Character Study

The Voice of America’s Horse Shows

How Peter Doubleday took the mic

By Jenna Biter

An inviting red leather armchair in the library of Little Squire Farm seems to say: sit, read. The 8-foot-tall bookshelves are neatly crowded, as buttoned down as the man himself. There are vinyl albums and CDs, books about foxhunting, and shelves and shelves of others covering all the trappings and intricacies of the equestrian world. Photos of personal import from a career — an almost accidental career — that has lasted nearly half a century occupy nooks and crannies and the rare empty space on a wall. Among it all is a treasured copy of The Horseman’s Encyclopedia that had once belonged to Peter Doubleday’s father, Robert, the man whose riding path he followed.

Peter Doubleday was born and raised in Syracuse, New York, about an hour south of Lake Ontario and a 90-minute drive from Cooperstown, home to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. It was his great uncle Abner (to some unknown degree of greats) who allegedly invented America’s game in Elihu Phinney’s cow pasture in 1839, later laying out a diamond when he was a cadet at West Point. Abner Doubleday went on to become a decorated Union soldier, rising to the rank of general, and was the officer who ordered the North’s first shots of the Civil War in defense of Fort Sumter.

Peter squabbles with the imaginary nonbelievers: “People say, ‘Well, he didn’t invent baseball,’ and I say, ‘Well, yes he did.’” He laughs and settles onto a chaise longue with his Jack Russell terrier, Sophie, who follows him as if there was an imaginary lifeline permanently linking the pair. “The best dog on Earth,” Doubleday says.

Peter’s dad, Robert “Deacon” Doubleday, was a radio show and television personality with NBC’s Syracuse affiliate WSYR. He hosted Wired Woodshed, a popular agricultural program that got rural farmers through their early morning chores. Because Deacon used his voice to make his living, he was asked to announce some horse shows, first on vacations and holidays, but eventually becoming the voice of some of America’s biggest shows.

“So, they would drag me around as a kid to these horse shows all over the Northeast,” Peter says. He enjoyed the show environment — he was a high school kid and there were girls and horses, what’s not to like? — but he didn’t pay much attention to his dad’s role. And he certainly didn’t expect to inherit the mic. But, just as Joe Buck followed his father, Jack, as Major League baseball announcers, Peter Doubleday would follow Deacon. Some careers, particularly the kind that require the God-given talent of voice, are partly chosen, but partly preordained.

After high school, Doubleday traded the chill of upstate New York for the sunshine of South Florida, attending the University of Miami to pursue an education degree. “I kind of wanted to be a teacher,” he says.

After his junior year, his dad fell ill and couldn’t fulfill his commitment to announce the horse show at the 1971 New York State Fair. Deacon told the staff, “Why don’t you try my son?”

The fair was a huge spectator event, but the son nervously rose to the occasion. Though he returned to Miami, Peter pitched relief in a few other shows before his father passed away in January of ’72.

“I wanted to work with horse shows now that I had gotten the bug,” he says. Longtime friends Hannah and Joel Potter owned Rocky Fork Headley Hunt, a foxhunting club and 30-horse stable not unlike the Moore County Hounds, located in suburban Columbus, Ohio. Doubleday moved there to work at the stables mucking stalls, grooming horses, riding and teaching lessons.

“You know how everybody talks about a break? A big break?” Doubleday asks. That’s where he got his. Two of the horses he cared for belonged to Bruce Sundlin. Though the name didn’t mean much to him at the time, Sundlin (who would serve as governor of Rhode Island in the ’90s) was the president of the Washington International Horse Show, a world-renowned, week-long competition in D.C. that draws thousands of spectators each October. Sundlin learned Doubleday had announcing experience and asked him to voice the show. Reluctant at first, it turned out the bug was bigger than the balk. He did it, and he’s had a microphone in his hands ever since.

Doubleday began traveling for shows, returning to Columbus less and less frequently. By 1975, at the age of 25, his announcing career had become full time. He began producing the shows, leading the front end, announcing results, entertaining fans, educating the audience about breeds and classes, and selecting and playing music, including anthems when competitions were international. He also led the back end, communicating with the stables to ensure horses and riders were ready for their events.

“Driving classes, like the Budweiser hitch, it takes a long time for them to get organized,” Doubleday says.

Not long after, he relocated his home base to Southern Pines, though he spent more time in hotel rooms than in any house. “I got involved with the right people, the right horse shows, and boom, I was on the road 40 weeks of the year,” he says, “Sometimes more.”

Success and longevity, however, aren’t matters of getting a break here or there. Doubleday’s adolescence spent at horse shows had familiarized him with quarter horses, Arabians, Morgans and more, allowing him to voice all types of breed shows. Though hunters and jumpers are his specialty, he’s familiar with the gamut of disciplines from driving to dressage, and can announce those, too. “If you really want to do a good job, there’s a lot of work involved,” he says, nodding toward the library.

An effective announcer does more than regurgitate horsey jargon in a caramelized tone. He repackages complex information into digestible morsels, so that even a relatively uninformed audience can enjoy the show. “I drink tea in the morning, and there used to be a little phrase on the back of the tag on Salada bags,” Doubleday says. “One said, ‘Nothing is obvious to the uninformed.’ I always carried that thought.”

Doubleday has announced the major North American horse shows, including the Hampton Classic in New York, the Winter Equestrian Festival in Florida, and the Royal Horse Show in Toronto. He was the voice of two Pan American Games and the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games. “I’ll never forget my first morning of jumping,” Doubleday says, thinking of Atlanta and the 33,000 spectators in the stands. After delivering a few housekeeping announcements, the arena quieted and the Olympic theme music filled the air. “I said, ‘Welcome to the 26th Olympiad in Atlanta . . . and the place just went craaazy,” he recalls. “I’ll never forget that.”

Doubleday has had success managing shows, too. “The manager is the secretary for the horse show,” he says. “You do the computer work for all the entries; hire a jump crew to put up the jumps; hire people to take care of the footing and the water, make sure the stabling is up — the whole nine yards.”

Once the show starts, he’s hands on. “I’m a worker bee. I can’t sit still.” In an idle moment you’ll find him mucking stalls and picking up trash. “It’s like a hotel, you know, with the horses in and out. I’ll just pitch right in. ‘Let’s get it done.’”

At the height of his managing career, Doubleday oversaw eight or nine horse shows per year. He still manages three major shows: the Royal Horse Show, the Devon Horse Show and Country Fair, and the Devon Fall Classic in Pennsylvania, where he got his managing start in 1987.

COVID, of course, has impacted the workload. At one point, because he can’t sit still, he worked part time at Lowe’s Home Improvement.

Little Squire Farm, where he and his wife, Chrissie — a prize-winning equestrian herself — live, sits on a verdant tract of 10 acres. The cast and crew consist of the couple’s two barn cats; two horses, Woody and Walk My Drive, a retired racehorse who answers to Guac; a donkey named Burrito; and, of course, “the best dog on Earth.”

After nearly five decades behind the mic, Peter Doubleday isn’t quite ready to go silent. The workload in 2021 was nearly back to normal. “After getting in another nice year-and-a-half or so,” he says, glancing around the property, “then I could see myself riding off into the sunset.”  PS

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

Southwords

Dannazione! Scusa!

And other international incidents

By Beth MacDonald

When I was in high school I took French classes, envisioning a day when I would travel to Paris to chicly order Champagne and shop like a native. Unfortunately, I never think to lower my daydream expectations to allow for my real-life blunders.

I moved to Italy in my late 20s, and I needed to quickly learn the language in order to communicate for my job. I became fluent enough to manage around my Italian counterparts, order food and, of course, shop. I also managed to bungle the accents on enough words to offend the man at the gas station when asking for a pen to sign my NATO ration coupons. After four years I found out it was not a writing implement that I had been requesting. Oops. A friend of mine, far more conversant than I, began laughing to the point of tears when I repeated the phrase I had been using for so long. After a few minutes she calmed down enough to tell me what I had asked for was much more personal to a man than a pen, but very close in spelling. I started going to a different gas station.

When I finally made it to France as a tourist, I could only recognize two words: cigarette and pastry. I didn’t smoke, so the fact that “cigarette” is the same in just about any language did me no good. I tried to order water at a patisserie, asking for water, aqua, agua, eau (leaving butchered accents and articles strewn at the side of the road) and even tried a very determined — and exasperated — index finger pointing at the bottle of water I wanted. The lady at the counter refused to do anything but stare at me with a flat look on her face. The French built the Eiffel Tower is less time than it was taking me to get a sip of water. I could have shriveled up and died if it weren’t for a stranger stepping in to order for me.

A few years ago, I went to Greece for a few weeks. I made it a goal to gain some rudimentary knowledge regarding the lay of the land as well as learn a few greetings and courtesies. I bought books, I went online, and ultimately came to the conclusion that Greek is not easy and Google Translate hates me.

My husband is fluent in odd languages no one ever thinks about, like Tongan. He is much better at fitting in abroad. If he’s not good at something new, he’s confident, and that certainly goes a long way. He’ll say a word that doesn’t mean what he thinks it means, and people respond anyway. I can accurately give voice to an accent, but I have trouble remembering the words.

While in Greece, he was trying to help me (bless his heart) by giving me mnemonics to help me remember what I was supposed to say. Maybe it is our years of marriage that render anything he says immediately unheard, or perhaps it was because I’m a mom and everything in my brain gets scrambled and re-filed under, “Where are your shoes? Yes, you have to wear shoes.”

Either way, I forgot everything he told me right when I needed it most. I walked around trying to thank people by saying, with my very good accent, “Ikilledyourcat-a,” all the time smiling and bowing like a blonde Norwegian Sumo wrestler. I followed this by incorporating an odd hand gesture that made me look like the Pope conferring blessings upon all.

The people of Greece are lovely people, even if we’ve all grown weary of learning their alphabet. They are kind, and smiles are universal. After some time in Athens, I took to interpretive dance as my primary way of communicating — I might be a YouTube star in Europe to this day. Omicron aside, Greek is an amazing, beautiful language. If you mess up a word, not to worry, you haven’t said anything meaningful at all, just random gibberish. It’s not like other languages where you screw up and accidentally offend someone.

To be honest, I would still give my experience speaking Greek a five-star Yelp review just for the exercise I got ordering gyros by flailing my arms.  PS

Beth MacDonald is a Southern Pines suburban misadventurer with an earthy vocabulary who relies heavily on spellcheck. She loves to travel with her family, read everything she can, and shop locally for her socks.

Almanac

March

By Ashley Walshe

In March winter is holding back and spring is pulling forward. Something holds and something pulls inside of us too.

— Jean Hersey

March is an age-old prophecy: a great thaw followed by a riot of life and color.

Some said it would start with a single daffodil. A field of crocus. The soft warble of a bluebird.

All the signs are here. And in the bare-branched trees, where wild tangles of dead leaves resemble papier-mâché globes, newborn squirrels wriggle in their dreys, eyes closed.

Weeks ago, winter felt eternal. The cold air stung your face and fingers. The world was bleak and colorless.

Now, the red maple is blooming. Saucer magnolia, too. You build the last fire, sweep the hearth, return to the garden and its wet, fragrant earth.

Frost glistens in the morning light, but you know it’s true — that spring is coming. You know because the birds know. They cannot help but blurt it out.

Beyond the flowering quince, a woodpecker drums on a towering pine.

A towhee gushes drink-your-tea.

A robin whistles cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.

Soon, spring peepers and chorus frogs will join the band. The first bee will drink from the first hyacinth flower. A young squirrel will open its eyes.

Sunlight kisses wild violets, purple dead nettle, tender young grasses. Everywhere you look, you notice a new warmth, a new softness, the gentle pulse of life. By some miracle, spring has arrived. A sweet mystery born from the icy womb of winter.

A Gardener’s Luck

Let’s talk about three-leafed clover (genus Trifolium), a flowering herb in the legume family that just might be what your lawn or garden has been missing. Common as weeds — and often disregarded as such — clover can grow in most any climate, tolerate poor-quality soil and resist most pests and diseases. Here’s the best part: clover can “fix” spent patches of earth by restoring nitrogen levels. In other words, it’s a natural fertilizer and often is used as green manure crop.

Using clover as a ground cover between garden beds will also attract pollinators. Mix some clover with your grasses and your lawn will look greener. An added bonus: It’s impervious to dog urine. Even if you never find a four-leafer, that’s some good garden luck.

Spring Forward

Daylight saving time begins Sunday, March 13. Longer days inspire evening walks, birding, a quiet hour in the garden. Notice what’s flowering: breath-of-spring (winter honeysuckle), brilliant yellow forsythia, lemony scented star magnolia. Notice what needs to be pruned: ahem, the rose bush. Although the vernal equinox occurs Sunday, March 20, spring has been here for weeks, present in each glorious inhalation. Allergy season? Coming soon.  PS

Story of a House

Life on Blue Ribbon Lane

Where practicality and taste meet

By Deborah Salomon   •   Photographs by John Gessner & Laura L. Gingerich

Reading a house is like reading a palm. The footprint, as well as the décor, describe its occupants. This applies to Sapphire Farm, where two horses, a donkey, three dogs and a flock of chickens share a spectacular homestead with youthful retirees — an equestrienne and an environmentalist — deep in Southern Pines horse country.

This installation was conceived by Lynn and Buck McGugan to fulfill specific requirements. His, that the house be low maintenance. Hers, “I wanted to stand at the kitchen sink and look across at my horses in their stalls.”

Lynn is the sole caretaker of her animals, mostly rescues. Their bond is strong.

Buck doesn’t ride but he does play golf. Moore County offers both, at a high level.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but at Sapphire Farm — named for the birthstone of the McGugans’ son, Robert — practicality runs gut-deep. Buck, a financier with an architectural background, speaks with pride of the geothermal heating and cooling systems backed up by two generators. This includes the saltwater pool, with an unusual earth-hued liner. “The dark color holds the heat, giving us a longer swimming season,” Buck says.

The barn is sited for maximum breezes and minimum flies. Plantings attract birds and butterflies. Inside, tinted windows (no shades, blinds or drapes) reflect heat. Buck’s pride extends to building materials — no wood on the exterior, only Tennessee fieldstone, concrete shingles and stucco with embedded pigment that never needs painting. On the inside, locally sourced wide-board knotty pine covers floors and walls throughout, extending to a tray ceiling in the combo living-dining room.

Lynn and Buck met while employed by Xerox in the 1980s. Ten years ago, they were living in a Chicago suburb with Lynn’s horse, Butter, boarded off-site. Enough with severe winters already. “We were looking for a retirement place for horses and golf,” Lynn says. She accompanied Buck to a golf tournament in Pinehurst. “A friend had a place here. I rode with her on the (Walthour-Moss) foundation.”

Lynn did not expect the extent or beauty of the land or the depth of the equestrian community. “I cried the whole time.”

Finding open acreage adjacent to the foundation seemed beyond serendipity. “I saw the hunt leaving and said, ‘Where do I sign?’” Lynn remembers. They had built and renovated houses before, one dated 1889.

The couple worked with an architect for a year. The house would be U-shaped around a courtyard. One section (and the barn) with a tiny second-floor apartment was completed first. They lived there during construction of the remainder, total time three years, with Buck keeping a close watch.

Afterward, that apartment, plus another topping off the opposite end, serve as guest quarters for their son and others, since the core of this 5,000-square-foot residence has a master suite, but no other bedrooms.

Walk through the front door . . . and gasp. The foyer, rising nearly 30 feet, is a confluence of angles pointing upward to a glass-topped cupola, which allows sunbeams to stream through. Buck compares the foyer to the Pinehurst rotary, with branches going off in different directions. Except the rotary isn’t wood-paneled from ceiling to floor and furnished in farmhouse mode — a preview of what lies ahead, including fixtures that resemble gaslights and antiques of varied provenance.

“Everything has a story,” Lynn says, directing attention to photographs she has taken of tumbledown cabins, which comprise much of the wall décor. Even the frames are her handiwork, many found in unlikely places, attached to something else.

Gasp again at the living-dining room, for its scope. If the elongated medieval refectory table — a showpiece from Wright, an old and revered Carolina furniture company — and few upholstered pieces were removed, the space could double as a ballroom accommodating a dozen couples. Or hold 150 at Lynn’s famous brunch before and after the Blessing of the Hounds on Thanksgiving morning. Its walls beg touching. What could this material be?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peter Dowd, the McGugans’ builder, was tearing tin roofing off an old cotton plantation. The long panels, mottled with rust, were destined for the scrapyard. In them, Lynn saw texture. “I washed every one and removed the rusty nails,” which were reused to attach panels to the walls, since new nails would scream anachronism.

Elsewhere, beams were contrived from carpet rolls found when the Gulistan plant was torn down. A weathered barn door is attached to a wall, while farm implements rest on a workbench. Across from it stands a battered feed bin. By coincidence, Lynn’s initials are carved into the top. Beside the wood-burning stone fireplace, a gigantic fiddle-leaf fig plant suits the room’s proportions. Seagrove pottery is represented throughout.

In the nearby powder room an old pie safe with tin top has been made into a vanity, with a worn metal baking pan as a bowl.

Colors, no surprise, reflect the earth and its foliage. Furnishings, although spare, are not confined to one period. In the master suite, an Italian blanket chest with woven wood detail might be 400 years old — a wedding gift to Lynn’s great-grandparents. But the bed is a contemporary four-poster. Buck’s forward thinking extends to this suite surrounded on three sides by windows. The bathroom shower is wheelchair-accessible, with the tiled floor sloping toward the drain.

 

Lynn required an office for her photo library, also a tack room for equipment, riding apparel and ribbons. The house has two laundry rooms, one for people clothes, the other for horse-related washables. Her kitchen reflects training at a Swiss culinary school. It is vast, encompassing a family dining space, a worktable-island with outlets and shelves. Countertops are soapstone, cupboards rise to the ceiling, and wide, deep drawers contain more implements than an upscale kitchen boutique. These carpenter-made maple cupboards have been “distressed” by pounding with a horse bit. Lynn personalized the custom-made copper range hood by splotching it with vinegar and acid. Her appliances, however, are standard KitchenAid, and she bakes with an inexpensive hand mixer.

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Where are the ovens? “In the butler’s pantry, to keep the kitchen from heating up,” Lynn says. Here also is her pet appliance: a Scotsman brand under-the-counter maker of ice pellets, not cubes. “I built this kitchen around it.”

What’s missing? “We don’t watch TV,” Lynn says. “Too much bad news.” One is mounted in a screened porch; another in the guest apartment, none in the house proper.

The result: a home crafted as much for expression as shelter; spacious yet borderline bare, which makes each table, cabinet, painting and rug pop. A home that accommodates dogs and horses, welcomes guests who speak riding and putting — then cool off in a pool resembling a pond. An interior where Mother Nature plays drama queen with wood, stone and other natural materials. Nothing frilly or fluffy. No pastels or brights, except in the garden. Everything planned, engineered, durable, agreed upon by both parties, with no thought of norms or resale. 

“This is our last house,” pronounces its chatelaine. “I plan to die here . . . happy.”  PS

Birdwatch

Cleanup on Aisle 2

The vulture’s role in the ecosystem

By Susan Campbell

Vultures: All of us have seen them. Maybe it’s been passing a group feasting on a recently killed animal by the side of the road. Or, more likely, you have spotted an individual soaring overhead on long, outstretched wings. These odd looking birds are too often misunderstood and even disliked — for nothing more than their appearance. In actuality, they are fascinating creatures that perform a vital role in the ecosystem: They are Mother Nature’s cleanup crew.

Often referred to generically as “buzzards,” vultures are part of a family of birds found worldwide with dozens of species, including South American condors. Here in North Carolina, we have both turkey and black vultures year-round. Individuals from farther north significantly boost flock numbers in the cooler months. These large black scavengers lack feathers on their heads: likely an adaptation to feeding almost exclusively on carcasses. Turkey vultures are the more common species from the mountains to the coast. Soaring in a dihedral (v-shaped profile) on long wings with silver linings, they have red heads and long tails for steering.

Black vultures, however, have gray heads and white patches on the under-wing as well as somewhat shorter wings and tails. As a result, they soar with a flatter profile and fly with snappier wing beats. This species has really expanded across the Piedmont in recent years, perhaps due to development, increased road building and the inevitable roadkill that results.

The winter brings vultures together in what can be impressive roosting aggregations that are known as “wakes.” These groups can build to 100 or more individuals of both species that will roost close together in a particular spot: night after night during the season. Late in the day, they will gather in mature trees with larger branches capable of holding significant weight. It is easy to spot them on tall snags or sitting side by side on communication towers. Given the human tendency toward neatness, there are fewer and fewer dead trees for the birds to utilize — so they have been forced to use manmade perches. They may choose rooftops and this can, believe it or not, include people’s houses.

It is not obvious as to why they choose the locations that they do each winter. Given the ease at which they roam in search of food, proximity of their next meal seems rarely a concern. They are capable of gliding and soaring many miles each day. No doubt they require a location with a substrate that warms readily in the morning sun to provide the updrafts they require to reach cruising altitude. Vultures do need a perch that is open enough to allow them to spread their wings on takeoff. This is likely why they are found roosting in more open environments.

For those living near a vulture roost site, be aware that the birds seldom use the same location for more than one season. This could be for reasons of cleanliness or to perhaps reduce the chances of predation — but we really do not know. Also, do not expect that the wake will persist beyond early spring. The group will break up and head off to their breeding grounds by late February or early March. Using prevailing southerly breezes, they will be carried back north in short order.

Although we do have small numbers of breeding vultures in the Piedmont and Sandhills of North Carolina, they are widely dispersed and are quite secretive during the nesting season. Unless they are on the wing, sniffing out (yes, they use their noses more than their eyes) their next meal, they may go completely overlooked.  PS

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

PinePitch

Drawing by Addyson Hennessy (Grade 5), Aberdeen Elementary School

Chip Off the Old Masters

The annual Young People’s Fine Arts Festival at the Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, opens at 5 p.m. on Friday, March 4, highlighting the artwork of students in grades K-8 in Moore County’s public, private, charter and home schools. The art will be judged and awards given at a special reception and award ceremony. For more information call (910) 692-2787 or go to www.mooreart.org

Call me Crazy

The Sandhills Repertory Theatre presents Always . . . Patsy Cline, a tribute to the legendary country singer who died tragically in a plane crash at the age of 30. The show is based on a true story about Cline’s friendship with a fan from Houston named Louise Seger. Filled with down-home humor and classic tunes, opening night is March 4 at 7:30 p.m. at the Bradshaw Performing Arts Center, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Additional shows are March 5 and 6 at 2 p.m.
For more information go to wwwticketmesandhills.com or www.sandhillsrep.org.

The Ultimate Tutu

The Bolshoi Ballet streams its way onto the stage of the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad Street, Southern Pines, on Sunday, March 6, with its performance of Swan Lake, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s iconic ballet — panned when it debuted in March of 1877 — about a princess turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer. Sounds can’t-miss to us. For more information call (910) 692-3611 or visit www.sunrisetheater.com.

Finger Lickin’ Good

Order a tasty springtime meal and support the Given Memorial Library at the same time on Tuesday, March 22. Elliott’s on Linden will be doing all the cooking for you. Given to Go ticket sales begin March 7 and close March 18. Dinner can be picked up at the library, 150 Cherokee Road, Pinehurst, between 5:30 p.m. and 6:30 p.m. The cost is $24 per meal. For info call (910) 295-3642 or email giventufts@gmail.com.

Jazzing up the Great Room

Trombonist and composer Ryan Keberle has performed with Maria Schneider and Wynton Marsalis; with Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake, and Alicia Keys; with Pedro Giraudo and Ivan Lins. He’s even played in the house band for Saturday Night Live. On Wednesday, March 9, Keberle and his progressive modern jazz band Catharsis will be in the great room at Weymouth at 7 p.m. Doors open at 6. For more information and tickets go to www.weymouthcenter.org.

Walk This Way

The village of Pinehurst will hold its annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade on March 12 at 11 a.m., in or around Tufts Memorial Park, 1 Village Green Drive, Pinehurst. So, OK, it’s not actually St. Patrick’s Day, but it is a weekend, and the ACC basketball tournament finals won’t start for a while, and there will be festive parade entries and plenty of Irish cheer, so why not get a jump on the celebration? For additional information go to www.vopnc.org/events.

Dig This

If you’re in the over 55 set, dress in your favorite green thumb outfit and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day on Thursday, March 17, by touring some of Moore County’s most beautiful gardens from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Bring your own transportation and munchies for a post-tour picnic at the Sandhills Horticultural Gardens, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For more information call (910) 692-7376.

Someone’s Idea of Fun

FirstHealth Fitness of Pinehurst will host a free 5K Fun Run on Saturday, March 26, along the greenway trails. This is a timed event with staggered starts in small groups to maintain social distancing. Of course, if you really want to socially distance yourself, just go very, very slowly. For more information and registration call (910) 715-1800.

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!

For the first time, the Metropolitan Opera presents the original five-act French version of Giuseppe Verdi’s epic opera Don Carlos, the tale of doomed love among the royals, set against the backdrop of — you guessed it — the Spanish Inquisition. The performance streams at 12 noon on Saturday, March 26, at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For additional information call (910) 692-3611 or go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

Jazz on the Grass

Shana Tucker and ChamberSoul will be performing outdoors at a jazz brunch on Sunday, March 27, from 11:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. at the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. For more information visit www.weymouthcenter.org.

 

 

Bookshelf

March Books

FICTION

The Great Passion, by James Runcie

In 1727, Stefan Silbermann is a grief-stricken 13-year-old, struggling with the death of his mother and his removal to a school in distant Leipzig. Despite his father’s insistence that he try not to think of his mother too much, Stefan is haunted by her absence, and to make matters worse, he’s bullied by his new classmates. But when the school’s cantor, Johann Sebastian Bach, takes notice of his new pupil’s beautiful singing voice, Stefan’s life is permanently changed. A meditation on grief and music, The Great Passion is an imaginative tour de force.

How Strange a Season, by Megan Mayhew Bergman

With flawless intuition and depth, Bergman presents an unforgettable story collection featuring women seeking self, identity, independence and control of their circumstances. Each page crackles with life: A recently separated woman fills a huge terrarium with endangered flowers to establish a small world only she can control in an attempt to heal her broken heart; a competitive swimmer negotiates over which days she will fulfill her wifely duties, and which days she will keep for herself; a peach farmer wonders if her orchard will survive a drought; and, generations of a family in South Carolina struggle with fidelity and their cruel past, some clinging to old ways and others painfully carving new paths. Bergman’s provocative prose asks the questions: What are we leaving behind for our descendants to hold, and what price will they pay for our mistakes?

Sunflowers Beneath the Snow, by Teri M. Brown

When Ivanna opens the door to uniformed officers, her tranquil life is torn to pieces, leaving behind a broken woman who must learn to endure cold, starvation and the memories of a man who died in the act of betrayal. Using her thrift, ingenuity and a bit of luck, she finds a way to survive in Soviet Ukraine, along with her daughter, Yevtsye. The question remains: Will she be strong enough to withstand her daughter’s deceit and the eventual downfall of the nation she has devoted her life to?

NONFICTION

The Other Dr. Gilmer: Two Men, a Murder, and an Unlikely Fight for Justice, by Benjamin Gilmer

In a powerful true story expanding on one of the most popular This American Life episodes of all time, a rural physician learns that a former doctor at his clinic committed a shocking crime, leading him to uncover an undiagnosed mental health crisis in our broken prison system. When family physician Dr. Benjamin Gilmer began working at the Cane Creek clinic in rural North Carolina, he was following in the footsteps of a man with the same last name. His predecessor, Dr. Vince Gilmer, was beloved by his patients and community — right up until the shocking moment when he strangled his ailing father and then returned to the clinic for a regular day of work.

Poor Richard’s Women: Deborah Read Franklin and the Other Women Behind the Founding Father, by Nancy Rubin Stuart

In a vivid portrait of the women who loved, nurtured and defended the thrifty inventor-statesman of the American Revolution, Poor Richard’s Women reveals the long-neglected voices of the women behind Benjamin Franklin, America’s famous scientist and Founding Father who loved and lost during his lifelong struggle between passion and prudence. What emerges from Stuart’s pen is a colorful and poignant portrait of women in the age of revolution.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

The Ogress and the Orphans, by Kelly Barnhill

It’s difficult to be kind in an unkind place, but being a good neighbor means you may have to do the difficult thing sometimes. The Newbery Award-winning Barnhill has written another literary masterpiece destined to become a classic for discerning readers both young and old. (Ages 10-14.)

Pretty Perfect Kitty-Corn,
by Shannon Hale

True friends are as precious as the last cookie, but as Unicorn finds out, you don’t have to be perfect to be the perfect friend. Hale and illustrator LeUyen Pham have teamed up for another fun, rhyming Kitty-Corn tale that guarantees giggles. (Ages 4-7.) Meet the author and illustrator at The Country Bookshop, Wednesday, March 9, at 4 p.m.

Snail’s Ark, by Irene Latham

Kangaroos, zebras, lions, elephants — we all know they came on the ark two-by-two, but what about the snails? As it turns out, when the weather turns rough and the creek begins to rise, snails stick together. (Ages 3-6.)

A Grandma’s Magic, by Charlotte Offsay

When a baby is born, a magical thing happens: A grandma is born too, and she is instantly granted so many magical powers. Celebrate grandma magic with this oh-so-cute homage to the one who loves us best in the world. (Ages 3-6 and 45-98.)

Swim, Duck, Swim!, by Jennifer Harney

In the pond, not everything always goes as planned. When it’s duck No. 3’s turn to swim . . . she improvises. A cute take on being yourself and doing your best, this adorable title is perfect for Easter or any time young readers are struggling to fit in. (Ages 2-5.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

The Kitchen Garden

Pot ’o Green

Light up your early spring

By Jan Leitschuh

What’s prettier than a pot of pansies, satisfies our primal March longing for St. Paddy’s Day green, and is edible too?

’Tis the leafy stuff! Frilly, lacy, colored, savoyed or freckled greens.

It’s the cusp of spring. Sure, and isn’t it time you scratched that grand gardening itch and treated yourself to a salad greens planter?

Granted, “prettier than pansies” is a wee stretch, but pansies won’t shake off their winter doldrums and hit their glory days until later in the month. Don’t we just need some fierce vernal cheerfulness? Cheaper than a bouquet of flowers, a greens tub or planter can light up your springtime front-step pots or window boxes.

Most spring greens such as spinach, various cheerfully hi-colored lettuces, kale, arugula, candy-stemmed chards, collards and more — herbs such as parsley or mint, even broccoli, onions or cauliflower — are moving onto the shelves of local plant vendors. Available in 4- or 6-packs, the greens are well-started and offer instant gratification and useful design elements.

Those of you with a patch of good ground can skip all the container folderal and save some money by buying a seed packet or two. Till up the spot, add lots of compost (or well-aged manure — most greens are heavy feeders) and sprinkle your seeds. Pat them into the soil with the flat of your hand and keep lightly watered if the rains don’t fall.

You should have greens o’plenty in your cutting garden in April. May the rows rise up to meet ye!

However, not everyone is blessed with that grand patch of good ground, and why should you miss out on one of the oldest rites of spring? Mix lots of mature compost into the soil of your planting vessel. A premixed potting soil with fertilizer included will surely bring the luck of the Irish.

As long as it has good drainage and holds an adequate amount of soil, the container doesn’t much matter, does it?

Humble or classy? You can spark up a fancy glazed ceramic pot for the front step, populate a wooden window box, stuff a whisky barrel half, hide a lined laundry basket among some small shrubs, or just use some larger black plastic planting pots.

Just mind the three aspects of good container design: thriller, filler and spiller.

Your thriller element will offer some height and an upright element to catch the eye, won’t it now? Pick a tall, strong-leaved and substantial plant such as dark green dinosaur kale to anchor your salad pot or planter. A twig framework anchored in the middle might support springtime’s garden candy, edible-podded sugar snap peas.

Another vertical option might be a tall trio of rainbow Swiss chard, with its candy-colored stalks. Romaine or certain young collard plants might work, if you can find them. Onion and garlic greens give a similar upright effect.

The middle layer, or “filler,” is your workhorse. Stuff in plants of nutritious spinach, lettuce and spicy arugula. So many pretty lettuces to choose from! Pinch off a few leaves to fill out your salad or green smoothie.

Another option — add in the different textures of herbs that favor spring temperatures. Dark green parsley is a perfect companion, handsome set against the frilly lime greens and burgundies of lettuces, and useful in cooking. Mints and cilantro also do well in the spring before the days heat up.

The “spiller” layer that softens the pot edges and drapes over the side will be a little harder to find for a springtime pot. Perennial herbs such as thyme droop nicely but are barely leafing out. Edible flowers like nasturtiums might work. You could deploy a small pot of ivy for its draping effect, and let it grow in situ for your summer pot creation.

When the temperatures heat up, greens tend to go gagging about the place and turn bitter, switching from the vegetative to the reproductive stage. Diehard gardeners might permit this and save the seeds (or allow for a less-reliable self-sowing). The small yellow flowers on stalks have their own delicate beauty.

But it’s perfectly fine if you pull out the spent greens and toss them on the compost heap. Then plant yourself a summer tomato, a bell pepper — or go full floral for your summer display. Until then, sláinte!  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of Sandhills Farm to Table.

The Creators of N.C.

The Lost Treasure of Home

Jonas Pate and his runaway hit Outer Banks

By Wiley Cash

While there is plenty of mystery in the breakout Netflix smash hit Outer Banks — everything from a father lost at sea to a legendary treasure — the mystery that director and co-creator Jonas Pate seems most intent on exploring is the age-old mystery of what divides people along class lines. It worked for Shakespeare with his Montagues and Capulets, and 370 or so years later it worked again for Bernstein’s and Sondheim’s Jets and Sharks. Pate’s rival groups are similarly aged, sun-kissed teenagers living and partying along North Carolina’s Outer Banks, where a group of working class kids known as the “Pogues” continually find themselves marginalized and dismissed by the “Kooks,” who are the children of wealthy residents and seasonal tourists. Fists and hearts certainly fly, but despite the show’s use of cliffhangers and action-packed sequences, at its core Outer Banks investigates the emotional and experiential threads that pull some of us together across class lines while invisible barriers push others of us apart.

According to Pate, the divide between the haves and the have nots is “the oldest story in the world. It cuts across everything,” which he believes explains the show’s broad appeal.

Broad indeed. In the late spring of 2020, just as the people of the world were settling into the pandemic and the realization that they did not want to see or hear another word about Tiger King and Joe Exotic, Outer Banks debuted in mid-April and quickly became one of Netflix’s most watched shows of the year. The following summer, the show’s second season hit No. 1 on the Nielsen report. The success seemed immediate, and the show’s slick production quality made it all appear as easy and relaxed as a day on the water, but Jonas Pate and his twin brother, Josh, with whom he created Outer Banks along with Shannon Burke, had spent their whole lives preparing for this moment.

The Pate brothers grew up in Raeford, North Carolina, where their father served as a judge and their grandfather owned a local pharmacy. “It was amazing,” Jonas says. “It was like Mayberry. I’d ride my bike to the pharmacy and get a Cherry Coke and a slaw dog, and then I’d visit my dad at the courthouse. My stepmom was head of parks and recreation, so I’d go over there and help ref T-ball games.”

We are sitting on the second-story porch of the home he shares with his wife, Jennifer, and their two teenage children in Wilmington, just across the water from Wrightsville Beach. The January morning is unseasonably warm and sunny, and Jonas is dressed as if he just stepped off the set of Outer Banks, not as its director but as one of its stars. (How handsome is Jonas Pate? A few days later, our 5-year-old daughter will walk past Mallory’s computer while she is editing photos of Jonas. She will stop in her tracks and ask, “Who is that?”)

Jonas’ surfer appeal is not surprising considering that while he primarily grew up in Raeford and attended high school there, he spent his summers with his mother along the barrier islands near Charleston. “Outer Banks is an amalgam of different high school environments and things that we went through,” he says. “It helped create the mythical environment of Outer Banks where we kind of knew what it was like to live feral in a small town with haves and have-nots. Kiawah and James Island were like that. It was poor kids and rich kids, and they would get into fights. And Raeford is still very rural.”

Rural, yes, but Jonas and Josh still found plenty to keep them busy. If they were not exploring the marshes and waterways off the coast of Charleston, then they were shooting homemade movies back in Raeford, where they made films of Robin Hood and Hercules and edited them by using two VHS machines. He laughs at the memory of it. “The cuts were terrible and fuzzy,” he says, “and all the special effects and sound were awful.” But he admits that something felt and still feels magical about it. He had always loved film, especially those by Steven Spielberg and Frank Capra, saying that he has “always been drawn to filmmakers who are a little sweeter and have a little more heart.”

After college, the brothers found that they still had the desire to make films, but they did not know how to break into the industry. “We didn’t know anyone in the film business,” he says. “We didn’t know anything.”

The brothers moved to New York and worked to immerse themselves in the city’s film culture. While interning at the Angelika Film Center, Josh met Peter Glatzer, who was a fundraiser for the Independent Feature Project. They talked about screenwriting, and the Pate brothers soon had a script that Glatzer was interested in producing. Their first film, The Grave, was shot in eastern North Carolina, and while it did not receive a theatrical release and went straight to video after premiering on HBO, the Pate brothers had their collective foot in the door. In 1997, they made another North Carolina-shot film with Glatzer, The Deceiver, that starred Tim Roth and Renée Zellweger, and it found a larger audience after debuting at the Venice Film Festival and being distributed by MGM. The brothers headed for Los Angeles.

Once there, Jonas found himself “taking jobs just to pay the bills” and “getting further and further away from what I actually wanted to do.” One bright spot of his time in LA was meeting his wife, Jennifer, who also worked in the industry as a casting agent. Not long after they met, Jennifer started her own agency, and Jonas went to her for assistance in casting his first television show, Good vs. Evil, in 1999. From there he went on to direct and produce a number of television shows, including the NBC shows Deception and Prime Suspect and ABC’s Blood and Oil. In 2005, the Pate brothers partnered again and returned to North Carolina, where they filmed a single season of the television show Surface, which they co-created. After having kids, Jonas and Jennifer decided to move back to North Carolina in time for their son and daughter to attend high school. Jonas suddenly found himself on the other side of the country from the industry he had devoted his life to for the past 20 years.

But then something magical happened. Jonas understood two things: First, he needed to create something that could be shot on the coast so he could stay close to home. Second, he would draw from his own experiences to make it real. “When I pulled from my own life instead of the movies I’d seen, it all came together,” he says. “You get to the universal by being super specific.”

One big challenge that Jonas and his team encountered was casting the show’s young stars. “We auditioned maybe 500 or 600 kids, and we really had to try to find kids who’d been outside and lived in the outdoors.” Not surprisingly, given the Pate brothers’ personal ties to the show’s geography, nearly every star they cast was from the South, except for one who hailed from Alaska. “Growing up outside, being around boats,” Jonas says, “it’s hard to fake that stuff, and it’s hard to make it look real if it’s not.”

I turn off the recorder and Mallory packs up her photography gear, and we say our goodbyes to Jonas. He is leaving soon for another production set. We share a number of mutual friends in Wilmington with him and Jennifer, and we talk about getting together for dinner once he returns.

Mallory and I are alone in the driveway when I realize that I have locked the keys in our car. To say that I was embarrassed — and, let’s be honest, panicked — would be an understatement. Mallory pulled out her phone and began searching for a locksmith. I have a flip phone, so I just stood there, weighing the two most logical options: breaking the window with one of Jonas’ landscaping rocks or just leaving the car and walking home, denying it was ever ours.

I cannot help thinking that if I were John B., the star of Outer Banks and leader of the Pogues, played by Chase Stokes, I would sneak into a neighbor’s garage and hotwire their car, drive home, procure a backup set of keys, and return for Mallory while passing under the investigating deputy’s nose. Or, if I were Topper, the leader of the Kooks, played by Austin North, I would bang on Jonas’ door and use his phone to call my father’s car service. But I am neither of these characters. I’m just me, so I apologize again to Mallory, and we wait for the locksmith together.  PS

Wiley Cash is the Alumni Author-in-Residence at the University of North Carolina Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, is available wherever books are sold.

Poem

What The Moon Knows

She knows shadow, how to

slip behind clouds. She’s perfected

the art of disappearing. She knows

how to empty herself into the sky,

whisper light into darkness.

She knows the power of silence,

how to keep secrets, even as men

leave footprints in the dust, try to claim her.

Waxing and waning, she summons

the tides. Whole and holy symbol,

she remains perfect truth, tranquility.

Friend and muse, she knows the hearts

of lovers and lunatics. She knows 

she is not the only one that fills the sky,

but the sky is her only home.

—  Pat Riviere-Seel

Pat Riviere-Seel is the author of When There Were Horses