Va., restored my optimism. There was nothing didactic or dictatorial about our visit to Jefferson’s folly-like pavilion. And there were no crowds.
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W E E K E N D A WA Y
Poplar Forest John and I were two of eight people on the property for a 12:30 p.m. guided tour. Surrounded by suburban sprawl, Poplar Forest has managed to cobble back 600 acres to its original 5,000 and offers stunning views in certain sight lines (and, sadly, perspectives onto vinyl-clad ranch houses in others). The home itself is amazing — a cube surrounded by a Palladian-inspired symmetry that, lacking furniture, celebrates Jefferson’s architectural masterstrokes.
Restoration work continues. Happily, there is a master plan for Poplar Forest that will help reduce the suburban vistas and celebrate the estate’s extant surrounding nature. Interesting factoid: Poplar Forest was rescued in the 1980s by a High Point doctor who saved the property from development before selling it to the nonprofit that currently runs the estate. Back in Farmville, John and I finished off our busy weekend with a languid dinner at the groovy North Street Press Club eatery, housed in a super-cool former printing plant next door to the hotel. We sipped kicky Paloma cocktails and noshed on Vietnamese street tacos with tangy nuoc cham sauce from a vast around-the-world menu. Our assessment of Farmville?
Yes. Yes. And yes. Noted John, “I really like this town, who knew? What an unexpected, wonderful little gem.” PS
The Madcap gents, John Loecke and Jason Oliver Nixon, embrace the new reality of COVID-friendly travel — heaps of road trips.
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Friday January 22 at 6:30 pm
A (virtual) Night With The MakersMakers colors If you or your organization is interested in hosting an event, online or in person, TicketME Sandhills is here to help. We can assist in online event execution & ticket sales and distribution. If you have any questions or think we can help, please contact us:
A West Coast Lifestyle Boutique TicketME Sandhills 145 W Pennsylvania Ave, Southern Pines 910.693.2516 • info@ticketmesandills.com
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CoolSweats in the Village of Pinehurst 910.295.3905 105 Cherokee Rd, Pinehurst, NC 28374 PineStraw
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Joe Being Joe The intersection of golf and politics
By Jim Moriarty
Politics has been brushing up
against golf since William Howard Taft, our first overweight, presidential, high handicapper, left office the same year Francis Ouimet beat Harry Vardon and Ted Ray at The Country Club. Barack Obama and Donald Trump are as far apart as Jupiter and Mars but feel the gravitational pull of the game equally. I’ve never met Joe Biden, who also plays, but I do know one thing about him, and I wouldn’t know it if it hadn’t been for golf.
It begins with Ben Wright. With the impish grin of a pixie and a CV that included writing for the London Sunday Times, Wright was the British voice imported by CBS at the very time the magnificent Henry Longhurst’s was waning. “Mr. Longhurst excoriated me on my first day at the Masters,” Wright told me. “He said this immortal phrase: ‘We’re nothing but caption writers in a picture business, and if you can’t improve the quality of the picture, keep your f***ing mouth shut.’” Wright was a quick study. “To this day,” the late Frank Chirkinian, the Hall of Fame CBS director, told me, “the 1975 Masters was the greatest Masters of all time — as a telecast. The dialogue between Ben Wright and Henry Longhurst was priceless. Wieskopf and Jack Nicklaus are tied for the lead. Nicklaus is standing on the 16th green waiting for Tom Watson to go back and re-tee because he put his ball in the water. Weiskopf is on the 15th green, and he makes a birdie putt to go into the lead by one. The
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
crowd erupts. Take a close-up of Jack Nicklaus for a reaction shot. Over the roar of the crowd Ben Wright says, ‘Ah, evil music for Mr. Nicklaus’ ears.’ Weiskopf goes to the tee just in time to watch Jack make that historic 40-foot putt. For the first time the stoic Jack Nicklaus rushes off the green with a putter raised over his head and Henry, over the crowd, says, ‘My, my, my, never before have I seen such a thing.’ Cut back to Weiskopf on the tee to get his reaction. And Henry says, ‘And now Weiskopf must take it as he dished it out.’ Now, is that any good?” Ben no doubt wishes he’d been as succinct in 1995 at the LPGA’s McDonald’s Championship in Wilmington, Delaware. It was there that he gave an interview to a feature reporter for the News Journal, Valerie Helmbreck. It’s impossible to go into all the details here. Let’s just say Wright said some things about breasts, in one context, and lesbians in another. Helmbreck, who preferred not to use a tape recorder in her work but took notes as scrupulously as a monk writing in the Book of Kells, did follow-up interviews. CBS got wind of the story and tried to convince her not to write it. She wrote it anyway. Furor ensued. Wright was summoned to New York. There, either Wright or the suits hatched a plan to deny he had said what he said. Helmbreck was pilloried as having published lies spiced with innuendo. It wasn’t Wright’s or CBS’s finest hour. All manner of insidious motives were attributed to Helmbreck, who knew so little about golf that when Chirkinian called to try to convince her not to write the story, she had to ask him how to spell his name and what his job was. He called her “honey,” and she hung up on him. Months after the firestorm was lit, Sports Illustrated’s Michael Bamberger found someone who had overheard the interview. Helmbreck’s version was confirmed. But that’s not the end of it. Wright was thrown out of golf. Period. There was to be no forgiveness, no absolution, no pardon, no redemption. He became a “pariah” — that’s his word. Had Ben, who was 63 at the time, simply told the truth, he’d have had his wrist slapped and been in PineStraw
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the booth, brilliantly no doubt, for another decade at least. Instead, he eventually did time in the Betty Ford Clinic; and Helmbreck, disenchanted with the way she was treated by friends and foes alike, quit the newspaper 18 months later. Helmbreck and Wright spoke again in 1998. It was on her daughter’s birthday. “He and I talked on the phone for an hour. It was kind of like two people who had been in a train wreck together sort of comparing notes,” she told me in ’05. But, I promised you Joe Biden, didn’t I? When Helmbreck agreed to meet me at a restaurant in Wilmington, she was walking with a cane. She apologized even before we began to talk, saying she tired easily. In January of that year, standing in her kitchen washing out a coffee cup, she experienced a sudden, crushing headache. An artery in her brain stem had burst. Her husband, Al Mascitti, an editor at the News Journal, had left the house 15 minutes earlier to attend the governor’s inauguration. A friend got her to a nearby hospital, and she was helicoptered to the Thomas Jefferson University School of Medicine in Philadelphia. She had less than a 20 percent chance of survival. When I saw her, she still had a stent in her head, draining blood. “It’s made by Rolex,” she said. “The one person in Delaware who had what I had and called my husband was Joe Biden,” she said. Biden was a U.S. senator then. It was no big deal, she tried to explain, “It’s a small state. Everybody knows everybody else.” Biden filled her husband in on what the stages of her recovery would look and feel like. “Honestly, the stuff that he told my husband was the most helpful because you’re never sure if what you’re feeling is normal,” she said. The last I knew, Helmbreck was living in France and writing again. It’s peculiar, this game of golf. Sometimes it reveals character without ever hitting a shot. PS Jim Moriarty is the editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.
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Now Serving NC Beer & Wine We are the Sandhills’ premier farm to table restaurant. Come in and experience creative, unique gourmet sandwiches, soups and salads. We are a scratch kitchen - from our roasted meats all the way to our fermented sriracha. Many vegetarian / vegan and gluten free options. In addition to dining in, you can place your order online at RoastNC.com, call-in, and order delivery (5pm-9pm). You can also pre-order on our mobile app and use our drive-thru pick-up window for “dine in a dash” convenience. We are located near the Moore County Airport traffic circle, in front of the Southern Pines Ace Hardware. We look forward to serving our community and supporting North Carolina farms.
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Given Memorial Library and Elliott’s on Linden Presents
GIVEN-TO-GO
Tantalizing burgers with a side of up and down.
Tuesday, February 9th 5:30 - 6:30 PM MENU
Petit Seasonal Salad
Carrot, tomato, olive, cucumber and red onion. With balsamic and oregano dressing
Sage and Prosciutto Wrapped Roasted Chicken Breast
Topped with white wine and lemon cream sauce, along with farro and squash gratin and broccoli
Dessert
Chocolate cupcake with buttercream icing and strawberries
Ticket Sales begin:
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Call or e-mail to pre-purchase your meal(s) at the Tufts Archives 910.295.3642 or by email:
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HOME BY DESIGN
In the Hotseat at Aunt Ruth’s I served my time and, frankly, would have preferred the aliens
By Cynthia Adams
Truvy’s Beauty Spot in Steel
Magnolias equipped its Natchitoches, La., patrons to meet life with sky-high hair. But the Franklin Beauty Shop in Monroe, N.C., where my aunt delivered hard truths and even harder hair, was a very different place.
My Aunt Ruth’s shop, which opened in the 1950s, was an assault upon all the senses. It possessed the stark ambiance of a morgue. And it taught me this: Beauty is in the eyes, ears and nose of the beholder. It was as utilitarian as my father’s barber shop: stark, fluorescent lights, pea green walls, Army green vinyl floor, three mirrors, three stations, three chairs outfitted with massive dryers and two manicure tables. Large windows with open metal Venetian blinds (Why was something so hideous called Venetian?) overlooked Franklin Street. Passersby could peer directly into her place, which, unlike the barber shop, emanated noxious chemical smells. Incredulously, my aunt made a decent income and won devoted friends. It was ideally situated near the Oasis Sandwich Shop, which served fab sodas, floats, fries and burgers. There, I would idle while my mother got her “do.” Even as a child, I understood that my mother was not improved by the ministrations of my aunt. Her hairdos might just as well have been created with tongs and barbecue tools. Any fool could see she looked better going into the Franklin, as we called it, than she did leaving it. The drive home was confirmation as my mother dusted ditches raking a brush through her shellacked hair, “trying to fix this before we get home,” she’d scoff, as the green Olds swayed across lanes. Mama was never, ever pleased by her sister’s work. Ruth, a natural beauty, loved the natural world and could have The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
been a botanist. But her school principal father stubbornly steered her into cosmetology, where she studied the darker arts of beauty. Why oh why? He died before I was born or I would have asked. Her customers’ hair was more often than not dyed or bleached an unnatural shade of blue-black, red or yellow, curled tight, then baked into place beneath oversized dryers suitable for flood recovery operations. Clients emerged pink faced from the blasting heat of the silvery green stationary dryers and then submitted to the next step: a comb out. This involved teasing with a rat-tail comb before the requisite (lethal) final step: Spray Net. Hair sprays of this era contained vinyl chloride, a propellant later proven to be carcinogenic. Hard fact. Another hard fact: My aunt’s clients looked uniformly alike once they climbed out of the sturdy swivel chair. By Ruth’s hands, my grandmother’s hair became a blue-black hue I rarely observed in nature, apart from a rare beetle specimen at the Natural Science Center. It puzzled me why anyone paid Aunt Ruth at all. Speaking of payment, I privately yearned to operate the large green cash register that stood at the entry with the appointments book, watching as customers wrote out checks and waved goodbye “till the next time.” Instead, I thumbed through worn Photoplay and McCall’s magazines in the waiting area. At age 10, when many of my friends were getting a Toni perm in their kitchen, it was decreed: my straight ponytail was inadequate. Aunt Ruth would give me a professional do before my new school year. She washed my long straight hair, then mixed toxic chemicals in a glass bowl. As they stewed, she clipped and chopped. Once the carnage was over, the remaining hair was tightly wound around bright pink perm “rods,” a term co-opted from nuclear physicists. Perm rods are to perms what uranium rods are to nuclear reactors. Either way, they’re volatile. PineStraw
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She applied chemicals to the perm rods. A black hair net held it in lock down. I was walked to a dryer where this tragic concoction was to “set.” Under the dryer, my eyes stung from the putrid reaction. When my scalp and ears began burning from the blasting heat, I jumped out. But Aunt Ruth ordered me back, lowering the dryer temp to nearly tolerable. The timer pinged and I sprang free. As the rods were removed and my head cooled, I studied the clock: it was now half past my childhood. Ruth swiveled the chair toward the mirror. The shock caused me to bite my lip so hard it bled. I looked precisely like my grandmother. My mother was tense as she swung onto the highway. A stifling ammonia cloud filled the car. I cracked the window to cool my face, still hot and now overwhelmed with the enormity of my strangeness. “Don’t worry. My hair can’t move,” I said. Once home, my father took one look and moaned. “Dear Lord. The child’s ruined.” Devastated, I shuffled out of the house to the barn in search of Trigger, a gentle pony who cocked his head quizzically before accepting a hug. I climbed into the loft, where I did my best thinking, cried a little, then concocted a story owing much to Rod Serling and The Twilight Zone. I was playing outside when a space ship landed in the pasture. Aliens zapped me. A lot of my hair burned off right there! I’m just lucky to be alive. It wasn’t exactly original or believable, but an improvement on the story I invented about how I needed a life-saving operation after peeing myself on the playground. Bus #15 swung down our road the next morning, where I waited in a plaid skirt and white blouse, holding a new book satchel, bracing myself. Johnny swung the bus door open; there it was — his open-mouthed surprise. But I turned away and searched the aisle for Martha or Kenneth. They would totally buy my story about my hair-today, gone-tomorrow alien abduction. PS Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to PineStraw and O.Henry. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
OUT OF THE BLUE
New Year (of the Cat)) Cameos for Lucky and Missy
By Deborah Salomon
Seven years just flew by since I first
designated January as Cat Column Month. This was necessary because otherwise, my companions Lucky and Missy (formerly Hissy) would creep in regularly. Mustn’t let that happen; I realize some people don’t appreciate cats, or even animals.
As the French say, à chacun son goût. To each his own (taste). My affection traces back to a lonely, only-child childhood in a New York City apartment. My parents finally relented to a puppy. I was too young to walk him alone. That lasted about six weeks. Next came Dinky, a quite manageable stream turtle who lived to 10. When we moved into a house elsewhere, I was allowed a cat named Horowitz, for pianist Vladimir, because he walked across the keyboard on the piano I hated to practice. Sadly, when I returned from a month at sleep-away camp, Horowitz was gone. Thank goodness my grandparents had an ever-pregnant kitty and a sweet dog. I made sure my children had pets — big, friendly dogs. Then, after they were grown with big, friendly dogs of their own, a youngish calico showed up at my door. Since then, I have been home sweet home to a parade of kitties, usually two at a time, who just showed up, usually in dire need. I decided to retire in 2008, when the last one crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Then, one December, a hungry black kitty with fur as sleek as a seal peered in the window. Black cats are my weakness — especially their forlorn eyes. Lucky made himself a bed under the bushes. I fed him outside until July 4th. Then, in a moment of weakness, I opened the door. He has rewarded me with 10 years of affection, intelligence and antics. A year later, “Everybody’s,” the wide-body gal fed by many, spayed by one, got wind of my open door policy. At first she rewarded my kindness with hisses and growls. That lasted about a month. Now Hissy, renamed Missy, drips sugar. I discovered that Lucky — neutered and declawed — had been abandoned by his family when they moved. He gave Missy a long, hard stare which, I surmised, established the ground rules. They have been best buddies since, rather like an old married couple: she, a fussbudget; he the head of the household. Wish I’d named them Archie and Edith. Just because cats can’t speak doesn’t mean they can’t communicate. My Lucky’s eyes plead, smile, show surprise, fear, displeasure. He is a man of dignity, of routine, governed by a solar clock. He asks to go out just as the warm winter sun hits his chair on the porch. After sunset,
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
he begins leading me to the bedroom because I keep kitty treats in the bedside table. I dole out three morsels. Upon hearing “That’s all,” he retreats to the down comforter folded at the foot, where he sleeps until 3 a.m. During this ritual, Missy sits at a respectful distance, knowing her time will come. A feminist, she’s not. Speaking of time, every night at 7 p.m. I watch Jeopardy! The kitties have chosen this moment for their daily aerobic workout, triggered by the Jeopardy! theme music, which triggers some angry-sounding music of their own. They pounce, roll around. Then, like a summer thunderstorm, it’s over. He lowers his head and she licks it clean before they trot off together. Cats, especially elderly ones, sleep upward of 20 hours a day. Mine have nests, some self-styled, others mom-made like a fuzzy blanket in a box. Lucky prefers a dark corner of my closet. Missy sleeps around. The first chilly days I position two heating pads on the bed. I started with one, since Lucky has an arthritic hip. Missy claimed half. Now, mesmerized by heat, they nap there for hours. I barely cop a corner for my arthritic shoulder. Another behavioral oddity concerns the water bowl. I feed them in the kitchen — two feeding dishes, one water bowl. In the winter, they spend so much time on the heating pads that I put a water bowl beside the bed, a wide soup bowl decorated with flowers. Lucky will walk from the kitchen into the bedroom for a drink. Same water, changed twice a day. Cats . . . aloof? I can’t sit down to watch Wolf Blitzer without a lapful. A pause in rubbing and scratching nets a paw. OK with Lucky, but Missy has claws. Food is usually an issue with cats. I mix best-quality kibble with bestquality canned, or something I’ve cooked for them, like chicken, liver or fish. I once had a kitty who accepted only cod and pork liver — wouldn’t touch tilapia or chicken liver. People tuna costs half as much as Fancy Feast, so sometimes they get a spoonful. Of course they have favorites off my plate. Missy goes berserk if I’m eating slivers of smoked salmon on a bagel. Lucky loves to lick the cover of a Greek vanilla yogurt container. The best is watching him lick the salt off a potato chip, leaving it limp. Spaghetti with plain tomato sauce is another winner . . . just a strand, because I wouldn’t want to spoil them. No, cats can’t talk. They fascinate with wordless actions, instincts, habits. Connecting with an animal is a proven therapeutic. I can feel the tension flee my shoulders as I stroke Lucky’s satiny fur. Missy makes me laugh on the grimmest day. Best of all, a trust once established endures. Too bad the same cannot be guaranteed with humans. PS Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com. PineStraw
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MOM INC.
Rescuing Bailey, Part II
Nothing that a lifestyle coach can’t fix By R enee Whitmore
Jan. 1, 2017. 4 a.m. My alarm buzzed.
My eyes shot open. I stumbled to the kitchen and hit the “brew” button on the Keurig. Dark roast steaming in my cup, I turned on the light in my son Kevin’s room. He was 8 and excited about our adventure.
Fifteen minutes later, we were on the road, southbound. Our purpose? Meet my Aunt Nancy halfway, in north Florida, to pick up the newest addition to our family. Bailey-girl. A 2-year-old full-bred Rottie. She had heartworms, and Nancy swooped in to rescue her and nurse her back to health. Now, she would be mine. I had Facetimed Bailey already, and today was the day we would bring her home. We met at a gas station. Bailey bounded out of Nancy’s vehicle, straight to me, and as I leaned down to welcome her, she knocked me backward on the grass. I sat down cross-legged, and this 70-pound dog climbed on my lap, claiming me forever. I have written about Bailey-girl before. I wrote about the time she fell into a depression after we adopted a cat and, passive-aggressively, sneaked into the bathroom to steal the cat food. Then she’d put herself in timeout because she knew what she’d done was wrong. She’d walk into her dog crate and lay down, licking the flavor of cat food from her lips. I know I’m in trouble, but it’s worth it. I wrote about the time she ran outside the front door, down the driveway, and attacked one of our neighbor’s free-range chickens. She pranced back to the door, feathers flying everywhere. Humiliated, I marched her over to the neighbors to confess and offered to replace the chicken. Unamused, they declined. Instead, they bought a pen for their chickens. It was the death of the free-range era, too. I wrote about the times she acts as if something randomly takes over her body, and she starts racing around the living room, full speed, jumping on the couch, jumping down, racing through the kitchen, back into the living room, back on the couch. Then she curls up and takes a nap. All it takes is the UPS woman delivering a package, and she’s in hysteria mode again. This past summer Bailey-girl started acting weird. She no longer
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
barked at the UPS woman; she no longer cared about the cat food; she no longer ran around the living room hysterically. She no longer cared about, well, anything. She drank enormous amounts of water, waking us up through the night for more. In July, I took her to the vet. Bailey-girl weighed in at 100 pounds. Yikes. She’d gained 30 pounds in three years. Not good. The vet tech took some blood, put it in a blood sugar checker, and her expression fell. “What’s wrong?” “It’s, um, a little high. The vet will talk to you about it.” “You can’t tell me?” “The vet will talk to you,” she said as she slipped out of the room. Longest 10 minutes ever. “Her blood sugar and the constant thirst indicate signs of diabetes,” the vet said, “but we will send off the blood sample for more testing.” Tears started rolling down my face. “It’s not a death sentence, but it takes work to maintain,” she said. The vet told me to change her diet to “high fiber, low fat.” Bailey-girl needed to eat twice a day, and she needed insulin shots after meals. She could stand to lose some weight, too. And if I think her sugar is low? Smear Karo syrup on her mouth. We went straight to the pharmacy to pick up her insulin and then bought her new food for a complete diet makeover. I Googled everything about canine diabetes. I took notes, screenshots, and joined online canine diabetes support groups. I had never given a shot in my life. I practiced on a banana. Then an orange. Then, I gave her the first shot. A success! She didn’t even seem to notice. I was scared to leave her side. It was a good thing we were already quarantined and working from home. Gradually, she felt better. I learned not only to give her shots but to check her sugar levels. She adjusted to her new food and is on an exercise regimen. She joins me during my Zoom workouts, and we go for walks. She’s already lost 15 pounds. Today, the UPS woman came to the door, and Bailey showcased her barking hysteria. She’s in serious trouble if she sneaks the cat food these days because the cat food is “off plan.” But she still tries, so at least she cares. Six months after her diagnosis, she’s herself again. And she still thinks she’s a lap dog. Lucky for me, a few pounds lighter. PS When Renee Whitmore isn’t teaching English or being a professional taxi driver for her two boys, she’s working on her first book. PineStraw
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B I R D WA T C H
New Birds on the Block You never know. You could spot a western tanager
By Susan Campbell
The most exciting part of
watching birds is that you never know who might show up — and when. After all, they have wings. They can and do show up, almost anytime, almost everywhere.
Here in the Piedmont and Sandhills of North Carolina, western wanderers suddenly show up, soaring overhead, perched in treetops or even at our feeders. Like the western tanager, for instance, which we’ll get to shortly. But a few words on the wanderers first. Some birds are more prone to vagrancy than others. Whether this behavior is aimlessness — getting lost or being blown off course — is hard to say. Not surprisingly, long-distance migrants are at highest risk for becoming confused en route. And while it’s been studied at great length, the truth is that we understand very little about migration. Here’s all we know: most birds are successful at migration, which allows their genes to be passed on to the next generation. This is not to say that those birds that end up off track are bound to stay lost forever or perish as a result of a wrong turn along the way. In fact, researchers believe that, in some cases, these out-ofplace individuals represent the beginning of a range expansion for their species. It’s documented: Bird populations move into new areas of the United States. A species that has been observed well outside of its normal range
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
in the winter more and more frequently is the western tanager. This small and colorful songbird is found in the warmer months throughout most of the Western United States in a variety of wooded habitats. Come fall, they traditionally head for Mexico and Central America. But in the early 1990s, one showed up at a feeder in Wilmington. It stayed for the winter and, amazingly, repeated its winter stay twice, happily feeding on suet, shelled seeds and fruit. Since that first visitor, more than two dozen western tanagers have been documented along the southern coast of our state. What does this mean? It’s probably too soon to tell. But bird lovers in our southeastern counties are keeping an eye out for westerns each year. This winter, a male western tanager has reportedly settled into a yard in Apex. The host is pleased. And more than likely, the handsome bird is one of two that were in residence there last season. All tanagers molt twice a year. Because they’re drab looking from early fall through early spring, western tanagers are sometimes hard to identify when they appear in the East. Unlike our more common summer and scarlet tanagers, westerns have noticeable barring on their wings and are a bit brighter yellow on their under parts. I would wager that very few people reading this column have ever seen a western tanager out of its seasonal range. But it pays to be prepared with binoculars and a good field guide should an unfamiliar visitor appear. Wherever you are, rarities are always possible, even in your own backyard. PS Susan would love to receive your wildlife observations and/or photos at susan@ncaves.com.
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SPORTING LIFE
Slim’s Place Guided by a star
By Tom Bryant
The note arrived on a Tuesday.
Mail delivery had been sporadic at best, ostensibly due to the pandemic and delivery of voting ballots during the recent elections. The note was brief and to the point. It was a typical Bubba transcript and read, “We’re having a get-together at Slim’s next Saturday. Why don’t you come to the house on Friday. I have some fresh makings of Ritter’s apple brandy. We’ll test it, and I’ll grill a couple of steaks. Judith’s at the beach with some girlfriends, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. We’ll catch up and talk old times. Hope you can make it, Bubba.”
Bubba and I have spent many days afield, hunting, fishing and camping, and we have become great friends. Our paths went in different directions when Linda, my bride, and I moved to Southern Pines. Plus, Bubba started taking more exotic hunting and fishing trips across the world. To be honest, he has deeper pockets than I do. Our friendship remained, though, and we stayed in touch and met from time to time at cocktail parties, friends’ gatherings and such. Slim’s Place, referred to in Bubba’s note, is an ancient country store, actually begun and operated by Slim’s grandfather. When the grandfather died, the store fell into disrepair and almost rotted away until Slim, after making a fortune out West in the real estate business, restored it to its former glory. For years, he ran the store more as a hobby than a business, often exclaiming, “The only reason I keep this obsolete old store open is so all you reprobates will have a place to go.” We did go. It was a place, like the theme song played in the TV show Cheers, “where everyone knows your name.” We did know the names and the families and the dogs and the history, good and bad, of all the good old boys who took advantage of Slim’s hospitality. The The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
patrons of the ancient establishment were a diverse collection, from mill owners to mill workers. Every visitor to Slim’s store was on equal footing, except maybe lawyers. They were jokingly treated differently. We were in between the holiday seasons, Thanksgiving roaring toward Christmas, and it seemed as if everyone wanted the weird year 2020 to be over. The country was still divided, more so than I’d ever seen due to the acrimonious presidential election and the political differences in how to handle the coronavirus. There didn’t seem to be an end to the rancorous conflict throughout the country, and 2021 would soon be upon us. I hoped that a visit to Bubba’s and Slim’s Country Store and a meeting with a group of good old boys would put everything into perspective. Bubba built his home back in the mid-’80s, and it’s quite a showcase. Pretty much energy-efficient, the home sits on a little rise overlooking a small lake that is consistently teeming with wildlife. Ducks, geese and even at times a pair of otters use the carefully constructed habitat. I arrived there in the late afternoon, looking forward to a great visit with an old friend. After an appropriate time of good-natured insults to one another, we went through the house to the deck off his study to watch a beautiful evening sunset. True to his word, as we settled back in chairs overlooking the pond, he said, “OK there, Cooter, let me pour you a little shot of Ritter’s finest.” (He bestowed on me the nickname Cooter years before and it stuck.) On the table between the two chairs was a decanter full of an amber liquid, and as he poured us a little libation into heavy cut glass tumblers, he added, “Ritter wanted you to have a couple quarts. Don’t let me forget to give ’em to you. He told me to tell you Merry Christmas.” We both sat in comfortable silence and watched the sun slowly sink behind the tree line on the west end of the pond. Several wood ducks soared close over the water, did a hard turn and skidded to rest near the far bank. “Watch, Tom, those ducks do the same thing every evening. They’ll swim around for a few minutes then fly up to those oak trees and roost for the night. Pretty to see, almost like they have a watch. They come in every sundown at the same time.” “I love to watch wood ducks,” I responded. “Speaking of ducks, I thought you’d be down in Louisiana duck hunting about now.” “Nope, this dadgum virus has everything screwed. I’ve canceled PineStraw
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SPORTING LIFE
two trips already. One fishing and one hunting. I think I’m gonna just stay home until after the first of the year. Things have got to change. The country can’t continue like this. How about you? Y’all still heading to Florida on your annual winter fishing adventure?” “The plan is still there. We probably won’t go back to Chokoloskee this time, opting for a closer fishing hole, maybe Cedar Key just above Tampa. Last year we were way down South when this virus thing broke and had to hustle back with the snow bird migration. It wasn’t a pleasant trip. How are things at Slim’s? Things at the store getting by in this crazy year?” “That’s one reason I wanted this get-together, with you especially, and also some of the old crowd.” After Slim passed away, Bubba had purchased the old country business from Leroy, Slim’s nephew, who had inherited the place. Bubba bought the store on a whim, and as he often said, so he’d have a place to go. Plus he liked the coffee. “The venture is getting to be more trouble than it’s worth,” he continued. “We closed the first two months of the pandemic and gave all the perishables to local churches. Now we’re open only three days a week. I would have already closed the place, but I’m keeping it open because Leroy has to have a job, and more than that, in memory of Slim. Like I said, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.” The sun had fully set but there was still a soft glow on the western horizon. In contrast, early stars began to twinkle in the eastern night sky. We sat quietly, sipping Ritter’s brandy.
“I don’t know what to say, Bubba. No one would really blame you if you shut it down. I mean thousands of businesses are closing during this virus mess. Slim would probably have already closed the store. And yet I keep remembering that Christmas season years ago when you and Slim and I were sitting on the porch of the old building, also enjoying some of Ritter’s apple brandy, when that bright star showed up in the eastern sky.” “Yep,” Bubba paused. “Those were good times, good days, Tom. I recollect that night every Christmas, especially about Slim quoting a verse from the Bible, you know, about the star and the birth of Jesus.” He stood, stretched, and looked to the eastern sky that was sprinkled with stars. “I think I’ve made up my mind, Cooter, I’m gonna keep the decrepit old place open. I believe we need a bright star now more than ever. This Christmas, why don’t you come up here one evening and we’ll sit on the porch, drink some more brandy and watch for it. Maybe the visit and our search will bring good tidings in 2021. But right now, what say we grill a couple of steaks?” I did visit Slim’s venerable old country setting one frosty evening a few days before this past Christmas. Bubba and I pulled up a pair of rockers on the wraparound porch with Slim’s favorite rocker on one side. We looked to the east and waited. The bright star was still there. PS
Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.
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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
G O L F T OW N J O U R NA L
Nifty 50
The bare essentials of golf
Teddy Leinbach, Jack Leinbach, Hayden Swanson, Colin Wilkin By Lee Pace
Donald Ross was the son of a Scot-
tish carpenter who began his career in golf wearing overalls and hunched on his hands and knees caring for the turf and bunkers at the course in his hometown of Dornoch. No silver spoons here, which is why Ross, despite the wealth and fame he achieved as an adult designing golf courses in America, always believed, “There is no good reason why the label ‘rich man’s game’ should be hung on golf.” That yin and yang of the elite vs. the masses, private vs. public, upstairs vs. downstairs has hovered around the sport for more than a century. But the essence of the game remains the same: club, ball, hole, lowest strokes wins. “I have always believed being able to play golf is not necessarily a right and not necessarily a privilege,” says Karl Kimball, head pro and owner-partner at Hillandale Golf Course in Durham. “It is more of an honor because of all the history the game has wrapped itself around. “Whether it’s a private club or a daily-fee facility, the common thread is the game of golf. That’s what ties everyone together. Unfortunately, we can get wound up on some of the idiosyncrasies of our clubs, almost like religion.” Which is why Kimball was delighted to see a young man who grew up playing golf at Hillandale, a public course that dates in its original form to Durham Country Club in 1910, embark on an ambitious project to travel the United States and peer under the hood of golf at a grassroots level.
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
The idea was simple, yet ambitious: 50 states, 50 rounds of golf, 50 days. The resulting journey organized by Teddy Leinbach that included his brother, Jack, and friends Colin Wilkins and Hayden Swanson is the subject of a film released in November titled, “50 Over.” The one hour and 20 minutes of run time explores, as Leinbach says, “the tattered fairways and diverse personalities of public courses. We wanted to strip golf of its elitist image and find out what it really means to play golf.” Leinbach was a self-proclaimed “sports nut” as a kid growing up in Durham, where his father practices internal medicine and psychiatry, and Leinbach played baseball, basketball, soccer and golf, among other sports. He attended Virginia Commonwealth University to study painting and illustration, then pivoted to filmmaking his sophomore year. After graduating in 2016, he created Airball Films to tell stories of things that interested him. Among them, golf. “We have a lot of young stars playing golf, but I don’t think they embody enough of the counter-culture movement in golf that is going to get people outside of the golf world interested in playing,” Leinbach says. All four golfers were in their early 20s in the summer of 2017 when they made their odyssey. The Leinbach brothers had played lots of golf growing up at Hillandale and had single-digit handicaps; the others were essentially beginners. The only requirement in planning the trip was that every course be open to the public. They started in Westbrook, Maine, at a course called Sunset Ridge, and used the condensed geography of New England to knock out 10 courses in five days. From there they ventured down the Mid-Atlantic into the South, then wound their way across the country. The last leg of the trip had them flying from Seattle to Alaska and then hopping another plane to Hawaii. The young golfers at various times ate canned tuna on crackers, PineStraw
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beef jerky and bagels and stopped at Huddle Houses along the way. “I’m still waiting on that Huddle House sponsorship,” Leinbach says with a laugh. Sometimes their attire stretched to gym shorts, tank tops and Converse sneakers; at times they played golf barefoot. (Management at one course asked them to leave, since they didn’t all have collared shirts.) They stopped to play pickup basketball and film the turtles and bison they saw along the way. They slept in the van or in tents pitched along the road. They pooled their money and bought a 1991 Dodge camper van for the trip, but the vehicle was a lemon and finally caught on fire alongside an interstate in Illinois. The flames engulfed some of their clothes and golf clubs and destroyed Leinbach’s and brother Jack’s driver’s licenses, so Swanson flew back to Durham, picked up another vehicle and drove back to Illinois to resume the trip. “We were lucky we had banked some days early in the trip,” Leinbach says. “We were on a tight schedule the rest of the way but made the 50th course on the 50th day.” The themes running through the film are the fresh air, the great out-of-doors, the thrill of that well-struck shot, and the interesting people they meet along the way. “What’s not to like about golf?” muses one player they found in the Midwest. “It’s the ultimate test of patience and a game that tortures you, but for some reason you keep going.” Adds another, “No matter where you are in the world, you can generally find a golf course, and it’s the most serene place you can be.” In Weed, California, they found a man who used to work for ClubCorp managing its portfolio of hundreds of high-end clubs. Now he’s up with the roosters to mow the greens. “I found this semi-chill job, I live here, work here, have fun here,” he said as he fired up the Toro greens mower. “There is a Volkswagen version of golf, where you can get a great golf experience. It’s a cool message you guys are putting out. Anyone can golf across the country and you don’t have to have a $30,000 club membership.” They split one day surfing and golfing on the California coast and were joined by a The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
EARLY FEBRUARY EVENTS
Check the store website and Ticket Me Sandhills for more event information
Winner of The Poetry Contest held in concert with local ArtistYear AmeriCorps fellow, Alexis Lawson Thank you to all who submitted poems!
ANONYMOUS I look at the stars in the night And I wish I had someone to share this view with Maybe you’re in the sky
VIRTUAL CONVERSATION February 3rd
John Hart – and –
John Grisham about The Unwilling
Maybe you’re the wind that blows And play tricks on me As I try to catch the kisses you blow Because love is confusing If you’re the wind Lift me up Don’t let me go Could you possibly be the sun? That wakes me up in the morning? And peeps into my room? As i look for something new? If you’re the sun Show me my bright side Are you the rain? That wakes me up from my dreams? To show me you’re in pain? That hides the tears on my cheek? If you are the rain Please cleanse me
VIRTUAL CONVERSATION February 10th at 7pm
James Patterson
with a special military guest
about
Walk in My Combat Boots:
True Stories from America’s Bravest Warriors
I think you are the bugs That just don’t like me Maybe you’re just scared Because you always bite me I don’t know why But don’t be afraid of me I won’t hurt a fly Or could you be a bird? Beautiful, attractive, like an angel with wings? That always fly away from me? Because sometimes I’m afraid And can’t imagine that someone as beautiful as you wants to spend the rest of their life with me Thabang Moji | Age: 23
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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
G O L F T OW N J O U R NA L
local who compared the two sports: “You can get a dopamine rush in both,” the man said. “Surfing is like that; golf is like that. Out of nowhere, you can hit the best shot of your life, you can catch the best wave of your life, and in both you get that flood of feel-good stuff.” Leinbach says his foursome set out to explore golf away from the country club and strip the game of its elitist stereotype. While those boilerplates do, of course, exist, it’s wrong to paint the game with that brushstroke alone. “We saw how a love for a game can bring people together, regardless of background, how golf can inspire, create change and form relationships,” Leinbach says. “We found that money, class, race, gender and other arbitrary distinctions that keep us divided can be broken down with an easy swing of the club.” The film certainly resonated with Kimball, who’s been at Hillandale since 2007 and grew up playing golf on a ninehole public facility in New Lexington, Ohio. “I could play when I was 8 years old and could prove to the owner of the course I could get around in a decent amount of time,” he says. “I watched this film and a lot of it was staring me in the face when I grew up.” In his next breath, Kimball marvels at how healthy golf is at his facility as 2020 winds down. COVID-19 has been hell; but golf courses have been a socially distanced refuge. His driving range business is beating all records, and more than 40 percent of Hillandale’s rounds are by folks walking the course. “It’s incredible what’s happening with the game,” he says. “If anything good has come out of COVID, it’s that golf has gotten a shot in the arm. If you play the game and get a little hankering for it, it doesn’t let you go.” Teddy Leinbach’s foursome has proof of that in all 50 states. PS
www.beefeatersofsouthernpines.com
Lee Pace has written about the Sandhills golf scene for more than 30 years. Contact him at leepace7@gmail.com. The film 50 Over is available for viewing at www.fiftyoverfilm.com at a cost of $10.
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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
January ���� What It Was about that First Marriage The floors were fine. Gorgeous, in fact. Blond as sunshine, clean, polished, alive with the kind of promise we had dreamed. But oh those two mismatched tables. Same height, so we kept trying to line them up as if they were a unit. One was maple, right out of somebody’s 1950s Nebraska kitchen, with a scalloped leaf that folded down, though it was years before we saw it for what it was. The other, streamlined, sleek. Once we tried pushing them together and covering both with a patterned cloth, though dinner guests kept banging their knees. When I look back, I’m amazed we didn’t toss it, haul it to the curb. But, no, we struggled for years to make it work, painting, and painting again, turning it sideways.
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— Dannye Romine Powell
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Theater In The Year Of Corona
Indefinite
Intermission Theater life in two acts By Morgan Sills
New York
You can only imagine the indescribable complexities of closing 41 Broadway theaters. When Broadway shut down March 12, there were 31 shows running, including eight that had begun their preview period. Eight more shows were scheduled to begin performances before the end of the season. Mrs. Doubtfire, the musical, got through three previews. Plaza Suite with Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker was set to begin previews the next night. Right away, prominent creative New Yorkers were dying, from my former acting teacher Mark Blum (Mozart in the Jungle, Desperately Seeking Susan) to Broadway actor Nick Cordero (Waitress, A Bronx Tale) to legendary Tony Award-winning playwright Terrence McNally (Anastasia, Ragtime). In March and April, social media was flooded with friends who had contracted the virus. Some had mild cases; others miraculously rebounded from near-death and are now dealing with what seem to be permanent after-effects. The deaths of places are concomitant with the deaths of people. Like everything in crowded Manhattan, all too often it comes down to real estate. Buildings you never thought you’d see empty suddenly are. Favorite restaurants, bodegas and other shops have gone out of business practically overnight, some without a chance for customers to say goodbye. Among the pandemic’s consequences were the permanent closures of huge rehearsal spaces like TheaterworksUSA’s Chelsea studios and Shetler Studios. Smaller off-Broadway indie theaters are just hanging on, and there are very few of those in locations that get tourist traffic anyway. What will come of the skyscrapers full of corporate office space now that so many are working remotely? Just as in the theater, that special connection that happens with a group of people together in the same room has been temporarily lost. Around 97,000 workers rely on Broadway for their livelihood. Actors and musicians. Theater staff, from the box office to the bar. The
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shop workers who build the shows and the backstage crews who run them. Press, marketing, advertising, legal. Families whose lives depend on the Broadway mill turning out eight shows a week, 52 weeks a year. What can creative people do when even their traditional fallback work has fallen away? Waiting tables, teaching and coaching, personal services like yoga and personal training, are all cut back or completely gone. People are getting out of the business, getting out of the city, going back to school online. What if they never return? In 2019, leisure travel accounted for 53 million visitors to New York. Culture is a huge part of what gets them there, with a side trip to the big Apple store. Broadway sells more tickets annually than all the NYC metropolitan area’s professional sports teams combined, with an annual economic impact of $14.8 billion, and 2019 was the best-attended year in Broadway history. Nationally, arts and culture production is second only to retail in the value it adds to the nation’s gross domestic product. The U.S. Bureau of Economic Analysis reports that the arts and culture sector contributes $15.3 billion to North Carolina’s economy. Most Broadway shows have to play their eight weekly performances to around 60 percent of capacity to break even. A large musical would have to sell around 7,000 tickets per week just to get by. Social distancing isn’t possible inside theaters that pack 1,000 or more people into a place where space is at a premium. Broadway means large audiences from around the country and around the world. Broadway means prestige and talent. The creative and economic spark from the theater industry powers everything around it. The shutdown has a ripple effect on restaurants, hotels and tourism. The needs of all these industries, their workers, their customers and the city are irrevocably intertwined. In March and April, friends kept saying, “Don’t come back unless you have to.” Excuse me, what? As an adopted New Yorker I’d been there for both hell (9/11) and high water (Hurricane Sandy). Those disasters weren’t fitting comparisons to this ongoing one. These days, the five-minute walk east from my Hell’s Kitchen apartThe Art & Soul of the Sandhills
ment to the theater district is fairly bleak. The hullabaloo and bright lights of eight shows a week has been replaced with scaffolding and boarded-up windows and doors. The Broadway shutdown has reached its fifth extension, and when shows return, it will be on a rolling basis. Which show will be the canary in the coal mine to see if the audience is ready to come back in numbers large enough to make it financially viable? The longer Broadway stays closed, the more shows won’t reopen. Shows have expenses, even when they aren’t running. Among the early casualties, Disney permanently closed Frozen. Others will follow. And no Broadway means no Broadway tours stopping in North Carolina. Whenever people ask what I love most about New York, my usual reply is: A person can’t ever look around and say there’s nothing to do. People come to the city to invent themselves, to reinvent themselves, to find their tribe and fully become themselves. Twenty-five years into my life as a New Yorker, I know the city knows how to cope with anything . . . anything. My barber can cut hair while I keep my mask on and still do a great job around my ears. Restaurant Row has been turned into a great big makeshift sidewalk café. Art museums are reopening with capacity controls and mask mandates. Times Square feels more cautious, slower, grimmer — but there are signs of life. Here’s the big question: Will Broadway come back? In order for New York to come back, it has to. And our nation can’t come back without New York.
The Sandhills
The actors were getting nervous. “Can we get more hand sanitizer and wipes?” “Is the stage manager cleaning everything during the breaks?” “How often does the drinking fountain get cleaned?” We knew Judson Theatre Company’s March 2020 production of The Odd Couple (Female Version) would be funny, and we knew it would be a hit. Advance ticket sales and group sales were the strongest we’d ever had. The ads were running; the eye-catching pink and blue 1980s-style posters were up; we had done our mailing. There was even a feature story in this magazine on our two stars. JTC completed its eighth season in the fall of 2019 with the first theatrical production to open at Bradshaw Performing Arts Center, Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution, and it broke our box office
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record. We’d tripled our audience in eight years. Rehearsals for The Odd Couple had a promising beginning. Our stars Amanda Bearse (Married . . . With Children, Fright Night) and Teresa Ganzel (The Tonight Show, The Toy) had arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, along with the rest of the company. The three of us had a loving, laughing lunch together at the Woman’s Exchange amid a flurry of local publicity. The play had been blocked in three rehearsal days and was scheduled for a run-through Saturday afternoon. Daniel Haley, the director of The Odd Couple and JTC’s artistic director, and I had a post-rehearsal meeting after the third day. “Morgan, we should shut down,” he said. “No,” I replied. “It’s cowardly to give in to fear. It’ll all blow over. Besides, the actors are here. The tickets are sold. The set is built. The money is spent. And the virus hasn’t hit Moore County yet. We should keep to ourselves and sweat it out.” Daniel continued, “The actors are starting to get nervous. If travel gets restricted, they might not be able to get back home.” I was wrong, Daniel was right. Be proactive and decisive in a crisis. Don’t look back. The decision was made to gather the company at the rehearsal space the next morning and tell everyone at the same time. We agreed that I would do the speech. Driving home that night after what suddenly felt like the world’s longest day, I remembered it was Friday the 13th. How apt. With difficulty, I found the words. The production shut down, taking with it a great deal of what JTC had built up financially over the past several years. The company consensus was “this is a bad situation, but you’re doing the right thing.” There were no raised voices, though there were some quiet tears. They understood, but nobody likes to lose their job. The last thing we did as a group was make a company photo. We announced the shutdown at 10 a.m. on Saturday. Airline tickets were booked. The actors returned to the hotel, packed, checked out, returned their rental car keys. By 12:45 p.m., the first car was on the way to RDU. A second group of actors flew out later that day, bound for New York, and by Sunday morning everyone in the cast and crew was safe at home. Driving back from the airport (with Daniel on speakerphone), we made our plan to get the set, costumes and props out of the theater. We figured out the logistics of notifying our audience and processing the flurry of refunds, exchanges and donations. Gratitude to the patrons who donated the cost of their tickets,
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We resisted the temptation to do something just to do it, just to stay busy. We couldn’t accept lowering the quality standard the company stands for. And yet the opportunity to pivot to a new world is intriguing. Thus it was that our first streaming show came to pass in December: a new holiday play, Yes, Virginia, by the writers of Golden Girls, Gilmore Girls and Desperate Housewives, starring Mindy Sterling from the Austin Powers movies, and Arnetia Walker from Nurses and Dynasty. We partnered with Laguna Playhouse and some other theaters around the country. We stepped outside our boundaries to reach an audience beyond the Sandhills. Many of the tasks for a streaming production are the same as for a live show: choosing the material, getting the rights, casting, grant writing, selling tickets. There will be more streaming programming in JTC's future — a silver lining. Companies that stream theatrical shows have been around for a while, but suddenly, as Irving Berlin wrote in 1911, “Everybody’s doin’ it.” A new theater ecosystem is evolving. There are victories like Hamilton on Disney+ or even the capture of my most recent off-Broadway production, Happy Birthday Doug, on BroadwayHD. We can all look forward to a future where live performances resume in coexistence with digital offerings. Thanks to the increased accessibility streaming provides, theater as an art form has the opportunity to get closer to the center of popular culture than it has been since the golden age of Broadway. Streamed programming in no way replaces a live performance, but it has its own merits as an entertainment experience. It pulls down several of live theater’s longstanding barriers: geography, financial, scheduling. Audiences can explore offerings they might have been reticent to sample on Broadway at full price. There have been Zoom readings with casts we might not see live and in person: Sally Field and Bryan Cranston in Love Letters. Alec Baldwin and Julianne Moore in Same Time, Next Year. And if you don’t like it, you can multitask with it on in the background while you eat your Chipotle or Cast and crew scroll your Instagram . . . or just turn it off. The Odd Couple But take heart. Live theater won’t be gone for (Female Version) good. The pandemic is an ongoing opportunity to hit the reset button on your life. What is worth your time, your money, your attention? Theater is worthy of all three. There is nothing as electric as the live interaction between performer and audience. That moment of connection is as irreplaceable as it is priceless. And that connection must not be lost. Theater is stories told and witnessed. Artists collaborating on a distillation of the collective experience of being human. Most importantly, theater is the audience. What a pleasure it will be when we’re all together again. PS
knowing it couldn’t begin to cover the losses. Like most not-for-profit theater companies, Judson Theatre Company depends on the box office for roughly 50 percent of our income, with grants and corporate and private donors providing the balance. We work extraordinarily hard to keep costs and ticket prices moderate. After dinner Saturday, Daniel and I pored over The Odd Couple budget line by line, searching for any dollar that could be saved without damaging long-standing relationships with our vendors. They would no doubt soon be hurting, too. Nearly all were understanding and gracious, refunding anything we hadn’t used or crediting it forward to the next show. Nonetheless, a worst-case scenario had come to pass. We’d shut down a production at the worst possible time: after rehearsal had started, but before performances began. Nearly the entirety of The Odd Couple’s budget was gone. Financially, it was as if we had done a big production that didn’t sell a single ticket. And the hits kept coming as the pages fell off the calendar like a montage in an MGM movie. We were forced to postpone our fall 2020 production of A Few Good Men. Our friends at Sandhills Community College chimed in with their full commitment to JTC remaining part of the BPAC family. It’s worth remembering that once live performances are back, it’s going to sink in at a deeper level what a major turning point having this new facility is in the lives of the college, the county and the region. But what is a theater company when it is not producing live theater? It’s not like selling Helen Keller’s water pump from The Miracle Worker or the knife from Twelve Angry Men would raise a bucket of money. Crisis time for arts organizations has shown that the starving artist model doesn’t work — not long term.
Morgan Sills is a theater producer and director with Broadway, off-Broadway, and regional theater credits. A Moore County native, he is co-founder and executive producer of Judson Theatre Company, the 501(c)(3) nonprofit, professional theater company in residence at BPAC in Pinehurst (JudsonTheatre.com).
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Theater In The Year Of Corona
Magic
in the Park Shakespeare in the age of pestilence
U
By Jonathan Drahos
nder the majestic night sky, fretted with the golden fire of the stars, Shakespeare’s plays sing out, piercing through the vastness of space. It is magic. For me personally, I have been living this dream ever since I heard his words spoken in the outdoors. The plays were written to be performed at the Globe Theatre in London during daytime hours under the open English sky. It is no wonder that when Shakespeare’s words are spoken outside today, they come into agreement with how they were first conceived. It is like time travel. It is magic. I am what has been described as a “bardolater” — one who reveres Shakespeare and stands in awe of his artistic achievement. Since I was a small child, Shakespeare has captured my curiosity. The passion of the language and the intricacies and genius of his poetry have captivated my attention (bordering on obsession) since first I was exposed to what George Bernard Shaw described as Shakespeare’s “word music.” The rhythm of sound boldly reverberates into the heavens, it seems, but the rhetorical power lands on us with a surprising gentleness and perfect ease. No other playwright before Shakespeare, and no playwright since, has been able to capture such effortlessness in expression. Shakespeare in the park has been an enchanting tradition in the United States since the early 19th century — and the lyricism of the Bard’s language has perfectly melded with the beauty of the outdoors for centuries. It is almost impossible to think how Shakespeare’s plays, written in early modern English over 400 years ago, could become such a distinctly American tradition. Shakespeare in the park has become as American as outdoor barbecue, lemonade stands and swimming pools. What better place than the historic village of Pinehurst to engage with this eloquent language as it dances through the pines like a mystical sprite? The Uprising Theatre Company has been producing Shakespeare in the Pines on the Village Green since June 2017, and we have reached thousands of patrons from all over the Sandhills and beyond. Producing plays outside offers unique challenges. We are at the mercy of the elements, which in the North Carolina summer can be quite tempestuous. Our lighting equipment, set, costumes and sound equipment must be diligently protected. Wearing heavy costumes in the heat can be challenging for the actors. Safety concerns on wet surfaces with stage combat choreography, dance, and the sweeping physical elements of Shakespeare’s plays are a real challenge. But these pale in comparison to the benefits. The community has truly responded to the cause of bringing the highest level of theater to our village,
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enriching lives through Shakespeare’s unique investigation of the human experience. Our patrons include individuals and local businesses who believe that theater is important, and that Shakespeare, in particular, is important to our time. In the age of short attention spans and the devaluation of language, Shakespeare offers us eloquence. Our patrons know that when we devalue language, we devalue communication; and when we devalue communication, the danger is that we might begin to devalue each other. Shakespeare is a great unifying element. I have witnessed firsthand how Shakespeare can be transformative. In my work as a professor and director of Theatre at the most diverse campus in the Southeast — the University of North Carolina, Pembroke — I have seen the transforming power of Shakespeare. I have witnessed how this unique work has changed young people’s lives by delving into the complexity of his characters and epic themes that teach us so much about ourselves. Students who have never been exposed to the plays before have experienced a kind of awakening to the relevance in our contemporary world of Shakespeare’s introspection. As Shakespeare’s friend and fellow playwright Ben Johnson wrote of him in 1623: “He was not for an age, but for all time.” But it is even more than Shakespeare’s extraordinary characters and universal themes. Our patrons in Pinehurst tell us that experiencing Shakespeare under the summer sky is unique. We run the plays over two weeks in Tufts Park, and the green takes on a festival atmosphere. Children play soccer, families throw the football, golf carts line the perimeter of the green, and we are surrounded by a sea of lawn chairs, picnic blankets and baskets. The play itself seems like only a part of the experience. The warmth of the weather is matched by the warmth of the diversity of people coming together in the public space. There is a powerful feeling of community. The coronavirus has taken this feeling away from us temporarily.
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The worldwide pandemic has forced us further apart and has damaged the fabric of what theater is made of — community. But we will not be deterred. This is not the first time that theater has been challenged. Being outdoors can be an asset for us. As a director at UNCP, I recently directed Macbeth, and we rehearsed the entire play outdoors, distanced, and masked. We rehearsed the play for 12 weeks, and no one in our cast, crew or staff were infected with the virus. We had smaller audiences watching the play from a distance, and we filmed the performance to be streamed online. In the Elizabethan era, the consciousness of sickness and death during plague caused shutdowns and quarantine, and this is keenly (but not overtly) referenced in Shakespeare’s plays. He was working in London when the bubonic plague surfaced in 1592, and it closed the theaters again in 1603. Two years before he wrote Macbeth, London experienced mass death of over 30,000 in the city of just over 250,000. Yet Shakespeare never left London during these plagues. He stayed to create art when many playwrights did not make the same decision. He knew his responsibility to his moment. Shakespeare was a healing force in his society during the most brutal times imaginable. Shakespeare reaches through the millennium to teach us that division is fiction in America. Cultural experience is a great unifier — a wonderful way for an audience to share an artistic experience with their neighbors. Even during a plague, artists will find ways to create. The times ahead will be challenging for us all. We are committed to a 2021 season. It may look a bit different, but we feel a responsibility to bring the magic back. PS Jonathan Drahos is co-founder and co-artistic director of Uprising Theatre Company/Shakespeare in the Pines. He is a professor and the director of the Theatre program at UNC-Pembroke. He and his wife, Carolanne, make their home in the village of Pinehurst. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
Theater In The Year Of Corona
Return of th e art
Fiction by J
ist
oyce R e ehl
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By Joyce R eehling
“D
ear God, this is why I shouldn’t do interviews!” June Talley shouted. “Why is that?” Tom shouted back. “You remember I agreed to meet a reporter at Joe Allen’s?” June shouted again. “I’m right here.” Tom turned the corner from the kitchen with a cup of tea in each hand. “He makes me sound like a nut job,” June said. “Hardly,” said Tom, who had already read the Times. “You know how I am always whining on about the shoes? Look here what it says: As this experienced character actor munched on her Cobb salad the conversation turned to shoes, not her shoes, but the shoes of the woman she is playing. She simply must have
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them right away, she says, “to be comfortable, not comfortable within the play, but comfortable within this person — the way one always wants to feel about oneself. This is sounding very hoity-toity but we build the character to inhabit that person for several hours a day and it must be worn as one wears one’s own skin, lightly but deeply held. That is why I must have my shoes within the first week. Nothing says who you are so much as what you stand in.”
June stopped reading, picked up a piece of dry toast and crunched down on it. “I shouldn’t be allowed out in public without a handler.” Tom leaned over her shoulder to look at the newspaper. “He said Cobb salad? Unforgivable.” “And look at the picture! It’s not me. It’s my feet crossed in those dog-tired loafers.” “They are your favorite.” “That, my darling husband, is not the point.” “Forget about it. It’s Wednesday’s paper. No one reads on Wednesday. Besides, people always like a peek backstage. Eat your toast and get out the door before I hear how you cannot possibly be late.” Tom smiled and went back into the kitchen to get his eggs and bacon. He didn’t have to eat light to beat back the nerves of the first day of rehearsal. As she gathered her stuff in her NPR tote bag June turned and said, “You know, I would love for a scientist to explain why that happens. I mean we rehearse, we are solid, we move into the theater with lights and sets and up in smoke we go — sometimes for a day or two — it makes no sense. “And another thing. I hate all this digital stuff. iPads and things. Playwrights are rewriting before we even have a chance to ground ourselves. You can hear the ping of a PDF before you even get the line out. They used to have to go home and think about it. It slowed them down and gave us time to maybe make the damn thing work, but now, jeez Louise, you no sooner open your mouth . . . ” “Darling,” said Tom, waving a piece of bacon, “it’s 2021, not 1975, so best get on with it. You can sit at lunch and tell the young ones how pencils work and what paper is.” Tom rose, napkin in hand, and pushed her toward the door. “I love you. Don’t be late. How’s coq au vin for dinner?” “Yes, please,” she said from the hallway. “May the Gods be with you,” he said and closed the door.
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June hummed random notes to herself in the elevator. Out on the street she started to recite, in her head, her first scene in the first act as she strode down Central Park West to the subway. Learning lines was dogs body work, and she wasn’t blessed with a photographic memory like some lucky actors. She went line-by-line until she hit a snag and then went all the way back to the beginning, started again, and added one more line. It took hours and focus, and she hated this part. She was well into her 50s and memorizing was not the snap it once was, so she used the travel time to run through as many lines as she could and tuck them into her brain. “Oh, hell,” she said out loud at the entrance to the subway when she stumbled on a line and knew she’d have to struggle to put it right in her mind. “Just get it in your head. Just get it in your head.” At Columbus Circle she ran up the gray concrete stairs and headed to Eighth Avenue and the rehearsal studio. Eighth was always a bit dirty and crowded and wonderful because it was the canyon that housed anything from Broadway musicals —with all those lithe chorus kids — to a one-person show. “How do they do that?” she thought. “I love being with actors not being the only actor.” As she pushed Studio 3’s door open she could see the folding chairs around the table for the read-through. Fred, her old friend and favorite stage manager, rose and gave his usual greeting. “Well, look who just came in from the Actors Home. How is Englewood?” “Shut up, you old fart, and hug me.” They had sailed at least a dozen shows into various theaters together and trusted one another beyond reason. Fred knew that she would be no trouble, knew how to guide her, knew how to make her feel safe enough to risk being wrong and how to keep her from fear. The blocking of moves, the notes, the general theater stuff was his job description, but he was far more father, brother, confessor and principal than administrator to the director. “How is Tom? Still taking money for doing nothing in the corporate world?” “For God’s sake, don’t say that too loud or we’ll be living on my income and that means . . . soup, soup and soup.” Fred pointed at the table. “You sit here. I can’t wait to see the faces on the young things when it dawns on them what a character actor can do. So you near me, Angie and Terry will be there, Jonathan — did I tell you that Jonathan is your brother in this?” “What happened to Robert? I loved auditioning with him, thought he was very good.” “So did everyone, but he slipped on some ice about two weeks ago and is in a walking boot — not the look we were The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
going for. On top of that it might mean an operation. So, we are with Jonathan. It will be like old times. What was it, six years ago, when we all did that show?” “Don’t ask me about time, I gave it up. New Year’s resolution. No, no, it’s great about Jonathan. Remind me to get Robert’s address, he deserves a note and some flowers, poor lamb.”
The door swung open and in came the playwright and director laughing about something when they turned and said in unison, “Darling June, how the hell have you been?” The director she knew very well. “I am older, wiser and still begging for work — and you?” Marshall hugged her and turned her toward the playwright, Milan. “I don’t know if you have seen each other since casting,” Marshall said. Milan said he was delighted that they were working together at last. “It is a lovely, lovely role and the second act has grown so much since you sent me the earlier draft,” said June. “This is going to be such fun.” Fred spied Jonathan coming through the door. “Here he is, our favorite brother.” He rushed to June to hug her, offered his hand to Fred and at the same time made eye contact with Milan and Marshall, taking everyone in at once. “Good Lord, who would have thought it — together again. What a lucky chappy I am,” said Jonathan. The rest of the cast drifted in one at a time, a mix of excitement and fear on each face. The young ones, in their late 20s and early 30s, had the confidence of those not yet tested too much. In turn they felt a little intimidated by the older actors and, of course, the director and playwright. “OK, kids,” said Fred, meaning each and every one of them. “Silence your cellphones and put them in this basket. No peeking. The coffee urn is over there. Bottled water there. You passed the loo on your way down the hall. We’ll do a fast read of the first act, then get all the Equity paperwork out of the way.” iPads came out and they sat to read, climbing into the small boat they would share for either a short time or a long run — who knew — and all wanting to hurry up and feel like a tribe together. “Let’s take a second to remember what we don’t know as the play begins. Don’t get anywhere too quickly,” said The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
Marshall, the director. “Remember what you do know and sit with that.” Milan said very little but would read each and every one of his words as they spoke them, still looking for a better phrase or fewer words. The director glanced at the script as they read but mostly watched their faces, taking mental notes of where everyone was headed. He wanted to know if they were brave enough to listen to one another before they spoke. He nodded to Fred to begin and suddenly, in choreographed unison, everyone ducked to their right and bent down to look under the table. Confused, June did the same. “What are we all looking . . .” “Your shoes!” they shouted. She looked at Fred. “How many phone calls did it take to set this up?” “Just one email, darling. This morning.” They were all laughing, including June, and the ice had been broken. They were beginning to be a company. Fred read: “Trees in the Dark. Act One, scene one: the porch of a once beautiful house now looking as if no one cared about it any more. The upstage door opens from inside and out step Ellen and Rod.” And so the young ones began while June looked around the table feeling very happy to be in yet another rehearsal. She was content not to carry the show, content to know that in her world having a job at 50-ish is a little like a miracle. Her cue came and off she went, stepping into the boat with the rest. This was the beginning of the life of this play and a bond among them that would never break until the closing notice went up on the call board at the theater. It could be the night after they opened or months later. The days would grow more difficult as they put the muscle and skin on the bones of the words. They would agree and disagree — collaboration is a tricky business, balancing assertion and cohesion, like a marriage that demands both loving loyalty and the ability to still be one’s self. Two days later June traded her loafers for stilettos and began to find the soul of a woman she, at first, barely knew. There would come a day when she would be able to walk into the theater and cease to think as June. It would not be the shoes doing the job, of course, but a day would come when “Emily” was as real and present as anyone could be. A time when Trees in the Dark was, for a little over two hours, a real place with real people who had real lives. And shoes. PS Joyce Reehling spent 35 years in New York theatre, TV, commercials and film. She is a frequent contributor and good friend of PineStraw.
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GLEN ROUNDS ILLUSTRATIONS COURTESY HOLIDAY HOUSE PUBLISHING INC.
Return of a Classic The Blind Colt celebrates its 80th anniversary with a new edition
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ILLUSTRATION ABOVE BY MATT MYERS
ou can’t hurry a Glen Rounds book. You are asked to find a rock and sit for a spell. Listen to the tumbleweed rattle by. Smell the sagebrush. Let the wind chill your hide. If you’re patient, the critters will let you see them, going about the business of living. These are wild animals, so they won’t come when you call. They would not do well in a petting zoo, or in most children’s books. They don’t talk or wear cute outfits. Sometimes they are playful, but never sweet. The Blind Colt is not only hunted by wolves, but gets bitten and kicked in the ribs by other horses. Yet because Rounds shows us the harsher side of life, we are all the more tickled to watch the young colt buck and run for the “pure fun” of it. In the books of Glen Rounds, wild danger always comes with wild fun. From “Glen Rounds: An Appreciation,” copyright © 2021 by Matt Myers. Reproduced by permission from Holiday House Publishing, Inc.
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STORY OF A HOUSE
Cabin Fever Historic homes and life lessons
By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by L aura Gingerich
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alls can’t talk. Except for creaks, neither can rough-hewn floorboards or unscreened windows. Too bad, because their stories would describe a life primitive in comparison to ours. A life without air conditioning, indoor plumbing, electricity. A life where large families were the norm, as was burying a child or two. A life where women stayed home. A life that fascinates for its simplicity and hardship, considering how complicated and automated ours have become. These lives may, after all, speak best through their homes.
A Village Grew Around It Shaw House sits, stoically, on a downtown Southern Pines corner within sight of a bank, a pub, a gas station, a gym and a Mexican restaurant — futuristic anachronisms, given its weathered boards and sloping porch. The date on one of two massive sandstone chimneys reads 1842, although the house itself was constructed in 1820 by Charles Shaw, a first-generation Scottish settler, on 2,500 acres of farmland. Perhaps the later date reflects addition of the porch and “travelers’ room,” usually with a separate entrance, occupied by itinerant preachers or craftsmen. Water was drawn from a well. Houses of this era lacked kitchens; food preparation took place in an outbuilding distant enough so the inevitable fire would spare living quarters. Step through the front door into a dim antithesis of 21st century bright-and-beautiful homes. Windows are small, unscreened and low-set — some shaded from blazing summer sunlight by the front porch. Walls, like floors, are random-width pine boards weathered gray, with the occasional decorative beadboard or faded green paint. Floors slant noticeably toward the doorsills. Low tables and chairs accommodated people of smaller stature, but no one seems to know why ceilings soar. Obviously, utility was the architect here, yet few provisions were made for Shaw’s children. When not working the fields, they must have gathered in the “greeting” room just inside the front door. The dining area also seems cramped for that brood, as does the parlor. During winter months, perhaps they drew close to one of three fireplaces to finish their lessons. Since the house has but a single designated bedroom, the eight surviving siblings (two died in infancy, two encamped during the Civil War) must have slept in the narrow loft with angled ceilings, a tiny window and no insulation. Imagine the heat, the insects. Yet this dwelling housed a family of substance, ambition. In 1887, son Charles “Squire” Shaw became Southern Pines’ first mayor. The house remained in Shaw family ownership until acquired by the Moore County Historical Association in 1946. Period furnishings were hunted down, climate controls installed, a kitchen added. The house became a museum, a tea room and headquarters for the MCHA. The Shaws peer down on the upgrades from photo portraits. The men appear quite nice-looking with thick silver hair, but the women . . . a bit frumpy. Obviously, smiles were frowned upon. All well and good, though no re-enactment could replace the musty aroma, the passage of time, and the aura that cannot be synthesized.
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Happy Birthday, Bryant House Two hundred years and still standing, quite a feat considering how many dwellings have perished in the interim. Sad that COVID-19 canceled your party — but it had no effect on your historical clout. Bryant House, on a knoll past McLendon’s Creek in Carthage, surrounded by ancient sycamores and enormous crape myrtles, has a wistful Andrew Wyeth quality in silhouette and hue. Yet on this milestone occasion it stands tall and well-preserved, like a silverhaired matriarch unbowed by the decades. Joel McLendon built the adjacent one-room cabin, known as McLendon’s Place, in the mid-1700s, selling it to Robert Graham in 1787. Graham’s daughter married Michael Bryant. Their son James inherited the cabin, purchased surrounding land, married and constructed a homestead. This visionary’s project, completed in 1820, suggests the input of an experienced carpenter, with an eye to architecture. Everything is even, plumb, squares up. Floors pass the rolling marble test. Careful — doorframes aren’t sized for 6-footers. Wallboards are milled to match. The layout allows cross ventilation in the bedrooms (designated guest and granny) which, like the gathering area, are large — a good thing, since a successive generation of Bryants produced 13 children. They slept upstairs, divided into two rooms accessed by dangerously narrow, steep steps. Space under that staircase has been closed off as a bedroom closet, unusual in an era of “wardrobes,” armoires and pegs. Even without running water, toilet facilities and a kitchen, the house was occupied well into the 20th century. It was gifted to
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MCHA and restored in 1970, including a fine collection of period furnishings, within guidelines set forth by the National Register of Historic Places. Still, had home tours existed during Abraham Lincoln’s tenure, Bryant House would be a top pick. Tracing genealogy can be like navigating a corn maze unless you’re a part of it, like Kaye Davis Brown, a sixth-generation daughter of the Bryant clan. Her father was one of Flossie Bryant Davis’ 13 children. Brown reels off a list of relatives — and rattles some skeletons, like Leandy Bryant’s love child, who bore her maiden name. Brown describes how kids bathed in the creek in summertime, using smashed leaves as “soap.’’ During the winter a tub was placed near a fireplace, then surrounded by blankets draped over chairs for privacy. Half a dozen little ones later, the murky water got dumped outside. Brown points out a cross engraved over Mom and Pop’s bed, now blurred by white mold. She repeats the legend of how Flossie, an animal lover, coaxed her pet foal up that narrow staircase. Just don’t assume the bullet hole near the front door resulted from a military skirmish, as at the Alston House in the Horseshoe. Instead, blame neighborhood pranksters. With minimal improvements, Bryant House was occupied until the 1940s. As a child, Brown remembers visiting cousins there. The grounds are beautifully kept; events draw crowds who enjoy the music, crafts and food — just not this year. A spring open house was postponed until December, then canceled, leaving only chilly ghosts to hear the tales, sing the songs and play simple games on the edge of this Wi-Fi world. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
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Have Cabin, Will Travel The Shaw and Bryant homes have board walls constructed from heart pine. The Woman’s Exchange gift shop and café, a Pinehurst landmark, is a true wholelog cabin. Naturally, it comes with a story — beginning with “Thanks, Mrs. Tufts” — from Exchange board President Barbara Summers. The cabin was crafted without nails in 1810, several miles from Pinehurst at Ray’s Grist Mill. After the Civil War it was purchased by the Archibald McKenzie family as a kitchen. James Tufts, while developing the resort, was so charmed by this relic that he purchased it in 1895, had it disassembled log by log and moved near the village, where he could show it off to friends from New England. He compensated the McKenzies by building them a new cookhouse. At first, the cabin served as a museum. Its opening was reported in the Pinehurst Outlook in an 1898 story that spoke of a foot-long, iron key originating in a Fayetteville jail, a spinning wheel, candlesticks and deer antlers. The one-room cabin was later home to freed slaves Tom Cotton (a caddie on the resort’s golf courses) and his brother. But all the while, Summers relates, Mary Emma Tufts had other ideas. Mrs. Tufts supported the Woman’s Exchange movement, begun in Philadelphia, in 1832. Gentlewomen who had fallen on hard times consigned handiwork in the shops, affording them not only financial aid but marketing skills toward future employment. Some exchanges opened tea rooms where forward-thinking women could socialize and share ideas. At its height, in the late 19th century, 100 Exchange shops attracted 16,000 consignees. Mrs. Tufts died in 1922. In 1924, perhaps as a result of her influence, the cabin became an Exchange shop. Now, Summers continues, the pandemic has forced closing of four of the 20 remaining federation outlets but not the Azalea Road log cabin, which has spread in all directions from the original dark room with low door frames and a huge fireplace suitable for cooking. Sun streams in the showroom skylights; display cabinets have been painted white; and the café, usually full, specializes in soups, quiches and a turkey-avocado wrap. Artisan gifts and estate items are one-of-a-kind. The garden surrounding the cabin has been replanted, heating and air conditioning improved, the computer system upgraded without changing the image of that solitary space and porch where, over the years, lives were led and business conducted. Nothing succeeds like success. Leave it to the gals. And, pandemic notwithstanding, better show up early for a socially-distanced lunch. PS
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Arts & Culture
910-944-3979
Gallery • Studios • Classes
January “Instructors Show” See the work of our talented instructors
January 10 – 28 Opening Sunday January 10 2-4 PM Sign up for Spring Classes
JANUARY 2021
NATIONAL HUMAN TRAFFICKING AWARENESS MONTH OUTSIDE EVENT - FREEDOM NOW
Walk to Freedom with large banners to educate and inform our community about human trafficking and an activity for children to bring awareness on the risks in our community.
Handouts and Complimentary Gifts Hot Cocoa, Coffee and Cookies January 30th, 2021 11:00-4:00 Sandhills Woman’s Exchange Parking Lot
Hosted by Changing Destinies Ministry & Sandhills Woman’s Exchange We will follow all North Carolina’s Governor’s health and public guidelines including wearing masks by everyone 5 years or older.
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“A February to Remember” Benefit Exhibit ALL proceeds go to support the Artists League
February 5-25 Opening Reception, Friday, February 5, 5:00 - 7:00
Gallery Hours: Monday - Saturday 12-3pm CLASSES Oil Painting with Courtney - Wednesday and Thursday, January 20 & 21 10:00-3:30 Intermediate Acrylic Pouring - Meredith Markfield - Tuesday, January 26, 1:00-4:00 The Art of Seeing/Drawing (Pencil &/or Ink) - Betty Hendrix Wednesday, January 27, 10:00-3:00 Introduction to Cold Wax Medium with Oil Paints Jude Winkley - Saturday, February 6, 9:30-3:00 Perspective and Architectural Drawing - Brandon Sanderson Thursday and Friday, February 11 & 12, 1:00-4:00 WORKSHOPS Lots of Little Landscapes - Oil & Acrylic Workshop - Ben Hamburger - March 11-12 2021 Driven to Extraction - Pastel Workshop - Laura Pollack - April 20, 21, 22 2021
129 Exchange Street in Aberdeen, NC www.artistleague.org • artistleague@windstream.net The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
A L M A N A C
January n
By Ashley Wahl
J
anuary cold guides us inward. You find yourself studying your hands, quietly tracing the lines of your palms when, suddenly, there is movement in the periphery. A flash — and then nothing. The mouse is back. How he gets inside you’ll never know. And yet, the mystery keeps you smiling, keeps you guessing. You catch and release him into the yard again, and as he scurries off, heart pounding like a tiny hammer, you wait for him to turn around, maybe wink his beady eye as if to say see you ’round. Here we are again, January. By some miracle we’ve made it. And just like the mouse, we carry with us new stories, new wisdom from our journey. This is a time for planning and dreaming. You order seeds. Next month, when the first of the daffodils burst through the soil in rapturous glory, you’ll sow sugar snaps and snow peas, carrots and parsnips, lettuce and spinach, maybe mustard seeds. But for now, you’re back to quiet contemplation, thoughtfully observing the lines on the back of your hands. The etchings and wrinkles begin to resemble the rings of a tree. There are stories here, you think. Lessons in each tiny groove. And out of the blue, Aesop’s Fables pops into your mind. “The Ants & the Grasshopper”: There’s a time for work and a time for play. “The Crow & the Pitcher”: In a pinch a good use of our wits may help us out. “The Lion & the Mouse”: A kindness is never wasted. You think of that crafty house mouse, smiling at his persistence and how you’re not so different from him. Your needs are the same: food, shelter and warmth. No doubt you both dream of the tender kiss of spring. And like the mouse, you, too, rely on a kindly universe to smile upon you, to gently guide you along your journey, granting you stories and wisdom for your future travels. January is a year of lessons in the making. Notice the creatures, great and small, that remind us how to live. And remember: you are one of them.
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Winter Blooms
Nature always gives us what we need. And in the dead of winter, when the bleakness of the landscape nearly becomes too much to bear, she gives us flowers. Prunus mume, commonly known as flowering apricot, blooms in January. Its delicate, fragrant flowers — pink, red or white — ornament naked branches much like the cherry blossoms of official spring. Amazingly, this small, ornamental fruit tree was virtually unknown in the United States prior to the spirited efforts of the late Dr. J.C. Raulston, beloved horticulturist and founder of the nationally acclaimed arboretum at N.C.S.U. Raulston devoted his life to growing and sharing rare and spectacular plants, P. mume among them. This month, when its vibrant flowers offer their spicy aroma and the promise of spring, surely, whisper, thank you.
Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering ‘it will be happier’ . . . — Alfred Lord Tennyson
Looking Out, Looking Up
How will your garden grow? Per Aesop’s “Ants & the Grasshopper” fable, now’s a good time to plan ahead. This month, order quality seeds and map out a planting calendar for year-round harvest. Sure, it will take a bit of work. The ants know something about that. But educating yourself on what to plant and when is a game changer. And when you’re harvesting fresh veggies from your backyard spring through winter, no doubt you’ll be singing like a grasshopper in June. But while you’re planning, don’t forget to look up. Although a waning gibbous moon will try to outshine it, the Quadrantid meteor shower will peak on Sunday, January 3, from 2 a.m. until dawn. The first new moon of the New Year lands on Wednesday, January 13. Consider this cosmic reset a good time to set intentions and launch into a new project. Through darkness comes light.
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Arts Entertainment C A L E N DA R
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Although conscientious effort is made to provide accurate and upto-date information, all events are subject to change and errors can occur! Please call to verify times, costs, status and location before planning or attending an event. JOY OF ART STUDIO. New 2021 Joy of Art Studio Winter Arts begins with lots of fun and creative classes for all ages. Paint with Joy twice a month. Offering both private and small groups with safe distance. Classes are held at Joy of Art Studio, 139 E. Pennsylvania Ave., Suite B, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 528-7283 or www.joyof-art.com or www.facebook.com/ Joyscreativespace/. GIVEN BOOK SHOP. The Given Book Shop is open to the public on a limited basis. Those who wish to enter must wear a face mask, have their temperature taken and abide by rules of social distancing. For those not wishing to enter the bookshop a “to-go” request form can be found at www.giventufts.org/book-requestform/. Please check www.giventufts.org for up-to-date information on the status of open days, hours of operation and book donations. The Given Book Shop, 95 Cherokee Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 585-4820. GIVEN MEMORIAL LIBRARY. Given Memorial Library is open on a limited basis. Those who wish to enter must wear a face mask, have their temperature taken and abide by rules of social distancing. Please check www.giventufts.org for up-to-date information on the status of open days and hours of operation. For those not wishing to enter the library “to-go” orders can be placed by phone or email. Go to the online catalog. Check for availability, then call (910) 295-6022 or email info@giventufts.com. Staff will fill request and contact with instructions on pickup. Given Memorial Library, 150 Cherokee Road, Pinehurst. LIBRARY READING PACKETS. Given Memorial Library has new reading packets available which include craft supplies and activity sheets. Please check
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www.giventufts.org for library hours for pickup. Given Memorial Library, 150 Cherokee Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-6022 or info@giventufts.com. LITTLE READERS. Little Clips for Little Readers features fun rhymes, songs and literacy tips for children aged birth to 5 and their parents and caregivers. Look for these videos posted weekly on SPPL’s Facebook and YouTube channel. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 6928235 or www.sppl.net. MOORE ART SHARE. The Arts Council of Moore County and Given Memorial Library invite citizens of all ages to share their art with the community by submitting it to an online publication. Submissions can include visual arts, music, theater, short stories, videos, photography, recipes and more. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org. WEYMOUTH CENTER. The Weymouth Center has tentative events dependent upon the directives of the governor’s office. Visit www.weymouthcenter.org for upcoming event information. DIAL A STORY. The Southern Pines Public Library has revamped this classic service by offering a variety of stories, ranging from children’s books to poetry, and more. Easy to use from any phone, just call (910) 900-9099. Choose a line, sit back, and enjoy listening to a story read by the SPPL librarians. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net. STORYWALK. Join the Southern Pines Public Library and read Cookies: Bite-Sized Life Lessons, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. Along the way, read suggestions for brain-building questions and activities. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.
Library Kits
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WARM UP AMERICA. Throughout the month of January, the Southern Pines Public Library will be collecting blanket squares to benefit Warm Up America. Brush up on your skills and learn new knitting and crocheting techniques with free access to Creativebug. For more information about donating, check our Facebook page or email lholden@sppl.net.
Friday, January 1 WINTER READING CHALLENGE. All ages are invited to register on the Beanstack app or on the website and log each book read until Jan. 31. At the start of the challenge, all registrants earn a swag bag full of fun winter treats. At the end, a prize will be awarded to everyone who completes the challenge. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.
Friday, January 8 ART SHOW 5 p.m. Visit Campbell House Galleries to view the exhibit “Three Women: Many Visions,” featuring the work of Joy McGugan, Sandy Stratil and Martha Tournas. The exhibit will be open through Jan. 29. Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www. mooreart.org. There will be a virtual opening reception at 6 p.m. that can be accessed at www.facebook.com/ TheArtsCouncil.
Sunday, January 10 ART DEMONSTRATION. 2 - 4 p.m. Start the new year off by taking an inspiring art class or workshop and observe our instructors as they demonstrate the various mediums they will be teaching in 2021. Register for the classes that interest you. There will be demonstrations in drawing, pastel, colored pencil, oil, watercolor and more. The exhibition of our instructors’ paintings will be hung in our gallery and will remain open through Jan. 28. Light refreshments available. Artists League of The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
CA L E N DA R the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www.artistleague.org. WRITING GROUP. 3 p.m. Interested in creating fiction, nonfiction, poetry or comics? Connect with other writers and artists, chat about your craft and get feedback on your work. All levels are welcome. The session will meet via Zoom. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. To join email: lholden@sppl.net.
Wednesday, January 13 TAKE AND MAKE BAG. Kids in grades K-5 are invited to pick up a Take-and-Make Bag featuring projects, experiments and crafts. These bags will feature all the materials and instructions for activities based on science, technology, engineering, art and math. New bags are available on Wednesdays on a first come, first served basis. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net. LIBRARY KITS. Teens are invited to pick up an Orbeez Stress Ball Kit while supplies last. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.
Saturday, January 16 SYMPHONY. 8 p.m. The musicians pick favorites to spotlight their virtuosity, with works including Mozart’s Oboe Quartet. Streaming from Meymandi Concert Hall in Raleigh. Info: www.ncsymphony.org.
Thursday, January 21 RUTH PAULEY LECTURE SERIES. 7:30 p.m. Join us for uber marathon runner Linda Carrier, who will present “Seven Marathons, Seven Days, on Seven Continents.” Each lecture will be available to the public to view at www.ruthpauley.org.
Tuesday, January 26 PAGE TURNERS. 10:30 a.m. SPPL’s newest book club will meet via Zoom. The book for January is Cutting for Stone, by Abraham Verghese. Can’t make the live meeting? Head over to the SPPL Page Turners Facebook Page to post your thoughts and interact with group members. Info: (910) 692-8235 or email lib@ sppl.net. ART LECTURE. 5 - 6:15 p.m. The Arts Council of Moore County presents a lecture by Henry O. Tanner on “Visions of the Christian Community.” Cost is $25 for Arts Council members and $30 for non-members. Space is limited to 10 people. Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org.
Wednesday, January 27 LIBRARY KITS. Teens are invited to pick up a Mini Zen Garden kit while supplies last. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.
Saturday, January 30 PAINTED PONIES. The Painted Ponies Art Walk and Auction will feature 12 painted ponies along Broad Street in Southern Pines until March 30. Afterward, there will be a public auction of the ponies to benefit the Carolina Horse Park Foundation. Info: www. carolinahorsepark.com. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
SYMPHONY. 8 p.m. J.S. Bach: Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. Vivaldi: The Four Seasons. Streaming from Meymandi Concert Hall. Info: www.ncsymphony.org.
UPCOMING EVENTS Wednesday, February 3 BOOK EVENT. 6 - 7 p.m. John Grisham is joining John Hart to discuss his new novel, The Unwilling. The event will meet via Zoom. You can get a copy of the book on www.thecountrybookshop.biz. Info: www. ticketmesandhills.com.
PREPARE FOR
WEEKLY EVENTS Mondays INDOOR WALKING. 9:30 - 11:30 a.m. Improve balance, blood pressure and maintain healthy bones with one of the best methods of exercise. Classes are held at the same time Monday through Friday. Ages 55 and up. Cost for six months: $15/resident; $30/non-resident. Southern Pines Recreation Center, 210 Memorial Park Ct., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376. WALKING WITH EASE. 10 - 11 a.m. Participants will learn how to walk safely, improve flexibility, strength and stamina all while getting into shape. Classes are held every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday for six weeks. Ages 55 and up. Cost: $15/ resident; $30/non-resident. Southern Pines Recreation Center, 210 Memorial Park Ct., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376. TAP CLASS. 1:30 - 3 p.m. For adults 55 and older. All levels welcome. Cost per class: $15/resident; $30/ non-resident. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info and registration: (910) 692-7376.
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Tuesdays TABLE TENNIS. 7 - 9 p.m. Enjoy playing this exciting game every Tuesday. Cost for six months is $15 for residents of Southern Pines and $30 for non-residents. For adults 55 and older. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376.
Wednesdays TAP CLASS. 1:30 - 3 p.m. For adults 55 and older. All levels welcome. Cost per class: $15/resident; $30/ non-resident. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info and registration: (910) 692-7376. FARM TO TABLE. Join Sandhills Farm to Table Co-op by ordering a subscription of local produce to support our local farmers. Info: (910) 722-1623 or www. sandhillsfarm2table.com.
Thursdays FARMERS MARKET. 9 a.m. - 1 p.m. The Southern Pines Farmers Market has a variety of fresh produce, baked goods and more, 604 W. Morganton Rd., (Armory Sports Complex), Southern Pines.
Fridays TAP CLASS. 10 - 11:30 a.m. For adults 55 and older. All levels welcome. Cost per class: $15/resident; $30/ non-resident. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info and registration: (910) 692-7376. PS
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The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
January PineNeedler
JANUARY PROMI
January Promises!
By Mart Dickerson
ACROSS 1. Sixth sense 4. Stuffed animals 9. Expected soon 12. Lubricates 14. Math term 15. Broadcasts 16. Bad habit resolution 17. Apply as pressure 18. For fear that 19. Decree 21. Commercial airline 23. English bathroom 24. Stash away 26. Female sibling 29. Clutter resolution 33. Compass point 34. People’s princess 36. Not (prefix) 37. Total up 38. Green Eggs and Ham name 39. Musical discs 42. Before, poetically 43. Beer container 44. BB player Abdul-Jabbar 46. Flange 47. Physical resolution 51. Gently 53. Avant-garde 54. Airport abbr. 55. Skater Henie ( var. spelling) 57. Stress resolution 60. Captivated 61. Minimum 65. Spoken 67. Monopoly streets
68. 69. 70. 71. 72.
Soak Canal Hankering Preserved, as ham Fasten
DOWN 2. Building location 3. Trudge 4. S. African capital 5. Lazy 6. Shoshonean 7. Mr. 8. Ballpark food 9. Scale resolution 10. ____Minor constellation 11. NC time setting abbr. 13. Dropped milk, e.g. 15. Ethan that led the Green Mountain Boys 20. Dorm dwellers 22. Historic period 24. Male offspring 25. Outline 26. Cobra 27. Alphabetical listing 28. Marsh plant 30. Neutral 31. Skunk-like African animal 32. Foe 35. Collect 40. Abandoned 41. Hit 45. Lock opener 48. Sounds off
Puzzle answers on page 94 Mart Dickerson lives in Southern Pines and welcomes suggestions from her fellow puzzle masters. She can be reached at martaroonie@gmail.com.
The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
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SOUTHWORDS
Immortal Stories By Jim Moriarty
Toward the end of his new book,
Gods at Play, Tom Callahan writes, “By now you must know, I’m the hero of all my stories.” It was one of his throw-away dinner lines I heard often enough in the evening at British Opens and Masters and places like that. It was partially — but only partially — true, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day saying, “I’m a god. I’m not the god . . . I don’t think.”
In one of those publishing house blurbs, some marketing type once decided it was a good idea to describe Callahan’s writing somewhere between the goalposts of “lighthearted” and “airy,” which works if the guy would describe the arrow from a crossbow the same way. If Callahan ever knew the person who wrote it he would have said, “sweet writer,” like patting a 4-year-old on the head. Callahan went to a Catholic university, Mount St. Mary’s, and the U.S. Marines. That he was a Marine was perfect for him because he always liked to play against type. He was a sports columnist at the Cincinnati Enquirer and, later, the Washington Post before becoming the sports guy for Time and then U.S. News and World Report. I got to know him when he started writing poetry for Golf Digest. There are a couple of his stories I couldn’t find in Gods at Play, like the time he kidnapped Nancy Lopez, who was coming into Cincinnati for the LPGA Championship in the midst of her rookie hot streak. Callahan wanted an interview. Hell, the whole world wanted an interview. He was told it was impossible. So, Tom guessed what plane she’d arrive on and met her at baggage claim. She assumed the tournament had sent a driver to pick her up. Tom looks more like a chauffeur than Jeeves looks like a butler, so Nancy didn’t think much of it, and Tom didn’t do anything to convince her otherwise. He grabbed her luggage and loaded everything, plus Nancy Lopez, into his beat-up, messy old sportswriter’s car, the anti-limo. He got his interview. She still laughs about it and never has figured out why she got in the damn car to begin with. He was probably telling her a story and she wanted to hear the end. And he only told half the truth about the time he played with Jack Nicklaus in the pro-am at Kings Island, the Nicklaus-designed course under power lines where they played the LPGA Championship for longer than any real golf tour should have. Tom’s a big guy and, when he
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caught a drive, it would go. On the first tee, the local boy rose to the occasion. He killed it. “Chase that, Jack,” he said to Nicklaus, loud enough for the gallery to hear. Nicklaus outdrove him, but just barely. A yard, maybe two. Out in the fairway Callahan’s next shot was a cold, sideways shank. “I won’t be chasing that one, Tom,” said Nicklaus. Callahan collected writers the way the Medicis collected Leonardos and Michaelangelos. He became Red Smith’s legs when the great Pulitzer Prize-winner got too old to scramble after a quote or two and, later, at British Opens he reprised his role as taxi driver for World Golf Hall of Famer Dan Jenkins, who always believed driving on the left — if it had to be done at all — should be done sparingly, and by someone else. Jenkins called Callahan Simon because he’d once had a driver by that name. If Callahan was in L.A. he found Jim Murray. If he was at a horse race he was standing on Bill Nack’s withers. When I learned he wasn’t going to Fort Worth for Jenkins’ funeral a couple of years ago, he told me he was tired of going to them. But that was against type, too. It was more a case of “Elvis is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.” It didn’t matter, though, because he’d already supplied the harp music in Golf Digest, writing the best sendoff any sports guy ever got. Of course, Tom didn’t get everything right. He thought O.J. was innocent until he saw the Bruno Maglis. I can’t give you the highlights from Gods at Play. The book is 265 pages long, and if you skip any of them you’ll be poorer for it. But here’s just one story. Callahan knew Oscar Robertson from his days playing for the Royals in Cincinnati. Oscar was a tough guy. And, later, after Robertson helped Kareem Abdul Jabbar win an NBA title in Milwaukee, Callahan and Kareem, by then a Laker, had a conversation about him: “The first time we ever spoke,” I said, “you told me you didn’t really know Oscar. But you came to know him, right?” “And to love him,” he said. “And to love playing with him. And, probably a little too much, to love watching him play.” “He was a bit cold-blooded for me,” I said. “No, he had the capacity for joy that all great players have. He wouldn’t show it to you, though. Or you wouldn’t understand where to look for it. It’s not in the box score, you know.” But it’s spilled all over the pages of Gods at Play. PS The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
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