Time Capsule

A hall devoted to Carolinas golf history

By Lee Pace

Pinehurst in the 1970s was the repository of the United States’ most impressive golf museum. The $2.5 million structure christened in 1974 as the World Golf Hall of Fame loomed behind the fourth green of Pinehurst No. 2 and featured bronze busts of its honorees, a replica Scottish clubmaker’s shop and all manner of memorabilia. Alas, the building cost too much to operate and visitors to Pinehurst would rather play golf than study its history, so the museum was bought by the PGA of America, closed in the early 1990s, moved to St. Augustine and reopened there in 1998. The building was eventually razed, and that parcel today is owned by Pinehurst
Resort and sits vacant, awaiting possible development.

That has left the Tufts Archives in the village of Pinehurst and Heritage Hall in the Resort Clubhouse at Pinehurst as the area’s nods to the rich golf history that has been building here since Dr. Leroy Culver staked out the first nine holes in 1898, drawing on his visions and notes from a recent visit to St. Andrews, Scotland.

The Tufts Archives, an adjunct of the Given Memorial Library, chronicles the development of the village and resort with maps, photos, postcards, letters, and assorted documents and displays. Less than half a mile away, Heritage Hall runs from the front door of the clubhouse back to the golf shop and salutes Pinehurst’s rich competitive history — particularly through the boards listing winners of its prestigious North and South Amateur and long-defunct North and South Open.

The Sandhills’ newest development in the museum arena is the Xan Law Jr. Hall of History that opened in February in the Carolinas Golf Association’s headquarters in Southern Pines. The CGA, which celebrated its centennial in 2009, opened Carolinas Golf House in 2014 across Ridge Road from Pine Needles Lodge & Golf Club and set aside 1,500 square feet for an eventual museum.

CGA Executive Director Jack Nance and the association’s Executive Committee then set about raising approximately $1 million for the museum and decided to name it in honor of the Charlotte businessman and avid golfer who died in 2016 shortly after a watershed fundraising dinner that gave the museum an important underwriting base.

“Golf, like life, is a puzzle to be worked on but never solved,” Law said that evening.

The CGA retained the services of Andy Mutch, a former USGA museum director who, for the last 17 years, has operated Golf Curator Inc. in assisting clubs and associations organize, document, preserve and display their heritage.

“I was struck by how tight the golf network is in the Carolinas,” Mutch says. “Jack made calls to people who knew people who donated artifacts. We were able to acquire a museum full of authentic original artifacts — not loans or purchases, but donations — which was amazing. Even the folks at the USGA were incredulous that the only real loans we had for the entire Hall of History were from them. We were able to build a pretty serious museum of North and South Carolina golf history through this close network of committed CGA golfers. I think this authenticity comes through when you see the displays.”

A visit to the Hall of History can take from 30 to 60 minutes or longer, depending on how closely you delve into the photos and descriptive text at each of the displays. Here is the story behind the story of five of the artifacts on display:

• The 1910 Carolinas Amateur contestants photo. The CGA was founded in October 1909 in Charleston and scheduled its inaugural Carolinas Amateur for the following June at Sans Souci Country Club in Greenville, South Carolina. One of the first images you’ll see in the Hall of History is a massive blown-up group shot of 23 of the contestants on the front steps of the clubhouse, the gang accented with bow ties, a cigarette or cigar in many hands and mouths, and bowler or straw boat hats on many heads. There are enough grins and bad posture to indicate the golfers have flubbed a few shots of golf and slaked a few shots of adult beverages. “On the final night, two hardy contestants commenced their next day’s contest in the bar room and left there for the first tee in the morning. One is reported to have broken five clubs in the first nine holes,” reported the local newspaper.

• Peggy Kirk Bell’s Titleholders Blazer. The jacket is made of green velvet and was young Peggy Kirk’s prize for winning the 1949 Titleholders — a tournament on the fledgling women’s professional tour held at Augusta Country Club and modeled in the fashion of the Masters at nearby Augusta National. It was Peggy’s only professional win, and in time she would focus on the resort and golf teaching business with husband Warren “Bullet” Bell at Pine Needles, which they began running in 1953 and later purchased outright. In recognition of that Titleholders win, the Bells acquired the rights to the tournament in 1972 and moved it for one year to Pine Needles, with Sandra Palmer winning. Today a 40-inch bronze statue in the shape of the Titleholders crown logo still hangs in front of the Pine Needles entrance.

• Paul Simson’s Ping Zing Putter. The Raleigh insurance executive arrived at Yeamans Hall outside Charleston in the fall of 1990 for the Carolinas Mid-Am and discovered he’d left his Ping Zing putter at home. Fellow competitor Vic Long said he just happened to have that very model in the trunk of his car that Simson could use. Simson liked the feel and function of the putter and won by five shots, breaking through after years of second-place finishes. “That opened the floodgates,” Simson says. “If a putter feels good and you win with it, how am I going to change?” Long gave Simson the putter in return for two dozen golf balls, and Simson used the club for many of his 33 CGA victories — giving it up finally in 2012 for a more modern version of the same putter.

• Lionel Callaway display case. Donald Ross as an architect, Richard Tufts as an administrator — those leaders in early 1900s American golf are well known. Not as visible was Lionel Callaway, who was the teaching pro at Pinehurst for some 40 years in the mid-1900s. Today the Callaway Handicap System exists as a method for scoring golfers without established handicaps in competition. Callaway is also credited with developing putting cups with collapsible sides, grip molds to encourage proper hand placement on the club, practice nets and the standard of selling golf balls in packages of three. A variety of artifacts including photos, a scrapbook, his PGA of America membership cards and a handicapping gauge are collected under glass in the Hall of History.

• Ben Hogan at Biltmore Forest photo. One of the best pictures on display is a gem from a gray day in the 1940s when Hogan is captured teeing off in front of a well-dressed and attentive gallery in the Land of the Sky Open, held in Asheville from 1933-51. North Carolina was a key juncture in the evolution of Hogan’s career. He was winless through eight years of pro golf when he came to Pinehurst in March 1940 for the North and South Open. He finally won, then went to Greensboro and on to Asheville for three consecutive victories. In three tournaments, Hogan played 216 holes 34-under-par, breaking par 11 of 12 rounds. “I won just in time,” Hogan later reflected on his remarkable trilogy. “I had finished second and third so many times I was beginning to think I was an also-ran. I know it’s what finally got me in the groove to win.”  PS

The museum is open during regular CGA business hours, 8:50 to 5:00 Monday through Friday.

Chapel Hill-based writer Lee Pace authored the CGA’s centennial commemorative book, Golf In The Carolinas, which was published in 2008.

The Bad Boys of Bird-dom

Vultures are proliferating — and living up to their bad rap as destructive scavengers

By Susan Campbell

Nuisance birds? Is there truly such a thing?? Yes. In fact, there are a number of them: pigeons (or more correctly rock pigeons), Canada geese and house sparrows are just a few of the species that can damage property all across the United States and every day. But there are also birds that may pose a health risk. Vultures, as it turns out, are one such group.

Often referred to generically as “buzzards,” vultures are part of a family of birds found worldwide with dozens of species including South American condors. Here in North Carolina, we have both turkey and black vultures year round. Individuals from farther north significantly boost flock numbers in the cooler months. These large, black scavengers lack feathers on their heads: likely an adaptation to feeding almost exclusively on carcasses. Turkey vultures are the more common species from the mountains to the coast. Soaring in a dihedral (v-shaped profile) on long wings with silver linings, they have extended tails for steering and distinctive red heads. Black vultures, however, have gray heads and white patches on the underwing as well as somewhat shorter wings and tails. As a result they soar with a flatter profile and fly with snappier wing beats. This species has really expanded across the Piedmont in recent years perhaps due to development, along with increased road building and the inevitable roadkill that results.

However, as often as one might see a vulture or two overhead, neither species is a common breeder in our part of the state. 

Some places, like the town of Robbins, here in Moore County, have had an overabundance of vultures now for over a decade. During a recent conversation with David Lambert, the town manager, it became clear that this small town in the western part of the county indeed has a serious issue. The vulture problem only just made it into the news recently. I was alarmed to learn that hundreds of birds roost around the center of town most of the year. The peak density of 600–800 birds occurs in midwinter. However, even in summer there are at least a few dozen loafing in the area. Deterrents such as noisemakers have been to no avail. An official from U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Wildlife Services even paid a visit a couple of years ago and used selective lethal measures (i.e. shooting a few birds). This actually worked — for a little while.

Vultures can definitely pose a health hazard. In the late afternoon, they will pour into a spot featuring large trees or where there is a tower of some kind and they will perch close together for the night. You can imagine how smelly and nasty their droppings can be under such structures in a short period of time! It is particularly an issue on water towers, which seem to attract both black and turkey vultures.  Guano has made its way into drinking water here in the Sandhills (in Vass) and certainly cannot be tolerated.

Vultures can also be very destructive if they are bored. This is especially true of juvenile birds in late summer. Some of them have been known to tear into fabric, rip into rubber and plastic, and even break through doors and windows that are not firmly secured.

No one really knows why the congregation exists in the Robbins area. Some speculate it may have to do with proximity to the Deep River or perhaps it is the abundance of chicken farms in close proximity — or it could be something else entirely. What’s clear, though, is that this is one of the largest congregations of vultures in the state.

The U.S.D.A. is likely to pay this town another visit in the near future to shoot more birds. This time, they’ll probably hang a few (yes, this works) at the largest sites to dissuade roosting flocks from congregating there. But since many of the vultures will have dispersed for the breeding season, things should have improved (one way or another). As far as how many return again next fall, only time will tell.  PS

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

Poem

The Arborist

The arborist: “This tree is nearly eighty

years old, and bound to fail. Put in when folks

developed Rosemont Street — all up and down

the yards the same — the maples, oaks, and firs.

No wonder she lost this limb.” I almost said

I’m seventy-one myself, with lanky limbs

that take me loping ’round the block three times

A week. I hoped he’d say, “Pas possible!”

(His name’s duBois!); instead he said, “See?

You know exactly what I mean.” Mark laughed.

“So what’s the fastest growing tree?” he asked

duBois. “The sycamore. It grows six feet a year,

and when it’s done, it’s sixty feet, providing shade

like this poor maple.” Poor maple. Such girth

I wouldn’t call it poor, but Mark had feared

the insides rotted out; duBois concurred.

We paid him then to take old maple down

and plant the slender sycamore. We’ll have

to move the chairs elsewhere in the yard,

and get a large umbrella for our shade.

Or else we’ll sit all summer under the

porch roof, coaxing the tree to grow. And I’ll

be eighty-one when sycamore is done,

or else bequeath it to new owners, just

as when I think of our beloved Hannah —

who’s twelve and growing, too — bequeathed by us

to other tenders of emerging things,

those who never knew us — we, the arborists,

who sit where someone sat in nineteen

thirty-eight and watched a little maple grow.

— Paul Lamar

Landmarks of Life

The joys of the familiar

By Bill Fields

If I’m going to have a hot dog not terribly far from where I live, I’ll go to Walter’s in Mamaroneck, N.Y. There is a reason Walter’s has been serving its excellent hot dogs since 1919 and the stand where I go a couple of times a year has been there since 1928. The franks — once rated by Gourmet magazine as best in America — of a beef, pork and veal blend are made in-house and delicious. A little mustard, also Walter’s own, is the only condiment that should be added to $2.65 worth of flavor.

I don’t believe the hot dogs sold at The Ice Cream Parlor in downtown Southern Pines have received national acclaim, but one “all the way” makes me almost as happy. For North Carolina natives, there is something about a dog with chili, slaw and onions that sparks memories of the pit stops on childhood trips. Our road food — and that meant a hot dog loaded with Carolina-style toppings — on drives from the Sandhills to the Triad came from a place in Seagrove. The highway is quicker and the car seat safer from spills now, but the trip not nearly as anticipated.

Much of the comfort from a hot dog at the corner of New Hampshire and Broad these days is simply because The Ice Cream Parlor has been around for a while — not as long as Walter’s but for decades. Given how much change has taken place in Southern Pines, Pinehurst and the surrounding communities — how much is different from when I was growing up or even just 20 or 30 years ago — I consider constancy an increasingly treasured thing when I can find it.

I feel similarly about a pint from O’Donnell’s, a bucket of range balls at Knollwood or a walk on Ridge Street and back retracing the steps to and from school in days that simultaneously seem both distant and near.

If memories are, as someone said, the cushions of life, to be able to experience now what was experienced then is a sturdy foundation that grounds, informs and enriches.

I haven’t flown a kite in an empty field just north of Southern Pines in a long time, but I could. I hit tennis balls on the downtown courts as I did. The courts are smoother and the nets don’t sag, but for night play I miss putting in a quarter and hearing the lights whine before kicking on.

The Country Bookshop and the Southern Pines Public Library are in different locations than when I first discovered the joy of reading so long ago, but they’ve been in their present spots many years and it is a pleasure to spend time in either.

My friends aren’t playing guitar at The Jefferson Inn for the fun of it and a few Budweisers on the house as they did in the late 1970s, but I can still go there for a drink as folks have since the formative days of Southern Pines. The Lob Steer Inn — I loved that name and its salad bar — is no more, but Beefeaters remains. John’s Barbecue on Highway 15-501 is long gone, but Pik N Pig has been a Carthage staple for great barbecue for many years.

They’re still playing ball at Memorial Field and across the street from the National Guard Armory like they have for decades. Likewise at the town basketball courts, except the rims and nets are in better shape than when I played there if someone was desperate to fill out a pickup game with a good-shooting, slow-footed kid whose vertical leap could be measured with a ruler.

I sure can’t jump any higher now, but my spirit soars about what endures on my old turf, especially since so much doesn’t. PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent.

A Night Out

Better late than never

By Renee Phile

It was a brisk Saturday night and we ventured up to Raleigh. Destination: The Cheesecake Factory.

“Shouldn’t we make reservations?” I asked.

“Nah, we should be good,” he said.

The drive was uneventful until we pulled into the parking lot of the Crabtree Valley Mall. The cars maneuvered like ants marching to a fallen morsel of chocolate chip cookie. After 20 minutes we found a spot deep in the parking garage’s Siberia section — nestled between a blue SUV and a white Ford Ranger. Taste buds at attention, we hiked to the mall and upstairs to The Cheesecake Factory. Men, women and children littered the hallways, many sitting on the floor. The noise overwhelmed my brain.

“They must be waiting for takeout . . . or something,” I mumbled.

“Probably,” he said.

We filed in, took spots at the end of the line and inched up slowly. My stomach growled.

“What was that?” he asked with a laugh.

“What was what?” I said.

Pictures of luscious cheesecake covered the walls. Strawberry, chocolate, salted caramel. My mouth watered.

Minutes ticked by. We inched deeper into the chaos. Finally, we arrived.

“How many?” the hostess asked.

“Two,” he said.

“OK.” She tapped something on the screen of her computer and handed us a blinky piece of plastic.

“How long will that be?” he asked.

“Oh, about an hour and 45 minutes.”

He looked at me. I looked back and shook my head. No way. My stomach screamed.

“We’re good,” he said and handed her back the blinky thing.

We walked out, picking our way through the standing, sitting and leaning bodies, past the pictures of cheesecake — salted caramel, chocolate, strawberry.

“Where do you want to eat?” he asked.

“Somewhere without an hour and 45 minute wait.”

He took out his phone and began to search.

I willed him to hurry. My stomach rumbled like the mating call of a moose.

“What the heck was that?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

I didn’t answer.

He tapped a number into his phone.

“Hi. Uh, how long is the wait for a table for two?” he asked.

“Two hours.” I heard a voice say. I gasped.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and clicked off.

“Let’s just go to McDonalds,” I suggested.

“No McDonalds. What are you craving?”

“Cheesecake.”

“What about seafood?”

“That too.”

He tapped his phone and began searching.

“Red Lobster is 3 miles from here,” he said.

“Good.”

After 20 more minutes freeing ourselves from the parking garage, we were on the road to our third choice.

We parked, shuffled out of the car and walked up to the hostess stand.

“How many?” she asked.

“Two, but how long is the wait?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she said.

I groaned, but at least there wasn’t an hour before the 45. We were handed another blinky piece of plastic, and the minutes ticked by as we sat by the lobster tank.

After the full three-quarters of an hour mostly spent staring at crustaceans with bad intent, we were seated in a distant a corner. An angel appeared, eyes bright and smile wide, movements fluid and secure.

“Welcome to Red Lobster! My name is Penny. What can I get you to drink? Oh wait, I always start with the lady first.” She turned and grinned at me.

She filled my soul with warmth . . . and cheesy biscuits, creamy seafood dip and chips, boiled shrimp covered in butter, sweet coconut shrimp, and garlic lemon tilapia.

“This,” I said in between bites of pretty much everything, “was worth the wait.”

He nodded.

She kept appearing to fill our drinks and bring us more cheesy biscuits.

He asked her if she was in school.

“No, I’m a mommy and I work here on nights and weekends.”

“Boy or girl? How old?” he asked.

“A little boy. He’s 6.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket to show us a gorgeous kid with her eyes and smile. He held a soccer ball and grinned back at us.

He tipped her way more than 20 percent that night, and when she realized it, she bounced back to our table.

“Thank you so much! No, really, thank you!” she exclaimed.

Then it was his eyes, that wonderful blend of blue and green, that sparkled.  PS

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

The Bard Is Back

Soliloquies in the park

By Jim Moriarty   •   Photograph by Tim Sayer

Midsummer will come early to Pinehurst’s Village Green when William Shakespeare gets a curtain call in Tufts Park. After last summer’s three-night run of Much Ado About Nothing, Jonathan Drahos, Carolanne Marano and the Uprising Theatre Company return on back-to-back weekends with A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The 7:30 p.m. shows will be June 1-3 and 8-10. Instead of groundlings paying a penny to stand in the yard of the Globe Theatre, all you’ll need is a blanket or a lawn chair. “Our big thing is to keep it free,” says Marano.

“One of the reasons we decided to do two weekends this year is we want to grow,” says Drahos, an associate professor and the director of the theater at the University of North Carolina-Pembroke. “We want to get the community used to this ongoing thing, that it’s not a one-off. But, also, if it rains one weekend, it’s not a total bust.”

Last year after two flawless nights, bad weather arrived on Sunday. “It started raining in the morning and we thought, ‘OK, we’re going to have to cancel the show,’” says Marano, who teaches choreography and stage dance at UNCP. “We went out there and people had camped out. So we had everybody move closer to the stage and we didn’t use any mics. We didn’t have any electrical and, at one point, two cars pulled up and showed their lights so we could still act. When it got a little unsafe we called it. We went as far as we could. If the audience is willing to weather the storm, then so are we. It was actually a lot of fun.”

The park is the perfect place to stage A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare’s best-known comedy. You’ve got Athenians, fairies, weddings and craftsmen. Add a little love potion and what could possibly go wrong? “Lord what fools these mortals be!” says Puck, who will be played by Carolanne.

“It’s Shakespeare’s only truly original play,” says Drahos. Though threads trace back to Chaucer, Ovid and even some medieval romances, “there isn’t a lot of source material he drew from like he does from other plays. Although elements of it are derived from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and certainly the Pyramus and Thisbe play-within-the-play is sort of lifted from Ovid but the cosmic scope of the play is original. That’s what makes it, to me, special.”

Midsummer begins with the Duke of Athens, Theseus, set to marry the Queen of the Amazons, Hippolyta. A group of craftsmen has gone into the woods to practice their bumbling, crude and comic version of a play — Pyramus and Thisbe — to perform at the wedding. Determined to defy an arranged marriage, Hermia and Lysander also flee into the woods. As luck would have it, the forest is filled with fairies. The couple is pursued by Demetrius, the prospective husband so designated by Hermia’s father, and Helena, who loves Demetrius and seeks to win his favor. Oberon, the king of the fairies, has his own problems. He sends his hobgoblin, Puck, in search of a flower that contains a juice that, when dropped on the eyelids of any sleeper, will make that person fall in love with whomever they see on first awakening. Hijinks ensue.

“If you look at the grand scope of Shakespeare’s works, all of the language is miraculous,” says Drahos. But, on occasion, it can be a bit daunting. “There’s a way that Jon’s training will get the actor to say it so the audience doesn’t feel like it’s a foreign language,” says Marano.

“So much of the language that Shakespeare used, we still use today, 95 percent of it basically. It’s the way Shakespeare put it together that is rhetorically complex, and that’s what makes it eloquent and beautiful and poetic,” says Drahos. “What we end up doing is a collaboration with the audience, saying, ‘We understand that you’re not going to get 100 percent of what we’re doing. We’re going to make 75 percent understandable, and if you meet us halfway with the other 25 percent, you’re going to forgive the rhetorical complexity of the language.’ This is the problem I think a lot of companies have with Shakespeare — they’re sort of elitist. They want the audience to come to them where we are trying to come to the audience. Meet them halfway.”

Drahos and Marano, both 51, met as undergraduate students at Cal State Long Beach when they were performing in David Mamet’s Edmond. Carolanne is originally from Philadelphia, by way of Wichita, Kansas, where her father was an executive for Pizza Hut. She trained in classic ballet at Pennsylvania Ballet, San Francisco Ballet and Ballet West until an injury propelled her career in a slightly different direction. Jonathan grew up in the San Fernando Valley but spent most of his early years in Huntington Beach, California. After graduating from Long Beach they moved to Kansas City where Jonathan got his Master of Fine Arts degree in acting and directing from the University of Missouri-KC. “I was looking for a program that focused on Shakespeare and that was steeped in the classics because that was my lifelong passion,” says Drahos.

From there it was off to New York City. Marano wrote a comedy, At the Threshold, which they produced off-Broadway at the Judith Anderson Theatre on 42nd Street, essentially launching the Uprising Theatre Company. Seven years later, they switched coasts, moving to Los Angeles. During their 10 years in L.A., they produced Carolanne’s play at the Fremont Centre Theatre under the title How Our In-Laws Ruined Our Wedding. Then, while Jonathan was doing a Shakespeare festival in Santa Barbara, a temporary teaching position opened at Cal State Northridge. He fell nearly as much in love with teaching as he was with Shakespeare, and soon they were off to England for Drahos to acquire a Ph.D. from the Shakespeare Institute at the University of Birmingham. From there he was hired by Southern Oregon University, which is where UNCP found and recruited him in 2014. All in all, it’s no less complicated a trail to Shakespeare in the park than Lysandra and Hermia take into the woods.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream has a substantial cast. The tall, lean Drahos will be playing Oberon, while the slight ballerina, Marano, is Puck. “We’ve been working on the physicality of the Puck/Oberon relationship. She’s going to be climbing on me a lot, sort of almost attached spiritually,” he says. For other roles, they’ll rely on theater students from UNCP, in addition to outside actors, some local. “Also, we look in New York and L.A. because we do like to bring in professionals so that the students can learn from them,” says Marano. The theater company fundraises to pay for the production and any outside talent. That fundraising effort includes the sale of a limited number of tables — with cheese and wine — for the Friday and Saturday night performances.

“Actors like to work,” says Drahos. “With Shakespeare, it’s not about the money necessarily. But if you can get paid to do Shakespeare, it doesn’t get any better for a real actor than to have that scenario. Especially in such a beautiful setting in Pinehurst, during the summer, outdoors.” PS

Jim Moriarty is senior editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

No Abbey Makes Me Crabby

Let’s go to the DVD

By Deborah Salomon

I still miss Downton Abbey. Please don’t brand it a posh soap opera. These days nothing plays more soap operatic than cable news, where madmen run around threatening to blow the world to smithereens; where porn stars tell all; where espionage happens right under our noses — as reported by babes in low-cut dresses and guys with four-day beards.

The Abbey had a presence, a sense of place, since the main floor and outdoor scenes were filmed at Highclere Castle; not sure about the bedrooms, but they seemed real enough. The paintings were real, the books and duvets were real. The endless teacups appeared to be fine bone china. But I wondered about wearing sleeveless frocks in vast chambers heated only by fires laid by a scullery maid. You could lose yourself in the plots, which often culminated in shock and were never interrupted by commercials.

That’s what I want from a drama . . . escape. The era should allow fabulous costumes but confront universal situations: single motherhood, rape, infidelity, anti-Semitism, premarital sex, breast cancer, homosexuality, politics, racial tension, women’s rights.

Of course back then women couldn’t vote, but at least the guys stood up when one entered the room. As for war, I read that the World War I bunker scenes were the most authentic ever filmed.

DA offers plenty of sex but no nudity. Six seasons and only one bloody episode, when Robert’s ulcer bursts, during dinner.

The plot had enough scope to allow characters to develop, grow. Mr. Barrow will always be an opportunistic villain, but toward the end we understand, even sympathize. Chauffeur Branson sheds his socialism to become the voice of reason. Butler Carson turns Lothario. Footman Molesley, a lifelong loser, finds his mojo in teaching school. Kitchen maid Daisy finds her voice. Isabel Crawley never lost hers. Dowager Countess Violet — the ultimate snob — softens into a wise and kindly aristocrat. Who thought she would be left standing after the writers killed off Mr. Pamook, Lavinia, Sybil, William, Matthew, Isis (the yellow Lab), Michael Gregson, numerous pheasants and grouse?

Mrs. Patmore, the cook borrowed from Shakespeare, ties everything together with one-line zingers.

Over the six seasons the Crawleys almost became my family.

Trouble is, characters are so engraved on the actors that I cannot watch m’lord Hugh Bonneville play anything else. Heartthrob Dan Stevens (Matthew Crowley) in a flashy action flick, or as Beauty’s Beast, à la Disney? Please.

Part of the mystique falls to British entertainment in general, which owns a certain dry, witty refinement poorly imitated by Madam Secretary and The Good Wife. By contrast, watching the half-dead stagger toward Armageddon is neither escape nor entertainment. So of course I bought the complete Downton Abbey on DVD because my TV has a built-in player. Now, when the world closes in, I pick an episode and escape to Yorkshire.

Which fields another annoyance. My TV isn’t smart enough for streaming. I wouldn’t know Hulu from a Zulu. Purchased in 2008, it is sized perfectly for the room, has an excellent quality picture and good sound. Why should I replace it? I subscribe to premium cable and Netflix DVD. But, unless I purchase and attach another gizmo (not guaranteed to work) I won’t see The Crown until released on disc. But even with the smartest TV I wouldn’t give up cable because the song-and-dance coming out of Washington mustn’t be missed.

Television illustrates the American dilemma: too many choices. Quantity over quality. Twenty Oreo flavors, a dozen Coke varieties, 15 shampoos under the same brand, 3,000 apps and countless short-lived sitcoms that have not progressed beyond canned laughter. Then, repeat the nonsense On Demand.

That’s why British drama on PBS is so precious, including my other addiction, Call the Midwife, with an unlikely plot peopled by Anglican nuns, pretty young nurses and the wretched poor of London’s East End — yet mesmerizing in its seventh season.

Still, nothing compares to the Abbey, which closed its massive doors in 2015. An interactive set re-creation drew crowds last winter in New York. The merchandise continues to sell: Christmas tree ornaments, tea, cookbooks, T-shirts and “companion” DVDs chocked with backstage tidbits . . . all except one, which will forever remain a mystery:

Who really killed Vera and Mr. Green? PS

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

Endless Love

When all the time in the world isn’t enough

By Stephen E. Smith

My review copy of Matt Haig’s How to Stop Time fell open to an insert from Variety magazine announcing that the “story selection and rights have been acquired by SunnyMarch and Studiocanal” and that the film adaptation of the novel will star Benedict Cumberbatch.

Review copies always arrive with baggage — blurbs, author interviews, questionable testimonials, all of which I ignore. But it’s difficult to overlook a printed warning, tucked between the title page and cover, stating that the novel is soon to be a major motion picture. Before I’ve read the first word, I assume I’m being pitched a puffed-up film treatment, or worse yet, a story intended as fodder for the movie industry. A novel worth reading stands on its own.

Haig is a British author with an impressive track record. He’s written umpteen novels for adults and children, and his memoir Reasons to Stay Alive was on the best-sellers list for 46 weeks. So his latest offering certainly deserves a critical read, Cumberbatch notwithstanding. But like a film treatment that leaves the heart and soul of the story to be fleshed out by the filmmaker, this yarn about a 400-year-old man who could live to be 1,000 never quite comes together as a rewarding work of fiction.

Tom Hazard, the narrator/protagonist, is living the uneventful life of a history teacher in present-day London, but his attitude toward humankind has been shaded by the trauma of witnessing his mother, a peasant woman accused of being a witch for raising a child (Tom) who hasn’t aged appropriately, executed by drowning in the 1600s. Tom is one of a small group of secretive humans who age at such a leisurely pace that they appear immortal to ordinary beings. They’re called Albatrosses, Albas for short, because the bird of that name is rumored to live a long life. Regular folks, those of us who usually expire before the age of 100, are called Mayflies. So what we have is a protagonist granted a long, disease-free life and a chance to observe the world with all its faults and favors who instead spends his time ruminating on the disadvantages of an existence that offers almost endless opportunity for pleasure. Which is the novel’s primary conceptual fault. Sure, Tom’s mother suffered an unfortunate end, and there’s the certainty of losing friends and loved ones who aren’t blessed with Tom’s affliction, and it’s likely Albas would be of interest to scientists studying longevity, but the blessings of a long and healthy life far outweigh these impediments. If fate offered us the chance to be an Alba, we’d probably rejoice.

Despite this obvious incongruity, the novel’s concept should allow the author to present the reader with complex and unfamiliar perspectives, and Tom’s longevity should have blessed him with insights into the mysteries of life that he can share with the reader. But none of this happens, although there is the occasional hackneyed rambling about the past and its relationship to the present: “There are things I have experienced that I will never again be able to experience for the first time: love, a kiss, Tchaikovsky, a Tahitian sunset, jazz, a hot dog, a Bloody Mary. That is the nature of things. History was — is — a one-way street. You have to keep walking forwards. But you don’t always need to look ahead. Sometimes you can just look around and be happy right where you are.” That’s as philosophical as Tom gets.

“The first rule is that you don’t fall in love,” Tom is told by a fellow Alba, introducing an intended unifying subplot that centers on Tom’s emotional attachment to a woman in the present. Thus we have a contemporary love story, albeit a slight one. And there’s a manipulative antagonist, Hendrich, the head guy with The Albatross Society, whose purpose is to ensure that Albas remain a mystery to Mayflies. The narrative alternates scenes set in the present with chapters that explicate Tom’s backstory. In his former existence, he loved a woman, Rose, who died of plague, and he has a daughter, Marion, also an Alba, who has disappeared and is the object of a half-hearted search that stretches into the novel’s melodramatic conclusion. But none of these characters is adequately realized, and they function merely as plot devices or foils.

During his passage through time, Tom meets Shakespeare, Captain Cook, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Josephine Baker and others, but these historical characters appear to no particular purpose and only serve to tease the reader with subplots that never quite materialize. Tom is hired by Shakespeare to play lute at the Globe Theatre and finds himself in a minor dustup that does nothing to advance the plot, and he discusses The Great Gatsby and the fleeting nature of happiness with Fitzgerald: “‘If only we could find a way to stop time,’ said her husband [Scott]. ‘That’s what we need to work on. You know, for when a moment of happiness floats along. We could swing our net and catch it like a butterfly, and have that moment forever’” — a simplistic reading of Scott and Zelda’s story that will strike Fitzgerald aficionados as clichéd.

How to Stop Time has received positive reviews in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Kirkus, People and other media, but potential readers will have to part with hard-earned bucks for the book and, more importantly, they’d have to spend hours reading 330 pages that they’ll likely find less than satisfying. They’d be wiser to save their money for a theater ticket and popcorn. With Benedict Cumberbatch in the starring role, the movie might be worth the price of admission — and their valuable time.  PS

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press awards.

Mole Talk

Small ears that hear everything

By Clyde Edgerton

Moby and Medley are moles, sitting at a table in the Sandbucks Coffee Shop, where they meet once a week to talk about life underneath and around the Yardley home. They hear a lot of what goes on up above among the humans and human media. They don’t see, of course, and their lives are relatively dull, same-o same-o. Dirt, roots, dampness, clay, dryness and darkness.

MOBY: What’s the latest?

MEDLEY: I’m writing an important report on Republicans and Democrats.

MOBY: How do you know about all that?

MEDLEY: I can hear. You know, don’t you, that Mr. and Ms. Yardley, up above, are split?

MOBY: They’re getting a divorce?

MEDLY: No, no. I mean one’s a Democrat and one’s a Republican.

MOBY: Seems I remember something about that.

MEDLEY: My report is getting reviewed in The New York Times and at Fox News.

MOBY: Those organizations don’t like each other, right?

MEDLEY: Right. They see news differently. 

MOBY: But isn’t all news the same?

MEDLEY: Oh, goodness gracious, no. There’s red news and there’s blue news.

MOBY: I thought there was only true news.

MEDLEY: Not anymore. Everything is either-or. Left or right. Up or down. Black or white.

MOBY: I’m just glad I can’t see. What color are we?

MEDLEY: I’ve heard that we are some shade of gray more or less. And did you know, the blues think all the reds are idiots.

MOBY: Really? What do the reds think of the blues?

MEDLEY: That they are all idiots.

MOBY: It’s a shame, isn’t it? Do they ever talk to each other?

MEDLEY: Not much. They holler. And they acted that way right before the Civil War, too.

MOBY: Oh, mercy. Do you think there will be another Civil War up there?

MEDLEY: No way.

MOBY: I wonder how the Yardleys live together — you know, one red and one blue.

MEDLEY: I think they talk only about sports, music, the weather and Naked and Afraid. They avoid politics.

MOBY: What’s politics?

MEDLEY: “Naked and afraid.”

MOBY: Oh. What about that Second Amendment thing?

MEDLEY: Have you read it?

MOBY: I just keep hearing about it.

MEDLEY: If you live in one of the 50 states it keeps you safe.

MOBY: Really? That’s what it says.

MEDLEY: That’s right. It says, “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

MOBY: That’s all it says?

MEDLEY: That’s the whole amendment, every word.

MOBY: That’s a load off my mind. Who could be against that?

MEDLEY: Nobody, of course. It’s common sense. The blue and reds agree on that one. Without that amendment we just couldn’t feel secure.

MOBY: Is there an amendment that lets us buy cars?

MEDLEY: Oh, yes. That’s the Third Amendment. And the Fourth Amendment lets us buy refrigerators. You can’t own something unless there is an amendment for it.

MOBY: How did you learn all that?

MEDLEY: Google. You can hear Google now, so people don’t have to read.

MOBY: So, what’s the title of your report?

MEDLEY: It’s called “Equality, Fair Play, Guns, Cars, and Refrigerators: Security in America.” I also wrote some stuff about globalization. See, the more guns that get into the little states around the world, the more secure they will be — just like in the U.S.

MOBY: That’s a load off my mind.

MEDLEY: Mine too. How about another cup of coffee?

MOBY: You bet. That’s good coffee. 

MEDLEY: Seventh Amendment: “Good coffee is necessary to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  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.

May Bookshelf

FICTION

Overkill, by Ted Bell

In Bell’s newest Alex Hawke thriller, while on a ski vacation in the Swiss Alps, Hawke’s son, Alexei, is kidnapped in the confusion following the crash of a burning tram. To save his son Hawke enlists the aid of his trusted colleagues. Meanwhile, Russian President Vladimir Putin has narrowly escaped a coup and fled to Falcon’s Lair, a former Alpine complex built by the Nazis, where he can plan his path back to power. Hawke must find out who took his son and why and, in the process, defeat Putin’s scheme for a triumphant return.

Southernmost, by Silas House 

When a flood washes away much of a small community along the Cumberland River in Tennessee, Asher Sharp, an evangelical preacher there, starts to see his life anew. Unable to embrace his estranged brother’s coming out, Sharp tries to offer shelter to two gay men in the aftermath of the flood. He’s met with resistance by his wife and his church. He loses his job, his wife, and custody of his son, Justin, whom he decides to kidnap and take to Key West, where he suspects that his brother is now living. The emotions are heartfelt and the love is fierce in this thought-provoking novel.

Tin Man, by Sarah Winman

In a spectacularly gorgeous novel, a copy of a Van Gogh sunflower painting won in a raffle impacts the trajectory of the lives it touches, infusing hope, possibility, and color. Told in two parts, this insightful story explores the solace, friendship and deep love that follow two boys as they grow to men in Oxford, England. The beauty, tenderness and rich, warm prose in Winman’s latest work will not leave you untouched.

Our Kind of Cruelty, by Araminta Hall

In a twisted psychological thriller that will have you cringing, laughing, and gasping in horror, Mike is building the perfect life for Verity and himself. He would do anything to make her happy. The only hitch is that Verity is marrying someone else. But that doesn’t stop Mike — surely she’s just trying to teach him a lesson, trying to get him to make a grand gesture and bring her back to him. Spending 300 pages inside the mind of Mike Hayes is an adventure you won’t soon forget.

My Ex-Life, by Stephen McCauley

When his young lover leaves him for an older and more successful man, and his ex-wife’s daughter contacts him for help with a sticky situation, David Fiske finds himself leaving his (soon to be sold) San Francisco apartment, temporarily moving in with his ex-wife, Julie, and unwittingly becoming the No. 1 light bulb changer in Julie’s Airbnb. The perfect book for the beach or the book club, My Ex-Life will make you laugh while you’re shaking your head.

Warlight, by Michael Ondaatje

When their parents go to Asia after World War II, Michael and his sister, both teenagers, are left in the care of a stranger, The Moth. Or so they thought. It will be years before they discover what their mother really intended. In the meantime, they are going to school by day and mingling with The Moth and his unusual friends by night. A great coming of age story.

Love and Ruin, by Paula McLain

History tells us that Martha Gellhorn was more than a typical woman of her time and more than Ernest Hemingway’s third wife. Filled with a sense of adventure and wanderlust, she was a daring war correspondent and a gifted author in her own right. McClain captures the turbulent mood as the seeds of war are being sown in this absorbing novel written by the acclaimed author of The Paris Wife. 

NONFICTION

The Soul of America: The Battle for Our Better Angels,
by Jon Meacham

The Pulitzer Prize winner and New York Times best-selling author of American Lion, Franklin and Winston and Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power helps us to understand the present moment in American politics by looking back at critical times in our history when hope overcame division and fear. Tom Brokaw calls it “a historically rich and gracefully written account of America’s long struggle with division in our immigrant nation and the heroic efforts to heal the wounds.” 

Margaritaville: The Cookbook: Relaxed Recipes for a Taste of Paradise, by Carlo Sernaglia, Julia Turshen and Jimmy Buffett

Chef Carlo Sernaglia, Margaritaville’s concept chef, combines his worldly work in the kitchen with the James Beard award-winning cookbook writer, Julia Turshen, co-author of Gwyneth Paltrow’s game-changing recipe book It’s All Good. Buffett writes the forward and, no doubt, these recipes will be a bit of paradise.

Robin, by Dave Itzkoff 

Everyone is raving about this biography of the late comedian and actor Robin Williams. Interviews with friends and family combined with Itzkoff’s insightful analysis create a full portrait of Williams, the man and the myths surrounding him. Meticulously researched, this page-turning read comes from the culture reporter for The New York Times, whose work also appears in Vanity Fair, Maxim, Details, GQ, Wired and Spin.

Calypso, by David Sedaris

A true joy to read, Sedaris’ thoughts leap off the page. His essays reflect on family, marriage, sisters, his aging father and his deceased sister and mother. Most of the remembrances take place at the newly purchased family beach house on the North Carolina coast. Funny and truthful, Sedaris delivers a wonderful collection. 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

A Truck Full of Ducks, by Ross Burach

When you call for a truck full of ducks, fun and frivolity are delivered ASAP.  This hilarious book is perfect for story time or any time a little one needs a big laugh. (Ages 2-5.)

Alma and How She Got Her Name, by Juana Martinez-Neal

Alma Sophia Esperanza José Pura Candela is a little girl with a big name and an even bigger story to tell. This super cute read-aloud is a great introduction to family history or just a lovely way to dive into the deep stories behind everyday things — like a child’s name! (Ages 3-6.)

Ten Horse Farm, by Robert Sabuda

The pop-up book master’s newest creation is sure to delight horse lovers of all ages.  Pop-up spreads of horses grazing, prancing, pulling and galloping leap off the page, stunning scene after stunning scene, in this creation inspired by historic horse activities and the author’s own horse farm turned artist’s studio in upstate New York.  (Ages 8-adult.)

The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl, by Stacy McAnulty

Being a genius is hard, hard, hard.  Lucy Callahan doesn’t even remember the bolt of lightning that made her a math prodigy, but she does remember that on her first day of school (seventh grade, even though she already has her GED!)  Lucy’s grandma made her promise to make one friend, join one activity and read one book that is not a math book.  What Lucy expects to find is a school full of inferiors. What she actually discovers is a great friend, a talented boy with a camera, and a dog that desperately needs the help of all of them.  Sweet enough to be a summer read and powerful enough to be a strong Newbery contender, The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl is an absolute must read for anyone heading into middle school . . . even if they are a genius.  (Ages 10-14.)

For Every One, by Jason Reynolds

In this letter to himself, the ever amazing Jason Reynolds encourages anyone who has ever had a dream, a goal, a mission or who has burned with passion for an idea, to not let the “legs of passion turn to soot.”  Originally performed at the Kennedy Center for the unveiling of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial and later as a tribute to Walter Dean Myers, this stirring and inspirational poem is the absolute perfect gift for graduates, those starting new jobs or anyone  pondering a life change. Reynolds encourages dreamers  to push away the noise of the world, to dream, to go, and to never look back. (Ages 12-adult.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.