My Mother’s Pocketbook

By Tom Allen

Mom said her boy loved to plunder. Sounds illegal. I prefer “explore” but will make do with “nosey.”

Two places were off limits to my curiosity — the bottom drawer of Dad’s chest of drawers and Mom’s pocketbook.

Mom never called her pocketbook a “purse.” Something colloquial, perhaps. The first time I took a peek, her pocketbook was on the kitchen table. I, perhaps 5 or 6 and not tall enough to look inside, leaned the bag in for a good snoop. “Leave that alone. That’s my pocketbook.” Her tone of voice reinforced the prohibition. I apologized and got the message — hands off, that’s mine.

Mom owned several pocketbooks — one she carried most days, the others for dressier occasions. She preferred darker bags for winter, softer colors for spring and summer. I have no idea why the prohibition against snooping. I doubt she carried anything illegal or illicit; what mattered was that the contents were her business, her stuff. And don’t we all need a space for odds and ends? Some nook or niche to stash a pen or some quarters or a few Tic-Tacs? Maybe a drawer or, if you’re lucky, a closet? Mom carried the usual items — a wallet, some Kleenex, a tube of lipstick. What else was for her to know and for me not to find out.

If my dad drove a car until the wheels fell off, Mom would tote a pocketbook until its fabric was worn or dirty. And, unlike Imelda Marcos, Mom wasn’t a packrat. When the time came, she dumped the purse and bought a new one, probably from Belk, with a coupon, on Seniors Day. When Mom became a grandmother, a pocketbook was the ideal Mother’s Day gift from our daughters. Mom could make it last, at least until the next May, if not the Christmas after.

I recall, as a teenager, the first time Mom asked me to fetch the wallet from her purse. Was she serious?  Was this a set-up? Would my hand be mauled by a steel trap, a finger bitten off by a pocket-sized varmint? I snatched the wallet, without another glimpse into the nether regions. At last, I must be worthy of her trust. Even today, when my wife asks me to retrieve something from her purse, I get a little uneasy.

Mom’s last pocketbook was a camel-colored Kim Rogers number with a mismatched Aigner wallet, purchased, I’m sure, from Belk. Age and illness robbed her of mobility and independence. A move from her home of 60 years to a furnished assisted-living residence disconnected her from familiar possessions as well as her few living friends. My dad’s death, six months before hers, compounded the loss. At this final residence, Mom — whether sitting in her lift chair or napping in her hospital bed — kept her pocketbook nearby, ready with a pen, a tissue, or just a reminder that something still belonged to her.

I handled financial matters in Mom’s last year and, with her permission, took anything from her wallet or pocketbook that might compromise security or identity. She understood, yet when poking around for her wallet, there was still a sense I’d violated her last private space. Even more, there was a sense that the child had attained adulthood. As the circle closes, the son becomes the parent, the caregiver — an honor but, at times, sad, even terrifying.

After she moved, I left $12 — a ten and two ones — in her wallet. Eight months later, on the night she died, I took her pocketbook home.  I did not look inside for months. When I did, I found that $10 bill. Perhaps she tipped a caring aide or gave a folded bill to a granddaughter as grandparents often do. Along with the wallet, I found high school snapshots of our daughters that Mom could proudly show. There was a Cover Girl pressed-powder compact, a red Revlon lipstick, a handful of tissues, two pens, some melted Halls cough drops and a few coins. Pen marks covered the fabric lining.  Lipstick stained a zippered compartment. The soft faux leather still smelled like the house where I grew up, a place my parents made into a home.

Mom’s pocketbook rests in the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers, not off limits to anyone.  I’m saving it for a plundering grandchild who might walk away with a $10 bill. Me? I’m content to watch memories in the making, while thinking of how very happy one mother would be.  PS

Tom Allen is a longtime — and deeply loved — contributor to PineStraw.

Maybe Baby

For Taurus, golden days are ahead

By Astrid Stellanova

May means in Taurus-speak, maybe, or maybe not. Taurus, we know better than to pull your tail and enrage the hothead in you. Friends know you as surprisingly sunny and funny when unprovoked. Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth II, Adele, George Clooney, Tina Fey, all share the sign of Taurus, and none of them seems too ill-tempered, right?  — Ad Astra, Astrid

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

If anybody crosses somebody in your camp, you’re liable to burn their house down, eat the provisions and take their mule. You are a fierce adversary, Sugar, with a fierce sweet tooth, right? But there is the other side, all generous and loving, and when that side shines, everybody wants to stand in your golden light. This is the reason you collect friends — and enemies — like nobody’s business. Speaking of which, a business opportunity opens in due time. You have every reason to give it a very good look. 

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

This month is Willy Wonka fun and crazy for you. Find the wild child in you to go with it and play. The fact that you finally made it into the candy factory says a lot about just how tenacious you are. You earned your pass and then some. The month you are going to have is one you have longed for, Honey.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

Last month’s shenanigans left you a little sheepish and secretly ashamed. Get over it, Sweet Thing. You may have gone to the extremes, but there ain’t no reason you can’t reboot and move on. You paid to play, and nobody had more fun than you did. BTW: Brace yourself for an unexpected love to surface.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

Two days this month will reveal aspects of your abilities and talents that you have denied or suppressed. If you can just go with the flow, these talents will lead you to unexpected outcomes offering a brand-new vocational choice. Pay extra attention to the number 4 for additional clues — and don’t argue so dang much. 

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

There is either a good time or a good story this month for Virgo. When you stop muddling over something long past, you will find the traction to move forward. The fact that it is over is something you ain’t quite accepted yet. Sugar, the past is as stale as an old doughnut, but the present is where your true joy lies. 

Libra (September 23–October 22)

The past month was a doozy, and you felt like a wing-walker with a drunk pilot at the controls. This is a time of trusting in yourself and waving bye-bye to the ding-dong person formerly in charge of your destiny. You are the pilot of your life, Sweet Thing. You don’t have to do aerial tricks to prove it, either.   

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

It was sweeter than a bite of a hot buttered biscuit drizzled with honey just to watch the face of a rival fall behind as you roared to the front, wasn’t it? You have pulled way ahead, but they ain’t giving up quite so easy. It might pay off for you to form a peaceful pact with them, or else spend the rest of the year playing a mean game of tag.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

You’ve dodged a few bullets this year. Beginning to face that maybe careless and reckless ain’t just your driving traits?  Now, settle down and cogitate. Let the lessons and the luck sink in, Sugar. It is fun to be one step ahead of trouble,
Twinkle Toes, but it might detract from more important work you have yet to do.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

Recent events have confirmed your latest inspirations were a success, and some powerful folks are about to bet on you and your newest ideas. If you were a horse, you would give Seattle Slew a run for the money. All signs point to your standing in the winning circle, Honey Bun. Bow, smile and say thank you.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

In the past, you let one close to you dictate the terms of your life, right down to who, what, where and how things would go down. Have you noticed how wrong they were about what worked for you?  Fire their fool self. You are in a unique situation, Honey Bunny, to reposition your life and your happiness.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

When you got right down to it, you immediately figured out what you needed. That wasn’t so hard was it?  Now you have won the admiration of someone who could use your past experience. Pay it forward. Give this person the benefit of what you know. Your lives intersected for a good reason, Sugar.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

By garaging your three-horsepower moped, you have found the peace and quiet you didn’t know you needed.  As entertaining as it was to watch you roar around town in a ball cap and gray pantyhose, it seems about time you embraced your serious side. You are going to need it. There is a real challenge ahead, Darling. You are up to it.  PS

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.

Donald Ross Revealed

Local author Chris Buie’s engaging new biography of Pinehurst’s Patron Saint of Design

By Lee Pace

Chris Buie moved to Southern Pines as a 10-year-old in the mid-1970s, was a regular golfer and swimmer at what was then known as the Southern Pines Elk Lodge, and later played on O’Neal School teams that won three state golf titles in the early 1980s. All of those PGA Tour stops at Pinehurst No. 2 in the 1970s — with winners from Johnny Miller to Hale Irwin, from Jack Nicklaus to Raymond Floyd — made an indelible mark on an adolescent Buie.

It was amazing to see your heroes 10 feet away on the tee in a tight match,” he says. “It was absolutely fantastic growing up with that. It was mesmerizing.”

Years later, Buie found himself being similarly affected with the enormity of the 2014 U.S. Open at No. 2. Some 340,000 people flocked to the resort over a fortnight to take in the third Open to be played on No. 2 and the resort’s inaugural Women’s Open that would come the next week. Those events are on top of the two U.S. Amateurs, one Ryder Cup Match and one PGA Championship to have been played on the course that the Scottish architect Donald Ross cobbled from the sand over some three decades from 1907 to 1935.

“I was standing behind the 12th tee on Saturday and took in that panoramic view,” Buie says. “The entire place was packed. I couldn’t believe it. I was just really struck. I guess you could say I had an epiphany. The unusually clear thought is that not one of these people would be there if it was not for this guy Donald Ross.”

At that point Buie, whose career had ranged from social work to marketing and who had authored one book, The Early Days of Pinehurst, decided to delve into the Ross story on his own and produce a book with his findings. The result, The Life & Times of Donald Ross, was released this spring. The 296-page oversized book was published by The Classics of Golf, retails for $75 and is deep with previously unearthed details on Ross’ life and interesting visuals — from shots of a tweed-attired Ross driving a golf ball from the Library of Congress to a map of the 36 holes he built at Oak Hill in Rochester designed with eight “layers,” or starting and stopping points beyond the usual first and 10th tees.

Buie interviewed five people who knew Ross and took advantage of research advances today that allow an author to canvass innumerable newspapers more than a century old from the comfort of his own office and internet connection.

“Being able to tap into that is something that really hasn’t been available before,” Buie says. “Previously, you would have had to travel to a lot of libraries. Anyway, there were a lot of great interviews and information in those old articles.”

Having visited Ross’ hometown of Dornoch, Scotland, twice for chapters in my own books about Pinehurst golf and its evolution, having visited the Dornoch museum and interviewed descendants of Ross’ contemporaries, and certainly having played dozens of Ross courses and written about many of them, I thought my reservoir of Ross knowledge quite extensive. But I found in Buie’s book morsel upon morsel of anecdotes I’d never read or heard before. To wit:

On the look and feel of Dornoch in 1890, this passage from an English author:

“Although really a seaside place, it is surrounded by woods, moors and mountains, thereby combining such pursuits of the Highlands — as grouse or partridge shooting, deer driving (but not stalking) or fly fishing. Ladies who do not care to follow the gun or play the fly, can find charming spots to sketch, and Dornoch is surrounded by lovely walks and drives, and there are several charming excursions at greater distances.”

On Sunday golf in Dornoch being considered sacrilegious, that some church-goers were taking odd-looking “walking canes” to worship but actually using them as golf sticks on the way home, sneaking into the dunes for a couple of holes:

“Despite their discretion, most of the villagers knew exactly what the ‘Sabbath breakers’ were up to. As with any small town, little happened without being known by everyone in short order.”

On Ross’ upbringing in the conservative, strict schools of northern Scotland in the 1870s and an anecdote from his great-grandson, Alex Shapiro:

“He decided to dip the pigtails of a girl that was sitting in front of him in an inkwell on his desk. The teacher came over and hit him so hard that it broke his nose. Donald was so scared about telling his father for fear of what would happen to him that he kept it to himself. So it was never tended to and for the rest of his life he could only breath out of half of his nose.”

On Ross apparently being at the vanguard of the idea to have front and back nines, an idea at odds to the links concept of the British Isles where most courses ran “out” in one direction along the coast, then turned “in” for the final nine:

“One of the desirable shapes for a piece of golf property is that of a fan,” Ross said. “It gives you the opportunity to place your clubhouse in the center or handle of the fan and lay out two loops of nine holes on either side of the handle … This layout affords another rather pleasant feature, as members can stop after nine holes and have refreshments.”

On his meeting the titans of American business and being particularly fond of Henry Ford, who asked him to design and build a course for his workers in Dearborn, Michigan:

“(Ford) is a different type of any from almost any other I have met,” Ross said in a 1923 letter to Pinehurst owner Leonard Tufts. “He opened up pretty freely to me, and I have a cordial invitation to stay at his house, and I will accept some time. I would like to know him better. He surely likes peculiar angles, and I already know he has a mind of his own. He would be lost as a President — and it’s entirely outside of his line of endeavor. He is too frank to be a politician. He is a plain democratic man and wealth has not turned his head.”

On the pressure he felt in the depths of the 1930s Depression to find new projects so that he could keep his workers employed:

“I want to get the contract to build it so that I can find work for a few of my good men here who must be discharged unless I can find other employment,” he said in a 1937 letter to his daughter. “That, you see, is the responsibility that goes with being a father to so many workers. I feel that they depend on me for a livelihood.”

By that time Ross had just completed his final routing of No. 2, adding the current fourth and fifth holes and discarding two that ran into ground now occupied by course No. 4, and had built seven courses in the Sandhills — four at Pinehurst Country Club, one at Pine Needles, one at Mid Pines and 27 holes at Southern Pines. Those were among the some 400 courses he would design across mostly the eastern half of the United States.

Buie says one of the most notable takeaways from his research was how Ross’ fingerprints are on so many elements of golf’s evolution in America — from design to clubmaking to helping elevate the status of the once lowly club pro. The second was how he “instilled the game with the proper spirit,” Buie says. “He was adamant about that. He wanted everything done ‘the right way.’ But he was especially strident about that when it came to golf. He was outspoken about that and vigilant, as well.”

Buie vouched that idea with an interview
he found from a 1939 interview in the Elmira Star Gazette:

“In my long association with golf, covering practically the entire life of the game in the United States, there has never been a scandal in connection with professional golf,” Ross said. “This is a glorious reputation for golf and must be maintained if the game is to continue to hold the respect of the public, and continue in the unusually fine atmosphere it has created.”

One wonders what Ross would have thought of the Tiger Woods story from 2009, but you get the point.  PS

Lee Pace has written Golftown Journal since 2008 and has authored four books about golf at Pinehurst, his most recent “The Golden Age of Pinehurst” in 2014.

Hearing a Faint Voice

Testing a new outfit in an old spot

By Tom Bryant

. . . A Florida conservationist is a fellow who bought his waterfront property last week, and wants to make room for two or three friends and then shut the door forever. And meanwhile the people who knew what it was like twenty years ago are an ever-dwindling minority, a voice too faint to be heard.

The Empty Copper Sea, by John D. MacDonald

Wind was blowing out of the east at about 20 knots. That, along with a low tide, had all but emptied Chokoloskee Bay of water except in the cuts and passes. Too windy to take out the canoe, and I was determined not to make a mistake like I did the day before, when I got caught on a falling tide with wind in my face. When I made it back to the dock, it felt as if I had paddled 5 miles, towing a barge. I don’t mind a little exercise, but that was too much.

Chokoloskee Park and Marina sits on about 10 or 15 acres, all of it packed elbow-to-elbow with campers like us and mobile homes made permanent in the back. We had the site up the hill from the launching ramp of the marina, and I was sitting outside our little Airstream, keeping out of the wind. Montana Bill, a long-timer, walked by on the way to the dock, looked over at me and said, “Tom, you get to say ‘hey’ to everybody right here.”

I laughed. “You’re right, Bill, if I get tired of folks I just go inside.” The site was narrow but a little bigger than the rest on the front row. This was our annual winter visit to Florida. We had budgeted two weeks for the island and we were just getting into a routine. The weather had been windy but warm, and the snowbirds who had been there a lot longer said we were blessed with the wind because the mosquitoes and no-see-ums had been murder before the breeze cranked up and blew them away.

Not wanting to take the canoe out, I ventured out on the dock with a new spinning outfit I received for Christmas. It was a combo from L.L. Bean, spinning rod and reel and fly rod and reel. I was excited about trying it out. The dock runs beside the launching ramp to a fish-cleaning station, hangs a right and goes in a semicircle back toward the marina, creating a space for boats to come into the slips available and tie up for the evening or for any length of stay. It’s a pretty efficient little harbor just right for small boats.  I, on the other hand, parked my canoe beside the Airstream.

There are a couple of benches placed strategically along the dock walkway where folks could rest and watch wildlife or maybe sunsets, which are magnificent over the Ten Thousand Islands. I noticed an old fellow sitting at the bench closest to the cleaning station, so I moved down toward the north end of the dock so I wouldn’t accidentally hook him if the wind blew the lure his way. He was a weathered old guy, wearing a cut-off sweatshirt, denim shorts, and a canvas hat that looked as if it had done duty in the big war, World War I, I mean. He had a pipe that he would repack with tobacco from time to time. I hadn’t smelled a pipe smoker in many years. The wind blew me a whiff every now and then, and it brought back memories of the days when I used to smoke a pipe before I gave up tobacco entirely. To me, it wasn’t unpleasant the way cigarettes and cigars are.

I tossed the light lure out as far as I could, more just learning the touch of the spinning outfit than hoping to catch something. A stiff breeze at my back helped, but I still couldn’t reach deep water like I wanted. I noticed the old guy had moved to the bench nearer to where I was.

“You’re gonna have to put more weight on that leader if you want to get where the fish are,” he said, chuckling.

“You’re right, but I’m more interested in how this little thing works than actually catching a fish. It’s new to me and I’m impressed with it so far.”

“I bet it would be fun with a 3- or 4-pound trout on it.”

“Mister, I haven’t caught a 3- or 4-pound trout in quite a while. I don’t know if they grow ’em that big anymore.”

“It would break your heart to see the fish pulled out of these waters 20 years ago,” he said. “A 3-pound trout was common, and pompano and snook and red fish and sheepshead. You name it, the fishing was so good you had to hide your bait or they would jump in the boat.”

I laughed and said, “I’ve heard that one before, old-timer. Believe it or not, I used to fish these waters with my granddad over 60 years ago, and I can relate to what you’re saying.”

“Well, I’ve got some years on you, and I can remember that before that causeway and bridge were built, nobody fished off Chokoloskee Island except the locals. Most everybody put in at Everglades City, what few came here to fish. The rich folks fished out of the Rod and Gun Club. Met Hemingway there one time. He gave me a dollar to haul in his suitcase.”

He was looking to the north where the causeway crossed the bay to the island. The folks from the highway department were hard at work replacing the bridge located in the middle, and they had a way to go before they finished. They were working one lane at a time and had an automatic light controlling traffic.

“Yep,” he said, “before they dug the ditch to build that road and bridge, the flow of the bay coming out of the Glades was a lot better. Some folks say the reason the fishing is not as good as it used to be is because of that cotton-picking’ road.”

He knocked tobacco ash out of his pipe, refilled it, and lit it again. He stood, shuffling a bit to get his feet working. “Well, anyhow, ain’t nothing the way it used to be. Good luck, fellow. I hope you catch some fish. My daughter is supposed to pick me up in a few minutes. She brings me over here every now and then so I can check out the fishing. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

We said our goodbyes, and I watched as he slowly made his way around the dock to the parking lot. He’s right, I thought. Times have changed, not always for the better.

In the distance I could hear the pounding as the big diesel pile driver worked on the bridge.  PS

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

A Rarity Nevermore

The common raven is appearing more frequently in these parts

By Susan Campbell

Although the raven has, for centuries, been one of the most widely recognized and intriguing birds in the Northern Hemisphere, it is uncommon to see one in Piedmont North Carolina. And in the Sandhills, the common raven is a real rarity — a situation that is likely to change in the not-too-distant future.

By contrast, the raven’s close cousin, the crow, loves calling Piedmont North Carolina home. Distinguishing between ravens and crows is really pretty easy. To begin with, ravens are massive, jet-black birds half again as large as our crows. And unlike the constant and abrasive “cawing” that comes from crows, the raven’s call is a shorter, harsh or gurgling croak that, not surprisingly, carries a long way. It is, in fact, this distinctive vocalization that often gives them away, especially in remote areas.

Ravens also have heavy, serrated bills and long wedge-shaped tails. And while crows can be seen swooping from tree to tree in gangs, ravens seem specifically designed for altitude. Since they typically range across both large forests and open expanses, you will often see them soaring effortlessly high in the sky.

In our state, common ravens breed in the Appalachians and can be found roaming the mountains for miles around. But for several decades now the species has been moving farther east across the foothills, no doubt a range expansion facilitated by human activity. Ravens, as well as their other corvid cousin, are opportunistic feeders. Roadkill is certainly a major and easy source of food — as are landfills, parks and campgrounds. Even pet food bowls and bird feeders attract their attention. Some clever birds have learned that gunshots during hunting season may mean a meal in the not too distant future. And farmers have learned that ravens aren’t reluctant to go after eggs, chicks and even newborn small animals such as lambs.

These birds are exceptionally intelligent and are, arguably, the smartest of all birds found in North America. Not only do they readily figure out where to find their next meal, they will work in pairs to acquire certain types of food. One individual will divert the attention of a nesting adult bird while its mate steals an egg or nestling. Common ravens can be destructive in their search for food, tearing into campers’ tents and other manmade structures, and, in numbers, can foul sensitive equipment. In fact, ravens have a predilection for causing power outages by pulling the insulation off wire and picking electrical insulators. They inevitably become a nuisance if they linger too often or too long around any human habitation, a problem given how long-lived the birds are and that they are also nonmigratory.

It is both a surprise and a treat when I spot one of these impressive birds
in the Piedmont. One conspicuous individual ranges around the
Red Oak Brewery in Whitsett where I’m part of a project to encourage hummingbirds. I have also seen ravens flying high above U.S. Route 1 around Sanford and one sitting on a guardrail along N.C. Highway 54. I would not be surprised if a pair is breeding in the area along the Deep River. At these lower elevations, riverside bluffs resemble the cliff habitats where common ravens usually nest. They make ledges on tall buildings their home as well. Ravens are clearly adaptable and perfectly happy to live alongside us — more and more of them all of the time.
PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos at
susan@ncaves.com.

When Snacks Go Wrong

Where there’s a will, there’s always someone sneakily grabbing the powdery doughnut holes

By Renee Phile

Even though my boys are 13 and 8, most of the time I go grocery shopping without them, because, well, it’s just less stressful that way.  However, if they do go with me, I make sure to fill them up with snacks before we reach the store, which usually means rummaging under the seats of the car to see if there are any old granola bars or maybe some peanuts or dried bananas leftover from some trail mix. If they don’t have something to eat before grocery shopping, we become the owners of aisle 5.

When they were younger, a mysterious transformation would happen as soon as they crossed the threshold of the automatic doors.  In those short steps, they would become whiny, irrational, obnoxious little beings. 

Sometimes random items would appear in my cart. Organic blueberry Pop Tarts? (Where did these come from? We get the regular kind.) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? (Once these entered the cart, I couldn’t put them back on the shelf because of my own addiction.) Depends?  (Not yet.) My boys thought they were funny. The conveyor belt was one embarrassment after another. “Oh, we didn’t need this, nor this, how the hell did this get in here? I’m so sorry . . . ”

If we went to a store where there were, God forbid, samples, my kids would tear off in opposite directions and fill up on turkey, cheese, cookies, whatever, as though they hadn’t eaten in days. 

I found myself saying the following over and over on any given grocery store trip:

“Stop touching the cereal boxes.”

“Get out from under the coffee display!”

“OMG!  Get OUT of the freezer!”

“Stop dancing!”

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, you cannot open the string cheese right now.”

Anyway, today they are old enough to behave themselves in the grocery store.

Or so I thought.

Though I’d already been to the store, I had forgotten the bread, the eggs, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, the Cheetos, all the staples. So, after I picked up the boys from school, I said, “We’re gonna run in Food Lion real quick. You can stay in the car if you want.” No, they both wanted to go in with me. “We’re gonna be quick,” I said at least nine times. As we walked through the produce aisle, I tossed some oranges into the cart. As I turned my back to examine an avocado, I saw David sauntering off texting and Kevin wandering the other way.

They’d already struck. I peered into the cart and noticed some peculiar items. Cheese puffs. White powdery doughnut holes. An entire coffee cake. How mysterious. I took the foreign items out of my cart and placed them on a shelf, not where they go. Sorry, Food Lion.

“Wait!” Kevin exclaimed, appearing from . . . somewhere. “Those are my snacks for school!”

“No, they aren’t. I already got snacks.”

“But I want these snacks!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I heard my mother’s voice, “Because I said so.”

David, at this point, reappeared in time to chime in, “Because Mommy says so, Kevin.”

With no warning whatsoever, Kevin flung himself on the floor, right in between the pickles and the salad dressing, sprawling across the entire aisle.

“Get up, Kevin,” I said.

He didn’t move. 

“I can’t. I’m so mad.”

I was simply not sure what to do. People were starting to watch us, and my face felt hot. I breathed, like I had learned in yoga class. Then I thought, fine. I did the only thing I knew to do. I walked away, down the aisle, through the dressings and ketchup and mustard. David looked at me, puzzled. No one was going to kidnap Kevin. They would return him faster than week-old meat.

“Aren’t we gonna get Kevin?”

“He’s fine.”

We strolled through the aisles. I suddenly needed more items than I initially thought. Funny how that happens.

A few aisles later, Kevin, scowling, arms crossed, shuffled up behind us.

“Hi Kevin!” David said cheerily, to annoy.

Kevin glared at David.

We maneuvered down the aisles, picked up the eggs, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin mumbled to me.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For my attitude. But I really wanted a snack for school.”

“I forgive you.”

“Then do we have to talk about it?” he sighed.

“No.”

I dropped some yogurt into the cart.

“OK, both of you go grab one snack each for your lunches this week.”

“Oh yes!” Kevin exclaimed and dashed down the chip aisle, David close behind him.

Kevin grabbed Cheetos and David, Cool Ranch Doritos.

I was so incredibly done. And no one had even climbed into the freezer.  PS

Renee Phile  loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

ETA: Early

When on time is too late

By Deborah Salomon

Why am I always early?

My mother used to say, “If Deb is late don’t call the police . . . call the undertaker.”

I cannot ever remember missing a deadline or a flight except when the plane I’m on is delayed and I miss the connection. Then my tummy does more somersaults than an Olympic gymnast. I pay bills the day they arrive. My taxes are done a month in advance but I mail the checks in April because I don’t like how the government spends my money.

That’s me, sitting in the car outside an office or house, not wanting to arrive for an appointment ahead of time.

Exception: the dentist. I get there early on purpose because they have great magazines.

I purposely overestimate travel time, especially rush hour at the Pinehurst Traffic Circle, where a five-minute wait amid lovely scenery turns people who have never dealt with Boston, New York, Charlotte or Atlanta into whiners.

This is not something I’m pleased about — nor do I seek a cure. But, since nothing comes from nothing, before the fat lady sings I might investigate.

Blame my name. Deborah, in Hebrew, means bee. Bees are characterized as busy. You don’t see bees sleeping late, making (up) excuses or procrastinating.

Sleeping late? People frequently reply that my computer clock is off when emails arrive with a 4:45 a.m. time stamp. Lucky-the-cat is only partly responsible. The habit of early rising began in middle school. My father traveled for business, weeks at a time, and my mother had vague health issues which kept her abed until at least 8. Fine with me. I enjoyed studying for a test in the dark and quiet, ironing a blouse, eating whatever I pleased for breakfast while watching the new Today show. By 8:15 I was waiting on the corner for my ride. The only problem — super-early risers want lunch at 10 a.m.

This carried over to college, much to my roommate’s dismay. We parted after a semester, but the habit continued to motherhood, when that witching pre-dawn hour was spent drinking coffee, folding laundry, skimming the newspaper, even cooking.

“Why do I smell onions at 7 a.m.?” my son would ask.

As a full-time reporter I ran 3 miles, stopped at the supermarket, baked a coffeecake or muffins and still got to work before 9.  When I visit my grandsons in Canada the return flight leaves at 6 a.m., which means getting to the airport at 4 a.m., which means leaving the apartment at 3:30 a.m., which means getting up to shower and eat breakfast at 2:30 a.m., which means going to bed at 8 p.m. Wary of alarm clocks, I wake every 20 minutes or so to check the time.

I respectfully disbelieve in astrology, but learned that Capricorns “like to plan and rehearse everything in advance.” Hmm.

This chronic earlybirditis has not waned with age, except now I indulge in an afternoon nap.

So far, nothing adequately explains the pathology. There’s no such thing as being “fashionably early” either, although I read that fashionably late people are insecure. Or the opposite. Marilyn Monroe used to keep film crews waiting for hours. The Clintons, chronically behind schedule, joke about it.

Not that any of this really matters, except for one disaster. I was invited to a dinner party by a very chi-chi hostess. The invitation said 7 p.m. I drove up 10 minutes early but sat outside pretending to talk on my phone. When I rang the bell at seven sharp she came bustling to the door, hair in giant rollers, smoke billowing from her ears.

“A bit early, aren’t you, dear?”

“You said 7,” I murmured.

“That means 7:30,” she hissed.

The last guest arrived around 8.

Needless to say, I never got invited back.

Surely there are worse things than not being first in line for hot theater tickets. Or missing a flight. Or showing up late for a job interview. Or arriving with a crucial deposit after the bank closes.

I wouldn’t know. I’m that bird up front, feasting on the worm.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot.
She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Dark Night

A simple boat trip can test a man’s pride and his night vision

By Clyde Edgerton

One evening a few weeks ago, I left Gibby’s Dock and Dine in Carolina Beach, just off the Intracoastal Waterway. It was 7 p.m., dark, and I was in a motorboat alone, heading 15 miles north to a friend’s dock on Wrightsville Beach. My wife and daughter had just left Gibby’s in an automobile and would be waiting for me at my destination. I was hoping to impress my wife (and myself) with how quickly I could get to Wrightsville Beach. I’d planned to leave before dark but time had slipped away.

Well, yes, we could have left the boat and come back for it the next day. But . . . come on, a little night trip up the waterway? What could be difficult about that? (Not being able to see, for one thing, Captain Ahab.)

I’d be heading north, right? With land to my right and left? And surely there’d be enough light to see ahead in the dark — not far, but far enough. It’s a straight shot. I’d simply stay in the middle of the waterway and thus avoid the crab pot buoys. The channel markers would all have red and green lights, right? It wouldn’t be that dark.

Before I know it, I’m disoriented. Yes, there are house lights off to my left, to the west along the waterway, and I’m confident that there is an eastern bank to my right — somewhere — but the rest of the world is inked over. Inked in, inked out. Then I see a green light far ahead — a channel marker. It seems extraordinarily far away. The water is less calm than I’d remembered on the trip down that afternoon in full, bright, beautiful daylight.

And coming toward me, from way far up north, is a light brighter than any train headlight I’ve ever seen. Or is it stationary? And it’s not just one bright light — it’s a cluster of lights together like a sunflower, like a white, nighttime sun. It has killed any night vision I might have. I put my hand up to block it out.

I calmly think about the worst thing that can happen.

I can die. But worse: I may have to confess stupidity.

Boat owners know about the safety cord running from near the throttle that you can clip to a belt loop so that if you fall overboard the attached cord will pull a small button off a small knob and cause the boat engine to cut off so that the boat will not run away. I’ve never hooked it up.

I hook it up.

Where the hell am I? . . . I mean, in reference to the shoreline?

I turn loose the wheel, pull out my phone, keeping a hand up to block the bright light. I touch to open the Maps app with GPS but my screen is blocked by a white box asking if I want to join any of several Wi-Fi servers. I cancel that, worried again about my night vision, then I see the waterway on the iPhone screen and a small blue dot that is my position. Aha. I look up. What? At my one o’clock position is a string of lights sitting on the water. . . is that a very long, low boat? How could that be?

It’s a boat dock! How can it be ahead and to my right on the barrier island side? The shore with houses is to my left. There are no boat docks on the back side of Masonboro Island. I turn the boat to get around this phantom dock. I’ve drifted way left it seems. How? What’s going on?

The blinding bright light is getting larger. And higher. Yep, it’s coming for me. I need to be to the right of that dock, and to the right of the blinding bright light headed my way, but how? And what about the crab pot buoys? No way I can see one of those. I should be out in the middle. I check the blue dot on my map. Confirmed. I’m too far left, or west. I change my heading significantly to the right, east.

Suddenly, I remember that the satellite choice on the GPS should show photos of the boat docks. The plain map doesn’t. Another Wi-Fi request blocks my screen. My left hand blocks the blinding bright light. I have no night vision. I grab the wheel and find the satellite map. I press it and wait. The screen slowly fills in.

Ah, there’s my little blue dot in the Intracoastal Waterway. The satellite map shows shallow and deep areas in the water. Cool. It shows boat docks. Cool. If I just had a flashlight to see ahead in the water. Is there one on the boat somewhere?

Or on the iPhone? Yes. I turn it on. Better to have an iPhone than a Swiss Army knife right now. I hold the phone high overhead to try to light the water over the bow and watch the map. My left hand is back up, blocking the bright ship headlight. I lean against the wheel to steer with my body somehow. Lo and behold about 50 feet straight ahead is a green reflecting square — a channel marker! The iPhone flashlight is not lighting the water ahead but is reflecting off a channel marker.

I see on the satellite map that I’ve drifted right — far right.

Most boats have what’s called a whisky compass, an erratic compass that floats in liquid, and is only roughly accurate, especially if there are waves. By this compass, I see that I’m heading almost north and need a 10-degree correction or so to the west.

That blinding light. It’s closer. And closer. I can see it’s a very large boat. Will it miss me? I maneuver to the right. It passes to my left. It’s gigantic. It has no thoughts of slowing down. The wake tosses me way up and way down. I’m in idle, waiting for the wake to pass. I say ugly things.

The wake recedes, and I slowly crawl north — checking satellite map, flashlight up, watching for channel markers, etc.

Nearing my destination, I realize I have no clear landmarks for my friend’s dock. My friend’s pier is one among many exactly like it. I’ve never docked there (or anywhere else) at night.

My wife and daughter are supposed to be waiting at that dock. They’ve probably been there a while. I phone them. My daughter answers. “What’s taking you so long, Daddy?”

“Oh, nothing. Just taking my time. No need to rush. Nice night. Is Mama there?”

“Sure. Here she is.”

My wife asks, “What’s taking so long, Honey?”

“Oh, nothing. Just taking my time. Nice night out here. Need to be careful, though. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Are you on the dock?”

“Yes.”

“Would you turn on your phone flashlight and wave it over your head? With the light shining out toward me?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“I’m not altogether sure . . . would you turn on the flashlight and wave it over your head?”

“OK.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “I see you.” Then I realize she can’t hear me because her phone is over her head, going back and forth in the air.

In a few minutes, I dock safely, step off the boat, and my wife asks, “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” I say, holding onto a single sliver of pride deep in my soul. I don’t know where to start.

“Wasn’t it pretty dark out there?”

“Damn dark.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

How Green Is My Garlic?

Searching out a savory seasonal specialty

By Jan Leitschuh

There is a rare treat available this time of year, and it is green garlic. You may have to hunt it down, but if you’re lucky enough to find it, it can be a savory treasure.

At least one local chef seeks it out. Chef Karen Littlefield, of Filly & Colt’s Restaurant at Little River Golf and Resort, says, “We use it in the restaurant like scallions and sauté it for a milder-than-onion flavor. The (green garlic) dressing is always a big hit.” (See her recipe below.)

You’ll find green garlic only in the spring, and generally only at the local level. Scout out farmers markets, or check your community supported agriculture box for a slim green, stalk-y item with a pale white bottom. Green garlic joins the spring parade of other healthy alliums like scallions and green onions, leeks, green shallots and such. It’s one of our earliest fresh produce options locally.

Why hunt down this odd, strappy-leaved stalk every spring?

Green garlic is prized for its fresh, spring-tonic, garlic flavor. You don’t see it often in grocery stores because green garlic is the immature form of your common garlic, before the bulb has time to mature. As it matures, the onion-like bulb at the bottom separates into individual cloves that then grow in volume. When a farmer picks his or her crop before maturity, there is less to harvest so, naturally, they might want to carry a crop to fruition.

However, exceptions are made because produce hunger is strong in the spring, and our local producers aim to please, prizing good relations with their Sandhills neighbors. This time of year, people want fresh flavors, and the mild allium taste of green garlic does just that.

Whether you have in mind something simple like chopping your green garlic to zing up scrambled eggs or quiche, or something fancier like Angel Hair Pasta with Shrimp and Green Garlic in Cream Sauce, preparation is similar.

Select slender, young and tender stalks. Green garlic still has its green “food factory” stalk attached. Much like green onions, all parts of the plant are edible. The topmost green is a bit chewy, so cut off over half of the green tops for optimum texture and garlic flavor. The tougher tops can go to flavor soups, to be fished out before consumption, much like a bay leaf — your grandma would have understood this thrift.

Chef Littlefield’s popular green garlic dressing starts with a stalk of green garlic, trimmed with about three inches of green stalk included, then rinsed, then rough-chopped. She adds a cup of vegetable oil (such as olive), and gives it a whirl in the food processor until a pale green liquid emerges. Finally, she adds 1/4 cup of vinegar, 1/4 cup of orange or lemon juice, a tablespoon of sugar, a tablespoon of either whole oregano or herbes de Provence, and a tablespoon of grated citrus rind, reblends, then salts and peppers to taste. Toss with baby lettuce and spinach leaves, and savor the season.

Green garlic can be used anywhere you’d use regular garlic. But the extra green bits give the resulting dish a verdant, fresh-spring aspect. It won’t be as intense as regular garlic.

According to the respected website World’s Healthiest Foods, “Garlic has long been recognized for its potential to reduce our risk of certain cancers,” and “The benefits of garlic intake for decreased risk of cardiovascular disease have now been extended to each of the following conditions: heart attack, coronary artery disease, high blood pressure, and atherosclerosis. The everyday flexibility of our blood vessels has been shown to improve with intake of garlic, and the likelihood of blood vessel damage due to chronic excessive inflammation has been shown to decrease when this allium vegetable in consumed on a regular basis.”

In that case, a little medicinal nosh might be in order . . .

Green Garlic Dip

2 cups cooked or canned garbanzo beans

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Green garlic with 3 inches of stalk, chopped

1/4 cup chicken or vegetable  broth

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Sea salt and pepper to taste

Serve with sugar snap peas, cut cukes, carrots or celery for a fully
healthful snack.

What is it about spring that makes us crave its fresh flavors? Is it that long winter of heavy stews and hearty meals that sets us on a course for lighter fare?

Below is a wonderful springtime dish using green garlic and other products of the spring. With company coming, busy cooks can do the peas and the quinoa a few days ahead (though the peas will lose much of their sweetness) and keep in the refrigerator.

Quinoa Pilaf with Green Garlic and Sweet Peas

(From The New York Times)

3/4 cup shelled fresh peas (1 pound unshelled)

2/3 cup quinoa

Sea salt to taste

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 leek, white and light green part only, halved, cleaned of sand and sliced thin

1 bulb green garlic, tough stalk cut away and papery shells removed, sliced thin

1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint

1 tablespoon chopped chives

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, or a combination of parsley and tarragon

Freshly ground pepper

Bring a medium pot of lightly salted water to a boil and add the peas. Turn the heat down to medium and simmer until tender, 4 to 10 minutes, depending on the size and freshness. Put a strainer over a bowl and drain the peas. Measure out 2 cups of the cooking water (add fresh water if necessary), return to the pot, add salt to taste, bring to a boil and add the quinoa. When the water comes back to a boil, cover, reduce the heat and simmer 15 minutes, or until the quinoa is tender and, in the case of white quinoa, displays a thread. Remove from the heat, drain through a strainer and return to the pot. Cover the pot with a clean dishtowel and return the lid. Let sit 15 minutes.

Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium-low heat in a wide, heavy skillet and add the leek and sliced green garlic. Add a generous pinch of salt and cook, stirring, until tender, fragrant and translucent, 3-to-5 minutes. Add the quinoa and peas to the pan and toss together with the remaining olive oil for about 2 minutes, taking care not to mash the peas. Add the fresh herbs, grind in some pepper, taste and adjust seasoning, and serve.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

Advance preparation: You can cook the peas and the quinoa up to a few days ahead (though the peas will lose much of their sweetness) and keep in the refrigerator.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.

M & M

The sweetness of life

By Joyce Reehling

All people have a little Sesame Street in their lives. The letter M is big for me.

March and May are the birth months of two of my favorite people, nieces born three years apart. Darling Husband and I decided not to become parents, but being an auntie and an uncle is a perfect fit. In March of ’93 my sister, Mandy, gave birth to her first child. Her husband, Scott, was pale as Mandy struggled with a difficult labor and a strange ob/gyn who seemed to think that unlimited hours of hell were a good idea. Sara came into this world after a C-section when both she and Mandy were worn down and close to danger points.

There was this beautiful little girl with a head full of dark hair, destined to go blonde in a blink. She was a big baby and easy to find in the nursery window, gorgeous and delightful. Mandy was exhausted and Scott was amazed by it all. I could not get enough of her, not even when she went into the dreaded colic that lasted eight weeks. The crying was heart-wrenching, as if she was in the tortures of the damned. My mom, who lived nearby, pitched in, helping for days on end, lifting some of the load off the new mommy. March had always been the birthday month of “the twins” — my sister and me — but now it became Sara’s month and my joy.

Three years later the news came that Mandy and Scott were pregnant again, and this time Mandy honored me with a request to be with her at the hospital. Scott traveled a great deal for work and was worried he couldn’t guarantee he’d be there in time for the May delivery. I was overjoyed and arrived several days prior to the expected date.

Mandy went into a tailspin of frenetic nesting, possessed with the notion of washing floors and cleaning gutters and such crazy things. I understand that is not unusual but one does have limits. I said in no uncertain terms that if she wanted a floor scrubbed that I would do it for her and that she was not to drop to her knees on any pretext. Instead, off we went to find a coat for 3-year-old Sara.

While Mandy and Sara prowled the aisles of BonTon I was looking at baby clothes for the fun of it — although I swear by consignment clothes, since no baby wears anything long enough to warrant new clothes for the next one. All of a sudden I hear my name called in a plaintive moan. Mandy had gone down on one knee to button up Sara’s coat-to-be and could not rise again. Like an Amish barn raising, with a little force and a lot of comforting, up she came.

The next morning we got up at 5 a.m. and went to the maternity wing. Thus began a day of walking the halls, Mandy’s grip nearly breaking my arm as I steadied her, to help labor do what labor does.

Monitors were attached to her belly and the wait began. Bless his heart, Scott made it. He walked in around noon, having driven for many hours to get there. Feeling a bit peckish, he decided to go to the hospital dining area and returned a half hour later to announce that they had great burgers and a fantastic view of the Susquehanna River. The only thing missing was the toothpick. I saw a look on Mandy’s face I had never seen before, a quiet kind of rage. A look with a strength of focus that would make a NASA astronaut seem flaky. A look that was the very definition of why handgun legislation is contemplated.

Around 3:30 all hell broke loose, nurses running in, a doctor suddenly breaking the foot of the bed down, and in minutes Emma’s head was visible. With one push out came those little shoulders, followed quickly by her whole self. Scottie and I burst into cartoon tears, the kind that fly straight out of your eyes. All we could say was: “Emma is here. Emma is here.” Joy filled the room.

She was passed to Mandy, then Scott and then me. May joined March. Twenty-one years later we are attending her college graduation. In May.  PS

Joyce Reehling is a frequent contributor and good friend of PineStraw.