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©2013 Pinehurst, LLC

Nothing says Pinehurst like the Putter Boy logo. And at the Pinehurst Golf Shop in the Clubhouse, you’ll find him on just about everything. Pinehurst Golf Shop Pinehurst Resort and Country Club • 910. 235. 8154


July 2013

Features

49 Most of What We Take is Given Poetry by Stephen E. Smith

Volume 8, No. 7

50 Prometheus Bound By Stephen E. Smith

35

Postcard From Paris Christina Klug

Departments

7

Sweet Tea Chronicles Jim Dodson

10 PinePitch 15 Cos and Effect Cos Barnes 17 The Omnivorous Reader Stephen E. Smith

21 25 Hitting Home Dale Nixon Kitchen Garden 27 The Jan Leitschuh

31 32

Bookshelf

Vine Wisdom

Robyn James

Pleasures of Life Dept.

37

Out of the Blue Deborah Salomon

39 41 45 72 83

91

Birdwatch

Tom Bryant

Golftown Journal Lee Pace Calendar

95 96

54 Paper Dolls

Mrs. Fitzgerald regrets...

57 Sales Girl

By Dana Sachs

She was the new girl, chasing a new kind of life.

61 Widow’s Walk

SandhillSeen

By Michael Parker

The Accidental Astrologer

Astrid Stellanova

The literary version of a Wolfe on the doorstep.

By Lee Smith

Susan Campbell

The Sporting Life

PineNeedler SouthWords

Mart Dickerson Jane Borden

Tom Allen

It was her little balcony, high above a troubled world.

62 Good Advice From a C.O.D.

By Clyde Edgerton

Our redoubtable considerably older Dad’s best advice to newbies.

64 Joanna

By Jill McCorkle

As memory fades, the stories of a life live on the page.

75 July Almanac

By Noah Salt

Killer tomatoes, honeysuckle and the magic of dragonflies.

Cover photograph and photograph this page by Tim Sayer 2M July 2013 .: B . .randi . . . . . . .S . warms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills odel


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PineStraw M A G A Z I N E Jim Dodson, Editor

910.693.2506 • jim@pinestrawmag.com

Andie Stuart Rose, Creative Director 910.693.2467 • andie@pinestrawmag.com

Cassie Butler Timpy, Photographer, Graphic Designer 910.693.2464 • cassie@pinestrawmag.com

Lauren Shumaker, Graphic Designer 910.693.2469 • lauren@pinestrawmag.com

Brianna Rolfe Cunningham, Graphic Design Intern Editorial Contributors

Deborah Salomon, Staff Writer Stephen E. Smith, Staff Writer David C. Bailey, Copy Editor Sara King, Proofreader Mary Novitsky, Proofreader

Contributing Photographers

John Gessner, Tim Sayer Contributors

Tom Allen, Cos Barnes, Tom Bryant, Susan Campbell, Al Daniels, Annette Daniels, Mart Dickerson, Robyn James, Christina Klug, Jan Leitschuh, Meridith Martens, Dale Nixon, Lee Pace, Jeanne Paine, Gayvin Powers, Noah Salt, Astrid Stellanova

PS David Woronoff, Publisher Advertising Sales

Terry Hartsell, 910.693.2513 Kerry Hooper, 910.693.2489 Perry Loflin, 910.693.2514 Darlene McNeil-Smith, 910.693.2519 Darlene Stark, 910.693.2488 Meagan Powell, 910.693.3569 Johnsie Tipton, 910.693.2515 Karen Triplett, 910.693.2510 Pat Taylor, Advertising Director Advertising Graphic Design

910.693.2461 • Mechelle Butler, Clay Culberson, Maegan Lea

Circulation & Subscriptions

Darlene Stark, Circulation Director 910.693.2488

PineStraw Magazine

910.693.2467 173 W. Pennsylvania Avenue Southern Pines, NC 28387 pinestraw@thepilot.com • www.pinestrawmag.com ©Copyright 2013. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. PineStraw magazine is published by The Pilot LLC

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July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


FEAST

May cause weight gain.

Living fully takes on a whole new meaning at Pine Knoll and Belle Meade. Our communities offer a virtual feast of opportunities to connect with cherished friends and make new ones. Delight in a past passion or learn something new. Enjoy a healthy lifestyle with just the right amount of indulgence in any of our excellent restaurants. Live secure in the knowledge the St. Joseph of the Pines continuum of care is there should you ever need it. Enjoying your retirement, your way has never been easier!

CALL TODAY – 910.246.1008

Where life just keeps getting better. Southern Pines, North Carolina • www.sjp.org • 910.246.1008 A member of the St. Joseph of the Pines Aging Services Network continuing the legacy of the Sisters of Providence.


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SWEET TEA CHRONICLES

She Whose Name Must Never Be Spoken Aloud

BY JIM DODSON

Fifty years ago this month was just

about the happiest summer of my life.

Not just because I was 10, and that’s just about the greatest age a boy can be, a final barefoot insouciance before voices crack and bodies change and the gawky weirdness of adolescence hits like a cellular typhoon. But that July was my liberation from the terror Miss Abigail Weathertop, the meanest, scariest fourth-grade teacher who ever skulked over the Earth. Abigail Weathertop is not her name. He real name cannot be spoken aloud with any confidence because, as I recently learned from another survivor of her infamous fourth-grade tribunal, the woman is still alive and kicking in a rest home not too far away, and who can say but she just might mount her broom and ride across the sky after me were she to see her name in print. Actually, assuming she’d passed on to her heavenly or otherwise reward, I committed this grievous error in judgment almost a decade ago in a travel memoir called Faithful Travelers, an account of the delightful and emotional summer my 7-year-old daughter Maggie and our crusty 12-year-old golden retriever Amos spent camping and fly-fishing our way across America. By a campfire somewhere on a river bank in Montana, Mugs, as I still call her, asked me if I’d ever had a “really mean teacher” and I confirmed that I had arguably the meanest and most terrifying fourth-grade teacher known to modern civilization.

In the book I even used her real name — She Whose Name Must Never Be Spoken Aloud — though ironically I misspelled it, as I recently learned from a reader who had just finished the book and turned out to be a fellow survivor of the same ordeal. Here’s a snippet from her email, reprinted with her permission and edited to protect the innocent. In other words, us: “In Faithful Travelers, you referenced a horrible fourth grade teacher, Miss W__ . She was my fourth grade teacher as well and was the most intimidating, mean-spirited teacher I ever had. I have told my family that it was the most terrible year of school I ever had. I can recall experiences that were almost identical to the one you spoke of with the little boy who wrote ‘Miss W__ is a man.’ Since you told your daughter that you don’t know what happened to her, I thought maybe you would like to know. She really should have been in jail for child abuse but she managed to pretend that she liked children until her retirement. She is living at an upscale retirement community. Maybe we could visit her together and you could wax her mustache while I interrogate her about why she ever wanted to work with children when she hated them.” This might be funny if it weren’t so painfully accurate. As I recounted to my 7-year-old by the fire, Miss W__ announced her roster of intolerables that would make the harshest Puritan schoolmaster seem like a total patsy: Strict attention and no talking to classmates during class. Misbehavior of any sort, even on the playground, would not be condoned. Notes passed and homework unfinished or turned in late would result in

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SWEET TEA CHRONICLES

severe penalties. She believed in paddling all offenders, regardless of sex. In other words, spare the rod — in this case, what resembled a polished two-by-four — and spoil the child. I remember sitting with my mother, who winked at me and whispered, “This one’s a pip. Be careful, sugar.” I was careful, but Woody C. Ham wasn’t. One day he and someone else whose name eludes me wrote “Miss W__ is really a man” on the tiles of the boys’ bathroom. A modest defacement and social breech, in our estimation — and, well, durn true. Miss W__ did resemble a man, with her ghost of a mustache

Hold on to summer.

Miss W__ did resemble a man, with her ghost of a mustache and the slightly military cast of her preferred khaki outfits . . .

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and the slightly military cast of her preferred khaki outfits and — I swear on a stack of Puritan Primers — the riding crop she always carried on field trips to the NC State House and local battlegrounds. True, I never saw her whip anyone but the very idea that she could and just might was enough to keep us in line like prisoners at Devil’s Island in the movie Papillion. None of us wanted to rat out Woody Ham, and none of us did, as I recall — though that proved no small ordeal in its own right. When the offending graffiti was discovered, Miss W__ commandeered a janitor’s closet and installed a chair, small desk and high intensity desk lamp to use for her personal interrogations of every boy in the class, lined up, one by one, like Resistance saboteurs during Nazi occupation. Truthfully, I was so nervous as I waited silently in line for my moment under the scary beam of light, I was half tempted to falsely confess in order to get the hellish wait over with. Somewhere

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SWEET TEA CHRONICLES

in the back of my mind, too, I understood that a high percentage of the kids in my class and at this particular elementary school in general hailed from poor and underprivileged families, homes and parents who were far less involved with their child’s school environment than mine. My mom, in particular, was a class volunteer and a steel magnolia who never would have stood for such blatant intimidation and borderline child abuse. Alas, I didn’t tell her about it for many years because someone else broke under the heat of interrogation and was led away for their date with the dreaded wooden paddle. I remember little else from my fourth grade year — except the pure unadulterated joy I felt upon reaching the final day of school and sprinting out to my bicycle to ride home and kick off my shoes and head for the creek and read all the DC and Classic Illustrated comic books I cared to read, to chew Bazooka bubble gum till my jaw ached and catch fireflies at dusk in a Ball jar and stay up late enough to see Alfred Hitchcock Presents and ride all over Greensboro with my dog Herky except when I went to Circle-K movies at the Carolina on Saturday morning. It was a perfect summer, a perfect cure for the hardest school year ever. We went off for two weeks to the Hanover Seaside Club at Wrightsville Beach and a famous amusement park in Baltimore, visited the Smithsonian and climbed to the top of the Washington Monument. On July Fourth, at our annual family reunion at my crazy Uncle Russ’ rustic camp on the north branch of the Potomac River, my brother and I got to sample Bohemian Black Label beer from a keg cooling in the root cellar where the uncles all assembled to cool off after horseshoes. We took a wild tube ride down the rapids of the river and Uncle Russ blew up a stick of dynamite on the night of the Fourth just to give a dozen of us skinny-legged Kessell cousins a wild charge of delight. He had a pet skunk that followed him everywhere — thrilling us with its potential olfactory mayhem — and one point I stepped into a bedroom to get something for my mother just as my teenage cousin Ellie, a true West Virginia beauty, stepped from the shower and laughed at me. I would no longer be 10 years old, or all that innocent. Maybe, in the end, that’s the important message I carried away from that painful school year and glorious summer that followed. Nothing lasts yet everything enriches. Thank you, Uncle Russ. And you, too — She Whose Name Must Never Be Spoken Aloud. PS

346 Grant Road | Vass, NC l 910-245-4977 l M-S 10:00am-5:30pm Just off US 1 North | Next Door to Carolina Storage www.transitdamagefreight@webs.com

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Summertime. . . and the readin’ is easy

Arrangements Have Been Made

The garden’s overflowing with blooms. What to do? Learn to arrange them at a workshop conducted by Maggie Smith of Maggie’s Farm Designs. Participants will work from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. July 10 at the Ball Visitors Center of Sandhills Horticultural Gardens. All materials, including flowers and container, provided. Prepayment required for reservations. Horticultural Society Members: $30. Nonmembers: $35. Information and reservations: (910) 695-3882.

The Southern Pines Public Library wants you to power down social networking and boot up a book – electronic or old-fashioned. The goal is attracting 1,000 readers of all ages to participate in Dig Into Reading; suggested commitment 20 minutes a day. This summer program, which commenced June 1, is part of the Southern Pines Grows Great Readers Campaign for Grade-Level Reading, the plan for which SP was named an AllAmerican City. By logging their hours on the library website (www.sppl.net) readers earn Book Bucks to purchase prizes. In addition, throughout the summer the library hosts Family Fun Nights on Thursdays (except July 4), Preschool Storytime at 3:30 p.m. Wednesdays, and a Write Your Memoir event at 3 p.m. on July 14. Information: (910) 692-8235

Go Fourth and Celebrate

Pinehurst Village will begin July 4th observances with a pet parade — with registration at 9 a.m. at Givens Memorial Library and judging at 9:30 a.m. followed by the traditional parade with pets leading the way. Stay after the parade for face painting, an antique cars display, farmers’ market vendors, music and other entertainment at the Department Store Building. Festivities resume at 5 p.m. at the Pinehurst Harness Track with bouncy houses, games, hay rides and concessions. The David Michael Band takes the stage at 6 p.m. followed by fireworks at 9:15 p.m. Bring lawn chairs and blankets. Information: (910) 295-1900. Aberdeen hosts a Fun Family Fourth of July at Aberdeen Lake Park beginning with children’s activities at 5:30 p.m., live music following at 6 p.m. Children’s wrist bands: $3. Activities include face painting, bouncy castles, duck pond, spin art and bean-bag toss. Prizes for best patriotic costumes. Fireworks begin at 9:15 p.m. Leave pets, alcoholic beverages and coolers at home.

Something to Crow About

On July 21, The Rooster’s Wife at Poplar Knight Spot in Aberdeen presents Jeanne Jolly, a singer-songwriter who explores many music forms but focuses on country. Jolly returned to North Carolina in 2009 and released her first fulllength CD, “Angels,” in 2012. Doors open at 6 p.m., performance at 6:46 p.m. Information: (910) 944-7502

Information: (910) 944-1115.

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Diva Does Her Thing

Linda Hamwi, “The Plant Diva,” presents an entertaining and instructive class on the art of succulent container gardens. Note to non-cognoscenti: Succulent plants like cacti and jade have fleshy, water-retaining leaves and stems. The workshop takes place from 10 a.m. until noon on July 27 at Sandhills Community College, Steed Hall/Stephens Laboratory. Participants may take home their creations. Admission: $27 for Sandhills Horticultural Society members, $32 for non-members. Information and reservations: (910) 695-3882

Back to the Past

Retreat from the July heat for the silver screen’s never-get-oldies at the Sunrise Theater Classic Movie Wednesdays: July 3: Easy Rider July 10: Psycho July 17: Annie Hall July 24: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner July 31: Pretty Woman Showings begin at 7:30 p.m. Tickets: $5 for children under 12, $7 for adults. Information: (910) 692-8501

Keen on Peaches

The North Carolina Peach Festival takes over the Candor Farmers’ Market on Main Street in Candor from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. on July 20 with a parade and music by the Sand Band and Blue Horizon. Come for the entertainment, stay for the peach ice cream, pie and cobbler — indescribable. Information: www.townofcandornc.com

Third First Friday

Megan McCormick, with a style flowing from folk to country, will perform from 5 to 8 p.m., July 5, on the grassy knoll beside the Sunrise Theater in downtown Southern Pines. Or, in case of rain, inside the theater. McCormick received two International Bluegrass Music Association Awards; her song “Bullseye” was featured in the Emmy-nominated film Prayers for Bobby. Bring lawn chairs and blankets. Free, with non-perishable food donation for the Food Bank of Central and Eastern North Carolina. Information: www. firstfridaysouthernpines.com

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The Country Bookshop Upcoming Author Events Call 910.692.3211 for more information

Saturday, July 6 at 1 pm At The Country Bookshop Brad Herzog FRANCIS AND EDDIE: THE TRUE STORY OF AMERICA’S UNDERDOGS

A book for 8-12 year olds and golf lovers of all ages. A century ago, in 1913, the world’s finest golfers gathered at The Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts, to compete in golf ’s national championship: the U.S. Open. Joining them was a little-known amateur, 20-year-old Francis Ouimet, who lived across the street from the course and taught himself to play by sneaking onto the fairways with the only golf club he owned. His caddie? Ten-year-old Eddie Lowery, who stood only four feet tall.

Saturday July 13 at 2 pm At The Country Bookshop Kevin Maurer and Mitch Weiss

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HUNTING CHE: HOW A U.S. SPECIAL FORCES TEAM HELPED CAPTURE THE WORLD’S MOST FAMOUS REVOLUTIONARY

Sunday July 21 at 2 pm At The Country Bookshop Anne Russell and Melton McLaurin

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THE WAYWARD GIRLS OF SAMARCAND: A TRUE STORY OF THE AMERICAN SOUTH In 1931, 16 teenage girls faced the death penalty for setting fire to 2 dormitories at Samarcand reform school a half hour from Southern Pines. Several girls were sterilized in the guise of appendectomies. THE WAYWARD GIRLS OF SAMARCAND is a nonfiction novel by UNCW professors Anne Russell and Melton McLaurin, who grew up in eastern North Carolina.

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Thursday July 11 at 11 am call 910.692.3211 for info. Mary Alice Monroe The Summer Girls

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Thursday, July 18 at 5 pm At The Country Bookshop Dorie Clark R EIN V ENTIN G YO U : DEFINE YOUR BRAND, IMAGINE YOUR FUTURE

Clark provides a step-by-step guide to help people assess, build, and reinvent their personal brands.

Monday July 22 at 4:30 pm At The Country Bookshop Susan Crandall

Whistling Past The Graveyard

For fans of Southern stories such as THE HELP and THE KITCHEN HOUSE, WHISTLING PAST THE GRAVEYARD is a wise and tender coming-of-age story about a nine year old girl who runs away from her Mississippi home in 1963, befriends a black woman traveling alone with a white baby, and embarks on a road trip that changes both of their lives forever.

140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines 910.692.3211

CUT OUT AND PUT ME ON THE FRIDGE!


Southern Summer Sisters

Night Crawlers

Pub to gallery, coffee bar to resto they traipse, looking for blues to raise some green for the Sunrise Theater. The annual Blues Crawl fundraiser returns to twelve venues in downtown Southern Pines on July 13, beginning with Mudbones Blues Review at 11 a.m. and continuing until 1:30 a.m. the next morning. Included are the blues styles of Chicago, Texas, the Delta and Western North Carolina performed by Logie Meachum, King Bees, Barbara Martin & Liz Barnes trio and others. Sean Chambers, who has shared a stage with B.B. King and Johnny Winter, wails at the Sunrise from 8 until 11 p.m. Discount tickets ($18) available at Sunrise box office until July 5. Afterwards, $20.

At 11 a.m. on July 11, Mary Alice Monroe, author of The Summer Girls, will discuss her story about three granddaughters who spend three months on Sullivan’s Island – and the grandmother who helps them reconnect. Location TBA. Then, at 4:30 p.m. on July 22 at The Country Bookshop in downtown Southern Pines, Susan Crandall, author of Whistling Past the Graveyard, will speak about her coming-of-age story concerning a 9-year-old girl who runs away from her Mississippi home in 1963, befriends a black woman traveling with a white baby and embarks on a life-changing road trip. Critics compare this journey to The Help and To Kill a Mockingbird. Information: (910) 692-3211

Information: (910) 692-8501

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HONESTY • INTEGRITY • RELIABILITY

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Linville Ridge Golf Front

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Updated family home

4 bed/4.5 ba. + ofc. at Linville Ridge. Grandfather Mt. view from top to lake. New kitchen, baths, paint, A/C, granite tops, hwd flrs. Stone fireplace, screened porch, 2 car garage, 7.5 acres of privacy. 605 Chestnut Trail. Unfurnished. $699,000.

Spectacular Linville Ridge Estate 6/bed./7.5 ba., ofc., 3 car garage. Panaramic Grandfather view. Hdwd flrs., high ceilings, granite, large rms., his/hers master bath; game room, fitness room. Totally furnished, turn-key, move in condition. 1124 Cottage Crest. $2,000,000.

Trophy Home at Diamond Creek

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Linville Ridge Furnished Townhouse with guest house

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Cottage with Lake and Mountain view

4 bed/4 ba. home at Linville Ridge with pretty view. Cherry flrs., granite in kitchen, 3 fireplaces: living room, master bedroom, family room. 2 decks. 2004 Water Court II. Furnished. $549,900.

Sunny Condo with Grandfather Mtn. View

Golf front; Upper corner unit. Skylights, stone fireplace, hdwd. flrs., granite tops; spacious, open plan. 3 bed/3 ba., ofc. area. Decks front & back. 304 Moon Run. $409,500 Furnished.

Linville Ridge Estate

6 bed/8.5 ba., hdwd flrs., stone fireplaces, generator, elevator, gym, gourmet kitchen, 2 offices, media room, huge master, guest house, staff apt., water features, gazebo. Professionally decorated. 1107 Cottage Court. Furnished. $1,150,000.

Elegant Linville Ridge Home

3 bed/3 ba., office, on one level. Grandfather Mt. view. New roof, fresh paint, beautiful decor. Stone fireplace, hdwd flrs., cathedral ceiling, open kitchen with granite, 2 car garage. Move-in condition. 1111 Cottage Crest. Furnished. $995,000.

Cottage with Grandfather View

3 bed., 2.5 ba., wood flrs., fireplace, deck, open kitchen with granite tops, stainless appliances, wet bar with granite; master bath has skylight, granite top. New roof; 1 car garage. 301 Water Court Lane. Furnished. $355,000.

Golf Front Gourmet Heaven at Linville Ridge

4 bed./4 ba. one level living on 10th green; wonderful for entertaining. Big decks. 3 kitchens, Viking equip., 3 stone fireplaces, htd flrs., pretty granite. 1 ac. level lot; 3 car garage. 407 Crest Trail. $1,600,000 Furnished.

Ray Beahn

828.898.8676 • 800.651.8676 • PO Box 1379, Linville, NC 28646 BakerRealtyGroup@aol.com • www.BakerRealtyNC.com

Broker/REALTOR®

Barbara J. Baker Broker/REALTOR®


C o s a n d E f f ect

A Sweet College Cheer

How do you want to retire?

Here’s to Sandhills Community College on its 50th anniversary

Opening day at Sandhills, September ’66 By Cos Barnes

Let me add my congratulations to Sandhills

Community College in celebration of its fiftieth year.

Over time, when there was a lull in my life, I would go out to the college and take a class. I’ve done photography, computers, creative writing and gardening classses as well as short one-day courses that interested me. In the late ’70s, when my children no longer needed me as they once had, I decided I wanted to get my associate degree in journalism. After getting my college transcript and convincing Rick Lewis that a lot of my credits were transferrable, I enrolled in a journalism class, the first the college had offered. I took economics on my own with Hope Brogden overseeing my progress. I have never studied harder in my life. Unfortunately my fellow classmates dropped by the wayside, but I was awarded an associate degree in journalism on Aug. 17, 1979. In fact, I was proclaimed a Presidential Scholar, in recognition of attaining the highest scholastic average in a chosen field of study. I think I have attended all the “back to college” programs that have been provided, thus sampling a taste of all that Sandhills offered. The class I missed was back in the early days when there was a pottery class that I would pass en route to photography class. The students looked like they were having so much fun, I wanted to get involved. When I moved here in 1970 the people we bought our house from reminded us to buy tickets to Sandhills’ dramas. For $10 we could see four outstanding plays put on by the students of Bill Watson, a renowned director and producer. One was a theater-in-the-round production done at the Elks Club. They were remarkable. Hats off to Drs. Stone and Dempsey — and to that early pioneer, Cliff Blue. Cos Barnes is a longtime contributor to PineStraw magazine. She can be contacted at cosbarnes@nc.rr.com.

Declare your independence by choosing a maintenance-free lifestyle at The Village at Brookwood. When you live at The Village, you can rejoice in summertime fun without worrying about meal preparation, setting the table or doing the dishes afterward. Instead, you’ll have time to relax and celebrate with friends and family.

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PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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THE omnivorouS rEAdEr

Lost and found at Sea A beguiling memoir of fi nding faith and a full sail

By sTePHen e. sMITH

michael Hurley’s Once

Upon a Gypsy Moon, an introspective account of his solo voyage through Atlantic coastal waters to the Bahamas and his navigation of an equally perilous midlife crisis, was immediately explicable, visibly and spiritually so, to this reviewer. In the early ’60s, I worked the docks in the little harbor town of Annapolis, Maryland, the jumping off point for Hurley’s odyssey, and I spent my early years crewing up and down the Chesapeake. I’ve also put in my fair share of time in the Gypsy Moon’s early ports of call — Beaufort, Southport and Charleston. And what I know is that Michael Hurley is no Sunday sailboat wuss. He’s hardcore, a salty dog, one of those crusty cusses who’d anchor his Bermuda-rigged sloop between the Yacht Club and Naval Academy and bob there for weeks on end, indifferent to the turmoil around him. Believe me, to venture alone into the Atlantic in a 32-foot sailboat is an undertaking that would give pause to the most experienced sailor. As for the midlife crisis, well, those of us who have suffered through such emotional upheavals know the journey is not quick or easy, even if the outcome is positive.

Hurley has woven these two life experiences — one physically demanding and the other emotionally hazardous — into a memoir that offers a little something for almost everyone. Readers are likely to feel immediately comfortable with the had-it-all-lost-it-all-andfound-myself motif, and the episodic seaward passages are beautifully described and easily comprehensible, despite the use of technical terminology. In 2009, Hurley had reached the moment in his life when he had little to lose. Because of his involvement in an extramarital affair, his 25-year marriage had ended in divorce. His career as a lawyer was at an impasse, and he had few prospects. So in August, he motored the Gypsy Moon out of the Magothy River, into the broad Chesapeake Bay, and pointed the bow southward. He anchored the first night forty miles north of Hampton Roads and wondered at his predicament: “The lights in the windows of the houses onshore gave off a soft glow, and I imagined that families inside were sitting down to dinner. I missed my own family. It is in just these still, calm moments when the naysayers of conscience seem to arrive.” But when he considered turning back, he was overcome with a deep sorrow and rationalized that reversing course would be an admission of psychic defeat. At that moment, he committed himself and his reader to a lengthy voyage of discovery. The next few days took the Gypsy Moon and its wayward captain to Beaufort, where he settled his boat into a slip at a local marina and returned briefly to his law practice in Raleigh. It was during this initial halt in the journey that the perils of Hurley’s personal life began to crowd in on him. He grappled with his notions of a deity — “There is a God . . . . Our every breath, our every joy and sorrow, and every element of the physical world, from its otherwise inexplicable existence to its well-ordered symmetry, fairly shouts his name.” This might be expected of man in Hurley’s circumstance — it might even be necessary; sailing alone on the open ocean after a painful divorce could bring out the God in anyone — but his spiritual musings assume, for the reader at least, less significance when he imagined wisdom in song lyrics. He pondered the words of pop culture gurus such as Barbra Streisand, Paul Simon, Loggins and Messina, and Van Morrison and took to heart lyrics that seemed to illuminate his predicament and point his life in the right direction. Readers

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013 17


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who aren’t consumed by an ongoing infatuation may find this rock’n’roll stuff mildly distressing — or at least disconcerting. As much as we love the Rolling Stones, most of us don’t, thank goodness, look to them for guidance in our personal lives. Still, the readers will probably find Hurley’s ingenuous ruminations disarming. While in Raleigh, Hurley met a woman on the Internet — an all-too-common happenstance these days — and instantly fell in love with her. She happened to live in South Carolina, and when the Gypsy Moon arrived in Charleston, she and Hurley enjoyed a couple of romantic dinners. By their third night together they were committed. “I smile inside each time I recall hearing Susan’s words through the fading signal on my cell phone as I worked the Gypsy Moon into the channel headed offshore on that bright Monday morning: ‘I am totally committed to you.’” They were married eight months after their first meeting. Despite these personal distractions, Hurley’s sailing exploits, proceeding in fits and starts, remain completely enthralling. He encountered rough weather and wrestled with longing and loneliness and the technical aspects of sailing a small craft on the ocean. The winds and currents sometimes worked against him, and there were the inevitable annoyances, all of them fraught with metaphor one is likely to encounter on such an adventure. But Hurley completed his journey, at least its physical component, and the fate of the Gypsy Moon is eventually determined by circumstances beyond his control. Did Hurley’s whirlwind romance, burdened with unrealizable expectations, result in a meaningful long-term relationship? Predictably, he expresses a strong faith in his marriage, but there are also doubts: “No man or woman married more than a month needs to read an essay of mine to understand the stubborn differences between men and women.” Perhaps the most interesting part of Hurley’s memoir remains to be written. From Odysseus onward, readers have searched for metaphors in struggles of voyagers. Perhaps we take reassurance in the belief that a satisfying outcome grants the traveler a wisdom that might be passed along. For readers who find themselves in the open frame of mind, Once Upon a Gypsy Moon might offer insights into the vagaries of love and fate. What Hurley enjoys, for the time being at least, is what most of us profess to seek — a modicum of peace in our lives. PS Stephen Smith’s most recent book of poetry is A Short Report on the Fire at Woolworths. He can be reached at travisses@hotmail.com.

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July 2013 P�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


PINEHURST

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"Rosemary's Lodge" is a gorgeous home in the Village of Pinehurst. This home was taken down to the foundation and completely rebuilt and expanded by Joe Ussery in 2005. The very best of both worlds - super location in the Village and up to date renovations that honor the style and period of the original. Exquisite! $895,000

One story brick beauty with panoramic water views on Lake Pinehurst! Move right into this immaculate home and enjoy the open floor plan, beautifully updated kitchen and baths, hardwood floors, covered deck, expanded open deck area and new dock! Extra touches like the built-in wet bar and wine cooler make this the perfect place to entertain friends and family! $659,000 3 BR / 3 BA Code 1029

Sheerperfection!ThelovelyhouseonLongleafLakeatSevenLakesNorthhasbeencompletelyrenovated!Theinteriorisbrightandlovelywithhardwoodfloors,gourmetkitchen, updatedbaths,gorgeouswindow treatmentsthroughoutand somuchmore!$299,900

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Enjoy great lake views from this elegant Lake Pinehurst Villa! The living room features a vaulted ceiling, wood burning fireplace with tile hearth and wood mantel, and sliding door access to the deck. The main floor 2nd bedroom can be used as den/study. The master suite has a glass door to the deck. The upper level has bedroom 3 and with a private bath. $169,900 3BR/3BA Code 1018

This lovely home is located on one of the best lots on Lake Auman and offers an eastern orientation with wide water views. The oversized sunroom makes you feel like you're almost sitting over the water - very relaxing! This home has been beautifully maintained and pride of ownership certainly shows. $525,000

Enjoy beautiful views of Lake Pinehurst from this pristine Westlake Pointe home! What a super neighborhood and location to enjoy the Pinehurst lifestyle! Lots of windows and spacious deck area make this home feel so open and bright. $239,000

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Located on a quiet cul-de-sac, this charming cottage style home offers Brazilian cherry hardwood flooring, granite counters, stainless steel appliances, intimate formal dining room, vaulted ceiling w/exposed beams, dramatic lighting, covered front and back porches, and an upper level with two bedrooms, full bath and additional living space. $364,900 4 BR / 3 BA Code 1031

This beautifully maintained home is solid brick with tons of room for a large family. Built by Pat McFarland, one of the area's finest builders, this is one of his best floor plans. Generous sized rooms, hardwood floors, custom cabinets and granite countertops, super curb appeal! Easy walking to the marina and swimming area Pinehurst Country Club membership available. $398,000 5 BR / 4 BA Code 1007

A great single family home with a decorator's model look. Beautiful hardwood floors in dining room, living room, family room/den and kitchen and tile in baths and laundry. Granite countertops in kitchen with built-in desk, and cultured marble in the baths. Living room and also a den with fireplace and lots of windows to bring in light. Large deck overlooking a wooded area for lots of privacy. $285,000 3 BR / 2 BA Code 1022

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Beautiful water front home that is light, bright and relaxing. Open floor plan with gorgeous views of Lake Sequoia. Split bedroom plan, large master suite, huge storage area and a workshop off of garage. Carolina room gives beautiful views of the lake. Large kitchen with walk-in pantry offers plenty of room for the cook. $339,000

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Enjoy gorgeous, wide water views from this lovely custom built home on Lake Sequoia in Seven Lakes North. This home has been beautifully cared for and it shows! Th open floor plan features a spacious living room with cathedral ceiling and glass door access to the huge screened porch, formal dining room with crown molding and more! Great location on the lake! $375,000 3 BR / 3 BA Code 1027

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BooKSHELf

Caddie Tales

and Other Great Summer Reads By KIMBerLy DanIeLs Walking With Jack: A Father’s Journey to Become His Son’s Caddie. When Don J. Snyder was teaching the game of golf to his young son, Jack, they made a pact: If one day Jack became good enough to play on a pro golf tour, Don would walk beside him as his caddie. Years later, Jack had developed into a standout college golfer, and Don, at the age of 58, left the comfort of his Maine home and moved to St. Andrews, Scotland, to learn from the best caddies in the world. He worked loops on famed courses like the Old Course and Kingsbarns, fought his way onto the rotation as a full-time caddie, and recorded the fascinating stories of golfers from every station in life. All the while, he lived like a monk and sent his earnings back home. A world away, Jack endured his own arduous trials, rising through the ranks and battling within the college golf system. At times, the question for the teenage athlete wasn’t “how” to continue . . . but whether to continue at all. Finally, Don and Jack approached the moment when they would reunite — and not only tackle an extraordinarily high level of golf competition but also confront the challenges of a father-son relationship that had inevitably changed since the days when their journey began. American Gun: A History of the U.S. in Ten Firearms by Chris Kyle. The late author of American Sniper provided the framework for this new book exploring American history through the nation’s most iconic guns. “Perhaps more than any other nation in the world,” Kyle writes, “the history of the United States has been shaped by the gun. Firearms secured the first Europeans’ hold on the continent, opened the frontier, helped win our independence, settled the West, kept law and order, and defeated tyranny across the world.” The Astronaut Wives Club: A True Story by Lily Koppel. As America’s Mercury Seven astronauts are launched on death-defying missions, television cameras focus on the brave smiles of their young wives. Overnight, these military spouses are transformed into American royalty, and will rally together as tragedies begin to touch their lives. This is the book to be talking about at the beach this summer! The Deserters: A Hidden History of World War II by Charles Glass. A tale that redefines the ordinary soldier in the Second World War, The Deserters is a breathtaking work of historical reportage, weaving together the lives of forgotten servicemen even as it overturns the assumptions and prejudices of an era.

Fin & Lady by Cathleen Schine. This book is the escape you want this summer. It is wonderful! It has the sweetest ending to a genuine story that takes place against the backdrop of the 60s in Greenwich Village. A young boy, Fin, is orphaned and his half-sister (who has characteristics of Holly Golightly and Auntie Mame) takes him in. This story and his life are always swirling around his half-sister/guardian, Lady. Literate and aware, Fin analyzes Lady’s suitors with adult eyes as he survives against the back drop of the time. Amy Falls Down by Jincy Willett. A once famous writer, now a recluse who teaches writing classes falls and hits her head in the garden just before giving a rare interview to a budding journalist. The fall gives her a concussion and she gives an odd yet stirring interview. Amy does not remember any of this. This interview results in catapulting Amy to renewed fame. This is a great book. Amy is always thinking of possible story titles inspired by life around her and writes them in a journal.... great details throughout make this book a gem! Boys in The Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Olympics by Daniel James Brown. As Hitler was boldly building his Third Reich, nine boys from the University of Washington head to Berlin as part of the USA Olympic Rowing Crew. The students, shaped by the Great Depression, present an emotional story of their journey, masterfully told. Whistling Past the Graveyard by Susan Crandall. In the summer of 1963, nine-year-old spitfire Starla Claudelle runs away from her strict grandmother’s Mississippi home to find a mother who left when she was three to be a singer in Nashville. Starla accepts a ride from Eula, a black woman traveling alone with a white baby and the three travel through the segregated and volatile South. Letters From Skye by Jessica Brockmole. Elspeth Dunn is a published poet from the isle of Skye in the early 1900’s. Married to a local with no understanding of her love of words, a fan letter from an American begins an exchange of letters that leads to more than friendship. I love novels set in Great Britain, and especially those that include the hardships of the World Wars. This one does not disappoint. Return to Oakpine by Ron Carlson. Four high school friends reunite thirty years later while trying to be happy with themselves. Another great Ron Carlson story that puts you in the big skies of Wyoming where you can see the mountains, feel the wind, and “live” in Oakpine yourself.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013 21


BooKSHELf

CHILDREN AND YOUNG ADULT By anGIe TaLLy Weird But True: National Geographic. It’s a fact, caterpillars have mouths, but butterflies don’t. The North Pole is warmer than the South Pole. Ketchup was once sold as medicine. Cockroaches can live for up to a week without a head, and hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia is the fear of big words. Read about these and many more “Weird but True” things in this fun new series. Ages 8 and up. The Day the Crayons Quit by Oliver Jeffers. One day in class, Duncan took out his box of crayons and found inside a stack of letters addressed to him with a list of demands. Red, being the color of TWO holidays plus fire engines, demanded a rest. Black, tired of being only used to outline things, wanted recognition as a real color. Green, perfectly happy being the color of grass and crocodiles, spoke out on behalf of his neighbors yellow and orange, asking that they sometimes, like orange, should be able to be the color of the sun. And white, well, white was tired of never being noticed. Budding artists will love the way Duncan discovers to make everyone happy. Fun for ages 3-7. What We Found in the Sofa and How It Changed the World by Henry Clark. What do a double six domino, a coin from an unidentified country and a zucchini crayon have in common? They are the three tools friends River, Fiona and Freak have to try to save the world. This funny, quirky and clever novel from debut author Henry Clark celebrates the importance of intelligence and curiosity in a complacent world. Ages 9-12. SYLO by DJ MacHale. “SYLO is truly the best book I’ve ever read,” says Xander, age 11. With tragedy and a good share of action in abundant supply, this fastpaced adventure begins when SYLO, a subgroup of the U.S. Navy, quarantines Pemberwick Island off the coast of Maine and no one can tell the good guys from the bad. It had me stay up as long as I could, just to continue reading, and I can’t

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July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


wait for the next book to come out. Ages 10-14. The Book of Blood and Shadow by Robin Wasserman. Part Da Vinci Code with a touch of Elizabeth Kostava’s The Historian thrown in for good measure, The Book of Blood and Shadow will entrance readers age 14 to adult right from page 1. Now available in paperback. Francis and Eddie by Brad Herzog. On the centennial of arguably the greatest underdog triumph in sports, an award-winning author and artist have teamed up to bring the tale to life in a beautifully illustrated picture book. Francis and Eddie tells the true story of how 20-year-old amateur golfer Francis Ouimet and his 10-year-old caddie shocked the world by winning the 1913 U.S. Open against all odds. Meet the Author Saturday, July 6, 1 p.m. at The Country Bookshop. Join us for storytime at The Country Bookshop every Friday at 10:30. Also call 910692-3211 for more information on our Middle School Book club. PS

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PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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hiTTing home

hot and Bothered Please don’t ask me about the weather

By Dale niXon

Weather affects my attitude. My atti-

tude affects my writing. Today you’ll be the recipient of my lousy attitude because of our lousy weather.

When I was given the opportunity to write a personal column, my editor said, “Write something light and happy; be merry and lively. Draw from your own experiences, and try to make your readers smile.” I said, “Oh, that’ll be easy. I see no problems writing columns of that nature.” I made this agreement with my editor during the month of April. The month itself was reason enough for an optimistic attitude. I felt as if I could conquer the world, to say nothing of writing light, happy, merry and lively columns. In April, the temperatures were around 60 degrees during the day and dropped to the high 40s in the evenings. The weather was pleasant and so was I. Several times during the month of April, gentle drops called — umm, now what is that stuff called? — fell from the sky. It’s been so long since I’ve seen these drops, but surely you must know what I’m talking about. The drops are wet and may sometimes be accompanied by lightning and thunder. Some people like to walk in them; others like to sing in them; and I’ve even heard of those who dance for them. This condensation from the atmosphere makes the grass green, flowers grow and farmers smile. But this, my dear editor and readers, is the hot, humid summer. The weather is not pleasant, and neither am I. The only 60-degree weather I’ve known lately was multiplied by two. (Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but I told you I was testy.) It’s so hot I almost had a heatstroke boiling corn on the cob in my kitchen, and the air conditioner was running wide open. Now, I don’t know about you, but it’s hard for me to be light, happy, merry

and lively when I’m sticky, wilted, thirsty, roasted, crumpled and dizzy. As luck would have it, I chose this year to plant a flower bed. No small flower bed for me. I’m now watering this humongous flower bed three, four times a week. I have turned into an automatic sprinkler system. I move the hoses and synchronize my watch. I move the hoses again and check the time. Then I wake up in the middle of the night because I forgot to turn off the hoses. The investment I’ve made in keeping this large flower garden alive is unbelievable. I’ve purchased soaker hoses, 50-foot hoses, 100-foot hoses, spray nozzles and hose holders. The weeds are prolific; the flowers aren’t doing too well. I promised the editor I’d draw from my own personal experiences, but I find that in this weather I can’t be personable. In April I would run into an acquaintance and say things like “How’s your family doing?” “Are you enjoying this glorious spring?” “Come by and see me sometime.” Now when I run into someone I know, I say things like, “Geeez, it’s hot.” Or, “Geeez, it’s hot.” Or, “Geeez, it’s hot.” All I can talk about is the weather. All I can write about is the weather. The next time I cut a deal, I’m going to negotiate in July or August. As I wipe sweat from my upper lip and push damp hair off my brow, I’ll be in the frame of mind to look my editor straight in the eye and say, “You want light, happy, merry and lively articles? I can make no promises to produce them year-round.” And then we’ll both know where we stand. PS Columnist Dale Nixon may be contacted at dalenixon@carolina.rr.com.

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July 2013 � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


The kiTchen gArden

my Friend Basil

When the heat is on, this spicy herb thrives

By Jan leitsChuh

July is a great month for the

annual herb basil. The lush green plant loves the heat; in fact, the more tropical, the better. It’s easy to grow, and thrives in a pot. It’s one of those things even folks with black thumbs can cultivate, as long as they remember to water.

Harvest should be plentiful about now. Those spindly little plants bought at the farmers market should be lush and full in July. If you went the economy route and planted seeds, you probably have more plants than you and your friends know what to do with. Despite all the challenging foliage nibblers in the Sandhills, basil is a gratifying crop to grow. The rabbits and deer don’t care for it, and neither do many bugs. In fact, in times when the basil abundance curve intersects with the annoying garden mosquito curve, I’ll sometimes pinch a few leaves and rub the fresh crushed basil on my arms and legs to repel the skeeters. It really works. Try it for yourself, or explore the subject if you want to learn more. There are a number of fun basil types to grow. The classic large-leaved green basil is the most commonly found type, Around here, I’ve found either the Genovese, mammoth or Italian basil, all three the kind one shreds over a plate of alternating tomato and mozzarella slices, right before drizzling with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and just after uncorking a fine red wine. There are also smallleaved green basils, which are cute. But for real garden fun, plate drama and general decoration, one might try purple basils, which taste similar. “Purple Ruffles” or “Dark Opal” are two easy-to-find varieties. They can really provide a beautiful color pop in the garden or flower bed — or on a summer dish, or as a garnish. For interest in fish and seafood dishes or other cuisines, some of the more adventurous might like to try Thai (nice edible flowers too), lime, lemon, red or blue basils. There are scores of basils. Some are even more deeply aromatic, such as cinnamon basil. Some basils are medicinal, such as tulsi, or holy basil, long used in Ayurvedic medicine. Science has since confirmed its powerful anti-inflammatory and bloodglucose-lowing effects. The teas and tinctures sell for big money online. Yet one could grow one’s own, inexpensively, for the cost of seed, right in the garden. It’s a bit astringent-tasting for culinary use, but tastes well enough in teas, especially with lemon. Yet even common culinary basil is potent from a health standpoint. Its

leaves contain complex and powerful volatile oils. Fresh leaves are stronger, as the volatile oils are less evident in dried basil. Basil is a natural antiinflammatory, similar to the compounds found in oregano and medical marijuana. Basil also contains cinnamanic acid, a compound that enhances circulation, stabilizes blood sugar, and improves breathing in those with respiratory disorders such as asthma. There’s a cholesterol-lowering effect too. Very high in antioxidants, basil can help prevent the aging effect of free-radical damage. Not that it’s the ultimate fountain of youth - obviously, no one cheat The Reaper in the end — but including basil in the diet for a functional, healthy life ... Mediterranean diet, anyone? If you’re the procrastinating type, and have yet to plant this year’s basil, you can still stick a plant in the ground or a pot (if you can still find a plant for sale) or toss a few seeds in a furrow (if you remember to water daily for the first two weeks or so, with an eye on the weather, to ensure germination and prevent the seedlings from burning up). Find a patch with full sun for your plot or your pot. If you plant in a black plastic pot, consider slipping the pot into a lighter-colored container, since the intense summer sun can heat up the pot, blasting the roots with a burning heat. As an annual, basil won’t overwinter, so make pesto while the sun shines, or gather ye basil buds while ye may. Basil, a Mediterranean plant, just loves a well-drained soil. Bingo! The Sandhills suit. Well-drained are we. In fact, so well-drained are the Sandhills that essential nutrients can flow right through our soil. I like to use a good compost, which acts as somewhat of a sponge for soil nutrients, as well as helping to hold water in the soil. Grown in a container, the bright green aromatic foliage can be attractive as flowers. Some hostesses display a plant on the drink table or as centerpieces; guests can pinch off a leaf for flavor. In a pot, choose a coarse-textured, easydraining mix. The tradeoff for good drainage is frequent watering. When planting, leave a half-inch between soil surface and pot rim, then fill to the rim to water, which should be about the right amount. Too much water leads to rot and reduced nutrients, so stick your finger into the soil to the second knuckle. If it’s dry, time to water. To harvest, just pinch off the needed amount. Basil loves to be pinched. Frequent pinching can also forestall the flowering phase, the point at which the plant shifts from leaf production to making the next generation — your pesto dreams be damned. The small snippings should be used, of course, shredded over summer vine-ripened tomatoes or roasted zucchini, and served with crusty

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � July 2013

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The kitchen garden

bread and a suitable wine. Chop some fresh basil into your next chicken salad for an excitement uplevel. Or, since garlic, cheese and oil are such fabulous companions, the logical thing to do with a big bunch of basil is to make pesto. Pesto gives a lot of bang for the basil. Toss many leaves — cups of the stuff — into the food processor, add pine nuts, olive oil and garlic. At this point, you could freeze the result into ice cube trays and later pop them into a ziplock bag. Then in winter, when you badly need a blast of summer sunshine, add a cube or two to melt into your evening’s veggies, spaghetti sauce, soup (especially tomato or zucchini soups), cooked white beans or anything Italian. If you decline to forestall pleasure and wish to enjoy the fruits of your labor the very same day, continue on to full-blown pesto and add some good, shredded Parmigiano-Reggiano. If you are the precise type and need measurements, recipes abound online, but it’s hard to mess up with olive oil, cheese and garlic. Toss your pesto with pasta and some of summer’s best local vegetables. Alternately, spread on some coarse bread and eat out of hand. Other uses include basil as an ingredient in a variety of mixes with beverages. For sophisticated teetotalers, there is basil lemonade. Basil and lemons seem to have an affinity in general— maybe it’s that Mediterranean thing. The recipe is basically the juice of several lemons, sugar to taste, with a little basil muddled into the sugar crystals. Another option is to dissolve the sugar in water over the stove, adding the basil to steep. Remove, add basil syrup to lemon juice. Non-teetotalers may add a tad of vodka for summer evening’s enjoyment. The same basic recipe could be reworked into a sorbet, and combined with other fruit such as raspberry or watermelon. I found a recipe for a basil-honeydew smoothie while researching this column, proving once again that the imagination is stronger than tradition. Some recipes macerate strawberries with basil. Basil jelly sounds intriguing. There’s even a wildy green basil gelato recipe online. So, in this spirit, I offer a . . .

Blueberry-Basil Granita

1 pint blueberries 1/2 cup water 8 basil leaves Juice of 1 lime 4 teaspoons honey 1/4 teaspoon salt 4 sprigs of fresh basil Blend until smooth. Place in an airtight container and freeze until slushy, at least 2 1/2 hours. Divide among four glasses and serve with a sprig of fresh basil. Source: Epicurious.com PS Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.

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PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Vine Wisdom

The Funny Uncle of Grapes Making sense of pinot’s diverse charms

By Robyn James

Pinot, pinot,

Photograph by Cassie Butler Timpy

who’s got the pinot? Perhaps the most repetitive word in discussing grape varieties, it can be attached to about five different grapes: pinot noir, pinot gris, pinot chardonnay (actually an outdated term), pinot meunier (used in Champagne) and pinot blanc.

Why so many pinots? Because pinot noir is the funny uncle of the grape varieties. It is genetically unstable and all the other pinots (except chardonnay) are mutations of this finicky, unpredictable red grape. I find pinot blanc to be the quiet, interesting little offshoot of the funny uncle. It is not unusual to take a stroll through a pinot noir vineyard, whether it is in California, Oregon or France, and find clusters of pinot noir grapes that have mutated half the cluster to pinot blanc. You may even find one grape itself that is half white, half red. Pinot blanc was originally cultivated in the Burgundy region of France, of course, where the finest pinot noir vineyards in the world reside. Burgundy winemakers pretty much dumped pinot blanc to pursue chardonnay, the white grape that shares the royal Burgundy vineyards with pinot noir today. Pinot blanc was embraced by French Alsatian winemakers, and today it is one of the most widely planted grapes in Alsace. Because Alsatian winemakers don’t truly recognize the unstable pinot blanc as a documented varietal, they often blend it with pinot gris, pinot noir and auxerrois and still label the wine “pinot blanc.” Pinot blanc is commonly considered an alternative to chardonnay, and winemakers can finish this wine as diversely as they do chardonnay. Maybe a malolactic fermentation to instill a buttery feature, maybe not. Maybe barrel fermented for vanilla and wood influence, maybe neutral stainless steel. Like

chardonnay, pinot blanc is adventuresome and fun to play with. Although Oregon wineries are commonly compared to the Burgundy region of France for the quality of their pinot noirs, they have shied slightly away from chardonnay in favor of the grape varieties associated with Alsace: pinot gris and pinot blanc. In the 1980s Oregon winemaker David Adelsheim led a program to import two clones of pinot blanc directly from Alsace to Oregon and planted them on Bryan Creek Vineyard on the Chehalem Mountains at elevations similar to Alsace, France. Here are three different styles of pinot blanc that reflect the dimensions the grape can achieve. Have fun playing with them!

Domaines Schlumberger Pinot Blanc, Les Princes Abbe’s, Alsace, France, approx. $18

All estate-grown fruit from the steepest and most arid vineyards. Dry and lip-smacking, offering flavors of crunchy green pear, white peach, lemon zest and stone, with a zesty, mineral-tinged finish. Drink now.

Valley Of The Moon Pinot Blanc, Sonoma, approx. $14

“Tastes like a chardonnay, with tropical fruit, peach and green apple flavors wrapped into buttercream and vanilla. Ripe and sweet, but balanced by crisp acidity. A nice, rich white wine for drinking now.” Rated 86 Points, The Wine Enthusiast

Adelsheim Bryan Creek Vineyard Pinot Blanc, Oregon, approx. $24 “Adelsheim does a superlative job keeping stylistic consistency. This high acid, lemony pinot blanc has a fine mineral underpinning and a fresh, clean attack.” Rated 89 Points, The Wine Enthusiast. Ps Robyn James is proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at winecellar@pinehurst.net.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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P l e A S U r e S o F l i F e d e P T�

Sockless on Sunday god forbid it ever happens again

By tom allen

A minister makes

PhotograPh by Cassie butler timPy

sure he has everything covered, including his feet.

Guys reading this will get the picture. Ever leave home without your watch or wallet? Head out the door without brushing your teeth or combing your hair? I have. And that’s how I feel wearing slacks and shoes with no socks. Shorts or jeans with deck shoes? No problem. But casual khakis with Weejuns and no socks? Quick, call the fashion police. Last July, our ten-day family vacation was spent at an oceanfront condo in Garden City, S.C. My profession necessitates Sunday church attendance. I’m an advocate for keeping the Sabbath, but confess, when on vacation and off the clock, I sleep in or at least get an early start on the morning’s sudoku. This vacation proved different. My Sabbath dawned early. After a walk on the beach, I showered and shaved. “Anyone up for church?” A couple of grunts and a shaking head later, I got the message. They were off the clock as well. That’s when I made the discovery. “Where are my socks? Have you seen my socks?” I asked my slumbering wife, Beverly. “I didn’t pack any dress socks. I can’t go to church without socks.” My wife sat straight up in bed, then plopped back on her pillow. “Don’t worry. You’re at the beach. Lots of guys go sockless to church this time of year. No one will notice. You’ll be fine,” she assured me, shaking her head. But she wasn’t the one who forgot her socks. She wasn’t the one who’d be on the six o’clock news, arrested for violating South Carolina’s anti-swag laws. On Sunday mornings, I typically wear a suit. That Sunday, I dressed casually — khakis, golf shirt, loafers — like lots of guys who attend the church I serve, especially in summer. Some of those guys wear shoes with no socks. They look great. I don’t. They have swag. Not me. Yes, I was at the beach, on vacation, off the clock. But the problem remained. I was sockless. I rushed out the door, dressed but sans socks. I wheeled into a nearby Walmart hoping no one would notice my fashion faux pas. I rarely buy socks. They arrive at Christmas and birthdays. I had no idea how hard it is to buy one pair of dress socks. So I snagged a black three-pack for five bucks, slapped on a pair, then headed up Route 17. The plan: Turn

into the first church I saw. An adventure, I thought. And now that I was fully dressed, one I could enjoy. The first church happened to be Surfside United Methodist, a place that looked warm and welcoming, surrounded by pin oaks. A parking spot reserved for visitors was empty. I turned in. What luck. See what happens when you wear socks to church? An usher greeted me, handed me a bulletin. “Good morning, Senator,” he smiled. Senator. He thinks I’m a senator. Must be the socks. Maybe I do have swag. I found my place, like lots of first-time visitors, toward the back. The people were friendly, the music and sermon were good. I especially enjoyed a mission trip presentation by their youth — fun, energetic, hopeful. As expected, the dress code was casual. I felt at home. Only the pastor wore a tie. Chinos and golf shirts ruled. And there were plenty of guys without socks — like the husband in front of me — tennis shoes, no socks. The guy and his two sons seated to my left? Not a sock on their feet. The fellow behind me, who shook my hand during greeting time? Sockless. Poor fellows. Didn’t have chance to stop by Walmart. Or maybe this had something to do with being Methodist. Hang-ups are often traced back to childhood trauma. Was I ever apprehended with mismatched hosiery? Can’t recall anything that far back. There was that time a few years ago. Maybe that’s it. Yes! I was sitting in church. Some sockless guy pointed to my feet. “Hey, you’ve got on a blue sock and a black sock. And you’re a minister? Somebody call an usher and the Southern Pines police. I think we’ve got a violation here.” Talk about no swag. Yep. That was it. Mismatched socks. I learned my lesson. Won’t make that mistake again, especially on a Sunday. Otherwise, no socks, no worries. Come on in. Last time I checked, Jesus just wore sandals. PS Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines, and a frequent contributor to PineStraw. He welcomes everyone, with or without socks.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � July 2013

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July 2013 � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


P o st c a r d f r o m P a r i s

The Park Effect

Don’t mind me, I’m the one dozing with her feet on the chair By Christina Klug

Paris is a city full of history, rich culture and thou-

sands of activities that bustle a tourist to and fro, simply crossing things off a tripadvisor-inspired itinerary, because when you go to Paris, those are the things “you have to do.” And while I can’t argue their importance, I am forever grateful that I’ve been able to adopt the laissez-faire lifestyle of the French, particularly their adoration of parks.

On my first Saturday in the city, after picking up lunch from a sandwich shop and taking it to Jardin du Luxembourg, a native Parisian explained that one of the best ways to pass a sunny Saturday is relaxing in the green recliner chairs, with your feet taking residence on another chair. The French have a general contempt for the obvious fact that it’s rude to take up two chairs, but seeing as though I was just trying to disguise my American roots, I adopted their attitude. My love for Luxembourg was immediate. Like all visitors I was overwhelmed by the magnificent yellow flowers juxtaposed by palm trees, the children teetering on the edge of the pond steering their sailboats, and the way the Eiffel Tower appeared through the trees. It quickly became a regular Saturday activity, and one particular afternoon I sat with my eyes closed, listening to the sweet sounds of a jazz band, realizing, this is what Paris feels like. I quickly became eager to expand my knowledge of all 400 Parisian green spaces, each uniquely indicative of the Parisian arrondissement where they are located. Ranking highly on my list of favorites are Places des Vosges with its striking brick facade and home of Victor Hugo. Parc des Buttes Chaumont, with its gorgeous views of Sacre Coeur at sunset and lively juvenille atmosphere. Parc Monceau, with its romantic and elegant charm tucked away in the 17th. Jardin des Plantes, where you can learn about every plant imaginable. The Louvre’s gorgeous Jardin des Tuileries, and the Haussmann-style rooftops of Rue de Rivoli surrounding it. And the expansive gardens that constantly get me lost in Parc de Saint-Cloud, conveniently located at the bottom of my hill. Thankfully, my twenty hour work week leaves a fairly wide open schedule for exploring, and further research taught me there are two very different kinds of parks that exist in the Ile de France region — a French style and a British. A French garden holds an air of pretentiousness in its rigid symmetry, with long lines of perfectly pleached trees. André Le Nôtre, landscape architect for Louis XIV, set extremely high standards when he designed the Gardens of

Versailles in the 17th century. It’s an art form from both eye and aerial views, and there is purpose and precision in everything. I once watched a groundskeeper water 20 feet of planted bulbs for at least an hour and though I was sorely tempted to suggest sprinkler systems, I was wise enough to leave well enough alone. If you want to avoid the park police blowing their whistle at you, better to just enjoy the view from your chair and don’t mettle. On the other hand, a British garden is a messy compilation of all things pretty, often inspired by the famous landscape paintings by Nicolas Poussin. It’s overgrown in an almost protective and covering way, and typically sweet and intimate in size. Such gardens emit smells similar to your grandmother’s backyard, which makes sense because you feel at home there. It’s the place where you instantly kick off your shoes and overstay your welcome because you inevitably fall asleep, but it’s fine because you frequent it so often you’re practically family. Marie Antoinette had a particular attraction to this style and had it planted at the Petit Trianon so she could frolic in fields of flowers. And while it seems like I might favor the latter, I find them both absolutely charming. The park effect, as I like to think of it, is an all-consuming feeling of contentment. It can be a place for solidarity, alone with your thoughts or a good book, or a place to gather for a picnic of wine and macaroons with friends. Regardless of intent, it’s a place where you notice the passing of time only by the way the park looks different as the sun crosses the sky. You see life a little clearer. Inhaling the sweet fragrances of a flowering garden instead of the suffocating metro fumes is indeed refreshing, but I can assure you the allure is much deeper than that. Parks demand you slow down, refocus your perspective on the important things in life and appreciate the beauty around you. Getting lost in your thoughts and finding yourself again is simply part of the park effect. On the first Sunday temperatures approached 20 degrees Celsius, friends and I spent the day alongside every other Parisian who trickled out of hibernation, much like the grass that was off limits until mid April. We learned a new french game called Kubb, and as we watched the evening sunset over Sacre Coeur, I realized just how special these parks are to everybody, no matter who you are. Before moving abroad I never spent significant time in a park and could not imagine traveling for an hour just to get to one. Fast forward to now and I am contemplating extending my stay because I just can’t imagine anything other than my park-a-day lifestyle. My mom suggested I become a homeless person to fill the void, which I’ll admit I am considering, but in the meantime you can find me, amid blooming Parisian parks, feet up, lost in a joyful enchantment. PS Christina Klug, a former PineStraw intern, makes her fortune as an au pair in France.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

35


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July 2013 � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


Out o f t h e ( RED , W HI T E A ND ) B l u e

Oh Say, Can You Still See? Why I still love the Fourth of July

By Deborah Salomon

Patriotism seems to

be a dying art. Sure, we choke up a bit when Alicia Keys croons the Star-Spangled Banner on Super Bowl Sunday. Maybe when we see veterans — some in wheelchairs, others sporting medals — trudging down Main Street on Memorial Day. But honest-to-goodness, day-to-day love for America has been blurred by internal strife — political and otherwise.

I experienced this twice recently, the first time, at an airport. I visit my grandsons in Montreal every six weeks. The return flight leaves at 6 a.m, which means arriving at the vast Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport by 3:30 a.m. to navigate layer upon layer of security. Last checkpoint: The U.S. Immigration and Customs hall dominated by the flag and a Statue of Liberty reproduction. Lines have always been significant. Now a placard announces that cutbacks (sequesters) have reduced staff, causing even longer delays. I’m steaming when I reach the officer who, after scanning my passport, smiles, “Welcome home.” The chill racing up my spine displaced frustration with a government that imposes these cutbacks while squandering tax money elsewhere. I felt very American — and proud of it. The second occasion happened a few hours after the tornado struck Oklahoma on May 20. Some poor soul draped a muddy American flag across the back of a demolished car, a gesture similar to the flags and “Boston Strong” rally which followed the marathon bombing. So, then — does patriotism surface only in response to tragedy? Does it take a 9/11 to recreate “one nation, under God”? Maybe we’re too busy tearing each other apart over nonsensical issues, practicing partisanship and nitpicking legislation. Maybe we need to consider the alternatives, the meager wages and human rights violations tolerated by other cultures. I know. Pollyanna. But perhaps we need a little more Pollyanna and a little less Alicia Keys. What, actually, do we celebrate on July Fourth? I remember a “reality” video where kids were asked what the holiday means. Predictably, answers ranged from fireworks and parades to barbecues and a flag cake with white icing, strawberries and blueberries. Children witness the U. S. of A. riddled with tragedy and trouble — certainly nothing to celebrate. Their parents can’t find jobs. Their bridges are collapsing and their schools are closing. Terrorism remains a threat and gas prices limit summer jaunts. Were school in

session, kids might get a glimmer from John Trumbull’s masterpiece except some smart kid would learn online that this “signing” of the Declaration of Independence actually depicts its presentation by the five-man drafting committee to Congress on June 28, 1776. Now we know that the men pictured never even assembled in the same hall. And not all of them signed on July 4. So much for that. Looking beyond the glamorized ruffled shirts and curled periwigs I imagine a bunch of tired, sweaty politicians (oh, the smell, before Right Guard, Scope and AC) forced to put aside their political agendas to risk war for the eventual good. These Founding Fathers were no more perfect than our elected representatives; some were greedy, others kept slaves and/or mistresses. Human nature changes little in two hundred and thirty seven years. What they created, however, was an environment that allowed change. Subsequently, their successors transformed the Colonies into a nation that changed the world. As an example, were Trumbull commissioned to update his painting, besides air conditioning vents and laptops he would find only half the Congress to be white-haired white men. Yankee Doodle Dandy might appear as a Hispanic gay woman. Diversity must never preclude patriotism, or pride. I think we appreciated our planet more after seeing photographs taken from outer space. How gorgeous it was — that schoolroom globe come alive against the blackness. Only from afar could we fully comprehend its magnificence. Which means that to resurrect patriotism, maybe we need to view America from the sweatshops of Bangladesh, the jungles of South America, the rape-and-kill dynasties of Africa, the poverty-stricken villages of North Korea, the tent slums of Haiti. Sort of puts Washington’s scandal-du-jour in perspective. Surely, if with their bare hands and sharp minds, a band of stubborn patriots could form a government, survive revolutionary and civil wars, expand to the Pacific, abolish slavery, grant women equal rights under the law, the rest can be resolved by the greatest, richest, most powerful nation ever to occupy Planet Earth. So says Pollyanna. Basically, I am more cynic than sentimentalist. I don’t want July Fourth to suffer the Hallmark treatment. Fireworks and parades may be great fun. Still, I’d rather see Old Glory fluttering over a park, atop a school or at the entrance to a military cemetery than on a sheet cake. Fireworks fade in seconds. Marching bands march by. Cake doesn’t send chills up my spine. “Welcome home” does. PS Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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B IRD WA T CH

Eastern Wood-Pewee The sound of summer in the Sandhills

By Susan Campbell

It’s the sound of summer: You may not be

Photograph By E.J. Peiker

paying attention, but it is there. The slurring “pee-a-wee” of the Eastern wood-pewee is echoing all over the Sandhills at this time of year. On the hottest of afternoons this bird continues to call even though his brethren are now quiet. The spring cacophony of breeding birds may have been replaced by the buzzing of cicadas and chirping of crickets, but the pewee continues making his trademark vocalization. The species has long been considered a hallmark of Eastern forests. Although not as it was before humans began altering the landscape, it can still be found widely throughout the region. Flycatchers found in the Eastern United States are, as a whole, not a colorful bunch. They tend to be brownish with subtle differences in bill shape, tail length or the color of small feathers on the wing or around the eye. Habitat may lend a clue since they have preferences for different types of vegetation. When they vocalize, however, it is a different story. In fact, the Eastern wood-pewee has virtually indistinguishable plumage from the Western wood-pewee, which is found closer to the West Coast. It makes a nasal “bree-urr” call that has a much rougher quality in tone. Western pewees may give a thin, whistled “peeaa” as well. Generally the quality of the vocalizations is very different from that of our Eastern birds. Eastern wood-pewees are flycatchers: carnivorous birds that have the talent for snapping insects out of mid-air. They are acrobatic fliers that use a perch to scan for large winged insect prey such as dragonflies, butterflies, moths and beetles. As a result of this foraging strategy, pewees spend much

of their time in the open during the warmer months. However if it were not for their loud calls, these little birds would be easily overlooked. Both males and females are a drab gray-brown above, dusky below and have buff barring on their wings. Given their diet, the Eastern wood-pewee is not likely to appear at a feeder. However, this species may frequent bird baths or water features within their territory. Also, individuals tend to use the same perches for foraging so can be found predictably in an area. They prefer forest edges so easier to spot than their forest dwelling cousins such as the Acadian or willow flycatcher. Pewees also hover for very short periods to catch prey and will also actively move through the vegetation in search of caterpillars and slower moving insects in the canopy. They tend to utilize the mid-story in locations where there are deciduous trees. As a result, it is believed that their occurrence in some areas of the Northeast has been affected by overgrazing by white-tailed deer. The loss of smaller trees and shrubs has eliminated not only pewee perches but the necessary vegetation for their prey species. Female Eastern wood-pewees build a shallow cup nest of woven grasses and lined with fine plant fibers, animal fur and/or moss. Also, it is well camouflaged on the outside with lichens. Therefore, the nest blends in very well with the horizontal limb that it is built on. Pewees have a limited ability to defend their eggs and young so invisibility is the name of the game. These little birds are, not surprisingly, migratory, spending the winter months in South America where prey is abundant. Eastern wood-pewees can be found through Peru down into Brazil during the non-breeding season. They become active, solitary hunters that pursue prey in a variety of habitats this time of year. Before they begin to head south in August, see if you can spot one of these vocal, talented fliers. You may have to look closely to find it motionless on a favorite perch. But it should not take too long to become a familiar summer friend! PS Susan would love to hear from you. Send wildlife sightings and photos to susan@ncaves.com or call (910)949-3207.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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The SPorTing liFe

The old man and the river Anticipating a day on the fabled St� Johns river fills our man of the outdoors with high hopes — and sweet dreams

By tom BRyant

“And when he reached in that live well and

pulled out that giant bass, I almost fell out o’ the boat.” Linda looked at me, smiling, as she chopped up lettuce for our supper salad. We were camped in the little Airstream below Deland, Florida. I had just returned from a quick trip to Mother’s old winter home in Astor on the St. Johns River. It’s been years since anyone has used the old place, and I wanted to see what shape it was in. On this jaunt, I also checked out the Black Water Marina, where my dad used to keep his little fishing skiff. Like everything else in Florida, it had changed. Not many boats, and the ones berthed there were giant party crafts supporting the rumor that the river has become more a cruising, sightseeing venue than a world-class bass-fishing location.

When I drove over to the public landing, I met an older fisherman just in from a day on the river, and that’s when I saw the giant bass. The old guy had a boat from another era, and in the live well on his craft was the biggest bass I had ever seen. He told me about his catch and, surprisingly, invited me to go with him the next day. I was to call him around 9 that evening to set up a time. My last fishing trip on the St. Johns was years ago, and I was wound tight with excitement. “Before you call, you might want to get your fishing stuff together and see if you need more equipment,” Linda suggested. Before we left home on this, our annual late spring camping and fishing trip, I had stored in the back of the Cruiser an ancient South Bend bait casting rod and reel that my grandfather had given me when I was a youngster and also my dad’s old Garcia spinning outfit that my brother, Guery, had refurbished. I also put my aged tackle box in the storage trunk of the camper. Not the best fishing gear; it was more sentimental than practical. “I’ll wait,” I replied. “Who knows, the fellow might back out since I’m a perfect

stranger. He could have changed his mind. It’s about 9. I’m gonna give him a call.” I went out under the awning of the Airstream where I could get better reception on the cell phone. “Mr. Banks?” The phone was crackling a bit and I walked around to see if I could get a better connection. “Yep, this is Jim Banks. What can I do for you?” “Tom Bryant here, sir. I met you this afternoon at the boat landing in Astor. You were kind enough to offer to take me fishing tomorrow and wanted me to call at 9.” “Good for you, buddy roe. Meet me in the morning at the same place around 5. Bring some cold drinks, if you want ’em, and a sandwich or two. We’ll be gone about all day.” “What kind of fishing gear should I bring? Unfortunately, I only have a couple of ancient rods and reels.” “Sort of like us, old sport. They’ll work fine. I’ve got plenty of fishing tackle and some rods if needed. See you in the morning.” I went back in the Airstream and relayed the conversation to Linda and she said, “You look like a kid the night before Christmas. Why don’t you go on to bed? I’ll fix some lunch for you to take, and I’ll wrap up the rest of the pound cake, which you can share with your new friend.” I knew I’d have a hard time getting to sleep. I was so antsy, sort of like the day before the opening of duck season. But it was really no problem, and it seemed as if I had just shut my eyes when the little alarm clock started its insistent ringing. I arrived at the landing at about 4:30. Early as usual I thought, but I had just parked the Cruiser in a slot close to the trees and grabbed my gear out of the back when I heard a motor on the river. I couldn’t see the boat, but I recognized the unusual sound of the kicker from the afternoon before. There was a low fog across the black water, illuminated by a waning moon, and in a minute or two the pockety-pockety sound of the old engine came from around a far bend. A craft that looked like it had been built when my granddad was a youngster slid out of the mist like an apparition. Mr. Banks was amidship running the boat from what looked like a fiberglass center console, the only difference being it was made of wood. “Put your gear aboard, sport. I’ll hold her to the bank for you.” I tossed my fishing rods in the bow and we went putting and creaking, through swirling fog, heading up river. There was a faint grayness coming from the east, promising a good day.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � July 2013

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July 2013P����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


T h e sp o r t i n g l i f e

I propped myself next to the console as Mr. Banks increased the speed of his boat and steered her toward the center of the flowing black water. He leaned over and said in a loud voice, “We’ve got about a forty-minute run until we start fishing. You might want to sit up there in the bow. It’ll be more comfortable.” I moved to the forward bench and watched as the river flowed by. The early morning sun was beginning to shine through the trees throwing shadows from the bank. Every now and then, Mr. Banks would point out an alligator lying in the shallows. In no time it seemed, the river opened into a large lake. “Lake George? I shouted back at Mr. Banks. “Yep. We’ll be fishing in just a few minutes.” He slowed the craft and turned toward a small opening that seemed to be a shallow creek flowing into the lake. It appeared to be impassable, and I was surprised when the narrow cut, bordered with live oaks covered with hanging moss, opened into a small lake. Banks shut the engine and let the boat drift. He said in a low voice, “You better get your rig ready. Try not to bump the boat. This place holds some big bass and they oughta be hungry.” I unlimbered Dad’s refurbished spinning outfit and was digging in my tackle box when Banks said softly, “Here, Bubba, try this lure. It’s an old wooden topwater popper. Throw it at that cypress log hanging off the bank. Put it right where the log enters the water. I betcha there’s a big un hanging out there.” The wooden lure had to be about as old as the boat and I double-tied it to my twenty-pound test fishing line. Man, I thought, I hope I don’t lose this thing. My first cast was perfect. Almost bouncing off the log. I slowly reeled, the topwater lure making a popping noise. The lure was halfway back to the boat when an underwater object came after it, pushing the water like a miniature submarine. “Get ready! Banks exclaimed. “That’s a big un!” The bass hit the bait like a freight train, and I reared back on the rod to set the hook. As the bass went deep, it was like I had caught a Volkswagen. “Don’t lose him!” Banks was shouting. “That bass could be a record breaker!” I was trying to turn the fish back toward the boat and I kept hearing a persistent ringing noise. What is that sound? I wondered. “Tom, Honey, its time to wake up, the alarm clock is ringing. Remember, you’re going fishing this morning and you don’t want to be late.” A dream! I sat bleary-eyed on the side of the bed. The big fish was just a dream. But maybe not — the day’s just starting. PS

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Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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G o l ft o w n J o u r n a l

In the Land of the Sky

Now approaching its 20th year, the “Sweetest” Tournament at stately Biltmore Forest Country Club honors the amateur spirit of the game

By Lee Pace

Photograph from Biltmore Forest Country Club

The drive

Golf great Ben Hogan tees off on the first tee at Biltmore Forest in the Land of the Sky Open during the 1940s; playing partner Clayton Heafner (white sweater to the left) waits his turn to hit.

up Vanderbilt and Stuyvesant roads off Hwy. 25 just south of Asheville winds through old trees and old money, past stately homes with a soft patina of ivy, wisteria and honeysuckle vines draped over weathered brick, under and around antique street lights and road signs. At 2.6 miles along the way on the right, you’ll find the 91-year-old Tudor-style clubhouse of Biltmore Forest Country Club, resplendent with its steep, slate roofs and English turrets. Inside, the rules are no hats, no jeans and no cell phones, the latter excepted in the privacy of the guest bedrooms upstairs. That’s all very proper, of course, since to visit Biltmore Forest is to step back in time.

“I have a special feeling every day when I drive home from work,” says lifelong Biltmore Forest resident Doug Bailey, whose home is just a short stroll from the clubhouse. “There’s an ambience to the community and the club that is hard to describe.” “It’s like I’m doused in tradition, decorum and good manners when I visit Biltmore Forest,” John Gerring, a noted teaching professional who worked two stints at Biltmore Forest over his long career, said in 2005. The town and club today are forever connected to their distinguished forebears. The club was conceived by Edith Vanderbilt, the widow of George Vanderbilt, and opened in 1922 on land adjacent to the world-renowned Biltmore House. The grounds were designed by the landscape architecture firm of Frederick Law Olmsted.

The golf course was whittled from the rolling terrain and forests by Donald Ross, who was quite busy in Asheville in the 1920s with three more course designs at what are now the Country Club of Asheville, Grove Park Inn and Asheville Municipal. And the compact golf course with its small and starkly canted greens were trafficked in the first half of the 20th century by the likes of Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, Billy Joe Patton, Harvie Ward, Babe Zaharias, Patty Berg and Louise Suggs. “When someone walks down our hallway and sees pictures of Gary Player or Billy Graham or Bobby Jones, they get a sense of what our club is all about,” says Bailey, club president in 2012 and an active member of the club’s Archives Committee. One of the finest photographs on display throughout the clubhouse is a gem from a gray day in the 1940s when Hogan is captured teeing off in front of a well-dressed and attentive gallery in the Land of the Sky Open, held from 1933-51. The third leg of Hogan’s momentous victory triad in 1940, when he was on the cusp of shucking his dream of golf stardom, came in Asheville. His career was ignited in mid-March by a victory in the North and South Open at Pinehurst and pumped into overdrive with successive wins at Greensboro and Asheville. In three tournaments, Hogan played 216 holes 34-under-par, breaking par eleven of twelve rounds. He three-putted just two greens, both in Asheville. The club also embraced the amateur game, hosting an invitational for men from 1922-62 and for ladies from 1923-46. North Carolina natives Billy Joe Patton of Morganton, Harvie Ward of Tarboro and Al Dowtin of Asheville were regular entrants and won the tournament, with South Carolina rivals P.J. Boatwright and Frank Ford Sr. and Atlanta ace Charles Yates among other champions. “Confidence is a big part of golf,” said Patton, who was 18 when he won at Biltmore in 1940. “All the best players came to Asheville every year. Winning at Biltmore Forest gave me confidence that I could win anywhere. I was over the hump. That tournament played a key role in my career.” The Southern Amateur was played at Biltmore Forest in 1949, and Patton edged Ward 3-and-2 in the quarterfinals, finally avenging a loss to Ward from nearly a decade earlier. A 15-year-old Ward edged Patton in the Eastern

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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G o l ft o w n J o u r n a l

Carolina Amateur in Raleigh in 1940, and the loss stuck with Patton, by three years Ward’s senior. “Harvie couldn’t have been more than 15 years old and showed up in short pants,” Patton remembered in 2006. “He’d never graduated to long pants. He was very straight off the tee and was a wonderful putter. That was aggravating, getting beat by a kid like that. There was a story in the paper after that match, and my fraternity brothers gave me a lot of grief. “I evened it later in Asheville. I was pumped up because he’d beaten me before. We played sixteen holes and I had eight 3s on my card. In fact, from the eighth hole I made five 3s in a row. I closed him out on the sixteenth hole.” It was stories like these that prompted Biltmore Forest member Jerry Crow to conceive in the early 1990s a new amateur competition, one that would feature outstanding mid-amateur golfers and pay homage to the traditions and standards of the game. So in 1994 he and fellow BFCC member Charlie Price organized the Jess Sweetser Memorial, a competition now held each Memorial Day weekend and named for the golfer who won the 1920 NCAA championship, the 1922 U.S. Amateur and the 1926 British Amateur. Sweetser was a native of St. Louis, a graduate of Yale University and came to Asheville in 1926 to recuperate from the illness that dogged him while winning the British Amateur. Sweetser became enamored of Asheville and its restorative qualities, joined Biltmore Forest and owned a house along the seventeenth fairway. After his retirement from competitive golf, Sweetser played the Biltmore course often and enjoyed the company of many members, including Masters champion and U.S. Open winner Dr. Cary Middlecoff. “The Sweetser,” as the tournament is called, has now been held nineteen times and has developed a reputation among elite mid-amateurs as a classy event in the neighborhood of other prestigious tournaments like the Anderson Cup at Winged Foot, the Crump Cup at Pine Valley and the Coleman Cup at Seminole. At 6,726 yards from the tips and par-70, the course has adequate length for all but the longest men’s players and is the perfect venue for women’s competitions; the club hosted the 1999 U.S. Women’s Amateur and will stage a second national championship in October when the USGA brings its Women’s Mid-Amateur to Biltmore. “People talked about how great the Biltmore Invitational was for a long time, and the club’s old timers lost their bragging rights,” Crow says of the original tournament’s demise as the game’s focus turned to the professionals in the 1960s. “Our Donald Ross golf course, a classic if there ever was one, was challenging and players enjoyed some unusual Southern hospitality. I thought it was a win-win situation.”

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G o l ft o w n J o u r n a l

“The Sweetser is an opportunity to rekindle that old spirit of amateur golf,” adds Price. “This is a weekend for true golf aficionados.” Two-man teams of one member and one guest are divided into nine flights of eight teams apiece, with each flight producing a winner after three days of match play. One highlight of the weekend is a program held on Friday night when a special honoree is invited to attend and speak to the group, or, in the case of an honoree’s passing, a close associate is asked to attend. Patton and Ward regaled the group with stories of their lives and times in amateur golf, and noted golf writer Furman Bisher of Atlanta was a regular attendee. “It’s absolutely amazing that the Sweetser is now almost 20 years old,” Price says. “It shows you what the great history at Biltmore has accomplished. The history has driven the Sweetser. Where else have you heard Billy Joe talk, where have you heard Harvie Ward tell about the ‘The Match’ before the book was written? Where else has Furman Bisher made one phone call and gotten Dan Jenkins to come talk about Ben Hogan?” Louise Suggs, a pioneer on the fledgling LPGA Tour in the 1950s and a member of the World Golf Hall of Fame, was the honoree in 2013 and at a spry 89 years of age entertained dinner attendees with the story of having played in the Ladies Invitational as a 14-year-old in 1938. Still clear in her memory is the explosion in the automobile trunk of one of the competitor’s parents when a can of moonshine ignited. She reminisced about a career playing exhibitions with Hogan, Snead and Bob Hope and tournament rounds with Babe Zaharias, of beating the bushes for sponsors and ticket buyers for early ladies tournaments. “I could listen to people like Louise Suggs all night,” says Walter Todd of Laurens, S.C., a regular competitor in the Sweetser and two-time winner. “It’s fascinating to hear their stories. Biltmore upholds the traditions and manners of the game as well as anywhere I’ve seen.” “What makes the Sweetser so unique is its ties to tradition,” adds Biltmore member Anthony Adams, a former golfer at Ohio State and also a two-time winner of the tournament. “They reach back and connect it to the people who grew the game in this country. And the way they run the tournament, it makes you feel like you’re playing in a major golf event.” Indeed, as the bagpiper precedes Louise Suggs on the back veranda of the clubhouse, the sun setting above the mountains to the west and Donald Ross’ handiwork sprawling out below, all is right with the world of golf, particularly one defined with sepia tones and persimmon clubheads. PS Lee Pace’s book, The Golden Age of Pinehurst — The Story of the Rebirth of No. 2, is available online and on-site at Pinehurst Resort & Country Club. PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Most of What We Take Is Given

July 2013

Believing the abandoned farm houses

And I began to believe that it all came down

and burned-out mobile homes held no meaning,

to the casual drifting of leaves, a randomness

I spent my twenty-first year driving between

that must, finally, strip away all dignity.

the Piedmont and the Carolina coast,

Late winter brought ice storms, snow, mist

my foot to the floorboard between the tiny

rising from the ditches and swamps, the Cape Fear

crossroads whose names were Hayne, Stedman,

deep and muddy beneath the bridge I crossed

and Gumbranch, my eyes on the highway,

each Friday and Sunday. I recall an afternoon

counting the yellow lines that ticked by like

in late February, the pony standing motionless,

seconds till I’d see the woman I believed was

wet snow clinging in heavy knots to its mane,

waiting. These trips began in summer, heat devils

its eyes, as always, fixed on a patch of

and tobacco blossoms shimmering, my mind

gray earth. By then I knew it was ending.

too manic to discern any singular detail,

I suspected, in fact, that the woman had taken

but in the fall, a mile or so west of Beulaville

a new lover. I cannot now blame her, time and

on a curve that dropped steeply down an escarpment,

distance being what they are, and it is best

I noticed a pony tethered to a fence post.

to remember her standing in a doorway,

The pony was red, the color of the damp clay bank

arms crossed below her breasts, her face

against which it had, in all likelihood,

composed in silence, as if to ask a question.

stood the previous summer, and I reasoned

It was April, and the highway west could

that only the yellow poplar leaves drifting

have been a green tunnel leading me anywhere.

the embankment served to silhouette the pony.

I did not notice the red pony that afternoon,

All that fall and early winter the pony

and believe now that it had simply faded

simplified my predicament: its suffering —

into the sameness of the clay bank

if indeed it was suffering — was not of its making,

against which it had stood waiting.

and certainly it could will no circumstance. It seemed unaware of the passing trucks

— Stephen E. Smith

and cars, the weeks, the months, even the rain that fell and turned its thick coat a dark brown.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Promet heus Bound The surprising friendship between Thomas Wolfe and James Boyd was emblematic of the Southern literary renassaince By Stephen E. Smith

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T

he Cotton State Special pulled into the Southern Pines Seaboard station at exactly 4:47 a.m. on Monday, January 18, 1937, and North Carolina novelist Thomas Wolfe, all volatile, unkempt 6’ 6” of him, stepped down onto the platform and surveyed the empty streets and dark façades. Wolfe picked up his suitcases and began his trek up Vermont Avenue (there were no early-morning taxis in Southern Pines in the late ’30s) to the entrance of the Boyd estate, the gate’s sculpted foxhounds beckoning into the pine-dark obscurity beyond. James and Katharine Boyd and their children were asleep at that hour, so after passing by the Boyds’ kennels and stables, Wolfe mounted the veranda and rather than knocking on the door, discovered an unlocked window, eased it open, and climbed into the Boyds’ great room, where he fell asleep on a sofa. “I came down to breakfast one morning and Thomas Wolfe was asleep on the couch,” James Boyd Jr. recalled in a 1998 interview. “There was this disheveled creature lying on the sofa. ‘Who are you?’ I asked him. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’ Wolfe replied. Later, Wolfe read my father and me some of his writing, and I must have been a real SOB because I said that it was too wordy. Wolfe got angry. ‘What do you mean, too wordy?’ Wolfe was uncouth, but he was funny.” It had been a long, exhausting journey for Wolfe — not so much the rail trip from New Orleans to Atlanta and then into North Carolina, the fallow fields of the Sandhills stretching dimly into the January darkness — but his precipitous rise from Asheville’s precocious son to world-class novelist. His epic first novel, Look Homeward, Angel, was eight years in the past, and his second novel, Of Time and the River, lingered still on the best seller list. Thomas Wolfe was an international literary celebrity. He’d come to Southern Pines to visit with his friend and literary colleague, novelist James Boyd. They’d met eight years before through their editor Maxwell Perkins, the literary nurturer of Hemingway, Anderson, Boyd, Fitzgerald and Wolfe. Boyd had endeared himself to Wolfe early on by writing to Perkins that Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel was “a great inchoate bellow of the human soul” and stating emphatically he had an uneasy feeling that “the little fellows had better move over for this bird…. And on personal grounds there’s no writer I’d rather move over or down for myself.” Perkins, always anxious to share good news, passed along the letter to Wolfe, who was as hypersensitive to praise as he was to criticism. Subsequently, Wolfe and Boyd dined together in New York, and Wolfe wrote to a friend that he thought Boyd “a fine fellow.” In December 1929, Wolfe applied for a Guggenheim Memorial Fellowship, and Boyd wrote a letter of recommendation, describing Wolfe as having “the temperament from which great writers are made.” When Boyd’s Long Hunt was published in 1930, Wolfe returned the compliment by writing to Boyd that “There was not a poor line or a shoddy page in it….” Happenstance further strengthened their friendship when Wolfe entered the Guaranty Trust Co. in Paris in June 1930 and ran into Boyd, who was vacationing in France. “I was so happy and surprised I could not speak for a moment,” Wolfe wrote Perkins. The two writers spent a day together, dining

at a café on the banks of the Seine while “Mrs. Boyd shopped around town.” In 1934, Boyd wrote Wolfe in New York to say that Wolfe’s story “The Sun and the Rain,” which appeared in Scribner’s Magazine, was “near perfect.” “I don’t think that there is any other writing man whose good opinion would mean so much to me,” Wolfe hastened to respond, “and your letter gives me hope that I may finally be learning something about my job.” Wolfe and Boyd had visited that spring in New York and Wolfe wished in his letter that they could “get together again in those Atlantean chairs at the Plaza….” In responding effusively to Boyd’s letter, Wolfe was keenly aware that Boyd was no literary novice. Boyd’s first novel, Drums, had outsold both Fitzgerald’s and Hemingway’s early efforts. These expressions of mutual admiration continued when the two authors exchanged letters concerning Wolfe’s publication Of Time and the River and the Scribner’s Magazine serialization of Boyd’s novel Roll River. Wolfe was especially buoyant: “Your letter, and a few others, fill me with such a sense of joy and confidence and power that I’ll swear to you that I’m going to hit this next book like a locomotive….” Wolfe’s solicitous opinion of Boyd’s talents as a novelist was sincere. When a reviewer for the Saturday Review compared Of Time and River with Boyd’s Roll River, Wolfe wrote to a friend: “I think the author of the book in question, which was Roll River by James Boyd, is certainly a very fine artist, and the book a very fine book.” His friendship with Boyd and his respect for Boyd’s writing were out of character for Wolfe. He had few friends in the literary world. He kept up an acquaintance with Fitzgerald, who had visited with Boyd in June 1935, out of respect for Maxwell Perkins. He held Thornton Wilder in contempt. He never met Steinbeck or Conrad Aiken, and Wolfe spoke with Hemingway on only one occasion. In the fall of 1936, Wolfe met Faulkner, but other than their proclivity for depicting gothic and oddly contradictory visions of a fictional South, the two had little in common. Dos Passos spent only one evening with Wolfe, whom he described as a “gigantic baby.” And Anderson and Wolfe were, on nonliterary grounds, determined enemies. So the WolfeBoyd literary friendship was an anomaly. How often Wolfe and Boyd visited in New York is difficult to establish. Boyd was plagued by sinus infections, and he consulted frequently with specialists in the city. Otherwise, their paths rarely crossed, and they didn’t correspond on a regular basis. There’s no evidence Wolfe visited with the Boyds in Southern Pines on more than one occasion. But there’s no doubt as to the date of Wolfe’s visit. On Jan. 21, 1937, Boyd wrote to Maxwell Perkins: “Tom Wolfe just left last night after a 3 day visit. He arrived Mon. (at 4.47 a.m.) totally whipped down by New Orleans & Atlanta cheer & in his state was disposed to take the roles of Prometheus Bound &, having refreshed himself, Ajax defying the Literary Agents. But after two long sleeps the Great Bear emerged ruddy & benign & altogether in the best form I’ve seen him in. He plans only a brief stop in Chapel Hill & Warrenton & will I hope get back to N.Y. in fine shape….” In one paragraph, Boyd provides the literary voyeur an uncurtained window on a pivotal moment in 20th century American literary history. During January 1937, Wolfe was in the process of severing his relationship with Maxwell Perkins and Charles Scribner’s Sons, the editor and publishing house that had made him famous. It was Perkins who’d taken a

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chance on Wolfe’s first novel, Look Homeward, Angel. More importantly, he had edited Wolfe’s gigantic, chaotic manuscripts down to publishable size, a task of Herculean proportions. If Wolfe was short-tempered and given to fits of paranoia and jealousy, he was also a wellspring of sense experience and a writer who was acutely attuned to the subtler ironies of life. Written words poured from him in torrents and his ego, much inflated by the success of his first and second novels — Of Time and the River was published to much acclaim in 1935 — was no doubt difficult to suffer.

I

n alluding to “Prometheus Bound,” Boyd was probably stating the obvious to Perkins — that Wolfe was on an egotistical tear. Wolfe had subtitled sections of Of Time and the River using classical and historical allusions. Boyd was poking gentle fun at Wolfe’s literary pretensions. There was also a degree of truth in Boyd’s use of Greek mythology. Prometheus stole fire from Zeus and gave it to the mortals in their dark caves, and when Zeus discovered the treachery, he had Prometheus chained to a cliff to be tormented by eagles that tore at his immortal flesh. The allusion is concise and unambiguous — and a trifle overstated: Wolfe is Prometheus whose flesh is being torn by the critics; Perkins is Zeus. As for “Ajax Defying the Literary Agents,” Wolfe’s European royalties for Look Homeward, Angel had been embezzled by his first literary agent, Madeleine Boyd (no relation to James Boyd). When he finally found an honest agent, Elizabeth Nowell, Wolfe remained suspicious of the profession. Moreover, Perkins had become the singular object of Wolfe’s scorn. On January 10, eight days before his earlymorning arrival in Southern Pines, Wolfe had posted a lengthy letter to Perkins detailing his real and imagined grievances against his editor and Scribner’s Sons. Since Perkins was also Boyd’s editor, it’s likely that the complaints enumerated in the letter found their way into the conversation between Wolfe and Boyd during those three days in January. It’s also possible that Boyd, always the good citizen, believed he’d had a moderating influence on Wolfe: “…after two long sleeps the Great Bear emerged ruddy & benign….” The news conveyed in Boyd’s January 21 letter doesn’t end with Wolfe’s departure for Chapel Hill. He writes on: “Sherwood Anderson & his wife spent a few days last week and Paul Green was down not long before, so I’ve been too busy to think or even work, but Sun. I take Kate to Nassau to escape the 10 week rainy season that has plagued her. I hope to get busy down there, there being for me no temptation to have a good time in a place where people go for that purpose….” Wolfe’s sojourn in Southern Pines did not go completely unnoticed by the community. The January 29 Pilot reported briefly in “This Week in Southern Pines”: “Thomas Wolfe of New York is the guest of Mr. and Mrs. James Boyd for a few days at their home in Weymouth Heights.” (And with a sweet touch of serendipity the same issue notes that 11-year-old Tom

52

James Boyd

Wicker of Hamlet, who would become a New York Times columnist and the author of many novels, “was the weekend guest of his grandmother, Mrs. Mary C. Cameron.”) On February 1, 1937, Wolfe wrote to Garland Porter, an old college friend: “I stayed three or four days with Jim Boyd after leaving Atlanta and had a grand time there. They are fine people. They have a beautiful place right in the pine woods. I can’t tell you how good it was to be back in my own home state and just to get my number fourteens [Wolfe’s shoe size] down on North Carolina clay.” What both writers didn’t know at the time of Wolfe’s visit to Southern Pines was that their writing careers were on the wane. Boyd’s historical novels had fallen out of favor with the reading public. After Long Hunt, his novels sold fewer copies, and in late ’39, Boyd sank into a deep depression. Katharine Boyd wrote to Perkins enlisting his aid in lifting her husband’s spirits, but to no avail. In 1940, Boyd organized the Free Company of Players, a group of American writers that produced original radio plays in response to antidemocratic attitudes prevalent in America due to the war in Europe. Wolfe left his editor Maxwell Perkins at Scribner’s and signed with Edward Aswell at Harpers & Brothers, but his next novel, The Web and the Rock, did not see publication during Wolfe’s lifetime. In 1938, Wolfe set out on a trip across the United States and fell ill in Seattle. His condition steadily worsened and he was transported by train to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore to undergo exploratory surgery on his cranium. His condition was diagnosed as inoperable tuberculosis of the brain. Thomas Wolfe died on September 15, 1938. He was 38 years old. His abundant manuscripts continue to be posthumously edited into collections of short stories and novels, and he’s now recognized as one of the great American writers of the 20th century. James Boyd survived Wolfe by six years. He died of a heart attack in February 1944 while on a visit to his alma mater, Princeton University. His historical novels are long forgotten, but his literacy legacy lives on in the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities. During Boyd’s lifetime, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Maxwell Perkins, Sherwood Anderson, James Galsworthy, Paul Green, and many other writers and literary figures visited with the Boyds at their home on the corner of Vermont and Connecticut, inspiring journalist Jonathan Daniels’ claim that the Boyds and their Southern Pines estate had served as “a springboard for the Southern literary renaissance.” PS

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Maxwell Perkins

Paul Green

Sherwood Anderson

F. Scot t Fitzgerald

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Book Excerpt

Paper Dolls By Lee Smith

Finally

I found myself face to face with the woman in the black ballet slippers and tights again, in the art studio at Homewood, several months after our first scary encounter. I sat at a long table, dabbling half-heartedly in watercolors, attempting a still-life of the fruit which the art teacher, Miss Malone, had piled up in a wooden bowl before us. Yellow pears, red apples, dusky grapes. Miss Malone padded from person to person with quiet words of encouragement, her thick gray braid hanging down to her hips. Meanwhile a summer breeze blew through the studio, with its heavy leaded windows propped open, its doors ajar. I wanted only to be out of there, to be in the swimming pool, newly filled and open, shimmering in the sunshine. Miss Malone struck her hanging gong, the sign that the class was over. “Next time, we shall paint in plein air,” she announced. These French words caught me unaware, bringing me back to New Orleans where suddenly I could see the dusty summer streets, hear the clip-clop of the horses and the buggies down by Jackson Square, taste the multi-colored ices the old man sold from a cart at the corner. I bowed my head to hide my tears as I washed out my brushes and packed my supplies away. “There, there,” a kind voice said, and I looked up in surprise to see the fearsome Mrs. Fitzgerald now changed entirely. She wore a loose-fitting artistic smock; her brown hair swung to her shoulders. She looked younger and prettier than she had before. ”Now let me see.” She smoothed out my “painting,” which was terrible. “Not bad at all — though it must be boring for you, such a fuddy-duddy old assignment.” It was boring, though I hadn’t thought of that. Determined to be a good girl, I did everything that I was told at Highland, as I had with the nuns, questioning nothing. I loved rules. “I had a little girl, too, once upon a time,” she told me gently, smiling. “A little pieface girl like you. She was awfully cute.” “Where is she now?” Too late I realized that perhaps I should not have asked this question, but Mrs. Fitzgerald’s answer was calm. “Oh, she’s away, far far away, away from here, at a boarding school named Ethel Walker. She likes it there, she’s better off.” Her tone was wistful. Better off than what? I wondered. Others were leaving now. Miss Malone had come up to hover behind us, listening to our conversation, though she did not interrupt — according Mrs. Fitzgerald, as did the others, a kind of special respect. At that time, Mrs. Fitzgerald was spending almost all her time in the art studio, as much as Dr. C would permit. “I know what little girls like.” She was smiling at me. “Paper dolls!” Inadvertently I clapped my hands, for I had never had any paper dolls, though I had always fancied them. “I would love that,” I said sincerely, “but I’m afraid I am too old for them now.” “Well then, we shall make some very sophisticated older paper dolls for you,” she said, “with very exciting lives. Look here.” She hauled a leather portfolio up on the table

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Lee Smith

Currently reading: I’m always reading a novel and a nonfiction book at the same time. Right now I am in the middle of Russell Banks’ fine novel, The Lost Memory of Skin, and also Clyde Edgerton’s wise and hilarious new book of advice on parenting, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. I just finished Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behavior — which somehow manages to be timely, meaningful, and also a page-turner. Perennial favorite book: Again and again I go back to several books: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf; Absalom, Absalom by William Faulkner; and the collected short stories of both Eudora Welty and Flannery O’Connor. Favorite new author: Wiley Cash and Holly Goddard Jones Literary guilty pleasure: Mysteries! Though I am not even guilty about this. Where do you plan to get away this summer to read? Ashe County, North Carolina — and also Maine. Quintessential summer read: In the summer, I tend to go back to the classics, which often require bigger stretches of uninterrupted reading time than I can manage during the regular year — this summer, it’s going to be Thomas Hardy and the Brontes. I’ve already got moors on my mind.

PHOTOGRAPH BY CASSIE BUTLER TIMPY

h

The Ar t & Soul of Wilmington

July 2013 •

Salt

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Book Excerpt

and began pulling out big sheets of paper, all the colors of the rainbow. “Scissors?” she said to Miss Malone, who produced them without a word. “Get the glue,” she said to me, and I ran to do so, while the studio emptied out around us. She pulled up her chair; I pulled up mine, all thought of the swimming pool vanished. Now the scissors began to flash in earnest as the silhouettes of girls — three, four, five, six, ten girls! — emerged, fluttering out onto the table. “Well, make them some clothes, then!” Mrs. Fitzgerald shot at me, and I did, clumsily at first, tailoring their skirts and jackets as best I could, Miss Malone appearing with bits of lace and cloth and sequins to glue on. Soon the table was filled with these girls and their rudimentary clothing, as the dappled sunlight shifted outside and the sounds of a faraway game floated in the window. “Now look,” she said, folding the biggest sheet of paper just so, then snipping quickly, expertly, before pulling them out suddenly — a string of six girls, then twelve more after that, holding hands, dancing. I was blissfully happy. It was all the friends I had ever wanted. “But where will they all live?” I blurted out, for this was the question I worried about all the time. Where would I live, once I got out of this hospital? “Draw them some houses, then,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said imperiously, pushing over another of the largest sheets, and I did so, an entire street of houses, something I was very good at, drawing houses with two stories, houses with three stories, houses with pointed windows in the eaves, some with balconies, some with chimneys, some little houses with picket fences surrounding them. I drew a grand stone mansion with a crenellated roofline like Homewood, the building we were in now, and then a real castle with a similar roofline and a high tower with a flag flying from it. I cut out a piece of blue cloth for the flag, and glued it onto the flagpole. Then I took up one of our paper dolls and gave her a smiling face and blue eyes and a long blue dress and a yellow crown — this took quite a while, it was by far the most detail I had yet lavished upon any of my friends — I was working so hard, concentrating so intently, that I did not at first realize that Mrs. Fitzgerald had ceased her own fierce population of our town and sat quite still, observing me. “Now she has been chosen princess by everyone in the country,” I said, glueing the crown on her head, “and now she is going to claim her kingdom.” I placed her up on top of the tower, next to the flag, and drew a happy smiling yellow sun in the sky above. “There now!” I said. “Ta-da!” imitating trumpets. Mrs. Fitzgerald said not a word, reaching forward in a lightning stroke to grab up my beautiful princess and crumple her into a ball, which she tossed under the table. I sat paralyzed, like a paper doll myself, feeling my own blood and all my volition draining out of my body. “You have killed her,” I whispered. “Don’t be such a silly little pie-face,” she said abruptly. “It is far better to be dead than to be a princess in a tower, for you can never get out once they put you up there, you’ll see. You’ll see. You must live on the earth

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and mix with the hoi polloi.” At this she began gathering up all our other paper dolls and crumpling them up, throwing them into the air where they were caught by the breeze and fluttered everywhere. “Now, now, Mrs. Fitzgerald, let’s save these, perhaps you and your young friend could create a fine collage,” came the reassuring voice of Miss Malone, but I did not stay to see whether this suggestion had any effect or not. I grabbed up my chains of hand-holding friends and ran for dear life out the door, heart pounding, and did not look back. PS Guests on Earth, to be published in October of 2013 by Algonquin Book, is excerpted by permission of North Carolina author, Lee Smith, who has published twelve novels and four collections of short stories.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


Book Excerpt

In

Salesgirl By Dana Sachs

the spring of 1940, Goldie Rubin traveled alone by train from Memphis to San Francisco. She was twenty years old, on her first journey, and because she could not afford to buy a berth, she spent the entire five-day trip on the observation deck, having stashed her suitcase in one of the sleeping cars. At first she subsisted on the cheese and bread she’d brought from home. When that ran out, she bought one sandwich a day, and only at station snack bars, where the prices were cheaper than on the train. She cut the sandwiches into quarters: one for breakfast, one for lunch, one for dinner, and one for emergencies. Sometimes, too, she would amble through the club car in between seatings and scavenge bread. Despite her poverty, she dressed smartly. Her mother had taught her to buy one very good thing and supplement the rest of her wardrobe with less expensive accessories. She had a very good wool coat, for example. When she wore it, people didn’t seem to notice that her dress had faded, that the leather on her shoes was cracked and thin, or that her hats were merely scraps of beautiful fabric that she tacked and darted into interesting shapes and pinned to the top of her head. During that brief ten minutes between the early and late service, she hoped that the waiters might mistake her for an actual patron, or perhaps, she thought, they were too busy to notice a young woman snatching leftover dinner rolls off the tables. In fact, nothing slipped by the railroad staff. They’d seen all the tricks and scams, from freeloaders hiding in the toilets to the furtive trysts that took place late at night behind the flimsy curtains of the cheaper berths. They noticed Goldie, of course, but she was young and pretty and they sympathized with her situation. When the dining car waiters saw her approach, they turned their backs a little, just to give her a chance. By the time Goldie made it to California, where her married sister, Rochelle, met her at the station, she had grown weak and ill. Rochelle’s first thought, upon seeing the pale-faced Goldie totter from the train, was to regret that she’d invited her to come live with her in San Francisco. Rochelle had two young children and a traveling-salesman husband who left on Monday morning and didn’t return until Friday night. She had invited Goldie to live with her family in the expectation that Goldie would help around the house and provide her with some companionship. She didn’t want another responsibility on top of the ones she already had. Fortunately for both of them, a big meal of brisket and potatoes revived Goldie quickly. She might have seemed on the edge of starvation, but she was also young and healthy, so she recovered amazingly well. Within a week she had found a job at Feld’s Department Store. Dozens of young women had applied for the position, but Goldie impressed the manager, Mr. Blankenship, with her sense of style and her previous experience as a clerk in the hat department at Lowenstein’s in Memphis. She was hired at the decent salary of twelve dollars a week, and she quickly earned a raise. Goldie wasn’t a beauty in the way that film stars of the day were beautiful, with their fair complexions, angelic smiles, and easy grace. Goldie had olive skin, thick brown hair, and dark circles around her deep-set eyes that gave her the haunted look of a waif in a silent movie. Her body, though, was elegant and curvy, her eyes bright, her expression quick, her mouth full of sultry charm. The thing about Goldie that most impressed her customers at Feld’s, however, was the fact that she had an almost magical

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Book Excerpt

way with clothes. No matter what she put on, it looked like something out of Harper’s Bazaar. The simplest shirt or the slimmest, plainest skirt had the look of Paris couture as soon as she slid them onto her body. The wealthy San Francisco matrons who shopped in the store recognized that quality in Goldie and wanted it for themselves. During her first week, posted in millinery, she sold seventeen hats. It took Goldie longer than that, though, to make friends. She was younger than her colleagues, with less experience, too, and they resented that she sold merchandise so easily, and that she so greatly impressed Mr. Blankenship. So Goldie ate her lunch alone. It wasn’t until Mayumi Nakamura began to work at Feld’s, in April, that Goldie made a friend. Unlike Goldie, Mayumi wasn’t hired as a salesgirl. She had taken design classes at the Academy of Art College, and Mr. Blankenship hired her to create the store window displays. When they pulled the paper down from Mayumi’s first window, Goldie thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Mayumi had created an ocean scene in the tiny six-by-eightfoot space. The walls and floor were aquamarine, speckled with different shades of green. Growing up from the corner, a giant coral sculpture, carved from foam and sponge, stretched like an undersea tree toward the surface. Cut-out fish of all shapes and colors — feathery purple, shiny silver, and striped in orange and yellow — hung from the ceiling. In the midst of all this, a mannequin had been reborn as a mermaid, twisting in the current, her shimmering tail making a joyous flip through the water. Only one piece of Feld’s merchandise was on display in this entire scene. It was the flowerlink sapphire necklace that glimmered on the mermaid’s neck. Until then, store displays had followed a model of crowding every window with as much merchandise as possible. The more you put in the window, the better chance you had of attracting customers with at least one product they might like enough to come inside and buy. Mayumi’s windows were never meant to sell particular objects (though the necklace was extraordinary, it was meant to accessorize the mermaid more than anything else). Rather, Mayumi’s window sold an idea of beauty and happiness that would draw people inside to choose merchandise that might satisfy their own desire for beauty and happiness. For Goldie, Mayumi’s window served as a revelation that beauty was not a quality within a particular object, but a more generalized attribute to strive for throughout life. She began to wonder about the existence of ideas greater and grander than she could yet understand, and she began to consider new possibilities for her own future. Looking at the mermaid, for example, did not kindle a desire for under-

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water exploration, but it did make dreams that once seemed impossible — like traveling to Paris or Rome — just a little less remote. Goldie began, then, to keep an eye on Mayumi and plotted ways to talk with her. Mayumi, though, was difficult to know. She didn’t work regular hours but would instead show up when she felt like it, perform her magic on the windows, and leave. During the time she spent in the store, she worked with serious concentration, but her movements were languid and she never seemed anxious or even concerned. Often Mayumi would simply stop whatever she was doing and sit there, on the floor or wherever she happened to be, staring into space. Did all artists work in such a dreamy way? Goldie had never met an artist before, so she couldn’t know. Goldie also noticed that Mayumi didn’t act like other people. In Goldie’s experience, normal conversations followed certain cues. You might say, “How are you?” and the other person would respond, “Fine, thank you. And you?” Mayumi didn’t care about those cues. If someone asked, “How are you?” Mayumi might reply, “I’m thinking of Florence all the time. I need to see the Uffizi Gallery.” Or she’d say, “I think I can find a shade of red that is also black. Or black that is also red,” and then she would laugh at herself because she knew she sounded silly. Goldie liked that laughter, too. And finally, Mayumi was attractive in a way that struck Goldie as completely new. In Goldie’s experience, women attracted men by using certain predictable, and fairly conventional, methods. One girl might be pretty and sweet. Another had curves in all the right places. Another might be flashy and somewhat dangerous. Prettiness, to Goldie, always amounted to the ability to buy the right clothes to fit that year’s fashion. If you had money, you bought silk. If you didn’t have money, you bought cotton or wool and kept it clean and neat. The rules were fairly simple. In Mayumi, Goldie identified a new kind of attractiveness. Later, when it became more of a religion for her, Goldie would call it “refinement.” But in 1940, she had not yet heard the word. Other women layered fabrics in showy, predictable ways — blouse tucked into skirt, matching jacket, coordinated heels and stockings, a hat and a pair of gloves. Mayumi rejected these conventions. She might pair, for example, simple black wool trousers with a lacy ivory shirt. Often she didn’t even wear a hat but would instead pull her long hair into a bun and don large hoop earrings as a sort of balance. People less attuned to fashion would have seen Mayumi, said, “She looks good,” and left it at that. Goldie observed more carefully, however, and was able to see the particular sophistication with which Mayumi dressed. While others might have observed Mayumi in a green crepe dress and thought, “That’s beautiful,” Goldie could see that the dress was beautiful for one specific reason — a twist in the pleat of the skirt that captured and accentuated the narrow line of Mayumi’s waist. As Goldie increasingly admired Mayumi for her ability to create her own style, she also began to think that she could learn from her. Mayumi took more time to notice Goldie. What Goldie saw as a dreamy aloofness actually stemmed from nearly constant inspiration and glee. Mayumi had spent months convincing her parents to let her get a job. Once they finally did, and she found her position at Feld’s, she went into a frenzy of creative activity. She had always loved making things. Now, the windows offered an outlet for every idea in her head. If Goldie was a girl adrift, Mayumi was a girl set free. It took several weeks, then, for Mayumi to begin to notice anything beyond the paint cans and fabric and tissue paper surrounding her. And then, like someone emerging from a fog, everything around her clarified, and there was Goldie, standing in the doorway, watching her.

July 2013 P�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


PHOTOGRAPH BY CASSIE BUTLER TIMPY

At first the two talked while Mayumi worked, Goldie spending her lunch break on a stool just outside the platform of the window, while Mayumi, in her apron and canvas slippers, applied wallpaper or worked on some trompe l’oeil effect on a back wall. “Who is your favorite designer?” Goldie asked. She had become partial to Elsa Schiaparelli, but worried sometimes that her designs were too fussy. “Mainbocher,” said Mayumi. She looked over to see Goldie’s reaction, which, as expected, was one of surprise and dismay. “But he doesn’t even show his fashions,” Goldie said. The designer, who had a studio in Paris, only allowed a small coterie of people to view, and buy, his clothes. “It doesn’t matter,” said Mayumi. “I can look at photographs of his clients and learn from him.” “But what do you learn?” “All that matters is elegance,” Mayumi said. She was creating a scene of lovers at sunset, and she wasn’t happy with the color pink she’d chosen for the walls. She dipped her paintbrush into the bucket of white paint and started to apply a thin topcoat to mute the intensity of spring rose. “Not beauty?” “Not beauty. You can have beauty without elegance, but you can’t have elegance without beauty.” Goldie thought about this one. Mayumi was right. Goldie had seen a lot of beautiful trashy-looking girls. And she thought of the elegant women who occasionally came into the shop. Fate might not have given these women any natural good looks. To be honest, some of them were downright homely. But if they were elegant, they became beautiful. Wallis Simpson, for example, was nothing to look at but had become one of the most admired and attractive women in the world. Goldie knew that she herself was pretty enough, but she decided then that she wanted to be elegant even more. PS

Dana Sachs

Currently reading: Bobcat and Other Stories by Rebecca Lee. Funny, beautiful and brilliant. Perennial favorite book: I hate to say it because it’s so predictable, but, really, anything by Jane Austen. Favorite new author: Holly Goddard Jones, a Greensboro writer whose new novel, The Next Time You See Me, is mysterious, creepy, and totally compelling. Literary guilty pleasure: I just read my first P.G. Wodehouse — The Adventures of Sally — and it was like eating a chocolate truffle in the form of words. So delicious. Where do you plan to get away this summer to read? Budapest! I’m doing research for a new novel and that’s drawing me to books about World War II and classical music. Quintessential summer read: Anything by Nancy Mitford is pure pleasure.

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The Secret of the Nightingale Palace, published by HarperCollins Publishers in 2013, is excerpted by permission of HarperCollins. Wilmington author Dana Sachs has also penned The House on Dream Street: Memoir of an American Woman in Vietnam; If You Lived Here: A Novel; and The Life We Were Given: Operation Babylift, International Adoption, and the Children of War in Vietnam. PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Michael Parker

Currently reading: The Measures Between Us, a novel by UNCG MFA grad Ethan Hauser Perennial favorite book: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert Favorite new author: Rebecca Lee, author of Bobcat and Other Stories. Literary guilty pleasure: I have plenty of reasons to feel guilty, but what I read is not one of them. Where do you plan to get away this summer to read? I live in Austin in the summers so in the afternoons, when it is in the triple digits here, I go read in the shade on the hill above Barton Springs Pool, an Austin institution, a spring-fed 68 degrees year-round, a perfect place to combine my favorite things: reading and swimming. Quintessential summer read: Independent People, by Halldor Laxness. It’s about sheep farmers in Iceland and was published in the ’30s. I like to read Russian lit in the summer as well, because I hate cold weather in real life, but I have no problem with it on the page, especially in the summer swelter.

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Salt • July 2013

The Art & Soul of Wilmington


New Fiction

The

Widow’s Walk By miChael parKer

babysitter had never seen an attic or a basement, since she had lived all her seventeen years in a trailer so close to the sound that even houses were built up off the ground. One afternoon she put the baby to bed in her crib on the old sun porch, pulling all the blinds and curtains to fool day into night. She waited for the child to fall asleep while sitting just outside the nursery on a long wooden bench running down a corridor almost as wide as the trailer where she lived with her mother and two younger brothers. “When the house was built in the 1840s they kept the hallways wide to allow a good breeze between the front porch and back,” the baby’s father had told her on the first day of the job. He took her through each room and talked of things like crown molding and wainscoting and he called their walk through the house a tour, which reminded her of when she was still in school and they climbed in buses and followed their teacher through the loud rooms of the Dr Pepper bottling plant. The father called the bench a pew and said it had come out of the Episcopal church downtown, which her mother had pointed out to her one day, claiming all the people who worshipped there were stuck-up drunks. The babysitter wondered why anyone would put a church pew in a hallway. It was hard and it hurt her back but she sat there every day during naptime, listening for the baby (who was not really a baby anymore; she was almost 3, but the babysitter had answered an ad for a babysitter and so the baby in her mind was a baby) to stop chastising her stuffed snake. She stared at the carpet, which the mother had once referred to as a “runner.” It seemed to the babysitter that this couple had their own words for everything and that it did not change what the things were, so as soon as they were gone she would take the child into the kitchen and pull things out of the drawers and say to the child, “What is this?” “Spoon,” the child would say and the babysitter would say, “Damn right, it’s just a spoon.” “Stop it,” the babysitter heard the child say to her snake. Finally the babysitter heard the light ragged sleep-breath of the baby. The babysitter knew that the child’s breathing would always sound alarmingly syncopated because she had had a baby herself, though the baby was taken away from her, a fact that the couple with the huge hallways could never know. Breath rose and it fell; it stopped and started no matter how much you wanted it to be even and regular. Nevertheless, the babysitter wanted it for the baby. And she wanted it for herself. Behind the door at the end of the hallway rose the attic stairs. On warm days not yet hot enough for air-conditioning, the door was open to allow a fan to cool the upstairs of the house. On those days she was told to leave the windows in the sun porch open just a few inches so the fan would draw the breeze, but the fluttering curtains terrified the child and she stood up in her crib crying about ghosts, and so the babysitter closed the windows and the child soaked the sheets of the crib with sweat and woke cross and the babysitter said to her, “Well, which is it? You have to choose. Either you see ghosts or you burn up.” Today the windows were open. There was a breeze. The babysitter had never actually seen the fan, but it sounded monstrous and disturbing, like the loathsome snarling that filtered most days through the woods surrounding the trailer. Chain saws, backhoes, neighbor boys riding ATVs through the cabbage fields. Even so far from town, machines

drowned out the birdsong, the rustle of wind through pine needles that the babysitter remembered hearing when she played in the dirt yard when she was not much older than the sleeping baby. Today the fan was off and the door was shut. The child was asleep — and would be for an hour at least. The babysitter pushed open the door into a heat that she understood well from living in a treeless field through summers when there was no money to run window units. The sloped roof had nails sticking out of its boards. Pink thick blankets of insulation stretched into corners so faraway dim she wasn’t sure the attic had an end. The floor was strewn with suitcases, as if the father, home from a trip, had tossed the bags from the top of the stairs. The babysitter had never owned or even seen inside a suitcase because she had never been on a real trip. Once a boyfriend was taking her to Kings Dominion, but her extra clothes and makeup and toothbrush were stuffed in a plastic sack, and before they even crossed the Virginia line her boyfriend got pulled over for speeding and it turned out his license had been suspended. She had to call her mother to come pick her up from the magistrate’s office, but her mother’s boyfriend Raymond showed up instead and on the endless ride home he called her boyfriend names and told her how worthless she was. The babysitter opened a red vinyl suitcase and studied the zippered pouches, the compartments for shoes. She stepped over the suitcases, drawn to the light that spilled in from the double doors. Outside was a tiny balcony. The couple probably had a name for this, too, but it had wooden bars and it was a balcony to her. Through the towering steeples of town she saw the drawbridge over the Intracoastal Waterway, raised to let a yacht pass. She was higher than she’d ever been, higher than the pines, a part of the sky, so high she could not be brought down to testify against Raymond and what he did to her, too high to hear her mother claim Raymond was a sweet man who’d had a hard upbringing, how can you say those things about him? Far below she saw her car parked in front of this huge house. Her red Mustang. Ten years old and the back quarter panel was painted with primer and three of the hubcaps were missing but it was the only thing in the world that was hers alone. The sight of it did not make her proud as it once had, but suddenly terrified that it was all she’d ever own, that everything after would have to be shared with the same sort of men her mother brought home, then, three weeks or months later threw out. The babysitter went inside and turned on the fan. It was burning up inside the attic. It took a few seconds for the fan to come to life but when it did it was so loud she knew she would not hear the baby should the baby wake and cry out. She knew she should go down, but she wanted the doom she’d felt to be blown right through her by the breeze sucked from the sky by the fan. “At least I won’t ever have so many things I have to make up names for them,” the babysitter said into the wind, and the fan chopped her words up so that they resembled sleep-breath and sent them down to the baby, who woke to see, through the bars of her crib, the billowing skirts of the woman whose house this once was, come again to swish along the corridor in search of the husband who had never returned from the sea. PS Michael Parker’s new fiction, “Widow’s Walk”, is published by permission of the author, a UNCG professor of creative writing and fiction and author of five novels, with a sixth on the way.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Book Excerpt

Good Advice from a C.O.D. By ClyDe eDgerton

I

have a daughter, Catherine, aged 30. I have a 9-year-old son, Nathaniel, a 7-year-old son, Ridley, and a 6-year-old daughter, Truma. I’m 68. The age gap between the younger kids and me is not something I think about much, because I feel, physically, about like I did when I was 40 — or at least I think I do. I think I . . . I just forgot what we were talking about — age? I do think about age, and as I write, if I have something to say to older dads (a growing population), I’ll insert a short section labeled *C.O.D. — which means it’s intended for the Considerably Older Dad. For example: *C.O.D. If you read tales from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen (your kids will probably love them), you’ll be able to identify words in these stories that are not within the experience of younger fathers. Words like hearth, anvil, harness, scythe, plough, and stockings.

IN-LAWs If they are dead, your in-laws will probably not interfere with your fathering. But they may. Family norms tend to stay around for several generations — things like whether or not presents inside Christmas stockings are wrapped, whether or not shoes should be worn in the house. Whether or not Baby can stay up late at night, or watch television only one hour a day. In other words, even if your in-laws have passed on or live in Nova Scotia, they may still whisper into your wife’s ear. If your in-laws are alive and are reasonable people, you’re probably OK. But if they seem occasionally unreasonable, then consider this: When talking to either of them, probably the mother-in-law, about real and potential baby problems, rely on the pronoun I, not the pronoun you. In other words, say something like, “I don’t think I want her to have that Popsicle while she’s screaming,” rather than, “If you give her that Popsicle, I will kill you.” This is something you’ll have to practice beforehand — by yourself. Just look in the mirror and say things like: “I can change the diaper.” “I’d like to hold her for a few minutes.” “I’d rather try it this way.” “Thank you, but I’m thinking that maybe I should . . .”

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The words uncomfortable and unable might also be helpful. For example: “I’ll be uncomfortable if she gets that Popsicle while she’s screaming.” Or “I’ll be unable to agree that she go with you and Pee-Pa to Las Vegas. I’m really sorry.” Don’t say: “The hell you say.” If your spouse and her parents share many baby-raising ideas that you strongly disagree with, then I suggest you read my next book — due in about eighteen months. It will be called Day to Day in the Dark Recesses of a Cave. LETTERS TO BABY Imagine — if you never got one — a letter written to you by your father before you were born (or soon after). I’ll sprinkle throughout this book some that I wrote to my children from time to time. Dear Little One, This morning your pregnant mom and I walked on the beach, and like we’ve been doing lately, we found something for you. Today it was a starfish. Several times lately we’ve picked up shells for you. We’ve been thinking about different names for you, but we haven’t come up with anything yet. About four days ago, your mother got so excited she called me from her cell phone (they are pretty new) and said, “I couldn’t wait to tell you. I felt the baby move!” Love, Daddy PS Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers: Advice to Dads of All Ages was published by Little, Brown and Company in 2013. It is excerpted by permission of the author, Clyde Edgerton, who is the author of ten novels and a memoir. He teaches in the Creative Writing Department at UNCW.

July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


Clyde Edgerton

Currently reading: Local Souls by Allan Gurganus Perennial favorite book: Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy Favorite new author: Wiley Cash Literary guilty pleasure: Obits Where do you plan to get away this summer to read? North Carolina mountains Quintessential summer read: Local mountain newspapers

PHOTOGRAPH BY CASSIE BUTLER TIMPY

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PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Book Excerpt

Joanna

Now

By Jill McCorkle

Joanna is holding the hand of someone waiting for her daughter to arrive. Only months ago, this woman — Lois Flowers — was one of the regulars in Pine Haven’s dining room where the residents often linger long after the meal for some form of entertainment or another. She was a woman who kept her hair dyed black and never left her room without her hair and makeup and outfit just right. She had her color chart done in 1981 and kept the little swatches like paint chips in the zippered section of her purse. She told Joanna that having your colors done was one of the best investments a woman could ever make. “I’m a winter,” she said. “It’s why turquoise looks so good on me.” She loved to sing and some nights she could convince several people to join in; other nights she simply stood in one corner and swayed back and forth like she might have been in Las Vegas singing everything she knew of Doris Day and Rosemary Clooney and Judy Garland. She loved anything Irving Berlin had ever written. Now she has forgotten everything except the face of her daughter, random lyrics, and that your shoes and purse should always match. Joanna has watched the daughter night after night leaning into her mother’s ear to sing — first upbeat (clang, clang, clang went the trolley). She always ends with one of her very favorites like “It Could Happen to You” or “Over the Rainbow” or “What’ll I Do?” Joanna — as ordered by Luke’s many rules — keeps a notebook with an entry on each of the people she sits with. She has to do an official one to turn over to the nurse who oversees her work, but this is a different, personal notebook she writes just after someone has died. It’s a notebook she bought and showed Luke to prove to him that she was taking his assignments seriously — a bright yellow college-ruled spiral-bound notebook, which was all she could find at the Thrifty Market there close to Luke’s house. It was near the end for him so she didn’t venture far. “This is my page,” he told her. “Everybody should get at least a page.” She writes what she knows: their names and birthplaces and favorite things. Sometimes she asks questions: What is your first memory? Your favorite time of day or holiday or teacher or article of clothing? How would you describe your marriage? Was there something you learned in your life that surprised you? She records the weather and season and last words if there are any. Luke said that this would be her religion, the last words and memories of the dying her litany. She should read and reread the entries regularly like devotionals. Keep us close, he said. Keep us alive. Don’t ever let us disappear.

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Notes about: Lois Elizabeth Malcolm Flowers Born: July 14, 1929. Died: Friday, June 7, 2010, at approximately 10:35

a.m. Pine Haven Retirement Facility, Fulton, North Carolina. It was a warm sunny day, drapes fully opened to let all the light in, just as Lois Flowers always requested. The room was comfortable; somehow in spite of all the stark nursing apparatus, the room was as warm and welcoming as Lois herself. On the very first day, she invited me in and told me how lovely it was to have me there. Not the ideal situation, she said, but still lovely to see you. She said she had not known my parents well but sure did like those hot dogs my dad made, especially the Chihuahua because whoever heard of putting hot salsa on a plain old hot dog? Lois Flowers loved music and she loved fashion.

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She had a subscription to Vogue that had never lapsed in over forty years. “You could never get away with outfits like that here in Fulton,” she said. “But it is important to know what folks are wearing elsewhere.” She loved turquoise and the way people complimented her when she wore it. “I’m a winter,” she liked to say, and referred often to a folder labeled “Personal Color Harmony” and all the little color samples within. She never went shopping for clothes or lipstick without it. Her favorite holiday was Halloween because she loved to see children having so much fun, but mainly because she liked a good excuse to wear orange even though her chart said that winters do not wear orange well. She decided that even if she looked horrid, so what? It was Halloween, but, she said, I looked quite striking in an orange alpaca sweater and black gabardine slacks. It’s the one time the chart got it wrong. She still had the orange sweater and insisted that I take it and promise to wear it every October 31. She gave her daughter, Kathryn, the newer Halloween sweater, a honeycolored cashmere with black cat and witch hat buttons. Kathryn is a true autumn and that sweater is perfect for her, she said. You can see why I want everything perfect for her. She suggested I rethink the way I wear my hair and then put a hand to her mouth and apologized for such a rude remark. “This is all new,” she told me. “This way I say things I don’t mean to say,” and I was able to assure her that I completely understood and that I am reconsidering what to do with my hair. She smiled and blew me a kiss. She said, how about some golden highlights and something layered to give body? She had matchbooks from every nice restaurant she had ever gone to. Her favorites were Tavern on the Green and Windows on the World. She said she loved eating in New York City. She said her husband teased her that all it took for her to love a restaurant was for it to be in New York City and have lots of windows and a preposition in the name. She told Kathryn she needed to get back there, that they should take a trip and see a show. When told that both restaurants were gone, she held a firm position that she still needed to go there. “And so do you!” she said, always pulling me into the conversation. “And if there’s not a young man in your life” (she asked me often if I had met anyone interesting), she said that I should just go alone. “Women do that now,” she said. “A woman can go wherever she wants right by herself.”

July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


PHOTOGRAPH BY CASSIE BUTLER TIMPY

Once, while her husband and Kathryn were out at the County Fair, Lois Flowers burned her Maidenform bra in a hibachi in their backyard. When her husband asked what’s that smell? she said she had no earthly idea. She said it made her feel connected to something big and important, that she stood there in the backyard and pretended she was at a rally in New York City. She never told him what she had done, even when she saw him studying the ashes and what looked like a scrap of nylon. She had never even told anyone about it until that day; she said, I have always felt liberated. Her last words were to Kathryn, spoken two days before she died. “Honey, do you have homework?” She had asked that question hundreds of times over the years and if Kathryn did not have homework, the two of them went shopping. Lois Flowers loved her daughter and she loved to shop. Kathryn said that all of their important conversations took place during those little shopping trips. What to expect when you start your period. Why you got that bad grade. Why a sassy mouth is not a good thing. How your reputation is your most prized possession. Why you should always do your best. Why good hygiene is a must. What boys do and do not have good sense about or control over. These topics were often whispered over the lunch counter at Wood’s Dimestore where Kathryn got a cherry Coke or a milkshake and Lois got a cup of black coffee, her red lipstick staining the fat lip of the heavy white mug. Sometimes they ate pie or got a hot dog and always they were flanked with a bag or two of things they had found to buy over at Belk or the Fashion Bar or Smart Shop. “I can’t wait to get home and see what all we got,” Lois would say many times, and Kathryn said that once home, her mother kept the excitement going for many more hours with a fashion show and then talk of all the places Kathryn would go to wear the new things and all the wonderful things that would happen as a result. “Her predictions were not often right,” Kathryn said. “But she was sincere.” I hugged my orange alpaca sweater close as I waited there with Kathryn. I wanted to tell her how lucky she was to have had such a relationship with her mother, but it was clear that she knew this. She held firmly to her mother’s hand for as long as she was able, and then when the men came to take her mother away, she reached for my hand as we followed them out. I will miss them both very much. [page 77, Joanna’s notebook] PS Life After Life, published by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill in 2013, is excerpted by permission of the author, Jill McCorkle. Author of six novels and four collections of short stories, McCorkle teaches creative writing in the MFA Program at NC State University.

Jill McCorkle

Currently reading: The View from Penthouse B by Elinor Lipman Perennial favorite book: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter Favorite new author: Megan Mayhew Bergman Literary guilty pleasure: True Crime Where do you plan to get away this summer to read? I hope to get to the beach but I also love just being home and sitting on the screened porch. Quintessential summer read: I read In Cold Blood in the summer many years ago and it’s one that I have returned to many times with an eye for examining Capote’s style and structure, and then once again I get pulled into the story.

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PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Story of a house

Site Unseen Paradise Hiding in plain view in Pinehurst By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

D

Halfway House 1929

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on’t look now but a 3 1/2 - acre estate with a cottage, guest house, gardens, bocce ball court, a field of soccer proportions, woods ­— and then some — is hiding, in plain sight, smack dab in the middle of Pinehurst Village. Even the caddies on Pinehurst No. 2 (they know everything) aren’t aware it exists, says Gil Pritchard who, with wife Christine, expanded and renovated the property in 2007. They, too, are amazed at the privacy afforded by fences, bushes and trees on a busy corner. Long ago named Halfway House for its location between the Carolina Hotel and the golf courses, in scope and imagination this may be the most scintillating grand dame to have survived the Great Depression. Who could have predicted a kitchen open on two sides to the dining and living

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rooms? An asymmetrical floor plan? A small main-floor den fitted with Murphy beds, for teenage grandsons? Other guests, Christine says, become so attached to their rooms that they don’t want to come down for breakfast. The cottage is both very old and completely new — in an earthy California way — the product of a couple who chose Pinehurst for an active retirement while on their honeymoon in 2000. “Halfway” still applies, but differently. By 1919 a second wave of white-shingled vacation cottages (as opposed to mansions, in Southern Pines) were being built in the village by wealthy industrialists drawn by the climate, golf and other wealthy industrialists. John Warren Watson of Philadelphia made his bundle manufacturing a simple yet vital metal tool called a stabilator, for “old cars.” He built a house in the area, then another near the village for his mother, Mrs. T. T. Watson. What a good son. Mother may have been recently widowed, because a social note in Pinehurst Outlook dated 1915 refers to Mr. and Mrs. T.T. Watson as globetrotters who called Pinehurst “the ideal long sought for their halcyon days” while other references name Mrs. only. The modest cottage stood on two acres of what would become superprime real estate. Gil Pritchard, Rochester, New York native and United States Military Academy graduate, made his entrepreneurial mark with simple but vital products like Oil of Olay, later riding the natural/health foods wave into a successful career and busy retirement in several fields. Christine, a marketing executive from Ohio, devised promotional material for Smucker’s. They lived in Sonoma wine country. Neither had Southern roots. Yet Pinehurst

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had it all: golf, climate, arts, music and a medical center. Gil especially liked the blending of people from elsewhere. “You can walk everywhere . . . it’s easy to navigate,” he found. “(The village) has a flavor of New England, and history. It has a story to tell.” First, they bought a townhouse, sight unseen. But an ideal retirement address must have space for West Point buddies and wives to stay for a while, for Gil’s daughters and grandsons to spread out. Or, an impressive venue for entertaining business associates. They needed a house. They got a project.

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ust because Halfway House is hidden from view on three sides doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be perfect, especially for detail-oriented Gil, who redid a garden fountain more than once. “Gil had a sense of how he wanted it to sound,” Christine says. Christine and Gil began by assembling a team that included architectural designer, interior designer, contractor and landscape/gardening artist charged with separating the ideal from the practical. When the acre next door came up for sale the Pritchards grabbed it, increasing their already sizable parcel by 50 percent. Yet, Gil says, “Our goal was to maintain the 100-year-old cottage feel and character.” “We’re not big-house people,” Christine adds. A former home had them on top of each other; Halfway House has half a dozen seating areas, inside and out, plus the park-like grounds to wander. The core remained essentially intact but Christine wanted porches — lots

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of them, which posed a problem for the Village of Pinehurst Historic Preservation Commission. One member insisted that porches were not inherent to cottage design. The Pritchards’ research convinced the commission otherwise, making way for a large screened porch on the front corner, a living roomsized veranda on the side and several smaller ones. “Maybe they thought that, coming from California, we would install palm trees and skylights,” Gil says. The kitchen was enlarged and equipped exactly like Christine’s in Sonoma. “That made putting things away a lot easier,” she says. The cottage has two main entrances, the original leading into the living room, the second more convenient family entrance into a hallway separating the original footprint from the new wing. One side of the house has been opened up, with living room flowing into dining room flowing into kitchen, separated only by a handsome fireplace which they refaced in stone. The other side is a warren of smaller, interesting rooms — including a TV room and a game room for bridge, board games and puzzles. Built-in shelves are everywhere, displaying family photos and memorabilia: Gil points out a basketball autographed by Magic Johnson, a football signed by Roger Staubach, and an abstract self portrait painted by Mohammed Ali. The Pritchards brought little furniture from California, preferring to make a new start. First stop, High Point. Interior designer Johnsye White of Pinehurst interpreted their style developed during 20 years in California. Comfort and informality rule. “I look at a person and her colors,” White says. Christine is definitely an earth person best surrounded by cocoa, brown, khaki, rust, sand, gold played out in a mode hauntingly Mission with a Tuscan touch. Pieces, including upholstery, are scaled generously. “Gil’s a tall man; he needs a higher back to be comfortable,” White noticed. White was taken aback when, after completing the house, an 18-wheeler pulled up containing not only accessories but three massive armoires. “Where will we put those?” In a house devoid of the British and Frenchinspired heirlooms common to Southern décor, these stately armoires, plus a landscape painting of Sonoma vineyards, represent a region left behind. “I don’t really miss Sonoma, only my friends,” Christine says. Upstairs bedrooms accommodate guests since next the team added a wing containing the master suite, a library/sitting room, bath and dressing rooms. Main floor master suites have become standard for retirees, anticipating the future. A covered walkway leads to Dry Dock, the two-bedroom guest cottage, a showplace itself with kitchen, two bathrooms, full front porch, double garage and Gil’s office/fitness room/sauna. Every room bears a name plaque, from The Nest and Magnolia to Loblolly and Dogwood. However no name, not even Versailles, does justice to the gardens — an environment created and executed by DeLete Spain of Poetry Gardens. The process has taken four years, so far. “Christine let me do my thing,” says Spain, who

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tends the work-in-progress several times a week. Each garden owns a persona. Near the veranda, long, flowing liriope grass provides a lyrical background for tall flowering plants. Moving outward from the house Spain has installed a fenced, rather formal potagerie (kitchen) garden where cutting flowers, vegetables and herbs grow symbiotically, in containers. Still further, a water garden and pond recently stocked with frogs for ambient sound; a seating area surrounding the fire pit; a shade garden carpeted in pine straw and dotted with boulders imported from Raleigh; a 50-foot fence trellised with ripening raspberries; the bocce ball court; an endless row of roses interspersed with lavender and the manicured grassy field/putting green. Halfway House itself is embraced on all sides by shrubs, hedges, vines and flowers. Wreathes woven from succulents adorn doors and gates. Spain says this installation is, by far, the largest and most elaborate she has mounted in twenty years. The effect: Paradise in Pinehurst. Christine and Gil are satisfied. “From the beginning, I loved the property and Christine loved the house,” Gil says. He approves of the results — tailored, not frilly. “She erred on the side of pleasing me.” They manage to use all areas, beginning with morning coffee in their sitting room and ending with wine on the veranda (fans and a blue ceiling discourage insects). After a dinner party they lead guests from garden to garden, ending around the fire pit where they admire the lighting. Gil compares creating a home to falling in love: “You have the ability to do this two or three times in a lifetime. When you outgrow one you move on to the next. It’s the same kind of experience.”

Obviously, no hearts were broken during the latest romance. “A house has a living aspect, a dynamic,” Gil continues. “I like the history and what they’re doing in the village. This is the right place for Christine and me to be at this time of our lives.” PS

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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“If the first of July it be rainy

weather, ’twill rain more or less, for four weeks together.” — Neve’s Almanack 1633

By Noah Salt

Our Favorite July Plant

Hail Caesar! July’s arrival marks high summer across most of the Northern hemisphere, the time hayfields are ripe for a first cutting and flower gardens are profuse with seasonal blooms. It’s the start of dog days and the pivot-point of the warm-weather garden season; within weeks the drier heat of summer will wilt late-blooming flowers and the dryness of August will creep slowly upon the land. Thunderstorms and mosquitoes reach performance peak in July, and canning of early tomatoes, pickles and jams should begin in earnest. Roses begin to fade but iridescent dragonflies abound. July was named by the Romans in honor of Julius Caesar, who was born during the ancient Roman month of Quintillis in 44 B.C.

Honeysuckle vines are in profuse bloom everywhere around the Fourth of July, peak season for Lonicera Caprifolium, also known as Italian woodbine, and other varieties of the hundred or so twining or expert climbing vines common to North America, China and Western Europe. Though they grow wild in thickets and their leaves were popular for feeding goats during medieval times, American gardeners prize honeysuckle for its attractive, longlasting and often intensely fragrant trumpet-shaped flowers (blooms range from pale yellow to pink lemonade) that artfully hide bare walls and garden patches, attracting pollinating bees, hummingbirds and other wildlife. William Shakespeare twined it throughout his most famous paeon to summer, A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, and Eve instructs Adam on how to “wind woodbine round the arbor.” English diarist Samuel Pepys noted that “these ivory bugles blow scent instead of sound.”

A Sufficient Reason for Summer “One morning I saw a blue dragonfly sitting on a lily pad. That evening it was floating on the water, dead. I fished it out, as often insects seem drowned but revive nicely if dried off, but this one had perished. Promptly I found a thin bamboo stake and stuck it in a tub of water lilies, and since then no dragonfly has drowned. Almost any minute of the day you will find one of these elegant insects perched on the stake. The lesson to be learned today, therefore, is to provide either reeds or a stake for your dragonflies. They do not bite or sting people, a thing I mention in case you are a city ignoramus and thought they did. They are nothing but good and fair, a sufficient reason for summer to exist. “ — From One Man’s Garden, by Henry Mitchell

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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uly Monday

SUMMER CAMP BEGINS. Summer Explorers full day camp. SUMMER READING PROGRAM BEGINS. “Dig into Reading.” MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Michelle Satterfield.

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Tuesday

Wednesday MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Michelle Satterfield. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst.

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Sunday ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. The Harris Brothers and Barbara Lamb perform. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114 Knight St., Aberdeen.

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MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Caroline Love. About Art Gallery. OUTDOOR JAZZ CONCERT. 6:30 – 8:30 p.m. SCC Jazz Band. SANDHILLS PHOTO CLUB MEETING. 7 p.m. Brady Beck. Hannah Theater Center. SUMMER THEATRE CAMP. “The Wind in the Willows.” Runs through July 12.

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. HORSE SHOW. July Horse Trials. An eventing style show. Carolina Horse Park. 2814 Montrose Road, Raeford. ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. Rebecca Pronsky and New Country Rehab perform. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114 Knight St., Aberdeen.

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Pamela Swarbrick. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

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AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 2 p.m. Anne Russell and Melton McLaurin with The Wayward Girls of Samarcand: A True Story of the American South. The Country Bookshop. ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. Jeanne Jolly performs. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online.

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 4:30 p.m. Susan Crandall with Whistling Past the Graveyard. SANDHILLS NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETY MEETING. 7 p.m. Share food and natural history favorites. Weymouth Woods Auditorium. MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Joan Williams. About Art Gallery.

ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. Will Kimbrough and Timmy Bang Bang perform. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114 Knight St., Aberdeen.

SUMMER ART CAMP: “MIXED MEDIA MANIA.” Children will enjoy a hands-on exploration of different mediums. They will explore printmaking, painting, sculpture and paper arts. Camp open to rising grades 3-8. Aberdeen Bead Company. MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Deane Billings. About Art Gallery. Runs through July 30.

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BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids in grades K-2 are invited to attend the “Reader Rabbits” summer reading club. Tricksters themed. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave.

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BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids in grades K-2 are invited to attend the “Book Bunch” summer reading club. PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “Animals that Dig.” Southern Pines Public Library. SUMMER FLORAL ARRANGING WORKSHOP. Maggie Smith. Sandhills Horticultural Gardens.

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TEEN READING PROGRAM. 5:30 – 6:30 p.m. Heroes vs. Villains. Designed for grades 6 — 12. Compete in costume design and games to celebrate comic book characters. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave.

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “Dig Up, Down and All Around.” Infants and toddlers (ages birth through 5 years). Join us for stories, songs and fun, and then stay for playtime! Southern Pines Public Library.

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Joan Williams. About Art

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Joan Williams. About Art Gallery. BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids are invited to attend the “Book Bunch” summer reading club. Southern Pines Public Library. PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “Bugs!” Infants and toddlers. Southern Pines Public Library.

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Gallery. BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids are invited to attend the “Reader Rabbits” summer reading club. Southern Pines Public Library. SENIOR EVENT. 12 p.m. – 1 p.m. National Scrabble Week. Enjoy playing three games of Scrabble.

TEEN READING PROGRAM. 5:30 – 6:30 p.m. CSI: Southern Pines. Designed for grades 6 — 12 . Analyze clues from a crime scene. Southern Pines Public Library.

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Thursday VILLAGE OF PINEHURST PARADE. 10 a.m. Downtown. SANDHILLS FARMERS GREEN MARKET. 9:30 a.m. Local produce, handmade crafts. VILLAGE OF PINEHURST FIREWORKS CELEBRATION. Fireworks begin at 9:15 p.m. ABERDEEN FOURTH OF JULY. Aberdeen Lake Park. JULY 4TH CONCERT. 2 p.m. Moore County Concert Band.

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MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Caroline Love. About Art Gallery. SENIOR EVENT. 12 – 2 p.m. Pool Park cookout! AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 11 a.m. Mary Alice Monroe with The Summer Girls. OLDIES & GOODIES FILM. 2:30 p.m. “Father of the Bride.” Southern Pines Public Library. FAMILY FUN NIGHTS. 5:30 p.m. Movie night! Southern Pines Public Library. THE TAMS. 6:30 – 10:30 p.m. Shagging.

Friday FIRST FRIDAY. 5 – 8:30 p.m. Entertainment includes live music by Megan McCormick, food and beverages, and more. The grassy knoll adjacent to the Sunrise Theater. JAZZY FRIDAYS. 6 p.m. Enjoy a bottle of wine and dancing while the Mike Wallace Quartet entertains you with live jazz music. Cypress Bend Vineyards.

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FAMILY FUN NIGHTS. 5:30 p.m. Children in grades K-5 and their parents are invited to participate in this Egyptianthemed event! Southern Pines Public Library. AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 5 p.m. Dorie Clark with Reinventing You: Define Your Brand, Imagine Your Future.. The Country Bookshop.

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MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Joan Williams. About

Art Gallery. FAMILY FUN NIGHTS. 5:30 p.m. Children in grades K-5 and their parents are invited to participate in movie night! Southern Pines Public Library.

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Pamela Swarbrick. About Art Gallery. RECREATION EVENT. 6 – 9 p.m. Shuffleboard, sand volleyball, tennis, horseshoes, and yoga by Hot Asana Yoga Studio. Memorial Park, 210 Memorial Park Court, Southern Pines.

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MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Joan Williams. About Art Gallery

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “I Dig Hidden Treasure.” Infants and toddlers. Southern Pines Public Library. NATIONAL PARK AND RECREATION MONTH. 11 – 12:30 p.m. Sandhurst Park. Learn about the National Park & Recreation Association and how recreation became an integral part of history back in the 1800s.

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Arts entertainment

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Saturday

cA l e n dA r

July 1

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 1 p.m. Brad Herzog with Francis and Eddie: The True Story of America’s Underdogs. The Country Bookshop.

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SUMMER CAMPS BEGIN. Summer Explorers full day camp for ages 5-8 and 8-13 begins its fourth of ten sessions. Pre-registration is required for the activities. Contact the Southern Pines Recreation & Parks Department to sign up. Info: (910) 692-2463 or www.southernpines.net/recreation.

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 2 p.m. Mich Weiss and Kevin Maurer discuss Hunting Che: How a U.S. Special Forces Team Helped Capture the World’s Most Famous Revolutionary. The Country Bookshop. BLUES CRAWL. 7 p.m. Features nine bands spreading across nine venues in Southern Pines. Wristbands are $20 to gain entry to all locations hosting the crawl.

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SUMMER READING PROGRAM BEGINS. “Dig into Reading.” Includes opportunities for all ages and reading abilities to log their reading and attend special events at the library. Program goes through July 31. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Michelle Satterfield. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

July 3

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NORTH CAROLINA PEACH FESTIVAL. 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. Parade starts at 10 a.m. Festivities take place in the park. Bring lawn chairs and sit back and enjoy the local live entertainment. There are always lots of local peaches, peach ice cream, and peach desserts. Candor Farmers Market, Main Street, Candor. Info: (910) 974-4221 or www.townofcandornc.com.

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SUCCULENT CONTAINER GARDEN WORKSHOP. 10 a.m. – 1 p.m. Linda Hamwi will conduct a workshop where participants will make a succulent container garden to take home. Sandhills Horticultural Gardens. SENIOR EVENT. 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. North Carolina Museum of Natural Science. Features exhibits, live programs and educational films. Depart from Campbell House.

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Michelle Satterfield. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

July 4

VILLAGE OF PINEHURST PARADE. 10 a.m. Parade followed by entertainment, antique car display, and concessions until 12:30 p.m. Downtown Village of Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-2817 or www. villageofpinehurst.org.

SANDHILLS FARMERS GREEN MARKET. 9:30 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. Local produce, handmade crafts, live music, and face painting. 1 Village Green Road West, Pinehurst. Info: (805) 517-5476 or sandhillsfarmersmarket.com.

VILLAGE OF PINEHURST FIREWORKS CELEBRATION. Gates open at 4 p.m. Evening festivities begin at 5 p.m. Music by the David Michael Band at 6 p.m. Food and beverages will be available by Talbert’s. Fireworks begin at 9:15 p.m. Pinehurst Harness Track, 200 Beulah Hill Road South, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-2817 or www.villageofpinehurst.org.

ABERDEEN JULY 4TH CELEBRATION. Festivities include games, prizes, food, live music, and fireworks. Festivities begin at 5:30 p.m. Free. Aberdeen Lake Park, off of US Hwy 1. Info: (910) 944-5902 or www.townofaberdeen.net.

JULY 4TH CONCERT. 2 p.m. The Moore County Concert Band will present its July 4th Concert in the Grand Ballroom of the Carolina Key:

• • Art

Music/Concerts

Dance/Theater

Hotel in Pinehurst. The concert is open to the public at no charge.

July 5

FIRST FRIDAY. 5 – 8:30 p.m. A family-friendly event. Entertainment includes live music by Megan McCormick, food and beverages, and more. Free admission. The grassy knoll adjacent to the Sunrise Theater. Info: www.firstfridaysouthernpines.com.

JAZZY FRIDAYS. 6 p.m. Enjoy a bottle of wine and dancing with friends under the tent while the Mike Wallace Quartet entertains you with live jazz music. Admission: $10/person. Reservations and prepayments are required for parties of eight or more. Food vendor on-site. Cypress Bend Vineyards, 21904 Riverton Road, Wagram. Info: (910) 369-0411 or www.cypressbendvineyards.com.

July 6

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 1 p.m. Brad Herzog with Francis and Eddie: The True Story of America’s Underdogs. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211 or www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

July 7

ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. The Harris Brothers and Barbara Lamb perform. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944- 7502 or www.theroosterswife.org.

July 8

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Caroline Love. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

OUTDOOR JAZZ CONCERT. 6:30 – 8:30 p.m. Sandhills Community College Jazz Band. Free and open to the public. Barbecue dinner available at 5 p.m. for purchase. Rain site is Owens Auditorium. Sandhills Community College, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Info: mccune-7lakes.home.mindspring. com.

SANDHILLS PHOTO CLUB MEETING. 7 p.m. Brady Beck on wildlife and wildlife photography. Guests welcome. Hannah Theater Center on The O’Neal School campus, 3300 Airport Road, Southern Pines. Info: www.sandhillsphotoclub.org.

July 8 — 12

• SUMMER THEATRE CAMP. Directed by the • • • • • Film

Literature/Speakers

Fun

History

Sports

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ca l e n da r

East Carolina University Theatre Department. Camp features Kenneth Grahame’s classic children’s tale, “The Wind in the Willows.” Camp is open to ages 5 through rising grade five. Space is limited. First Baptist Church of Southern Pines, 200 E. New York Ave., Southern Pines. Info/tuition: (910) 6922787 or www.mooreart.org.

July 9

BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids in grades K-2 are invited to attend the “Reader Rabbits” summer reading club. Tricksters themed. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

July 10

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “Animals that Dig.” Infants and toddlers (ages birth through 5 years). Join us for stories, songs and fun, and then stay for playtime! Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 6928235 or www.sppl.net.

SUMMER FLORAL ARRANGING WORKSHOP. 10 a.m. – 1 p.m. Maggie Smith will conduct a workshop where participants make a summer floral arrangement to take home. Space is limited to 24. Cost: $30/Horticultural Society members; $35/non-members. Sandhills Horticultural

July 11

• AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 11 a.m. Mary Alice Monroe with The Summer Girls. Call (910) 692-3211 for more information.

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Caroline Love. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

OLDIES & GOODIES FILM. 2:30 p.m. “Father of the Bride.” This 1950 film stars Spencer Tracy, Joan Bennett and Elizabeth Taylor and was nominated for three Academy Awards. This hilarious comedy depicts a father dealing with the financial and organizational pain of helping his young daughter plan the wedding of her dreams. Free and open to the public. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

FAMILY FUN NIGHTS. 5:30 p.m. Children in grades K-5 and their parents are invited to participate in movie night! Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

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THE TAMS. 6:30 – 10:30 p.m. Presented by Carolina Performing Arts Center. Lots of Shagging

July 13

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 2 p.m. Mich Weiss and Kevin Maurer discuss Hunting Che: How a U.S. Special Forces Team Helped Capture the World’s Most Famous Revolutionary. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 6923211 or www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

BLUES CRAWL. 7 p.m. Features nine bands spreading across nine venues in Southern Pines. Wristbands are $20 to gain entry to all locations hosting the crawl.

July 14

HORSE SHOW. July Horse Trials. An eventing style show. Carolina Horse Park. 2814 Montrose Road, Raeford. Info: (910) 875-2074 or www.carolinahorsepark.com.

ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. Rebecca Pronsky and New Country Rehab perform. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944- 7502 or www. theroosterswife.org.

• •

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Music/Concerts

Dance/Theater

Film

Literature/Speakers

• •

and a lively performance. The Fair Barn. Advance tickets $25/at the door $30. Info: www.seatyourself. biz/cpao or danceatcpac.com

Key:

Art

Gardens, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 695-3882 or sandhillshorticulturalgardens.com.

Fun

History

Sports


cA l e n dA r

July 15

July 21

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Pamela Swarbrick. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

July 16

TEEN READING PROGRAM. 5:30 – 6:30 p.m. Heroes vs. Villains. Designed for grades 6 — 12. Compete in costume design and games to celebrate comic book characters. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 6928235 or www.sppl.net.

July 17

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “Dig Up, Down and All Around.” Infants and toddlers (ages birth through 5 years). Join us for stories, songs and fun, and then stay for playtime! Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

July 18

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 5 p.m. Dorie Clark with Reinventing You: Define Your Brand, Imagine Your Future.. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211 or www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

• FAMILY FUN NIGHTS. 5:30 p.m. Children • AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 2 p.m. Anne in grades K-5 and their parents are invited to Russell and Melton McLaurin with The Wayward participate in this Egyptian-themed event! Learn about ancient Egyptian art. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 6928235 or www.sppl.net.

July 19

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Pamela Swarbrick. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

RECREATION EVENT. 6 – 9 p.m. Shuffleboard, sand volleyball, tennis, horseshoes, and yoga by Hot Asana Yoga Studio. Memorial Park, 210 Memorial Park Court, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2463 or southernpines.net/recreation.

July 20

NORTH CAROLINA PEACH FESTIVAL. 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. Parade starts at 10 a.m. Festivities take place in the park. Bring lawn chairs and sit back and enjoy the local live entertainment. There are always lots of local peaches, peach ice cream, and peach desserts. Candor Farmers Market, Main Street, Candor. Info: (910) 974-4221 or www.townofcandornc.com. Key:

• • Art

Music/Concerts

Dance/Theater

Girls of Samarcand: A True Story of the American South. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211 or www. thecountrybookshop.biz.

ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. Jeanne Jolly performs. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944- 7502 or www.theroosterswife.org.

July 22

AUTHOR AT THE BOOKSHOP. 4:30 p.m. Susan Crandall with Whistling Past the Graveyard. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211 or www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

SANDHILLS NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETY MEETING. 7 p.m. Potluck. Share food and natural history favorites. Bring a dish or snack to contribute while we look through nature photography taken by members over the past year. Weymouth Woods Auditorium, 1024 Fort Bragg Road, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2167 or sandhillsnature.org.

• • Film

Literature/Speakers

• • Fun

History

Sports

Windridge

Gardens

1650 Valley View Road • Southern Pines, NC Adjacent to Hyland Golf Course on US 1

910-692-0855

www.WindridgeGardens.com

Hours Wednesday-Saturday: 10-6 | Sunday: 1pm-6pm

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P July 2013

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July 22 — July 26

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Joan Williams. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

July 23

BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids in grades K-2 are invited to attend the “Reader Rabbits” summer reading club. Tricksters themed. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

SENIOR EVENT. 12 p.m. – 1 p.m. National Scrabble Week. Enjoy playing three games of Scrabble. Winner takes a prize! Free event. Sign up by July 15. Douglass Community Center. Info: (910) 692-7376.

July 24

BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. Kids in grades K-2 are invited to attend the “Book Bunch” summer reading club. Topic is “Under the Earth.” Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “Bugs!” Infants and toddlers (ages birth through 5 years). Join us for stories, songs, and fun, and then stay for playtime! Southern Pines

Knight St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944- 7502 or www.theroosterswife.org.

July 25

July 29

FAMILY FUN NIGHTS. 5:30 p.m. Children in grades K-5 and their parents are invited to participate in movie night! Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

SUMMER ART CAMP: “MIXED MEDIA MANIA.” Children will enjoy a hands-on exploration of different mediums. They will explore printmaking, painting, sculpture and paper arts. All supplies included in the tuition. Camp open to rising grades 3-8. Aberdeen Bead Company, 105 W. South St., Aberdeen. Space is limited. Info/tuition: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org.

July 27

SUCCULENT CONTAINER GARDEN WORKSHOP. 10 a.m. – 1 p.m. Linda Hamwi, the “Plant Diva,” will conduct a workshop where participants will make a succulent container garden to take home. Sandhills Horticultural Gardens, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 695-3882 or sandhillshorticulturalgardens.com.

SENIOR EVENT. 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. North Carolina Museum of Natural Science. Features exhibits, live programs and educational films. Cost: $13/ resident; $26/non-resident. Depart from Campbell House, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-1835.

July 28

ROOSTER’S WIFE CONCERT. 6:46 p.m. Will Kimbrough and Timmy Bang Bang perform. Seating is by general admission. Doors open at 6. Tickets available at the door and online. 114

MEET THE ARTIST. 11 – 2 p.m. Deane Billings. About Art Gallery, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-5963.

July 30

TEEN READING PROGRAM. 5:30 – 6:30 p.m. CSI: Southern Pines. Designed for grades 6 — 12 . Analyze clues from a crime scene. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

July 31

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. “I Dig Hidden Treasure.” Infants and toddlers (ages

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July 2013 P��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Dance/Theater

Film

Literature/Speakers

• •

July 29 — 30

• •

Music/Concerts

• •

Key:

Art

Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

Fun

History

Sports


ca l e n da r

birth through 5 years). Join us for stories, songs and fun, and then stay for playtime! Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

NATIONAL PARK AND RECREATION MONTH. 11 – 12:30 p.m. Sandhurst Park. Learn about the National Park & Recreation Association and how recreation became an integral part of history back in the 1800s. Bring your lunch and enjoy learning and relaxing! Sign up by July 15. Info: (910) 692-2463.

• •

LIVE MUSIC AT CIRCLE M CITY. 7 p.m. Gather at the wild west town’s free music event. 74 Cowboy Lane, Sanford. Info: (919) 499-8493.

Wednesdays

SANDHILLS FARMERS GREEN MARKET. 3 – 6 p.m. Cannon Park, intersection of Rattlesnake Drive and Woods Road, Pinehurst. Info: sandhillsfarmersmarket.com. CLASSIC MOVIES. 7:30 p.m. The • Sunrise Theater will show a classic movie every

Wednesday night. Info: (910) 692-8501 or www. sunrisetheater.org.

Thursdays

MOORE COUNTY FARMERS MARKET. 9 a.m. – 1:00 p.m. Armory Sports Complex, 604 West Morganton Road, Southern Pines.

• ZUMBA CLASS. 7:35 p.m. No pre-registration necessary. Cost: $10, cash or check. The Fitness Studio, 1150 Old US 1, Southern Pines. Info: (631) 561-5942 or thefitnessstudioinc.com. Music/Concerts

season ingredients. Samples included. The Flavor Exchange, 115 E New Hampshire Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 725-1345.

• • SANDHILLS FARMERS GREEN MARKET. 10 a.m. – 1 p.m. Village Green, Village Green Road

MOORE COUNTY FARMERS MARKET. 2 – 5:30 p.m. First Health Fitness Center, 170 Memorial Drive, Pinehurst.

Art

Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St. in historic Aberdeen. Exhibit hours are noon – 3 p.m., Monday-Saturday. (910) 944-3979.

MOORE COUNTY FARMERS MARKET. 8 a.m. – 1 p.m. Downtown Park, Southern Pines.

Mondays

• •

• FREE COOKING DEMO. 5 – 6 p.m. A fun way to play with your food using quick, easy, in-

CHILDREN’S STORYTIME AT THE BOOKSHOP. 10:30 a.m. 140 NW Broad Street, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211 or www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

Saturdays

WEEKLY HAPPENINGS

Key:

Artist GAlleRy OF SOUTHERN PINES, 167 E. New Hampshire Ave., Southern Pines. Features art and fine crafts from more than 60 North Carolina artists. 10 a.m. – 5 p.m., Monday-Saturday. (910) 692-6077.

Fridays

Dance/Theater

West, Pinehurst. Info: sandhillsfarmersmarket.com.

FREE WINE TASTING. 12 – 4 p.m. Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

CUTLER TREE

The Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Monday-Friday 9 a.m. – 5 p.m. and every third weekend of the month from 2 – 4 p.m. (910) 692-4356, www.mooreart.org.

The Downtown Gallery inside Cup of Flow, 115 NE Broad St., Southern Pines. Everchanging array of local and regional art, pottery and other handmade items. (910) 693-1999.

Art Galleries

The Gallery at Seven Lakes at the St. Mary Magdalene building, 1145 Seven Lakes Drive. Just nine miles from the Pinehurst Traffic Circle up 211, this gallery is dedicated to local artists. WednesdayThursday 1 – 4 p.m.

Sundays NATURE STUDY PROGRAM. 3 p.m. Join a Park Ranger for a program to learn more about the critters and plants that live in our magnificent longleaf pine forest. Weymouth Woods, 1024 Fort Bragg Road, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2167. ABOUT ART GALLERY inside The Market Place Midland Bistro Building, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. The gallery features local artists. Open Monday-Friday 11 a.m. – 2 p.m. (910) 215-596. ART NUTZ AND RAVEN POTTERY, 125 SW Broad St., Southern Pines. Come see the potter at work. Features art, pottery from local potters, handmade jewelry, glass and more. MondaySaturday 10 a.m. – 5 p.m. (910) 695-1555, www. ravenpottery.com.

• • Film

Broadhurst Gallery, 2212 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Showcases works by nationally recognized artists such as Louis St. Lewis, Lula Smith, Shawn Morin, Rachel Clearfield, Judy Cox and Jason Craighead. Meet-the-artist opportunities available. Monday-Friday (closed Wednesday), 11 a.m. – 5 p.m., Saturday, 1 – 4 p.m & special appointments. (910) 295-4817, www.broadhurstgallery.com.

Literature/Speakers

• • Fun

History

Hastings Gallery in the Katharine L. Boyd Library at Sandhills Community College, Pinehurst. Gallery hours are Monday-Thursday 7:45 a.m. – 9 p.m., Friday 7:45 a.m. – 5 p.m. and Saturday 8:30 a.m. – 2 p.m. HOLLYHOCKS ART GALLERY, 905 Linden Road, Pinehurst. Features artwork by local award winning artists, Phyllis Andrews, Betty DiBartolomeo, Equine Sculptor Morgen Kilbourn, Diane Kraudelt, Carol Rotter and artist/owner, Jane

Sports

PineNeedler Answers From page 95

Tree Pruning • Removal Plant Site Consulting Stump Grinding • Shrub Care Tree Conservation for New Home Sites Free Estimates Geoffrey Cutler Fully Insured 910-692-7769 910-690-7657

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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Casnellie. Monday-Saturday 10:30 a.m. – 9:30 p.m. Fine oil paintings, commissions and instruction. Meet the artists on Saturdays, 12 – 3 p.m. (910) 2550665, www.hollyhocksartgallery.com.

WHITE HILL GALLERY, 407 U.S. 15-501, Carthage, offers a variety of pottery. (910) 947-6100.

LADY BEDFORD’S TEA PARLOUR, 25 Chinquapin Road, Pinehurst. Features local artist Nancy Campbell’s original oil and watercolor paintings. Tuesday - Saturday 8 a.m. – 5 p.m. (910) 255-0100, www.ladybedfords.com.

SANDHILLS HORTICULTURAL GARDENS (32 acres of gardens). The Sandhills Horticultural Gardens are handicapped-accessible. Daylight hours year-round. (910) 695-3882.

THE OLD SILK ROUTE, 113 West Main St., Aberdeen. Specializes in Asian original art, including silk paintings, tapestries, Buddhist Thangkas and Indian paper miniatures. Monday, ThursdaySaturday 11 a.m. – 4 p.m. (910) 295-2055.

Nature Centers

SEAGROVE CANDLE COMPANY, 116 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. Showcases art of the Sandhills and Seagrove area. Monday, WednesdaySaturday 10 a.m. – 5 p.m., (910) 695-0029.

NORTH CAROLINA LITERARY HALL OF FAME. 10 a.m. – 2 p.m., Monday-Friday, at the Weymouth Center for Arts and Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. (910) 692-6261.

VILLAGE ARBORETUM. 35 acres of land adjoining the Village Hall on Magnolia Road, Pinehurst. (910) 295-1900.

SHAW HOUSE PROPERTY. Open 1 – 4 p.m. Tuesday-Friday. (910) 692-2051.

BETHESDA CHURCH AND CEMETERy. Guided tours for groups by appointment. 1020 Bethesda Road, Aberdeen. (910) 944-1319. BRYANT HOUSE AND MCLENDON CABIN. Tours by appointment. (910) 692-2051 or (910) 673-0908.

STUDIO 590 BY THE POND in Dowd Cabin, 590 Dowd Circle, Pinehurst. This historic log cabin is the working studio and gallery of artists Betty DiBartolomeo and Harry Neely. Fine oil paintings, commissions and instruction. (910) 639-9404.

MALCOLM BLUE FARM AND MUSEUM. 1 – 4 p.m. Wednesday-Saturday. Group tours can be arranged by appointment. (910) 944-7558 or (910) 603-2739.

WEYMOUTH WOODS SANDHILLS NATURE PRESERVE (898 acres). 1024 Fort Bragg Road, Southern Pines. (910) 692-2167.

Historical Sites

SKY ART GALLERY, 602 Magnolia Drive, Aberdeen. Tuesday-Saturday 10 a.m. – 5 p.m. (910) 944-9440, www.skyartgallery.com.

HOUSE IN THE HORSESHOE. Open year-round. Hours vary. 288 Alston House Road (10 miles north of Carthage), Sanford. (910) 947-2051.

CARTHAGE HISTORICAL MUSEUM. Sundays, 2 – 5 p.m. or by appointment. Located at Rockingham and Saunders streets, Carthage. (910) 947-2331.

TUFTS ARCHIVES. 9:30 a.m. – 5 p.m., MondayFriday, and 9:30 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. Saturday. (910) 295-3642. UNION STATION. Open 8 a.m. – 5 p.m. Located in downtown Aberdeen. (910) 944-5902. SANDHILLS WOMAN’S EXCHANGE LOG CABIN Open 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. (910) 295-4677. PS To add an event, email us at pinestraw@thepilot. com by the first of the month prior to the event.

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July 2013 P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P P PPineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


SandhillSeen

SandhillSeen

Photographs by Laura Gingerich

Photographs by Cassie Butler Timpy

Spike Hyzer Sandhills Showdown Saturday, June 1, 2013

Kevin Wiggens

Gathering at Given Thursday, June 6, 2013

Michael Johansson

Terry Strohl, Jennifer Pollard, Audrey Moriarty, Irene Bradley Kirk Yoo

Terry Gallops

Pat & Carol Duffy Elwood Benton

David Wiggins

Janice Ford, Jayne Van Vooren

Susan McKenzie, Muriel Ryder

Nancy & Bob Weant Todd Gingerich

Josh Rock

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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The CLUB of the sandhills

1 Membership

2 Clubs, 4 courses

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• Family and Single Memberships • Legends Membership (over 75) • Junior Executive Memberships (23-39) Active Duty • Social Memberships MilitAry Discounts on All MeMberships • Four championship golf courses • Unlimited Golf at all four courses • Unlimited Complimentary PGA golf instruction • Swimming pool & fitness center access • Annual Cart Plan programs with interclub access

We offer surgical care of various body systems, delivering upper endoscopies, lower endoscopies, hernia repair, anti-reflux surgery, dialysis access surgery, bariatric surgery for the treatment of morbid obesity, gallbladder disease treatment, treatment for breast abnormalities and much more. Raymond G. Washington, MD | John M. Fessenden, MD Fabian E. Alzamora, MD | Clayton Steiner, MD David W. Grantham, MD | Willy Chu, MD | Amelia M. Jeyapalan, MD 5 FirstVillage Drive | Pinehurst, NC

910.295.0260

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910.235.CoiN (2646)

Whispering Pines Animal Hospital Compassionate Care for Cherished Pets E. Lyerly, D.V.M • E. Pelkey, D.V.M Wm. McDuffie, D.V.M • D. Hobbs, D.V.M K. Andrews, D.V.M

Call to schedule an appointment!

(910) 949-2111

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July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


Marsha Lunt, Jennifer Seals

SandhillSeen

Jalce Shriner

Carolina Classic Polocrosse Tournament Saturday & Sunday, May 25 & 26, 2013 Photographs by Jeanne Paine

Dr. David Thornton, Retired Brig. Gen. Bob Johnson, Wade Liner

Annie Groner

Mary &Audra Campbell Alec Becher Cole, Jackson Groner, Cooper Fabry

Xxxx

Karissa & Hadley Enfinger, Saralyn & Jamie Maiella Katie Rohan, Crawford Liner, Emily Bohatch

Bob Seals, Len Graddis Riley, Matt & Nicholas Youngerman, Shirley Johnson Nancy & Buddy Turner

Grace Duff, Alanna O’Maille

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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910.215.9666

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Find us on Facebook at: BellaSpa&Nails.NC

July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


SandhillSeen

Diana Meyer, Hugh Hinton, Pidgie Chapman

Michael Lamb Interiors Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Photographs by Jeanne Paine Alice Robbins, Rita & Lynn DiNapoli

Xxxx

Baxter & Taylor Clement

Andy Pellegrino, Ruffles Clement

Mary Schwab, Mary Gozzi, Suzanne Daughtridge Susan Newell, Adair Beutel, JeanRae Hinton

Margaret & Lee White

Marilyn Author, Chris Dalrymple, Jessie Mackay

Colin & Emmy Webster

Jean Rapp, Michael Lamb, Leonard Short

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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July 2013P����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


SandhillSeen

Nancy Blum, Chad Deese, Dick Blum

Dedication Ceremony for Timmel Pavilion on the Meadow in the Village Arboretum Thursday, May 16, 2013 Photographs by Cassie Butler Timpy

Molly Gwinn, Jane Lewis, Emily Hamilton

Lesley Berkshire Bradley, Dick & Sharon Berkshire Jim Lewis, Terry Brown Becky Smith, Cynthia Strickland

Joyce Frank, Parker Hall Alan Stagaard, Tessie Chao

Sybil DelBueno, Colin McKenzie, Don Hamilton

Beth Jenkins, Mary Anne Howard David McNeill, Phil Fulghum

Jean & George Neil, Nancy Geddes, Elizabeth Kimsey

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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TVOE_Pinestraw_July13_Layout 1 6/6/13 10:12 AM Page 1

Making your outlook brighter. Becky Causey. Marti Kennedy and Deb McAdams - Licensed Opticians

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Transformation Studio Vintage furnishings for the modern home

Vintage Furniture | Home Accessories | Specialty Finishing Southern Pines, NC

www.TransformationStudio.com 90

July 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


SandhillSeen

Joan Stoner, Mary Lou Boersig, Mary Rivers

Low Country Boil Fundraiser Monday, May 20, 2013

Photographs by Al & Annette Daniels Craig & Beth Pryor, Bill Kamp

Gen. Sam Walker, Carolyn Malmrose, Vice Admr. Kent Carroll

Dr. John Dempsey, Mary Morris, Becky Smith Nancy Reid, Ruby Sledge

Craig Pryor, B.J. Heins

Meredith Clifton, Tom Boersig Brantley Clifton, Jody Gilmore, Tom Kelly

Joe Kelly, Jim Cleary

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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MOORE COUNTY

FARMERS MARKET Food Demonstration by Rhett Morris of Rhett’s Restaurant Saturday, July 27th 9:30 to 11:30 am

Tomatoes, Strawberries, Fruits, Veggies, Jams, Meats, Flowers & Plants, Baked Goods, Prepared Foods, Crafts, Goat Cheese, Corn, Cantaloupes, Peaches, Blueberries, Watermelons Mondays- FirstHealth (Fitness Center) Facility courtesy of First Health 170 Memorial Dr • Pinehurst 2pm-5:30pm Will be open through October 28th

OpenYearRound•Thursdays- 604W.MorgantonRd (Armory Sports Complex) Facility courtesy of Town of Southern Pines Southern Pines 9am-1pm

Saturdays - Downtown Southern Pines Facility courtesy of Town of Southern Pines Broad St & New York Ave 8am-Noon Will be open through October 26th

Call 947-3752 or 690-9520 for more info hwwebster@embarqmail.com

Websearch: Moore County Farmers Market Local Harvest www.facebook.com/Moore County Farmers Market SNAP Welcomed Here

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T h e A c c i d e n ta l A st r o l o g e r

Saucy July Gemini (May 22-June 21) The wheel may be turning, but the hamster is dead. When the wheel stops, you might wanna try a new plan, my twin. Do that, and Santa’s going to bring you some real good news by Christmas. Knock me down and steal my teeth, darlin’, cause you also got some surprises that have to do with keeping a tight ship and straightening up. Miss A has to ask you, where the heck is “yonder,” anyhow? Cancer (June 22-July 23) Luv water parks, my little crab legs? Ready to get wet-n-wild? Put on your water wings or grab a float. Mid-month, a Grand Water Trine slides slap-dab into Cancer with Neptune and Saturn lining up. This Grand Water Trine is the difference between your worn-out self treading water and being on a slip-and-slide, having a Water Bug Ball. You still have some unfinished business, like it or not, but Astrid foresees some very fun times in the hot sunshine. Leo (July 23-Aug. 23) On the toughest days, you look like a runaway taxi with all the doors open. Are you coming or going? By the Fourth of July, you’ll have fireworks popping like the show at Aberdeen Lake — and you may be wailing for self-medication. Miss A. here is just out of detox for the, um, nth time. Ain’t any legal substance scarier than retail therapy and a MasterCard! That’s right, my little sparkler, cut up the MC and get your shine on some other way, know what I’m saying? Virgo (August 24-Sept. 23) Sweet patooty, there’s a reason you can always get a dinner date: It’s called personal charm. You own the art of the schmooze, and by the 7th, it is downright scary how you can work it, thanks to Jupiter in Virgo. Here’s Astrid’s position: Until the 23rd, go flat out. Anything is possible. Get footloose like Kevin Bacon. Roll with the good times, happy feet, not under them. Libra (Sept. 24-Oct. 23) Sweet pants, you’re the grand master of shoulda-couldawoulda. Never mind. By the 13th, you got a sweet dream all lined up, just waiting for a can’t-miss shot! Honey, you going to be hotter than Tiger Woods when he scored Lindsey Vonn — just grin and take home the gold! Pluto got you calling the shots, in that aw-shucks Libra way that would make Colonel Foghorn Leghorn roll over and shut up! Scorpio (October 23-November 21) By the 12th, the Sun aligns with Neptune for a big ole cosmic Uh-Oh. Except — you can use your stubborn self to make stuff happen. Just hold on, sister, and stock up on Febreze. Whatever hits ain’t much worse than a fart storm at a chili cook off. Things smell better by the 30th. Take the bit in the mouth and just haul destiny out of the ditch. Never forget, you’re that strong, little stinger. That stubborn, too!

Sagittarius (Nov. 23-Dec. 21) Got a pen? Ink in the 4th as a red letter day, as in a day your sweet thang makes you see red and your wild eyes will shoot fire like it’s Armageddon! Stay cool — like the AA bumper sticker says, “One Day at a Time!” The sun in the house of love connections comes on like a Baptist preacher at a summer revival. Sometimes love strains the Sagittarian’s last nerve — but if I’m lying you can butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Remember: ODAT. Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 20) Capricorn dramas can be too twisted for color TV. You want success, and you think nobody else knows? The stink of ambition is rolling off you like after-shave ads in Esquire magazine. Until the 8th, miscommunication starts messing with your plans, thanks to Mercury in retrograde. It won’t let up until the 20th and by then, there ain’t much harmony in the hive. You might just try a little kindness and share the honey if you want happy bees. Astrid’s just saying. Aquarius (Jan. 21-Feb. 19) You ever seen that Canadian astronaut singing in the Space Station, honey? That cool bit of business has got to be an Aquarian. He’s strumming David Bowie while the station’s leaking ammonia — but he’s down with it. You got Leo influences coming in this month that will blow the doors off the barn — or the wings off the Station. You might just try innovating, because there is no better time than this month to just be your bold self. Pisces (Feb. 20-March 20) Here’s how July’s going to fly: Tranny go outta the car? Just a hiccup. House on fire? No biggie. You are super fly this month, and nothing can mess with your harmonic convergence. You see things with special powers, baby. Good golly, you GOT special powers. You got mojo working and you have never been better at leading and rolling with things. The love train is rolling into the station, too. Finesse it! Aries (March 21-April 20) You gripe sometimes when you got a ham under each arm. Try a little patience, hard head. The last half of the month is going to be your kind of month. Rise and shine and hit the gym. This is one of those times when the ram might try focus, instead of world domination. At the end of the day, moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. All that hot ambition can dry your thick hide right out. Taurus (April 21-May 21) It’s rough when you’re buck naked in the pond and lightning’s striking. And it’s even worse when you’re playing water polo with the preacher’s wife. If this is love, then hang in there and just be sure she ain’t your cousin. She might jar your preserves. And if it is the real thing, love makes this month bearable. Otherwise, you’re going to feel more confused than an orphan on Father’s Day. PS For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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July 2013P��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills


July PineNeedler National Hot Dog Month!

ACROSS

1. Wounds with a knife 6. Cashew, e.g. 9. Paradise 13. Daring (slang) 14. ___ Wednesday 15. Quick cook on stovetop 16. HOT DIGGITY DOG! topping 17. Mai ____ 18. HOT DIGGITY DOG! topping 19. German police 21. Lightweight fabric 23. Dined 24. “Laugh-In” segment 25. Taxi 28. Brio 30. Kid’s shoe fastener

Sudoku:

Fill in the grid so every row, every column and every 3x3 box contain the numbers 1-9.

By Mart Dickerson

35. Kuwaiti, e.g. 37. Threesome 39. Betty Ford Clinic specialty 40. Nevada gambling mecca 41. Breathes a sigh of relief 43. Naughty opposite 44. Broadcasting (2 words) 46. Not “fer” 47. Servings at Sly Fox or Dugan’s 48. “Swan Lake,” e.g. 50. Pickup truck amount 52. Anger 53. Zero, at Lawn and Tennis Club 55. ___, my lord, __! (old time disgust) 57. The best, and a favorite, at Nevilles 61. HOT DIGGITY DOG! topping

65. Ta-ta, in Mexico 66. 007, for one 68. Clip, as a sheep 69. Designer Lauren 70. Subatomic particle 71. Spooky 72. “___ bien!” 73. Oolong, for one 74. Shrewdly

Moore CouNty’S NuMber#1

real eState Firm

DOWN

1. E.P.A. concern 2. Strengthen muscles, with “up” 3. X, y or z 4. Flora and fauna 5. Governing body 6. Alliance acronym 7. ___ Today 8. Through ___ and thin 9. English aristocrat 10. Twofold 11. Small case 12. Brings home 15. Ice performer 20. Animal hides 22. Immune disease (abbr.) 24. Snicker 25. Chocolate substitute 26. “Gladiator” setting 27. Trivial 29. Opera highlight 31. _____ Horne, singer 32. HOT DIGGITY DOG! topping 33. Indy entrant 34. Fat 36. Prepare water for tea 38. Its quarter says, “Birthplace of Aviation Pioneers” 42. Big mess, a la WWII 45. HOT DIGGITY DOG! topping 49. Heavy weight 51. Talks bad about, in slang 54. Drop in on 56. Lucy’s best friend 57. Short for market (or composer of this puzzle...) 58. Jewish month 59. Anger, with “up” 60. Spinning toys 61. Mimicking bird 62. Ethereal 63. Commuter line 64. Squirrel nest 67. Edgar Allen ____ Puzzle answers on page 81

Mart Dickerson lives in Southern Pines and would welcome any suggestions from her fellow puzzle masters. She can be reached at martaroonie@gmail.com

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PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2013

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SOUTHWORDS

By GayVin PoWers

Magic dwells in

the hearts of children, and many adults spend their lives recreating that magic from their youth. I know this intimately; it’s the kind of magic that inspires artists. In Lake Oswego, Oregon, I spent an enchanted childhood playing on the lake with the pinnacle of summer being the Fourth of July. Every Independence Day, daylong festivities ended with fireworks exploding a hundred feet from my grandparents’ lakefront. During the day, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree” blared on the record player as my grandparents and their college friends played bridge on the deck, drinking gin and tonics out of dewy cocktail glasses garnished with tiny onions. A cool wind accompanied these sunny days as we grandchildren played King of the Mountain on rafts and sunbathed. Only the scent of barbecue pulled our bellies from the water long enough to devour hamburgers, hot dogs and every sugary soda imaginable. Exhausted by the evening, I’d lie back on the grass that my grandfather meticulously labored over for decades a wool blanket wound tightly against my body, protecting me from the damp Northwest chill as magic took root. In these moments, my brother and I vowed to live on a lake and give our children the same experience. Times change. Years later, the lake house that had been in our family for 86 years was sold, and a house shaped like a massive, wooden shoebox was erected over it. Our grandfather’s lawn was ripped up by mechanical claws. A patch of dirt remained. I grieved the loss. My brother lived in North Carolina and had his own lake house in the Sandhills. I lived in California and longed for family on the Fourth. “Hello, Southern Pines!” Instant affection for the town captured me the first time I drove through it. There was something familiar. Something comfortable. Better yet, there was something magical about the quaint town, surrounding community and friendly people. As Bill Sahadi says, “If Norman Rockwell lived in a town, it would be Southern Pines.”

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That Fourth of July, the fireworks at Woodlake reminded me of Van Gogh’s Starry Night; bright colors lit up the darkness and inspiration took hold. By the end of the fireworks, the magic from my youth was rekindled. I wanted this to be more than an isolated event. I wanted my son to have the magic of my childhood. My sister-in-law had spent years trying to convince me to relocate to North Carolina, but that night was all I needed. I fell in love with a house and bought it. My brother and I were overjoyed that our children would grow up together. While my brother and I were busy making plans, the powers that be had other ideas. After seven years of living in North Carolina, my brother and his family got news that he’d be stationed elsewhere. One week after I arrived, he and his family were doing the hula in Hawaii — for the next three years. This presented quite a dilemma for our first Fourth of July in the Sandhills. Where would my son and I spend our first Independence Day? The Southern air dripped with sweat, humidity stuck to my skin more than the mosquitoes, and I fantasized about the lake shack I almost bought. Not one to let obstacles stop me, I rallied with a new plan. I believe in the old saying that friends are family. A friend revealed to me that she, too, wanted to spend the Fourth on the lake. We decided on Lake Pinehurst. Under azure blue beach umbrellas, my toes curled in the white sand, I watched my son play in the water for hours, conquering sea monsters as he jumped from a raft. It ended only when a sudden thunderstorm made us evacuate. The storm passed and brilliant fireworks played over the Harness Track that night. I closed my eyes, imagining I was back on my grandparents’ lawn. Barbecue and sweet tea filled the air. The laughter of children drowned out the buzzing mosquitoes. The humid Southern air was the only blanket I needed. When I reopened my eyes, curled up next to me was my son. I realized that in each moment we choose either an ordinary life or a magical one. Family is what we make of it. Gratitude washed over me as I took in the many blessings of living in a Norman Rockwell painting. PS Gayvin Powers is an award-winning filmmaker and writing teacher who recently moved to the sandhills.

July 2013 � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

ILLUSTRATION BY MERIDITH MARTENS

Rockwell in the Pines


Purveyor, Buyer & Appraiser Of Fine And Estate Jewellery • Repairs Available 229 Ne Broad Street • Southern Pines, Nc • (910) 692- 0551 • Www.Whitlauter.Com Mother And Daughter Leann And Whitney Parker Look Forward To Welcoming You To Whitlauter.


July PineStraw 2013  
July PineStraw 2013  
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