August 2012 PineStraw by PineStraw Magazine

www.prudentialpinehurst.com

Old Town Pinehurst

"Fownes Cottage" - circa 1913. Stunning historic home on over an acre. Separate Guest Cottage. Text T580799 to 85377

Emily Hewson 910.315.3324

Ampersand Cottage - ca 1914 Quintessential Old Town Cottage, 1st level MBRM suite, 4-4.5, large backporch w/view of Course #2! Text T514437 to 85377

Bettye Marcum 910.603.2686

Donald Ross Area

Dramatic contemporary bathed in natural light. Designer Ktchn, 3BRs, Study, & a Studio. Pool. Text T11629 to 85377

Carol Haney 910.315.5013

CCNC

Antique pine interior, 3BR, 3.5BA, Carolina Room. 3.3 acres, Workshop. Owner/Broker $365,000! Text T385480 to 85377

Joel Rich 910.315.4009

Golf Front Perfection CCNC

Stunning Residence on 12th Hole Cardinal, 5 acres, Pool. Visit: www.clarkproperties.com Text T443720 to 85377

Maureen Clark 910.315.1080

Weymouth Pines

When only the best will do! Designer gourmet ktchn, 5Frplcs, 6BR/5+BA. Pool. $788,000 Text T500819 to 85377

Carol Haney 910.315.5013

Doral Woods

Panoramic Golf Vistas Course 1, 12th Green! Membership Courses 1 thru 7 available. $495,000 Text T566908 to 85377

Eva Toney 910.638.0972

Longleaf CC

www.135HunterTrail.com - Private Setting! 3BR, 2.5BA home in excellent condition! $349,000 Text T389360 to 85377

Frank Sessoms 910.639.3099

Log on to www.prudentialpinehurst.com FOR OUR Easy Search or Snap & Search with our FREE APP on your Smart Phone 910.295.5504 Pinehurst | 910.692.2635 Southern Pines

Horse Country

Luxurious home on 10+acres bordering Walthour Moss Foundation. 4-Paddocks, 8-Stall barn & more. Text T443907 to 85377

Deborah Darby 910.783.5193

It's A Steal in Pinewild

Seller says, "Bring me an offer!" Magnificent Hickman home. Golf Front! 4BR/4+BA. $549,000 Text T568862 to 85377

Pat Koubek 910.692.8520

The Arboretum

www.175WiregrassLane.com - Like New! 3BR, 3BA, many upgrades! Private backyard! $418,000 Test T472936 to 85377

Frank Sessoms 910.639.3099

Southern Pines

Calling all downtown aficionados! Demure exterior with a spacious and gracious interior. $339K Text T443850 to 85377

Mav Hankey 910.603.3589

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August 2012 Volume 7, No. 8

FEATURES

45 As Seen From Inside

an Air-Conditioned SUV Poetry By Deborah Salomon

47 Four-Wheel Love Affair By Cassie Butler

For these vintage car owners, it’s all in the ride

56 Pure Strangeness By Sara King

A Friend of the Family By Deborah Salomon

61 Emu in Love By Shari Smith

64 A Mansion in Miniature By Deborah Salomon

DEPARTMENTS

7 10 13 15

Sweet Tea

19 23

Bookshelf Hitting Home

The Kitchen Garden

Vine Wisdom

The Evolving Species

Out of the Blue

Jim Dodson

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

Dale Nixon

Jan Leitschuh Robyn James

Joyce Reehling

Deborah Salomon

The Godly Art of Michael Lamb Enshrined in Weymouth Cottage

Birdwatch

The Sporting Life

39 43 72 83 93 95 96

71 August Almanac

Susan Campbell

By Noah Salt

Meteor showers, spider flowers and dragonflies. Dog Days are here again

Tom Bryant

Golftown Journal

Lee Pace

Pleasures of Life Dept.

Sundi McLaughlin

Calendar SandhillSeen Thoughts From the Man Shed Geoff Cutler

PineNeedler

Mart Dickerson

SouthWords

Nicole White

COVER PHOTOGRAPH

CASSIE BUTLER ,

Milton Pilson’s 1957 Porsche 356A

PHOTOGRAPH THIS PAGE BY CASSIE BUTLER 2

August 2012 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

The DUXÂŽ Bed can deliver the best nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sleep you will ever experience. Each DUX Bed contains thousands of springs that dynamically support your body, contouring to its natural curves while still maintaining firm support. You wake up refreshed and relaxed. Our artisans have hand crafted each DUX Bed from the finest materials since 1926. Your comfort, our pleasure.

DUXIANA at The Mews Downtown Southern Pines 910.725.1577

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, Photographer/Graphic Designer Kira Schoenfelder, Graphic Designer Ashley Wahl, Editorial Assistant Melissa Tally, Graphic Design Intern EDITORIAL

Deborah Salomon, Staff Writer Stephen E. Smith, Staff Writer Sara King, Proofreader Mary Novitsky, Proofreader CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS

Tim Sayer, John Gessner, Hannah Sharpe CONTRIBUTORS

Cos Barnes, Tom Bryant, Susan Campbell, Geoff Cutler, Mart Dickerson, Robyn James, Pamela Powers January, Sara King, Jan Leitschuh, Sundi McLaughlin, Dale Nixon, Lee Pace, Jeanne Paine, Joyce Reehling, Noah Salt, Shari Smith, Nicole White

PS David Woronoff, Publisher ADVERTISING SALES

Michelle Palladino, Sales Representative 910.691.9657 • mpalladino@pinestrawmag.com Terry Hartsell, 910.693.2513 Kerry Hooper, 910.693.2508 Perry Loflin, 910.693.2514 Peggy Marsh, 910.693.2516 Darlene McNeil-Smith, 910.693.2519 Johnsie Tipton, 910.693.2515 Karen Triplett, 910.693.2510 Pat Taylor, Advertising Director ADVERTISING GRAPHIC DESIGN

Mechelle Butler, Clay Culberson, Scott Yancey, Stacey Yongue

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 2012. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. PineStraw magazine is published by The Pilot LLC

August 2012 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

SweeT TeA chronicleS

Tales of Vacation road BY JIM DODSON

Sometime in middle August, for the first time in

three years, we’re taking a house at the beach for a week.

I know how unexciting that sounds. Everyone goes to the beach in August, sometimes for two or three weeks. But for us this is a big deal. True family vacations are becoming as challenging. Suddenly our kids are grown up and scattering like wild birds in the air. Two have moved to New York City, where daughter has found a job in the advertising world and son beats the pavement looking for his first job as a college grad. Sibling No. 3 — a rising college sophomore — is working for a summer camp in New York this summer, while his younger brother, who is suddenly remarkably almost six feet tall, is the lone child with us this summer. Once the family mascot, but now our budding artist, not-so-little Liam spends his days surfing the Net, Facebooking pals, working out at the FirstHealth Temple of Fitness in Pinehurst, texting his Long Island girlfriend, shooting things with his fancy camera while waiting to get his driver’s license. The last time we tried a family beach gathering in August, it worked reasonably well though ended rather horribly. Two of the four managed to work a full week at Ocean Isle into their busy schedules and a third came down for a couple of days from his college. We rode bikes and ate seafood and watched dumb movies and even dumber TV shows in a rental house that looked as if it had been decorated by Barbie and Ken. We actually didn’t do all that much — that’s the point, right? — then came home on Sunday to find our beloved golden retriever Riley acting strangely owing to a mysterious swelling on his belly. We drove him to the emergency vet clinic on Highway One and discovered that his spleen was full of cancer and in the process of erupting. The vet, a lovely young woman, gave us the option of trying to race Riley to a hospital in Raleigh but mentioned the chances of saving him were woefully slim. Miserable as it was to do, we chose the more humane path. We drove him home, fed him his favorite meal, took a final walk around Weymouth, then all went back with him to the clinic, where we huddled round to say our goodbyes to a fabulous and beloved dog, stroking his head as the painkillers did their job and his sweet eyes eased shut. I still can’t pass that clinic on Highway One without tearing up. So, maybe this half explains why we — well, I — haven’t been in a rush to mount another week at the beach. Crazy as it sounds, part of me, I think, fears going away and returning to face another loss. The other half I write off to modern times and our rapidly thinning nest. The challenge of trying to satisfy three blended families at the holidays and vacation time is no small task and growing tougher by the year. I’ve long thought the French have the right idea about a lot of things, especially summer vacations. They simply shutter up and go away for the entire month of August. They peel off their clothes, drink wine, argue about this and that, send the children out to

play, and don’t shave. And that’s just the women. The men lie idly in the shade drinking pastis or flat beer and dozing over half-read newspapers, murmuring about the decline of civilization. If you happen to be one of those people who like to make fun of the French, you can rest assured that they don’t give a fig what you think. I happen to love the French — their food, their movies, their God-given cultural superiority, even their unshaven women. I only hate their trains in August. Once, long ago, I spent the better part of August knocking around France, wandering the Left Bank and doing all the tourist shrines until I could no longer stand the American tourists complaining how rude the French were and headed for the Mediteranean Sea. I got off a train crowded with pale Parisians at dawn in Cap D’agde, found a modest hotel by the sea and headed straight for the whitest, widest beach I’d ever seen for a morning swim. I swam for an hour in the beautiful bottle green water, then fell asleep on the beach and woke up to find myself completely surrounded by naked people. Somehow I had found the area’s leading plage nue — clothing optional beach — and was suddenly in a French comic film about an uptight American wearing fluorescent orange jams on a beach with two thousand people in their birthday suits. I might as well have been wearing a sandwich board that read: “Forgive my Appalling Modesty. I’m American.” Over the next fortnight I explored ancient Roman ruins in Nimes and found Van Gogh’s yellow house in Arles; I lingered over espresso at Les Deux Garcons, the most famous brasserie in Aix-en-Provence, where Cezanne, Zola and Hemingway used to idle away the heat of the day; and wandered on to Cannes and Nice, winding up a sunburned rube in the casino made famous by James Bond in Monaco, whereupon I turned for Scotland and booked a second-class seat on the train straight back to Paris only to find my seat occupied by a grumpy old man who took one look at me and shrugged indifferently when I showed him my ticket, and went back to his newspaper. The conductor merely shrugged too when I pointed out this. Did I mention that I made this August tour-de-France whilst toting my beloved Hogan golf clubs — the first leg of a planned pilgrimage to golf’s holy land, Scotland — which I managed to stow in an overhead bin next to the filthy loo in an adjacent car? I stood up halfway to Paris before I finally achieved a seat, cursing a French rail system that appeared to be run by anti-American anarchists. At the Gare du Sud, I went to collect my beloved Hogans and found they were gone. Someone had pinched them somewhere between Cannes and Paris. In Edinburgh, I was drinking my approximate body weight in John Courage ale at the bar of a crowded pub just off the Royal Mile when a large, shaggy woman of maybe sixty or seventy years, reading a tattered volume of Lord of the Rings, turned to me and said in her rolling brogue, “Well, dearie. You must be wee bit sad today.” “How’s that?” I asked, since she was basically the first person who’d spoken to me since late July. “Your great loss,” she added somberly. “It’s all over the news.”

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .August 2012

sweet tea chronicles

“You know about my golf clubs?” I was flatly astonished. Had word of my pinched Hogans somehow made the International Herald-Tribune or at least the Edinburgh Evening Standard? “No, lad. I mean Elvis Presley. Your great wiggly singing star. He apparently died while sittin’ on the loo yesterday. America is agog with grief, apparently.” “He did, huh?” I admitted I was no big Elvis fan, which flatly astonished her. Then I explained I was en route to St. Andrews for my first glimpse of the famous Old Course, having planned to play it and wind up my summer of European wandering in grand style. As I was very nearly dead broke, it was to be my last stop before returning home to Greensboro, hoping my editor was still holding my cub reporter’s job open despite the newspaper’s official policy on such matters. The next day I took a train to the Home of Golf and saw the course in a cold downpour of rain. Unable to find clubs to borrow or rent, I merely walked around the entire course watching others play it, had a swell Chinese supper on High Street, then headed to the airport in Glasgow to catch my flight home. When I told this tale of my solitary summer ramble through the capitals of Europe to our children some years ago — back when we were all piled into our huge Ford Excursion called Big Mama and heading for Gettsyburg or Bald Head Island or the roller coasters at Williamsburg — they all thought this was pretty funny and maybe a little bit pathetic. “Dad,” sympathized the oldest, dear Maggie, then about age 10, “why would you take your golf clubs to France?” “Because it had never been done before, honey. I wanted to be the first.” “Don’t they play golf in France?” “They do now — thanks to me and the thieving Frenchman who stole my Hogan clubs. It’s Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables all over again.” For a while, they actually bought this embroidered yarn of the August Vacation Road — which, suddenly, now themselves seem years ago and I find I dearly miss. Gone is beloved Big Mama, and now the kids are grown and doing their own summer things. But despite my complex misgivings and sentimental feelings about August vacations, my wife and I have booked a nice big beach house, and come the third week of this month I’ll be there with my Hogan clubs and a couple of big novels about medieval cathedrals and the life of the Borgias. This year I really do need the time away. Since we have the spare room, we’re hoping someone nice will come to visit. Feel free to drop in and stay a few. My wife will be cooking up a storm and drinking very good wine. I’ll be the unshaven old guy in the shade murmuring about the decline of western civilization, wishing he was on a plage nue in France. PS

nectar, etcetera

You’ve heard of raw honey. But if you’ve never heard of the Honeycutters, or heard the raw, emotionally charged lyrics of lead vocalist Amanda Anne Platt, then you’re in for a sweet surprise. Catch this Asheville-based Americana band perform at First Friday on August 3 from 5 to 8:30 p.m. Food and beverages available for purchase. Free admission. Family-friendly event takes place in the grassy knoll adjacent to the Sunrise Theater, 250 Northwest Broad Street, Southern Pines. Info: www.firstfridaysouthernpines.com. Listen: www.thehoneycutters.com..

Five o’clock Somewhere

Eat, drink and be merry on the third Friday of August (8/17) when the Swing Street Band takes center stage at Pinehurst Live After 5 from 5:30 to 8:30 p.m. Boogie down to the big band sound at no charge; proceeds from food and beverage purchases benefit local nonprofits. Downtown Pinehurst. Info: www.pinehurstbusinessguild.com. Listen: www. swingstreetband.com.

Down on Main Street

The Robbins Farmers Day Festival, which dates back to 1955, holds fast to tradition. But, boy, has it evolved with the times. In 1978, the highlight was a small covered wagon pulled by a chicken. This year, expect one of the largest horse and mule parades on the East Coast. Enjoy country, bluegrass, gospel, and beach music, plus fireworks, arts & crafts, and an antique tractor show. Small fee for rodeo, carnival rides and games. August 2–4. Thursday from 6–9 p.m.; Friday from 6 p.m. – midnight; Saturday from 9 a.m. – midnight. Visit website for complete schedule of events. Middleton Street, downtown Robbins. Info: (910) 464-1290. Info: Robbinsfarmersday.com.

Fine and Dandy

On August 3, an opening reception and awards ceremony for the Arts Council of Moore County’s annual Fine Arts Festival will be held from 6–8 p.m. at Campbell House Galleries. Exhibit features works in various mediums submitted by regional artists. On display through August 31, weekdays from 9 a.m.–5 p.m. Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Avenue, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www. mooreart.org.

Bocce, AKA lawn Bowling

On August 18, experience all the perks of tailgating minus the football at the fifth annual Backyard Bocce Bash to benefit the Sandhills Children’s Center. Games begin at 9:30 a.m. Hot dogs and cold beer available for purchase. Team of Four: $100; VIP Team of Four: $350 (includes courtside tent). Registration deadline: August 13. Pinehurst Harness Track, 200 Beulah Hill Road. Info: (910) 692-3323 or www.backyardbocce.org.

August 2012 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Très á la mode

Ever wondered what dogs dream about? Bellissima Bulldog, a French bulldog with an Italian name, dreams of vintage chapeaus, layered pearls and designer finery. Of course, Queen Bellissima and her best friend, Jean-Claude (a level-headed chocolate lab), are products of local author Teresa Rigsbee’s wild imagination. But her own pets inspired them. Bellissima Bulldog is the first book in a series of adventures featuring the Queen. The illustrations are très á la mode. Luckily, a French/Italian glossary can be found at the back of the book. Available at the Country Bookshop, 140 Northwest Broad Street, Southern Pines.

Delicious and nutritious

Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative’s eight-week fall produce box season begins September 7 and runs until October 27. Seasonal, local produce includes a variety of fresh fruits and veggies — nuts and herbs, too — from some 35 local producers. For membership fees, produce box subscriptions and more information: www. Sandhillsfarm2Table.com or (910) 949-2142.

outside the Fringe Tapas This

Shrimp and grits will be served. As will tapas with Southwestern, Mid-Atlantic and Northwestern flair, plus wines from each region. Take a culinary tour across the country on August 14 from 6–9 p.m. at a “Taste of the States” tapas banquet created by chef Mark Elliott. Tickets: $45. Proceeds benefit Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities in Southern Pines, which is where the banquet will be held. Reservations: Carol at (910) 255-6077.

It’s hot outside. But if there’s cool music, who cares? Cypress Bend Vineyard’s Summer Picnic Concert Series presents the Sand Band (Carolina beach music) on Friday, August 10, at 7 p.m. Muscadine wine available by the glass or bottle. Admission: $20 per car. Bring your shaggin’ shoes — and a blanket if you wish to sprawl out under the stars. Cypress Bend Vineyards, 21904 Riverton Road, Wagram. Info: (910) 369-0411 or www. cypressbendvineyards.com.

The Dude in the Stripes

He’s one-of-a-kind, all right, but not always easy to spot. That’s why finding him continues to be such a thrill. During the month of August, The Country Bookshop will host a Where’s Waldo? scavenger hunt in downtown Southern Pines inspired by the national “Find Waldo Local” event that was sponsored by Candlewick Publishers last month in celebration of Waldo’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Beginning August 1, the elusive lad in red-and-white stripes will be hiding out in 20 local shops. Spot him and receive an “I Found Waldo” card from each shopkeeper. Collect ten cards, bring them to the bookshop and enter for a chance to win Where’s Waldo? books and more. The Country Bookshop, 140 Northwest Broad Street, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211 or www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

Looking for more Waldo fun? Spot him in the pages of this month’s PineStraw. Tally up the number of times you see him, and then visit www.pinestrawmag.com to see if you found the 20 hiding spots. PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . August 2012

C o s a n d E f f ect

Royal Affection

How do you want to retire?

By Cos Barnes

Lots of us recently watched and enjoyed the pageantry of Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee, the 60th anniversary of her coronation.

How quickly time passes, I thought, not for the first time. The queen probably thought that too. As it happens, I watched the coronation in 1952 on a small black-andwhite television set in the infirmary of Westhampton College of the University of Richmond. How I got there, I can’t remember; feigned a sore throat, perhaps, although it seems I was an invited guest with no illness attached. At that time there were only two television sets on the campus, the other in the refectory — a word so out-of-date, I had to look it up to see if it still meant what it did sixty years ago. How I treasure seeing Elizabeth still on the throne. Sentimentality is a characteristic of old age, and I have a bad case. I loved an email I received recently showing Queen Elizabeth with all our U.S. presidents during her reign. I was proud of each president, and proud I remembered them all. Now I will quickly tell you two little Virginia stories. In 1957, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, visited Virginia to commemorate the 350th anniversary of the first permanent English settlement in Jamestown, Virginia, in 1607. Thomas B. Stanley was the governor and also owner of Stanley Furniture Company in Stanleytown, Virginia. The workers in his plant made doll furniture for Queen Elizabeth’s children, then only Princess Anne and Prince Charles. The furniture was called “Tanbark,” and it was a modern correlated dining room and bedroom grouping, which was a miniature replica of a suite produced by the plant at that time. They entertained the Queen Mother royally. She dined on Virginia ham, breast of pheasant, cream of peanut soup, and ice cream and cake. I still wonder how “Tanbark” looked in Windsor Castle, and if the children played with it. My Uncle Ben, who was a skilled carpenter, moved his family from Martinsville, Virginia, in the early years of World War II to Norfolk to work in the shipyards. He and other craftsmen reproduced the tool chest of Capt. John Smith, for presentation in 1957 at the Jamestown Festival. It was a gigantic task. They had to reconstruct an intricate lock and the complicated hand-worked and fitted mortise joints from photographs of the original. Poplar was the wood chosen because of its strength, workability and similarity in grain to the original. Each joint was hand-cut and fit section by section. Reproducing the iron work was difficult as it had been altered by more than 350 years of time. While visiting Jamestown recently I hunted for Captain John’s chest and was told by the archivist it was stored in Yorktown waiting for the big museum which will open in 2015. PS Cos Barnes is a longtime contributor to PineStraw magazine. She can be contacted at cosbarnes@nc.rr.com.

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

August 2012

PINEWILD CC

SOUTHERN PINES

FAIRWOODS ON 7

Gorgeous golf front on Pinewildâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Magnolia course. Oversized Andersen windows, spacious screened porch, wide moldings and hardwood floors. Beautiful landscaping. 4 BR / 3.5 BA $475,000

This wonderful townhouse on two levels has beautiful golf views of Longleaf CC. The master suite is on the main level and has a private bath. The kitchen has granite counters and a breakfast nook. 3 BR / 3 BA $244,900

Gorgeous new construction with beautiful long views of the 8th hole and driving range. Elegant, open floor plan with high-end kitchen. Lovely screened porch for dining or relaxing. 3 BR / 3.5 BA $525,000

PINEWILD CC

7 LAKES WEST

VILLAS AT FOREST HILLS/PINEHURST

Immaculate and well maintained brick home! Wonderful space with 4 bedrooms and 4 full baths plus a bonus room that would be a great office or workout room. Perfect house for entertaining out of town golfing buddies! 4 BR / 4BA $398,000

This charming one-story home has an open floorplan and is nestled at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac for privacy! Floor plan offers a split bedroom plan, vaulted living room with fireplace, screened porch and more! 3 BR / 2 BA $229,000

This elegant townhome has every imaginable upgrade! High ceilings, soaring windows, lots of hardwood, deep crown moldings, and gourmet kitchen with all upgraded appliances. 3 BR / 2.5 BA $345,000

PINEBLUFF

PINEWILD CC

7 LAKES NORTH

Lovely home with an open floor plan, gourmet kitchen, wide covered balconies on both floors, upstairs media room. Fabulous swimming pool w/pool house has his and hers bathrooms with showers and also a full-sized tennis court! 3 BR / 2.5 BA $289,000

This beautiful all-brick custom home is located on the 6th hole of the Azalea Course at Pinewild CC. Lots of open spaces and windows capture the outstanding views. Immaculately maintained mature landscaping. 3 BR / 2.5 BA $349,000

This lovely custom built brick home has wide water views of Lake Sequoia. Great floorplan includes a charming family room and a kitchen and breakfast room that overlook the lake. In super condition! 3 BR / 2.5 BA $209,900

PINEHURST

WEST END

This open, contemporary brick and cedar home overlooks the #5 course. The home has 10' ceilings, exposed beams, wet bar, oversized windows, and has a secluded side porch. Expansive deck and great landscaping! 3 BR / 2.5 BA $244,000

Beautiful all brick home with the much sought-after open floor plan with split bedrooms! Hardwood floors, cathedral and trey ceilings, granite countertops, private backyard with spacious deck. 3 BR / 2.5 BA $299,000

Move back in time with this lovely farmhouse nestled on over 4 acres of wooded land. This one has it all - pond, spacious outbuildings, great location just minutes from Pinehurst/Southern Pines. Very special spot! 3 BR / 2 BA $275,000

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www.24BedfordCircle.com

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www.45ShadowCreekCourt.com

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View Floor Plans and Virtual Tours of Our Listings and See ALL Moore County Listings and Community Information at 14

WWW.MARTHAGENTRY.COM

ThE omnivoRouS REAdER

Boy, Lost and found This meticulously detailed account of the famous Bobby dunbar case takes readers on a tantalizing journey

By sTePHen e. sMITH

in August 1912, an

Opelousas, Louisiana, couple, Lessie and Percy Dunbar, and their 4-yearold son, Bobby, vacationed at Swayze Lake in nearby Landry Parish. On the afternoon of the 23rd, Bobby wandered away from his parents and into a bayou populated with alligators, thus initiating an eight-month statewide search that led to the apprehension of William Cantwell Walters, an itinerant organ and piano repairman/tuner who was thought to have been traveling through Landry Parish at the time of Bobby’s disappearance. Accompanying Walters was a boy of the approximate age and general description of the missing Dunbar child, and despite Walters’ claim that the boy in his charge was Charles Bruce Anderson, the son of Julia Anderson of Robeson County, North Carolina, he was held on suspicion of kidnapping and the child was placed in the custody of the Dunbars. What followed was a series of legal and journalistic convolutions that will test the credulity of the most patient reader. Tal McThenia and Margaret Dunbar Cutright’s A Case for Solomon is a meticulously researched and soundly written history of the much-publicized Bobby Dunbar case. McThenia, who presented the radio documentary

“The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar” to NPR audiences in 2008, has collaborated with Margaret Dunbar Cutright, a North Carolina resident and the granddaughter of Bobby Dunbar, to unravel this complex and often incongruous tale of happenstance and human frailty. Much of the confusion surrounding the Dunbar case is attributable to media coverage. Louisiana and Mississippi newspapers followed Bobby’s disappearance and recovery in minute detail, piling one sensational piece of misinformation upon another. When the child was returned to Lessie, one paper reported that he cried “Mother!” Competing papers claimed that the boy immediately rejected Lessie and that she was unable to make a positive identification. Distinguishing marks, most prominently a burn scar on the child’s big toe and a mole behind one ear, were offered as proof that the boy was Bobby Dunbar, but not long after Lessie had confirmed her identification, Julia Anderson arrived to claim the child, although she was also reticent about making a positive identification. Anderson was a single mother — she’d been jailed briefly in Robeson County for refusing to identify her child’s father to a magistrate — and as such was the object of derision among the audience that followed the everevolving story. An editorial in the State suggested that the boy’s true identity was of no matter since Julia was undeserving of custody. As the case progressed, competition among regional newspapers grew more intense. The Dunbar case was exactly what was needed to increase circulation and advertising. Headlines such as “‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, BABY SPEAK TO ME!’ CHILD DOESN’T RECOGNIZE HIS MOTHER” blared above the masthead in many of the papers. Blatant misreporting and rampant gossip molded public opinion, which at first favored the Dunbars’ claim on the child and then Anderson’s. After much haggling, the boy identified as Bobby Dunbar returned to Opelousas and a joyous homecoming parade. Walters was charged with kidnapping. To further complicate this complex tale, witnesses testified under oath they’d seen other “tramps” and boys roaming the countryside when the Dunbar child went missing and that these vagrants bore no resemblance to

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . August 2012

T h e O m n i v o r o u s R ea d er

Walters or the child accompanying him. Walters meticulously retraced his movements during the time the Dunbar child was missing, and he presented witnesses and testimonials as to his whereabouts on the day of the child’s disappearance. Many of these witnesses identified the child as Bruce Anderson. The trial was a sensation — that year’s “trial of the century” — and each session brought another bizarre twist. Overflow audiences crowded into the courtroom, and order was difficult to maintain. The child, whoever he was, frolicked about the room, using it as a playground. Defense attorney Edward Dubuisson came closest to the truth in his final argument: “There are times, he said, when a mother’s identification becomes poorest of all; times when an idea has become an obsession and the wish is father to the thought.” But the prosecution was playing to a hometown audience, and Julia had no chance of recovering the child. Walters was found guilty of kidnapping and carted off to prison, but the verdict was eventually overturned. He went free after serving only two years, and for the remainder of his life, he maintained his innocence. Julia Anderson settled in Poplarville, Mississippi, married and gave birth to seven more children. She became a nurse and midwife and helped found a local church. The child known as Bobby Dunbar grew up, married, raised a family and died in 1966, leaving his parental origins a mystery, even to himself. But in 2004, Bob Dunbar Jr. consented to a DNA test, which proved conclusively that he was not related by blood to his assumed cousin, the son of Alonzo Dunbar, the younger brother of Bobby Dunbar Sr. What became of the child who wandered into the bayou will likely remain a mystery. To assist readers in identifying the principal players in the Dunbar case — over 32 individuals were intimately involved — the authors have wisely included a list of characters. Maps of North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Mississippi and Louisiana allow the reader to trace the movement of Walters, Anderson and the Dunbars during the course of the narrative. And readers familiar with the NPR documentary will find McThenia and Cutright’s storytelling compelling and the story beautifully paced. A Case for Solomon is irresistible. It does what all rewarding nonfiction should do: It takes the reader on a fascinating and informative journey. It also raises serious questions about the role of media in shaping public opinion. More importantly, it sets the record straight. 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.

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

August 2012

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August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

BooKShELf

new Releases for August By THe CoUnTry BooKsHoP

FICTION IN THE SHADOW OF THE BANYAN by Vaddey Ratner. “Ratner’s remarkable debut novel transforms her childhood experiences living through the horrors of the Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia into the finest of literary fiction. The story is narrated by the precocious Raami, whose privileged life is shattered when soldiers ravage Phnom Penh and send her aristocratic family to work camps in the countryside. The powerful writing sweeps you along like the broad Mekong River through the years of heartbreaking loss, hard labor, and starvation, and yet somehow, like Raami, you emerge from the book sobered, but with spirit unbroken. A powerful testament to the tenacity of love and family in the face of unspeakable inhumanity.” — � Caitlin Caulfield, Odyssey Bookshop SPYCATCHER by Matthew Dunn. Will Cochrane is a deadly field officer who must infiltrate a secret Russian base and decode a message mysteriously sent to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Spycatcher is action packed and Dunn the best new thriller writer on the market — perhaps because author Matthew Dunn is a former MI6 special operations officer who has conducted over seventy successful missions all over the world in any kind of deployment one can think of. Great read. SILVER: RETURN TO TREASURE ISLAND by Andrew Motion. Sir Motion, the poet laureate of the United Kingdom, spent 10 years writing a novel that brings Treasure Island back in full force. Twenty years after the original book ends, Jim Hawkins runs an inn with his son on the English coast and Long John Silver and his daughter live in obscurity . . . until the next generation decide to steal their fathers’ maps and return to Treasure Island to recover the treasure their fathers left behind. THE INN AT ROSE HARBOR by Debbie Macomber. The first book in a new series by Debbie Macomber. We return to Cedar Cove, a small Pacific Northwestern town, where we meet the first guests at a mysterious newcomer’s new bed and breakfast. CITY OF WOMEN by David R. Gillham. Berlin has turned in to a City of Women in 1943 and Sigrid Schroeder’s husband is at the war front. While she seems to be a perfect war wife, Schroeder is busy missing her Jewish lover. Soon she has to make a choice that may cost her everything as she finds herself hiding a Jewish woman and two daughters (who she believes may be her lover’s family). THE CARE AND HANDLING OF ROSES WITH THORNS by Margaret Dilloway. Galilee Garner needs a kidney transplant. At 31, single, and teaching science in a private school, she breeds roses for pleasure. Dialysis every other day

and her roses keep her life busy and organized. Then her 15-year-old niece shows up at school needing a place to live and turns Galilee’s life upside down. No longer able to think only of herself, she must come to terms with her responsibilities, and eventually realizes that change is inevitable, and could even be for the best. THE MEMORY THIEF by Emily Colin. This debut author from Wilmington, North Carolina has written a novel full of loss, memories and love. Madeleine Kimble, a young mother, loses her husband to a climbing accident on Mount Everest. Devastated, her husband’s climbing buddy and best friend suffers from survivor guilt and the fact he has loved Madeleine for years. Meanwhile, a man wakes from a motorcycle accident haunted by dreams of a young mother and her son. Fans of Kristin Hannah and Nicholas Sparks will love this.

NON-FICTION BLUE WATER, GREEN SKIPPER by Stuart Woods. This is that Stuart Woods, the one you are thinking of — the thriller writer and New York Times best-selling big-time author. This book is different. Non-fiction with a new afterward, this book is his memoir of a 1976 sailor’s transatlantic journey. Not to be missed. A CASE FOR SOLOMON: BOBBY DUNBAR AND THE KIDNAPPING THAT HAUNTED A NATION by Margaret Dunbar Cutright and Tal McThenia. Fouryear-old Bobby Dunbar went missing from a wealthy Louisiana family in 1912. After a child was found in the care of a piano tuner, both the Dunbar family and a destitute North Carolina woman claim the boy. The piano tuner was charged with kidnapping, and the story becomes even more complicated. CODE TALKER: THE FIRST AND ONLY MEMOIR BY ONE OF THE ORIGINAL NAVAJO CODE TALKERS OF WWII by Chester Nez and Judith Schiess Avila. Now in paperback, this extraordinary story is from a man still alive today. In World War II, the Japanese were able to crack every code devised by the U.S.A. — until Chestesr Nez overcame his brutal childhood treatment by the U.S. government (in the schools designed to rid Native Americans of their culture) and helped America use a code that could not be cracked. HELLO GOODBYE HELLO: A CIRCLE OF 101 REMARKABLE MEETINGS by Craig Brown. This book chronicles one hundred and one meetings — all true but read like fiction. What happened when Igor Stravinsky met Walt Disney, or when Frank Lloyd Wright met Marilyn Monroe? Would you have liked to be a fly on the wall when Martha Graham met Madonna? Learn about these meetings in this entertaining read.

BooKShELf

CHILDREN AND YOUNG ADULT THE SCREAM TEAM: WEREWOLF AT HOME PLATE by Bill Doyle. Werewolves, Zombies, Mummies, Vampires; each monster family has its own team in the local town baseball league, but what happens when someone is cut from a team and still wants to play? They form their own team: The Scream team. This new chapter book series is already proving to be a favorite among young readers. Ages 7-9.

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DOLL TRAVEL by American Girl Publishing. Girls can now take their favorite American Girl doll on the trip of a lifetime with this fun new kit containing a doll-sized passport, international maps, airline tickets, playing cards, a how-to book and a duffel bag just the right size to carry it all. SUMMER AT FORSAKEN LAKE by Michael Beil. Twelve year-old Nicholas is not thrilled to be spending the summer in the country with his twin sisters. But when, on the first day of vacation, he meets a girl who throws the fastest curveball he has ever faced, is promised sailing lessons from his Great Uncle Nick and discovers a long lost treasure of his father’s, he quickly decides it may just be the most exciting summer of his life. Ages 9-12. WRECK THIS JOURNAL by Keri Smith. Rub it with dirt, drag by a string, write one word over and over and over, use its pages to make a paper airplane, fill one page with circles and infuse another with a favorite scent. In other words, wreck this journal. Dedicated to perfectionists everywhere, this outrageous journal is fun for all ages. RUSH FOR THE GOLD by John Feinstein. Just in time for the summer Olympics comes the sixth book in this exciting sports mystery series. After reporting on the Final Four, World Series, U.S. Open, Super Bowl and the Army Navy game, teen sports writer Stevie Thomas finally has the opportunity to cover the story of his best friend, Susan Carol Anderson, as she swims toward a spot on the Olympic swim team. But will he be able to protect her from everyone else who wants the scoop on her rise to success? Ages 12-16.

hiTTing hoME

Weejun girl Owing to a daddy with a heart of gold, I fi nally got mine

By DaLe niXon

Jim dodson, editor of PineStraw, doesn’t

know it, but he is one of my heroes. Each month when I read “Sweet Tea Chronicles,” I always ask myself — why can’t I write like that? I love the way he writes. I have even read his best-selling golf books, and I don’t give a dang about golf or the men who play it.

I keep meaning to send him an email about how much I enjoy his work, but this writer would be intimidated about sending that writer the written word. So, please don’t think I’m trying to copy Jim’s recent column on Nettleton loafers. There is no copying Jim. It’s just that I have a story about loafers, and I will just have to tell it in my own simple way. Like Jim, when I was in the tenth grade, everybody in my high school wore a particular loafer. They were Weejuns. Some were penny style; some were tassels; and in my sophomoric mind, everybody owned a pair except me. I have no idea how much they cost because I knew the purchase of them was out of the question for me. There were no luxuries in our house. We were lucky to have a house. After-school jobs went toward necessities only. And Weejuns were not a necessity. My shoes came from Belk department store. I owned a black pair and a brown pair, and they were the style and size that was on sale. In addition to a lack of funds, I wore a freaky sized 8 AAAA shoe. The only store in our area that sold that size shoe was an exclusive store in downtown Charlotte called Montaldo’s. My family would come closer to going to a foreign country than they would to go shopping there. Their prices were higher

than a department store and they even charged extra for a narrow shoe. So instead of the coveted loafers, I always wore shoes that were too wide. I’d squeeze my toes together and scrunch them close to the sole when I walked so they would stay on my narrow, narrow feet. I never walked fast or ran because I was afraid I’d lose a shoe. Mother cut inserts out of cardboard, and I tried to wear thick socks, but I could not comfortably keep my shoes on my feet. One day, running late to school, I raced to the bus stop and dropped a shoe. Before I could go back to get it, a car ran over and pulverized my too wide shoe. I hobbled back home and begged my mother and daddy for a new pair of shoes. Perhaps Weejuns this time. I cried, and they lectured. They reminded me that I had a brother and sister with needs and wants. I cried, and they said the loafers were too extravagant. I cried, and they said, “No.” Several months later, Daddy presented me with a new pair of shoes. They were deep red, penny-style loafers, size 8 AAAA. Weejuns. He had gone to Montaldo’s and bought them himself. Daddy did not have a pocket of gold, but he did have a heart of gold. The loafers were my pride and joy. I kept them polished and buffed and wore them with every article of clothing whether they went with them or not. Like Jim Dodson, I wore the loafers for years, had them resoled and got several sets of leather heels. I don’t know where Daddy got the money for the Weejun loafers any more than I know where Jim Dodson gets the words for his writings. It’s just nice to have all kinds of heroes in my life. PS Columnist Dale Nixon may be contacted at dalenixon@carolina.rr.com.

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August 2012

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August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

The kitchen garden

Watermelon Magic

The summer’s traditional melon is also the most versatile treat from the garden

By Jan Leitschuh

Ever hear of watermel-

Photograph by cassie butler

on jam? Me either. Intriguing though, isn’t it? A jam made from pink water? The bottled essence of summer, I’d expect, to those who can pull it off.

It would solve a useful problem — what to do with a big old watermelon, once everyone has had their three juicy Sunday slices outside on the deck and the children have been banished to the lawn sprinkler to rinse off the sticky juice and spit seeds at each other and there’s still a good half a watermelon left and no room in the refrigerator to speak of. An Internet search turned up several easy jam and jelly recipes, all calling for “five cups of watermelon” more or less — problem solved! Watermelons are excellent now, and have been for several weeks. Besides the huge oblong classic — pink-fleshed and choc-o-block full of black seeds, too large to really fit in all but the most empty refrigerator — there are plenty of smaller “icebox” watermelons such as “Sugar Baby” or “Imagination” available in the area, a size more suitable for a typical family’s appliances. Watermelons come in seedless varieties, with yellow flesh, orange flesh, white flesh and blazing red flesh. There are delicious heirloom varieties, such as the strikingly marked “Moon and Stars,” also available from time to time in local markets. Somehow, it doesn’t quite feel like summer without a slice. But after that slice, then what? A cut melon must be refrigerated, or disposed of. Actually, with a little ingenuity, it’s not too hard to dispense with leftover watermelon once we start to think outside the rind. Juicing or blending is a fast method of space reduction; use as a base for a healthy summer drink or cold fruit soup. Freeze the blendings, add a stick and you have healthy fruit Popsicles for the kids. Add a little appropriate spirit, say tequila, rum or vodka, a squeeze of lime, and one has the makings of a summer adult beverage begging for a little umbrella and a bit of shady leisure. Freeze that, stirring frequently, and you have a grownup sorbet or granita. The rind of watermelon can be marinated, pickled or candied. If a dehydrator is handy, dried watermelon is incredible. It tastes like watermelon candy. Considering a watermelon is 90 percent water, the process does demand a bit of time and patience. However, an oven will work as well, if you prop the door open a bit and set the drained pieces on a wire rack. Use the lowest oven setting and dry about 12 hours, flip and dry another good chunk of time — until the pieces snap when bent. If they are sticky, they’re not yet dry enough. Did you know you can grill watermelon? The smoky sweetness makes a splendid counterpoint to summer cheeses, especially with a bit of chopped mint

or basil tossed atop. Or serve it for dessert, drizzled with a blueberry-lemon sauce. To grill, carve slabs a little over an inch thick, cut off the rind and salt down, allowing melon to drain for 20 minutes. Brush with olive oil and grill for several minutes over a goodly heat until the grill marks appear. How do you know when it’s ripe? This is tricky, even for the experienced. A dull thump is what the experienced listen for — if you thump periodically during the growing season, you’ll notice when the sound changes. Also, the contrast between the stripes fades, the surface dulls and the pale spot where the melon rested on the ground will turn yellowish. Once picked, a melon does not get any sweeter. Watermelon is not only great on a hot summer day, it’s actually good for you. The pink flesh is packed with some of the most powerful antioxidants in nature, including beta carotene and the carotenoid lycopene. These elements help soothe the inflammation that ages us, destroys the linings of our blood vessels, irritates the delicate tissues of our lungs and roughs up the surfaces of our joints. Full of vitamin C, as you might expect, watermelon’s also a surprisingly good source of potassium, important for regulating blood pressure, among many other things. And you thought it was just pink water? This summer, however, when faced with leftover melon, I plan to try the intriguing watermelon jam. Below is the recipe I plan to try. Let me know if you try it too.

Watermelon Jam

Makes about 1 cup of jam and takes approximately 45 minutes. Watermelon (appr. 2 lbs or 900 gms, without the rind and hard seeds) Sugar (around 3 Tbs, I plan to try stevia) Cinnamon (a couple of pinches) Lime juice from half a lime Cut the watermelon flesh into small chunks. Mix cinnamon with sugar. You can vary the sugar and cinnamon quantity as per your taste. Simmer the fruit, sugar mixture and lime juice. The fruit will start breaking down. There is no need to add water as the water from the watermelon is sufficient. Keep stirring as the mixture thickens and use a ladle to mash the chunks. When the mixture has reached the consistency of a jam, take it off heat and use a hand blender or a regular blender to grind it to the desired consistency. Return to heat and simmer for about 5 more minutes. Let cool and refrigerate. Serve on toast. The jam will stay fresh for about 10 days. PS Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.

August 2012

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iscover a whole new dining experience at the

Ryder Cup Lounge located just off the porch of the historic Carolina Hotel. From the BBQ Pork Two Ways to the Pretzel Panini, our menu is as unique as Pinehurst itself.

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Sunday brunch

purchase of one entrée. *

The Carolina Hotel • Village of Pinehurst, North Carolina • 910.235.8415 • pinehurst.com August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

* Limit one appetizer per table.

Vine Wisdom

Paradise Journal

A trip to Italy; fabled wineries can be unforgettable

By Robyn James

I had the good fortune

to secure a spot on a trip to Italy sponsored by an excellent wine importer. It was the perfect trip for me, just an intimate group of 35 other retailers, brokers and restaurateurs bitten with a passion for wine.

Nobody ever wants to travel with me because, forget shopping or sightseeing, I just want to visit the vineyards and talk to the families that are creating the magic we all love to embrace. I had visited Italy in the past with my mom and my dad, who was in the airline business, but I was far below the legal drinking age, so this was my first exploration into the wine country. In my store, we have always had a lot of customers who stop by to tell us about their vineyard trips throughout the world, but now I understand the glow on the faces of those who visit Italy. This country is breathtakingly beautiful and is far and away such a “perfect storm” for wine grapes that they literally grow wild into the roads. The topography, the climate, everything is exquisitely coordinated for growing the thousands of different grape varieties in this country. Italy is such an incredibly complex subject when it comes to wine that the night before I took my Master Sommelier exam I studied only one subject: Italy. We were now participating in a cram course of Italian viticulture in ten days, and our first stop out of Rome was the region of Puglia, the heel of the boot of Italy. Here we visited the Rivera Estate where we learned that Puglia is similar to California in terms of the large number of grape varieties that are allowed to be planted there. For centuries the red grapes that have flourished in this area are the affordable montepulciano, nero di troia, aglianico and primitivo. The wineries are adept at blending and new generations of winemakers are experimenting successfully with white grapes: chardonnay and sauvignon. Our next stop was the stunning region of Marche, perched on the Adriatic Sea. We called upon Umani Ronchi, widely considered the leading wine producer in Le Marche. Gambero Rosso, the wine Bible of Italy, describes Umani Ronchi as “the ambassador of Le Marche, making elegant and qualitative wines that are modern yet classic.” Verdicchio is their white

answer to New World sauvignon blanc; it’s lovely with aromas of very ripe lemons and hints of flowers. Full-bodied, with exotic fruit flavors such as mango and papaya. On we went to Italy’s Holy Grail of the wine country: Tuscany. We ventured to the chianti classico region to tour Vignamaggio, the birthplace of Mona Lisa. In Tuscany, sangiovese is king but law also permits cabernet sauvignon and merlot to hold court in the blends. This is home to some of the finest wines in the world, not only chianti and chianti classico, but the regions of Montalcino and Brunello Di Montalcino produce world class collector’s selections. Giovanni Antinori chose his home place of Tuscany to launch the concept of the “Super Tuscans,” wines that rival the great growths of Bordeaux, France, in quality. In Tuscany, we visited the Palazzo Estate, a stunningly beautiful place whose winery dates back to the 17th century. We were introduced to four generations of the Loia family who live there, living proof that winemaking can be the glue of the destiny of the family. The town of Montalcino is home to the family’s 30 acres, producing world class Brunello Di Montalcino from 100 percent sangiovese and aged in barrels for 36 months before release. Gorgeous, velvety wines with beautiful tannic structure for aging. Our last foray into wine country carried us to the Piedmont region of Italy, a complete departure from Tuscany. Here is the home of nebbiolo, the primary red grape of the Piedmont producing the massive, hard barolos and the slightly more feminine barbarescos. We visited the Mazone vineyards in the town of Monforte d’Alba in the Langhe hills, where they make gorgeous barolos as well as the more accessible, fruity barbera d’alba and dolcetto d’alba. This estate also has great history, founded in 1925 and currently run by the family’s third generation. The Wine Spectator says, “Mazone’s vineyards are among the highest in the region, and as a result his wines show unusually delicate, often ethereal personalities. A small producer who does magic with nebbiolo.” And a magical trip it was, one I highly recommend to anyone with even a remote interest in wine! Just stay about three times as long as I did! PS Robyn James is proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at winecellar@pinehurst.net.

August 2012

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August 2012 � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

T h E E V o LV i n g S P E c i E S

Swimming with the Tarts it ain’t easy being well-suited these days

By Joyce R eehLinG

Even though

summer has nearly expired, may we please talk about a very touchy subject? I mean, of course, women’s swimsuits.

There is no more terrifying garment once one passes the age of, well, either 16 or 40. At 16 you are feeling pretty chipper unless you have been made to feel too thin, too fat, too dark, too light, too tall, too short, too rich (is one ever?) or too poor. Yes, girls do not get much of a break when it comes to feeling good in our society in a swim suit. Now that the Kardashianization of America is well under way it is no longer enough to cover your body in order to swim. Now you have to be not covering much, try to look like a busty and curvaceous woman who seems to live the life of both a celebrity and just this side of a woman of easy virtue. Whatever happened to just going swimming? Pity those of us who, as years go up and estrogen goes down, have put on some or a lot of weight. Our hope to look good, let alone like a celeb, has slipped considerably lower than the moles now working their way around my yard. Embracing this phase of life is not easy but even if one does, it is undone come summer swim season. Oh yes, now you can buy one top that fits your top and a bottom to fit your bottom, but that does nothing for the fear and loathing we feel as we try to figure out how one’s bust has shrunk while one’s bottom has grown. Yes, it sure is fun to write down those numbers. It was not long ago when women wore what amounted to bloomers with caps, stockings and shoes to go “bathing”; emerging from bath wagons where one got to shed one’s corset and petticoats and stockings and long sleeved blouse and long skirt, shoes or boots, hat and gloves. There is something to be said for being able to actually wear something that is unlikely to drag you down and drown you. But have we treated woman any better by going to the extreme of modesty to swimming tarts? I have to admit that there was a time when getting into a nice one-piece was not the worst thing that could happen to me. In my younger and slimmer days I did not have to fear being called a beached whale. But I am not sure that I knew that then. Like all kinds of fashion, this being the most unkind, I was never as thin as the thinnest girl there and never as pretty as the prettiest girl there . . . Wherever there was. Now, along with the scramble to feel just decent about ourselves, we have the celebrity/tart issue. Where did we go so wrong that our leap from the Bloomer Suit to the Tart Suit bypassed the desire within feminism to find our good feelings about ourselves and some semblance of dignity and

charm? I know, I know, I am sounding like your old aunt from Oshkosh, but honestly, every summer it seems to get worse. Young girls are objectified in life earlier and earlier. I mean Juicy written on their butts? Really? Short shorts that now are so short that they resemble belts? Come on, people, these are your daughters, for Pete’s sake! Recently in New York I was stunned by the level of poor taste in general dressing in midtown Manhattan. Some were wearing pajamas, PAJAMAS, people! They were going to see the sites, going to the theater and they were just barely out of bed! And these were often the parents. But I digress. Swimsuits fit right into this general trend toward the “follow the lemmings off the fashion cliff” part of our culture. I cannot blame the kids, even if they are teens; they do not know enough of life to know they look like idiots or sluts (oops, I used the word I avoided in the second paragraph), but the adults should. The adults who design them, the adults who make them, the adults who sell them and the adults who have the kids who are wearing them. Sure, women of “a certain age” are likely to feel anxious about their bodies unless they are swimmers and runners and healthy beyond the norm . . . but I can live with that. What I am having trouble with is that we are raising girls and boys whose view of women’s bodies is so seedy and unrealistic. Oh, yeah, the boys now expect that life is filled with women who only want to dress and behave like tarts. I know many of you think you are raising kids to think differently, but the moment they have Juicy on their butts or skimpy swimsuits not really right for a little girl to wear, you have undone all the good work your think you are doing. There is nothing as lasting as the feedback you get in a swim suit, boy or girl. Managing our morals and expectations is a daily grind, and trust me, you can throw all the amendments you want into the state or federal constitutions but nothing, nothing tells us who we really are quite like how we dress our kids and how much we want to be their best friends and not their parents. Swimsuits. It is not my favorite time of year but I am 63. I worry about the girls who are 10, 14, 16, 21 and on and on who are, as I write this, being told they are not thin enough, young enough, tall enough, light enough, tan enough, black enough, rich enough or pretty enough . . . what you will notice is no one ever cares how smart they are, just what size they are. Summer, a chance to strike a blow for real beauty: a nice bathing suit and some praise of her brains. PS Joyce Reehling is a frequent contributor to PineStraw.

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o u t o f t h e bl u e

My Bucket List A good one will tell you all about yourself

By Deborah Salomon

Bucket lists took hold fol-

lowing the 2007 film starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.

People began selecting their own do-before-I die preferences, sort of a Make-a-Wish Foundation for grown-ups. Most leaned toward unlikely encounters typical of people in touch with their inner child. Except AARPers don’t want Disney World. They want the Taj Mahal. After reading a few, I decided that an honest bucket list is a pretty good personality gauge, like the old “Who, throughout history, would you invite for lunch?” Maybe these should be questions on job applications, or replace the ink-blot test. I’m not interested in the Taj Mahal (too hot, too far, too crowded), or Victoria Falls. I don’t want to swim with dolphins or eat at every bistro reviewed in the New Yorker or skydive. Everest looks good enough in IMAX. Bucket lists encourage abject selfishness. This is not the place to channel world peace or a cancer cure. Some possible entries have already happened, for which I give thanks. I went one-on-one with a sitting U.S. president. I woke up after surgery for a suspected quickly fatal cancer to “just a benign fibroid.” I ran several 30Ks (18.6 miles) in decent time. And have eaten at least three meals with Julia Child. What’s left? Before I kick the bucket . . . I want to ascend the peak of a high mountain and not have to ski down the black diamond trails — or take the return gondola. Tinkerbell might be of service here. I want to hold my grandsons again as babies instead of getting in the car with one of them behind the wheel. I want to experience a summer where the temperature never goes above 78 degrees and blankets are required at night. Likewise, a winter when 45 degrees is the daytime average. I think that’s called Camelot. I’m not a car person, but oh, for a short spin in an 8-cylinder job with velvet power steering. I dearly love my cat Lucky, but I want him to predecease me, peacefully and of natural causes, by a day. I want to watch Duke win the Final Four every year. (Please, be gentle.)

I want to tell a story with the artistry of Truman Capote, or at least Stephen King. I want to eat fresh pompano in Florida and bluefish in Boston and lobster rolls in Maine occasionally, and Starbucks coffee ice cream every day. I want a gas stove and the world’s biggest refrigerator, maybe with five doors. I want to spend a month on the Outer Banks. Doesn’t have to be summer. January’s fine. I want to fly first class on Air France to Paris. Definitely go back to college, study practical stuff like economics and computer science. I’d like to tell my mother she was right about all those things. I want to watch a new season of The Sopranos. I want to sleep whenever and wherever. Sleep is a greatly underrated pleasure. I want to win the super lottery, then give away the money because I don’t need it, having made enough myself, which would require inventing a breakthrough electronic device. Where are you, Tinkerbell? Now about that make-believe lunch: My invitees would be Queen Elizabeth II, Elvis, Anne Frank, perennial favorite Thomas Jefferson (for the backstory on Sally Hemmings), Colin Powell, E.T. and Tom Selleck. Should somebody decline I’d plug in Jackie O (not for the obvious reasons) or Jacques Cousteau. I want to plan, prepare and serve the food. Expect fried chicken, real rice with fried chicken cream gravy, real Caesar salad with anchovies and a raw egg, Chinese potstickers, just-picked corn, ripe honeydew and coconut layer cake made with hand-grated fresh coconut. Our beverages: a bitingly dry St. Emilion (which does not “go” with chicken) and real lemonade. The danger is my guests might be so busy eating, conversation would lag. Maybe I should just have Adam, Eve, Charles Darwin, Jane Goodall and apple pie. Make your own list. Let it all hang out. The list will tell us who you are. Really. PS Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

August 2012

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

B IRD WA T CH

Mourning Dove

One of the most common birds of the Sandhills, with a plaintive secret song

By Susan Campbell

The beauty of doves is often taken

for granted. They are numerous, perhaps even abundant, everywhere we look. Their cryptic coloration and still habits make them easy to overlook. Mourning doves are the most familiar of the group in the Sandhills. Of course, we also have plenty of rock doves (aka pigeons) here as well. However, it is the mourning dove that deserves our attention.

The species has a sleek, medium-sized light brown body and wings that are splotched with black. It also has a small head, a pale bluish crown and eye-ring as well as a long wedge-shaped tail that is edged in white. At close range, a rosy sheen can be seen on the breast feathers of the males. The mourning doveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name originates from its plaintive song. The hooting quality of the notes has been known to fool people into thinking they are hearing an owl. By late summer doves are flocking in large numbers, in and around big fields. They feed busily on the ground, swallowing a variety of seeds as they fatten up prior to migration. All doves will consume large amounts of whole seeds in their crop and then perch in a safe spot to digest. Where and how far they may fly depends on weather and food availability. Most do not move long distances but rather seek out areas that will hold a diversity of grains for weeks at a time. Flocks of hundreds of birds can be found perched on wires or in snags adjacent to good

foraging habitat. Young of the year blend in well with the adults very soon after fledging stage. Their tails may not be quite as long nor will their heads be as distinctly patterned, but these are field marks that are only visible at very close range. Three to five clutches of two is not unexpected in a season. With a moderate climate here in North Carolina, especially along our coast, mourning doves have been found breeding in every month of the year. There is no better time for individual mourning doves to seek safety in numbers than early September. Labor Day weekend marks the beginning of hunting season and doves are the first on the calendar. Their robust population handles the harvest nationwide. This is at least in part due to their fast and erratic flight behavior, which makes the birds a challenging target. Dove hunting has a rich cultural history here in the South. It is a time to bond with family and friends, enjoy the waning days of summer afield and perhaps even bring home enough plump breasts for a hearty meal. Scouting out the right spot is the key. Hunters will survey different known locations looking for the best variety of seed-bearing cover crops, strategic perching sites and hopefully at least a few doves hanging around. For those who do not have access to suitable private land for hunting doves, both Fort Bragg and the State Game Lands offer opportunities. Both manage habitat specifically for mourning doves year-round. But, even if you do not hunt, take some time out and seek these attractive birds: No binoculars are required! PS Susan would love to receive your wildlife observations and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com, by phone at (910) 949-3207 or by mail at 144 Pine Ridge Drive, Whispering Pines, NC 28327.

August 2012

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

Life at the Farm

Nestled between two rivers, the Pee Dee and the Rocky, Fork Farm is a sportsman’s paradise By Tom Bryant

It’s a little idiosyncrasy I’ve

developed over the forty years I’ve spent in the newspaper and magazine industry. It seems as if I’m always early. If I have an appointment at nine o’clock, I’m there at quarter till. If I’m to pick you up to go duck hunting at 4:30 a.m., you’d better be looking for me at 4.

I’ve read in a couple of psychology books that people who are always early have some kind of insecurity complex, but I firmly disagree with that hypothesis. In my case, being early is just a symptom of excitement, sort of like getting up early Christmas morning to see what Santa brought. Without a doubt, it has been more of a positive than a negative in my life. And it worked for me again, when I visited The Fork Farm and Stables a few weeks ago. I had heard of The Fork Farm and what a great outdoor shooting preserve it is from several friends who had visited, toured the property and shot sporting clays. So, long ago I put the farm on my list of places to see and perhaps to write about. My little habit of arriving early paid off again as I got to the farm about thirty minutes before my appointment with the property’s owner, Jim Cogdell. Well, I thought as I pulled up to the gate, I’ll just ride around the place on my own. The Fork is just as I had pictured it. Fortunately for all of us, there are still some places in our great region of the South that are jaw-dropping beautiful; and thankfully I’ve been able, in my outdoor career, to see a bunch of them. Places like Boone Hall Plantation close to Charleston, the Harwell Plantation in Mars Bluff with Black Creek flowing through it, Fore Oaks Plantation in the same area, and the Orton Plantation close to Wilmington. These fantastic man-made creations are what make our part of the country so beautifully different, and The Fork Farm rates high on that list. When I rolled through the gates and followed the curves of the wide gravel road, I came upon a small brick house with an office sign. Well, I thought, I’d better stop and let the folks know I’m here before somebody thinks I’m trespassing. When I opened the door, two Labrador retrievers and a frisky little Jack Russell greeted me. It gets better and better, I thought. A pretty lady dressed in jeans and boots came out of the hallway and I introduced myself. “Why yes, I knew you were coming. Jim is still in a meeting at the Common and will be through in a while. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll let him know

you’re here. My name is Bernadette. I talked to you on the phone the other day.” Bernadette is Jim Cogdell’s wife and, as I found out, a big cog in the horse side of the farm’s operations. “Since I’m early, why don’t you tell me a little about the farm,” I said, “that is, if you’ve got the time.” Being early pays off again, I thought, more information and from a pretty lady at that. “You can tell by the accent, I’m from Ireland. I’m also a big lover of horses, and before Jim and I got married, I had my own horse farm outside of Columbia, South Carolina. When Jim bought The Fork, it was a natural for me to run the stables and put together the trials. Our equestrian team for the Olympics does some of their training here. As a matter of fact, my daughter, Sinead Halpin, is in training for the team.” I asked Bernadette about the farm’s horse trials, and she did her best to explain to me how their one big trial of the year works. “It’s an international CIC horse trial, and last year we hosted over 350 competitors from across the country. It’s amazing to see, and I encourage you to come this year and watch. We’ve also developed a contest for another trial that combines the best riders with the best shooters. We call that event Shooting for the Stars. It’s tons of fun.” When I inquired about the equestrian facilities, she said, “In a few minutes you can follow me up to the barn. I’ll show you to the barn dining room and get Jim for you. The barn kind of speaks for itself.” And it sure enough did. I drove right behind Bernadette as we wound our way around pastures and fields, pulling up to a huge 12-stall horse barn. “Here we are,” she said as she stepped out of her Land Rover. “Rebecca Howard manages the barn and is our horse trainer. She’s from England and has been with us for five years. Unfortunately, though, she is going home this year. We will miss her tremendously. I’ll round up Jim for you. Make yourself at home.” And she hurried off. The barn dining room, or gathering place, was right out of a Hemingway novel. A big bull elk mount was hanging over the entrance to the sitting area and was flanked along the other walls with mounts of ducks, turkeys, deer and ancient duck decoys. To the left were French doors that opened to a deck rising over a big pond that overlooked the river. Needless to say, I was impressed. I walked out on the deck, sat down at a big outdoor dining table and reflected on the history of this beautiful fork in the confluence of two rivers, the Pee Dee and the Rocky. Indians from the Siouan and Pee Dee tribes were the first to use the area in the 1700s. In 1748, a family by the name of Colson purchased tracts of land with the fork of the river supporting an inn, or ordinary, where lodging was available to travelers. It is even said that George

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Washington spent a night or two at the Colson’s ordinary. I thought I heard a car pull up at the east end of the barn, so I went back in to be greeted by Jim Cogdell. Jim looks exactly the way I had pictured an owner of a place as magnificent as The Fork. Tall, with a mane of silver white hair, Jim was dressed to work on the farm, as he said, with jeans, a denim shirt and comfortable clogs. We shook hands and got down to business. When I asked how he ended up at The Fork, he replied, “I was living down in the low country of South Carolina at Brays Island. Now, I’ve got nothing against the low country, but the alligators never go to sleep down there. Plus it’s so hot in the summer, our bird dogs had a time dodging the snakes. So I made up my mind to hunt for a place closer to a temperate zone where we would have the best of all seasons, and after a couple years, I found The Fork. If you noticed coming in, the farm is shouldered right up against the Uwharries, one of the oldest mountain ranges in the country; and located as it is between two rivers, the weather here is always conducive to outdoor sports. I imagine Bernadette told you about our equestrian facilities.” “She did a great job with that. I understand that y’all are heading to the Outer Banks to celebrate your anniversary.” “Yep, we’re leaving this afternoon right after you and I finish our conversation. Did you get to ride around the farm?” he asked. “I did. It’s beautiful and really looks as if it’s a working farm.” “We’re trying to do it all here, Tom. Everything a shotgun enthusiast would want, including a 12-station large gauge course, a 7-station small gauge course, a covered five stand and a four person twelve trap, 65-foot tower/flurry. Oh, by the way, the British designer John Higgins designed our shooting courses. “There are fifteen weeks of quail hunting with birds that you can’t distinguish from wild ones and eleven weeks of duck hunting using our blinds on the Pee Dee in a river setting like you’ve never seen before. “A visitor has over 1,600 acres and 38 miles of trails, great for bird watchers or anyone who wants to visit our bed and breakfast and just have a restful stroll around the property. Or better yet, you can ride a horse here for six hours and still see only a third of the property. Last year, we were awarded Conservationist of the Year by the Soil and Water Board.” It was easy to tell that this farm was Jim’s life. His eyes lit up as he was talking. “It’s the kids I’m excited about,” he said. “We have student shooting out here, and we teach wildlife habitat to all the youngsters. We’re trying to get kids away from all the television and video games and show them what really counts, and that’s the beauty of nature. And it’s working. I’m on the board of the Wildlife Federation, working with Gordon Meyers, the executive director.” I mentioned Nat Harris, an old friend of mine, who I knew was active with the Wildlife Resources Commission, and Jim smiled. “He is one fine gentleman,” he said. “He and I have been able to really make a difference where youngsters and wildlife are concerned. “Well, Tom, I’m going to have to leave. We have a long drive this evening. Bernadette is packing now. Come back this winter and do some duck hunting. I guarantee you a great time.” The next day, as I was working on this story, I called Gordon Myers at the Wildlife Resources Commission to see what he had to say about Cogdell. “Jim has been a commissioner for a relatively short time but has added so much to our organization,” he said. I then called my friend Nat Harris. “Tom, I’ve served as a commissioner for ten years, and Jim is one of the most dedicated members I’ve had the opportunity to work with.” All in all, it seems as if the folks at The Fork Farm are doing everything right. I can certainly understand Jim Cogdell’s parting comment as he was walking me to my car. “Tom,” he said, “this is my last walkabout, the end of the rainbow for me.” PS Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

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A Son of Pinehurst

U.S. Open Champion Webb Simpson on his love of the Sandhills

1995 photograph taken at Mid Pines. Webb Simpson is on the front row, second from left, white shorts and striped shirt. Also in the photograph are current PGA Tour players D.J. Trahan (back row, second from left) and James Driscoll (middle row, far right). By Lee Pace

As the final strokes of the 2012 U.S.

Open were being waged on a foggy and creaky old hill in San Francisco in June, eyeballs in Pinehurst were glued to television sets, excited phone calls were exchanged, hurried text messages were whizzing about. If Webb Simpson is not officially a son of Pinehurst, he’s definitely a kissin’ cousin.

When Simpson made par on the seventy-second hole at the Olympic Club with a delicate chip from the cabbage and a nervy four-foot putt, Country Club of North Carolina director of golf Jeff Dotson remembered a similar up-anddown Simpson made to win to the Southern Amateur five years earlier. He short-sided himself on the par-5 18th of CCNC’s Dogwood Course, lobbed the ball from a gnarly lie and rolled in a six-footer to win one of amateur golf’s most prestigious titles by a slender stroke. Such precision around the greens is happenstance with Simpson. Sam and Debbie Simpson have been members of CCNC since the late 1980s, and Dotson remembers frequent weekends and summer days on the family’s visits from their Raleigh home as young Webb spent hour after hour around the shortgame practice area at the club. “He spent as much time practicing as he did playing,” Dotson says. “Even at that age, he had a sense of how important the short game was — that it would bail you out when your ball-striking was off and allow you to take advantage of your good ball-striking days.” Pinehurst Country Club member Ron Crow, a leader of the club’s volunteer forces for its annual amateur tournaments and special events, remembered the late Fred Webb, the octogenarian maternal grandfather of Webb Simpson, who visited Pinehurst each summer from 2005-07 to watch Webb in the North and South Amateur. “He was such a pleasure to see every July,” Crow says. “He could not have been more excited to watch his grandson play. He was so proud of Webb. He’s

since passed away, and I couldn’t help but think when Webb won the U.S. Open how much pleasure his grandfather would have gotten. When Webb turned pro and shot a good score, I’d get a phone call from Mr. Webb — ‘Did you see Webb shot 3-under?’” Don Padgett, Pinehurst’s chief operating officer, had spent the week at Olympic on official business; his club is a scant two years out from its 2014 Open return engagement. Padgett returned home late Friday and watched the Open on television on Sunday. No stranger to the pressures of dealing with the slick greens, onerous rough and the pressures of the national championship — he shot a 77 in the third round of the 1977 U.S. Open at Southern Hills — Padgett thought Simpson had positioned himself perfectly: At no point did Simpson actually strike a shot while in sole possession of the lead. “He was on no one’s radar,” Padgett said. “They didn’t show him on TV until the 10th hole Sunday and then the last three holes. He posted a score and let everyone come back to him. I was so happy for him. What a great young man. He’s so humble. Of all the talented young guys out there today, he’s probably got the world in as good a perspective as you can have it.” Simpson was born in 1985 and started playing golf at age 8 by following his dad to the range to hit balls. He loved it from the beginning and grew up playing at Carolina Country Club in Raleigh and CCNC, the family bunking at their townhouse near the Holly Inn in the village on their retreats to the Sandhills. “CCNC is probably my favorite place in the whole world,” Simpson says. “I’ve always loved the courses. The back nine of the Dogwood are probably the prettiest nine holes in the state. The finishing holes there along the lake are really special. The whole atmosphere is just hard to beat. “I’ve been in love with Pinehurst my whole life,” he adds. “I love getting down there, knocking around the village and enjoying the atmosphere of the place. I’ve always loved going to Pinehurst. A lot of times in middle school and high school, my dad and I would go away for the weekend or just the day, or I’d go play golf with my friends. I have a lot of great memories in Pinehurst.” Simpson was 10 years old when he won his age group in the Mid Pines Junior Invitational; also collecting trophies in that 1995 competition were future PGA Tour players D.J. Trahan and James Driscoll. He was 14 when he served as a standard-bearer in the 1999 Open at Pinehurst. He walked the first and second

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G o l f t o w n J o u r n al

rounds with Tom Watson and Aussie Stephen Allan. “It was awesome; it was cool to be inside the ropes, walking the course, seeing these great players up close,” Simpson says. “I remember how smart they were and how they made decisions that, at a young age, I would never have considered. I was blown away by how well they drove the ball also.” Five years later, Simpson was a senior at Broughton High in Raleigh and led his team to the North Carolina State High School Championship being held on Pinehurst Nos. 2 and 4. Simpson won the individual title and Broughton won the team championship. Then in 2007, Simpson carded a remarkable 27 on the front nine of CCNC’s Dogwood course in a practice round for the Southern Amateur — all 3s on his card with two eagles on the par-5s, five birdies on the par-4s and two pars on the par-3s. A few days later, he won the Southern Amateur for the second time, cementing his place in the company of golf greats like Bobby Jones, Billy Joe Patton, Lanny Wadkins, Vinny Giles and Justin Leonard as multiple winners. “That was a great win,” Simpson says. “I felt like God really blessed me. I had my dad on the bag three of four rounds and William Kane, my best friend, the other. There were friends and family from Raleigh watching. It was pretty cool. To have your name on that trophy with all those great players is special.” Simpson turned pro after his senior year at Wake Forest in 2008, just missing the chance to play in the U.S. Amateur on No. 2. “Will I point toward 2014?” he said in 2008. “Absolutely. I tried to qualify for the ’05 Open but missed. To play the Open in ’14 would be awesome. I’ll still come to Pinehurst as often as I can, depending on my schedule. But I’ll definitely always have that Open in the back of my mind.” Simpson was true to his word four years later, escaping to the Sandhills the week before the U.S. Open with a group of buddies to play golf on two of his favorite area courses — CCNC and Mid Pines. “I love going down to Pinehurst and that was my pre-U.S. Open warm-up,” he said. “I worked hard early in the week but once I got to Pinehurst, it was all fun and games. We had tons of laughs, and we grilled out every night. For me to get with my buddies and get my mind away from golf and the U.S. Open was the best thing I could do. I showed up at the Open more refreshed and rested than most people. We were joking about how that’s got to be a yearly thing now.” One nice thing with the championship at Olympic: Simpson is qualified for the 2014 Open on No. 2. PS Lee Pace provides a behind-the-scenes look at the restoration of Pinehurst No. 2 in his new book, The Golden Age of Pinehurst, available early this fall. PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

August 2012

P L E A S u r E S o f L i f E d E P T�

Tackle Box and Me

She’s old� She rattles� But golly, how i love her By sunDi mcL auGhLin

i have had to face

PhotograPh by cassie butler

an ugly truth this week. I am a car cavewoman.

My car, which I diplomatically refer to as “Tackle Box,” because it sounds like you are inside a tackle box, hails from the faraway year 2000. The car rattles and knocks, and in the summer when I have to use the AC, an unholy screeching can be heard from miles away. I have taken Tackle Box in for her scheduled checkups and oil changes, but after working on her for more than a decade the mechanics are kind enough not to point out the obvious: The car needs to be put down. So with a little bit of nudging from my husband, I set out on a grand adventure to find a new car. I was not at all prepared for what I discovered. The first problem I needed to overcome is my only true car love: a 1972 Dodge Charger. With that car as my standard, all others seem to fall short. Not to worry, my husband assured me, there are tons of great cars out there, and the right one is just waiting for me to give it a test drive. My first test drive was in a BMW, M series 335i coupe. I never had a chance — it was like a lamb being led to the slaughter. As I opened the door and breathed in that heady new car scent of luxurious leather, new carpet, a hint of rubber, and what I can only guess to be male pheromones, I fell under a dark and mysterious spell. I might as well have been in a space shuttle, such was the disparity between Tackle Box and this, this space buggy. As I dazedly took a seat in the cockpit the interior lit up with the most beautiful blues and reds. A computer screen of all things powered on and asked me if I would like to call someone, listen to Internet radio, find a destination, or search my hard drive of stored music. The leather seat seemed sculpted just for me by some beautifully talented German in a land far, far away. Did you know keys no longer exist? My husband assures me, yes everyone knows this but me, but seriously — no key? The car salesman spoke to me as if I were a slow-witted paste eater: “Push the FOB into the ignition switch, yes, good like that, next press the break, uh-huh that’s it, now press the start button. Look at that, you did it . . .” and so it went for the rest of the day; me sitting in futuristic hover crafts with the droning of a salesman disgusted by my naiveté. Can’t say that I blame him. The car seemed to purr as it came to life, very different from the undeniable distress call every time Tackle Box awakens from her mighty slumber. The salesman stifled an eye roll and assured me in fact, the car had indeed started. For the life of me I don’t know why he trusted me to drive the thing off the lot. Surely you need a degree in engineering, a 16-hour training course, or your own personal assistant to understand all of the intricate details, buttons and knobs this car has to offer. Surely he saw what I drove onto the lot with and understood how grossly unprepared I was to be behind the wheel of such an

engineering marvel. However, after a copy of my driver’s license was made I was handed the key — no, not a key, a nonkey, and we were off. I have to say it was a joy, I forgot driving could be a fun experience, rather than something one simply has to endure to get to your desired destination. I felt myself slowly caving in to the possibility that my days of being a holdout were truly over. As we rounded back in to the dealership I handed over the non-key and thanked the frustrated salesman for his time. Taking this particular car for my first test drive in nearly a decade was, in retrospect, a mistake. Not wanting to squander an afternoon, however, we continued our research. Next we drove a diesel Volkswagen Touareg. It was fun, well designed, with a cool sunroof that started in the front and ended well behind the backseat. We sat in Volvos (smoker), not a chance, Audi (hatchback), no thank you, another Volkswagen (ehh), a Subaru (I don’t think I eat enough granola to qualify), a Jeep (dented door), some sort of Chrysler convertible (I’ve learned my lesson with convertibles), and on and on until the day became a blur of opening and closing of doors. Getting back into Tackle Box after sitting in a variety of different Batmobiles all day proved challenging. The noises of our old car seemed magnified and, for once, I was struck with a regrettable feeling of embarrassment and tasted the bitter pill of envy. We drove out of the dealership parking lot with only the knocking, pinging and screeching to interrupt our contemplative silence. By the end of the day we were exhausted and ready for food, a stiff drink and a healthy debate about cars. However, as we headed home a new set of uneasy questions began to emerge. I’m not sure if I’m a BMW person or a Toyota person or a Volkswagen person. Do I really need a mini computer in my car, heated seats, a hard drive, WiFi or a seat with a memory? At what point is it too much? As sexy as all of the cars were, are they as sexy as a car that is paid in full like old Tackle Box? Will I become bored with the knowledge that I will more than likely get to my desired location without the drama of the steering wheel locking up or the engine seizing as I blaze down the highway? Or what about the familiar knocks and pings that keep a healthy rhythm as I jam out to my awesome Billy Idol cassette tape, which I fast forward or rewind to find my favorite song? What new car can compare with all of that heart-pounding excitement? I know the day is drawing near when our old girl will have to be put down, and as much as I complain about that old car, she has seen us through countless moves, a few vacations and gotten us to our destinations an impressive 60 percent of the time. The only answer that I hear over and over again is the siren song of that elusive ’72 Charger. PS Sundi McLaughlin is a frequent contributor to the magazine.

August 2012

You’ll fi nd more than 50 of the best brands here, including one you can’t find anywhere else. Adidas • Peter Millar • Sport Haley • Tail • Tehama • Puma • Titleist • Tommy Bahama • Under Armour • FootJoy • Straight Down Pinehurst Collection • SDI • Zero • Maui Jim • Oakley • Brighton • Dooney & Burke • Putterboy Collection • Vera Bradley • Isda Cole Haan • Lilly Pulitzer • Iliac • Aveda • La Bella Donna • J. Lindeberg • Ashworth • Oxford • Polo • Ashworth • Adidas • Ahead American Needle • Bobby Jones • Callaway • Cutter & Buck • EP Pro • Fairway & Greene Gear • Greg Norman • Imperial • Nike

The Pinehurst Shops are full of shirts, shoes, jackets, spa products, bags, gifts and accessories from brands like Vera Bradley, Adidas, Nike, Peter Millar and Cole Haan. So come in and find your favorites. Village of Pinehurst, North Carolina • 910. 235.8154 • pinehurst.com

August 2012 As Seen From Inside an Air-Conditioned SUV August is a thing here You can almost touch it … Ouch. Father sun, whose mission is to grow Now kills his flower children. The greens of spring Have grayed to dust And withered fruit upon the vine No rain to quench its thirst Shrivels. Or else in downpour drowns. No wonder folks move slower In the South. The grannies, dressed in flowered cotton frocks Rock back and forth upon the wooden porch And wave their cardboard Jesus fans That hardly stir, so thick the air. As minutes pass the lemonade, Its tinkling ice against the glass Becomes a toddy. Bemoan this cycle not too much. Endure for just a little while Because the sun, Falls lower, lower Now impotent, scorch no more. August is a thing here A demon’s burning breath Gasping last. Rock. And drink. Fan. And wait.

— Deborah Salomon

August 2012

Get Ready For The US Open

Easy walk to the famous Pinehurst #2 and Historic Village ~ BOXWOOD COURT ~ Circa 1905, Restored 2005, 5 Bedrooms, Master Bedroom 20’x30’ with fireplace, 5 Baths, 3 Powder Rooms, Office/Library, 8 Fireplaces, Garden House, 2-car Enclosed Garage, Carriage House (4-car Garage), and PCC Membership.

Approx 10,000 sf., 2.6 Acres • $2,600,000

Will consider smaller house or investment property in trade.

Owner - 910.255.4113 • eden@nc.rr.com

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Four -Wheel love Affair For these vintage car owners, it’s all in the ride

earning how to drive a stick at 10 years old on a 1955 military jeep was an invigorating challenge — a staple memory of my childhood. Much of those memories still hold true to my adult life. Then and now, every Fourth of July, we get out the red jeep, which is now green but the name goes unchanged, and we drive to Aberdeen Lake to watch the fireworks with the top off and no doors or seat belts. We take it for a spin to get ice cream, this time with our Boykin spaniel on our laps rather than a German shepherd in the back. My parents are recreational antique car owners, and I’m a recreational antique car freeloader. Owning an antique car is one thing, but owning and driving that antique car nearly every day of the week — without air conditioning — is another. If you’re an early riser, you’re probably used to seeing a pair of vintage VW bugs parked outside Java Bean. Their owners, Bob Carhuff of Aberdeen and John Gagan of Southern Pines, call themselves “wanna-be hippies,” as they are actually military men who met in Japan in the ’50s. Both owned VWs in the past, and that’s their favorite part about their bugs — the nostalgia. Favorite memory? None that you could print, they say. “It’s fun but you miss all the modern amenities. It’s sort of like riding a motorcycle,” says Gagan. “It gets bumpy after a while.” Gagan never puts his top up on his blue convertible, so if it’s raining, you won’t see him driving around, but Carhuff drives his almost every day. He’s put 22,000 miles on it since he got it three years ago. Gagan’s ’72 bug has never been restored, Bob’s ’63 has. In Cameron, Calvin Cornelius owns a handful of antique cars, but his 6cylinder ’66 GMC Handi-Bus is his favorite everyday car. “It drives good and it’s good on gas,” he says with a straight face. “People are always tootin’ their horns — beep, beep! — and kids are crazy about it.” That’s really the response of nearly every antique car owner; they enjoy the attention their cars get. But Calvin’s Handi-Bus is truly unique, and anyone can see why it draws a lot of attention. On top of being red, it has graffiti painted all over it. “It was first green,” says Cornelius, as he begins the story of his Handi-Bus’ evolution. When New Yorkbased artist David Ellis began an artistic collective called “the barnstormers” in his hometown of Cameron, the group of New York-and Tokyo-based artists found unlikely friendship with the locals, who gave permission to the artists to paint graffiti-style art on old tobacco barns. Cornelius was one of these unlikely friendships that formed. “Earl was letting them paint his barn and I was teasin’ him, ‘Reckon they’ll paint my van?’ And so I dropped it off and came back to pick it up.” Each image on the van has a meaning, including the tiger painted on the front, which was Cornelius’ high school mascot in Carthage. Also in Cameron, Bill Thomason owns a rare two-tone Regal Orchid/ Misty Orchid ’56 Dodge Custom Royal. The model, La Femme, French for “the woman,” was only on the market for two years as it was an attempt to gain a foothold in the women’s automobile market. The option to bump the hardtop Lancer to a La Femme model was $143. On the back of the front seats, a tailored compartment holds a rain coat, rain cap and umbrella, which of course coordinate with the interior. The year prior even came with a purse outfitted with a face-powder compact, lipstick case, cigarette case, comb and other feminine accessories. Thomason opens up the umbrella, which is in perfect condition, as he tells me he’s got everything — the IBM card, original umbrella, rain coat and rain cap, and that he’s never trailered it and has gone to antique car shows and parades for nearly 30 years. “I just like the rarity of it,” Thomason says. And

Story and Photographs By Cassie Butler

rare it is — Dodge dropped the 1957 La Femme and did not revisit the concept. Research suggests that less than 2,500 were made over the two-year period. Twenty-one-year-old Hazen Warlick of Whispering Pines has a story much like mine. He has inherited his mother’s ’77 teal Bronco, “Sheila,” and nearly every memory of his childhood connects to it. “I remember getting dropped off at preschool in it. I went kicking and screaming. We lived in Nantucket Island until I was 6, and the island is only 7 miles wide and 14 miles long, so it only has 76,000 miles on it.” It’s been through the snowy winters of Nantucket, and Warlick says he’s never taken off the top, but says it’s his next step. He’d like to get a roll bar put in and install a soft top. One man waited all night for him to get off work from the Sunrise Theater and offered to buy his Bronco, “but I won’t sell it,” says Warlick. “It just has so many memories — my only memories of Nantucket. I remember listening to Neil Young while driving down the cobblestone main street. There’s holes in the speakers and I’d put my fingers in the holes and my dad would say, ‘What are you doing?!’” Soon Warlick will be off to UNC Charlotte, and he’ll have to leave Sheila behind, but he’ll be back for her. Barry Bennett of Southern Pines drives a Chesapeake Blue 1961 Ford Falcon. Tink is its name, dubbed by the previous owner, who said that’s the sound it makes when it’s cooling off, an original 6-cylinder with a modern five speed. Bennett’s favorite thing about it: He loves the attention it gets. Second favorite thing, “It’s just fun to drive — it’s simple.” He’s owned three or four Falcons before, but he joined the Falcon club in Charlotte even before he owned one. This man clearly has a thing for Falcons. Milton Pilson of Vass drives a 1962 VW Karmann Ghia to his business, Nature’s Own and 195, several times a week. He parks it out back — the beautiful lavender antique car on display like a work of art. The original owner paid $1,800 for it, plus $50 for the whitewall tires. She was a spy for the U.S. and after she died, she left her car to her best friend, who kept it in a garage until Pilson bought it about ten years ago. He put a new top on it and painted it the original color, which is his favorite part about the car. He keeps his driving cap nearby to shade the sun while he cruises back and forth from Vass to Southern Pines. In Carthage, Amy Allen cruises around in her automotive“dream come true,” a teal and white 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air. She’s been fascinated with classic cars since childhood. “They’re just such beautiful pieces of metal sculpture. I’ve always felt like they’re rolling works of art,” she says with a grin. With her heart set on buying a classic VW, Allen went to a classic car dealership in Lillington about a year ago. “It was such an impulse buy,” she says. “I turned the corner and she just screamed to me — it’s such a girl car, isn’t it?” Indeed it is; her aunt even says it’s like riding in a jewel box. Allen’s put 5,000 miles on it in the past year. “It doesn’t matter who it is — young, old. People are drawn to it.” Her favorite memory might be when she rode to the top of Morrow Mountain in it. “It’s almost like driving a covered wagon, it’s exhausting,” but don’t take that as a complaint. “When I drive it, I just smile.” You could say Allen’s got a thing for antiques — she plays bass in a band called Cabin Fever, where they practice in her boyfriend’s 100-year-old log cabin, and among her collection of bass guitars, she owns a ’75 Fender jazz bass. I’m thinkin’ I might need to go to Lillington myself, buy me a pretty antique car and start a band with my boyfriend. But for now, I’ll just keep my eyes peeled for the vintage beauties around town, a much cheaper option for me. PS

August 2012

“I had a Harley. You get to liking the feeling of the wind in your hair, but as you get older you also like having four wheels under you. I got my bug first, then Bob (right) saw one on eBay and bought his.”

John Gagan ‘72 VW Bug, 31,000 mi

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

“I saw all these little bugs running around in Germany and I thought, I gotta get one of those.”

Bob Carhuff ‘63 VW Bug, 50,000 mi

August 2012

“I told the guy to paint it just like they did the tobacco barn. Three days later, I went and picked it up and then dropped it off at Cameron Elementary School so the kids and teachers could look at it. Everywhere I go people want me to stop so they can take pictures.”

Calvin Cornelius ‘66 GMC Handi -Bus, 114,000 mi

“I’ve got a lot of pickin’ over the years about having a woman’s car, but I wanted something no one else had.”

Bill Thomason ‘56 Dodge La Femme Custom Royal, 114,000 mi

August 2012

“All the comments I get are from middle-aged guys.”

Hazen Warlick ‘77 Bronco, 76,000 mi 52

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

“I remember taking my friend’s Falcon to go out on dates. Back in those days, cars were independence, and that’s what it is to me today. Freedom and independence.”

Barry Bennet t ‘61 Ford Falcon, 117,000 mi

August 2012

“My first car was a dark blue Karmann Ghia hardtop. I bought it from Red [Council] for $100. I’d wake up at 3 a.m. to deliver the Greensboro Daily in it, be at school at 8 a.m. and then work at Red’s Exxon ’til 10.”

Milton Pilson ‘62 VW Karmann Ghia, 52,000 mi

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

“It was a girl among all these other men so I just had to buy it. It was like she was saying, ‘Please take me home!’”

Am y Al l e n

‘55 Ch e v y Be l Ai r, 73,000 m i

August 2012

Fiction by Sara King

Summer

Reading Issue

Pure Strangeness

inally 15, Clare decides to improve her life ASAP — no waiting for a driver’s license — and she’s already started big. Nobody else knows it, but she’s gotten rid of her old-fashioned name, Clara. She can’t yet tell her parents, who will think she’s being disrespectful of the great-grandmother she’s named for, a woman she’s only seen wearing shawls and prissy hats in some old photos. Under the edges of those hats, there’s fried-looking hair, and OMG, as long as she has any guts, she can’t let herself be named for any grandma with hair like that. A few times her dad has called her Clarabell, someone famous, he says, and she guesses he is trying to make her feel important. But when she looks up the name online, she shudders at her dad’s mean joke: Clarabell was a clown on a stupid TV show in the last century. She hopes the big kidders at school never find out about something that ancient. That kind of embarrassment could make her throw-up sick for weeks, maybe months. It’s clear she has to make changes: Mama is Mom and Daddy, Dad, the names she hears all the time on TV. Most important, she’s written CLARE on her diary cover, so it’s for real and a sign of good days to come, the days she’s been waiting for. A little vowel change can make a gigantic difference in a girl’s life, and after last year, she deserves a whole lot better. Fourteen was a completely crappy year. She’d been a metal mouth while everybody else in her school with braces wore the close-to-invisible kind, and after messing up big on some algebra tests, she had to see a retired teacher, now part-time tutor, three times a week, something hugely awful. The old woman, whose gray hair was frizzy from too many perms, also had breath that smelled like garlic cat food. It was hard to think about math when she was about to vomit, but after Clare read Math Doesn’t Suck, her choice not the stinky tutor’s, she made a 94 on her mid-term exam, and on her March birthday, her dentist took off the braces. He called it his birthday present to her, and it was the best birthday gift, ever. The only thing better is the B she got in algebra on her last report card. She never has to smell that woman again, a real big relief. Now she inhales fresh air watching Lenny, a totally yummy guy, on the baseball field. But tonight — and it really makes her sick — she’s on her way to unpack stuff for her aunt, her mom’s much younger sister. Mom says that she’ll be gone only a week, or a little over — really no time at all. But while she’s away, Lenny will be watching somebody else. She grips her hands in her lap. All the improvements she’s wanted are hard to come by when her mom, who should be her biggest support, is trying to ruin her life by making her give up everything and everyone she wants.

At supper, her mom is wearing an orange scarf on her head — a different look, Clare guesses at the table — but as soon as they get in the car, Mom pulls off the scarf, and what a shock. Clare wonders then if something on top of a person’s head can affect the whole person. Her mom used to be a good parent, even let her make her own decisions when she was younger, and Clare remembers the hair she used to have: dark, collar-length, loose and shiny. Now it’s short — real short — and flat. On top of that, she has more gray, so now it’s shiny in a metallic way. “Like it?” Mom asks. “It’ll be real easy to care for, and Jane, the girl who cut it, thinks it looks cute.” Cute isn’t a word to describe anything about a 40-plus-year-old woman. This Jane girl must be an idiot, or at least have failed some classes in beauty-parlor school. “Whatever,” she mumbles, trying to figure how her mom can stand it. For a big-business accountant, this haircut is very wrong. People will be noticing her ugly hair instead of her pretty face. She sees a bug beneath the edge of a windshield wiper. It looks like a roach, but since roaches hang near food, it’s probably a beetle. The sad truth is she’s stuck in the car like that bug is stuck outside. There may be another bug somewhere wondering where in the world it is, like Lenny will be wondering where she is at his next baseball practice. She flexes her fingers and stretches her hand across the back of the seat. Maybe when she touches her mom’s neck, she will come to her senses. “Really short, isn’t it?” Mom asks. “I won’t be hot again.” Clare slides her hand back to her lap. This is serious stuff, and right now it seems to be a hopeless situation for her. All spring she’s been close to in love with Lenny Lewis, an amazing new boy who is going to be a big pitcher for city-league baseball this summer. She has been to all of his practices, watching every pitch he throws from fast to curve ball. On the afternoon he walks up to her and says he likes blue-eyed blondes, she flips out, especially when she sees his sexy gold-brown eyes. What’s more awesome are all his muscles, and the ponytail on his neck makes him incredibly cool. With the heel of her palm, Clare rubs her forehead. Blue eyes aren’t anything special to her since everybody in her family has them, and her hair’s not blond like a movie star’s. It’s more dirty blond, but it is shiny, and she’s started washing and conditioning it every other day, hoping her hair will be shinier than ever and Lenny will be able to see it from the pitcher’s mound. She has to do something to stand out. There are girls all over the place, most of them looking at him like she is, and she can’t wear major eye makeup — shadow, liner, thick mascara — until she’s 16 unless, as she’s

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

P u r e S t r a n g e n e ss

pretty-much counting on, Mom changes her mind because she prefers a natural look. That’s another year from now, and by then if she doesn’t catch Lenny’s attention as much as possible, he might be married or something. She has to talk her mom into turning around and taking her home. She’ll speak in her most grown-up voice and promise to help her aunt some other time. Her aunt has friends who can help her now. She needs so much to be with Lenny, but as soon as her mom starts blabbing, she knows she will never listen and will never take her anywhere. Her mom’s become a low-down bitch. Clare leans her head against the seat and closes her eyes. She’s been hoping every day Lenny will ask her to the team party the league always has before the July tournament. He’s been smiling at her and waving, too, and one afternoon he touches her arm when he walks by. For hours she can feel his fingers on her skin, and that night she dreams he will kiss her at the party. Not a big kiss, just a little one until she knows how to kiss better. A couple of years ago her neighbor Keith kissed her after a town barbecue, but all she remembers is some drool. She still doesn’t know if he did it wrong, or she did it wrong, or they messed up together. She doesn’t have a clue about good kissing. Not yet, anyway. All she’s sure of is she doesn’t want a future kiss to end up like that. Lenny has a mouth with nice lips, and she bets he’s a really good kisser. She wants to be a good kisser, too, so she’s started observing her lips, sometimes puckered, sometimes flat, in the bathroom mirror to see if she’s on the right track. When she wears her poppy-blast lip balm, she thinks her mouth looks very kissable, and she hopes Lenny can tell she has lips ready for a connection with his. She’ll never again kiss Keith or anybody else she knows except Lenny, and she hopes she’ll kiss Lenny sometime this summer. She’s sure she’s ready, and every time she sees him, she feels ready for a lot of things. Her problem is sometimes — not always — what she’s looking at is a little blurred. She wonders if she might need glasses, but after Lenny tells her he likes blue eyes, she decides if her vision doesn’t improve, she’ll get blue contact lenses to make her eyes stand out even more. She’s not sure whether Lenny likes glasses, and she can’t take a chance. Clare opens her eyes. “Seems to me Chloe would be a good helper for Aunt Lassie,” she tells her mom, her voice louder. “She doesn’t have other plans, but I do.” “I’m sure she has lots of plans,” Mom says, “and I’m afraid you’ve missed the point. Your sister Chloe is only 9; you’re 15, the obvious choice for a good, mature helper for your aunt. And mature is the key word here. Mary Lassiter is going through a hard time with Jerry fighting in Iraq. She needs you to help her because you’re more grown-up.” “But I need to be at home,” she says, her voice extra-loud, but Mom starts talking about a meeting like she hasn’t heard her and like Clare cares about her stupid meeting. She takes a deep breath. It seems the “ifs” are the real reason her summer could be trashed. If Uncle Jerry hadn’t joined the Army Reserve, he wouldn’t be in Iraq or some other place over there. He would be home and able to help Aunt Lassie move into their big country house. If Uncle Jerry had been at his house, she could have stayed at hers. Since that’s not the way things happened, the biggest “if” is that if her mother hadn’t been stuck in a long meeting, she would’ve taken her to the country house earlier so Clare could talk her aunt into finding someone else to help, even Chloe, a very energetic girl, a quality she’ll definitely mention. Although she knows it’s a lie, she’ll also say Chloe is really mature. Instead, her mom gets home late, the weird orange scarf twirled around her hair, and warms up some frozen spaghetti. She eats with Dad, Chloe, and her and puts her suitcase in the car. If her dad didn’t have to go back to his grocery store, he could’ve gone with them, and once he got to her aunt’s, he could’ve done a thing or two. But he does, so he can’t. Maybe he’s going to see his pretty assistant manager, who has long, silky hair. Her mom should’ve

thought of that woman before she let stupid Jane cut her hair so yucky short. Clare wishes she could forget the details, but she feels like she’s watching a movie. Before they drive away, Chloe, who is named for somebody on TV instead of an old relative, gives her a hug, and then raises her arms and waves with her fingers from the top of her head, the latest kid thing to do. Maybe Mom is right: Chloe is too young to be Aunt Lassie’s helper. She can’t even stay by herself yet. Since both Mom and Dad will be gone, Chloe is staying with neighbors. She’s getting a stomachache. There will be nothing for her at Aunt Lassie’s except unloading boxes and putting dishes away. She is a good cheerleader at any kind of game. She should be in the stands clapping her hands, not in the country picking up plates. With her fingernail, Mom touches her shoulder. “Clara, it won’t be long, and it won’t be bad. I’d be there myself this week if I didn’t have a slew of budget meetings. Best of all, your aunt’s a good cook. She’ll make you something special.” That should have made her feel better, but food doesn’t matter now. “There must be some kids around. Maybe some of them could help.” Her mom grips the steering wheel with her fingers, hiding her manicured nails. “Mary Lassiter will know. There may be kids right next door, not that it matters. This is your job.” To her she’s Aunt Lassie. Mom says Mary Lassiter is a better choice, but they don’t argue about it. “If there’s a house next door.” She hasn’t seen a building at all. “I can’t recall a house, but your dad and I visited only a little while before Jerry left so we could see their new place.” She smiles. “It’s a big old house. I think you’ll like it.” The paved road becomes a dirt path leading to the driveway. Before the headlights, the house is large and dark — definitely spooky. As soon as they park, the front porch light comes on, revealing a ladder and paint cans at the bright blue door. Aunt Lassie walks out, her shorts spotted with paint. As she and her mother hug, Clare grabs her stuff from the back seat. When she passes the windshield, she feels as though the bug is somehow peeping at her through its mashed eyes. She holds her suitcase tighter. “Lassie,” Mom exclaims, “what’s the deal with the blue door?” Her aunt laughs. “Beth, you haven’t called me Lassie in years. It’s haint blue, a color that brings good luck. H-a-i-n-t.” Mom scowls. “Says who?” Her mom never believes anything magical, and she believes everything. “The Gullah people from Africa.” Aunt Lassie smiles. “Really the Gullah-Geechee people whose relatives are slaves.” As her mom looks again at the door, her aunt continues, “I read in Southern Living that this color is in Charleston on shutters and ceilings, but as soon as Jerry left, I decided to paint the whole door.” Her eyes widen. “He needs all the luck he can get.” “I love it,” Clare says before her aunt hugs her. “Beth, can’t you come in for a few minutes?” Aunt Lassie asks and takes Clare’s suitcase. “We’ll have some tea.” “I’d love to,” Mom says, “but Chloe is with neighbors, and I have to get back. Dave’s at his grocery.” In a minute, she feels her mom’s arms around her shoulders. “I have to go,” she whispers. “I’ll call you every night.” While she swallows the lump in her throat, Aunt Lassie grabs her arm. “It is cookie time — good chocolate chip,” she says and starts toward the house. Before she follows, Clare wipes her eyes and watches the car with its stuck bug disappear. On the kitchen table is a plate of cookies, and Aunt Lassie brings her a glass of milk. She has a glass full of something dark at her place, and Clare decides it must be bourbon. “Thank you,” she says. “These look good.” She picks up a cookie and takes a bite. “What’s good is that you’re here. You’re such a big girl now, and you’re

August 2012

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going to be a lot of help.” “Mom said you want me to help you unpack dishes. Is there anything else?” She pictures the baseball field and clenches her teeth. “Yeah, dishes and other things like towels and sheets.” Clare runs a fingertip up and down her glass. “This sure is a big house. It must take a lot of time to clean it.” She hopes that’s not the real reason she’s here. “We aren’t even using some of the rooms right now, but when your Uncle Jerry gets back, we’re planning to have a big party. People can spend the night, and we’ll have a lot of fun.” “But why did you get a house way out here?” Clare asks. “It seems you could get pretty lonely. I can see why you’re drinking bourbon.” “Bourbon?” Smiling, Aunt Lassie looks like her mom, whose eyes narrow when she laughs. “This is tea. You’ll have some tomorrow.” She picks up her glass. “Jerry’s friend in the State Department told him they wanted someone to rent this house and take care of it, so Jerry said okay even though he wasn’t going to be here.” She slowly shakes her head; then looks at Clare. “There are some neighbors a few miles down the road. I haven’t met them all yet, but I will pretty soon, I think.” “There have to be some kids.” “I’m sure there are, and over the years, this house has been full of children. Clara, this is a historic house, and there are lots of books about it. Because of its history, the state can’t tear it down to build roads, or anything else, so I know you can do a report about this place in school. Your friends will be impressed that you stayed somewhere notable.” She rubs her forehead. “You need to know that it’s also a noisy place. Sometimes when I’m trying to get to sleep, I hear people laughing, but it must be from one of the other houses. Out here the wind carries sounds.” Clare thinks her friends might be more impressed that she stayed in a big, scary place. She hopes her bedroom will feel safe enough to sleep in. “Unless you want some more milk and cookies, let’s go see your room,” Aunt Lassie says. They leave the table, and her aunt turns on a light in the hall before they stop at the large room on the left. “Here you go. I’ll be glad to help you unpack.” “No thanks, I don’t have that much.” She does have underwear, though, and she doesn’t want her to see it. Her new lacy pink bra is private. She wants Lenny to see it, not Aunt Lassie. “Well, there are drawers in the bureau and two closets, so use whatever you want. Your bathroom is across the hall when you want to unpack your toothbrush. I’ve hung up some towels for you, and there are extra blankets in the first closet if you get cool.” “Thanks. It’s been so hot I think feeling cool would be nice.” “I know what you mean,” her aunt says. “I just about roasted painting the front door. Anyway, have a good sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.” She gives her a quick hug. After Aunt Lassie’s footsteps fade, Clare takes her travel kit to the bathroom. She splashes soap and water on her face, brushes her teeth, and puts a little zit lotion on her chin — necessary prevention, she calls it. Back in the room, she arranges her clothes in the bureau drawers. After she puts the suitcase in a closet, she turns off the light, and for a while, sits on the bed and examines the freaky shadows, some puffy, some thin. When she undresses and puts on her nightgown, she has a feeling it will be hard to sleep in this huge place. She’s right. As the wind rattles the windows, she keeps picturing the bug on the car. The large trees look like monsters through the fluffy white curtains. She’s too spooked to close her eyes, so she doesn’t. They close for her when she starts hearing music from what she thinks is a radio. Aunt Lassie must be playing songs to help her relax. She needs to relax, too, and she does. The sun streaming through the windows the next morning makes her feel better. Clare pulls on some shorts and a T-shirt and goes to the kitchen,

but as soon as she sees Aunt Lassie, she knows she lied about drinking tea. In the corner of the room at her computer, she has her head on the desk, a large striped mug beside her. Still wearing her yellow nightgown, she seems to be having a big-time hangover. Clare’s betting she drank something stronger than bourbon. Or maybe she had a double shot. It really hadn’t looked like tea. When she raises her head and looks at her, Aunt Lassie’s eyes are swollen, and her hair falls to her neck in thick brown clumps. For a woman who’s usually very pretty, today Aunt Lassie looks like hell. “You okay?” Clare asks although she obviously isn’t. Her aunt grabs her robe from the desk chair and stands to put it on. “I’m worried,” she says. “Your Uncle Jerry wrote me yesterday that he was going to Afghanistan, but there’s no news from him this morning.” “He’s too busy,” Clare says. “You know how long it takes to get settled in a new place.” Aunt Lassie smiles a little, and after she takes a deep breath, she walks to the stove. “I’ll feel better when I make us some breakfast. I hope a fried egg’s okay with you.” “Sure. I can help if you tell me what you need.” “Please grab two pieces of the loaf on the counter and put them in the toaster.” She flips her bangs from her forehead. “Now what would you like to drink — orange juice, tea, or coffee?” “Tea, please.” Maybe she’ll get a splash of bourbon if Aunt Lassie didn’t drink it all. On her way to the refrigerator, her aunt stops to take a mug from the cabinet and puts it on the table. “The silver is in the third drawer,” she says, “and the plates are in the cabinet above it. If you could set the table, it would help.” As Clare walks toward the drawer, she glances out the window over the sink. A boy’s bike is in the yard. It isn’t big, and it isn’t fancy, but it must have a boy with it somewhere. As soon as she places the silverware on the table, she reaches for the plates. One floats toward her and stays over her head for about fifteen minutes — okay, fifteen seconds. She must have pushed the plate by mistake, or maybe she imagined the movement. With her blurred vision all she can see are pinks and greens that are delicate flowers when the plate is still. She knows it’s hard to believe she can’t see something right in her face, and pure strangeness is the only way she can explain what’s going on. Her blurred vision must keep her from seeing things she can’t understand. Whatever, she’s pretty freaked. Having a plate hover above your head for no good reason for any amount of time is really creepy. After she takes out two normal plates and puts them on the table, she sits and eases an egg onto hers. Aunt Lassie butters the toast and passes her a piece. She will concentrate on eating and try to forget everything else. Aunt Lassie touches the yellow middle of her egg with her toast. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess this morning,” she says. “I know I’m spoiled getting email. I don’t think I could’ve dealt with an earlier war.” She wipes her mouth. “Maybe I would’ve learned to be more patient, though. Waiting for letters requires strength I don’t have.” She picks up her mug. “To tell you the truth, Clara, I’m not strong at all, and it’s really not fair to you. I should’ve been out here two months ago as soon as Jerry left, but I couldn’t do it. All I did was cry, even in front of the movers when they got started, and in the past three days, I haven’t been that great here either.” She takes sharp little breaths like hiccups. “Jerry is the one who thinks this house is a country place our kids will love.” “You don’t have kids.” “Exactly, and I think if and when that happens, they could love a house in town, like the place I didn’t want to leave, or somewhere else near my friends and their kids.” She pushes back her bangs. “Let me tell you a little secret: I miss Jerry, but I miss my friends a lot, too.” “You can invite them to visit you. This is a sort of Gone with the Wind house, and most women would love it.” Clare frowns. “What’s its name?”

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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“Tara. It rhymes with your name.” Not her new name. She swallows some of her egg. “You could’ve managed in an earlier war, and you’ll be okay now. People do what they have to do.” Aunt Lassie raises her brows and takes a big swallow of coffee. “You’re right,” she admits. “Let’s get this stuff cleaned up, and I’ll bring some boxes out of the living room for you to unpack.” “I can get them.” It will give her a chance to look again for the bike. “I’ll clean up here then. If you can drag out a few of the boxes, we’ll put up dishes.” She blows a kiss. “Thanks. It won’t take long.” Clare leaves her at the sink and starts down the hall. The living room is full of cardboard, but she moves three heavy boxes pretty fast. As soon as she puts them in the kitchen, she goes to the window, but the bike isn’t there anymore, so she begins putting cream-colored china on the counter. “This is my wedding china,” Aunt Lassie says. “You remember that day, don’t you?” She points to a china closet behind her. “The plates go in there on the bottom shelves. The top shelf will have some crystal.” Clare stares out the window, but there’s nothing to look at. Of course she remembers. When she was 12, she’d been a junior bridesmaid. The pink dress with the puffy sleeves is still in her closet, like she’ll ever wear it. Her mom was matron of honor, and Chloe was flower girl, so they all have pink dresses they won’t wear again. She starts picking up more plates. If one of them starts floating like the kitchen plate, she’ll freak. The dishes are still, though, so she is able to work. What’s better is when she looks out the window, the bike is there, and a boy is on it. She can’t see his face, but from his shoulders, she can tell this boy isn’t a little kid. He may be older than she is. “Tell you what,” Aunt Lassie says, “let’s have a break. I’m going to check my email, and you can do what you’d like.” “I’ll go outside. I’ll be back in a little while.” As soon as she’s out the door, she walks fast to the bike. “Hey,” she calls, “you must live around here.” From the back, he looks pretty good. She hopes he lives down the road so she can see him more. When he gets off his bike and stands beside her, she’s glad he’s taller. He points at Aunt Lassie’s house. “I used to live right there when I was young. Where’s your dog?” “I don’t think there’s one here.” “I heard somebody calling Lassie last night. I figured it was a dog.” She smiles. “No, that’s my aunt’s nickname. Do you still live around here?” “I’m visiting.” She wants to ask him where, but when he doesn’t say any more, she stares at him. With his brown hair and eyes, not great, sexy eyes like Lenny’s, he looks like a regular guy, but it’s hot, and she doesn’t see a drop of sweat on his face, evidence that he’s a real cool dude who wears good deodorant. Clare crosses her arms at her waist. She’s not wearing any deodorant and can feel wetness under her arms and on her neck. When a girl meets a cute boy, she definitely doesn’t want to smell bad. From now on, she’ll be wearing the cologne she brought, her favorite birthday gift she always wears to the baseball field. She quickly steps away. She hasn’t even washed her face and brushed her teeth. She can’t stand close to him now. Tomorrow she will smell a whole lot better. “I like that blue door,” he says. “I rode back to see it again. I think the color is nice.” “My aunt says it’s haint blue.” “Then she’s wrong. That’s blue if I’ve ever seen it.” “I don’t mean it ain’t blue. It’s called h-a-i-n-t blue, a name from Africa. It’s supposed to bring good luck.” She glances at him. Maybe it already has. “Well, everybody needs luck. Do you like it here?” “It’s okay, but I’d rather be home watching a curve ball pitcher.” He doesn’t seem impressed. “Curve ball,” she says again. “You know what that is?” “No.” She wants to tell him what a good pitch it is and how it has impressed a

lot of girls, but she doesn’t. “You must not have played much baseball when you lived here.” “I didn’t. I rode horses and milked cows.” “All by yourself?” Pulling milk out of cows sounds terrible to her. “No, my brothers helped me some.” “Was it hard?” “Not really. Milking was my family job, and I liked riding. Sometimes I won races.” His smile makes her shiver. She’s never seen such deep dimples on anybody. “You must have ridden a horse instead of a bicycle.” She stares at his pants and shirt. Both look pretty stiff like they’ve been ironed hard. And his hair is combed flat, too. She decides he’s not a sports guy, except for horse racing. It’s hard to tell, though. He’s visiting and is dressed up for that. She takes a breath. His dimples will make him look good whatever he’s wearing. “I didn’t get my bike until later,” he says. “What’s your name?” Maybe he has an old-fashioned name like Frederick. “James.” He rubs his neck. “Do you go by Jim, or Jimmy?” She’s glad Lenny doesn’t use Leonard if that’s his whole name. The list of players in the paper said Lenny Lewis, nothing else. “No, James. What’s your name?” “Clare.” She did it. “Is that from Clara?” Somehow he has guessed. “Yeah, but I don’t use it except on legal papers like a library card.” He nods. “Do you like picnics?” “Sure.” “Good. Maybe we can have one while I’m here.” As he looks at her, Clare feels her face get warm. Aunt Lassie is at the door. “Your mom’s on the phone,” she yells. “I’ll be right in,” she hollers back. James is a very fast boy. She turns to tell him goodbye, but he is already riding away. In the house when she picks up the phone, the kitchen is empty. “You must’ve got home early,” Clare tells her mom. “You said you’d call at night.” “I did get home a little early, but your dad and I are going out to dinner, so I thought I’d call you now. What have you been up to?” “Just helping with dishes, but when I went outside, I met a boy.” If Dad’s taking her to dinner, he must be okay with her hair. Amazing, but she hopes they’ll eat by candlelight. If they eat in bright light and he sees her hair better, he might change his mind. Clare doesn’t want to worry about sucky stuff like a divorce and maybe a stepmother, especially if she’s from the grocery store. “Really? Mary Lassiter didn’t mention a boy.” She frowns, wondering if her aunt is still upset about her lack of email. “Maybe she didn’t see him. She’s been worried about Uncle Jerry.” “She told me,” Mom says, “but she got a note, and everything is okay. Have to go, Clara. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” “Bye, Mom.” She wishes she could tell her about her new name, but decides to run it by Aunt Lassie first. She’s sure she’ll need her support. She puts down the receiver. With its shiny blackness, the phone looks wet. She still can’t figure how Aunt Lassie missed a boy and bike. She can only guess grown-ups don’t pay attention to things like that. They pay attention to other grown-ups and cars. She takes a deep breath and stretches her arms before her. If people don’t look at everything, they can miss a lot. She goes to the window, but he’s not back. She hopes her iffy smell didn’t scare him away. If only he’ll come tomorrow, she’ll have on her birthday cologne, and she thinks James will love it. No, Clare is sure. Every time she wears that stuff, she smells drop-dead good. PS

August 2012

By Deborah Salomon

Summer

Reading Issue

A Friend of the Family

he chemistry eluded me even before I could define chemistry, in that sense. What had my mother seen in this creepy little man who talked on and on — eyes half closed, chin elevated — about obscure political philosophies? He would not tolerate inattention, grabbing a forearm and holding on tightly if you tried to back off. He was thin, pale, with a balding head close-cropped to save on haircuts. The clownish plaid cotton shirt he wore for days looked strange against his dour expression and heavy greenish-black pants. A wry mouth movement replaced a smile. I grew up calling him Uncle Harry — a cross between Ray Walston (“My Favorite Martian”) and the Unabomber. He became a presence in my childhood — a fiscal, uncomfortable presence from birth until now, years after his death. My mother was, in early 1920s idiom, a great beauty. Sepia photographs don’t lie. Her oval face, deeply wide-set eyes, enigmatic smile, glossy chestnut hair, glorious bosom, shapely legs and master’s degree from Columbia University assured the daughter of a poor Guilford County bricklayer the best suitors, wherever she went. One, the son of a Boston Brahmin clan, was sent by his parents to the Middle East to forget her. He didn’t. I have pictures of me playing with his children by a proper wife. An Egyptian tapestry he sent Ruth, my mother, hangs in my house today. That was the thing. Ruth kept her old flames as friends, even after she married. She certainly kept broken-hearted Uncle Harry. My father didn’t seem to mind. Why? Harry was a civil engineer, a builder of roads and bridges. During World War II, when we lived in New York City, occasionally Harry would drive up from Ohio (heaven knows where he got the gasoline) in an ancient DeSoto coupé. He brought maple syrup, coffee, Ivory soap and, for me, Hershey bars and Fleers Double Bubble Gum, all rationed. But then Harry had no one else on whom to spend his ration stamps. Harry remained single after my mother backed out of their engagement. Her reasons were vague. His only relative was a shady nephew about whom he complained bitterly. Harry — the cheapest man alive — rented a room and took meals in a widow’s house in exchange for doing her heavy chores. He owned no household goods, had no friends, no possessions except that musty car, a few changes of clothing and some engineering textbooks. What he did have was a keen interest in the stock market. All his salary from the federal government went into investments. I know this because my parents spoke of it often but could not afford to act on Harry’s tips.

Uncle Harry made a lot of money, a little bit at a time. I heard the word million which, in the 1950s, sounded like billion. I also knew that occasionally small amounts — cash, bonds or stocks — would be diverted to my parents. This helped because my father was struggling, especially after moving to North Carolina for a job that fell through. Even as a child I noticed Uncle Harry’s compulsions. He ate sparingly of few foods, often putting down his fork to express an opinion. His Christmas cards covered in rambling messages arrived no later than Dec. 1. Mine was separate, filled with advice on life, always with a dollar bill clipped to it. Not stapled or taped. A paper clip could be reused. North Carolina was an easier trip so Harry appeared more often. I dreaded those visits. Now that I was older Uncle Harry insisted on sharing his obtuse philosophies concerning politics, education, society, relationships, everything. He sought to mold my mind. He did this by approaching from behind, tapping me on the shoulder, lifting his chin, halfclosing his eyes and saying “I was just thinking . . .” This meant I had to sit down and listen because, after all, Harry was our benefactor. Never mind if I wanted to read trashy novels or go someplace with friends. Remember the Hershey bars and bubble gum? Remember the dollar bills? These lectures lasted forever, maybe twenty minutes. Just as I was breaking away Uncle Harry would say “Oh, just one more thing . . .” I still shudder. Uncle Harry’s visits lasted about a week. We never knew when he was coming or when he would leave. One morning, after a Spartan breakfast, he would put his dilapidated valise in the DeSoto and drive away. I recall vividly his visit the summer before I left for college. As usual, he caught me alone in the basement. Tap, tap, tap on my shoulder. I spun around, ready for the lecture but not his offer. “If there’s anything you need at school, like clothes, that Sol (my father) can’t buy let me know.” Just a kind offer from an eccentric family friend, right? I didn’t like his tone. I declined — and fled. Now that I was a university student, Harry’s correspondence (he block-printed the address against a ruler) expanded to manifestos sent to my post-office box, with a five-dollar bill clipped to the pages. Greedy little teenager that I was I felt for the paper clip before opening the letter, which went unread. I didn’t tell my parents about the letters or the money. No need. I was in control. Then, the summer between freshman and sophomore years. I was 18, an adult, feeling every inch my age. College had precipitated an intellectual awakContinued on page 63

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Reading Issue

Emu in Love

e refer to our end of town as “The Farms.” Tim Yount has a nice orchard of apple trees. Gantt Sigmon has more chickens than he can keep cooped up. Five of ’em got took in a failed attempt to release them in the backyard of the high school football coach. I know because the plot was hatched in my living room and thwarted by the Claremont police, who caught my boy and five of his best friends and were still laughing about it in the station house a week later. One farm down from mine is Gaye Morrison, without question, the best gardener in town. She can grow it ornamental or edible. Her garden includes everything from blueberries to potatoes to peas and carrots. She’s given me good advice, design ideas, fresh lettuce, strawberry pie, bags of bulbs, starts of black-eyed Susan vine and Russian sage, more strawberry pies, fresh cut gladiolus which we both agree are underappreciated, old Mason jars, parts of wooden chairs with tooled leather seats, and a drawing of pumpkins she did in the eighth grade. She is the best neighbor in the entire world, and I will throw rocks at anybody who says otherwise. I keep trying. I can grow stuff pretty good but am a long way from my goal of making my own goat cheese. I reckon I need goats for that, but I grow what I do without chemicals, which makes me feel like a farmer and helps make cleaning a horse stall a little more valuable on a 17 degree morning. On the other side of Gaye’s, on Britt’s place, there are all kinds of critters. He has chickens and a big, dumb Saint Bernard and cattle. He used to have a horse, but it died. The thing that makes his farm most notable is that Britt is the proud owner of an emu, or as Gaye’s husband, the former mayor of this town, refers to him, an “emule.” The emule is hard to miss. He walks around the pasture closest to the road. Folks new to town, those who don’t know any better, slow down to look at him and say, “awwww,” but not us, not the fine people of Claremont. We keep a safe distance. It’s not that the emu is mean or unfriendly. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. Like so many of us in this crazy, mixed-up world, the emu falls in love way too easily. He has been smitten with an Angus bull, a fence post, and a boy who works for the city who still can’t talk about it. The emu has romanced trees, a discarded door, a discarded car hood, a discarded horse feeder, and a discarded Big Mac box thrown from the window of a passing car by someone who did not fully appreciate that littering was the least of their crimes. They were, by virtue of that act, accessories to rape. Two summers ago, my son’s pretty little cheerleader girlfriend saw the emu from my back pasture. She couldn’t believe her eyes and asked if we could walk across Gaye’s property to see him. I thought as long as we stayed on our side of the fence, we’d be fine. The closer we got, the more he danced, and the more I worried. Not the cheerleader; she thought he

Summer

By Shari Smith

was being cute. It takes years to grow out of that, I reckon, requires some hard lessons to recognize the difference between darling and dangerous behavior, and it takes a lifetime to learn when to run. I still tend to stand there, grinnin’. Gaye stopped digging in her garden to join us as the emu worked himself into a frenzy. I threw my arm in front of the cheerleader the same way my grandmother used to knock the breath out of me when she slammed on the brakes of the car, confident that her protection was better than any seat belt Detroit could manufacture. I said, “Best not get any closer.” The emu started this kind of mating ritual that was a cross between a rain dance and the first three seconds after a football is snapped to the quarterback. He hopped from one foot to the other and slammed himself against the fence about ten times before backing up and sort of crouching. When he did, he proudly displayed all of his manhood. “Is . . . is that . . . is that his . . . ?” asked the cheerleader. “It really is,” I answered. Gaye only pays attention to what interests her, and his behavior did not. She chatted on and on while the cheerleader stood frozen and horrified, and I looked for a break in Gaye’s monologue to politely run like hell. Just when I thought we could make a break for it, Gaye said . . . “His name is Woody.” He got out one day, last spring. I’m a farm girl, born and raised. I’ve chased a little bit of everything back into a fence that was supposed to hold it. Each species is different. Pigs will oblige you into a false sense of security, then turn and run, squealing all the way. Cattle will give you a clue if you watch them closely, and if you’re good at it, you can head them off. I got good at it. I had no idea how to corral an escaped emu, especially one who might make me another notch on his emu belt. I saw him from the window of my mudroom and pulled on my muck boots. As I stepped off the porch, wishing like hell I knew Britt’s phone number, I saw The Mayor come out of their garage. “The emule is out,” he yelled. “I see that, Mayor,” I yelled back. “You reckon we can get him back in?” He shrugged and threw up his hands in a way that said we were honor bound to try, so I kept walking across the finely mown pasture that separated me from a date I didn’t want and as I did, I saw Mayor Glenn, a man this town owes more than we can ever repay, start to pat his leg. I stopped walking. He was backing toward Britt’s place, patting his leg in the way that you gesture for a dog that’s run off, and was, I swear to the Barefooted Jesus, he was saying, “Here Woody. Here Woody.” We have a library in town because of that man. He worked for years and filled out enough paperwork to burn a wet mule, sold Miss Peggy’s pound Continued on page 63

August 2012

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August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

A F r i e n d o f t h e Fa m i l y

Continued from page 60 ening. I’ve always been a keen observer, a people-watcher, but had not learned how to interpret my observations. Uncle Harry was in his mid-60s, still playing the market, still wearing shirts frayed at the collar and driving a ratty old car, still sending funds that, I later learned, contributed to my tuition. Still tiptoeing up behind me and tapping me on the shoulder. This hot August afternoon Uncle Harry tilted his chin upward, halfclosed his rodent eyes and hissed, conspiratorially, “Let’s grab some Cokes and drive up on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I want to show you the road I was building when I met your mother.” Every alarm in my Bain-du-Soleiled body went off. I wanted to bolt. Frightened, repulsed but not confused, I backed away with a polite excuse. Was my dirty mind on overdrive? Were the Frank Yerby novels kicking in? Why weren’t we all driving up to the parkway?

Do two and two make five? After Uncle Harry left I told my mother. She was horrified, furious — at me, not Uncle Harry. “After all he’s done for us, for you, how could you think such a thing?” Because I did. I felt it. I smelled it. And I was right. To this day, I am sure. After I returned to college the letters kept coming, each with a five-dollar bill wrapped in utopian, quasi-socialistic visions for a perfect world. Now I actually read them, searching for something more sinister but finding nothing. I took summer jobs in New York after that, thus missing the visits. Uncle Harry came to my wedding dressed shabbily but bearing a big check. He died about 10 years later, alone and very rich. He left a chunk of stock to my mother. When she passed away, I got what was left. I guess you could say I earned it. PS

Emu in Love

Continued from page 61 cakes at bake sales and took tickets for the Merry-Go-Round on Claremont Day because he believed not having a library defined us as folks who didn’t want one, and that is not who we are. His daughter graduated from Harvard and his son has a Ph.D. I don’t suppose it hurts anything for him to mispronounce the name of a nonindigenous species of flightless bird. Tim Yount, the guy with the orchard, makes apple pie moonshine in his kitchen though the fruit trees he can see from the window over the sink he’s mixing it in have nothing to do with that. I illegally smuggled in ingredients banned by the state legislature in a futile attempt to keep college kids from drinking. I did that not so much to be a good neighbor and fine friend as to ensure the continuation of my own supply. Tim and I sit and drink that stuff and laugh like fools with a fifty dollar bottle of Blanton’s bourbon not five feet from us. The bourbon is two shelves down from Faulkner and Welty, one shelf up from Capote and Larry Brown. Tim is an Updike man. He plays Miles Davis, on vinyl. It’s sexier, that way. You should see that man in a tuxedo. Last week, I was talking to him on the phone when he said, “Hold on. I gotta shoot at these damn chickens of Gantt’s. They’re tearing up my landscaping,” which was followed by the unmistakable sound of chickens running for cover but too stupid to find it. As for my house, the fine art of James Wille Faust hangs on the wall next to my granddaddy’s tobacco knife. In my recipe box is a Moroccan lamb dish with couscous that has garnered rave reviews and more than a few proposals of marriage. Don’t need a recipe for my sausage gravy and biscuits. A Southern girl commits the important stuff to memory. I serve both to the writers and musicians who use my old farm house as a place to rest on their way from an important place to a more important place. They sit on my deck and exchange stories or play their guitars and drink, from Mason jars, Old Forester, Absolut, Jack Daniels, and the stuff Tim makes across the road. They can choose from several guest rooms named for farm animals and sleep under quilts my grandmother stitched together from the childhood dresses of my aunts or my daddy’s work shirts. The locals are so accustomed to seeing famous writers come through town that they are referred to either by first names or length of hair. Michael Reno Harrell is “Shari’s hippie friend.” I wasn’ t born in this town. I may very well be the only citizen with no blood kin in the county but for my boy and he’ s gone off to college. Friends from my Big City days wonder, aloud, how I can be happy without museums and five star restaurants a block away, how I survive without a corner wine bar and poetry night at a Starbucks wannabe. I got art. Harley Brown makes the prettiest decoys imaginable. One or two are proudly displayed on television sets and in curio cabinets in nearly every house in town, and I ’m on the mailing list of the Blue Spiral in Asheville. It’ s not that far to drive. I ’m damn sure I can hold my own with any chef in Oxford, Mississippi, but will never, no matter how many cows have to die in the attempt, be able to make a

cheeseburger like they do at the Claremont Cafe, and I can practically see the sign from my front porch. As far as wine, I make it a strict practice not to tote home anything that was imported, anyway, and they have a good selection of the Biltmore vintages in the spirits section of the grocery store by the highway. I don ’t drink coffee and, as far as poetry, my people never said anything in fifty words if they could use five hundred. That ’s just lazy. I do not lack for informed, intelligent conversation as that moonshiner across the road is the smartest man I know and the boys at the back table of the café always know who’ s dead and how they got that way. A few years back, I was leaving the lobby of the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, Alabama. I’d had lunch with several successful businessmen, most of whom had been charming though unwilling to write the big checks needed to fund a project that would bring together artists and writers and musicians, an event I will present this summer in my little town of a thousand people who were happy to raise the money with bake sales and car washes and raffle tickets. As I stepped through the doors, onto the perfectly swept sidewalk, under the canopy of flowering vines and live oaks, one of the men cut from the upper crust shoved two dollar bills in my hand. He carefully explained to me that I would need to “tip the boy” who brought my car around to the valet desk. I handed back the money and pointed out that I had given the gray-haired gentleman a little something when he took my keys and I flashed the five I had ready for whoever handed them back. I considered reminding him I had used the correct fork for my salad, too, but thought better of it. I am from Claremont, where a mayor who can lay claim to living next door to an emule got his town a library and mows his yard wearing a “Harvard Dad” T-shirt, the moonshiner across the road reads Esquire and drives a Range Rover, and a retired Army chaplain paid to have the road company of “Fiddler on the Roof” brought to town and perform in the fellowship hall of the Baptist church. We know when we’re supposed to tip and we don’t call anybody “boy” unless we love them and everybody knows what we mean and that’s okay. We read the books of the writers who come to town even if they’re bad because we appreciate their effort and when they get up on the stage that Mark Carpenter built and talk about their story a third of the town will get dressed up and buy a ticket. I’d like to see Atlanta try and beat that percentage. When I have a cold, someone will bring me a casserole without me even having to look real pitiful, and because I am known to love music, Glenn Overcash will pull up in my driveway to tell me someone is selling a player piano for $200. On Friday or Saturday nights I will drive into Hickory to see Michael’s one-man show about growing up in the hills of Carolina called “My Roots are Showing,” or maybe I’ll go to hear Chris Clifton play the blues in Conover and pray to all that is holy, he slides into “Little Wing.” I don’t reckon I’m missing anything real important. I wouldn’t mind having a better fence between me and that bird. PS

August 2012

S t o r y o f a h o use

A Mansion in Miniature The Godly Art of Michael Lamb Enshrined in Weymouth Cottage By Deborah Salomon • Photographs By John Gessner

The cottage, hidden from street view, with sociable veranda.

Doesn’t everyone have whimsical art hanging from their living room rafters?

doll’s house. An enchanted cottage. Just too cute for words. Past the veranda and inside the door interior designer Michael Lamb’s tiny house reads more medieval liturgy than fairy tale. Unexpectedly, depictions of Jesus, Mary and the saints glow from the walls. A holy water font beside the entrance holds Michael’s keys. An altar panel gazes down upon his bed. Figurines — once part of 19th century Italian crèches — populate tables. “I’m spiritual — but not Catholic,” Michael explains. What he really is, is the genius who fits a four-masted schooner into a bottle. Michael’s 700-square-foot house in Weymouth Heights runneth over with antique European eye candy, big pieces and small, without feeling cluttered, crowded or oppressive. How now? “I start with the biggest piece and fit around it,” Michael says. “Sometimes a big piece makes a small room feel bigger.” As in a massive Italian breakfront filling an entire wall of the petite dining room. A tall coffee table surrounded by several smaller benches, all weighed down with picture books. An 8-foot fruitwood sofa positioned under the living room window. Several chairs, one upholstered in doublet-green velvet, suggesting thrones. “I call that chair a statement piece,” Michael says. “It stands on its own, could be the only thing in the room and I’d love it.” Yet in the kitchen, fitted with a tiny stove, demi-dishwasher and minute fridge, a dark wood table and chairs concede to modest proportions — but look! A cactus-filled Spanish urn large enough to hold a choir’s ashes dominates the small countertop. Almost every inch of Lancaster-white walls is covered with something. “Hanging pictures close to the ceiling creates height,” Michael says, as does suspending a reliquary (alas, no bones within) from the living room rafters. Other must-haves include a gallery wall. “I have a martini, turn on some music (Gregorian chant, perhaps?) and hang my picture gallery,” with subject matter from sublime to nude Siamese twins, joined at the buttocks. Prize pieces include Chinese scenes painted in reverse, on glass.

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

The main livig area, is tiny, but chockfull of fascinating books, statuary, religious art â&#x20AC;&#x201D; aÂ ssorted body parts.

Where the lamb lies down — a daybed upholstered in antique ticking 66 August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills fabric.

Bedroom — sitting room offers more gallery space.

Michael Lamb with his companion rescue dog Henry admidst the books he employs as décor.

Michael’s collection of old apothecary jars interspersed with matadors and body parts wrenched from statuary dominates horizontal surfaces. Miracle of miracles, this works. The devil is in the dusting.

Residential downsizing couldn’t be hotter. A Manhattan real estate developer just announced construction of 300-square-foot studio apartments following the Japanese trend. However, living well while living small requires a keen eye and sleight of hand. Since this eye and hand are attached to an interior designer, the space reflects tastes which matured during a dream job. Michael, a Greensboro native and business major, became an event planner for large corporations back in the flush 1990s. “They sent me to find a castle to host a party — that sort of thing.” These junkets demanded exotic locales — Brussels, Rio, Budapest, Stockholm, London, Mexico, India — which, naturally, he scoped out beforehand. “On a trip I would hit the flea market immediately.” Churches were the next stop, then back to the market where he purchased icons, crucifixes and stations of the cross as examples of local craftsmanship more than religious significance. That first foray abroad, to Italy, branded his soul. “I was immersed. I love anything old, classical, Italian.” His dining room table came from an Italian schoolroom. On it, a bowl holds not fruit but small vellum religious texts. Eighteenth-century Delft and other blue-and-white porcelains, from tiny to immense, fill corners.

Continental flea market finds, shipped stateside, eventually stocked the antique shop he opened in Greensboro. Customers recognized Michael’s talent and began seeking his advice. Even without formal training Michael developed a coterie, as well as his own showplace home in Irving Park. Business brought him to Pinehurst, where he rented weekend digs with a past: an apartment over the garage where heiress Elva Statler Davidson died mysteriously in 1935, as chronicled in Death of a Pinehurst Princess by The Pilot opinion editor Steve Bouser. Michael saw potential, sold his Greensboro home and moved his business to a village studio. Finding the guest cottage was pure serendipity. PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

August 2012

Dining room gallery wall unifies styzles, periods, with an Italian schoolroom table and leopard-print chairs. 68 August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

A kitchen in miniature.

“Michael was helping me freshen up, rearrange some furniture in my house,” says Maureen Clark. They walked out the back door into her fenced garden, where Michael spotted the guest cottage nearly hidden by foliage. Clark’s house and the cottage were built by an artist in 1926. The cottage had served as a starter home for newlyweds, Clark says. Over the years, a schoolteacher and horse trainer lived there. But last fall it was empty. Michael and Henry, his devoted schnooker (schnauzer/ cocker spaniel) rescue dog moved in in December. “I was overwhelmed with what he did with the space,” Clark says. “He made it so culturally rich.”

A table centerpiece of vellum prayerbooks.

The floor plan presented a challenge, with dining room on one side of the parlor, kitchen on the other. This doesn’t bother Michael, a creative cook who entertains six at the schoolroom table (unless one is Shaquille O’Neal), several more in the living room. His bedroom seems hardly bigger than a compartment on the Orient Express but oh, the treasures therein. “Yes, I sleep on a daybed,” he gestures to the narrow, monastic mattress with high, carved head and footboards upholstered in old ticking fabric. A saintly statue forms his bedside lamp; another reliquary, this one bearing the Virgin Mary’s insignia, hangs opposite. Two low upholstered chairs face the bed. “We can even sit in here and have a drink.” Between them stands a contemporary African bentwood table, proof of his ability to mix styles. “He has the geometry of it in his head,” Maureen Clark learned. Michael’s palette shades from neutrals to jewel tones to browns. Fabrics and rugs resemble slices of a Christmas fruitcake studded with nuts and candied fruit. Throughout the house, bamboo blinds are lowered against the summer sun. The effect: a dim, cool church on a hot Tuscan afternoon, redolent of votive candles and musty tapestries where, instead of breviaries, the racks are filled with glossy travel and décor publications. “This is my extended business card — it’s my temporary primary home,” Michael says. “The house shows people what I’m all about. It released my creative energy.” And confirmed that a man’s home can always be his castle, however small. PS

August 2012

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HOMESTYLES

Fairies in the Garden

By noah Salt

The Night Sky for August With its hot, muggy days and hazy nights, August is often the poorest month of the year for stargazing, a problem compounded by the fact that, of the major planets, only Saturn, Jupiter and Mars show themselves to interesting extent — the former in the evening sky to the west just after sundown, the latter two just before sunrise on the eastern horizon. Since the earliest of medieval times, however, August’s Perseid meteor shower, which typically peaks around August 12-14, has provided both fear and fascination to astronomers and nighwatchers alike, the source, as one beloved Persian poet noted, “of a thousand falling stars.” The meteors, typically the size of a green pea, originate in the constellation Perseus, which rises in the northeast sky around midnight during the month, and can travel upward of 100,000 miles per hour before burning up harmlessly in our atmosphere, etching bright paths across the sky that can be seen for hundreds of miles. Scientists have determined the source of the shower is a debris field left behind from a comet that passed too close to the sun. At its peak between midnight and dawn, four to five meteors an hour may be seen. If you’re for making a wish on a falling star, this may be your moment.

A sensible and crack gardener of our long acquaintance, practical in every sense of the word, maintains that fairies not only exist but are a very good thing for the health of any garden, especially in August, when the heat and dryness of long sunny days can wilt the spirit of even the hardiest plant. “Anyone who spends any time in a garden knows nature spirits are real. I’ve seen garden fairies since I was a little girl. Laugh if you wish, but they caretake the spirit of plants even in the harshest conditions and provide the feeling of enchantment that comes with every well-kept garden.” Who are we to doubt? According to our friend, garden fairies have favorite plants, among them: lavender, snowdrops, garden rose, periwinkle, snapdragon, cyclamen, yarrow and mint. She even sends along a spell for welcoming fairies to your garden plot, a ditty known to gardeners since ancient times: Fairy host, from the wild Come and tend this plot a while; Come dancing from the hollow hill, To raise the power, and do God’s will. Fairies the work of my spirit I give thee, Be true lovers of my garden, I bid thee.

The August Bird and Bug report “With the viburnums, mulberries, plenty of grapes, and other oddments in the neighborhood, the birds seem to be eating pretty well. They like the combination of open space and thick hedgerow-type growth, and they like the constant supply of water provided by the main fish pool, which I try to keep brimming. “Among dragonflies, we have the usual heavy representation of the bright blue ones and occasional massive bronze ones, and a few damselflies, also blue. We have no lizards or toads, which I greatly miss, and more than anything I wish we had some of those black skinks with yellow stripes and metallic blue tails. If there is anyplace to buy some, I’d like to know it. I have the ideal conditions for them — plenty of sun-warmed masonry, billions of leafy twigs, and undisturbed compost in which the young could grow.” — from “August” in One Man’s Garden, by Henry Mitchell.

Late-Summer To-Do List For most gardeners, August’s arrival heralds the transition into another season. There are still showstoppers in the garden — cranesbill geraniums, Russian sage, black-eyed Susans and cleome (a.k.a. spider flowers) are our favorite late-summer bloomers — but as subtle changes in weather, and slightly shorter days, often allow plants to get a second wind, now’s the time to get a good jump on your autumn spruce-up duties. Cut back foliage of early bloomers and prune flowering shrubs as flowers fade. Trim and feed hanging baskets to encourage new growth and flowers. Pick herbs for fresh use and drying purposes. Collect seeds for future propagation. Begin dividing perennials. Best to start with early bloomers. Rake out garden beds and add fresh compost and new mulch to encourage additional root growth. Order spring bulbs and prepare your cold frame.

REVOLUTIONARY WAR BATTLE REENACTMENT. 2 p.m. ART EXHIBIT & OPENING RECEPTION. 2-5 p.m. FREE FILM VIEWING. 2:30-4:30 p.m. U.S. KIDS GOLF WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP AND WORLD CUP.

DRESSAGE. Until 12:00. Early Morning Blues at Pinehurst Harness Track. Info: Kay Whitlock at (910) 315-5959.

AWARD RECEPTION. 5-7 p.m. Campbell House Galleries. FREE FILM VIEWING. 2:30-4:30 p.m. Southern Pines Public Library. ROBBINS FARMERS DAY FESTIVAL. 6-9 p.m. U.S. KIDS GOLF WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP AND WORLD CUP.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Joy of Art Studio. (910) 528-7283.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Joy of Art Studio. (910) 528-7283. BOOK BUNCH BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m.-12 p.m. Info/ Register: (910) 692-8235. ART CLASS. 1-4 p.m. Info: (910) 944-3979. MEET THE AUTHOR. 5 p.m. The Country Bookshop. Info: (910) 692-3211.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Joy of Art Studio. (910) 528-7283. ART CLASS. 1-4 p.m. Artists League of the Sandhills. Info: (910) 944-3979. SENIOR FOUR-BALL ONEDAY TOURNAMENT. BAND OF BOOKIES READING CLUB. 11 a.m.12 p.m.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Joy of Art Studio. (910) 528-7283. READING RABBITS BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m.-12 p.m. SENIOR EVENT. 12:30 p.m GATHERING AT GIVEN. 3:30 p.m. BEER CHALLENGE. MOORE PUNS COMEDY SERIES. 8 p.m.

ART CLASS. 10 a.m.-4 p.m. Artists League. SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. SENIOR EVENT. 6:00 p.m. Douglass Community Center. SCC JAZZ BAND. 6:30 p.m. SANDHILLS PHOTO CLUB MEETING. 7:00 p.m.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Creative collage and scrap-booking workshop. Joy of Art Studio. Info: (910) 528-7283. WEYMOUTH CENTER EVENT. 6-9 p.m. “Taste of the States.” Cost: $45. Info: Carol Van Zanten at (910) 255-6077.

ART CLASS. 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Artists League of the Sandhills, Info: (910) 944-3979. SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Creative collage and scrap-booking workshop. Joy of Art Studio. Info: (910) 528-7283. LIVE MUSIC AT RUE 32. Info: (910) 725-1910.

ART CLASS. 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Artists League of the Sandhills, Info: (910) 944-3979. SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Joy of Art Studio. Info: (910) 528-7283. DOGFISH HEAD BEER DINNER. The Sly Fox Pub. WEYMOUTH RANGER EVENT. 5:30 p.m. (910) 692-8235.

61st NORTH AND SOUTH SENIOR MEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP. Played on Pinehurst No. 2, 4, 8. 55th NORTH AND SOUTH SENIOR WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP. Played on Pinehurst No. 4, 5, 8. ART CLASS. 1-4 p.m. Artists League of the Sandhills. Info: (910) 944-3979.

NORTH & SOUTH SENIOR MEN’S & WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP. SENIOR EVENT. 11:30 p.m. Douglass Community Center. Info: (910) 692-7376. ART CLASS. 1-4 p.m. FREE GRANT WORKSHOP FOR ARTISTS. 5:15 p.m. Campbell House. Info: (910) 692-2787.

NORTH & SOUTH SENIOR MEN’S & WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP. MEET THE AUTHOR. Emily Colin will be discussing her book, Memory Thief. The Country Bookshop. Info: (910) 692-3211.

NORTH & SOUTH SENIOR MEN’S & WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP. POTTERY AUCTION. 6:00 p.m. North Carolina’s Pottery Center’s 13th Annual auction to support local potters. Leland Little Auction & Estate Sales. Tickets: (336) 873-8430.

SENIOR EVENT. 10:45 a.m. Lunch Bunch. Depart from the Campbell House. Info: (910) 692-7376.

ART CLASS. 1-4 p.m. “Morning Has Broken—Oil or Acrylics.” Artists League of the Sandhills. Info: (910) 944-3979.

U.S. WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP SECTIONAL QUALIFIER. Legacy Golf Links. Info: (910) 673-1000. ART CLASS. 10 a.m.-3:30 p.m. “Follow the Leader” Artists League of the Sandhills. Info: (910) 944-3979. THE PERFECT PAIR AT RUE 32. Info: (910) 725-1910.

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30-4 p.m. Southern Pines Public Library. LUNCH AND LEARN. 12:30-1:30 p.m. The Laser Institute of Pinehurst. A TASTE OF EACH REGION AT RUE 32. U.S. KIDS GOLF WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP AND WORLD CUP.

FIRST FRIDAY. 5-8 p.m. Info: www. firstfridaysouthernpines.com. FINE ARTS FESTIVAL OPENING RECEPTION & AWARDS CEREMONY. 6-8 p.m. Campbell House Galleries. JAZZY FRIDAYS. 7-10 p.m. Info: (910) 369-0411. ROBBINS FARMERS DAY FESTIVAL. 6 p.m. - midnight U.S. KIDS GOLF WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP AND WORLD CUP.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Joy of Art Studio. (910) 528-7283. SUMMER PICNIC CONCERT SERIES. 7:00 p.m. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery. Info: (910) 369-0411.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m.-3 p.m. Creative collage and scrap-booking workshop. Joy of Art Studio. Info: (910) 528-7283. CLASSIC CAR & TRUCK CRUISE-IN. 5-8 p.m. Info: (910) 639-1494. PINEHURST LIVE AFTER 5. 5:30-8:30 p.m. Info: www.pinehurstbusinessguild.com. JAZZY FRIDAYS. 7-10 p.m. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery. Info: (910) 369-0411.

JAZZY FRIDAYS. 7-10 p.m. Admission: $10. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery. Info: (910) 369-0411.

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

FREE COOKING DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Elliott’s on Linden. MEET THE ARTIST AT WORK. 12-3 p.m. FREE WINE TASTING. 12-4 p.m. JAMES GREGORY COMEDY SHOW. 7-9 p.m. Sunrise Theater. ROBBINS FARMERS DAY FESTIVAL. All day. U.S. KIDS GOLF WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP AND WORLD CUP. REVOLUTIONARY WAR BATTLE REENACTMENT. 4 p.m.

DRESSAGE. Until 12:00. Early Morning Blues at Pinehurst Harness Track. Info: Kay Whitlock at (910) 315-5959. FREE COOKING DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Elliott’s on Linden. Info: (910) 215-0775. MEET THE ARTIST AT WORK. 12-3 p.m. Jane Casnellie. Hollyhocks Art Gallery. Info: (910) 255-0665 FREE WINE TASTING. 12-4 p.m. Elliott’s on Linden. Info: (910) 215-0775.

RIGSBY-CLARK CUP GOLF TOURNAMENT. 8:30 am & 2pm. Longleaf Golf & Country Club. 5th ANNUAL BACKYARD BOCCE BASH. 9:30 a.m. The Harness Track. Info/Register: (910) 692-3323. FREE COOKING DEMO & WINE TASTING. 12-4. Elliott’s on Linden. Info: (910) 215-0775. PHANTASM STREET WARS AND LATE NIGHT TEST-&-TUNE. Info: (910) 582-3400. MOORE PUNS COMEDY SERIES. 8 p.m. The Bell Tree Tavern. Info: (910) 692-2787. MEET THE AUTHOR. 2 p.m. The Country Bookshop. Info: (910) 692-3211.

Arts & Entertainment Calendar August 1

PRESCHOOL STORYTIME. 3:30 – 4 p.m. Bring • infants and toddlers (ages birth to 5) for stories, songs, and fun. Playtime after. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

LUNCH AND LEARN. 12:30 – 1:30 p.m. Topic: No • Down Time, Peels and Exfoliation Treatments. Includes lunch, gift bags and specials. The Laser Institute of Pinehurst, 80 Aviemore Court, Suite A, Pinehurst. Info/ RSVP: (910) 295-1130.

A TASTE OF EACH REGION AT RUE 32. Explore • six regions on the menu for the price of four. Cost: $35;

optional wine pairings: $20. Rue 32, 290 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Reservations: (910) 725-1910.

August 1–5

U.S. KIDS GOLF WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP • AND WORLD CUP. One of the world’s largest junior golf

championships for kids ages 6-12. To be played on Pinehurst courses No. 3, No. 4 and No. 8, as well as nearby Longleaf Golf & Country Club, Mid Pines, Southern Pines Golf Club, Talamore, Midland Country Club and Little River. Info: (888) 387-5437 or www.homeofgolf.com/uskidsgolf.

August 2

AWARD RECEPTION. 5 – 7 p.m. Arts Council of • Moore County presents the Purchase Award Reception

for Fine Arts Festival. Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org.

FREE FILM VIEWING. 2:30 – 4:30 p.m. As part • of the “Crime Noir” adult summer reading program, the

Oldies and Goodies film series presents the film based on the novel, The Maltese Falcon. Refreshments served. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

August 2–4

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ROBBINS FARMERS DAY FESTIVAL. Thursday 6 – 9 p.m., Friday 6 p.m. – midnight, Saturday 9 a.m. – midnight. Free festival, small fee for rodeo, carnival rides and games. One of the largest horse parades on the East Coast. Enjoy country, bluegrass, gospel and beach music. Entertainment also includes fireworks, mule show, arts & crafts, and antique tractor show. Food vendors on site. Middleton Street, downtown Robbins. Info: (910) 4641290 or www.robbinsfarmersday.com.

August 3

FIRST FRIDAY. 5 – 8 p.m. Family friendly communi• ty event featuring live music from The Honeycutters. Food and beverages available for purchase. Free admission. The grassy knoll adjacent to the Sunrise Theater, Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: www.firstfridaysouthernpines.com.

FINE ARTS FESTIVAL OPENING RECEPTION & • AWARDS CEREMONY. 6 – 8 p.m. Presented by the Arts

Council of Moore County. On exhibit through August 31, 9 a.m. – 5 p.m., weekdays. Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org.

COOKNG DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Elliott’s on Linden. Info: (910) 215-0775. FREE WINE TASTING. 12 – 4 p.m. Syrah and Shiraz. Elliott’s on Linden. Info: (910) 215-0775.

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ca l e n da r JAZZY FRIDAYS. 7 – 10 p.m. Live jazz music and • hors d’oeuvres, rain or shine. Admission: $10. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery, Riverton Road, Wagram. Info: (910) 369-0411.

August 4

FREE COOKING DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Explore • more ways to enjoy the scrumptious, locally-grown, vineripened tomato. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215- 0775.

MEET THE ARTIST AT WORK. 12 – 3 p.m. Jane • Casnellie. Hollyhocks Art Gallery, 905 Linden Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 255-0665 or www.janecasnellie.com.

FREE WINE TASTING. 12 – 4 p.m. A Tour of the • Rhone Valley. Grenache, syrah, marsanne, roussanne, carignan, mourvedre, cinsault. Discover the lush, ripe flavors of this famous region. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

JAMES GREGORY COMEDY SHOW. 7 – 9 • p.m. The “Funniest Man in America” returns. Limited

availability. Tickets: $30/VIP; $25/General. Sunrise Theater, Broad St., Souther n Pines. Info: w w w. sunr isetheater.com.

August 4–5

REVOLUTIONARY WAR BATTLE • REENACTMENT. Saturday 4 p.m.; Sunday 2 p.m.

The 33rd annual reenactment of the 1781 skirmish at the house between Loyalist (Tory) and Rebel (Whig) militias. Encampment of soldiers and families, artillery and small arms demonstrations, craft demonstrations. House in the Horseshoe, 288 Alston House Rd., Sanford. Info: (910) 947-2051.

August 5

ART EXHIBIT & OPENING RECEPTION. • 2 – 5 p.m. Jewels in the Sandhills. Features small

works and miniatures by full members. Show will run through August 31. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www. artistsleague.org.

FREE FILM VIEWING. 2:30 – 4:30 p.m. As part • of the “Crime Noir” adult summer reading program, the

August 6–10

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. Abstract • art and surrealism workshop. Ages 8-11. Joy of Art

Studio, 139 East Pennsylvania Ave, B., Southern Pines. Info: www.joyof-art.com or (910) 528-7283.

August 7

BOOK BUNCH BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. – 12 p.m. • For students in grades 3-5 to discuss books and partici-

pate in fun activities. Space is limited. Pre-registration required. Prizes given to children who meet their reading goal and attend at least two programs. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info/Register: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

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Key: Art Music/Concerts Film Literature/Speakers History Sports

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Dance/Theater Fun

I t ’ s

OUR

ON E

YEA R

ANNIVERSARY!

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with the Moore County Chamber of Commerce

August 7th at 4:00 pm

Ribbon Cutting Ceremony Refreshments • Champagne • Door Prizes!

Marie & Marcele Boutique

171 NE BRoad Street • Southern Pines, NC

910-639-9097

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Fresh fashion meets classic style at The Cupola.

August 7–8

ART CLASS. 1 – 4 p.m. “Painting Animals” with • Yvonne Sovereign. Learn techniques for painting realis-

tic animals in watercolor. Methods for painting long and short fur, techniques for realistic, soulful eyes and how to make your animals come alive. Cost: $60. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www.artistleague.org.

August 8

SENIOR FOUR-BALL ONE-DAY • TOURNAMENT. Sponsored through the Carolinas Golf Association. Tobacco Road Golf Club, Sanford. Info: (910) 673-1000 or www.carolinasgolf.org.

BAND OF BOOKIES READING CLUB. 11 a.m. • – 12 p.m. For students in grades 6-8 to discuss books

and participate in fun activities. Space is limited. Preregistration required. Prizes given to children who meet their reading goal and attend at least two programs. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info/Register: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

MEET THE AUTHOR. 5 p.m. Kay Hooper will • discuss her book, Haven. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211.

August 9

READING RABBITS BOOK CLUB. 11 a.m. • – 12 p.m. For students in grades K-2 to discuss books

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SENIOR EVENT. 12:30 p.m. Pudding Day. Make • homemade dessert using zip lock bags. Flavors include: vanilla, chocolate, banana, etc., and toppings. Please sign up and pay by August 1. Cost: $2/Southern Pines residents; $4/non-residents. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376.

GATHERING AT GIVEN. 3:30 p.m. George • Vickers and Shawn Davis will be speaking on the his-

tory of the Special Forces from World War II until the present. Given Memorial Library, 150 Cherokee Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-6022.

BEER CHALLENGE. Join the evening challenge • to answer the question that every beer lover has: is that

beer better on tap on in the bottle? Featuring two beers in draft and bottle format for you to decide which is better. Cost: $20. The Sly Fox Pub, 795 SW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 725-1621.

MOORE PUNS COMEDY SERIES. 8 p.m. Arts • Council of Moore County and Dogwood Dental

present Comedy Night. Material appropriate for ages 21 and older. The Bell Tree Tavern, 155 NE Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www. mooreart.org.

August 10

SUMMER PICNIC CONCERT SERIES. 7 p.m. • The Sand Band is back. Grab your dancing shoes for

some Carolina Beach Music with a whole lotta soul. Gather under the tent or pack up a blanket to lay out in the grass under the stars. Food vendor onsite. Cost: $20/car. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery, Riverton Road, Wagram. Info: (910) 369-0411.

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Key: Art Music/Concerts Film Literature/Speakers Sports

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Dance/Theater Fun History

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

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August 11

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FREE COOKING DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Add a sweet crunch or a bold spiciness by choosing one of many pepper varieties. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

MEET THE ARTIST AT WORK. 12 – 3 p.m. • Jane Casnellie. Hollyhocks Art Gallery, 905 Linden Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 255-0665 or www. janecasnellie.com.

FREE WINE TASTING. 12 – 4 p.m. Gerard • Bertrand from the south of France. A master winemaker

by Rynet Oxendine. Also enjoy a salad and a baked potato. Cost: $10/resident; $20/non-resident. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376.

August 15

p.m., $7/plate. Rainsite: Owens Auditorium, SCC. Free concert. Sandhills Community College, 3395 Airport Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 695-3829.

August 15–16

SCC JAZZ BAND SUMMER CONCERT • SERIES. 6:30 p.m. BBQ by Jordan’s is available at 5

OBSCURE WINE REGIONS DINNER AT RUE • 32. 6:30 p.m. Five course dinner with three wines to match. Cost: $60. Rue 32, 290 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Reservations: (910) 725-1910.

LIVE MUSIC AT RUE 32. Listen to a guitarist • while enjoying a cigar and having a drink with friends. Rue 32, 290 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 725-1910.

ART CLASS. 9 a.m. – 12 p.m. “Basic Drawing” • with Sandra Kinunnen. Specific skills are learned,

including one and two-point perspective, contour drawing, figure drawing and a touch of landscape. Cost: $63. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www.artistleague.org.

with international recognition. Taste the difference of terroir: chardonnay, viognier, syrah and carignan with a hint of Mediterranean breeze. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

SANDHILLS PHOTO CLUB MEETING. 7 p.m. • Digital competition: “Abstract.” Guests welcome. Christ

August 16

August 11–12

August 13–17

Cost: $39+. The Sly Fox Pub, 795 SW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 725-1621.

Whitlock at (910) 315-5959.

of Art Studio, 139 East Pennsylvania Ave, B., Southern Pines. Info: www.joyof-art.com or (910) 528-7283.

Fellowship Church on Midland Road at Pee Dee. Info: www.sandhillsphotoclub.org.

SUMMER ART CAMP. 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. Creative DRESSAGE. Until 12 p.m. Early Morning Blues • • collage and scrap-booking workshop for ages 8-11. Joy at Pinehurst Harness Track, NC 5, Pinehurst. Info: Kay

August 13

August 14

ART CLASS. 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. “Printmaking • Made Easy” with Sandy Stratil. Explore basic meth-

ods of making and enhancing monoprints. Materials provided; students welcome to bring whichever materials they wish to use for enhancing the prints. Cost: $55 (includes supplies). Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www.artistleague.org.

WEYMOUTH CENTER EVENT. 6 – 9 p.m. • “Taste of the States.” The Women of Weymouth

present a series of tapas and wines redolent of the different regions of the country. Cost: $45. Weymouth Center, 555 East Connecticut Avenue, Southern Pines. Info: Carol Van Zanten at (910) 255-6077 or www.weymouthcenter.org.

SENIOR EVENT. 6 p.m. National Filet Mignon • Day Dinner. Filet mignon to be purchased and cooked • • • • • Key:

Art

Music/Concerts

Dance/Theater

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Literature/Speakers

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DOGFISH HEAD BEER DINNER. Four courses • with featured beers from Dogfish Head Craft Brewery. FAMILY FUN NIGHT. 5:30 p.m. Explore and •• learn about the nocturnal creatures that roam and go

bump in the night. Free. Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info/ Register: (910) 692-8235 or www.sppl.net.

August 17

CLASSIC CAR & TRUCK CRUISE-IN. 5 – 8 • p.m. In case of inclement weather, Cruise-In will be

cancelled. Ledo Pizza, 1480 US Hwy 1 South, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 639-1494.

PINEHURST LIVE AFTER 5. 5:30 – 8:30 p.m. • Live music by The Swing Street Band. Food and beverages available for purchase. Village of Pinehurst. Info: www.pinehurstbusinessguild.com.

Sports

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fizzy Vinho Verde from Portugal. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

NORTH AND SOUTH SENIOR WOMEN’S • CHAMPIONSHIP. Played on Pinehurst No. 4, 5, 8. For

August 18

one for cars with drag slicks and one for those with street tires; unlimited fun runs. Open to all motorized vehicles. Rockingham Dragway, 2153 US Hwy 1 North, Rockingham. Info: (910) 582-3400.

August 21

JAZZY FRIDAYS. 7 – 10 p.m. Live jazz music and hors d’oeuvres, rain or shine. Admission: $10. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery, Riverton Road, Wagram. Info: (910) 369-0411.

PHANTASM STREET WARS AND LATE • NIGHT TEST-&-TUNE. Racing in two Quick 8 classes,

RIGSBY-CLARK CUP GOLF TOURNAMENT. • 8:30 am & 2pm. Shotgun starts at Longleaf Golf &

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Country Club. 16th Annual fundraiser for Moore Buddies. Info: www.moorebuddies.org.

MOORE PUNS COMEDY SERIES. 8 p.m. Arts Council of Moore County and Dogwood Dental present professional comedian, Rik Roberts. Material appropriate for all ages. Tickets (available at the door): $10/adults; $5/students. The Bell Tree Tavern, 155 NE Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org.

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BACKYARD BOCCE BASH. 9:30 a.m. Annual benefit for Sandhills Children’s Center. Hotdogs and beverages for sale. Live music hosted by The Junior League of Moore County. Cost: VIP Team of Four/$350, includes courtside tent; General Team of Four/$100. Prizes awarded to the team with the best decorated tent. The Harness Track, 200 Beulah Hill Rd., Pinehurst. Info/Register: (910) 692-3323 or www. SandhillsChildrensCenter.org.

August 20–21

FREE COOKING DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Sandhills • peaches. Take a look at these local wonders and see what delicious treats can be unveiled. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

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ART CLASS. 1 – 4 p.m. “Introduction to Water Based Oils” with Betty DiBartelomeo. Non-toxic aqua oils are the answer for artists working in plein air or who can’t use traditional oils for health reasons. This class aims to raise your comfort level in the use of this new material. Cost: $60. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www. artistleague.org.

MEET THE AUTHOR. 2 p.m. Margaret Dunbar • Cutright, co-author of A Case for Solomon: Bobby Dunbar

August 20–23

FREE WINE TASTING. 12 – 4 p.m. Summer • Whites from Spain and Portugal. Compare and contrast

For more information on format, sign up or other related data, please call the Pinehurst tournament office at (910) 235-8140.

and the kidnapping that haunted a nation, will be discussing her book. The Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211. the refreshing Albarino from Spain and the slightly

FREE GRANT WORKSHOP FOR ARTISTS. •• 5:15 p.m. Arts Council of Moore County presents a

free grant workshop for artists planning to apply for the Regional Artist Project Grant. Campbell House, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2787 or www.mooreart.org.

COOKING DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Mark Elliott and • Donnie Wicker will be demonstrating how to break down a pig. Afterward, enjoy a four course menu featuring pork. Cost: $38+. The Sly Fox Pub, 795 SW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 725-1621.

August 22

MEET THE AUTHOR. Emily Colin will be • discussing her book, Memory Thief. The Country

Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211.

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Dance/Theater

Film

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where help is needed. Learn how to conserve energy while enjoying light refreshments. Cost: $1/resident; $2/non-resident. Douglass Community Center, 1185 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376.

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SENIOR EVENT. 11:30 p.m. Conservation Day. • Wildlife, energy, water and oil are some of the areas

Key:

Art

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NORTH AND SOUTH SENIOR MEN’S • CHAMPIONSHIP. Played on Pinehurst No. 2, 4, 8.

more information on format, sign up or other related data, please call the Pinehurst tournament office at (910) 235-8140.

Fun

History

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Sports

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August 23

POTTERY AUCTION. 6 p.m. North Carolina’s • Pottery Center’s 13th annual auction to support local potters. Live auction begins at 7:30 p.m. Cost: $75/dinner and auction; $10/auction only. Leland Little Auction & Estate Sales, 620 Cornerstone Ct., Hillsboro. Tickets: (336) 873-8430.

August 25

COOKNG DEMO. 12 & 2 p.m. Learn how to • unlock the rich, complex flavor hidden inside of the eggplant. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

FREE WINE TASTING. 12 – 4 p.m. Syrah and • Shiraz. Same grape, different countries, many legends. Sipped on its own or blended, this exotic grape boasts a hint of the Orient. Elliott’s Provision Company, Elliott’s on Linden, 905 Linden Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 215-0775.

August 27

U.S. WOMEN’S MID-AMATEUR • CHAMPIONSHIP SECTIONAL QUALIFIER.

Legacy Golf Links. Sponsored through the Carolinas Golf Association. Info: (910) 673-1000 or www.carolinasgolf.org.

ART CLASS. 10 a.m. – 3:30 p.m. “Follow the • Leader” with Joan Williams. Step-by-step beginner oil

painting class in which student completes a painting to take home. All materials provided; bring lunch. Cost: $70. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-3979 or www.artistleague.org.

THE PERFECT PAIR AT RUE 32. Three Italian • themed plates paired with three Italian wines. Cost: $30+. Rue 32, 290 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 725-1910.

August 29

SENIOR EVENT. 10:45 a.m. Lunch Bunch. • Travel together to Golden Corral and enjoy lunch as a

group for fun and fellowship. Transportation cost: $2/ residents; $4/non-residents. Depart from the Campbell House, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-7376.

August 30

ART CLASS. 1 – 4 p.m. “Morning Has Broken — • Oil or Acrylics” with Andrea Schmidt. Learn how to

paint a landscape indicating early morning light with an emphasis on cloud shapes and morning sun reflections using warm colors. Cost: $30. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 9443979 or www.artistleague.org.

August 31

JAZZY FRIDAYS. 7 – 10 p.m. Live jazz music and • hors d’oeuvres, rain or shine. Admission: $10. Cypress Bend Vineyards & Winery, Riverton Road, Wagram. Info: (910) 369-0411.

Weekly Happenings Tuesdays

FREE YOGA FOR PTSD VETS. 6 p.m. Yoga for • retired veterans who suffer from post-traumatic stress

disorder. No previous yoga experience necessary. Yoga Massage in the Sandhills, 5374 Niagara-Carthage Rd., Southern Pines. Info: Mary Ann at (910) 949-2162.

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Dance/Theater Fun History

Resale

Retail

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Wednesdays

CHILDREN’S STORYTIME. 1:30 p.m. Given • Memorial Library, 150 Cherokee Rd., Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-6022.

CLASSIC MOVIE WEDNESDAY. 7:30 – 8:30 • p.m. Sunrise Theater, 250 NW Broad St., Southern

Pines. Info: (910) 692-8501 or www.sunrisetheater.com.

Thursdays

STORY/ACTIVITY TIME. 10:30 a.m. Stories and • activities at the Country Bookshop, 140 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211.

Art Galleries ABOUT ART GALLERY inside The Market Place Midland Bistro Building, 2160 Midland Road, Pinehurst. The gallery features local artists Deane Billings, Irene Dobson, Michelle Satterfield, Pamela Swarbrick, Nancy Yanchus and Joan Williams. 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, local pottery from many potters, handmade jewelry, glass and more. Monday-Saturday 10 a.m. – 5 p.m. (910) 695-1555, www.ravenpottery.com. 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. Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St. in historic Aberdeen. Exhibit hours are noon – 3 p.m., Monday-Saturday. (910) 944-3979. Broadhurst Gallery, 2212 Midland Rd., Pinehurst. Showcases works by nationally recognized artists such as Louis St. Lewis, Lula Smith, Shawn Morin, Rachel Clearfield, Judy Cox and Jason Craighead. Meetthe-artist opportunities available. Tuesday-Friday, 11 a.m. – 5 p.m., Saturday, 1 – 4 p.m. (910) 295-4817, www. broadhurstgallery.com. 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.

Contact Michelle! 910-693-2481

The Downtown Gallery inside Flynne’s Coffee Bar, 115 NE Broad St., Southern Pines. Ever-changing array of local and regional art, pottery and other handmade items. (910) 693-1999. The Gallery at Seven Lakes at the St. Mary Magdalen building, 1145 Seven Lakes Dr. Just 9 miles from the Pinehurst Traffic Circle up 211, this gallery is dedicated to local artists. Wednesday-Thursday 1 p.m. – 4 p.m. 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 original artwork by local artists Diane Kraudelt, Carol Rotter, Morgen Kilbourn, Caroline Love and artist/owner Jane Casnellie. Monday-Saturday 10:30 a.m. – 9:30 p.m. Meet the artists on Saturdays, 12 p.m. – 3 p.m. (910) 255-0665, www.hollyhocksartgallery.com.

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Key: Art Music/Concerts Film Literature/Speakers Sports

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Dance/Theater Fun History

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

cA l e n dA r LADY BEDFORD’S TEA PARLOUR, 25 Chinquapin Rd., 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. 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, Thursday-Saturday 11 a.m. – 4 p.m. (910) 295-2055. SEAGROVE CANDLE COMPANY, 116 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. Showcases arts and crafts of Sandhills and Seagrove area. Monday, WednesdaySaturday 10 a.m. – 5 p.m., (910) 695-0029.

STUDIO 590 by the pond in Dowd Cabin, 590 Dowd Cir., 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.

Nature Centers SANDHILLS HORTICULTURAL GARDENS (32 acres of gardens). The Sandhills Horticultural Gardens are handicapped-accessible. Daylight hours year-round. (910) 695-3882. WEYMOUTH WOODS SANDHILLS NATURE PRESERVE (898 acres). 1024 Ft. Bragg Road, Southern Pines. (910) 692-2167. VILLAGE ABORETUM. 35 acres of land adjoining the Village Hall on Magnolia Road, Pinehurst. (910) 295-1900.

Pineneedler Answers From page 95

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. CARTHAGE HISTORICAL MUSEUM. Sundays, 2 – 5 p.m. or by appointment. Located at Rockingham and Saunders streets, Carthage. (910) 947-2331. HOUSE IN THE HORSESHOE. Open year-round. Hours vary. 288 Alston House Road, Sanford. (910) 947-2051.

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

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

Historical Sites

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. 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. SHAW HOUSE PROPERTY. Open 1 – 4 p.m. TuesdayFriday. (910) 692-2051. TUFTS ARCHIVES. 9:30 a.m. – 5 p.m., Monday-Friday, 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 _______________________ To add an event, e-mail us at pinestraw@thepilot.com by the ﬁrst of the month prior to the event.

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August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

SandhillSeen Classic Car Cruise In at Ledo’s Pizza Friday, June 15, 2012 Photographs by Cassie Butler

Carroll Comer, Jack Williams, Barry Brady

Pat & Joe Lambert

Gerry & Donna Bowery, Bruce & Heather Willis

Carol Higgins, William Maness, John Frye, Dave McDaniel

Brendon Westbrook

Mackie Odum

Bob & Gladys Suggs

Samuel & Rita Jordan

Tom Thompson

Grace your Garden.

Pergolas • Statuary • Planters • Fountains Garden Art • Aluminum Fencing

Windridge

Gardens

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

www.WindridgeGardens.com

Wednesday - Saturday: 10am-6pm; Sunday: 1pm-6pm

Fall

FESTival

SEPTEMBER 8th

from Noon until 6:00 PM

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

SandhillSeen Southern Pines Farmers Market Saturday, June 16, 2012 Photographs by Jeanne Paine

Blanchie Carter & Dr. Tandrea Carter Prince

Rick Sarno, David Sherrill

Jake & Janet Kenworthy

Oliva Dowdy Brown Hunter & Sue Stovall, Jennifer Umlane

Gavin & Emily Wood

Jackie & Louie Hough, Rachel, Vaughn, Violet & Ava Musselwhite

Grace Queen

Margaret & April Page

Maureen Sutton, Eddie McKenzie

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Margaux Sroka

SandhillSeen Foxtrack Horse Trials in Southern Pines Sunday, June 17, 2012 Photographs by Jeanne Paine

Lani Hester, Mel Wyatt

Mike Plumb, Tammy & Chris Leber

Jennifer Nordemo, Ellen Stone, Lucy Meldrum, Chase Remmington

Amanda Hogue

Pam & Keith Harriss, Andrea Glenn

Angie Grogan, Joanie Bowden, Kim Phelps Deaton, Janie Boland, Autumn Allen

Mary Alexander Barron, Ashley Barron, Suzan Johnston, Carol Deacon

PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � August 2012

Come see what’s in store for

Back to School !

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Shop Local!

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SandhillSeen

Debbie Glisson

Fourth of July Parade in Pinehurst Wednesday, July 4, 2012 Photographs by Jeanne Paine

Paul & Gwen Belcher, Avis Bostic Marie O’Brien, John Condit, Linda Criswell

Robb, Alice & Emma Patterson

Candy Young

Braelyn Garner

Reco Washington, Doug Lapins

Allie Hubert

Maisey & Angie Garner

Cynthia Shear

I N I N G

I D E

MOORE COUNTY

FARMERS MARKET

Food Demonstration by Ashten’s Saturday, August 18th • 9:30-11:30am Tomatoes, Corn, Cantaloupes, Peaches, Watermelons, Blueberries, Baked Goods, Jams, Meats, Flowers & Plants Mondays- FirstHealth

(Fitness Center) Facility courtesy of First Health 170 Memorial Dr • Pinehurst 2pm-5:30pm

Thursdays- Morganton Rd

(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

Call 947-3752 or 690-9520 for more info Websearch: Moore County Farmers Market Local Harvest

facebook.com/moorecountyfarmersmarket

SandhillSeen

13th Annual Blues Crawl, Seth Walker at the Sunrise Saturday, July 14, 2012 Photographs by Cassie Butler

Jen Dorsett, Hayley & John Campbell, Leanna Groundui, Carla Cain

Dave & Pam Hampton Seth Walker

Mike & Carla Albritton Corey Messerli, Jeannie Horney, Tammy Moore, Kevin Lareau

Buddy Blackman, Wendy Hottle

Tammie West, Michael Collier

Nicholas & Danielle Villanueva

Chris Kolbash, Rob Erhard, Holly Hallman, Jim Brunner John & Franie Rachels, Frank Steed, Christy Bowyer, Brian Abbott

Quinn & Gill Scott

Elizabeth & Petra Neuffer, Laura Keck, Nell Ross

CUTLER TREE

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T h o u g h ts f r o m T h e Ma n S h e d

Wyatt, Lost and Found How a caring community returned a beloved dog to his loving family

By Geoff Cutler

She awoke as she always does in the

middle of the night, to check on all the animals. To let some out, let some in, give them a little dry food, fresh water, whatever the heck it is she feels compelled to do to spoil the bejeezes out of our dog and three cats . . . and then she woke me up. “Where’s Wyatt?”

“He’s here . . . I think.” “Noooo he’s not,” she replied, already bordering on hysteria. When I turned in that night, I thought Wyatt was inside and either under the living room table on his big fluffy dog bed, or with us in the bedroom on his other bed. My wife, Brooke, had already gone to sleep, and for some reason assuming that he was, I just didn’t look to be sure he was in one of his normal spots. Won’t be doing that again. Before continuing, however, I must pause to say that each month before sitting down to write a column for this fine magazine, I think, what story to tell this time? This month, it was easy. This is a story about you. The fine, generous and thoughtful people of our community. The people who make this such a seemingly small, caring and wonderful place to live. It is about you, you who make me think sometimes, that we are really just one large family. The dog was gone. We had people at the house and around the pool all day, and when everyone finally went home, the gate was left open. Wyatt left through it, and went for a midnight stroll. Now, the horrifying wrinkle in all this, big mistake number two, and the thing that made us fear the worst, was that Wyatt had been swimming that day and I had removed his collar to let it dry in the sun. Because of it, all our worst fears for him increased ten-fold.

He’s ink-black . . . he’d be hit by a car out on Indiana . . . they’ll never see him, and he still doesn’t understand to stay away from cars. He’ll be dog napped . . . to spend the remainder of his short life in a fighting ring or something where he’ll be torn to shreds. He’s not a fighter. Someone will decide to keep him. No collar? No owner . . . and what a wonderful sweet-natured animal he is . . . perfect for the children. All of this and more occurred to me as I drove concentric circles around the neighborhoods. Always circling out onto Indiana to see if my worst and most likely fear had come true. Come sunrise, I still had not found him, and Brooke had begun calling all the veterinarians to let them know who owned the black Curly Coated should he turn up. I called The Pilot to see if they’d put up a picture and description on their website, and together we told as many people as we knew or plus a few strangers we stopped in passing. Mid-morning, we had a call from a woman whose porch Wyatt had found his way onto and was playing with her three dogs. I asked her when we arrived to pick him up if, without his collar, she knew that he belonged to someone. “Of course,” she said, “that was obvious. I called my vet right away, and they told me Wyatt belonged to you.” Later that day, we discovered through emails and phone calls just how supportive our community was with our lost dog. It was almost like a marshalling of military forces. Email blasts went out through the neighborhoods. The Pilot immediately published Wyatt’s information. Friends called other friends to let them know, and all day people called us to see if Wyatt had been found. He was, and we have our community to thank for it. Thank you Penny, Andie, Kathy and Cathy. Thank you Pat and Ginger, Fred and Candy. Thanks to The Pilot, and local veterinarians, and everyone else who helped us. It’s so nice to know you are all out there. Truly a remarkable and wonderful community. PS Geoff Cutler is owner of Cutler Tree LLC in Southern Pines. He is a regular contributor to both The Pilot and PineStraw. He can be reached at geoffcutler@ embarqmail.com.

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August Pineneedler ACROSS 1 YUM! 6 Room coolers (abbr.) 9 YUM! 13 Negatively charged particle 14 Ghost’s greeting 15 Canned meats 16 Young’s Road way of dining? 17 Flightless bird 18 Court-issued documents 19 Huge whale’s first name 20 Nebraska river 22 Highest numerical “rating” 23 Brand of laundry detergent 24 Small gambling cube with dots 25 Big sandwich at Jersey Mike’s 27 Give a hint or make known (2 words) 29 YUM! 33 Single 34 YUM!

BY MART DICKERSON

35 Not this 36 Tiny particles 39 Stitch 40 Peachy keen 41 Baby’s name for father 42 __ A Small World... 43 “Breakfast anytime” owner 44 ___ supplement (vitamins) 46 College report 49 Spoken 50 America 51 ___ de deux (ballet) 53 Initials preceding an alias 56 YUM! 58 Isn’t able to 59 Dance using a pole 61 Visualize 62 Nuts, crazy 63 YUM! 64 Make a mistake 65 Pale 66 Water swirl 67 Distress call initials

68 Shabby and run-down

 Sanford

DOWN 1 Lava 2 Register 3 Responsible, in court 4 Slimly 5 Compass point 6 White poplar 7 Unconscious state 8 Lefty 9 Possessive pronoun 10 Make a sweater 11 Evaluate 12 Association (abbr.) 15 Twit, jerk 20 Moore County tree 21 Swarm 24 Mr. Trump’s nickname, and others 26 Science of light and vision 28 YUM! 30 Extremely high frequency (abbr.) 31 Rodent 32 Pigpen 34 Affirmation 36 Total up 37 ____chi 38 Poem of praise 39 Writing tools 40 Space org. 42 Iran’s neighbor 43 Gauze 45 Malicious burning 47 North American Indian 48 Jerked 50 Drug doers 52 Hard and rocky 53 Lotion ingredient 54 Gracious 55 Among 57 Air (prefix) 58 Brief____ (baggage) 60 Young male 62 Used to be

Sudoku:

Fill in the grid so every row, every column and every 3x3 box contain the numbers 1-9. Puzzle answers on page 80

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

southwords

Transported

A good book is worth a thousand miles

By Nicole White

I remember

being very young and staring at the apparent random markings on the pages of my favorite book. Curled up in my mom’s lap, I could easily have recited from memory the next line of the familiar page, but I wanted to read it for myself. Whatever meaning those markings called words were hiding, I wanted to decipher them on my own.

Not surprisingly, I remember learning how to read plain as day. I was barely 5 years old and hadn’t started kindergarten yet. Mom would lay out the green laminated “Play’n Talk” cards all over the living room floor. With a yardstick she would point to the letter, and if I named it correctly and got the associated sound, I got the raisin or chocolate chip perched on top. My favorite game was creating words that sounded alike. Mom would put part of a word together, the “a” and “t” for starters, and see how many three-letter words I could make. Phonetics made sense and gave me the tools early to figure out harder and harder words. The little readers flew through my hands, getting ever easier. It wasn’t long before a whole world of fantasy and adventure, mysteries and princesses opened up to me, and I was a goner. I had my very own room in those days — an upstairs loft with a big iron bed and slanted attic ceilings that enveloped my little nest with just the right amount of closeness. There was a small square window at the end of the room that somehow always captured the afternoon sun, illuminating the still air and floating dust particles that no amount of Pledge could ever eliminate. It was my sanctuary, and when I wasn’t “organizing,” as I would call my constant re-designs, I would be reading.

My grandma and I had a deal. For every letter I wrote her, she sent me a book. I was a voracious reader and soon was the best of pen pals with my Grams, who lived in San Francisco, a world away from my secluded, small town in northwest Montana. But through those books she sent ‚— sometimes one or two a week ‚— I was transported. I solved mysteries with Nancy Drew, hid out with the Boxcar Kids, traversed the Outer Banks with the wild horses of Chincoteague and fought early battles of feminism by joining with the Hardy Boys. I would curl up for hours at a time on the couch or upstairs in my refuge, often finishing whole books in one sitting. My eyes couldn’t always keep up and now, not even LASIK can correct my near-sightedness, but I wouldn’t have stopped reading for the world. Although free time is a lot more precious now than as a 5-yearold, a love of books has followed me through the years. The sweet Southern Pines Literary Society leads me to expand my horizons and soothes the old soul in me. My tech-savvy husband gave me a Kindle, whose practicality cannot be disputed, but it is the slowgrowing collection of hardbacks in my living room built-ins that really makes me smile and wish for a rainy day when all other plans get canceled. Tastes have obviously changed through the years. Nancy Drew has evolved into historical fiction and riveting autobiographies. Admiration for the Boxcar Kids’ fierce loyalty and independence has progressed into sociopolitical nonfiction that stretches my worldview. The wild horses of Chincoteague’s thirst for freedom has become tales of faraway places and exotic people. They say a picture is worth a thousand words; well, then, a book is worth a thousand miles. And with the price of gas and plane tickets these days, I guess I’ll take my adventures however I can get them. PS Nicole White, a transplant to the Sandhills, loves exploring the unknown: discovering people and uncovering stories. She can be reached at nicolekwhite@gmail.com Illustration by Pamela Powers January

August 2012 P�� PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills

Satisfied

Another

“

We chose Mark to build our retirement home because of his reputation within the community and his knowledge of

“

“green”...

We were impressed with his integrity, the quality of his homes, and his outstanding communication skills.

- Wib & Kathy Doddridge

Madison Creek Farms • Southern Pines, NC

Customer