Tea Leaf Astrologer

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

I once watched a squirrel attempt to drag an entire loaf of bread up an oak tree. Poor thing didn’t get very far. And you, who were born under the sign of Cancer, won’t either — unless you let go of what’s holding you back. Alternatively, that could be a metaphor about your relationship with carbs. Either way, it’s likely to be an emotional month for you. But you’ve been around the sun enough times to know at least one thing: Your softness is your superpower. Happy birthday, Crabcakes. 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Do sunflowers mean anything to you? They should. Also, pay attention to your dreams this month.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Got your next breakup album ready? Just kidding. It’s time to lighten up.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

You’re taking one for the team this month. Deep breaths. This too shall pass. 

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Drink the tea before it goes cold.  You know what I’m talking about.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Is there a special Virgo in your life? If so, draw them a salt bath. If not, probably for the best.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Just say you’re sorry — it’s not that hard — and move on.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

You’ve outgrown the shoes. That’s OK. You won’t be needing them.   

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Someone needs a hug. And a bubble bath. But don’t spill the nail polish this time.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

The missing piece isn’t actually missing. But you’re working on the wrong puzzle.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

A new flavor will be entering your world. Two words: Moderation, darling. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

This will make sense later: Wear the blue one. For now: Mind your tongue.

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Throne’s 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.

Sporting Life

Waiting for a Ride

A close encounter with a hero

Jimmy, some of it’s magic,
  some of it’s tragic

But I had a good life all the way.

— From “He Went to Paris” by Jimmy Buffett

By Tom Bryant

The morning of June 24 was as promised by the folks at the Weather Channel. It was gonna be hot and humid. But after all, it was the first week of summer, and the way they talked, we should get ready for more of the same.

I was leaning against the fender of the old Bronco waiting for Sam to come out of the bank. Not knowing how long Sam’s business would take, I prudently grabbed a shady spot next to an old Ford pickup. He said he wouldn’t be long, but I took no chances.

He had called me the week before.

“Bryant, need a favor. Could you give me a lift to the VA up in Durham? Got to have an operation on my carotid artery. They say it needs to be reamed out.”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “When you gotta go?”

“Next Wednesday. You can drop me off, and the bride will pick me up when it’s time. I sure appreciate it.”

So, that’s how I ended up waiting outside the bank on the first Wednesday of summer. It would prove to be an interesting day.

Sam came out shading his eyes and ambled toward the truck. “I hope you left some money in there for me,” I said, chuckling.

Sam’s a medium size guy, losing weight to aging, but he always has a gleam in in his eye, ready for what’s next. On this morning, I noticed he walked a little slower than usual. I commented, “Hey boy, you slowing down in your old age?”

“Not on your life, Bryant. I’ve learned to walk around it rather than run over it. I thought I’d learned you that valuable lesson.” We laughed and climbed in the ancient truck and headed to Durham, where the VA hospital is located.

Sam and I go way back to the days before society became so transient. We met probably in the third grade and continued our friendship, always staying in touch over any length of time or distance. Age and circumstances weighed on us both, but more healthwise for Sam than me.

The old truck isn’t conducive to conversation when you’re roaring down the road at a blistering 55 miles an hour, but Sam and I were used to it. We carried on, shouting a bit when the wind noise threatened to shut us down.

“You gonna come outta this?” I asked, using the black humor we sported back and forth to one another all our lives. “If not, I hope you made the proper arrangements with your lawyer. I’m not driving you up here for nothing.”

“Don’t worry, Bryant, I’ll see you get a tank o’ gas out the deal. Find us a quick food joint and let’s get some lunch. I’m not hankering for hospital food for supper.”

I stopped at a Wendy’s right outside of town. There were a couple of picnic tables shaded under an oak tree, and we decided to eat outside away from the lunch crowd.

“What’re y’all doing on the Fourth?” he inquired.

“We always go up to Burlington. A group of friends get together every year to celebrate. It’s a good summer outing with folks we’ve known forever. What are y’all gonna do?”

“Don’t know yet. Depends on how this trip turns out.”

I could tell that Sam was feeling his age and also a little mortal. Who wouldn’t, going to a strange hospital for an operation that is supposedly routine but could always turn out not to be?

“Come on, Sam. This operation will be fine. You’ve got the best doctors in the country. The Duke docs run the show at the VA, I understand.”

“I know, but at my age, anything can happen. I’m not ready to get on that bus, you know, just in case they’re getting up a load,” he said.

The burgers were good, and we stowed our trash in the waste can next to the table and were on our way. In a short drive, I pulled up in front of the massive VA hospital, found a parking place again in the shade, and we got out of the Bronco.

“Thanks for the ride, partner. You don’t have to come in. I can handle all the paperwork.”

“Nah, I want to see the place just in case I have to come up here someday.”

And it was something to see. The building was huge, with large halls stretching from here to yonder. After a bit of searching, as directed by the lady at the front desk, we found where Sam was supposed to bunk. It was a ward, really, with six or eight beds in the room. He was the only one there.

“You don’t reckon they might lose you back here?” I asked, smiling as I was getting ready to leave.

“I hope not. But you better have your compass so you can find your way back to the Bronco.”

“All right, sport. You take it easy. Good luck in the morning. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.”

I stepped out into the hall to find my way back to the entrance. Sam was right, I did need a compass. I immediately got turned around and wandered the halls right and left, totally lost. The amazing thing was there were no people. I walked past empty rooms, vacant corridors, nobody. Finally, I met a lady heading my way. She was looking lost, too.

“Ma’am, I’m trying to find the front door to this place. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“I think it’s down this hall,” she said, pointing to a long passageway to my right. “I’m new here myself, from the Duke hospital across the road, and I’m trying to find the floor nurse.”

“Good luck,” I said, and she walked away in the opposite direction.

Around the corner, down the hall, I saw a door opening outside. There was a parking area all right, but not the one where I had parked. A fellow was sitting on a bench right next to the sidewalk. He looked like he had been there for a while, so I thought I’d get directions from him.

When I walked up, he looked over at me, grinned and said, “You lost?”

“No, sir, but my truck is.”

“You came out the wrong door, Bubba. This is the back entrance. You probably parked around front.”

The man was of an indeterminate age, with iron-gray hair cut in a military brush style. He had on a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a faded Marine Corps insignia on the front. He wore crisp, ironed khakis and sandals. A cane was propped on the bench. His color had a yellow cast to it, and his breathing was short, as if he had to concentrate on it. A small tattoo showing the stripes of a master sergeant was on his right arm.

“Business inside?” he asked.

“My friend. I gave him a lift up here. He has an operation scheduled tomorrow. Marine Corps?”

“Yep, 28 years, retired. You?”

“Same. Short timer. Let me guess. Gunnery sergeant?”

“Good guess. Vietnam?”

“Same era. You?”

“Three tours.”

“Good grief. Couldn’t get enough of the good times, I guess.”

“There in the beginning, helping the ARVN build firebases. Sort of an observer. Second tour, more a participant. The Southern regulars weren’t up to the task. Meant well, but would scatter like a busted covey of quail at the first shots. Third time, realized it was a politicians’ war and a wasted effort.”

He looked out at the traffic slowly driving by, lost in his thoughts.

“You a patient inside?” I asked.

“Yeah, sort of a regular. They tell me I’m about done, though. Waiting on my ride. My niece is picking me up.”

I didn’t ask what he meant by “about done.”

“Here she is now.” He pointed to a pickup that stopped at the curb. “Good talking with you.”

He slowly got up from the bench, and with the help of his cane, shuffled down the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gunny,” I said as he neared the vehicle. “Have a great Fourth. Semper Fi.”

He stuck up his thumb in the universal gesture for “everything is OK” and slowly climbed in the truck. I watched as they drove away, and as I walked around the building to find the Bronco, I couldn’t help but think about the hero I had just met. He deserved better than a bench sitting in back of an almost empty VA hospital.  PS

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

Southwords

The Show Must Go On

Lessons from the Barnum of baseball

By Jim Moriarty

I only have one story about fireworks that doesn’t reflect great discredit on me. That’s because it involves a member of the baseball Hall of Fame, Bill Veeck. If you don’t know who Bill Veeck was, buckle up. You’re in for a wild ride.

The hand-operated scoreboard at Wrigley Field in Chicago and the ivy covering the outfield wall bricks? Bill Veeck did that when he was a 20-something front office executive for the Chicago Cubs.

Veeck lost his right leg to injuries he received as a Marine in the Pacific during World War II. He was so profoundly addicted to cigarettes he had an ashtray built into his wooden limb.

He owned the Cleveland Indians (1946-49), the St. Louis Browns (1951-53) and the Chicago White Sox, twice (1959-61 and 1975-80). In ’51Veeck sent Eddie Gaedel, 3-feet, 7-inches tall, wearing a uniform with the number 1/8 on the back and a strike zone the size of a buffalo nickel in to pinch hit for the Browns against the Detroit Tigers. He walked on four pitches, and the next day Major League Baseball banned little people. Veeck told the baseball reporters he hoped his tombstone would read, “He Helped the Little Man.”

Three months after Jackie Robinson broke baseball’s color barrier in 1947, Veeck signed Larry Doby to a Cleveland Indians contract to make sure the same thing happened in the American League. The next year he signed Satchel Paige, then 42. Someone wrote that if Paige had been old and white, no one would have given him a second thought. “If Satch were white, he would have been in the majors 25 years ago,” Veeck said. Paige was 6–1. The Indians won the World Series.

Even though he was a marketing and money-making machine, when it came to presidential politics Veeck cast his lot with Socialist Party candidate Norman Thomas, who ran for the office six times. He even voted for Thomas after the man had died. “I’d rather vote for a dead man with class than two live bums,” Veeck said.

Harry Caray singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh inning stretch? It became a more recognizable trademark for Caray than his raspy, mouth-full-of-marbles voice and it was Bill Veeck’s idea.

Go ahead and Google “worst sports uniforms ever.” I guarantee you’ll find the flared collars and black shorts of the 1976 White Sox. People liked to blame Bill’s wife, Mary Frances, for those unis, but it was all Veeck.

The disastrous “Disco Demolition Night” promotion? That was Veeck.

Exploding scoreboards? That was Veeck, too.

The man wrote two autobiographies. Two. And he didn’t run out of stuff.

I was only in his presence once. It was during Veeck’s second stint as owner of the White Sox. I don’t remember how a kid reporter from South Bend, Indiana, managed to talk his way into the press box at old Comiskey Park on Chicago’s South Side, but it happened.

The Bard’s Room was then, and probably still is, a hospitality lounge near the press box where you could get a cold beer and a hot dog before the game. For all I know Veeck invented beer and hospitality, too. The day I was there, Veeck was sitting in the Bard’s Room surrounded by eight or 10 of the usual suspects, the baseball writers from AP, UPI, the Trib, the Sun Times. Guys I knew only by their bylines. Veeck had a telephone in front of him. He was calling the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States and everyone was laughing.

A shipment of fireworks on its way from Mississippi to Illinois, meant to explode from the top of the centerfield scoreboard when Bucky Dent or Carlos May or whoever hit a home run, had been interdicted by ATF agents. The show couldn’t go on. Agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms were attached to the Department of the Treasury. So, Veeck gathered the local reporters, picked up the phone, dialed a number in Washington, D.C., and asked to speak to the secretary of the treasury.

And he got him.

Veeck demanded satisfaction. He paused long enough to accept the sincere apologies of the secretary, which he dutifully relayed to one and all. Funny stories were written. At least that’s the way I remember it.

Here’s the thing. None of us gathered around Bill Veeck actually knew whether or not he was talking to the secretary of the treasury. Hell, it could have been a hot dog salesman on the other end of the line. But it didn’t matter. The P.T. Barnum of baseball knew that, even when they take your fireworks away — no, especially when they take your fireworks away — you can still put on a show.  PS

Jim Moriarty is the Editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

Road Trip Playlist

Roll down the windows and turn up the volume: these Carolina tunes will keep you cruising

By David Menconi

Road trip season is upon us, which calls for some music to keep the momentum going. Whether you’re twist ing along the Blue Ridge Parkway or cruising the Outer Banks Scenic Byway, when you hit the road for points beyond, bring along tunes made by artists from the Old North State. Here is the ultimate North Carolina road trip playlist.

Chuck Berry

“Promised Land” (1964)

We begin with this classic from the great classic-rock elder Chuck Berry. Promised Land tells the story of a coast-to-coast journey with a roll call of cities along the way, including both Raleigh and Charlotte.

6 String Drag

“Gasoline Maybelline” (1997)

One of the best bands from Raleigh’s mid-1990s alternative-country boom, 6 String Drag was a powerhouse with old-school country harmonies and a soulful horn section. Nothing pile-drives like Gasoline Maybelline.

Blues Magoos

“Tobacco Road” (1966)

Durham native John D. Loudermilk wrote a lot of great songs, none greater than this oft-covered garage-rock classic. New York’s Blues Magoos cut the definitive version of Tobacco Road, which you’ll find on the 1972 proto-punk compilation Nuggets.

Squirrel Nut Zippers

“Put a Lid on It” (1996)

Hell, the big hit for the latter-day Chapel Hill hot-jazz band, could also go here as a good song for picking up the pace (or even speeding). But Put a Lid on It, featuring singer Katharine Whalen at her sassiest, is better for cruising.

Black Sheep

“The Choice Is Yours” (1991)

From Sanford, North Carolina, the hip-hop duo of William “Mr. Long” McLean and Andres “Dres” Titus would like you to know: You can get with this / Or you can get with that.

Don Dixon

“Praying Mantis” (1987)

After you’ve been driving a while and the caffeine starts to wear off, here’s a great sing-along pick-me-up. Praying Mantis dates back to the early 1980s and Dixon’s long-running band Arrogance. After Arrogance broke up, he had a solo hit with it.

Etta Baker

“One-Dime Blues” (1991)

Baker was one of the great legends of Piedmont blues guitar. That especially goes for her signature instrumental One-Dime Blues, which rolls on down the highway. If you can play it yourself and keep up, you’re “one-diming it.”

The “5” Royales

“Think” (1957)

Covered by James Brown and Mick Jagger, Think was one of the most enduring songs that the legendary Winston-Salem R&B band The “5” Royales left behind. It’s also a perfect cruising song — but keep your hands on the wheel, no air-guitar allowed.

Sylvan Esso

“Song” (2017)

Durham’s Sylvan Esso, made up of Amelia Meath and Nick Sanborn, makes folksy electronic music with a warm, beating heart. This one is a great song for the wide-open highway.

The Connells

“Stone Cold Yesterday” (1990)

Although they’re best known for the moody 1993 ballad ’74-’75, Raleigh’s Connells can pick up the tempo, too. This song’s call-to-arms guitar riff really should have been all over the radio.

Fantasia

“Summertime” (2004)

The High Point native and season-three American Idol winner has never been better than on her sultry performance of the George Gershwin classic. Perfect for long cruises.

Southern Culture on the Skids

“Voodoo Cadillac” (1995)

Once you’re close enough to your destination to exit the highway, here’s one to ease off the throttle, by Chapel Hill’s long-running garage-rock band. I got eight slappin’ pistons right here under my hood / Let’s ride.  PS

Out of the Blue

Bless My Mess

To ease my stress

By Deborah Salomon

I remember, as a child, “putting things” in a corner of my closet. They could be anything: a scratchy sweater; a comic book; last summer’s worn-out sandals. I wasn’t hiding them, exactly. I just wanted them safely out of sight. In a heap, not neatly stacked.

From time to time my mother told me to “throw that stuff out” or at least “straighten it up.” No way.

That pile initiated a long line of “junk” drawers, basement repositories, currently a spare bedroom where all the dishes, towels, lamps, magazines, boots, crutches, quilts and clothes that I couldn’t part with during the last move are stashed.

That “last move” happened 14 years and many dust bunnies ago.

This is neither hoarding nor collecting. It is, perhaps, the seminal clue that indicates failure as a crazy clean/neat freak — not that I aspire to either. Most of the genuine crazy clean/neat freaks I’ve encountered are driven . . . by a chauffeur named Freud. They rarely have pets, fonts of dirt and disorder. I feel badly for them.

This conundrum only matters when the traits travel to the workplace. The desk I occupied in a busy newsroom for 15 years, its drawers and the wall shelves above it, were obliterated by stacks of envelopes, printouts, clippings, press releases, notebooks, cookbooks, etc. — barely leaving room for the antique computer monitor, tower and keyboard. I couldn’t even claim “but I know where everything is” because I didn’t.

Every Friday afternoon I would straighten the piles, dust around them and fill a wastebasket with things I probably, hopefully, wouldn’t need.

When I retired, they brought in a dumpster.

A friend recently emailed me 50 historic photos from the past 100 years. Among the horrific war scenes and aftermaths of earthquakes was a photo of the Wright brothers’ liftoff and the first self-serve supermarket, a Piggly Wiggly in Tennessee. The photo that stopped me cold was Albert Einstein’s desk and shelves, taken on the day he died, in 1955.

They were a mess.

Please don’t think I’m correlating a messy desk with genius. I’m just saying the inability to maintain order is not fatal, cognitively or emotionally, something my mother didn’t understand. Every surface in her house was covered with stuff, neatly stacked and arranged, never messy, dusted frequently.

No wonder I, the rebellious daughter, kept a pile in a dark closet corner.

The other thing that struck me about Einstein’s desk was no electronics, not a telephone or adding machine or typewriter. Just papers, his pipe and tobacco. Numbers covered a blackboard behind the desk, which indicates most of his conclusions were reached manually.

Take a hike, Alexa! Adios, Siri! The cloud? Clear skies today.

Obviously, I’m trying to justify (excuse?) a bad habit. So, every few days I stack the notebooks neatly, dust behind my monitor. But don’t anybody touch my Word archives because every so often I really, really need a story from 2004. Besides, I’ve learned that anything resembling a purge is like feeding a stray cat that reappears same time tomorrow.

I should know, after adopting two strays who showed up at the same time 10 years ago. Wish I’d named one Albert.

Clean is glorious, necessary, fulfilling. Nothing puts joy in my step like pushing a vacuum. I’d rather sniff Mr. Clean than Chanel No. 5. But neat? A slippery slope ending, I fear, at OCD.

In the dark corner of my closet lie a few old sweaters awaiting disposal. Stray kitty found them, made this soft, quiet corner his bed. Which proves that a little mess left undisturbed goes a long way . . . in the right paws.  PS

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

Hometown

A Week in the Big City

Learning to clear, and run, the tables

By Bill Fields

It was a low moment when my beloved Baltimore Orioles lost to the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 1971 World Series after winning the previous season. As the seventh grade got started, though, I still had great memories from that summer and an adventure of the highest order.

Not long after the All-Star team from the Southern Pines Little League was quickly bounced from the post-season with a defeat in Warsaw (North Carolina, not Poland) in which I was hapless against the opposing pitcher’s curveball, Sadie, one of my two older sisters, invited me to spend a week with her in High Point.

Sadie had settled there after going to college at UNC Greensboro, marrying a restaurant owner named Bill Carter, and had an infant son, John. At 12, I was an uncle and, although I would make an attempt to play Pony League baseball the following year, essentially knew that I was a washed-up good glove/bad bat third baseman who would not be following Brooks Robinson to a hot corner somewhere in the major leagues.

I realized it was time to concentrate on other things, and the opportunity to hang out with one of my siblings in a place with about 10 times the population of my hometown wasn’t something to be missed. An intriguing aspect was that thanks to my brother-in-law this was a working vacation, and I would come home with some cash while also getting to enjoy the pleasures of the big city.

As a golf-loving kid fascinated by miniature golf, especially Putt-Putt, I knew High Point had a Putt-Putt facility on North Main Street, 36 holes of putting pleasure that wasn’t available in the Sandhills. A daytime, play-as-much-as-you-want pass was $3, and at least four days that week Sadie dropped me off and picked me up several hours later.

Round and round I would go, the sporting equivalent of an all-you-can-eat dinner, with no anxiety at seeing my colored golf ball go down the chute at the 18th hole because I knew there was a counter full of balls to choose from for my next round and no need to dig into my pockets to see if I had enough money to pay for it. There was also no wait to tee off on those weekday afternoons, the rest of the world obviously not into Putt-Putt as much as I was.

By the end of the week, I had gotten proficient enough to have broken 30 a few times on the par-36 courses, which made me think I could one day challenge professional putting champions like Vance Randall and Rick Smith on the carpet. I became such a familiar face to the proprietor that he let me skim bugs out of the water hazards for a pack of crackers. Unfortunately, he didn’t offer me a discount on the P.P.A. (Professional Putters Association) steel-center golf balls favored by the pros for sale in the kiosk, which I was convinced would drop my score by a couple of strokes. 

My nights were spent working as an apron- and paper cap-wearing busboy at Brinwood, one of Bill’s two restaurants. The menu was huge — steaks, seafood, sandwiches, chicken, spaghetti and much more — and the food was delicious, the latter the reason the place was much more crowded than the Putt-Putt on North Main. I clearly remember two of Bill’s edicts: Never dip a glass into the bin of crushed ice, and never sweep up while customers are eating nearby.

As a relative, I got special dispensation to order whatever I wanted for my end-of-shift meal. One night I picked fried flounder, which was as good as anything you could get at the beach. All the other evenings, though, I chose country-style steak, the waitresses kidding me for being a creature of habit. There were great desserts too, the homemade German chocolate cake being a favorite.

The metabolism of a 12-year-old is a wonderful thing, but I think I still came home with an extra pound or two. After closing Brinwood, we’d go to Bill’s other restaurant, Carter’s, a smaller place closer to downtown, to check up there. While he counted the money in the till, I was free to prepare myself a milkshake in a metal cup just like they made them at the Sandhill Drug fountain. I never looked at a carton of store-brand Neapolitan in our freezer quite the same.

I came home with $60 from my busboy shifts, most of which my mother “suggested” I use to start a savings account. I sure felt rich after my week of living like a king.  PS

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

An Oasis Renewed

Saving a cherished space

By Claudia Watson  •   Photographs by Laura Gingerich

Only a few steps from the street, you’ll hear the soothing sound of water cascading into a burbling stream. It’s a hidden waterfall carved from a niche in the land’s natural slope and artfully built of stacked stone, ancient river rock and boulders. Mosses mingle among ferns, while dainty tufts of violets peek out from rocks, eager for sunlight. Birds and the occasional dragonfly linger in this Zen-like oasis.

At the stream’s edge is a rugged piece of Tennessee slate engraved with the words Anniversary Pond 2002, marking the significance of the water garden. Built by Tom and Pamela Cochran of Pinehurst not long after settling here after Tom’s retirement, the garden celebrates their 25th wedding anniversary.

“It was a gift we gave to each other,” says Pamela, noting that while they had little interest in travel, they adored their new home. “I’ve always enjoyed listening to the water, and this is my haven and makes our time on the back porch special. It’s a place to wind down and meditate.”

When the Cochrans built the water garden, its centerpiece was a koi pond. They enjoyed the brightly-colored fish for years, but after problems with the pond and not finding someone to maintain it  they parted ways with the koi.

Tom says they considered taking the entire water feature out at one point, but quickly nixed the thought. “Pamela absolutely loves the sound of the water, so we decided to find a way to keep it.”

A landscape contractor thought the water garden was splendidly built. “He told us, ‘If maintenance is the problem, then remove the pond and keep what you like — the sound of the waterfall and the stream,’” recalls Tom. “Until then, we thought we had only two options: Either keep the stone walls and landscaping around them or rebuild the area, but without a pond.”

They hoped they could craft a solution — and at a reasonable cost. “If the price was right, then we were all in,” Tom says.

A friend passed along the name of their lawn maintenance contractor. The Cochrans called and were astonished when he showed up two hours later. That contractor, Barry Hartney of Zen Ponds and Gardens, became “very involved in the project from the moment he stepped into the garden.”

“I offered to do pond maintenance for them, but they really wanted to be done with the pond. They were considering removing the waterfall and stream, too. I was stunned,” Hartney says. “This water garden looked like it had been there forever, and it’s the type of work rarely seen.”

Hartney, who has owned his landscaping business for nearly 25 years, sensed that the water garden was very personal to the Cochrans. “It was their oasis, and they derived great pleasure from it. I wanted to help them find a way to keep the best part of it,” he says. So he dug a little deeper.

The Cochran’s pond problem stemmed from stormwater runoff. They don’t have gutters and downspouts, and stormwater rushed off their porch, washing mulch, soil and leaves into the pond. During heavy storms, which have become more frequent, the pond flooded, overflowed and washed out the area below it. The standing water was also a breeding ground for mosquitoes. In addition, the landscaped area behind their porch, eroded by stormwater, couldn’t support vegetation.

After a thorough review, Hartney recommended moving the stormwater runoff to an on-site rain capture area, where it would percolate into the soil, feeding nearby plant life.

“I’m practical and like to work with nature, not against it,” says Hartney, who is a graduate of the Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College School in Tifton, Georgia. “Whatever the problem is, I look for the natural solution that will hold up over time.” 

Hartney’s solution was a rain garden. That, combined with the addition of a dry stream bed and some good old drainage work, would do the job, and at a price that worked. The Cochrans’ oasis would be renewed.

Work began by carefully removing a portion of the existing koi pond’s 4-foot-high stone wall and setting its river rocks and boulders aside. “That was tricky,” says Hartney. “Part of the stone wall held up the hillside, and we didn’t want to damage the integrity or beauty of the wall.”

The rock- and dirt-moving effort took place without the benefit of machinery that could cause packed soil, erosion and other damage, especially in a tight or landscaped area.

“I rarely use machinery,” says Hartney. “When we work around existing stuff, we want the honest feel of a shovel and pickax.”

To keep the existing waterfall and stream meant other modifications. In the old system, the waterfall recirculated water from the deep koi pond, which required biofilters for healthy fish. When Hartney removed the pond, out came the maintenance headache — its old liner, pump, biofilters and skimmer system. Then, he excavated deeply to install the reservoir for the new, low-maintenance, pondless pump system that keeps the water recirculating to the waterfall.

“A large in-ground reservoir pumps water up to the waterfalls, and then it flows back down to the stream and into the reservoir,” he explains.

Aside from keeping the aesthetics of the waterfall and stream intact, he also needed to direct and capture runoff from the porch area overlooking the water garden.

“That area under the roof’s drip line was pounded with rain and nearly bald from frequent washouts,” says Hartney. “It was important to soften that impact, so we put down weed barrier cloth and used rocks instead of mulch to cover it. Then we naturalized the area to blend it into the property.”

The Cochrans selected several shade-loving and decorative dwarf camellia sasanqua ‘Shishigashira’ that offer a profusion of rosy-pink blooms in the spring and fall. A glossy-leaf paper plant (fatsia japonica) anchors a corner, away from the midday sun.

When it rains, the stream may fill and overflow, but it’s no longer an issue. A dry stream bed, which serves as a shallow retention basin, is sited at the end of the stream. The basin is lined with weed barrier cloth and filled with river rocks and cobblestones. This porous area allows stormwater to filter through quickly, where it is absorbed into the soil and is a nutrient source for the plants. 

A young Japanese laceleaf maple (Acer palmatum var. dissectum) secures the sunny, raised bank, where rainwater can irrigate but not saturate its root area. English yews (Taxus baccata ‘Repandens’) spread undulating branches as groundcover, and several airy, pink muhly grasses (Muhlenbergia) provide an eye-popping effect.

If the basin fills during a heavy rain event, a concealed outflow device channels the water into the property’s drainage system, where it infiltrates the ground. “In the heaviest of recent tropical storms, we’ve seen the water dissipate within a couple of hours versus sitting here for days,” says Tom. “We enjoy our porch view of the garden now — in the sunshine and during the rain.”

The revived oasis provides a rich habitat for insects, birds, reptiles and mammals who find shelter, food, and water while veiled by the shady treetops. Nestlings twitter for attention. Yellow swallowtails drift on a light breeze, and a startled frog spontaneously leaps from a rock seeking the safety of the stream. Nearby, the luscious lime-green hue of emerging fern fronds enlivens a small but unique garden that draws attention.

“That’s the Friend’s Fern Garden,” says Pamela, pointing to the garden composed of assorted young ferns. Holly ferns (Cyrtomium falcatum) blend with the bronzy fiddleheads of native and colony-forming Netted Chain ferns (Woodwardia areolata) and Autumn ferns (Dryopteris erythrosora). All happily coexist under the protective shade of live oaks (Quercus virginiana), one of the most valuable trees to wildlife.

“Friends bring me ferns from all over,” she says. “And the rocks that surround the fern garden and other areas are the ones that Barry removed from the old koi pond. I didn’t want to lose any of them.”

Hartney brought in most of the earthen-toned boulders of many shapes and sizes, artfully working them into the landscape surrounding the stream. “He was meticulous,” Pamela says. “He has a creative eye.”

Some of the rocks, such as the Anniversary Rock, which they put in a safe place during the project, hold special meanings to the Cochrans. Others include the Sitting Rock (named for obvious reasons) and the Bread Rock, which resembles a loaf of Vienna bread with its rounded and tapered edges. It formerly stood on its end in the pond, a focal point for Pamela’s daily mindfulness meditation.

Hartney waited until the end of the project to place the final rock. Carefully searching the garden, his eyes fell upon the spot. He knelt on the dry stream bed and tucked the Anniversary Rock into place along the edge of a flat boulder. Its contours were a perfect mate with those of the boulder, making its placement a touching tribute on the Cochran’s 43rd anniversary.

Renewed, their oasis is a marriage of rock and water — a sustainable and serene combination.  PS

Claudia Watson is a frequent contributor to PineStraw and The Pilot. If there’s a garden that you’d like her to visit, please contact cwatson87@nc.rr.com.

A Time to Roost

Passing the musical baton

By Jenna Biter     Photographs by John Gessner

These my mom made, if you have an interest,” says Janet Kenworthy, motioning to a stack of albums filled with newspaper clippings and concert fliers. Sitting on the wraparound porch of her historic home on Blue Street in Aberdeen, music playing softly, her Jack Russell Tootsie lolling about on a cushioned chair, Kenworthy flips through plastic-sleeved pages, rattling off the names of musicians and bands with encyclopedic ease.

“Laurelyn Dossett, another Grammy winner, she had a song on Levon Helm’s Dirt Farmer. John Cowan, the Voice of Newgrass. That’s Victoria Vox, she’s huge in the ukulele world. Here’s John Ellis.” Asleep at the Wheel, Scythian, Paul Thorn, Amythyst Kiah, Jeff Scroggins and Colorado — the list is almost unending.

As the one-woman force who is The Rooster’s Wife — the live music community-based organization that called Aberdeen’s Poplar Knight Spot home — Janet Kenworthy has curated about 60 shows a year since the organization’s inception. “See, this was the first outdoor show because we started in December 2006,” she says, pointing to a picture of the Carolina Chocolate Drops, a well-known, old-time string band from Durham.

The inspiration for The Rooster’s Wife sprang from Kenworthy’s experiences volunteering in Hurricane Katrina-ravaged New Orleans after her daughter, Helen, was evacuated from Tulane University. “I went to work for the Red Cross and ran a kitchen at a shelter. It was a 400-bed facility, and it was my job to get three hot meals on the table a day,” she says. “You can imagine losing everything and then sleeping in a gymnasium with 400 other people. It’s brutal. It’s shocking, and you’re totally discombobulated.”

One day a woman came through the kitchen’s back door and asked Kenworthy if her teenage son could play his guitar for the shelter’s residents. Mother and son were parishioners from a West Mississippi church who wanted to help any way they could. Music was their offering.

It was a time for small generosities. Local beauty and barber school students were giving haircuts, beard trims and manicures. Kind gestures eased the shock of sudden homelessness. When the gangly boy — tall in that teenage kind of way, trying not to be tall — started playing New Orleans-style guitar and taking requests for old standards, people reconnected. He became a regular.

“Music spurs memory,” says Kenworthy. “People were talking. They were reminiscing. Some were singing. Some were dancing. I’ve always known about the redemptive nature of music, but this was really about the revitalization of the inner soul of these people. Hearing this music, their music, was really helpful. I wanted to bring music to this community.”

Jon Parsons, then the executive director of Sustainable Sandhills and one-third of the acoustic trio the Parsons, and Joe Newberry, a North Carolina songwriter and musician known for his clawhammer banjo-playing, introduced Kenworthy to the concept of house concerts. Within three weeks — “Well, maybe it was three weeks,” she says — The Rooster’s Wife took flight. She explains the name with a sing-song question and answer.

“We kept chickens. Who lays the eggs?”

“The hen.”

“Who raises the chicks?”

“The hen.”

“Who keeps the henyard straight?”

“The hen.”

“Who makes a lot of noise and has a lot of big feathers?”

She raises her eyebrows.

“The rooster.”

Ahhhh.

“I was doing all the work,” she says, “but I didn’t want my name on it, per se. It’s always been about the music, not about me.”

Her first venue was her home, a picturesque, turn-of-the-20th-century residence with a sprawling yard where she raised her brood of four. “We started here, right in this house. I put up fliers and sent postcards because we didn’t have a mailing list. My address book was my mailing list. We just called and invited people to come, and they did.” One hundred and five people showed up to that first house concert featuring the Parsons.

“People are listening to great music, eating my food, drinking my booze, and giving me money. Oh, it’s just business as usual, except for the giving me money part,” Kenworthy says with a laugh. “So, that’s how it started. We did four years of house concerts, and I concurrently started an outdoor series at the Postmaster’s House.”

It wasn’t until her bathroom door had to be wrenched from its hinges that The Rooster’s Wife renested at the Poplar Knight Spot, located at the intersection of Poplar and Knight streets, only three blocks from her house. “There was one show where a lady got locked in the bathroom. She was calling on her cellphone and beating on the door, but there was a big, rowdy show going on,” Kenworthy remembers. “At the set break, a couple of guys had to take the door off the hinges to get her out. It’s an old house, and it’s like, ‘Who locks the damn bathroom door?’”

The bathroom lockdown wasn’t the only reason for relocating. “The house, it was rockin’ in here,” she says, “but it was also moving furniture. The dining room table would come out here.” She motions to the porch. “And chairs would go in, and enough was enough. My mom and I had the opportunity to buy a building in downtown Aberdeen and renovate it.” And so, in 2009, the Poplar Knight Spot became the home of The Rooster’s Wife.

Sunday evening shows have been Kenworthy’s stock and trade, stretching back to the early days of the house concerts. “There wasn’t anything on Sundays, so I thought, OK, that’s my night. Lots of musicians were interested in having a night to play rather than a dead night,” she says. And it helped that the host and her mother, Priscilla Johnson, were hospitable. Johnson, who lives only a mile down the street, has been a mainstay of The Rooster’s Wife, cooking up sharp cheddar, apple and chutney grilled cheese sandwiches for the musicians, and baking cookies for every show. “I could house people, feed people, pay people and so, it just evolved from there,” says Kenworthy.

The early showtime with its idiosyncratic 6:46 p.m. start was also kid friendly. “There certainly wasn’t anything that welcomed families or small children,” Kenworthy says about live music in the Sandhills, “and I felt it was absolutely essential that they be exposed to good music. I figure, if you never had the flavor, you’re not going to develop the taste.”

Children under 12 were always admitted free at The Rooster’s Wife. A handful of families became Sunday night regulars. “One family had one child when they started coming; now they have three!”

Kenworthy’s own taste for good music developed at a young age. “I grew up in Lexington, Kentucky, and we certainly sang,” she says of her family. A relative was often on the piano and her Uncle Frank, Priscilla’s brother, was a jazz drummer and trombonist. “Music was just part of life,” Kenworthy says.

She attended Presbyterian-based Sayre School from elementary through high school and went to its live music performances every Friday at chapel. “It might be some old biddie from the DAR, or it might be your headmaster’s son’s roommate from Vanderbilt who is Rodney Crowell, multiple Grammy winner,” she says. “You had no idea, but you would be polite and attentive, regardless of who would be on stage.” She can’t quite remember the punishment for turning around to catch a friend’s eye, but she knows it wasn’t worth it.

“Musicians really appreciate an attentive crowd,” Kenworthy says. “I think it’s cultural, learning how to be a good audience. It was incumbent upon me to bring compelling enough programming that the audience would be respectful.” Precisely what The Rooster’s Wife has done for the last 15 years.

During the pandemic, Kenworthy had plenty of downtime to reflect on the future of The Rooster’s Wife and the Poplar Knight Spot. “Everything has its season, and being able to sit and not just be on the hamster wheel gave me time to think.” she says. “People say they’re leaving their job to spend more time with their family, but I actually am.” Her four children and six grandkids are scattered around the world, as far flung as Costa Rica and New York. Maybe it was time to pass her passion on to someone else who loves music.

That person is Derrick Numbers who, along with his wife, Dr. Malgorzata (Gosia) Kasperska, bought the Poplar Knight Spot from Kenworthy in April. “Derrick grew up going to the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, which is well known for singer-songwriters, and it’s always been his dream to have a venue. And they have a little boy,” Kenworthy says, referring to 8-year-old Logan.

“Every year in April, the Bluebird Cafe did this thing called Tin Pan South where all of the little music venues — a lot of them the size of The Rooster’s Wife — will bring in songwriters, and they’ll do two shows a night for the week,” says Numbers. “And so, you get these amazing people who write songs, and then six months later, you hear them on the radio. That started for me when I was about 14-years-old. I’d go with my dad.” Numbers developed the ‘taste.’

He earned his B.A. in music business from Malone College and interned in Nashville with Dualtone Music Group, the record label for the Lumineers. After his internship, he switched course and joined the military. “We lived in quite a few places, Hawaii, D.C., but I was always going to shows, always buying guitars, all that kind of stuff,” he says. “We ended up at Fort Bragg and found The Rooster’s Wife and Casino Guitars and made a home here.”

Numbers heads up marketing and videography for Baxter Clement’s Casino Guitars in Southern Pines. “As part of my video stuff, I try to shoot a lot of artists, interview them, get them on film. I’ve interviewed guys from Kiss to Paul Thorn,” he says. “I actually interviewed Paul Thorn when he played in Aberdeen, I think it was maybe four years ago. So, that was one of my first experiences with The Rooster’s Wife — seeing an artist that I really loved.” When the opportunity to buy the Poplar Knight Spot came along, the couple jumped at it.

“Hopefully, we can replicate some of the success that Janet’s had,” Numbers says. “A lot of that success derived from her ability to connect with those artists, make those artists feel at home. That’s a huge thing. Hopefully, we can continue to do that.” But with their own flair, of course.

“The name we’re going with is the Neon Rooster,” says Numbers. “I kind of wanted to have something cool and funky and ours, but with a tribute to the old.” They’re planning to open in September.

“We’re excited to be embraced by the community,” Gosia says. “It’s super important, right? We’re bringing something to the community, but without the community, it will not be a success. I’m hoping that we’re able to fill the gap that Janet created.”

As for the original Rooster’s Wife, Kenworthy is in the reinvention business. “People that came to shows in the beginning knew my dog well. His name was Bert.” He was a Jack Russell like Tootsie and Janet’s show dog. On Sunday nights, he’d lead the way from Blue Street to the Poplar Knight Spot, taking the shortcut over the train tracks.

“The next venture will be Dog-at-Large Productions,” says Kenworthy. “What I intend to be is just running amok . . . whatever the universe provides.”  PS

Jenna Biter is a writer, entrepreneur and military wife in the Sandhills. She can be reached at jennabiter@protonmail.com.

Simple Life

Death of a Green Dragon

A gardener’s bittersweet reminder of life’s impermanence 

By Jim Dodson

Last month, I returned from my first trip since the start of the pandemic to discover a baffling mystery at home.

The leaves of a beautiful Green Dragon Japanese maple I’d raised from a mere seedling appeared to suddenly be dying. Arching gracefully over the side driveway, the rare seven-foot beauty was the star of my garden. It had never been more vibrant than the day I departed for a week out West, lush and green with lots of bright spring growth. But suddenly, inexplicably, those delicate new leaves were limp and withering.

A friend who knows his ornamental trees pointed out that a freakish, late-season cold snap might be the culprit. The leaves of nearby hydrangea bushes were also severely burned, but with the return of seasonal warmth, were already showing signs of recovery.

“I think you should simply leave it alone. Give the tree water and maybe a little spring fertilizer and let things take their course,” he said. “Nature has a way of healing her own.”

His theory seemed plausible. I’ve built and maintained enough gardens in my time to know that nature always holds the upper hand. Sometimes unlikely resurrections happen when you least expect them.

So I waited and watered, trying to push the thought of losing my spectacular Green Dragon out of my mind. Perhaps by some miracle it would come back to life.

As I went about other tasks in the garden — mulching and weeding perennial beds and transplanting ostrich and woodland ferns to my new shade garden — I thought about how the sudden death of a spring pig provided writer E. B. White intense grief and something of a personal epiphany, inspiring one of his most affecting essays in 1948.

Following a struggle of several days to heal his mysteriously ailing young pig — such an ordeal blurs the passage of time, the author expressed — White, accompanied by his morbidly curious dachshund, Fred, walked out one evening to check on the patient, hoping for the best:

“When I went down, before going to bed, he lay stretched in the yard a few feet from the door. I knelt, saw that he was dead, and left him there: his face had a mild look, expressive neither of deep peace nor of deep suffering, although I think he had suffered a good deal.”

The young pig was buried near White’s favorite spot in the apple orchard, leaving his owner surprised by the potency of his own grief. “The loss we felt was not the loss of ham but the loss of pig,” White recounts. “He had evidently become precious to me, not that he represented a distant nourishment in a hungry time, but that he had suffered in a suffering world.”

Life, of course, is full of unexpected compensations. It’s possible that the guilt and grief E. B. White suffered with the loss of his pig was the literary world’s gain. Four years later, the author’s tale of a female barn spider that saves a charming young pig from slaughter by crafting upbeat messages about Wilbur the pig in her web became an instant American classic. Over the decades, Charlotte’s Web continues to rank among the most beloved children’s books of all-time.

I don’t know if a failed effort to save a spring pig bought “in blossom time” is anything like trying to save a young Japanese maple I’d raised from a seedling, but the sadness of its sudden loss combined with a palpable sense that I’d somehow failed my tree followed me around like Fred the dachshund for weeks, a reminder of life’s mystery and bittersweet impermanence. It didn’t help matters, I suppose, that I couldn’t even bring myself to dig up the deceased tree and cart it out to the curb for the weekly refuse crew. At this writing, as lush summer green explodes all around, the beloved tree stands like a monument to my botanical incompetence or simple bad luck. The autopsy is incomplete. The verdict is still pending.

Gardeners and farmers, of course, experience dramas of life and death — and sometimes unexpected rebirth — on a daily basis. Pests and disease are constant threats that interrupt the cycle of life at any moment with little or no advance notice. Too much rain or not enough, violent winds, summer hailstorms and unwelcome diners in the garden are simply part of the process of helping living things grow.

My longtime friend and former Southern Pines neighbor, Max Morrison, who is justly known for his spectacular camellias and probably the most abundant vegetable garden in the Carolina Sandhills, solved his deer and rabbit problem decades ago by transforming his edible landscape into something resembling a Soviet Gulag with ten-foot wire fences and electric monitoring systems.

On one of the first evenings I dined with Max and his wife, Myrtis, a gifted Southern cook, I noticed a large jar of Taster’s Choice instant coffee going round on the lazy Suzan. Attached to it with rubber bands was an index card covered with tiny dates written in pencil.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.

Myrtis laughed. “Oh, that’s Max’s record of all the squirrels he’s dispatched with his pellet rifle over the years in order to keep them out of his garden.”

The death count went back decades.

Among other surprises, this cool, wet spring brought a noticeable uptick in the squirrel and chipmunk populations around the neighborhood, which made me briefly consider picking up an air rifle of my own.

For the moment at least, our young female Staffordshire Bull Terrier has taken matters into her own paws, nimbly standing guard over the back garden from atop a brick terrace wall, ready to leap into action at the sight of a furry invader. Our in-town neighborhood is also home to a sizable community of rabbits that appear at dawn and dusk to feed in the front yards along the block. The dogs pay little or no attention to them. For the most part, ours seems to be a remarkably peaceful kingdom with no need to resort to sterner measures of defense.

At the end of the day, this may be my form of post-pandemic compensation. My garden has actually never looked better, save for the untimely passing of a lovely green dragon.

This morning, after I set down a few closing words, I’ve made up my mind to go out and do what I should have done weeks ago — dig up my dead maple and send it on to the town mulch pile. At least its remains may eventually enrich someone else’s garden.

In its place, I’ll plant a border of peonies that will fill in nicely in a year or two.

I shall miss that lovely green dragon, though.  PS

Jim Dodson can be reached at jim@thepilot.com.

The Creators of N.C.

A Place Like Home

Wilmington’s Seabird restaurant and oyster bar has landed

By Wiley Cash
Photographs By Mallory Cash

Chefs Dean Neff and Lydia Clopton are sitting at a table inside Seabird, their recently opened seafood restaurant and oyster bar in downtown Wilmington. It is midafternoon, and sunlight streams through the high windows along Seabird’s west-facing wall. The hum of breakfast has passed, and the dinner crowd has yet to arrive. Reservations have been fully booked since opening night. In this rare quiet moment, the couple pauses to reflect on what brought them together, what brought them to Wilmington, and what has kept them in the restaurant business since their chance meeting more than a decade ago.

Given their shared history, it should come as no surprise that Neff and Clopton use the word “our” a lot. After all, they share a family, a restaurant and a past. But when the chefs discuss Seabird, it is clear that their use of the word extends beyond their personal and professional relationship to the place they now call home.

“Seabird is a small, community restaurant,” Neff says, “and I hope it’s a place that feels like part of our community.”

Partnerships with local farmers and small-scale fishermen support Seabird’s efforts to be good stewards of the environment, says Neff. The restaurant’s crew is treated like family, and menus vary based on seasonal availability. “Our food is going to develop from our relationships with the people in this community.”

Neff and Clopton’s relationship began 12 years ago in Athens, Georgia, where Neff was the new sous-chef at Hugh Acheson’s now-iconic restaurant, Five and Ten. At the time, Clopton was working toward a biology degree at the University of Georgia. “I was baking a lot at home,” she says, “and my roommate said, ‘You should try doing this professionally.’”

A friend of Clopton’s worked at Five and Ten. Neff remembers the day that Clopton came in for her interview. When owner Hugh Acheson asked if she’d ever baked professionally, Clopton admitted that she hadn’t. But Acheson must have seen something in the eager young baker. Neff remembers him saying, “Great. When can you start?” Neff must have seen something in her too, and, soon, she would see something in him as well. Romance ensued. From Athens, where Neff eventually became executive chef at Five and Ten and worked with Acheson on his first cookbook, the couple ventured to Western North Carolina, where Clopton and Neff both found themselves working with some of the South’s best known chefs and restauranteurs: Neff helped John Fleer open Rhubarb, a farm-to-table restaurant on the square in downtown Asheville. Clopton worked at Asheville’s Chai Pani, known for its innovative Indian street food, and also helped open Katie Button’s Nightbell, a cocktail bar beneath Cúrate, another Button restaurant lauded for its “curative” Spanish cuisine.

Next, Clopton was baking wedding cakes out of the couple’s home while Neff taught in the culinary arts program at Asheville-Buncombe Tech and coached the school’s competition cooking team. “I loved what we were doing, but I knew that the longer we did it the harder it would be to get back into a restaurant,” Neff says.

And that was when Athens returned to their lives in a surprising way.

A man named Jeff Duckworth had long been a regular at Acheson’s Five and Ten. Back when Neff was chef, it wasn’t uncommon for Duckworth to find his way into the kitchen after enjoying a meal. He would always say the same thing to Neff: “We should go open a restaurant somewhere.” Years later, Duckworth tracked Neff and Clopton down in Asheville to let them know he was leaving Athens for Wilmington. He said he was ready to prove how serious he was about partnering with Neff.

Although the couple had never visited Wilmington, it had been on their radar. “Back when we were in Athens, we had a list of places that we were considering moving, and Asheville and Wilmington were on it,” Clopton says. “And it just happened.”

The first time Neff and Clopton drove across the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge, the river below and the city nestled on its banks before them, they knew this was where they would make their home, both in the restaurant business and in the community.

The partnership between Duckworth and Neff opened as PinPoint in May of 2015, and Neff immediately understood how important local support would be to the success of any small, community restaurant. “We thought that being downtown would get us a lot of tourists, but the space didn’t lend itself to that. You had to really know about it,” he says. Local support grew, and so did a buzz that carried beyond the city and state. While Neff loved his time at PinPoint, he grew eager to strike out on his own.

“I sold my shares to Jeff in 2019, and I wasn’t sure at that moment what I was going to do,” Neff says. “We’d just found out that Lydia was pregnant, and then I learned that I was on the long list for the James Beard Award for best chef in the Southeast, and it all kind of reinvigorated the idea that I wanted to open our restaurant in the way we wanted to do it.”

In the midst of all these changes, Clopton had opened Love, Lydia, an upscale bakery near downtown, where her offerings, especially her focaccia, made a name for themselves. According to North Carolina-based food and travel writer Jason Frye, “Lydia was willing to step out and take some chances. It wasn’t the typical stuff. She did things like bring sesame seeds to her focaccia, and that and other choices she made showed a full and thorough approach to food.”

Neff hoped that Clopton would be willing to bring that same full and thorough approach to a shared venture. “She’s a details person,” Neff says. “And I knew that if we did this restaurant together then we would spend more time together, and everything — from the front of the house to the back — would be better if she were here.”

It turns out that the couple would be spending a lot of time together. In quick succession, their son was born, the pandemic hit, Clopton closed her bakery, and, finally, in May, Seabird opened to rave reviews.

Neff credits the name of the restaurant with his obsession with maps and aerial views. When thinking of names, he pictured a bird flying over Eastern North Carolina, gazing down upon the expansive landscape from which he and Clopton would draw both ingredients and inspiration. When someone tipped him off to the song “Seabird” by the Alessi Brothers, Neff knew they had chosen the right name, especially when he read the lyrics Lonely seabird, you’ve been away from land too long. Those lines are now featured beneath the restaurant’s marquee at the corner of Front and Market Street in downtown Wilmington.

While both subtle and bold details inform the visual aesthetic at Seabird, clean lines, floor to ceiling windows, and textures varying from natural wood to textiles, create a space that feels durable and robust yet finely appointed. But make no mistake; while the restaurant is gorgeous, the menu is the focus.

Jason Frye cites the smoked catfish and oyster pie as being among his favorites. “It’s a masterclass in subtle flavors,” he says. “The oyster is stewed until tender, and the smoked catfish is done lightly, so the smoke comes in, but it doesn’t overwhelm the creamed collards and celery broth or the potato-flour pastry that sits on top. With every bite, one flavor leads into the next. At the end, you don’t come away from it feeling like you’ve read a collection of short stories. You feel like you’ve read a novel.” And that’s exactly what Neff and Clopton want the food at Seabird to do: tell the story of the community it comes from.

After more than a decade of working solo or for other chefs or alongside business partners, Dean Neff and Lydia Clopton have come home to Seabird, and they’re inviting locals and visitors to join them. Food, stories, family, community: All of the ingredients are here.  PS

Wiley Cash is the writer-in-residence at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, will be released this year.