In the Spirit

Sugar Redux

Upping the dessert drink game

By Tony Cross

We’ve all been there. The server walks over to your table, dropping off dessert menus after you and your friends have finished stuffing your faces. As your eyes peruse the yummy treats, they scroll down to study the coffee and dessert drink menu. Sometimes these two are juxtaposed, and sometimes they are interlaced. How many times have you seen a Nutty Irishman made with Frangelico, Bailey’s and coffee, or an Irish Coffee with Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, whipped cream, green crème de menthe and coffee? Even worse, a Chocolatini with (probably) a vanilla-flavored vodka, and an ungodly amount of Godiva dark chocolate liqueur. Not a fan of the dark chocolate liqueur? Don’t worry, they’ve got you covered — there’s white chocolate and milk chocolate, too.

The problem is these drinks are tired. Just like the myriad ’tini menus that were everywhere at the turn of the 21st century, dessert drinks needed a face-lift. Before I got my turn behind the stick, I was a server. And I delivered a ton of these badly concocted sugar rushes to more guests than I can ever remember. Almost every delivery had the exact same result: As soon as they saw me coming with that oversized martini glass filled with 8 ounces of corn syrup, their faces would light up, and a cacophony of “ahhhs!” would fill the dining room, causing surrounding tables to smile and nod their heads as if they should order one next. One time, at the advice of a friend, I fell victim to the sugary trap. I splurged, had two chocolate drinks, and felt terrible. I found out the next day that I almost gave myself diabetes.

Let’s fast-forward 15 years. Here are a few cocktails that I feel have been part of a revival when it comes to dessert cocktails.

A few years back, I was invited to a pop-up dinner. An extremely talented chef asked if I would like to do cocktail pairings with her four-course menu. We were going to serve around 30 local business owners. Everyone invited knew each other well, or were at least acquaintances. About two weeks before the event, the chef dropped over to my place to give me her menu. Everything looked fantastic. Immediately, I had ideas for the first three courses, but was at a loss for what to pair with her dessert. She was going to make a chocolate pot de crème, with homemade vanilla ice cream. Off the top of my head, I can’t remember the cream sauce that she garnished it with; all I know is that it was light, and the ingredients were sourced locally. Easy enough, right? I spent a couple of days going over in my head what to do. I had just about settled on a complicated chocolate-infused mezcal, with yogurt and strawberries. And then it hit me — keep it simple, stupid. I remembered watching a video clip on YouTube of one of my heroes, Jeffrey Morganthaler, explaining his Gin Alexander cocktail. Equal parts London Dry Gin, crème de cacao and heavy cream. I once featured it in a drink special and received accolades from our guests. One quick side note: This drink is a spin on the Brandy Alexander. If you’ve ever received a poorly made one, you’ll never forget it, i.e., huge martini glass with store-bought vanilla ice cream, cheap brandy, and very bad crème de cacao. Gross. Anyway, I riffed on Morganthaler’s recipe and came up with the Garam Alexander. Staying true to the original recipe, the only major change was substituting equal parts of Flor de Cana 7 Year rum and a delicious local gin out of Winson-Salem, Sutler’s Spirit Co. (a less juniper-forward gin with a heavier emphasis on citrus, cardamom and other botanicals). The cocktail was served up in a small, chilled coupe and garnished with a dusting of 100 percent organic cacao powder and garam masala. I remember watching an episode of Chopped, and the guy who played Christopher on the The Sopranos won the event because of his dessert dish — he dusted curry over his vanilla ice cream. Who knew?

Garam Alexander

1/2 ounce Sutler’s Spirit Co. gin

1/2 ounce Flor de Cana 7 Year

1 ounce Tempus Fugit Spirits Crème de Cacao

1 ounce organic heavy cream

Combine all ingredients in a shaking vessel, add ice, and shake hard for 10 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupe glass. Garnish with a pinch of masala mix evenly across the cocktail. (Masala mix: equal parts cacao and garam masala.)

Not too long ago, I was visiting a couple that’s very dear to me. (Not because every time I’m invited over I get to try rare rums and mezcal, but it never hurts.) While I was at Bo and Suze’s downstairs “Bo Zone” bar, Bo decided to cap the night off with a quick and easy recipe he found online. He whipped up three cocktails, strained them in vintage glass coupes, and smacked a handful of mint that he placed on top for a garnish. I was talking to Suze while Bo was creating and didn’t get a chance to see the ingredients. One sip, and I was hooked. “This is the Noisy Cricket,” Bo informed me. The cocktail came from bartender Jim Romdall, who worked at Vessel, a bar in Seattle. The order Romdall received was for a Fernet Grasshopper, but he substituted Fernet Branca Menta, a less bitter, more minty little brother, for the regular Fernet. The result is superb: The balance between sweet and bitter is right on the mark. You’ll notice that the Noisy Cricket and the Garam Alexander cocktails both use Tempus Fugit Spirits’ Crème de Cacao à la Vanille — this is the real deal when it comes to a quality cacao liqueur. It’s made with Venezuelan cacao and Mexican vanilla beans; there is nothing artificial inside this bottle.

The Noisy Cricket (Jim Romdall, Vessel, Seattle)

1 1/2 ounces Fernet Branca Menta

3/4 ounce Tempus Fugit Crème de Cacao

3/4 ounce cream

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake like hell until properly diluted. Strain into a chilled glass, and garnish with fresh mint. PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

Southwords

Bucket o’ Wings

What happens in the bathtub stays in the bathtub

By Beth MacDonald

Having been a military family for so long, we’ve often been away from our families at Thanksgiving. Apart from the obvious inconveniences, we were thus spared the torture of what should be a day of familial gratitude devolving into one of competition, tears and regrettable comments. That is, until my husband, Mason, now retired, suggested we schlep our blended, extended family to my parents’ home for a holiday feast. I initially said no. Mason was convinced this was a good idea as much as Arthur Carlson was convinced that turkeys could fly in WKRP in Cincinnati.

The great thing about Mason is that he is forgetful. I can throw away things that clutter up the house that he doesn’t even know he misses. Sometimes he’ll ask for them three years later. I’ll pretend they are around somewhere. This time he had conveniently forgotten my family is mostly made up of “well-meaning” people. You know the sort.

My sister lives as far north as she could stand to go without needing an Eskimo passport, while I chose to live in the loveliest part of the South. The epicenter of chaos is Pennsylvania, home of my mother, a generally clinical and, not to put too kind a face on it, harsh woman. When I was a senior in high school and told her I had been accepted into an Ivy League school, her response was, “You should probably just stick with community college.” I haven’t heard my father speak since 1972. He is capable, he just doesn’t. My brother is a bit of a genius, but he speaks like Napoleon Dynamite. I never hear what he’s actually saying. All I hear is what I think he would say, which is never what he does say.

My mother isn’t known for her culinary abilities. My sister, an excellent cook, thought it would be a great idea for us to brine an organic, ethically bred, farm fresh turkey and bring it with us. I was not about to drive 10 hours with a sloshing bird in my trunk, nor was I inclined to spend however long it would take to find a turkey with just the right CV. Thinking we were smarter than we are, we decided to make the trip up, stop at a hotel, and brine the bird there. We equipped ourselves with a 5-gallon bucket from the hardware store, a frozen grocery store turkey and the gourmet brine my sister sent that came with very specific directions, which we immediately threw out.

We filled the hotel bathtub with water and brine, dumped the turkey in, and let it sit overnight. The next day we looked at the scene we created like it was from a TV crime show drama and we’re standing over the deceased with the murder weapon in our hands. Oh, my God, what have we done? We left the housekeeper a note of apology and the kind of tip that would pay for her kid’s college textbooks. We put the bird in the bucket and left the hotel, going down in the elevator and through the lobby looking like we had three-day old bait fish in a covered pail. Our mission: convince the assembled dinner guests that a bathroom-brined Butterball was, in reality, a gourmet high-class fowl.

Two gin and tonics into dinner my eyes glazed over and a courageous indifference took hold. My mother was comparing my sister and brother. My sister was pointing out my mother’s faults, my in-laws looked extremely uncomfortable, and I finally noticed there were strangers at the table. Mason’s regret set in.

Everyone did agree on one thing. The turkey was amazing. Mason’s terror was palpable. Knowing that gin is the equivalent of truth serum, he squeezed my hand a bit too firmly as if to say, “Don’t!” I started laughing into my napkin. Mason grew more alarmed. My sister looked at me suspiciously.

“What have you done?”

You could see Mason’s mind doing complex calculations.

“We changed the brine,” he blurted.

“Well it worked! I love it.” It was my mute father, piling more turkey on his plate, his decades of silence broken by a bird. I looked at him, stunned.

That, however, didn’t faze my sister. Like Nancy Drew, she wanted answers. What was the secret ingredient?

Mason leaned over his plate, “I could tell you, but I’d have to take you to this hotel where I know a maid who can keep a secret.”  PS

Beth MacDonald is a Southern Pines suburban misadventurer who likes to make words up. She loves to travel with her family and read everything she can.

Hometown

43

Lessons from a stock car legend

By Bill Fields

I would be hard pressed to name five stock car drivers currently making left turns for a living, but this was not always the case.

Could someone who grew up in North Carolina in the 1960s and ’70s and loved sports not have been fascinated by NASCAR? Possible, yes, but not very likely.

My NASCAR love existed even though I wasn’t really a car nut. My dad had managed a gas station before I was born, but automobiles weren’t his passion later on. He never taught me how to change the oil. We bonded on Sunday afternoons sitting in one of our high-mileage sedans in our driveway. Doors open, AM radio on, the races came to us — Darlington, Charlotte, Richmond, Daytona.

As a spectator warning in a program of a race we attended at North Carolina Motor Speedway stated, “Stock car races are thrilling, dangerous and spectacular.”

That first trip to Rockingham, for the American 500 in late October of 1966, put a picture to the sounds coming out of our car’s Philco. Dad and I rode south on U.S. 1 with a friend of his who had a pickup and had gotten the tickets. I don’t remember his name, but he resembled Hank Kimball on Green Acres.

I was 7, in the second grade. It was a cool day, when a Coke didn’t get warm before you finished it. The sky was the shade of Larry Miller’s away jersey. Everything at the track seemed as if it had been drawn with the brightest crayons in a box of 64, whether Marlboro red or Union 76 orange and blue. The cars were freshly painted, like glistening, just-completed models.

They were all there — the brothers Allison, Bobby and Donnie, and Yarborough, Cale and Lee Roy. Junior Johnson. David Pearson. Buddy Baker. Curtis Turner. Pole-sitter Fred Lorenzen. Way back in Row 18 was local favorite J.D. McDuffie of Sanford. When I saw that he was driving a ’64 Ford, a car two years older than what the stars had, it made sense why he struggled to run with the leaders most weeks.

Most important to me was the presence of Car 43 driven by Richard Petty. I was already a fan of the man from Level Cross, and seeing his Plymouth streak by 40 yards below me was a thrill. Lorenzen held him off to win that afternoon, which was disappointing. As I was getting in bed that evening, the roar of the car engines was still in my ears. Besides colorful, the race was loud.

Three years later, on an August Friday night at the quarter-mile track of Bowman Gray Stadium in Winston-Salem, I got to see a Petty victory as he came from trailing Bobby Issac most of the 62.5-mile race to win.

I attended one other NASCAR race, the Carolina 500 at Rockingham, in the spring of 1972. Issac took the checkered flag that afternoon. For Christmas that year, I got Petty’s autobiography, relishing what I could learn about the slender, smiling man in sunglasses who seemed to win more than everybody else.

When I started covering sports, I asked a couple of writers who had covered Petty’s prime what made him so good other than having the best cars and top crew to keep them humming. One sportswriter, Harold Martin of Columbia, S.C., told me Petty’s car sounded different going into the corners, which I took to mean that The King was bolder and braver than the rest.

About a decade ago, while covering a PGA Tour Champions event in California, I was invited to a reception for kids from The First Tee who were playing in the tournament. Speakers had been invited to talk to the junior golfers about The First Tee’s nine core values.

I’m pretty certain the young people had no idea who the man talking about confidence was, but I was pleased to hear what Richard Petty had to say. And, at the end of evening, I made like No. 43 on the backstretch somewhere to make sure I could meet him and say hello.

Petty kindly indulged a childhood memory or two after I shook his hand and seemed amused that it was the tiny track in Winston-Salem where I’d seen him win. It was a quiet Pebble Beach night when I stepped outside, but in my mind I heard sounds of a big engine and bygone time.  PS

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

Romance, Recklessness and Destiny

For the November-born, excitement is written in the stars

By Astrid Stellanova

Creative Ole Abe was an Aquarian, like four other notable U.S. Presidents. But then, you knew that, right Star Children? So when Abe Lincoln proclaimed a national Thanksgiving holiday in 1863, it was a good idea that nobody could resist, no matter which side of the Mason Dixon line they lived on.

But did you realize another holiday figures into the stars this month? Do the math — November-born are conceived around Valentine’s Day, which means they are the stuff of romance, recklessness, destiny, or a maybe a little bit of all. — Ad Astra, Astrid

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

Star Child Scorpio, you see someone through a forgiving lens, who by even the most generous descriptions would be called weird. As weird as a mating fruit bat. You are virtuous and hold on tight when another might cut bait and leave that bat behind. Return the favor to yourself and forgive the things you are privately self-critical about. It’s a necessary liberation and will set you on your highest course.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

Darlin’, let ole Astrid lay it on you straight: Don’t hang with the night crawlers. As tempted as you are to enjoy newfound popularity, a few of your new hangers-on are not exactly top-shelf stuff. And maybe be a little less generous about picking up the bar tab.

Capricorn (December. 22–January 19)

Shew, Sugar, you were right all along. And as much as that is true, revenge ain’t as sweet as you think. Don’t shove your Mama overboard. By the time you read this, I hope you will find it in your heart to let it go so you can face everybody over the turkey table and smile.

Aquarius (January. 20–February. 18)

Time’s a-wastin’. Get your house in order before the holidays so you won’t be high, dry, and too lonely in the run-up to Fa-La-La Season. The only relationship you haven’t lost lately is with your Chia Pet, Sugar. Setting things straight with You-Know-Who will require an apology and some soul-searching. All worth it.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

In a parallel universe, you got your due credit. But in this one, you did not. You must chase the thing you deserve credit for, and be sure you get top billing the next time you invent a self-wringing mop electric toilet brush. Cause, really, Honey Bunny, most are not that creative.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

Stuff went down and nobody was happy. Like a honey badger, you just don’t care much either. Good thing, because you are already on to the next thing and you are leaving the drama behind. If anybody’s nose is still out of joint, hand ’em a splint and a smile.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

You haven’t moped this much since Burt Reynolds died. Honey, it may not be about Burt, but it might be about your recent inclination to go all nostalgic. The next time Smokey and the Bandit is on TV, just change the channel for gawdssake.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

You may think the party can’t start without you, but Sugar, get a grip. Are you a self-declared disaster area? Or are you just ticked off because a genuine chance to make a big entrance didn’t happen? Think about it: If you throw the party, you get to control the spotlight, too.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

This isn’t the time to take a stand about small and petty. In the name of world peace, let the jerk who rains on your party slink off into the night. You are about to have a wonderful holiday and nobody can change that. Get ready to make merry, Darlin’.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

It hasn’t gone unnoticed that you have launched a self-improvement program. Points for that, Honey. If you keep this up, somebody is going to surprise you with a declaration of love that might take your breath away, but do keep your hand on your wallet, as they might take that too.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

Someone near and not so dear makes you grit your teeth and suck in your temper. You try to set a good example before this feckless fool. While you’re at it, try dividing by zero. Same outcome. Give them an air kiss and lickety-split, moving on fast.

Libra (September 23–October 22)

Your best work happens when you let go and let loose your natural charms. You don’t have to be Jim Carrey funny, Honey, just rely upon your dry wit, and good times and best outcomes find you. By next month, you won’t be able to keep up with all the invites.  PS

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

Drinking with Writers

After the Storm

Over cold ones at Flying Machine, writer Kevin Maurer remembers the impact of Hurricane Florence

By Wiley Cash   •   Photographs by Mallory Cash

When I moved to Wilmington in 2013, Kevin Maurer was one of the first friends I made. Over the years, I have gotten to know his family, and he has gotten to know mine. We have played on the same intramural basketball and football teams, and we have suffered losses and injuries, bonding over our bruised bodies and equally bruised egos. But what has informed our friendship more than anything else is the writing life. We regularly have dinner or drinks and talk about our decisions to become writers, and the effect our work has on our families and our friendships with people outside the publishing industry. A few months ago, I chronicled one of our conversations on Twitter, and it was retweeted over 1,200 times and responded to by writers as various as Neil Gaiman and Mary Alice Monroe, all of whom agreed that the writing life never gets easier, no matter who you are.

Kevin is one of the most successful writers I know — the New York Times best-selling co-author of No Easy Day: The First-Hand Account of the Mission That Killed Osama Bin Laden and American Radical: Inside the World of an Undercover Muslim FBI Agent; and a celebrated journalist who has written about the war in Afghanistan as an embedded reporter — but he is also one of the hardest working.

Our conversation once again turned toward the writing life when we met at the new Flying Machine Brewing Company in Wilmington a few days following my family’s return to town after evacuating in advance of Hurricane Florence. Kevin’s family had evacuated as well, but he had stayed behind to cover the storm and its aftermath for statewide and national news outlets.

Flying Machine Brewing Company, which is set to open in early November, is on Randall Parkway, where it sits along the cross-city trail and has views of the lake at Anne McCrary Park from its two-story patio. The interior of the taproom feels both enormous and inviting, with clean lines and industrial seating that mirrors the sheen of the brewing equipment that brews all the beer on-site. Borrowing from the name, flying machines and parts of flying machines inform everything from lighting fixtures to wall art to the pulls on the taps behind the bar.

Although they were not open for business before Hurricane Florence hit, Flying Machine jumped into the community effort after the storm had passed by offering free purified water to anyone in need of it. There were plenty of people in need, and there still are. Because of this, Flying Machine has pledged to donate a portion of their proceeds from their grand opening to local nonprofits.

As Kevin and I settle in at the bar, we are delivered a round of beers by co-founder David Sweigart. He offers us the “Passarola” Brut Pilsner and the “Electric Smoke” Alt Bier, and he lets us know we are being served the first beers poured and sampled in the brewery’s history. Kevin and I agree that the honor of sampling Flying Machine’s first pours is made even sweeter by the fact that both beers are delicious.

I ask Kevin about what it was like to write about Wilmington before, during and after Hurricane Florence. As he takes a sip of his lager, I mention something he wrote in an article about the aftermath of the storm: Wilmington has become a city of lines, he wrote. Lines to get food. Lines for gas. Lines to get supplies.

“That was the hardest part of covering the storm,” Kevin says. “The waiting and watching people wait.” He stares at the wall across from us where a huge mural of a globe featuring the words “Wilmington N. Carolina” hovers above us. “I watched people sit in their driveways and wait for the water to rise, and I watched it get higher and higher by the hour until they decided they couldn’t wait any longer before they left and took whatever they could carry.”

My family and I evacuated to Asheville, and we waited there, desperate for knowledge about what was happening on the coast, in Wilmington, in our neighborhood. I told Kevin I could not imagine being among those who were waiting here in town.

“It’s interesting,” he says. “My whole career has been spent covering crises around the world: war, famine, insurrection. It’s been hard to see some of the things I’ve seen, but I always get to come back home. Covering Florence was different. This is my home.”

After we finish our beers, Kevin and I are invited into the production area, where gleaming stainless-steel tanks tower above us. Taproom manager Marthe Park Jones, who has spent years working in the Wilmington craft brewing community, and retail manager Grant DeSantos, recently arrived from Asheville, where he managed retail for a major brewery, give us a tour and introduce us to a group of brewers who have spent years working and studying at breweries around the world. When the tour is over we stand around talking about the storm, and the long road the community and region have ahead. 

Later, on our way out to the parking lot, Kevin and I make plans to get our wives together for dinner that evening at a local restaurant that has recently reopened. The city is gathering itself and moving forward. Wilmington and its people — both the long residing and the recently arrived — are no longer waiting. PS

Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington with his wife and their two daughters. His latest novel, The Last Ballad, is available wherever books are sold.

Foxhunting 101

Tradition and pageantry on Thanksgiving morn

By Maureen Clark

Photographs by John Gessner and Ted Fitzgerald

On Thanksgiving morning, the Moore County Hounds will invite the public to attend their opening meet, as they have for over 100 years. Hounds, riders, and more than 1,000 spectators will gather around the robed figure of Reverend John Talk in Buchan Field on North May Street for a ritual that dates back to the Middle Ages. Those assembled will hear a blessing of the hounds that launches the formal foxhunting season. The blessing from St. Hubert, the patron saint of hunting, a son of the Duke of Aquitaine who lived in the seventh century, asks that rider, horse and hound be shielded from danger to life and limb.

Established in Southern Pines in 1914, the first hounds hunted from the kennels of novelist James Boyd on his 500-acres, known now as the Weymouth Woods-Sandhills Nature Preserve. In 1929, a separate 2,300-acre parcel was purchased by a small group of foxhunters and, along with the Boyd’s land, it became the nucleus of the foundation later established by W.O. “Pappy” Moss and his wife Virginia “Ginnie” Walthour Moss. The hounds moved to the kennels they now occupy at Mile-A-Way Farm in 1942. Ginnie Moss’s great nieces, Cameron Sadler and Ginny Thomasson, joint master and secretary of the Moore County Hounds, will represent their aunt on Thanksgiving. “I will carry Aunt Ginnie’s whip,” Cameron said. “It’s sentimental and I like to have it with me.”

The first to arrive at Buchan Field are the riders, at roughly 10 a.m. on Thanksgiving Day. There is a defined structure to the assembled group. They can be sorted by jacket color. The leadership group of men and women, joint masters and the hunt staff, wear scarlet colored jackets. The rest of the riders make up what is known collectively as the field.

Women and junior riders in the field wear black coats with colors on their collars; navy with red trim for women, red with navy trim for juniors. Men wear scarlet. Colors other than these standards represent riders invited from other hunts. Simple black jackets are worn by foxhunters who have not yet earned their colors.

The Moore County Hounds have five joint masters, Richard Webb, Cameron Sadler, Mike Russell, David Carter, Jock Tate and secretary Ginny Thomasson, who manage the business of the hunt and are leaders in the field at opening meet. Traditional courtesy suggests that all foxhunters greet the masters when arriving at the meet, often lifting a cap.

Horses in the field represent a variety of breeds, from quarter horse to Welsh pony, each matching the rider’s particular size, ability and preference. Cameron Sadler and Russell prefer thoroughbreds, joining many fellow horsemen in giving retired racehorses a new life in the hunt field.

While the crowd is congregating, kennel man Bill Logan, riding a four-wheeler, will drag a prepared scent of animal waste and other matter through the woods. The path, according to Russell, mimics a gray fox with circles, turns and back tracking. Coyote, the usual prey in a live hunt, run faster and straight away. (The evolution in the past 20 years has gone from hunting primarily gray fox to hunting coyote 85 percent of the time.) There will be two checks during the run, breathers for the field to stop, letting horses and hounds catch their breath. The stops, however, will be out of sight of the crowd on Buchan Field.

Soon spectators will see the hounds, tails wagging, coming down the sandy lane from their kennels gathered around their huntsman, Lincoln Sadler. The hounds are never called dogs unless referring to the sex of a male. Sadler manages the pack assisted by five whippers-in, his volunteer staff, working as additional sets of eyes and ears. During the hunt, only the staff is allowed to interact with the hounds.

Cameron Sadler explains that drag scenting for a live pack (one used to chasing coyote or fox) can be challenging. A few will run a drag line but many live hounds, Cameron observed, will not run a made up scent. In their 100-year history, different masters and huntsmen of the Moore County Hounds have hunted various breeds. The current pack, started in 2007, is an American breed called Penn-Marydels. Lincoln Sadler said the pack looks at things like crushed vegetation for tracks. When faced with a different task, the huntsman said they look at him and ask, “What do you want from me?” Last year, at opening meet, Lincoln Sadler tweaked the traditional prepared scent with his own secret concoction and the hounds ran strong. The crowd will be able to judge this year by the strength of the hounds’ voice when they run the line.

Two of the many important tasks of a whipper-in are to help in turning hounds away from roads or off the scent of a second coyote. The whips, working in the field at a distance from the huntsman, give the cry “tally ho” when they “view” a fox or coyote.  Tally ho is a blood-chilling yell meant to be heard by all. Two veteran whips with Moore County, Liz Rose and Mel Wyatt, who have won competitions with their yells, will be on hand to call the hounds.

Lincoln Sadler, as huntsman, is the central figure in the hunt with all actions of the masters, staff and field, following his lead. He can be identified by the 9-inch brass hunting horn tucked between the buttons of his jacket. The Moore County Hounds, members of the Masters of Foxhounds of America, are bound by their traditions and rules. All hunts use the 9-inch horn. “It’s the one element that ties it all together,” Sadler explains. “I could hunt another pack and negotiate them through the woods. “

Hounds are not counted as a total number but as couples. Sadler will bring roughly 30 couples this year. The MCH breed two to three litters each year. Litters born in the same season all share the same first letter of their names working through the alphabet like naming hurricanes. This year, all puppies have names that start with the letter Z. On a recent morning at the kennels, Sadler was overheard training puppies he called Zinnia, Zepco, Zesty, Zoloft and Zoe. Two older hounds answered to an age-specific Yaupon and U-Turn. On off days, Sadler works with his puppies, walking them out. Never shouting or raising his voice, a firm command of “hold up together” brings the hounds to Sadler. The walks take them over smells of squirrels and deer, which he teaches them to ignore.

After Reverend Talk bestows the blessing there are several signals the crowd should note. The field of approximately 150 riders will begin dividing into three groups, each behind a joint field master. Cameron Sadler takes the first flight of riders, who can manage the speed and difficulty of jumps following 10 to 12 strides behind the pack. A second flight follows moderately, selecting jumps with good footing. Russell brings the last group, the hill toppers, who prefer not to jump. His distance from the pack, on live hunts, often affords the best views of foxes, coyotes and hound work.

The crowd should also notice when the huntsman, Lincoln Sadler, begins to gather hounds to him. Foxhunting has everything to do with sound, the call of the horn and the voice of the hounds. Sadler gives a very short toot on the horn to bring the hounds to him. People should be moving away from hounds and riders and the huntsman will be “moving off.” In addition to the horn, Sadler whistles, calls and talks to the hounds. The next sound of the horn will be a longer, monotone note saying, “I’m here, keep hunting, keep working.” He will move toward the call of the tally ho.

In the hunt field, some hounds talk a little while they search for scent. Others work quietly. The hounds work together and know when a single hound has hit the scent by the authority and intensity of the initial cry.  Sadler said they pay attention when a respected hound named Shrek speaks up. “The hounds honor him,” he explained, going to the lead voice, and joining the cry.

At this point, Lincoln Sadler will blow the horn with an urgency that says to the hounds spread out in the woods or field, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s get over there and help him. Double up.” When the full pack is on the line and all speaking, or in full cry, it is the cherished sound in foxhunting. Lincoln Sadler will then blow “gone away.” Cameron Sadler praises Penn-Marydels for their strong voice, touching on a needed trait.  Alexander Mackay-Smith, the legendary authority on foxhunting, writes that “a good cry in a pack is essential not only for the hunt staff and field, but also so hounds can hear each other and cooperate accordingly.” Hounds that run silent have no value in the hunt field.

When the hounds and riders have gone from Buchan Field into the piney woods, they will be on the Walthour-Moss Foundation. The 4,000-acre tract of long leaf pine, sandy hills divided by fire lanes and streams, is land the Moore County Hounds hunt by cooperative agreement. The crowd should hear the hounds at the end of the drag before they see them spilling over the fence at Buchan Field. The hounds should be followed first by the huntsman, Lincoln Sadler, and his whippers-in. The three fields should follow with the first groups jumping the split-rail fence back to the meet.

The staff, who know the hounds by name, will count heads to be sure all are accounted for with none left behind. The last call blown on the horn and the end of a hunting day is “going home.” Sadler hesitates to blow the strains because they are the same melancholy notes played at the funerals of beloved members of the Moore County Hounds.  PS

Maureen Clark is a Southern Pines native who grew up foxhunting.

The Omnivorous Reader

Beyond Jaws

The tragedy of the Indianapolis revisited

By Stephen E. Smith

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the bookstore, there’s a new best-seller about the worst shark attack ever — a book that details the feeding frenzy, past and present, that surrounds the sinking of the heavy cruiser USS Indianapolis on 30 July 1945.

Lynn Vincent and Sara Vladic’s meticulously researched and artfully constructed Indianapolis: The True Story of the Worst Sea Disaster in U.S. Naval History and the Fifty-Year Fight to Exonerate an Innocent Man is the latest in a plethora of books, history specials, movies, documentaries, TV news features, etc. that has, since the cruiser disappeared into the Philippine Sea 73 years ago, contributed to the lore surrounding the demise of the ship and crew that transported the first atomic bomb to the island of Tinian.

If you’re a reader with a basic knowledge of American history, you’re no doubt familiar with the tragic story of the Indianapolis. If you aren’t, anyone who’s seen the movie Jaws will be more than happy to tell you all about it, just as Quint, the shark hunter (played by Robert Shaw), told them: After delivering the components for the bomb, the Indianapolis was cruising at night when the Japanese submarine I-58 fired two torpedoes into the ship, sinking her in 12 minutes. About 300 crew died in the torpedo attack; another 900 went into the water. No lifeboats were launched, no actionable distress signal was transmitted, and the men had only flimsy life preservers and makeshift rafts to keep themselves afloat. Many of the crew died of saltwater consumption, others simply despaired and committed suicide. When the survivors were located almost five days later, only 316 remained to tell the story. Figures vary as to the exact number of the men taken by sharks, but experts theorize that the majority of those attacked had already died of exposure. Still, the horror engendered by a shark attack — the possibility of being eaten alive by a silent, subsurface predator — has resonated through popular culture.

To their credit, the authors aren’t obsessively concerned with sharks, focusing instead on a post-rescue conspiracy surrounding the Indianapolis disaster. In the months immediately following the sinking, the story was eclipsed by news of the surrender that occurred after the dropping of the atomic bombs, but a bureaucratic feeding frenzy began as soon as the survivors were rescued. According to Vincent and Vladic, Navy brass, intent on covering up their incompetence, subjected the ship’s captain, Charles B. McVay III, to a court-martial in which he was convicted of “hazarding his ship by failing to zigzag,” although zigzagging was not required or even recommended in the area in which the Indianapolis was cruising. In an unprecedented move, prosecutors brought in the commander of the I-58, a former enemy combatant, to testify against McVay. The Japanese captain stated emphatically that zigzagging would have made no difference in his attack on the Indianapolis, but McVay was found guilty anyway. He was blamed for the disaster, a reprimand was placed upon his service record, and a deluge of hate mail followed him for the remainder of his life. No other American captain has ever been punished for losing his ship to a torpedo attack. Whether out of guilt for his lost crew or the emotional distress brought on by a failing marriage, the former captain of the Indianapolis committed suicide in 1968.

Vincent and Vladic’s account doesn’t end with McVay’s death. They examine in detail his eventual exoneration. In 1996, a 12-year-old Florida boy, Hunter Scott, took an interest in the story of the Indianapolis and initiated a letterwriting campaign. He was supported by survivors who wanted to honor their late captain and by Sen. Bob Smith, who offered a congressional resolution that finalized McVay’s long-delayed vindication. But the reprieve didn’t come easy, and the military machinations and congressional intrigues surrounding the McVay hearings are at the heart of the book.

As the congressional inquiry neared its conclusion, Paul Murphy, one of the men McVay had led into harm’s way, wrote to the committee reviewing McVay’s court-martial, objecting to a previous report upholding the Navy’s original court-martial findings: “They contain falsehoods, statements taken out of context, and plain mean-spirited innuendos about our skipper and others who have attempted to defend him . . . The Navy report contained personal attacks on Captain McVay’s character. They were unwarranted, and in most instances, unrelated to the charges against him. On behalf of the men who served on the Indianapolis under Captain McVay, I would like to state our deep resentment and ask: Why is the Navy still out to falsely persecute and defame him?”

Most of the available histories of the Indianapolis sinking — Fatal Voyage, Left for Dead, Out of the Depths, Lost at Sea (there’s also a bad movie starring Nicolas Cage) — focus on the suffering of the crewmen abandoned by a Navy too busy or too disorganized to notice that a heavy cruiser had gone missing. The Vincent/Vladic book is, by and large, an update on the Indianapolis story and concludes with the August 2017 discovery of the ship’s remains, now a designated war grave, in the North Philippine Sea, bringing to a close the ship’s eight-decade saga.

“For the families of the lost at sea,” write Vincent and Vladic, “the news stirred high emotions, bringing back memories many had sealed away for decades. After nearly three-quarters of a century, children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren were finding the peace that their parents and grandparents had sought for so many years.”

This cathartic effect notwithstanding, one thing is certain: With only 19 Indianapolis survivors still living, the finger-pointing and recriminations will soon enough cease to matter. 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.

PinePitch

Veterans Parade

Line Broad Street on both sides of the tracks for the sixth annual parade honoring America’s veterans and active military on Saturday, Nov. 10, in Southern Pines. The parade begins at 10 a.m. and is supported by the Veterans of the Sandhills. For more information go to www.sandhillsveteransfestival.com.

Gone to the Dogs

Take a leisurely 1-mile walk through Weymouth Woods with your four-legged best friend at 3 p.m. on Sunday, Nov. 11. It’s free and open to the public at Weymouth Woods-Sandhills Nature Preserve, 1024 Fort Bragg Road, Southern Pines. For information call (910) 692-2167 or go to www.ncparks.gov.

Celebrating Seagrove Potters

The Seagrove Area Potters Association kicks off its 11th annual Celebration in Fall with a gala, live auction and potters market on Friday, Nov. 16, from 6-9 p.m. at Luck’s Cannery, 798, N.C. Hwy. 705, Seagrove. The three-day event continues on both Saturday and Sunday with $5 admission. For more information visit www.discoverseagrove.com.

Let’s Get Small

The Tour De Trike Glow Race to raise money for the United Way of Moore County takes place on Thursday, Nov. 8. Registration is at 4:15 p.m. and the cost is $100. Races begin at 5:30 p.m. on the New Hampshire Avenue International Speedway — between Broad Street and Bennett Street — in Southern Pines. Costumes and glow paint suggested to reduce aerodynamic drag. For more information and tickets, visit wwwticketmesandhills.com.

Get Cooking

At 6 p.m. on Tuesday, Nov. 27, The Country Bookshop is partnering with The Sway and Burney True Value Hardware to present a cooking demonstration by Sheri Castle, the Chapel Hill-based author of Instantly Southern: 85 Southern Favorites for Your Pressure Cooker, Multicooker, and Instant Pot. Tickets are available at ticketmesandhills.com or The Country Bookshop, 140 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information visit www.thecountrybookshop.biz.

Marnie Magic

The Metropolitan Opera production of Marnie, composer Nico Muhly’s reimagining of the Winston Graham novel about a mysterious young woman who assumes multiple identities, will be shown live at the Sunrise Theater, 244 N.W. Broad St., in Southern Pines at 1 p.m. on Nov. 10. For information call (910) 692-3611 or visit www.sunrisetheater.com.

Holiday Pops

The Carolina Philharmonic, with Maestro David Michael Wolff and featuring Jill Paice, performs the holiday season’s most spirited melodies at the Carolina Hotel, 80 Carolina Vista Drive, Pinehurst, on Wednesday, Nov. 21 at 8 p.m. and again on Saturday, Nov. 24 at 3 p.m. For more information call (910) 687-0287 or go to www.carolinaphil.org.

The Rooster’s Wife

Friday, Nov. 2: Choro das 3 at the Poplar Knight Spot. This amazing band is made up of three sisters and their father playing a popular Brazilian pop music genre, among other styles. Cost: $10.

Sunday, Nov. 4: Glorifying Vines Sisters, a thriving musical institution. “If we’re going to do like Jesus did,” says singer and manager Alice Vines, “then we’re going to go wherever we’re called to go. And we’re going to enjoy ourselves when we get there.” Cost: $15.

Sunday, Nov. 11: Cane Mill Road. Members of the band grew up just down the road from Doc Watson in Deep Gap, North Carolina. Honoring the past, the band strikes a balance between preserving a bluegrass mountain sound and boldly rocking progressive interpretations of songs both new and old. Cost: $10.

Thursday, Nov. 15: Open Mic, hosted by The Parsons. Free to members.

Friday, Nov. 16: Hello June, with Sarah Rudy and Whit Alexander, who have been quietly making a name for themselves in their hometown of Morgantown, West Virginia, but the band is steadily gaining national attention. Their pulsating slice of ’90s comfort food will shake the stardust from your heartstrings. Cost: $10.

Sunday, Nov. 18: Thomas Rhyant. Like a medieval troubadour, Rhyant uses music to tell the stories of those who came before him, legends like Sam Cooke, allowing people not only to understand, but to emotionally connect with history through music. Cost: $15.

Friday, Nov. 23: Celebrate Thanksgiving family time with Live Band Karaoke led by Steve Lapping. Free to members.

Thursday, Nov. 29: Decembersongs with Amy Spence, Wild Ponies and Rod Picott, a decidedly different holiday show. Cost: $15.

Doors open at 6 p.m. and music begins at 6:46 at the Poplar Knight Spot, 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Prices above are for members. Annual memberships are $5 and available online or at the door. For more information call (910) 944-7502 or visit www.theroosterswife.org.

Birdwatch

To Screech His Own

The spine-tingling call of the Eastern screech owl belies its size and appeal

By Susan Campbell

Listen! An eerie trill or spooky shriek from out of the darkness at this time of year just might indicate the presence of an Eastern screech owl. Territorial adults readily use a mix of screams, tremolos on different pitches and long trills to advertise the boundaries of their home range. And their vocalizations are remarkably loud for a bird that stands only about 8 inches high. They are commonly found in forests all over North
Carolina, but they particularly thrive in thick pine stands, so much of our Piedmont habitat is ideal for them. Furthermore, they are with us year-round.

Eastern screech owls can be either a dull gray or a rich rufous color, with tufts of feathers on the head giving them an eared or horned appearance. But don’t expect to spot them easily, even though they roost during daylight hours. Their dark splotches and vertical striping along the breast and belly provide excellent camouflage against their favored roosting spot, trees, where they may be sitting close to the trunk or peering out of a cavity.

As is the case with most raptors, males are larger than females. Nonetheless, females have higher pitched calls. Your best bet for spotting one is to watch for belligerent crows or flocks of songbirds signaling their presence by frenzied flight and raucous calling.

This species is found throughout the Eastern United States, as well as along the Canadian border and in easternmost Mexico. Although they may wander somewhat outside the breeding season, Eastern screech owls are not migratory. These diminutive owls breed in the springtime. A female simply lays up to six white eggs on the substrate at the bottom of the cavity. Incubation takes about a month and then the young birds take another month to develop before they fledge. All this time, while the female remains on the nest, her mate will hunt nightly for the growing family. Pairs, who usually stay together for life, favor old squirrel or woodpecker holes, as well as purple martin houses and the occasional wood-duck boxes. Pairs of screech owls will readily take to boxes made to their exact specifications, not surprisingly.

Eastern screech owls eat a wide variety of prey. Rodents make up a large portion of their diet, but they also readily catch frogs, large insects and other invertebrates including crayfish and even earthworms. They have been known to also feed on roosting birds and the occasional bat. Screech owls are very much at home feeding on mice, rats or voles that can be found around bird feeders at night — as well as moths and beetles attracted to outside lights. Screech owls are patient, adopting a sit-and-wait strategy before pouncing on their prey and swallowing them whole. Owl gizzards are specially adapted to digesting the soft parts of the creatures they eat and then balling up the bones, fur and other indigestible bits into an oval mass that is regurgitated each day. Favored roost sites or nest cavities can be found by locating piles of these masses (or pellets, as they are referred to) on the forest floor. Unfortunately screech owls often hunt along roadsides and are prone to being hit by cars as they swoop low over the pavement to grab a meal.

But overall Eastern screech owls are a successful species that has adapted well to the changes humans have made to the landscape. So spend some time outside after dark and train your ears for the trill or tremolos of our Eastern screech owl. These cute little birds are anything but scary once you get to know them!  PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com.

Simple Life

The Wisdom of Stars

When in doubt, look up . . . and within

By Jim Dodson

“When I have a terrible need of — dare I say, ‘religion’? — then I go outside at night and paint the stars.” — Vincent Van Gogh

Most mornings when I’m home, several hours before sunrise, rain or shine, you can find me sitting in an old wooden chair in my front yard, the day’s first cup of Joe in hand, soaking in the deep silence and looking at the sky.

I don’t paint the stars but I sure enjoy gazing on them with the aid of my iPhone’s nifty Star Guide, allowing this Earthling to identify constellations and the seasonal movement of planets. Even on cloudy or rainy mornings, Star Guide — like Superman’s X-ray vision — can penetrate the clouds, a reminder that a glorious universe and a lovely mystery await just beyond, always there.

As spiritual practices go, my predawn ritual was born on a forested hilltop near the Maine coast 30 years ago. A serious early riser since boyhood, I began stepping outside simply to see how my neighbors fared overnight, especially on November’s sharply colder nights, heralding another hard winter on the doorstep.

The “neighbors” I speak of were the woodland creatures that surrounded our peaceful kingdom off the long-abandoned Old Town Road that ran through a 500-acre forest of birch and virgin hemlock pocked with kettle holes from the receding Ice Age, woods dense with fiddlehead and cinnamon ferns, laurel hells and wild vernal springs.

Like the stars overhead, they were always there, palely loitering at the edge of the yard in the moonshine and starlight: the small clan of whitetail deer that fed off the sorghum pellets I provided through the harshest nights of winter; a flock of wild turkeys that displayed absolutely no fear of our dogs; the massive lady porcupine who waddled through the backyard from time to time (I nicknamed her Madame Defarge after Charles Dickens’ infamous revolutionary knitter), pausing to feed on my frost-wilted hostas; not to mention a young bull moose that hung around our neck of the woods for almost two years, apparently looking for a girlfriend, an age-old story.

Perhaps the toughest creatures by far were the tiny black-and-white chickadees that showed up at our side-yard feeders after the coldest Arctic nights imaginable, day-after-day, season-after-season, year-upon-year, no more than a handful of feathers and a tiny beating heart, teaching me something about the divine force at play.

Our house was a simple post-and-beam affair, a classic Yankee saltbox that I designed and helped build with my own hands, made of rugged beams hewn from Canadian hemlock. Those beams spoke to me at night, especially as we both aged, cracking and sighing and settling year after year. The surrounding gardens took me almost two decades (and most of my kids’ college funds) to build, beginning with the ancient stone walls of the farmstead that once existed on our hilltop more than a hundred years before us. Our predecessors grew corn and pole beans. I grew English roses, lush hydrangeas and heavenly lilacs, not to mention hostas as big as Volkswagens. Part of my annual November ritual after topping up my woodpile was to erect my Rube Goldberg plant protectors that could withstand being buried for months in the coming snow.

Back then, I believed this was my little piece of heaven, the rugged homestead I’d made for my family on a star-swept hill in Maine; the place I would quietly spend the balance of my days on Earth, writing and woolgathering, walking the spring and autumn woods and the Old Town Road with the dogs, forever revising my ever-changing garden, feeding the locals and memorizing the stars of the northern firmament in frosty autumn darkness. Over those two decades, I saw super moons and dozens of shooting stars — and once even the shimmering Northern Lights.

I loved that life and held it against my bones as long as I could. And then I let it go, have never been back, though I still have dreams about that house, those woods, those deep snows and frozen stars, not to mention my former woodland neighbors.

But home — this home, Carolina — unexpectedly called and I couldn’t ignore the summons. My late Southern grandmother, a grand old Baptist lady who knew the Scriptures cold, loved to say — like Thoreau, like the poet T.S. Eliot, like her husband Walter’s own grandmother, a gentle natural healer her neighbors called Aunt Emma — that life is simply a great hoop, a sacred circle, that the end of our explorations is to discover the place where we began and know it for the first time.

For better or worse, I have followed this cosmic script with the faith of a mustard seed, and now I am blessed to have beautiful Southern stars and an old forest of a different kind sheltering overhead, the towering oaks of my boyhood neighborhood, guardians of different early morning companions that are just as wild in their own suburban ways.

In place of Madame Defarge and a lovesick moose, we are visited before dawn by feeding rabbits and an owl that dolefully hoots like clockwork down the block as I sit back and study the stars, sipping my coffee, marveling at the scene overhead, as glorious as any medieval cathedral or walled City of God.

Spiritually speaking, I suppose I am what a dear friend calls a cosmic wanderer, a religious mongrel in love with the writings of the Sufi poet Hafiz, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the Upanishads, a little Ralph Waldo Emerson, a lot of Billy Collins and Mary Oliver, a dash of Joe Campbell and Charles Wesley’s hymns, spiced by the Bhagavad Gita and the mystic Meister Eckhart, all nicely summarized by the wisdom of my old friend Katrina Kenison, who wrote in her splendid book Magical Journey, An Apprenticeship in Contentment: “We are all one. We need only look more deeply into the nature of who we really are to see that our sense of isolation is an illusion and to have our separateness ameliorated by union. I might be but one small thread in a vast fabric, but there’s comfort in imagining the eternal interplay between my own small, temporal life and all there is.”

They’re all with me in the starry darkness, this merry band of voices.

With luck, if there is a wind in the darkness, the large Canterbury chimes I gave to my bride for our 15th anniversary — that took me the better part of an entire spring afternoon to hoist and secure in the massive white oak out back — may play three or four notes, sometimes sounding like a Buddhist bell calling one to mindfulness, other times — and I swear on my worn-out copy of Walden that this is gospel truth — the first five notes of Amazing Grace.

I cannot explain how or why this happens, but I’ve heard it with my own ears and believe it with my own heart. Likewise, I can’t explain or justify why most things happen in this passing life — joy, sorrow, tragedy, redemption — but grace certainly helps one face the day, whatever it brings.

November brings forth the two brightest planets in the Southern sky, Mars and Venus, gracing dusk and dawn like a blessing and benediction respectively while Orion, lord of our coming winter’s nights, rises below Taurus and the Pleiades in the East as Summer’s Triangle fades in the West.

The clear autumn sky never fails to make me feel both puny and thrilled by the knowledge that this same unchanging sky shone over Plato and Aristotle as they taught their students, Galileo on his balcony peering at the clockwork heavens, Marcus Aurelius penning his soulful Meditations on a lonely Roman frontier, Jesus praying in the wilderness, English lords signing the Magna Carta, Jefferson jotting notes about human independence, Lincoln speaking at Gettysburg, women marching for the vote, four brave college students sitting down at a whites-only lunch counter, the discovery of the God Particle and a phone that can see through clouds like Superman.

Beneath November’s clear and changing skies, as the soul leans inward, I use my iPhone’s wondrous Star Guide to identify the stunning moons of Jupiter, suddenly remembering C.S. Lewis’ observation that, contrary to our collective belief, we are not the center to the universe because “the center of the universe is actually everywhere.” Jesus’ version of this ancient truth may be the greatest metaphor of all for describing the potential transformation of human consciousness yet to come — that the “Kingdom of Heaven” is not somewhere up or out there — but patiently waiting for discovery deep inside us.

Perhaps human consciousness is beginning to understand that the force we call “God” is simply a streaming river of light and unconditional love that flows everywhere and through everything, as true and present as the stars that literally surround our small fragile planet wreathed in clouds or hidden by the brightest light of day, reassuringly there though we can’t — or choose not to — see it.

Not long ago, I read somewhere that the late astronomer Carl Sagan — a confirmed agnostic — believed there may be as many stars as there are grains of sand on Earth, billions of stars in hundreds of universes bearing untold numbers of unimaginable gifts. The November star child in me sure hopes this proves true.

God only knows what adventures await us.  PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.