Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

August leaves you wanting.    

In the afternoon, when the air is all milk-and-honey and the primal thrum of late summer has reached a crescendo, she will boldly take your hand.

“Close your eyes,” she will whisper, and as her golden light flickers across your face and shoulders, you all but dissolve into her dreamy essence. 

“This way,” she will tease, giggling as she guides you someplace a little darker, a little cooler — a shadowy hideaway beneath the trees.

You’ll stop at the tangle of wild blackberries, where deer tracks resemble spirals of ancient text and a sparrow whistles sweetly in the distance.

“All for you,” she will promise, slowly feeding you the last of the dark, warm berries, and then she will guide you along.   

You can tell by the sun on your skin that you’ve entered some clearing, and when you crack open your eyes, bees and butterflies light and stir in all directions. 

“Keep them closed,” she warns, leading you through wildflowers and down to the dock of a swollen pond, where yellow-bellied sliders bask on the bank, largest to smallest, like a set of wooden stacking dolls.

Bare feet dangling in the water, she leans in close, perfume thick as honeysuckle, plants a soft kiss on your cheek. Because her voice is like nectar — slow and sweet and dripping with intrigue — it makes no difference what she says next:

“I’ll never leave you” or “Wait right here.”

Besides, you’re too enraptured to notice that the days are growing shorter, that the gray squirrel has been busy storing nuts.

As the summer light begins to fade, the fireflies blink Morse code. The cicadas, too, scream out. All the signs are here, but you can’t see them.

When you open your eyes, she is already gone. 

Green Corn Moon 

Behold the earliest apples, the earliest figs, bushels of sweet corn and tomatoes ripening faster than you can say bruschetta. 

When the Green Corn Moon rises on Sunday, August 22, take a lesson from the squirrels: Now’s the time to preserve your summer harvest.

Can the fresh tomatoes. Sun-dry the herbs and figs. Pickle okra, cukes and peppers. As for the rest? Cook now and freeze it for later.

Squash soup, anyone?

Late Bloomers

The bees and all who hum and buzz are, in a word, nectar-drunk. Among the late summer bloomers — crape myrtle, lantana, lobelia, ageratum and phlox — a favorite is butterfly weed, Asclepias tuberosa, caterpillar food for Monarchs. Drought tolerant, deer resistant and kin to milkweed, what’s not to love? And their orange-and-yellow clusters mirror the joy andwarmth of summer.

Threshold

When in still air and still in summertime
A leaf has had enough of this, it seems
To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage
Its drifting in detachment down the road.

— Howard Nemerov 

Story of a House

Pretty as a Picture

Artist’s home captures bygone America

By Deborah Salomon  •   Photographs by John Gessner

Monet painted from a studio adjacent to his country home in Giverny.

Van Gogh rented four Spartan rooms in Arles, which he immortalized on canvas.

Cézanne built a studio on farmland, in Provence. All painted fruit and flowers in the still life mode.

During the late 19th century, the ateliers of a hundred starving artists dotted the Left Bank. How they would covet Carmen Drake-Gordon’s set-up: a 100-year-old farmhouse converted as a studio with 14-foot windows facing north, for consistent light. Close by, a new house that appears 100 years old, with elongated porch, furnished in country antiques. Beyond the house, an idyllic pond, where Muscovy ducks swim and catfish jump for treats. A shady chicken coop; a fenced yard for three goats who earn their keep by clearing the wisteria. A red barn workshop where Carmen’s partner, Wade Owens, a multi-skilled retired Army officer from Iowa, builds, repairs and blacksmiths. Between the studio and farmhouse, raised beds yield kale, peppers, tomatoes, beans, eggplant, paw-paws and jujubes. Then, for whimsy, an adorable outhouse with running water built by Carmen’s children, instead of installing a septic system for her studio.

“I call it my Pee Palace,” she says and laughs.

All this surrounded by 15 acres of grass, woods and wildlife where she walks with Dean, a devoted mixed-breed dog she rescued minutes before euthanasia.

This homestead’s proper name is Oak Hollow Farm and Studio, and its tall, blonde, artfully dressed (“funky,” is her description) occupant, a grandma who is, in the best sense, a piece of work. From this studio Carmen — inspired by her surroundings — creates and sells paintings nationwide through virtual and other galleries. She hosts workshops that include lunches of garden produce served at her stretch table. But unlike Monet, Van Gogh and Cézanne, her portraits and still lifes follow classical realism as practiced by Dutch and Flemish masters — a technique that’s uber-photographic, three-dimensional, and eminently artistic.


Carmen grew up in Maine and Connecticut. Her artist mother provided lessons for the early-bloomer. “I was oil painting by 12.”

Modernism? “I wasn’t into that.”

Carmen married young and “dabbled” while raising three children. The family settled in Southern Pines in 1986, when her husband was stationed at Fort Bragg. Carmen remained here after he was killed in Mogadishu, in 1993. “The military became my family.” She pursued a love for Italian religious art, also appreciating “things — especially utilitarian things. “I find beauty in them.” Studying with Jeffrey Mims at the Academy of Classical Design in Southern Pines, and later with local artist Paul Brown, channeled and refined her talent.

Every artist longs for a studio. “I like to surround myself with a peaceful, calm atmosphere where I feel a connection with what I create.” That includes whatever exists outside her studio door.

She and Wade looked for land. A waterscape would be nice. The parcel they found had potential.

This land, known as the Short family farm, came with a rickety farmhouse (once a used bookstore), and a double-wide, also in disrepair. They bought the acreage in 2001, cleaned up the double-wide and lived there until completing the house in 2004. The old farmhouse-bookshop, now with heat and AC but no running water, became Carmen’s studio in 2018.

The main house — white clapboard, two stories with full basement, more than 3,000 square feet — spreads longitudinally across a knoll, with manicured grass sloping down to the pond, where Carmen and Wade have constructed a low stone wall and seating area. Their porch may appear Southern but the interior hums Yankee Doodle. Carmen found a set of plans that were adapted to include 10-foot ceilings and so much more. Construction took 18 months, but when it was finished, the house, with its unusual floor plan, won a Moore County Home builders Association Award.

Just inside the front door stretches a dining table easily seating 10, made by Wade. The mismatched chairs include old-timey high chairs for Carmen’s two grandchildren. This long, narrow room with angled fireplace began as the sitting room, with a smaller dining room off to the right. Carmen had no trouble switching designations to accommodate their extended families for holidays. Both rooms contain multiple armoires, settees, candlesticks, lamps, shelves, tables, paintings and enough historical artifacts to warrant a catalog. Some are remnants of Carmen’s antique shop, C.R. Drake Mercantile in Cameron. Many pieces showcase her inventive touch, like a ladder repurposed as a quilt rack.

“I’m not comfortable without knick-knacks,” Carmen explains. Being surrounded by old things satisfies a need: “I imagine how many people touched them. I connect with that.”

The elongated dining room ends at the kitchen, visible from the front door. Creating a century-old atmosphere around modern appliances can be tricky. Carmen chose a dusty yellow for the footed carpenter-made cupboards with black metal pulls to match the black soapstone countertops and protruding island, with breakfast bar. One wall is fitted with a combination of open shelves and tall cabinets. An antique spice jar rack with tiny drawers labeled in German says volumes about Carmen’s attention to detail. She didn’t stint on moldings, window frames and beadboard ceilings, either: “These little touches make a big difference,” as do square nails in the wide-board knotty pine floors. To make up for the splurges, “I painted the inside to save money.”

On the counter, a gallon of blueberries picked from nearby bushes speaks of the couple’s culinary requirements. Carmen and Wade both cook. Whatever they don’t grow comes from local farmers markets.

The main floor is bisected by a back hallway leading to the master bedroom, where Carmen has positioned a king-sized bed against a smaller wrought metal headboard, flanked by tall, narrow windows. The effect: airy, bright, comfy, simple. Each bathroom vanity originated as a bureau. One loo actually has a pull-chain toilet with high wall-mounted tank.

Upstairs, a guest bedroom with parallel twin beds is a Nantucket B&B look-alike. Wade uses a second upstairs bedroom as an office. For hall decor, Carmen hung a pioneer woman’s dress and coonskin hat like those worn in the Revolutionary War re-enactments she and Wade attend.


Carmen’s studio, a 50-yard stroll past the gardens, chickens and goats, represents another world: “It’s definitely my space. Everything in there speaks to me.” The interior walls made from horizontal boards painted green were left intact, but the ceiling came down to make space for windows soaring into the exposed attic, since, for an artist, proper light is crucial. Her workroom, cluttered with paints, brushes, props, paintings, a 1940s radio, a small pedestal on which stands a fancy chair, feels more decadent Parisian than rural Carthage.

As with Cézanne, no one enters this studio without an invitation.

Even more decadent, adjacent to the workroom, a parlor with floor-to-ceiling shelves spills over with art volumes, some stacked on coffee and side tables squeezed between fireplace and white sofa. Victorian was Carmen’s intent; however, the crystal chandelier reminds her of French chateaux. “This is my thinking room, my art cave, my girly space. I look through the books for inspiration, ideas.” She also teaches and entertains other artists here.

Beyond the parlor, a workroom for framing paintings and storing costumes is guarded by a skeleton, which helps plot articulation when painting the human body.

Carmen Drake-Gordon has achieved a rare confluence where art and life live peacefully, side by side. This artist paints the flowers she picks and birds’ nests she finds; she eats the produce she grows. She lives alongside friendly animals and soothing water. She is surrounded by things and people she loves, who love her back. She works hard, but on her own terms and in her own space, rewarded, fulfilled — a painting come to life.  PS

The Naturalist

Legion of the Night

The beauty of moths

By Todd Pusser

Butterflies get all the love. All around the world, festivals are held in their honor. Entire gardens are planted specifically to attract them. Poems praise their beauty. Kids even dress up as butterflies for Halloween.

Moths, on the other hand, are frequently overlooked and ignored by most people. If noticed at all, moths generally get a bad rap. Gardeners despise hornworms, the large caterpillars of sphinx moths, feeding on tomato plants in the backyard. Gypsy moth caterpillars, capable of defoliating entire trees, are the bane of property owners throughout areas of the Northeast.

Even in popular culture, moths are frequently associated with superstition and death. The calling card of the serial killer from the popular 1990s movie Silence of the Lambs was the cocoon of a death’s-head hawkmoth (yes, there is such a thing) placed inside the mouths of his victims.

About the only time moths have received any positive press is when Mothra dragged Godzilla by the tail out of Tokyo.

Cecropia Moth

Last July, on a hot and humid night, I pulled into the parking lot of a brightly lit gas station along the edge of the Dismal Swamp in the northeastern corner of the state. It was during the height of the pandemic, and few other cars were around. In need of caffeine, I stepped out of my vehicle and walked along the side of the building toward the front door. Casually glancing up, I was stunned to see a large luna moth clinging to the side of the building, its striking lime-green wings contrasting sharply with the white paint.

The gentle luna moth is the teddy bear of the insect world, sporting a plump, furry body, feathery antennae, and a pair of 3-inch-long sweeping tail streamers. It is among North Carolina’s largest and most spectacular moths. I was so pleased to see one that I casually mentioned it to the station’s clerk while paying for my beverage. A blank stare was my only response. Finally, she asked quizzically, “You saw a what?”

I said again, “There’s a luna moth outside your front door.” Blank stare once more.

“Oh,” said the clerk with a nervous smile. “Have a nice night.”

Most people think of moths as drab and boring. It is true that many moths possess muted shades of brown or grey colors, but a surprising number are as colorful and intricately patterned as any butterfly. Take, for example, the giant leopard moth, common to many parts of North Carolina. Looking like a flying Dalmatian, it is a large, bright white moth covered in an array of black polka dots. An entire family of moths known as underwings sport drab tree-bark-patterned forewings and brightly colored hindwings, which they only flash when frightened by a predator.

Luna moth (Actias luna), freshly emerged from its cocoon in early spring in the Lowcountry of South Carolina

Speaking of underwing moths, many possess common English names reflecting a marital theme, a quirky tradition started by Carl Linnaeus, the father of modern taxonomy. Among the more descriptive ones are the tearful underwing, the betrothed underwing, the dejected underwing, the divorced underwing, and the oldwife underwing. Clearly, entomologists have a sense of humor (and perhaps one too many beers) when it comes to naming moths. Or perhaps they are just in need of a good marriage counselor.

Moths are among the most diverse groups of animals on the planet (surpassed only by beetles), with over 200,000 species (and counting) found worldwide compared to just over 17,000 species of butterflies. They come in an infinite variety of shapes and sizes. Many of our state’s smallest species, known as micro moths, could easily fit onto the head of pin. The largest species in North America, the cecropia moth, possesses enormous wings that stretch 7 inches from tip to tip, making them larger than many species of bat. A member of the spectacular silk moth family, the cecropia (and the luna moth mentioned earlier) does not feed as an adult and relies on stored energy from its caterpillar stage. As such, the cecropia lives for only a few days, leaving it precious little time to find a mate and perpetuate the species.

Unlike the showy silk moths, many night-flying moths are masters of disguise and closely resemble bark and leaves to help them blend into their surroundings during the day. Some even look like bird droppings.

Not all moths are nocturnal. Many fly during daylight hours. Those that do tend to mimic other insect or animal species, such as bees and wasps. One well-known day-flying moth is the hummingbird clearwing, which mimics the size, shape and flight pattern of the ruby-throated hummingbird. Like its namesake, it is frequently observed hovering over flowers in urban gardens.

Tulip tree beauty moth

Just this past April, I was admiring a cherry tree in full bloom in a friend’s yard when I did a double take. What I initially thought was a bumblebee hovering over a blossom above my head turned out to be a moth known as Nessus sphinx. With two bright yellow bands wrapping around a black abdomen, the moth was a perfect replica for the stinging insect. As I followed it from blossom to blossom, I realized the rapid wings of the moth even sounded like the buzz of a bumblebee.

Like bees, moths are important pollinators of many flowers and crops. Throughout all their life stages, from caterpillars to adults, moths serve as a critical food resource for many birds and other animals. Studies have shown that moth caterpillars are the preferred food for nesting birds, such as eastern bluebirds, as they are both easy to digest and full of protein.

Unfortunately, moths have suffered serious declines in their populations due to habitat loss, light pollution, and the extensive use of pesticides on the landscape. Their ecological importance and the impact that they have on the world around us is difficult to understate.  PS

Naturalist and photographer Todd Pusser works to document the extraordinary diversity of life both near and far. His images can be found at www.ToddPusser.com.

His favorite book is Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls.

PinePitch

Friday Night Rocks

The Asheville-based soul/funk/rock/jam band Travers Brothership will take the First Bank stage at Sunrise Square, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, on Friday, Aug. 6, from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. Their performance, described as a “wild block party,” supports the Sunrise Theater. Food trucks, refreshments and beer from Southern Pines Brewery will be available. No outside alcohol. No rolling, strolling or roving coolers allowed. Leave man’s best friend at home. For more information call (910) 692-3611 or go to www.sunrisethreater.com.

Links and Drinks

Join The Sway at the Pinehurst Country Club, 1 Carolina Vista Drive, for a women-only golf clinic combining happy hour and friendly instruction from a Pinehurst resort professional on Monday, Aug. 16, from 5:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. Perfect that swing and test your skills on The Cradle. Each session is limited to 20 players and the cost for the lesson, a cocktail and swag is $55. For more information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Gathering on the Green

The Bradshaw Performing Art Center’s summer concert series continues Saturday, Aug. 14, from 6:30 p.m. to 9 p.m. with Mountain Heart and its special guest, Carly Burruss. Bring chairs and blankets — but no outside food or beverages — to BPAC’s McNeill-Woodward Green, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For information and tickets visit www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Lakeside Live!

Saxophonist Dennis Hardison and A New Creation will be performing from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. on Friday, August 13 at The Cardinal Park, 657 S. Walnut St., Pinebluff. Gates open at 6 p.m. and admission is $15. You must be 21 years old and above to enter. Dress is all-white, casual party attire. A DJ will pick up the show at 9 p.m. For more information visit www.thecardinalpark.com.

“Many a Good Hanging Prevents a Bad Marriage”

So says Twelfth Night. Shakespeare in the Pines and the Uprising Theatre Company return with one of the Bard’s famous comedies on The Village Green, Tufts Memorial Park, Friday, Aug. 20, from 7:30 p.m. to 10 p.m. There are additional performances on Aug. 21, 27 and 28. For information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Bocce Bash

It’s back for a 14th annual! The Backyard Bocce Bash to benefit the Sandhills Children’s Center rolls on at the National Athletic Village, 201 Air Tool Drive, Southern Pines, from 9:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. or until the last ball is bowled on Saturday, Aug. 21. All proceeds help provide vital therapies to children with special developmental needs. Entry fee starts at $25 per player. Sponsorships are available. For information and registration call (910) 692-3323 or visit www.sandhillschildrenscenter.org.

25th Anniversary Celebration

A touch of Robbins comes to Pinehurst on Friday, Aug. 20, from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. at the Fair Barn for the 25th Anniversary Celebration benefiting the Northern Moore Family Resource Center, home of the HOPE Academy Preschool. There will be mechanical bull riding, rubber pigeon skeet shooting, live music, food from Elliott’s Catering Company, live and silent auctions and beer, wine and high spirits. Tickets for the event at the Fair Barn, 200 Beulah Hill Road, Pinehurst, are $125 per person. For information go to www.moorefamilyresource.org.

Weymouth Puts the Moves On

Join MARO movement for a modern dance experience staged outdoors on the grounds of the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities at 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, from 6:30 p.m. to 9 p.m. on Saturday, Aug. 21. The audience moves along a navigated path, experiencing site-specific dance works on their way to a mainstage show. Tickets are $40 and include two motion tours, the mainstage event, spirits and hors d’oeuvres. Food trucks will also be on site. For information call (910) 692-6261 or go to www.weymouthcenter.org.

Get Saucy

The three-day Pinehurst BBQ Festival celebrating “all things barbecue” begins Friday, Sept. 3, from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. and continues throughout Labor Day weekend in the village of Pinehurst, 6 Chinquapin Road. Presented by Pinehurst Resort, US Foods and Business North Carolina magazine, the festival celebrates Carolina barbecuing tradition from the mountains to the coast and features award-winning pitmasters. For tickets and information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Southwords

What’s in a Name?

Sometimes it’s everything

By Kate Smith

My first nickname was Catfish. Dad pronounced it at my birth because I arrived “slippery and wide-eyed as one.”

When I was old enough to comprehend the likeness between me and the bottom-feeder I was not amused, and tried renaming myself. Buck was my first choice, after the wolf pack leader of Jack London’s Call of the Wild. It’s how I signed my name on presents and on a stocking one Christmas. Typical Leo. When that didn’t stick, I tried imitating my best friend’s nickname, Bobcat Brandi, with the closest wild feline alliteration, Cougar Kate. I didn’t understand why the adults thought this was hilarious.

And that gallant trail name I imagined I’d be given when I hiked the Appalachian Trail? Last fall, during a short 20-mile stretch, I was declared Peein’-on-the-trail-Kate. In hindsight, Catfish wasn’t so bad. Good thing, too, because it’s what Dad still calls me.

Dad picked up catfishing in his 20s when he moved to North Carolina to work at Cameron Boys Camp. Still, 35 years later, on summer weekends, he leaves home in the late afternoon with a camp chair, pole and box of chicken guts to meet a friend with a boat, and fish all night. When I told my Georgia crew leader about this while we built a trail together in Alaska, his eyes got big: “Awe, man, your Dad goes noodlin’?”

While Dad uses bait on a line rather than bare hands and a forearm thickened by scars from catfish teeth, I still think it’s pretty cool. Catfishing means Dad is out on the moonlit water when the fish bite best. He’ll come home at 5 a.m. with 80 pounds of wild game and solicit us five kids, most of us out of the house, back to the family kitchen. Although growing up we bought most of our food from the grocery store and Dad worked a normal day job, it’s these times that define him most to me. Awake in the middle of the quiet night, providing.

I grew up thinking that good dads are always awake: chasing away nightmares, driving the family halfway across the country for Christmas at Pop’s house, watching the fire smolder out safely during camping trips, up every hour to check the temperature of meat in the smoker the night before summer barbecues. Even now, if I have car trouble when driving late at night, I call Dad, and he always answers.

I’ve inherited a lot of traits from Dad. I’ve got his eyes, his tawny skin tone, his all-or-nothing impulses. We both headbang to AC/DC and cry during praise and worship at church. And somewhere in there, I’ve got Dad’s love of the night. Something about the quiet and stillness prompts my deepest thinking, feeling, and creating. There’s a thrill and a sacredness about it, when no one else is awake except the 18-wheelers, people on their way to the airport, the crickets and cicadas and bullfrogs, and always, when I need him, my dad.

August is my birthday month. Mom buys a card with an inspiring quote, and Dad signs it. I guarantee he’ll address his note to Catfish. And when I call to say I’m coming over, he’ll ask me what I want for my birthday lunch. At dawn the next morning, he’ll pull in the driveway from a night on the lake, ready to celebrate with a cooler full. PS

Kate Smith is the herbalist and holistic health coach of Made Whole Herbs in Southern Pines.

Her favorite book is whatever she is reading, though it’s doubtful any would top The Lord of the Rings.

Out of the Blue

Windsor Knots

These are the ties that bind

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the day, ancients believed their leaders descended from the gods, therefore possessed “divine right” to rule. Those chosen few — observing the lifestyle royalty affords — furthered their cause by concocting stories that reinforced the myth.

And so it went. Wars were waged between competing “royals.” Contenders (who perpetrated a similar myth) beheaded each other with frightening regularity. Kings solidified their positions by marrying only royal maidens who, failing to produce male heirs, were booted to a chorus of “Hit the road, Jack(ie), and don’t come back no more, no more . . . ”

Revolutions happened, monarchies tumbled in favor of republics, democracies, socialist states, yet even when they possessed only ceremonial power, kings and queens, princes and princesses survived, mainly to christen ships, open orphanages, attend Ascot and feed our fantasies. Their subjects still bow and curtsy. A sign of respect, I’m told, sometimes good for a giggle: The queen is not allowed to vote or express partisan opinions. But she’s allowed a lady-in-waiting to carry her hankie and bouquets, as well as to clear the loo before a royal visit.

Have you guessed where I’m heading? Down the solid gold brick road to Buckingham Palace. Windsor Castle. Balmoral. Sandringham. Clarence House.

Shocking that 2020-21 was both the Year of the Pandemic where millions suffered and died and the Year of the British Royal Family, who provided audiences with a mud-wrestling extravaganza. No wonder Mr. Trump feels deserted. Royal tribulations regularly shove him off Page One. The BBC put out a casting call for courtiers. Any news will do, from the tragic death of a consort to the tragic death of a puppy. A misstep President Biden makes in Her Majesty’s presence becomes a headline so imagine the kerfuffle over her eldest grandson (Princess Anne’s offspring) getting divorced. New babies keep popping up, Prince Andrew’s scandals keep going down.

And that’s in addition to Harry and Meghan’s carefully scripted Oprah-fest.

Don’t get me wrong; I think Queen Elizabeth is a fine old lady who performs her duties with grace and distinction. After all, it’s a pretty good job which includes room(s) and (a groaning) board, transportation (gilt carriages, maroon Bentley limo, a stable of Range Rovers and Thoroughbreds, private train and aircraft) plus health insurance, paid vacation, a generous pension and, most important, uniforms.

Who cares, if you can’t order Chinese at 10 p.m.?

The thing I’m not buying is royal “blood,” the “lineage” that sets them apart.

Sadly, recent events have suggested those veins need transfusing.

I also notice a dereliction of duty on behalf of the royal-watching media, who used to remain tight-lipped regarding improprieties. Now, like hawks and fishwives, they screech the latest scandal from towers and turrets. Do we need to know that granddaughter Zara Tindall gave birth on the bathroom floor? Or that Kate Middleton’s brother is suffering from depression? Some mean-spirited cartoonist has even dredged up those old separated-at-birth head shots of Prince Charles and MAD Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman. To balance the negative — and spur competition — tabloid hacks jumped on the bandwagon driven by Prince Edward’s wife, Sophie, newly identified as the queen’s BFF, confidante and spokescountess who, obviously, prefers her crumpets buttered on both sides.

So it shall continue, because Americans are hooked, mostly on the clothes, those incredible outfits with flying-saucer hats and deadly stilettos worn by young royals, not to mention Her Majesty’s neon ensembles. I am hooked because I’d rather read and write (shamefully three times in 12 months) about soap operas played out across the pond than the political tragi-comedies underway on home turf.

Still, enough is enough. Diana and Philip are dead. William’s bald head is old news. Jeffrey Epstein’s buddy Prince Andrew has been benched. Harry’s changing diapers, eating corn dogs and drinking Coors while Charles, wearing (shudder) tartan kilts, weeds his organic garden. But the queen, God bless her, still sips a gin and Dubonnet with a twist before lunch, wears Mad Hatters and runs on Energizers.

I’m thinking she just might outlast us all.  PS

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

Her favorite book is Sophie’s Choice by William Styron

Hometown

Neighborhood Gold

Clearing the bar in the backyard

By Bill Fields

A few years ago, not long after I began freelancing as a booth researcher at golf tournaments broadcast by NBC Sports, someone pointed out a slim, silver-haired man walking into a trailer in the television compound. This particular camera operator, my colleague told me, had a distinct background. It was Ken Walsh, a former American Olympic swimmer who won three medals (two gold, one silver) in 1968 in Mexico City.

I hadn’t seen Walsh since I was 9 years old. Or at least I imagine I probably watched him on ABC during the ’68 Summer Games, because as a fourth-grader obsessed with sports, those Olympics were a very big deal when they flickered on our living room Zenith. (Portions of the Olympics were shown in color for the first time, but we still had a black-and-white set.)

Decades later, some of the competitors’ names from that year — the Summer Games were held in October — jump to mind more easily than those of childhood friends even though the television coverage of that period was a fraction of the airtime today.

There was Bob Beamon, shattering the world record in the men’s long jump with a leap of 29 feet, 2 1/4 inches that wasn’t bettered for 23 years and remains the Olympic mark. Bill Toomey won gold in the decathalon, Randy Matson the shot put and Al Oerter the discus throw (for the fourth straight Olympics). Kip Keino of Kenya ruled in the 1,500 meters and Bob Seagren in the pole vault. Dick Fosbury shook up things by winning the high jump with his novel backward style.

Walsh? As I discovered, he was on the winning 4×100 freestyle relay and 4×100 medley relay teams and finished second in the 100-meter freestyle behind Australian Mike Wenden and ahead of fellow American Mark Spitz, who would win seven gold medals four years later in Munich.

My neighborhood buddies and I ran our sprints up and down East New Jersey Avenue — there was little traffic, and it was slightly downhill to the chalk-drawn finish line heading toward May Street — but come Olympics time in ’68 we really were more interested in the field events.

Chuck, my best friend, and I constructed a high jump behind his house out of stray 2x4s for supports with an old broom handle resting on two nails as the bar to jump over. We improvised a landing pit out of dirt, pine straw and leaves. The long jump didn’t require as much preparation — just a couple of baseballs to mark the take-off spot and a yardstick to measure where our Converse tennis shoes made a mark in the sand. We made a few feeble attempts at the triple jump but couldn’t quite figure out when to hop and when to skip.

The real backyard drama came in an event the younger kids only watched.

One of Chuck’s older brothers, Ricky, was up for most anything. When he wasn’t roaring around on his minibike or tackling opposing players like Dick Butkus, he liked to pole vault — and not just in the Southern Pines school gym or at Memorial Field. Ricky pole-vaulted in his yard, using bamboo stalks he got from a nearby thicket and taped up for a better grip to go up and over. A pile of saw dust and a couple of cheap, inflated beach rafts cushioned the landing.

Ricky’s friends would join him, and so would one of the men who lived on our block, Mr. McNeill, a good athlete who had played on the town’s semi-pro baseball team. He probably was only in his late 30s, but that seemed ancient to a little kid. Clad in his work clothes on those late afternoon jumps, Mr. McNeill gave no quarter to the teenagers. The way those bamboo poles bent after being planted in the homemade box, it seemed like only a matter of time before the rescue squad would have to be summoned for broken bones, although bruises and sprains are the worst injuries I can recall.

I’m slated to go to my first Olympics this summer, the Tokyo 2020 Games that were delayed a year because of the COVID-19 pandemic. I’ll be working on the golf production, a long way from where the vaulters will be headed skyward on space-age poles and a long time from the fun and games of 1968.  PS

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

His favorite book is North Toward Home by Willie Morris

Good Natured

Forgive and Forget

You’ll be healthier because of it

By Karen Frye

We have all experienced some form of emotional or physical pain in our lives caused by another. Some are easy to overcome, but there are times when the pain is deep and it doesn’t seem to go away, and we endure the torment for too long. In most situations, the person who caused our pain moves on, completely forgetting about what happened — or is even unaware of the pain they’ve caused. It is the victim of the experience who must do the work and let go of the past, move on and forgive.

This can be challenging if we don’t, with all our heart, forgive the person who hurt us. Holding on to unresolved feelings of anger or resentment will keep you in a mental prison of torment. This emotional state of mind can affect our physical health in dangerous ways. A mind that is in a constantly negative and unforgiving state is unhealthy, creating a more acidic body where disease can thrive. Changing your diet to include more fresh fruits and vegetables will help counter the acidic imbalance.

True forgiveness, however, is a journey that heals the body, mind and soul. Some pain can take years to forgive, but it is the first and most important step in freedom from a troubled mind. Forgiveness brings peace. All the hurt and bitterness will disappear. Forgiveness doesn’t mean your memory banks are wiped clean — you just no longer feel the pain. It frees the heart. 

When we forgive, we heal ourselves. The natural flow of love dissolves all the pain. The more you practice this, the easier it becomes. Learning how to forgive is the greatest form of unconditional love. It is the love you feel from your parents, the love you give to your children. It is the love we all yearn for, the love that allows us to be who we are.

Embrace the power to forgive easily. It is not worth another day of bitterness. Free yourself and enjoy life with a happy heart.  PS

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

Her favorite book is The Game of Life for Women and How to Play It by Florence Scovel-Shinn

Birdwatch

A Majestic Wader

Wood storks become a more common sight

By Susan Campbell

Believe it or not, although fall is still a way off, the summer solstice has passed, and for some of our birds, the breeding season is over. Many have begun wandering ahead of their southward migration. At this time of year, we have a few species that actually move in a northerly direction during mid-summer. The wood stork, one of North Carolina’s newer breeders, is one of these.

Wood storks are large, white wading birds, a bit smaller than great blue herons. They have heavy bills that curve at the tip. In flight, they are very distinctive. Not only do they fly with their head and neck outstretched, but their tails and flight feathers flash black. They are frequently spotted soaring high in the sky on thermals, not unlike hawks and vultures.

These birds forage not only for small fish, crustaceans and a variety of invertebrates, but also reptiles and amphibians, as well as occasional nestlings of other species. Wood storks are visual hunters that search for movement in the shallows. They also may sweep and probe with their bills in murky areas until they feel prey, and then they will snap their mandibles shut and swallow the food item whole. It is not unusual for them to shuffle with their feet and flick their wings to disturb potential meals in muddy water.

Unlike their European kin, storks here nest in trees — not on chimneys. Also, as opposed to legend, these birds do not mate for life but pair up on the breeding grounds each season. They can live a long time, however: The oldest known (banded) bird from Georgia was over 20 years old when it was re-sighted in South Carolina.

Stork nests are bulky stick-built affairs located over water, often in cypress trees. However, any sturdy wetland tree species may be utilized. Both parents are involved in construction. Grassy material will line the nest that is, quite uniquely, adhered together with guano. It will take almost two months for the one to five young to reach fledging. Not only will wood storks nest alongside others of their kind but they tend to be found in colonies with heron, ibis and egret neighbors.

The wood stork is becoming a more common site in the Carolinas, breeding locally in freshwater or brackish, forested habitat. They prefer locations with an open canopy, since they require a good bit of space in order to negotiate a landing. There are now two large nesting colonies of storks on private property: one at Lays Lake (Columbus County) and Warwick Mill Bay (Robeson County). These lakes have been home to nesting storks for less than a decade. I would not be surprised if pairs are using a few other remote sites in the southeastern corner of the state. Stork numbers have been growing rapidly as the bay lake habitat seems excellent for raising chicks. Following fledging, however, family groups may move away from the nesting area to wet habitat where food is plentiful. In dry summers, that movement may be significant — and in any direction.

In our state, the largest concentrations of individuals show up annually at Twin Lakes in Sunset Beach (Brunswick County) by mid-summer. They can reliably be found in and around the eastern pond. The birds seem to like probing the flats on the back side of the pond, away from the golfers on Oyster Bay Golf Links. Also look for them loitering in the stout trees along the shoreline into early fall. But do not be surprised if you happen on one, or perhaps a small group, in any wet area from marshes to farm ponds or golf course water hazards in the Piedmont or Sandhills. Wood storks are unique and majestic waders that deserve a special look!  PS

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

Her favorite book is the one she’s reading right now, How Iceland Changed the World: The Big History of a Small Island, by Egill Bjarnason.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Have you ever met a Leo with a show dog? I doubt it. Because if there’s one thing this fire sign hates more than sharing the spotlight, it’s feeling inferior to another being in any way. Who has the silkiest locks, the smoothest gait, the most charming disposition? Of course you do, Leo. But this month — and yes, everyone knows it’s your birth month — don’t be surprised if you’re not getting the undying affection you so desperately crave. Do yourself a favor: relax. Your fans still adore you. Especially your rescue mutt.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) Brush up on your social skills this month. Interrogation and flirtation are inherently different.

Libra (September 23 – October 22) Love is in the air. But you won’t catch it with a butterfly net. Read that again. 

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21) Spin and you’ll win. It’s really that simple.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21) Don’t throw the crazy out with the bath water. You know you’d be lost without it. 

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19) Two words: Muscle through.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18) Let’s not beat around the bush. You know what to do. Swallow your pride and ask for help. 

Pisces (February 19 – March 20) Too much of a good thing isn’t the case this month. Just don’t forget to say thanks.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) You’ve just moved mountains. Don’t think people haven’t noticed. And don’t let that go to your head.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20) Plant the seed. Then leave it be. Seriously. Walk away.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20) Pack your bags, sweetheart. Go someplace you’ve never been. It’s time for a little perspective.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22) Don’t spend it all in one place. But if you do, remember that abundance is a mindset.

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla.