Crossroads

Good and Dead

And totally down-to-earth

Story and Photograph by Ashley Walshe

Our neighbors are the best. They’re very quiet, very private — I’ve never actually seen them. But I should mention that they’re also very dead.

Last spring, my husband and I moved into an RV near Lake James as a sort of romantic venture as newlyweds. We live at the end of a private drive shared with other RV-ers (mostly weekend warriors) and a few retirees with swanky prefabs and sweeping views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Our view is a little different. Just beyond the camper’s east-facing windows — and I do mean just beyond them — 11 white crosses are staggered among windswept pines, a sparse fringe of mountain laurel and a dusting of vibrant moss. Most of the crosses are wooden, one is broken; a handful are PVC replicas. Two weatherworn headstones blend with the rugged landscape.

The site is decidedly understated. No fencing; no benches; no fancy signage. Propped against the base of a lichen-laced pine, a wooden plank marks “Dobson Cemetery” in hand-painted lettering.

I make it a point to greet the Dobsons each day, same as I would any neighbors. There’s Alexander (d. 1876), who lived to be 83; and Cora J. (obviously dead but stone illegible); and at least 11 others. Lord knows how many bones rest 6 feet below. But I find comfort in the Dobsons’ quiet presence. So far as I can tell, they don’t seem to mind mine. 

My fascination with cemeteries began six years ago while visiting my great aunt in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Shirley was dying of bone cancer, and I was there to help her sort through her worldly possessions. It was a tender time.

While Shirley was facing her mortality in a literal sense, I was navigating a different kind of loss. After supper, I’d venture down the street for a stroll through the city’s oldest cemetery. There, perhaps for obvious reasons, my heartache felt welcome. Yet so did my dreams of a full and happy life. As I wove among the ancient trees and motley gravestones — the living and the dead — my perspective shifted. We’re not here for long. What will we do with the time we’ve got?

Which brings me back to our camper with a view. 

We see our share of white-tailed deer. Birds come and go. But you can imagine we don’t get a ton of human foot traffic back here. We’d had none, in fact, until the other morning.

We were dining on the back deck when our neighbor — a live one from a few lots down — appeared like an apparition amid the wooden crosses. Our startled dog went ballistic.

“Sorry to disrupt your brunch,” Dave chimed as he tromped heavily through the lot. Despite having lived here for over two years, he’d never felt inclined to visit the cemetery until hearing that the Dobsons “may or may not” be related to Daniel Boone.

He came. He saw. He seemed utterly unimpressed. We returned to our peaceful graveside picnic.

That our dead neighbors might be kin to an American trailblazer certainly intrigued me, but after a bit of fruitless digging — online, mind you — I gladly surrendered the search. The way I see it, they’ve all crossed the veil into that good night. They’re all pioneers. Besides, it’s often the mystery that keeps life interesting. 

On that note, dear neighbors, I’m really glad you’re here. I hope you won’t mind if I keep saying hi. But it’s really OK if you don’t say it back.   PS

Ashley Walshe is a former editor of O.Henry magazine and a longtime contributor to PineStraw.

Almanac

October is the wisdom weaver, spinning the invisible to light, capturing the ephemeral, then letting it all go — again and again.

On this crisp autumn morning, waves of yellow leaves release themselves to the damp earth, and golden light illuminates a silver orb. Glistening with beads of dew, the spider web is a work of wonder. A series of concentric whorls and radial lines resembles the helm of an ancient ghost ship; the thumbprint of an unseen giant; a chandelier turned sideways. Dripping like crystals from tidy spirals of silk, hundreds of water droplets hold within them tiny worlds of ever-shifting beauty and light. Until the dew dries, each leaf falls 1,000 times. Until the dew dries, a hidden world is manifest.

The garden spider knows three things: creation, destruction and the space in-between. In other words: Nothing will last. She isn’t afraid of starting over.

In the evening, when the shadows take life and the owls cackle like witches gone mad, the black and yellow spider will swallow her own web. The same wind that sends colored leaves swirling will carry a fresh line of silk from one swaying tree to another, the bridge from which the weaver spins anew.

Tomorrow, the air will be cooler; the light, softer; the leaves, a brighter shade of gold. The spider, silent at the navel of her orb, will wait for her next cue. It’s neither time to build nor devour. And yet, the leaves continue to spill. The crows are roosting by the hundred. An invisible force is stirring, whirling at the center of all living things.

 

Flickering Lights

Before the first winter squash was gutted and carved to resemble a ghoulish floating head, early Irish immigrants fashioned jack-o’-lanterns from turnips and mangelwurzels (root vegetables used as fodder). Why? Tradition. And to ward off evil spirits, of course.

Have you ever seen a face hacked into a hollowed-out turnip? By comparison, our pumpkin “jacks” appear quite jolly. If you’re really trying to spook your neighbors this year, consider whittling a bushel of root veggies for the front porch. Or not.

Pumpkin Craft

Sure, you can roast the seeds (toss with oil and sea salt, then bake for 20 minutes at 350 degrees). But what of all the pumpkin guts?

If you’re one to add pumpkin to everything but the compost pile — muffins, oatmeal, waffles, cookies, soup — try making a purée. It’s like pie filling, minus all the sugar and spices. And it’s pretty simple:

First, remove the seeds (you’re roasting them anyway, right?). Next, steam the pulp until it’s tender (about 30 minutes), let cool, then use a potato masher or food processor until pulp is smooth and creamy. Freeze the excess.

Yes, a sugar pumpkin will taste better. But a carvin’ pumpkin is more fun.  PS

Bookshelf

October Books

FICTION

Our Missing Hearts, by Celeste Ng

Twelve-year-old Bird Gardner lives a quiet existence with his loving but broken father, a former linguist who now shelves books in a university library. Bird knows to not ask too many questions, stand out too much, or stray too far. For a decade, their lives have been governed by laws written to preserve “American culture” in the wake of years of economic instability and violence. To keep the peace and restore prosperity, the authorities are now allowed to relocate children of dissidents, especially those of Asian origin, and libraries have been forced to remove books seen as unpatriotic — including the work of Bird’s mother, Margaret, a Chinese American poet who left the family when he was 9 years old. Bird has grown up disavowing his mother and her poems; he doesn’t know her work or what happened to her, and he knows he shouldn’t wonder. But when he receives a mysterious letter containing only a cryptic drawing, he is pulled into a quest to find her. His journey will take him back to the many folktales she poured into his head as a child, through the ranks of an underground network of librarians, into the lives of the children who have been taken, and finally to New York City, where a new act of defiance may be the beginning of much-needed change. From the bestselling author of Little Fires Everywhere, the highly anticipated Our Missing Hearts is a deeply suspenseful novel about the unbreakable love between a mother and child in a society consumed by fear.

Signal Fires, by Dani Shapiro

On a summer night in 1985, three teenagers have been drinking. One of them gets behind the wheel of a car and, in an instant, everything on Division Street changes. Each of their lives, and that of Ben Wilf, a young doctor who arrives on the scene, is shattered. For the Wilf family, the circumstances of that fatal accident will become the deepest kind of secret, one so dangerous it can never be spoken about. But, time moves on, even on Division Street. Years later a new family, the Shenkmans, arrive. When Waldo, the Shenkmans’ brilliant, lonely son, befriends Dr. Wilf — now retired and struggling with his wife’s decline — past events come hurtling back in ways no one could have foreseen.

Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver

Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield from his experience as a survivor of institutional poverty and its damages to children in his society. In transposing a Victorian epic novel to the contemporary American South, Kingsolver enlists Dickens’ anger and compassion, and above all, his faith in the transformative powers of a good story. Set in the mountains of southern Appalachia, Demon Copperhead is the story of a boy born to a teenage single mother, living in a trailer, with no assets beyond his dead father’s good looks and copper-colored hair, a caustic wit, and a fierce talent for survival. Relayed in his own unsparing voice, he braves the modern perils of foster care, child labor, derelict schools, athletic success, addiction, disastrous loves and crushing losses. Demon Copperhead speaks for a new generation of lost boys, and all those born into beautiful, cursed places they can’t imagine leaving behind.

NONFICTION

The Revolutionary: Samuel Adams, by Stacy Schiff

Thomas Jefferson asserted that if there was any leader of the American Revolution, “Samuel Adams was the man.” With high-minded ideals and bare-knuckle tactics, Adams led what could be called the greatest campaign of civil resistance in American history. Schiff, a Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer, returns Adams to his seat of glory, introducing us to the shrewd, eloquent, and intensely disciplined man who supplied the moral backbone of the American Revolution. A singular figure at a singular moment, Adams packaged and amplified the Boston Massacre. He helped to mastermind the Boston Tea Party. He employed every tool in an innovative arsenal to rally a town, a colony, and eventually a band of colonies behind him, creating the cause that created a country. For his efforts he became the most wanted man in America: When Paul Revere rode to Lexington in 1775, it was to warn Adams that he was about to be arrested for treason. Schiff brings her masterful skills to Adams’ improbable life, illuminating his transformation from aimless son of a well-off family to tireless, beguiling radical who mobilized the colonies. 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Farmhouse, by Sophie Blackall

Houses tell stories of important days and nothing-much days, of laughter and people and animals, of tiny important things once loved and now left behind. Farmhouse honors all of those things in loving collage and illustration. Kids will love it, but parents and grandparents may just find they have stories of their own to tell.  (Ages 4-8.)

Hey, Bruce!, by Ryan Higgins

You have laughed with him, flown south with him, and raised a flock of baby geese with him, and now you can interact with him. Bruce, the bear just grumpy enough to love, is back in this fun title that will send him flying through the air and have books tumbling off the shelves into the hands of delighted young readers. (Ages 2-5).

Set Sail for Pancakes!, by Tim Kleyn

Breakfast food books are the new hot(cake) item in the kid’s section. Sail the high seas with Margot and Grandpa as they try to find the perfect ingredients for a delicious breakfast, then make a batch of your own. (Ages 3-7.)

My Pet Feet, by Josh Funk

Awakening to a world with feet instead of ferrets, hoses instead of horses, and flocks of cows instead of crows, when the letter R goes missing an entire town goes upside down in this funny picture book packed with visual jokes. A must for story time, bedtime or anytime. (Ages 3-7.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

simple life

Coach and The Bull

The road less traveled to authordom

By Jim Dodson

Not long ago, following a speech to a historical organization in Georgia, I was asked by a woman in the audience how I became a “successful author.”

Anyone fortunate enough to publish a best seller is likely to get some version of this question from time to time. That’s because almost everyone has a story to tell.

For years my response was, “Because I couldn’t make a living out of mowing lawns in the neighborhood forever,” or, “The Baltimore Orioles already had a decent shortstop.”

The truth is, writing books is a lonely enterprise, and the vast majority of folks who are good at it invariably find their way to the craft via some other pathway.

Before literary success arrived, Charles Dickens worked in a factory putting labels on tins of boot polish. Harper Lee was an airline ticket clerk. William Faulkner served as a postmaster. Nicholas Sparks, a dental equipment salesman.

We were all, in other words, something else before we became writers. But dreamers all. 

In a famous essay titled “Why I Write,” George Orwell, of Animal Farm and 1984 fame, said writers put pen to paper out of “sheer egoism, aesthetic enthusiasm, historical impulse, and political purpose.”

Joan Didion claimed she wrote simply to discover what she was thinking — and feared — at the moment.

“Everyone has a novel in them,” the late Christopher Hitchens sniffed, “and in most it should stay there.”

The truth is, writing anything is work that takes time, discipline, imagination, constant revision, false starts, new beginnings and plenty of patience. Hemingway called it the “loneliest, hardest art.”

One of my favorite writers, novelist Graham Greene, actually published a book called Why I Write in which he explained that good storytelling takes place in the unconscious before the first word is written on the page. “We remember the details of our story, we do not invent them,” he said — noting that ideas often come unbidden during unexpected moments of ordinary life — while dropping off your laundry, running errands, or (as in my case) mowing the lawn or working in the garden.

As the youngest son of a veteran newspaper man who hauled his family all over the 1950s South, I learned to read chapter books around age 4, in part because I never had time to make real playmates in the sleepy towns where we lived before moving again. From my parents’ bookshelf (both dedicated readers), I was drawn early to adventure storytelling, particularly the short stories of Rudyard Kipling, Greek myths, and any tale that involved animals and magical places. Absent a flying carpet, I often read books sitting in a large cardboard moving box on the porches of our old houses. And sometimes in the shady, cool dirt beneath the porch.

Inevitably, I grew up imagining someday becoming a journalist like my father, traveling all over the world to find such magical places. When he eventually introduced me to the essays of E.B. White — this was after reading Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web — I even pictured myself someday living on a farm on the coast of Maine.

When I look back, I see a clear pattern of how I became a writer. Including an unlikely pair of school teachers who changed my life. 

In a faraway October of 1969, I was a junior underclassman who landed in the American literature class of an aging spinster named Elizabeth Smith and — to my dismay — a newby math class teacher named Larry Saunders. English lit and I were natural companions. But I detested algebra and was probably the slowest student in “Coach” Saunders’ class, a nickname we teenage geniuses were inspired to give him due his skinny, geeky frame and non-athletic orientation.

I don’t know what Miss Smith saw in me. She was short, round and half deaf. Her unflattering moniker was “Bull” Smith. This was her final year of a long teaching career that stretched back to the mid-1930s.

Out of the blue, Miss Smith pulled me aside one day to urge me to enter the Gate City’s annual O.Henry short story contest which had been running since the 1920s — so named in honor of hometown boy William Sydney Porter. So, on a lark, I did. My simple tale was about visiting my quiet grandfather on his farm for several weeks one summer, not long before he passed away. 

The story won first place, deeply shocking my sports pals. I dropped by Miss Smith’s classroom at the end of the term just to say thanks and wish her a happy retirement. She gave me a copy of Robert Frost’s Complete Poems, and, in return, wished me a long and happy career writing books. I think I laughed.

Larry Saunders was an even bigger surprise. Early on he realized that I would never a mathematician be — and proposed a remarkable compromise. If I never missed class, agreed to pay attention and try my best, he would agree to giving me a C-minus or better. I made the deal. Saunders was famous for writing daily inspirational quotes on the chalkboard. Once, the jokester in me managed to alter one of his quotes. “Familiarity breeds contempt” became “Familiarity breeds.” Even Coach had a chuckle.

During my senior year, good fortune found me in Larry Saunders’ class again for geometry — which, shockingly, I found to my liking. Geometry became very useful when, decades later, I became an amateur carpenter like my father and grandfather, and I built my post-and-beam house on the coast of Maine with my own hands. I couldn’t have done it without Coach Larry. About the same time, I published my first book, which turned out to be an international bestseller. I always meant to write Larry and thank him.

In 1983 on my way to a job interview at the Washington Post, I stopped by the Greensboro Public Library to do some research and spotted — of all people — Miss Smith paging through a dusty travel atlas in the reference room. 

“Miss Smith,” I quietly interrupted her work. “I don’t know if you remember me . . .”

She looked up and chortled. “Of course I do, Mr. Dodson. I have followed your career with great interest. I am very pleased that you are writing.” 

I was at a loss for words, but thanked her and wondered what she was up to these days. “I’m off to the dusts of ancient Egypt!” she trilled.

Before we parted, I also thanked her for seeing something in me — and for the volume of Robert Frost. Within weeks, I would withdraw from the Post offer in favor of a senior writer position at Yankee Magazine, a job that shaped my career and life.

Sadly, I never got to say thank you to Larry Saunders, who passed away in January 2021. “He loved teaching, playing the piano, and his nieces and nephews. He had a huge sense of humor,” notes his considerable obituary. He spent almost four decades teaching math and would inspire the creation of the annual Larry Saunders Excellence in Teaching Award in his honor.

A good coach — like a great teacher — recognizes a young person’s strengths and weaknesses, and strives to help them find the right path.

Larry Saunders was both. Thanks to his wisdom, I built a beautiful house, found my way to writing books and even fell in love with inspiring quotes.

Which is why I think of “The Bull” and “Coach” every October.  PS

Jim Dodson can be reached at jwauthor@gmail.com.

Art of the State

Sacred FIGURES

Cristina Córdova sculpts soulful, fantastic people from clay

By Liza Roberts

“I was always very creatively inclined, and very restless,” says sculptor Cristina Córdova, as she moves – glides, really, with ease and focus – around a massive head she’s shaping out of clay in her Penland studio.

She molds it with elegant hands, quickly, decisively, certain about what she wants this clay to be. Like the work that has made her name, it will become real, it will be soulful, thoughtful, disarming, alive. Its eyes will be hollow, but they will express sadness; its face will be impassive, but it will express stoicism.

Known for her remarkably lifelike figurative sculptures in clay, which typically range from diminutive to lifesize, Cordova grew up in Puerto Rico. She earned her undergraduate degree from the University of Puerto Rico and an MFA in Ceramics from the New York State College of Ceramics at Alfred University before moving to Penland in 2002 for a three-year residency, and subsequently making the campus her home. 

Córdova credits her mother with nurturing her creativity from an early age, steering her toward the career that has made her one of the most respected sculptors in North Carolina and a pillar of the Penland community since 2002. She credits a ceramics teacher with first showing her the potential of clay, the possibility that it could go beyond representation to “embody any idea.” At that point, she says, “the material revealed itself to me in this really exciting way. And I never looked back.”

Left: Cosmología Isleña. 

Right: Vestigios.

Still, she took some time to settle on her subject. Gradually, “I started to become a little bit more excited, more empowered to start specifically to focus on the figure.” It was a focus borne in part by her heritage. Growing up Catholic in Puerto Rico, she says, in a house with literally hundreds of depictions of saints all around her, the idea of using a figurative work of art “as a way of harnessing your emotional energy and pulling it into something sacred” was a mechanism she’d internalized. Though her current work is not religious, Córdova finds that it’s understood “at a different level” in Puerto Rico, where “Catholicism is not a choice, it’s woven into the culture, so people come to the work with a shared insight.”

Her subject may come naturally, but that doesn’t make it easy. Depicting the figure in clay is a challenge. Early in her career, Córdova found herself stuck in between two worlds, the sculptural tradition of working in the round with a live model, and the more organic ceramic tradition. Eventually, she settled on a hybrid approach, one that includes not a live model but a series of blueprints that provide her with the measurements and dimensions she needs to create a sculpted three-dimensional figure.

The head before her on this particular day — not necessarily a man nor a woman, as is sometimes the case with her figures — is imagined instead of representational, and so its blueprints are designed merely to keep her to scale, leaving room for improvisation. In other instances, she uses a series of photographs to help her create more precise blueprints.

Córdova gestures to the head before her: “I’m called right now to do things that are big, almost monolithic. I think it has something to do with what we are experiencing [with the pandemic]. I’m not interested in intimate or narrative-oriented work. I’m interested in big statements.”

   

Left: El Rey. 

Right: Del balcón.

Big statements seem called for by the importance and enormity of our internal worlds in such a situation, she says. “The isolation, the uncertainty, the newness — to have to take all this in without being able to respond in our normal ways . . . recourse is very limited. So you’re holding this inside of you, and that’s all you can do, is hold it, and witness it, and be with it. We need a big container for that right now. So I’m making big containers.”

It’s not a simple process. Beginning with a large donut-shaped piece of clay that’s laced with sand and paper pulp for stability and structure, Córdova then patches in a perpendicular slab, and then another, and then adds rings of clay, providing “the basic topography.” From there, she more fully fleshes out and articulates the shape of the head and face.

Having worked “all over the place in terms of scale” over the course of her career, the process of working in such large dimensions now excites her: “This to me is a starting point. I really want to get bigger. I have no idea how I’m going to do that.”

Córdova’s award-winning work is in the permanent collections of the Renwick Gallery of the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the Museum of Contemporary Art of Puerto Rico and many others.  PS

This is an excerpt from the forthcoming book Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, to be published by UNC Press this fall.

Birdwatch

What a Hoot

Call of the barred owl

By Susan Campbell

Owls definitely fall into the “spooks” category for many people. But there is one species that tends to be more endearing than scary: the barred owl. Maybe you have heard the “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you a-a-a-a-ll?”  echoing through bottomland forest. The song is most frequently heard in early spring when male barred owls are claiming territory and advertising for a mate. But they actually can be heard vocalizing any time of the year. These are large but well camouflaged birds. Only a little bit smaller than the great horned owl, barreds are often their close neighbors. Disputes over space and feeding areas are not uncommon. Vocal sparring early in the year can get quite heated; however, male barred owls can be heard now, calling or squawking not only at night but at dawn and dusk as well.

This owl gets its name from the distinct vertical brown streaks on its breast, belly and flanks. The bird’s spotted head and dorsal surface, in addition to the barring, make it very hard to spot during daylight hours when it is perched motionless close to the trunk of a large tree. Their liquid brown eyes make them very endearing to bird lovers far and wide.

Barred owls find a wide variety of prey in swamps and bottomland forests. They feed on not only mice, rats, rabbits, small and medium sized birds, but reptiles and amphibians as well. These owls will also wade into shallow streams and pools after crayfish and small fish. At dusk, barred owls take advantage of large flying insects such as moths and large beetles.

Barreds, in spite of their size, actually nest in cavities. They will use old woodpecker holes, rotted stump holes and even larger manmade nest boxes. Up to five young are raised by both parents for close to a full year. Adult barred owls are sedentary and probably mate for life. This likely explains why they tend to be so defensive of their territory. Not surprisingly, during the breeding season, the larger-bodied female barred owls are the most aggressive. Raccoons, opossums and hawks are common nest predators. But it is great horned owls that are the greatest predatory threat, so competition can be quite intense. 

These owls are not averse to roosting, or even nesting, close to human habitation. People who get close to a nest may be subjected to distraction displays. The female may call loudly, quiver her wings or even attack with her talons. So, should you ever discover a nest hole, it is best to give it a wide berth to avoid any unintended consequences. They are known to use the same cavity year after year if they are successful. A pair of barred owls was documented to use the same cavity in the middle of the campus of the University of North Carolina for six seasons.

Despite the fact that they are non-migratory, barreds have expanded their range. Over the last century, they have moved westward into the Pacific Northwest and into southwestern Canada. They are in the process of displacing other native owls of the region including their close cousin, the endangered spotted owl. Certainly the future of this endearing species seems quite secure in our area.  PS 

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at susan@ncaves.com.

Hometown

My Flying Life

The good, the bad and the pressurized

By Bill Fields

About a decade ago, early on a Saturday morning, I was at New York’s LaGuardia Airport for a flight to RDU. The gate area was mostly empty except for a familiar face in a corner chair. Roy Williams, the UNC men’s basketball coach, had been in the Big Apple for the NBA draft. He was eating a candy bar when I introduced myself.

“You won’t remember this,” I said, truer words having never been spoken, “but you were sitting next to me on my first flight.”

In December 1979, Williams was a graduate assistant for the Tar Heels, among his duties driving copies of “The Dean Smith Show” to television stations around the state each weekend during basketball season. On this Monday, he was flying Piedmont Airlines from RDU to Tampa for Carolina-South Florida that evening at the Bayfront Arena in St. Petersburg. A 20-year-old junior journalism major, I was covering the game for The Daily Tar Heel.

Roy told me how to yawn to keep my ears from hurting on the climb and descent. When the flight attendant arrived with the beverage cart, I told her it was my first flight and was a bit disappointed I wasn’t given a pair of wings. 

Perhaps she knew it wasn’t really my first flight. That had been a 15-minute spin above Southern Pines in a single-engine plane two years earlier with an assistant pro I knew who had just gotten his pilot’s license. But the two-hour trip to Florida on a 737 made that brief sightseeing venture seem like a bucket of balls at Knollwood compared to 18 holes on Pinehurst No. 2.

Hearing a friend, now retired, tell me recently that he flew 6 million miles in his sales career got me thinking about how much I’ve flown over more than 40 years. Tallying up the totals in the loyalty programs of the two airlines I’ve flown the most comes to 790,135 miles. Counting the flights before I had frequent flier accounts and all the travel on other airlines that isn’t documented, I must be approaching 1.5 million miles up in the air.

My most memorable air travel (enjoyable division) wasn’t with any of the surviving legacy carriers or airlines such as TWA, Pan Am, Piedmont or Eastern that are no longer with us. Over four days in 1989, while profiling Arnold Palmer as he neared his 60th birthday, I had a seat on his Cessna Citation III, a $7 million business jet, while the golf legend traveled from a senior tournament to various course design projects.

Palmer, in the left seat beside co-pilot Lee Lauderback, flew N1AP into his hometown and to where he had long wintered — Latrobe, Pennsylvania, and Orlando, Florida — and then to Kansas City, St. Louis and Greenville, South Carolina. The biggest thrill was the next-to-last leg: Orlando to Moore County, where Palmer and longtime architecture partner Ed Seay were working on Pinehurst Plantation (now Mid South Club).

I was clearly well ahead of the aviation gods after that assignment, but they’ve gotten in their licks since. Just months after traveling with Palmer, I had a hellishly bouncy flight into Málaga, Spain, the last flight before the airport was shut down because of severe weather. Two decades later, flying on a Korean Air charter of senior tour pros from San Francisco to Incheon, about an hour from landing a pocket of clear air turbulence caused the plane to drop dramatically, banging up flight attendants and anyone who wasn’t belted in. The experience sure put into perspective all the windy, nervous approaches into water-guarded LaGuardia — aborted landings notwithstanding — that would follow.

One has no choice but to roll with the punches, especially in today’s chaotic world of airline staffing shortages, delays and cancellations. Edinburgh, Scotland, was a mess this summer as I attempted to begin a journey home, hundreds of travelers lined up outside on the sidewalk because of a technical snarl, missed connections on their minds. It was not, as I found out while getting a short sleep at a ring-road hotel in Amsterdam that evening, an unfounded worry.

But for almost every glitch, armrest hog or man wearing a tank top, there is a stunning sunset at 37,000 feet, or a gate agent more pleasant and patient than most would be. And I’ll always have memories of Air Arnie.  PS

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

Focus on Food

Peter, Peter, Waffle Eater

Everything doesn’t need to be orange

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

My husband cheekily calls me “the adopted daughter of the South” for no other reason than my fascination with big, loud pickup trucks. I will admit that my favorite vehicle is our old, mud-splattered, lifted four-wheel drive truck with 35-inch tires and rumbling pipes you can hear miles down the road. (I may or may not have taken this truck, just for kicks, through the porte-cochère at the Carolina Hotel. I mean, Sunday afternoons tend to be a bit slow.)

While I am a fan of robust vehicles, I typically prefer more delicate things in life. Take waffles, for instance. The ever-present Belgium waffle — the thick, fluffy, square (or round) waffle with deep, soggy pockets that hold ungodly amounts of maple syrup — is the waffle of choice for most. I, on the other hand, am a devotee of the thin and crisp Scandinavian waffle. The lacy, ornate, heart-shaped Nordic-style waffle with a light dusting of powdered sugar makes my heart sing.

The same way I adore delicate shapes, I have an appreciation for delicate flavors. So, despite it being October, the month of all things orange-tinted, pumpkins rank low on my harvest list. Yes, I love pumpkins as much as the next Boho-knit-cardigan-wearing, scented-candle-hoarding girl but excuse me while I mark this page safe from the annual pumpkin craze. Iconoclast? Not at all. Pumpkins are delightful in many ways, but when it comes to flavor, they aren’t much to write home about. What truly makes anything pumpkin-infused stand out is the supporting cast: a warm, comforting spice mix that is added to virtually all things pumpkin-related.

It’s hard to imagine October without stumbling over chubby gourds at every turn, but autumn has many beautiful heralds — juicy apples, chestnuts, mushrooms, pears or, for instance, hazelnuts. I learned quickly that Americans don’t share my enthusiasm for hazelnuts, a symbol of health and strength, and was recently told by a chef that it’s a Euro thing. Maybe, but I’m also here to tell you that you are missing out if you do not incorporate hazelnuts into your fall cuisine. Whether you enjoy them raw, roasted, covered in chocolate or ground up into flour, hazelnuts are exquisite and should not be missing from your autumn harvest spread.

Norwegian Hazelnut Cardamom Waffles   (Serves 2)

1/2 cup finely ground blanched hazelnuts

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom (or 1 teaspoon cinnamon)

2 eggs

1/2 cup milk (or any non-dairy milk)

3 tablespoons maple syrup

3 tablespoons coconut oil, melted

Preheat your waffle iron. Combine all dry ingredients in a bowl and mix well. In a separate bowl, whisk eggs and add remaining ingredients. Add the dry ingredients to the egg mix and stir to combine. Pour batter into the preheated waffle iron and cook until golden brown and steam is no longer rising. Serve with toppings of your choice — berries, figs, chopped nuts, yogurt or simply dust with powdered sugar.   PS

German native Rose Shewey is a food stylist and food photographer. To see more of her work visit her website, suessholz.com.

In the Spirit

Batch-a-Zombie

Cocktail prep for Halloween

By Tony Cross

Rum is the nectar of the gods, right, so what makes more sense in October than having a little fun with a Zombie? Without further ado, let me present the batched, milk-punch-clarified Zombie cocktail that you can bottle and drink whenever you want. Talk about the living dead.

I follow a few fine bartenders on Instagram and one, whose handle is thirstywhale, put up a quick little TikTok about scaling up the Zombie, and then clarifying the whole thing. As soon as the video ended, I was on it.

First, let’s address the whole milk thing. Adding milk to drinks is nothing new. In fact, milk was added to punch before people were shaking up cocktails. As Dave Arnold explains, “Milk punches are known for their soft, round flavors. That softness isn’t caused just by the presence of milk but by the removal of phenolic compounds from the spirit via the casein-rich curds.” In English, clarifying a batched drink with milk makes the drink soft and smooth, without tampering with the ABV. Batching cocktails ahead of time is plenty of work, but just imagine pulling a bottle of clarified Zombies from your cabinet on Halloween night and pouring it over ice for the parents while their ghosts and goblins dig into the candy bowl. Look at you, all cool and stuff.

Clarified Zombie (batched)

3 cups Jamaican rum

3 cups Gold Puerto Rican rum

2 cups 151 demerara rum

1 cup Falernum

1 1/2  cups lime juice

2/3 cups grapefruit juice

1/3 cup cinnamon syrup

2 3/4 ounces grenadine

3/4 ounce absinthe

1/2 ounce Angostura Bitters

3 cups whole milk

This recipe yields roughly four 750ml bottles of cocktails. You can definitely cut this in half, or by three-quarters, but . . . if you’re going to buy the bottles of spirits for this recipe, you might as well go all out. In fact, any extra would make a great gift for a birthday or the holidays. Once completed, this cocktail will hold for many, many years.

Here are the liquors I used:

Jamaican: Appleton Estate 8 Year

Puerto Rican: Bacardi Gold

151: Lemon Hart & Son Rhum

You don’t have to use these, but make sure the rums come from the respective origins. You can order these online and have them shipped to you in a week. I highly, highly recommend this option. You’ll need to get the Falernum there anyway, and there’s no substitute for that. What is Falernum, you ask? It’s like a syrup/liqueur that is flavored with lime, almond and clove. It’s an essential in many Tiki drinks.

Notes on Execution

Juice: please squeeze it yourself. Do not, I repeat, do not buy these in a bottle. Also, make sure that the juice is squeezed just prior to batching. Strain it, too, will ya?

Cinnamon syrup: take 10 grams of cinnamon sticks and blend them for 10 seconds. In a small pot, make a 2:1 simple syrup with 1 cup of white sugar to 1/2 cup water. Stir over medium heat until sugar is dissolved. Place the syrup in the blender with cinnamon, and blend one last time for another 10 seconds. Let the syrup cool in a container, and then strain out the solids. Refrigerate until you’re ready to use.

Grenadine: there are two options. You can buy this, but not at the grocery store. Contrary to belief, grenadine is not made from cherries, it’s made from pomegranate juice. Small Hand Foods makes a great one, if you’re looking online. You can also make this at home. Just take equal parts POM pomegranate juice with demerara sugar and stir it in a pot over medium heat until dissolved. Presto!

Absinthe: I have a nice bottle here at the house, but if you don’t, almost every ABC in North Carolina has one. If you’d rather order online, may I suggest the Vieux Pontarlier Absinthe Superieure?

Showtime: In a large Cambro, start with your smallest ingredients first — Angostura Bitters, absinthe, all the way up to 3 cups of rum. Give it a quick stir. Add the 3 cups of milk last. You’re halfway there. Cover your container and walk away. Let it sit for 2-4 hours. When the time has passed, take a medium to large strainer, and line the inside of it with paper towels (one ply thick). Make sure that you slowly pour the cocktail into your strainer. It will take a little while to filter through, so you’ll have to pour and wait, repeating the process. If you pour too quickly, the curdled cocktail will rip through your paper towel. When all is filtered, filter again. This time, take a coffee filter to catch every last bit of curd. Once this is done, just bottle and keep in a cool, dark place. This cocktail will hold forever in the bottle. Pour 2-3 ounces over ice. Garnish with grated, fresh nutmeg. And be careful — these drinks are potent. More than a couple, and you’ll be walking like a . . . well, you know.   PS

Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.