Go Fish!

In the swim of things with brilliant, imaginative and elusive Pisces

By Astrid Stellanova

Cast a net into the sea of life, and marvel at the roundup of famous Pisceans. As if Albert Einstein weren’t enough, what about Kurt Cobain, George Washington and Dr. Seuss? Throw in Andrew Jackson and Jack Kerouac for a little special sauce, and see who would be best friends and roommates in the great hereafter. If anything is fishy about Pisces in the here and now, it is how they can hide their amazing selves in plain sight. Brilliant in ways you cannot stereotype, they will slip right out of your hands before you ever hook them, these delightfully slippery fish.  –Ad Astra, Astrid.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

Time was when you were so forgiving (and distracted) that you would let anybody have their way if they were nice and remembered to say “thank you.” In the nicest way possible, you have learned to push back and find your footing concerning a subject that vexed you for most of 2017. Now you have to learn to say: Play me or trade me. Somebody who wants your talents may not realize how valuable they truly are. But, Sugar, you know.

Aries (March 21-April 19)

A natural wit allows you to come back swinging smartly no matter how deep the wound. But your inner wisdom may be telling you not to head into a knife fight with a stick of butter and a yeast roll. Little Ram, have you been duped? Let that sink in a minute, Sugar. Now, deep breaths. Head up, spine straight, and don’t
look back.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

A tornado ripped through your life late last year, and you ain’t quite over it. What happened caused you to go right off the rails and then wallow in the ditch. That is not your style, Star Child. If anything motivates you to start over, it is knowing somebody one-upped you. Don’t tear their heart out and eat it with a nice Chianti. Find a way forward.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Could this month get any better? Possibly. You finally pulled your fingers out of your ears and started listening to your own heart and living your own life — not your sister’s, not your daughter’s, not your Mama’s. A special little secret is about to unfold.  You’ll be tap dancing all the way to the bank, metaphorically speaking. 

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

It is not that complicated. If you didn’t get what you wanted the last time around, suck it up and take a do-over. You can’t keep your children young and in your grasp forever. But you sure can make the home front happy. That, and take their car keys away. Don’t whine. Be the driver.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

Your two favorite words this month: refund due. Yes, Sweet Thing, the IRS is going to be your ally. Not for nothing did you lose so much money on Sea Monkeys and Sonic Egg Beaters. Turns out, some kinds of pain are deductible! Restrain your entrepreneurial impulse until you are back in the black. 

Virgo (August 23–September 22

You’ve never looked better, prompting a lot of folks to think you’ve found new love. Only you know the actual facts (as opposed to the alternative ones): You have found it a lot easier to be inside your own skin. Honey, that new ’tude ushers in one of the best springtimes in memory. Don’t blink and miss the fact that this ain’t a cosmetic fix, but an inside job — and an important development.

Libra (September 23–October 22) 

It is true that money can’t buy happiness, but it dang sure can buy puppies. At last, practical and generous you have funded your own happiness. This recent splurge may be one of the wisest moves you’ve made in ages. Next up: Discover the bliss of not giving a damn what anybody else thinks!

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

The bottle before you purred, “Yes, amazing Scorpio, you ARE the wisest and best of all!” You drank that in, didn’t you, Sugar? Well, surprise, surprise.  You stayed at the party too long. A little sober reflection might bring you actual wisdom. It stings, realizing your need for affirmation took over.  But now you have opportunity to see clearly . . . truly.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

Recently you have felt sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. That was the exact moment you began to change your life in a very productive way. No need to be all things to all those you love. If you spell resentment, it would look a whole lot like your name, Sugar. Ready to stop?  It’s that simple.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

In the anything-worth-doing-is-worth-overdoing category of life, you may have just taken first place honors and won a new badge. Try for second place, Honey. It is admirable that you care enough to over-deliver. But you cannot sustain this kind of effort. Just. Try. Less.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

It was the perfect birthday for you. Now, an important task. More than one person in your orbit relies upon your gentle counsel. It will surprise you to learn who, as you respect them greatly and view them as a spiritual guide. You are an old soul; you know validation comes from within.

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.

Still Dormie

New life for the Coore-Crenshaw course

By Lee Pace

It was exactly 10 years ago this spring that Bob Hansen sat down to breakfast at the Pine Crest Inn to talk about his lifelong love affair with golf, his memorabilia collection, his involvement in a Brunswick County golf course called The Thistle, and a new club he was developing located 5 miles to the northwest of the village of Pinehurst.

The new enterprise was called Dormie Club. It was to be a private enclave with local and national membership components, a place for purists to congregate and walk a rough-hewn and old-style course designed by North Carolina native Bill Coore and his design partner, Ben Crenshaw. Hansen waxed eloquent about the old-soul template for the club and what he hoped would be a lack of pretense — just golfers sticking a peg in the ground and having a game.

“Golf is life-shaping,” Hansen said. “You get an opportunity to be completely away from the business world, from cellphones and traffic and all the noise out there. You get out on the golf course with people, and you find out real quick what’s on their minds. For the most part, you’ll see that fog from their everyday life evaporate and see that their commitment is to the game. Guys are wrought up with stress, but put your bag on your shoulder and go hit some shots and it changes your whole day.”

Hansen spoke of the genesis of the name “Dormie,” taken from the golf term meaning that a golfer in match play has a lead equal to the number of holes left to play. He cannot lose.

“’Dormie’ has been in the Scottish language for hundreds of years,” Hansen says. “In the context of this club, its primary meaning is that you have come to a point in life where nothing much bad can happen, where you can do me no harm. ‘I am dormie’ — the worst I can do is tie. I am at a point where I am comfortable and can relax.”

It turns out the “dormie” metaphor was far more ticklish than Hansen and his partners would ever dream. Over the following 12 months, the S&P 500 would be cut in half, and two venerable financial institutions would implode and go belly up. The timing for a new club was horrendous at best, dreadful at worst. The course opened in 2010, but the lofty visions of the Dormie brain trust never materialized. The golf operation never actually closed, but the original plans and infrastructure were stuck in the muck. In recent times, there was not even a head golf professional, just a clerk to take golf fees from the public and the package players that the club needed for its trickle of cash flow.

“Bob had excellent vision for the club,” says Mike Phillips, the club’s original membership and sales director who first worked at Dormie from 2009-13. “He was very smart in bringing Coore and Crenshaw in and basically giving them carte blanche to do what they wanted to do on the golf course. He showed them the boundaries of the property and said, ‘Use what you want and call me when you’re through.’

“The fact that the course never closed during some tough times says volumes about how good it is. The site is hard to match in terms of peace and tranquility.”

Coore and Crenshaw’s first smash hit in the golf design business was Sand Hills, a 1995 build-it-and-they-will-come club in central Nebraska. A member there is Tom Peed, who built a publishing empire centered in the heavy machinery and agricultural worlds of the Midwest and has three sons working for the business. One of them, Zach, is a crack golfer who played at Nebraska Wesleyan College and now is running a division of the company that has purchased four golf courses from Nebraska to Texas to Virginia and, now, to the Sandhills of North Carolina.

Dormie Club was bought in January by Dormie One Properties, which will operate it as one of a network of clubs that includes Briggs Ranch Golf Club in San Antonio, Texas, Ballyhack Golf Club in Roanoke, Virginia, and Arbor Links in Nebraska City, Nebraska. New management will honor tee times and outings already on the books, but in time the club will be strictly private — per the original vision. Local, national and corporate memberships will be available, and membership at one club includes access to each club in the Dormie One network, which the Peed family intends to expand. Plans for a clubhouse and 15 four-bedroom villas are in the works. Phillips, who has returned to the Dormie team as membership director and land sales broker, says the owners hope to break ground by summer, and plans call for no more than 60 to 70 golfers a day.

Coore visited the club in early January 2018 and planned a second trip soon after to complete a punch list of to-do items for the club maintenance staff, things mostly a result of tree and underbrush growth over the eight years since the course opened.

“Ben and I are very pleased with the new developments,” Coore says. “In talking to the Peed family and walking the golf course with them, they really do want it to reach its potential. It’s not been that far off. It’s a very positive thing — not just for Dormie, but for golf in the Pinehurst area. Basically the course just needs a little polishing, nothing major. It’s actually in very good condition.”

The club is located near the intersection of Hwy. 73 and Beulah Hill Church Road and has two lakes (one of them 55 acres large) and 100 feet of elevation change. There are the pine forests typical of the area, but a rich abundance of hardwoods as well.

The designers’ idea for the course when they began in 2006 was to incorporate the look and feel of the No. 2 course, which Coore played often as a junior in the 1950s and ’60s — hard running, plenty of width for strategy, interesting green complexes, no Bermuda rough anywhere. Tees, fairways and greens would be maintained, everything else left as nature had created it. Since there is no real estate within the course, it’s relatively compact and walkable (caddies are available).

“By no means did we envision a copy of No. 2,” Coore says. “But we wanted to take some of the principles we felt applied to No. 2 and other courses Mr. Ross had done in the Sandhills and say, ‘This is our interpretation of what golf in the Sandhills might look and feel like.’”

The finished design requires a deft touch in places — there are two par-4s drivable for long-hitters (the third and 14th, both under 300 yards), but often a player will deduce the smart attack is to lay back and have a full spinning wedge from a hundred yards. Delicacy is also required on the par-3 12th, which stretches only 98 yards with tees stair-stepping upward from back to front. Brute force is demanded on the closing holes — 17 is a par-5 with a vast expanse of sand and nature to carry, and 18 is a long par-4 uphill.

Coore remembers routing the course from walking the land and surveying the topo maps — before wetlands had been designated. He knew from experience and instinct which areas of the property would likely be deemed wetlands and thus untouchable for the playing areas. He was amused and pleased to learn that his routing and the government-issued wetlands map meshed nicely.

“If they had handed me a map at first with the wetlands delineated, I’d have handed them back and said, ‘You can’t do a golf course here,’” Coore says. “But it worked out fine. It just proved to me that if you lay the golf course out the way the land wants to go, in most cases the wetlands are going to be OK. The topos will tell you a lot of things, but they won’t tell you the feel of the place. You have to go walk a site and experience it, get a feel for the way the golf course will circulate. Because we laid the holes out the way you would naturally play from one high, across a low to the next high, the wetlands had little impact.”

And so Dormie Club enters its second iteration, hopefully one that will see it emerge as a winner in extra holes.

Chapel Hill-based writer Lee Pace wrote about Coore and Crenshaw and their restoration of Pinehurst No. 2 in his 2012 book, The Golden Age of Pinehurst.

The Mighty Onion

A superfood for your garden

By Karen Frye

Superfoods became sought after several years ago, and are still going strong. They are highly nutrient dense in antioxidants, vitamins and minerals.  Usually they are plant based, and sometimes exotic.  Acai, goji berries and moringa are a few of the superfoods that are not typically grown in the U.S. and can be rather expensive to add to your diet. We are more familiar with easy-to-find blueberries and raspberries. 

A vegetable that tops the list of healing foods, and one you should include if you’re planting a garden this spring, is the onion. It has been used throughout the ages to treat and heal health maladies from head to toe. They grow easily here, and can be added to your diet in many ways.

Grown all over the world, onions were one of the most highly revered vegetables in cultures dating back to the Egyptians. They have even been used as currency. Onions were placed in the tombs of kings, including King Tut. 

What makes the onion so rich in healing benefits, even more so than its relative, garlic? They are rich in a potent, well-studied bioflavonoid and powerful antioxidant, quercetin, used to treat seasonal allergies. Quercetin kills cancer cells and prevents plaque buildup in the arteries.

Onions also contain sulfur compounds. These compounds have antimicrobial and anti-fungal properties that have been studied in connection with the prevention and treatment of heart disease, atherosclerosis, cancer, diabetes, asthma and many more health problems.

Eating onions regularly can help lower cholesterol, lower blood pressure and reduce your risk of heart attack and stroke. We think of garlic as a potent remedy for these conditions, and a lot of people take garlic capsules daily for prevention. Actually, onion oil is 10 times more potent than garlic oil. 

Adding onions to your plate can help balance your blood sugar and assist in normal functioning of the liver and kidneys. Women who eat onions daily had a bone density about 5 percent higher than those who only ate onions occasionally. And eating onions regularly may help prevent periodontal disease, by reducing the harmful bacteria that leads to this problem. Even though it’s best to eat them raw, the nutritional benefits are still available if you sauté, steam or bake them. Fried onions, however, lose a lot of value.

Topically, onion juice can be a very effective treatment to reduce scars. It’s so effective that there are some skin care products that use onion extract in their concoctions. A friend shared with me that his mother always reached for a raw onion to rub on insect bites to alleviate the itch. Onion poultice is easy to make, and works wonders for respiratory conditions. Simply slice a few onions and steam them for about 10 minutes. Pat them dry and wrap in a clean medium-sized dish towel. Place the warm (not too hot) poultice on the chest to break up congestion and coughing.

An onion a day may keep the doctor away. After all, food is our best medicine.

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

Spring Forward

But only when the cows do

By Ray Linville

If it wasn’t for the railroads, we might not be losing an hour of sleep on the second Sunday in March when we spring forward and advance to daylight saving time.

The railroads, after all, are responsible for pushing us to adopt time zones in this country to improve communications and travel coordination. Until then, time zones were determined locally. Can you image the chaos if Raleigh and central North Carolina were on a different time than Asheville?

Actually, something similar did happen. From 1883 (when our country’s four time zones were established) to 1946, Asheville and points west in this state were in the central time zone while we kept time with others in the eastern zone. After time zones became standard, it was an easy step to create daylight saving time — and necessary during wartime as a fuel-saving measure.

Benjamin Franklin, famous for the maxim “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,” knew better. He didn’t rise at daybreak, and he certainly didn’t want to see the sun an hour early. When he encouraged people to get up early — for the benefit of saving on candle use in the evening — he meant it as a joke.

Tar Heels might have more in common with Pennsylvanian Franklin than we realize. In 1945 when World War II ended, the federal requirement for “war time,” as DST was known, also ended. For decades, observance of DST throughout the country was inconsistent. However, North Carolina never observed DST again until 1966, when the state began following the national schedule.

The argument that DST benefits farmers was long ago debunked. Cows follow a schedule based on the sun, not the hour on our clocks. Even energy conservation today is questionable because any savings in reduced lighting are more than offset by additional demands for air conditioning in the summer evenings.

It was hard enough before the age of the internet to spring forward. Now it’s almost impossible. High schoolers are up late and get so little sleep that their parents are asking for later and later start times.

My granddaughter, Katie, now in seventh grade, has it bad. Because high school students can’t get up early, the middle schoolers win the first bus routes. She sets her alarm clock for 6:15 each school morning to get up for the earliest bus in her county. Imagine her joy for springing forward this month.

In contrast, when I was a teenager in the era of no social media or video games, I got up before sunrise to complete a morning newspaper route well before school began. That alone required that I went to bed early, regardless of Franklin’s advice.

Then in college I struggled to attend 8 o’clock classes. Yes, colleges used to have classes that early.

South Carolina may be leading the region in determining what choice is better — daylight or standard. One legislator has proposed a bill that lets voters decide in a referendum this November if that state should continue to observe daylight time. How would you vote?

For me, the decision would be easy. My days of springing forward are over. I’m with the cows. Sunlight determines my schedule, unless the railroads again have a better idea.

Ray Linville writes about Southern food, history and culture.

Poem

When I Love Spring

when I love spring

geese take off on frothy runways for the north

tuxedoed mallards tow mates through v-shaped water

dotted clouds of dragonflies flurry over lily pads

turtles untuck sleeping noses, rise to feast

icy grey-ghost branches show soft nubs

quiver like an infant’s hands wake in morning sun

— Sarah Edwards

Sporting Life

Gearing Down

February is a month to take stock

 

By Tom Bryant

February, according to many of my outdoor friends, is the dregs of winter. If you enjoy the great outdoors, there’s not much you can do that month. Most hunting seasons are closed, and it’s too cold to fish. If you play golf, a sunny day will let you on the course, if it’s not frosted over in the morning. But I’m afraid golfing never became one of my outdoor pursuits. I’d much rather be pursuing birds than following a little round ball. That’s not to say golf’s not a great sport, I’ve just never tried it. Too many other things appealed to me at a young, formative age.

So what to do in February? I use this down time to sort through and try to organize winter gear that I’ve accumulated over the years. I believe it was Gene Hill, the famous author and columnist for Field and Stream, who once stressed the importance of acquiring sufficient items for days afield. In essence, he said if you find an important piece of gear that fits your requirements to a T, you’d better buy two, because the gremlins, those who often throw curves to befuddle us folks who appreciate the finer points of outdoor gear, will quit making it.

While going through hunting shirts that are hanging in a closet I dedicated to hunting and fishing apparel, I realized that Mr. Hill’s premise was exactly right. I have two heavy chamois shirts that I bought from a clothing outlet in Burlington about 30 years ago. Over time they have become buttery soft and a pleasure to wear. One is khaki, the other dark green. I wear them mostly when duck hunting, and sometimes I’ll slip one on when I’m just hanging around the house. They are especially comfortable when I’m lounging by a blazing fire. I have other shirts designed for outdoor wear and they suffice on most occasions; but when I really want to be comfortable, I’ll pull out my old favorites.

There are also a couple of wool mackinaw trousers; well, one is a pair of trousers and the other overalls. When all the red you can see on the outdoor thermometer is a little bit at the bottom, these are the most important pieces in my closet. I’ve spent many a day in a frozen duck blind, warmed by these amazing garments that have only gotten better over the years.

My problem is I keep trying the new clothing dedicated to hunting and fishing, but nothing seems to come up to the high standards set by my old stuff. Maybe it’s because I’m used to the old and haven’t given the new a real chance; and maybe it’s because the old is broken in and well worn, but I’ve tried, and here’s a recent example. I have several other chamois shirts, some that I’ve purchased and some that were gifts. Initially, they were stiff as cardboard and after several washings they’ve shrunk to a size that would fit a 14-year-old. They are now in a pile, destined to hang on racks at Good Will. Hopefully, a 14-year-old will be able to use them.

Coats seem to be cut smaller, T-shirts and underwear almost disappear after a few washings, and trousers have become restrictive and uncomfortable. I really don’t mean to sound like an old curmudgeon, disappointed in new gear. There are some items that more than fit my strict standards.

L.L. Bean still makes good stuff. I have a pair of their boots that I’ve worn forever, and the good thing is when they are on their last legs I can send them back to the company and they will rebuild them. Same with Barbour coats. I’ve had one of their classic jackets for at least 20 years. I ripped the coat while grouse hunting in Michigan and thought it was a goner; but at the suggestion of a good friend, I sent it back to the factory and they repaired it almost as good as new.

While on a recent duck hunt to Mattamuskeet, my hunting buddies and I commiserated about the lack of well-built hunting gear and how our choices in apparel are decreasing. But more importantly, so are available localities for hunting and fishing. I’ll be the first to admit that we have seen a lot of sunrises in our sporting endeavors, as our ages will attest; but in the last few years, the decline of hunting space has diminished alarmingly. Black Creek Swamp, where I cut my hunting teeth on squirrels, is now bordered by a country club with huge houses and an 18-hole golf course. Now the creek is just a directed stream with rock borders, not a decent locale for any self-respecting squirrel.

Four hundred acres of some of the best habitat for deer, turkeys, ducks and otters plus a creek full of bream and even a bass or two is a place I hunted and fished for over 20 years. Unfortunately, the land has been cut up into 10-acre mini-farms and sold to city folks who like to think they’re living in the country. Also suffering the same fate is Plimhimmon Plantation on the banks of the Tred Avon River in Maryland. For 15 years, we goose hunted that magnificent farm and have wonderful memories I wouldn’t trade for anything.

My companions in the field and I could easily say, what the heck? We’ve seen it and done it and it’s unfortunate it’s gone, but what can we do? I have what I think is a good answer to that question: As geezers, we can continue to talk about it. As long as we do, those times and habitats will not be forgotten, and maybe some of them can even be reclaimed.

There is a bright light on the horizon, though, and that’s the place where I go every winter to replenish my soul: Hyde County and Lake Mattamuskeet. The little town of Engelhard steps right out of the past. Located on the Pamlico Sound, the quaint fishing and farm village remains as it was many years ago. Karen and Dale Meekins are owners and hosts of the Hyde County Lodges, where we hang our duck-hunting hats and are as hospitable as you would expect them to be. Their families go way back in the area and are well known and respected as folks who honor the land and wild country and waters where they have made their home. I enjoy their company.

Also, I have made a tradition of stopping by Gibbs Country Store in the morning as I’m leaving the area. It steps right out of the past, potbelly stove and all. I always get a cup of coffee from the never empty coffee pot, fill it half full and check out at the old register. Mr. Gibbs is usually there and will say, “That’ll be 50 cents.” He’ll then look in the cup. “Nope, you only got half a cup, give me a quarter.”

As long as I’m able, I’m going to continue my annual trek to Hyde County. The visit never fails to improve my outlook for the future of the great outdoors.  PS

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

Birdwatch

Love Bird

For the American woodcock, February is mating season

 

By Susan Campbell

February is the month for love — and for the American woodcock, this is certainly the case! By midmonth this pudgy, short-legged, long-billed denizen of forest and field is in full courtship mode. Almost everyone, however, will miss its unique singing and dancing since it occurs completely under the cover of darkness.

American woodcocks, also called “timberdoodles,” are cousins of the long-legged shorebirds commonly seen at the beach. Like plovers, turnstones, dowitchers and other sandpipers, these birds have highly adapted bills and cryptic plumage. Woodcocks, having no need to wade, actually sport short legs, which they use to slowly scuffle along as they forage in moist woods and shrubby fields. This behavior is thought to startle worms and other soft-bodied invertebrates in the leaf litter and/or just below the soil surface. Their long, sensitive bills are perfect for probing and/or grabbing food items. And camouflaged plumage hides woodcock from all but the most discerning eye.

And, speaking of eyes, American woodcocks have eyes that are large and strategically arranged on their heads. They are very high up and far back such that they can see both potential predators from above as well as food items in front and below them.

Beginning in late winter, male American woodcocks find open areas adjacent to wet, wooded feeding habitat and begin their romantic display at dusk. Their elaborate come-hither routine begins on the ground and continues in the air. Typically, the male struts around in the open area uttering repeated, loud “peeent” calls. He will then take wing and fly in circles high into the sky, twittering as he goes. Finally, the male will turn and drop sharply back to the ground in zigzag fashion, chirping as he goes. And like a crazed teenager, this is followed by repeated rounds of vocalizations.

Where I live along James Creek in horse country in Southern Pines, displaying begins on calm nights in December. Some of these individuals are most likely northern birds that have made the journey to the Southeast retreating from colder weather. They may just be practicing ahead of some serious hanky-panky in early spring back up North. Regardless, females are known to visit multiple spots where males are known to do their thing before they choose a mate. So it behooves the males to display as often as possible to impress as many females as they can during the weeks that they are on the hunt for a mate.

Although long hunted for sport, it was Aldo Leopold, the renowned conservationist, who implored sportsmen to better appreciate these little birds. They are well adapted for a forest floor existence, hidden from all but their mates come this time of the year. And, on rare occasions, from birdwatchers keen on getting a glimpse of the American woodcock’s antics come late winter.  PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife observations and photographs at susan@ncaves.com.

The Accidental Astrologer

No Rules for Radicals

Aquarians march to the beat of a different drummer

 

By Astrid Stellanova

While I ain’t gonna say Aquarians are wild, they sure are exciting, enticing and (usually) socially engaged. Let’s add radical and (sometimes) irresistible to their qualities. A short list of these rule-breaking celebrities: Galileo, Christina Ricci, Christian Dior, Darwin, Dickens, Ellen DeGeneres, Mozart, Thomas Edison, Michael Jordan, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Paris Hilton, Mia Farrow. Two presidents were Aquarians: Abraham Lincoln and Ronald Reagan. Ad Astra — Astrid

 

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

It’s like saying fire is hot or water is wet to say how much an Aquarian wants to be original and independent. You are wired to march to a drumbeat that is your own. Don’t fight it. When you give in to this most prized inclination, Sugar, it is not only a thing of envy but even your enemies (who are few) admire it, though they may moan and groan about it. You are a jewel in the good Lord’s ring.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

Pump the brakes, Thelma (or was it Louise?) The cliff ahead may look like it offers the best view but you are not gonna like the consequences. Two people take special interest in you, and, if nothing else, try to serve as a good example. (Or, Baby Cakes, you can always serve by being a bad example if that’s your aim.)

Aries (March 21–April 19)

You tried to fit in, didn’t you? But no more schlumpadinka, Baby. It’s time for you to enjoy your fashionista side. You didn’t get where you are by trying to hide your glory. Maybe you have to tamp down the splurging, but don’t even think about conforming when it comes to your sense of style.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Some say the best way to burn fat is on the cooking stove, and, Honey, you do love your grease. But time to get off the biscuits and gravy train and go straight towards your new destiny as a fit person. You’ve had some warning signs and take them to heart.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Give you a straw, and you could suck all the air outta the room. You have been too full of righteous indignation, and it is alienating your friends and family. Lighten up, Sweet Thang! If you don’t learn anything else from old Astrid, who is the Queen of Self Righteous Anger, take this lesson to heart: Your wrath and indignation have never done a thing to win hearts and minds.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

It’s bring your wine to work day! No, seriously, it is actually bring yourself to work day. You did take a necessary step back from your out-of-control job, but maybe you overcorrected. Get back down to business and settle into the routine. Balance is good, and so is discipline.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

Privately, you tell yourself that if you had a fault, it is that you’re less loveable than you used to be. Is your ego just slap crazy? The truth is, little Leo, nobody loves you quite like you love yourself. Try, just try, to love somebody else with that same passion.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

I know, Sugar. You have been a rock to a lot of people and you are justifiably tired. Sometimes, you should look in the mirror and say: “I cannot be an adult today. I will let my inner child play all it wants to.” That’s going to bring you a break — even if only for one day.

Libra (September 23–October 22)

When you came into this world, you brought a whole lot of light to some very dark corners in your family life. You still do. If you don’t love yourself for this, Honey, just know that everyone else does. In late spring, you are going to make a new friend who will help empower you and leverage your career.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

The odds are not against you, Love Bug, but you get down in the dumps and think the dice are loaded. Your turn to win is coming up; keep your chin up and keep in the game. Meanwhile, a neighbor is really hoping you will draw them into your inner circle. They are, like you, surprisingly shy and need a nudge.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

By the time you are reading this, you have had a shoulda-coulda-woulda moment. Be like the Disney tune and “let it go.” Your best was good enough — it just wasn’t appreciated. Show yourself the same kindness you show others — and keep on keeping on. The road is long and you have a second chance.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

See that trophy fish stuck over the mantel? If it had just kept its mouth shut, it would still be swimming in the sea. Every time you look at that trophy, ask yourself if you have been as discreet as you oughta be. And ask yourself if it isn’t ironic you hooked, baited and caught that fish yourself.  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.

Almanac

By Ash Alder

The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size.

– Gertrude S. Wister

 

February morning . . .

The coffee is freshly ground, and you hold in your hands the last grapefruit from the bushel. Remember how your grandma used to eat them? And how, when the birds started singing, she would visit the camellias, maybe cut one for the green vase on the windowsill?

Suddenly you feel like dancing.

Sliding in your socks across the cold kitchen floor, sweet memories flicker like the warm crackling of vinyl.

You put on the coffee. Slice the grapefruit. Reach for the sugar bowl.

In the cupboard, on the highest shelf, you notice the little green vase. The birds are singing, and you are waltzing to the windowsill.

Won’t be long, now, until the camellia flowers.

The waltz of winter is one of the simple pleasures.   

Sweet as Pie   

The last full moon rose on Jan. 31; the next rises March 1. No full snow moon this month, but the new moon falls on Feb. 15, the day after Cupid strikes. Cold as it’s been this winter, perhaps we can call it the new snow moon. And if the god of the great wintry winds gifts us with more of it, you’ll want to have the (coconut/almond) milk and honey on hand for snow cream.

Friday, Feb. 16, marks the celebration of the Chinese New Year. Cue the paper lanterns. This lunar New Year is a time to clean house and create space for good luck to arrive. In the spirit of the Earth Dog, a little advice from man’s best friend: Be happy; be loyal; live from the heart.

National Cherry Pie Day is celebrated on Feb. 20. Although the old chestnut about George Washington and the cherry tree is a myth, it’s true that cherries were one of the president’s favorite foods. Chill some to sweeten a romantic evening, or if you feel inspired to bake pie, make a date of it. 

Calling in a sacred partner? A Japanese love spell suggests tying a single strand of hair to a blossoming cherry tree. No lie.   

Roses & Rutabaga

Red roses say I love you, but nothing says our love is eternal like the whole fragrant bush. February is generally a good month to plant roses. And if you’re already playing round in the garden, consider popping a few early rutabagas into the ground. Also known as the swede, this root vegetable is believed to prevent premature aging, improve eyesight and, because it’s loaded with vitamin C (one cup contains 32 milligrams), it’s an excellent immune system booster. Maple-glaze them. Roast them with brown butter. Or if you’re craving savory, they, too, make good pie.

Tree Wisdom

The ancient Celts looked to the trees for knowledge and wisdom. According to Celtic tree astrology, those born from Jan. 21 – Feb. 17 associate with the rowan (mountain ash), a tree whose wood has long been used for spindles and spinning wheels. Rowans are the philosophers of the zodiac. They are visionaries, eccentrics, and like Aquarians, are often perceived as cool or aloof. But that’s just because they’re busy dreaming up a whole new world. Rowan people are most compatible with ivy (Sept. 30–Oct. 27) and hawthorn (May 13–June 9) signs. In the Ogham, a sacred Druidic alphabet, the symbol of the rowan represents insight, protection and blessings.

 

 

Every gardener knows that under the cloak of winter lies a miracle. . .

a seed waiting to sprout, a bulb opening to the light, a bud straining to unfurl.

And the anticipation nurtures our dream. – Barbara Winkler

simple life

Angels Unawares

Extending kindness to strangers . . . whoever they happen to be

 

By Jim Dodson

Mr. Pettigrew is about my age, maybe a little younger, his hair turning gray. His truck was old, his trailer older — so old the dumping mechanism was rusted shut. We had to unload the firewood by hand.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ll stack it for you.”

I told him not to worry, I was happy to stack it myself. Up in Maine, after all, where I lived for many years, they say firewood heats you twice — once when you cut and stack it, again when you burn it.

“You from Maine?” he asked

“Nope. Just lived there for 20 years. I’m from here. How about you?”

“Surry County. I’ve got 30 acres up there, or used to.”

A large chocolate Lab hopped out of his truck and lumbered toward us.

“That’s Fred. I better put him back in the truck or else he might wander into the street. He’s about the last thing I got these days. Sure hate to lose him.”

My dog Mulligan charged toward Fred but soon both their tails were wagging. She’s a tough old lady and Fred was smart enough not to give her any guff.

The afternoon was a sharply cold one between Christmas and New Year’s. The kids had all gone back to their busy lives, and I was in my annual post-Christmas funk made deeper by a psychic hangover from a year that only Ebenezer Scrooge could love, a humdinger of relentlessly bad news — killer floods and record hurricanes, devastating wildfires, mass shootings, rising seas, melting icecaps, Russian meddling, a world on the brink of nuclear war, a Congress divided against itself, a president who thinks he’s a game show host.

Being a rare fan of winter — too many years in Maine to blame — I wasn’t bothered that an Arctic deep freeze was on its way, just that I was out of decent firewood. Before Christmas I’d seen a hand-lettered sign advertising seasoned firewood by a small farmhouse out in the country, so I phoned. Sixty bucks a load sounded reasonable. He brought it that afternoon.

As we worked, I asked how Mr. Pettigrew’s Christmas had been.

He shrugged. “Not so good. But at least I’m alive.”

He explained that he’d recently been diagnosed with kidney disease and had nearly died from cirrhosis of the liver just one year ago. He faced further testing in the New Year.

“This time last year I was in the hospital, sure I was about to die. So I signed over everything to my daughter,” he said. “I signed over everything I owned — even my land up in Surry County — because I wanted her to at least have something to remember me by.”

When he survived, she refused to transfer his property back to him. In fact, she evicted him from his own house.

“That’s a tough break,” I sympathized. “What keeps you going?”

“One foot in front of the other,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve got a little disability to live off of and a place for Fred and me to stay. I’m able to do odd jobs and sell some wood off a piece of land I still own. I’m pretty grateful for that.”

After a pause, chucking a piece of wood on the pile, he added, “Better enjoy this life now, I reckon. Never know when it’ll just go.”

I simply nodded.

A week before Christmas my good friend Chris passed away while sitting on his front porch reading the morning paper on an uncommonly warm December morning. Chris was only 54. Dogs were his best friends, too.

Mr. Pettigrew looked about the same age as Chris.

“You retired?” he asked me, snapping me out of my sudden wintry thoughts.

“Nope. Just plain tired,” I joked, casually adding that I would turn 65 on the second day of February “if the Good Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” as both Johnny Cash and my late Grandmother Taylor liked to say.

“You don’t look anywhere near that old,” said Mr. Pettigrew.

“I don’t feel anywhere near that old,” I said. “Just certain parts do.”

Mr. Pettigrew laughed. It was a genuine laugh. I wondered if I could laugh like that if I had kidney disease and my daughter had taken everything I owned.

We finished up and he thanked me for buying his wood.

It was beautiful wood, well-seasoned red oak with some maple mixed in.

I gave Mr.Pettigrew an extra twenty, petted Fred on the head and wished them both well in 2018, marveling at his grace under fire.

He gave me his card and said, “If you need an extra hand with anything, you know where to find me.”

I watched him drive off, grateful for having met Mr. Pettigrew.

The next afternoon, an even colder one, another pickup truck pulled up in front of the house.

An older man came to my door. His hair was white.

He was well-spoken and polite. “I’m hoping, sir, if you could possibly help me . . .”

Sometimes I wonder if the angels have a target on my back. When I was 9 and my brother 11, our father walked us through Lower Manhattan’s Bowery one freezing Saturday morning during a Christmas visit to see the homeless men sleeping on the frozen sidewalks. This was before homeless shelters were commonplace. My mother thought we’d just gone out for fresh bagels.

We saw men with blue legs huddled beneath newspapers and cardboard boxes on sidewalk grates — and wound up buying a couple dozen warm bagels and distributing them. My brother and I eventually took to calling our old man Opti the Mystic because souls in need always seemed to find him — and take something away from his cornball belief that a small act of kindness can make all the difference in someone’s life.

Since that day, either a curse or a blessing, probably a little of both, they seem to find me, too — people like Mr. Pettigrew and the gentleman at my door whose name I never asked.

Friends gently chide me for giving any homeless person who asks whatever I have in my pocket. There are places these lost souls can go, they say. The poor are always with us, the Good Book reminds. Besides, they’ll just drink or smoke up whatever you give them. Not to mention that this world is full of scam artists, hucksters and thieves.

Maybe they are right. But to this day, I’ve never regretted reaching into my pocket when someone has the courage to ask.

As Opti might say, perhaps what you do even in the smallest way for another living creature, human or otherwise, you actually do for yourself in a way that only the universe may bother to take note of.

The man at my door, at any rate, had a painful story about losing his job in Washington, D.C., and driving down to stay with his son in Carolina, hoping to find a new job. He hadn’t called ahead and his son was out of town.

“The shelters are all full and I found a place that costs $60 a night. I’ve only got $20. Last night I had to sleep in my truck and the police told me not to do that again.”

He apologized and, turning away, began to cry. I’ve seen enough tears in this world to know they were as genuine as Mr. Pettigrew’s laugh. Both held notes of sorrow.

I gave him what I had in my pocket. It came to $41.

He accepted the money, wiped his eyes and offered me a weathered hand.

“Thank you, sir. When I get a job, I will repay you. That I promise.”

I told him that would not be necessary and asked him to wait a moment while I fetched another ten bucks from my loose change jar and gave him that, too. “Supper money,” I said, thinking of my late Papa — imagining him as one of those target-hunting angels standing beside me whispering Scripture in my ear. Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some of us may entertain angels unaware.

“Just curious,” I said to the man at my door. “How’d you pick my house?”

He smiled. “I’m really not sure. Your house just looked like a kind house.”

My wife got home after dark. I had an excellent fire going and poured her a glass of wine.

She asked me how my day had gone. She always worries about my post-Christmas funk.

I told her the funk was gone. I was eager to face a new year with genuine optimism, in part because that I’d met a couple older gentlemen who helped remind me how grateful I am to be turning 65 with a good roof over my head and a little loose change in my jar. An early birthday gift to me, I joked.

“Who were they?”

“Have no idea. Just a couple elderly angels.”

The next day, the second gentleman returned with a big smile on his face.

“I just got a job at Lowe’s,” he declared. “I wanted to let you know. I will return that money.”

I congratulated him and said that would not be necessary, though I still forgot to ask his name.  PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.