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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Game Show

And now for something completely different

By Tom Bryant

Kettle Time Deer Stew

Night before, soak dried beans. Day of, cut deer meat into chunks, add beans and boil till tender. Add any vegetables you got. Simmer slowly, nearly all afternoon. Try this with squirrel or rabbit.

— From the Touchstone Plantation, late 1800s

Friends were visiting from Arizona for several days, and as always when we have out-of-town guests, we planned to find something unusual and interesting to do. High on our list after the usual fare of historical golf courses, shopping and restaurants is a little museum in downtown Ellerbe, North Carolina, about a 30-minute ride from Southern Pines.

This was our third or fourth visit to the Rankin Museum, and I still saw interesting things I hadn’t noticed before. The museum was created from the lifetime collection of Dr. Pressley R. Rankin Jr. of Ellerbe and is named in his honor. It has always amazed me that this gentleman was able to collect so many artifacts. The accumulation fills a museum that would make a much larger city proud. Little Ellerbe is off the beaten path, but the Rankin Museum draws people from all over the country. If you haven’t had the opportunity to visit the area, I highly recommend it.

On this trip I noticed, in a far corner, a recipe for deer stew from the Touchstone Plantation. I’m a hunter and fisherman, and although I do not hunt deer, I’m not opposed to the folks who do. With all my interests in the outdoors, I really don’t have time to add another sport like deer hunting. I am fortunate, though, because I have good friends who keep me stocked with fresh venison, and I’m always looking for new and different recipes.

After the War Between the States, the South was a destroyed, defeated country that had to exist on whatever resources the land could provide. Game from the forest and fish from lakes and rivers did a lot to keep Southerners from starving. That subsistence necessity in those terrible times hung on over the years; and many folks, not only from the South, but now from all over the country, enjoy food derived from the sports of hunting and fishing.

I’m mostly a bird hunter, specifically ducks, geese and doves. I also hunt quail when I’m lucky enough to find them, and I have several ways to prepare all kinds of nutritious and delicious game.

I collected the plantation recipe at the Rankin Museum from a historical perspective, rather than an epicurean one. It looked interesting but was probably created to fill hungry bellies rather than satisfy taste buds.

After our houseguests departed, Linda, my bride, and I prepared for a camping trip in our little Airstream trailer to Huntington Beach, South Carolina. We made plans for the trip back in the winter and really had not done a lot of planning for the adventure. The deer stew recipe got me in the mood to cook some game, so I decided to take along a few doves, ducks and a venison roast to prepare while we were there, to sort of live off the land, as it were.

A cousin from Charleston gave me a call right before we were to leave and wanted to stop by Huntington Park on her way back from a business trip to Wilmington. She was interested in camping at the park and had a friend with her, and I invited them to have lunch with us, then check out the place.

Many years ago, I found the out-of-print L.L. Bean Game and Fish Cookbook, and it has been the anchor in my wild game cooking. Over the years, I’ve also added to my repertoire recipes from good hunting and fishing buddies. There’s a duck marinating concoction that I’m reluctant to pass along because it’s an old family recipe of Bennett Rose’s, and I don’t think he would wish to spread it around that much. I realize Bennett is a good shot, and with me, discretion is the better part of valor. Anyhow, it’s the best marinade I’ve ever tried and is also good on any dark red game meat. I did dress the mix up a little by adding a touch of good red wine, though. Red wine makes anything taste better and is also good to sip while the meal preparation is underway.

I had done the prep work on my game before we left home, so all I had to do to prepare for lunch was fire up the grill. The menu wasn’t going to be that extensive: grilled marinated teal duck breast, grilled doves wrapped in maple-flavored bacon, and grilled venison strips with horseradish dipping sauce. For hors d’oeuvres, Linda was whipping up some of her favorites, and I had some venison link-sausage to grill, then cut into 1/4-inch chunks to dip in Colonel Hawker’s sauce. It was going to be a dipping kind of meal, easy to eat and easy to clean up afterward. The ducks, doves and venison, along with a good tossed salad and Linda’s Southern cream cheese pound cake for dessert, should fill the fare, I thought.

I was wrong.

My cousin and her friend arrived just in time to do a little scouting around the park and then join us for lunch. Charleston was only about an hour away, so we could catch up on family goings-on, and they would get home in time for supper.

I had the campsite all prepared. The Airstream awning and outdoor rug were in place. Chairs were set in a semicircle, good for conversation, and I had the screen house set up over the picnic table to keep us out of the bugs while we ate lunch.

When my cousin and her friend returned from their scouting trip around the park, I had already fired up the grill. We sat under the awning and talked. Linda poured drinks and served the hors d’oeuvres while I put the sausage links on to cook. Our guests were comfortable under the awning.

In no time, the sausage was ready and I served it along with the sauce to our guests.

“Wow, this is really good,” my cousin said, as she tasted a piece of sausage.

“It sure is,” her friend added. “What is it?”

“A good friend who is a big deer hunter gave it to me,” I replied. “It’s venison sausage.”

My cousin’s friend made a weird noise and spit the piece into her napkin. I thought she was choking, and I prepared to administer the Heimlich maneuver.

It was soon evident, though, that the lady was not choking but was extremely averse to eating any kind of wild game. Needless to say, the conversation bogged down after the hors d’oeuvres, and my cousin and her friend made excuses and a hasty retreat toward Charleston.

As I watched them drive away, I wondered where in the world that lady, who hated the idea of eating venison, thought those packages of bacon, chicken and steak that she bought every week at the grocery store came from. PS

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