Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Have a Good Day

Even if you’re in the slow lane

BY JENNA BITER

I point out the windshield as it closes in fast and whirs past.

“Cement trucks are pretty cool,” I say to my husband, who’s in the passenger seat. The vehicle technically mixes and delivers concrete, but “concrete truck” just doesn’t sing.

“They are,” Drew replies with a grin. Five years into marriage, he’s accustomed to my childlike musings. He may even enjoy them, or pretend to, particularly on road trips that beg the universally hated question: How much longer?

I watch the fat barrel spin round and round as it recedes into the rearview mirror.

“Isn’t it amazing, though?” My eyebrows lift. “If I collected all the necessary ingredients — the sugar, the cream, the milk, some chocolate for sure, whatever — and throw them into the belly of a cement truck, do you think it would make ice cream?”

My eyebrows hit their ceiling. Drew, being the problem-solver he is, inverts my expression.

“What if they’re already doing it?” I blurt out before he can work through the physics, the mechanics, the logistics.

Maybe some of the trucks swirling around out there aren’t actually hauling concrete. Maybe they’re actually hauling ice cream, and it’s just that nobody knows, unless they’re among the very few people who do. The insiders. Maybe the whole operation is run by a do-gooding cabal of gelatieres with some well-intended but misbegotten plan for world softserve domination.

I snap out of Candyland and back into reality. Even if the trucks aren’t secretly transporting sweets, it’s incredible enough that they carry concrete. I remind myself that the invention of the cement truck, like the light bulb, air conditioning and so much else, is a testament to human ingenuity. We’ve come a long way since Richard Bodlaender of Breslau, Germany, patented the horse-drawn “mortar mixer” in 1904.

“It would need refrigeration,” Drew says, still half a conversation behind, spitballing the ice cream hypothetical.

Somewhere between that conversation and our destination, wherever it was, cement trucks morphed into a good omen. I can’t quite recall the exact moment this transformation occurred, and neither can Drew, but the chain of logic probably went something like this: Innovation is incredible; think of all the wondrous things that exist today; we hardly ever take notice; let’s start. From that day forward, for us, spotting a cement truck is like plucking a four-leaf clover.

“Cement truck,” I text my husband after an early-morning sighting. I send our catchphrase follow-up. “It’s going to be a good day.”

With all the construction in Moore County, we see at least one truck a day, which makes for a lot of good days.

“x2,” I hit send after seeing another.

Around here, the mixing trucks are usually white with red stripes, and they’re fairly slender for vehicles that have a gut. Others are matte gray, on the tubbier side, with electric teal writing. Most days they’re driving in the opposite direction, but sometimes we get stuck behind one. Even when they slow us down, it’s a happy day.

“x3,” Drew texts me back.

“It’s going to be a good day,” he writes, affi rming his membership in the club.

Every once in a while, maybe once or twice a month, we see a cement truck in action, its chute down, actively building the concrete jungle. That’s a great day, mostly because it’s rare, and there has to be a hierarchy with these types of things.

Some may disagree. They’ll say we’re witnessing the endless drone of modernity, and my country upbringing inclines me to agree, but cement truck I Spy is about choosing the glass half full.

“Another,” Drew sends.

I think our record is seven. And that’s a very good week.

Poem

POEM

September 2024

Static Apnea

Toes taste water
before it swallows
our bodies.

In a waterfall embrace—
bones brush against
mossy boulders.

Our skin succumbs
to unknown atoms
when the wild decides
where we fall in.

The flow that washed away our sins
is saving someone else by now.

Miles away—
neck deep
in a faith pool,

we hold our breath
to float above
rock bottom.

— Clint Bowman

Clint Bowman’s debut full-length collection of poetry, If Lost, will be published September 5 by Loblolly Press.

2024 Feature Poem

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

Over the Moon

The beauty among the beasts

By Jason Harpster

Not all Draculas are frightening.

Dracula orchids, also called monkeyface orchids, grow in Central and South America. The genus Dracula means “little dragon” and includes 144 species, many of which have fantastical names of bats, giants, monsters or mythological creatures. Whereas Dracula chimaera and Dracula vampira have appropriate names that fit their grotesque and menacing appearance, Dracula diana stands in stark contrast and is known for its beautiful white flowers.

Daughter of Jupiter and Leto, Diana is a goddess in Roman and Hellenistic religions and is identified with the moon. In Latin, Diana means goddess of light and of the moon, and is often associated with beauty or divinity. In early Roman history, Diana absorbed Artemis’ identity and was later considered a triple deity after merging with Selene and Hecate.

The flowers of Dracula diana are unique to the genus with their predominantly white flowers, which also have a yellow-gold overlay and maroon markings. Some Dracula species have flowers that look like little dragons with their mouths open. Dracula diana has more of a simian appearance; the golden yellow petals resemble eyes, and the pink saccate lip looks like a surprised smile. The flowers are as large as the plant and can reach over 6 inches in length. The native range of this species is West Colombia in cloud forests at elevations around 4,000 to 5,250 feet above sea level, where temperatures rarely exceed 75 degrees Fahrenheit. In addition to being temperature sensitive, the flowers will collapse if humidity drops below 75 percent.

Dracula diana ‘Southern Pines Deity’ AM/AOS was awarded on Oct. 21, 2023, at the Carolinas Judging Center’s monthly judging. The judges commented on how the caudae, the long delicate tips at the ends of the sepals, were gracefully displayed and noted the fullness of the sepals. The creamy white sepals are covered with fine hairs and have a crystalline texture, which makes them sparkle in the sunlight. The flowers on the plant exhibited had better form and were more proportionate than previous awards. The flowers were also the second largest on record for the species.

In consideration of these qualities, the judges awarded the plant an Award of Merit and scored 84 points, which makes ‘Southern Pines Deity’ the highest pointed award on record. It seems fitting that the best example of this species be named after such a special town.

2024 Department Pleasures of Life

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

Worrying and Watering

For love of gardens and democracies

By Jim Dodson

A neighbor who walks by my house each evening like clockwork sees me sitting under the trees with a pitcher of ice water and walks over to say hello.

I invite Roger to take a seat and have a cold drink.

“It’s tough to keep moving in this heat,” he explains, sitting down. “It’s something, isn’t it? But your garden looks great.

How do you keep it so nice and green?”

“A lot of worrying and watering,” I say. “Sometimes you have to make tough choices.”

In one of the hottest and driest summers in memory, I’d decided to let my yard turn brown in favor of keeping flowering shrubs and young trees watered and green. As the late famous British landscape designer named Mirabel Osler once said to me over her afternoon gin and tonic, landscape gardening is a ruthless business, especially in a drought. Grass will eventually return, but no such luck with a shriveled shrub or a dead young tree.

“September brings relief, rain and second blooms,” I add. “I’m already in a September state of mind.”

He smiles and nods.

“Hey,” he says casually, “let me ask you something.”

I expect another question about the garden. Like the best time of the day to water your shrubs, or when it’s safe to fertilize or prune azaleas.

But it isn’t even close.

“I’m worried about America. People seem so angry these days. Why do you think Americans hate each other?”

The question takes me by surprise. I could give him a few thoughts on the subject: the woeful decline of fact-based journalism, an internet teeming with conspiracy peddlers, politicians who feed on polarization, the unholy marriage of politics and religion, and the sad absence of civility in everyday life.

Instead, I tell him a little story of rebirth.

In the spring of 1983, I telephoned my dad from the office of Vice President George Bush and told him that I no longer wanted to be a journalist. For almost seven years, I’d worked as a staff writer of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Sunday Magazine, covering everything from presidential politics to murder and mayhem across the deep South. As a result of my work, I’d been offered my dream job in Washington, D.C., but found myself suddenly fed up with writing about crooks, con men and politicians. Bush, however, was an exception. We’d traveled extensively together during the 1980 campaign and had wonderful conversations about life, family and our shared love of everything from American history to golf. During our travels, Bush invited me to drop by his office anytime I happened to be in the nation’s capital. Unfortunately, he was traveling the day I turned down my dream job in Washington, but his secretary allowed me to use her phone. So, I called my dad and told him I planned to move to New England and learn to fly-fish.

“When was the last time you played golf?” he calmly asked.

“I think Jimmy Carter had just been elected.”

He suggested that I meet him in Raleigh the next morning.

So, I changed my flight and there he was, waiting with my dusty Haig Ultra golf clubs in his back seat. We drove to Pinehurst, played famed course No. 2 and finished on the Donald Ross porch, talking about my early midlife career crisis over a couple of beers. I’d just turned 30.

I told him that I “hated” making a living by writing about the sorrows of others, especially when it came to the increasingly shallow and mean-spirited world of politics.

“You may laugh, but here’s a thought,” the old man came back, sipping his beer. “Before you give up journalism, have you ever considered writing about things you love rather than things you don’t?”

Sadly, I did laugh. But he planted a seed in my head. A short time later, I resigned from my job in Atlanta and wound up on a trout river in Vermont, where I learned to fly-fish, started attending an old Episcopal Church and knocked the rust off my dormant golf game at an old nine-hole course where Rudyard Kipling played when he lived in the area.

I soon went to work for Yankee Magazine and spent the next decade writing about things I did love: American history, nature, boat builders, gardeners and artists — a host of dreamers and eccentrics who enriched life with their positive visions and talents.

I also got married and built my first garden on a forest hilltop near the Maine coast.

“I never looked back,” I tell Roger. “I’ve built five gardens since.”

Roger smiles.

“So, you’re telling me we all need to become gardeners?”

“Not a bad idea. Gardeners are some of the most generous people on Earth. We make good neighbors. Most of the country’s founders, by the way, were serious gardeners.”

I pour myself a little more ice water and tell him I’ve learned that gardens and democracies are a lot alike. “Both depend on the love and attention we give them. Especially in difficult times like these.”

Roger finishes his drink and stands up. “That’s something to think about. Here’s to September, cool weather and good neighbors,” he says. “Maybe by then even your grass will be green again.”

2024 Department Simple Life

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

A Case of the Whys

But without the wherefores

By Deborah Salomon

Several conundrums pertaining to recent events are driving me bats. Help me reconcile.

The Constitution stipulates an age requirement to run for president. I’m assuming an upper number wasn’t necessary because back then, life expectancy hovered in the 60s. Teddy Roosevelt and Calvin Coolidge died at 60, George Washington at 67, James Garfield at 49. Time to revise?

Why are cars built to achieve 80-plus mph in a few seconds when that speed could cost the driver dollars, points, license revocation? It’s like advertising burglary kits or frozen obesity entrees.

Why have the arbiters of women’s hairstyles decided to uglify their groupies with an oeuvre I call The Weedwacker, which starts with a severe middle part and devolves into angles that frame the face like a barbed wire fence? On purpose. But there they sit, six little TV anchorites in a row, fingers plugged into electric outlets to refresh the coif. To my knowledge, the last gal to get away with this austere look was Mona Lisa.

Looming large: the flight plight. Hopefully, the IT crash in mid-July was a one-time deal that shut down American, Delta and others, leaving passengers to sleep on terminal floors. I’m talking about frequent reports of tires falling off, fires breaking out, windows cracking, near mid-air collisions, turbulence injuries, spoiled food. Holy Biscoff! We’re way past recalling bygone days when meals were hot, booze free, “stewardesses” young and friendly, passengers dressed up and on their best behavior. Not even a double Bloody Mary would allay fears when an aircraft packed with 200 sardines drops 10,000 feet in 20 seconds. Maybe calamities were hushed up in the past. But c’mon: On a chilly flight, I was told blankets were only available in business class. So I wrote a letter to the airline’s “customer service” department. They replied with an apology and, of all things, two drink vouchers.

Inflation comes in many sizes. Tucked in the back of my linen closet was a small box of tissues. Must have been there quite a while because the label read 115 tissues. The box I usually buy lists 85 but felt a bit light recently. Sure enough, only 70. The price, however, had crept up. Reduction in contents without shrinking packaging is an old trick now evident in dozens of items, like cookies. Caveat emptor and read the fine print, not that knowing makes a difference.

Thou shalt not drag politics into an “art and soul” magazine. Agreed, but fashion isn’t electioneering. Ever wonder why the vice president prefers pant suits? Hillary Clinton’s situation doesn’t apply. One theory has her being taken more seriously in male attire. Poppycock. European potentates alternate skirts and pants, no problem.

Say it isn’t so. The mighty Charlotte Observer will reduce print editions to three days a week starting in September. Some eras end with a bang, others with a whimper, others with the sad rustle of newsprint.

“Elocution” or “diction” training should be a given for cable TV’s talking heads. Once off teleprompter they wallow in “well . . . uh . . . ah.” At that salary level I expect not only fabulous ties and interesting earrings but complete sentences.

Whew! Feels good with those pesky conundrums off my chest.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Hometown

HOMETOWN

Repeat Offender

Sharpshooter with a ketchup packet

By Bill Fields

Around Labor Day, give or take, the long, free-range days of summer break in the Sandhills paused. Games played with everything from golf balls to basketballs, the construction of mighty forts and quenching one’s thirst from a garden hose gave way to the more structured schedule that came with the resumption of school. It was time to toe the line.

The threat of a keen switch (home) or a hefty paddle (school) was usually enough to keep me from misbehaving. My tendencies were to follow the rules and stay out of trouble, regardless of the season. I even received a DAR Good Citizens Award during a luncheon at the Country Club of North Carolina, a distinction I trumpeted on college applications as a counterpunch against terribly low math grades and board scores.

Had the fine ladies recognizing me done a more robust background check, however, someone else might have been feted over chicken cordon bleu at CCNC. They clearly hadn’t been aware of my checkered past, three occasions in childhood when I did not live up to my reputation.

We hung things on our clothesline to dry, but there were exceptions. Every so often, a trip to wash and dry bedspreads and slipcovers was necessary. There was a small laundromat located on South Bennett Street, near the rear of the A&P, not far from the intersection with Morganton Road.

One Saturday morning when I was in elementary school, I accompanied Dad there. Hearing the quarters tumble out of the coin changer was cool, but soon I was fidgeting in the plastic chair. I started to run around and loitered by the entrance, glancing at Dad.

“Don’t play by the doors!” my father said after taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

I returned inside to the heat and methodical whir of the oversize dryers and sat in one of those plastic seats that seemed to exist only in laundromats. But I returned to the glass doors, opening one side toward the parking lot. I did so a few times, until it collided with a car bumper poking over the curb. The ride home was as silent as the shattering of the glass had been loud.

Not long after that incident, I accompanied Mom and Dad to Greensboro, where one of my older sisters was going to college. She also had a part-time job, and she wanted to take us out, her treat. The restaurant of choice had two parts, fancy and casual. It being a special night, we went to the former.

I was in a brief hamburger phase, when that was my preferred supper, particularly on infrequent meals away from home. Well, the fancy side of the restaurant didn’t have hamburgers on its menu. I reacted by getting on the floor and having a tantrum, like some overwrought, overacting kid in a B movie. It is a wonder my sister ever spoke to me again.

Just months later, my good behavior went missing a third time. The setting was innocent enough as our family gathered around the kitchen table enjoying plates from Russell’s Fish House. It was a feast of flounder and all the trimmings: slaw, hushpuppies, French fries.

Aunt Blyn, my mother’s sister, was in town, visiting from her home in northeastern North Carolina. Mom to my three very cool older cousins, Blyn smoked Camels and drank Sanka, talked slowly, and dressed properly. She had sung and played the piano most of her life, and even though she couldn’t hit all the notes anymore, that did not stop her renditions of “Release Me” on the upright in our living room.

The evening we were all enjoying the takeout seafood, Aunt Blyn was seated across and slightly left from me. There was a bottle of ketchup on the table, but the meals had come with plastic packets of the condiment. I played with one as I ate, squeezing it and daring it to pop. My mother noticed and told me to stop. I did not and mashed it harder. There was presently a ketchup explosion, the red stuff shooting onto Blyn’s aghast face and the wall beyond.

“Oh, lawd,” was the last thing I heard her say as I shot out of my chair and ran from the house.

I sought cover behind a cedar bush at the end of our driveway. It wasn’t long before I looked up and saw my father. But, to my surprise and relief, he was wearing a grin instead of carrying a belt. I apologized and never squeezed another pack of ketchup.

2024 Department Hometown

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

Game Time

What’s your favorite part of the squirrel?

By Tom Bryant

“Well, I really do have a question, Mr. Bryant. Do you actually eat all those little animals you kill?”

I knew that question, or one like it, would come when I agreed to speak at a women’s club. Some of my hunting partners that hang out at Slim’s Country Store had warned me when they heard through the grapevine about the speaking commitment. Ritter expressed it best when he said, “Bryant, those ladies gonna skin you like a possum. You know they’s against guns, hunting, fishing or almost any outdoor sport.”

The meeting with the ladies took place several years ago in a small but prestigious town right across the border in Virginia.

“Yes, ma’am. My grandfather was a stickler for eating anything we brought home. He would stress that the Good Lord gave bounty from the streams and fields for us to use and do so responsibly.

“Also, as I mentioned earlier, right after the War Between the States, folks in the South especially, used wild game to supplement food for the table.”

There was a follow-up. “What animals did you cook and eat, and how old were you?”

It looked as if it was going to be a long question and answer period. I sighed inwardly.

“I started hunting the woods on my grandfather’s farm when I was about 9 and fishing maybe 6 or 7. My first wild game was squirrels. I’d clean ’em and Grandma would cook them in a wonderful rice dish.” I could hear the muted groans in the audience of ladies who had just finished a wonderful chicken lunch.

“As a matter of fact,” I continued, “I brought this along.” I held up my well-worn wild game cookbook from L.L. Bean, simply titled The Game & Fish Cookbook. “Unfortunately, it’s out of print but can still be found, if you’re lucky, in usedbook stores. There are probably 10 or 12 great recipes in this book for squirrel, but one of my favorites is Brunswick stew.”

Turning to a well-marked page where the recipe was underlined, I quoted from the lead-in to the ingredients.

“Technically this stew is made from squirrel, but it can be made with other meats: rabbit, muskrat, beaver or combinations.”

I held the book open so the ladies of the highest social order sitting on the front row could see that I wasn’t making it up. There were considerable murmurs from the women sitting in the back rows. I didn’t know if they were accepting my story or getting ready to walk out en masse.

“Speaking of Brunswick stew,” I continued, “I have a couple of friends who, in the Southern vernacular, are good ol’ boys, and they make the best stew I’ve ever eaten. They make one that’s really got some shoulders on it. Edwin Clapp and Bandy Herman are what you think of when you picture hunters and fishermen who live deep in the country far away from tall buildings and sidewalks.”

One of the ladies sitting near the back raised her hand, stood up and said, “Do they use what you call wild game in their cooking?”

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” I replied. “Once, when Edwin invited me up to his farm to participate in the annual Brunswick stew cooking, he told me they would be whipping up their concoction in a 30-gallon stew pot. I told him there’s not enough squirrel in Chatham County to fill a pot that size.

“Edwin said they were giving away most of the stew, and that some of his city friends frowned on eating squirrel in anything, even Brunswick stew. So, on that occasion, just to suit the city folk, they were using grocery store fare.”

I had my iPad with me to show photos of some of the places where we hunted, and I knew there was a good shot of Edwin and Bandy cooking stew, if I could find it. The little computer was new to me — a gift from my bride, Linda — and I had yet to figure out all its intricacies.

It looked as if the ladies were in no hurry to leave, so I directed my next statement to the last questioner. “Ma’am, somewhere in this little machine I’ve got a photo of Edwin and Bandy cooking up one of their big batches of Chatham County Brunswick stew. It shows the huge stainless steel pot they use and the wooden paddle for stirring.”

Not a soul had left, and a couple of the ladies got up from their chairs and edged closer.

“Here it is. Look at the size of that pot,” I said. “And it’s almost filled to the brim.” I passed the iPad around for everyone to see. Several took a closer look before handing it back to me.

A lady on the front row said, “But Mr. Bryant, if you keep killing the animals that you hunt, will they eventually go away? I mean will you deplete the resource?”

“That’s an excellent question,” I replied, and I pulled out my Ducks Unlimited membership card and held it so they could see. “This organization is the world’s leader in wetlands and waterfowl conservation, and yet they value and enjoy the sport of hunting. The beauty of all this is that we hunters, over 700,000 of us, are the supporters of this institution.” I passed my membership card around the nearest row of ladies.

Our host, a small white-haired matron, stood, raised her hand and took over. “I believe we’ve taken enough time from Mr. Bryant,” she said. There was a smattering of applause and the ladies slowly left the room.

I grabbed my stuff, thanked the ladies in charge and exited the building posthaste. I was surprised to find the elderly matron, the one who asked about eating game, on the steps waiting for me.

“Mr. Bryant, I surely would like to get a taste of Mr. Clapp’s Brunswick stew,” she said, to my surprise.

“I’m afraid this year’s batch is probably all gone,” I said.

She handed me her card. “Well, tell him to put me on the list for next year,” she said and turned to go. “Oh,” she paused as she headed down the stairs, “you can also tell him I wouldn’t mind if it had just a taste of squirrel.”

2024 Department Sporting Life

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

Southbound and Down

Grasspipers forage on farms and fields

By Susan Campbell

As the long days of summer wane here in the Piedmont and Sandhills of North Carolina, we have scores of birds preparing for that long southbound journey we refer to as fall migration. Thousands of birds pass by, both day and night, headed for wintering grounds deep in the Southern Hemisphere. Flocks of medium-bodied shorebirds, dropping down to replenish their reserves, are one seemingly unlikely sight. They may stay a few hours or a few days, depending on the weather and the abundance of food available to them. At first glance, you might think these long-legged birds are lost — far from the coast where a variety of sandpipers are commonplace. But once you take a good look, you will realize these are birds of grassland habitat, not sand flats.

Referred to as “grasspipers” by birders, these species forage on a wide variety of invertebrates found in grassy expanses. They breed in open northern terrain, in some cases all the way up into the Arctic. They are moving through as they migrate to grassland habitat in southern South America. Although some may be seen along our coastline, they are more likely to be found in flocks or loose groups at inland airports, sod farms, playing fields and perhaps even tilled croplands.

Come late August and early September, armed with binoculars or, better yet, a powerful spotting telescope, you can find these cryptically colored birds without having to travel too far from home. They are indeed easy to miss unless you know where to look at the right time. Flocks often include a mix of species, so be ready to sort through each and every bird, lest you overlook one of the rarer individuals. When it comes to shorebirds as a group, many of the dozens of species are tricky to identify so, if you’re relatively new to birding, I suggest you arrange to join a more accomplished birder to start.

The most common and numerous species without a doubt is the killdeer. Its dark upper parts contrast with white underparts, but it’s the double neck ring that gives it away. This spunky bird, whose name is its call, nests (if you can call a rudimentary scrape in the gravel a nest) on disturbed ground such as unpaved roadways and parking lots throughout North Carolina. Flocks of hundreds of birds are not uncommon. Frequently other species are mixed in as well. In the Sandhills, the sod farm in Candor hosts large numbers of killdeer around Labor Day. Check them all and you will likely be rewarded with something different mixed in.

The plover family, to which the killdeer belongs, consists of squat, short-necked and billed birds of several species. The semipalmated plover is a close cousin. This slightly smaller species sports only a single neck ring and curiously, individuals have slightly webbed (or palmate) feet. They can actually swim short distances when in wetter habitat and are thus more versatile foragers.

The most curious are the obligate grassland shorebirds, which include the well-camouflaged buff-breasted sandpiper and the upland sandpiper. Both nest in the drier prairies of Canada and spend the winter months mainly in the pampas of Argentina. “Buffies” are a buff-brown all over and have delicate-looking heads, short, thin bills and a distinctive ring around the eye. “Uppies” are brownish and have small heads as well, but with larger eyes and both a longer bill and longer legs. These two species are thought to be declining — most likely due to habitat loss on both continents. If you miss the chance to get out in search of inland shorebirds this fall, don’t fret. They will move through again come spring, although in smaller numbers. Winter will take its toll, but those who do make it back our way will be in vibrant plumage as they wing their way northward to create yet a new generation of grasspipers north of the border.

2024 Birdwatch Department

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

A Sense of Time and Place

By Stephen E. Smith

Writers have twitches and tics of style and substance that identify them as distinctly as their DNA — and writers of exceptional talent are possessed by obsession, a focus on subject matter that elevates their work to a purity that establishes a commonality with their audience. North Carolina’s Thomas Wolfe was such a writer. So is Bland Simpson.

Simpson has earned a reputation as the chronicler of the North Carolina coast and sound country. His books include North Carolina: Land of Water, Land of Sky, The Great Dismal, and Into Sound Country, books that demonstrate his love of the state and the region where he was raised. He has appeared in numerous PBS (WUNC) documentaries, and his familiar voice graces the soundtrack to travelogues exploring the coastal region. In short, he’s the go-to guy when it comes to the history and evolution of coastal North Carolina. For many years, he’s been the Kenan Distinguished Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

In his latest book, Clover Garden: A Carolinian’s Piedmont Memoir, Simpson remains in familiar territory — he’s writing about the state — but he’s moved his focus west to an area outside Chapel Hill where he’s lived for the last 50 years.

Where is Clover Garden?

Head west out of Carrboro until you hit N.C. 54. Drive northwest into gentle farmland until you pass the old White Oak School. If there’s a sign for Swepsonville, you’ve gone too far. You can try that, but you won’t happen upon the place name that serves as the title of Simpson’s memoir. According to Simpson, Clover Garden is closer to Carrboro than Graham. He describes it as “a small, four-square-mile country community to the old Porter Tract of the low Old Fields, lying beside the Haw River just a few miles west of Chapel Hill and Carrboro. . . .” But in truth,readers will suspect that Clover Garden is anywhere in North Carolina’s vast rolling Piedmont, any plot of land inhabited by neighbors who live harmoniously in tight-knit communities.

“Memoir” in the title is used in the loosest sense. There’s maybe a thread of chronology at work, but Simpson takes an impressionistic approach to his writing, à la Manet (not Monet). Readers who remember their art history will be reminded of the details in Music in the Tuileries and The Café-Concert, images in which all the specifics matter to the whole.

Clover Garden is divided into 45 segments — short narratives, random observations, anecdotes, even gossip — that, when taken together, comprise the “memoir” and give the readers a sense of a particular time and place. These independent segments are skillfully illustrated and enhanced with photographs by Ann Cary Simpson, whose keen eye for specific and illuminating images has enhanced Clover Garden and her husband’s previous books.

If the impressionistic comparison seems a trifle pretentious, the narratives Simpson shares are not. He writes of pool halls, pig pickings, snowstorms, country stores, great horned owls, folklore, boatwrighting, cafes and bars, stars, and riderless horses, all the bits and pieces, practical and impractical, that comprise our daily lives. And if you’ve lived in the Piedmont, there’s a good chance you’ll know a few characters who contribute color to the storytelling. If you don’t recognize any of the characters, you know them well enough at the conclusion of the memoir, or you’ll recognize their counterpart in your circle of friends and acquaintances.

Simpson’s descriptions embody an easy blending of history with a touch of nostalgia as in this sepia-tinged recollection of old friends and poolhalls (one of which was frequented by this reviewer): “In time, Jake Mills showed me his two favorite pool halls, Happy’s on Cotanche Street in Greenville and Wilbur’s on Webb Avenue in Burlington. After school in the 1950s, he and Steve Coley used to play quarter games with the textile mill hands coming off first shift and drifting into Wilbur’s straight from work. The cigarette haze hung low below the green shades, and the cry of ‘Rack!’ was in the air, and the balls clicked and clacked, and, like many a youth before them, Jake and Steve picked up pin money in this Alamance County eight-ball haven.” Even Neville’s, a long established Moore County watering hole, receives a passing mention in Simpson’s narrative explorations.

Above all else, Simpson is a master prose stylist, a poet at heart. His sentences are graceful and well-tuned — thoroughly worked on to get that “worked on” feeling out — and laced with continual surprises to save them from predictability. Simpson is always a pleasure to read, and he can transport the reader to familiar ground as if it’s being seen anew. “. . . alongside dairy cows, beeves and horses in pastures meeting deep forests of white oaks and red oaks and pines, copses of them around country churches, and straight up tulip poplars and high-crown hickories, American beech and always sweet gum, muscadine vines everywhere, willows close to the waterlines of ponds where big blue heron stalk and hunt, ponds full of bass and bream, shellcrackers and pumpkinseed and catfish prowling the bottom . . . .”

Thomas Wolfe would approve.

2024 Department Omnivorous Reader

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

Late Summer Blooms

Cream cheese with a figgy twist

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

Many of my childhood summers were spent with my mom’s side of the family on the Adriatic coast in Croatia, where lush Mediterranean gardens grow fig trees taller than a Sandhills dogwood. In the late summer my family would harvest several pounds of figs every day from just a single tree. Those of us visiting from north of the Austrian Alps ate figs until our bellies ached.

Figs are, hands down, my favorite late-summer fruit. Or, to be botanically more accurate, inverted flower. Each seed inside a fig corresponds to one small flower contained in a bulbous stem. Call it what you will, figs, with their sweet, jammy texture and signature crunch, are darn exquisite, whichever way you want to categorize them.

To this day, I am surprised to find pricey, imported plasticcased figs in the produce aisles of food markets in North Carolina when our very own state — our own county, in fact — has proven to be an excellent host for fig trees. A local farm on the outskirts of Aberdeen has been successfully growing an entire fig tree orchard for several years, which begs the question: Why isn’t every farm growing fig trees in Moore County? My family would single-handedly keep them in business.

Even if you can’t get fresh figs, you can still enjoy them in other ways. Dried figs make an excellent addition to a homemade cream cheese. This year, I’ve used everyone’s favorite, pimento cheese, as a basis and inspiration for a cream cheese which holds all it promises — a honey- and fig-sweetened, tangy goat cheese and sharp cheddar blend that melts on your tongue. Spread it on sandwiches and crackers or eat it by the spoonful.

Fig, Honey and Goat Cream Cheese

INGREDIENTS

3-4 fresh or dried figs, minced (see notes)

2 cups freshly grated extra sharp cheddar cheese

4 ounces goat cheese

4 ounces cream cheese, cut into 1-inch cubes, room temperature

1 teaspoon honey

1⁄4 teaspoon garlic powder

1⁄4 teaspoon onion powder

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Salt, to taste

DIRECTIONS

In a large bowl, combine the finely minced figs with cheddar, goat cheese, cream cheese, honey, garlic powder, onion powder, and several twists of black pepper. Beat the mixture together with a hand mixer or by hand with a sturdy wooden spoon until thoroughly combined. Taste, and add more black pepper if desired, and/or salt for more flavor. Transfer the mixture to a serving bowl and serve immediately, or chill it in the refrigerator for up to 1 week. This cheese mixture hardens as it cools; let it rest for 30 minutes at room temperature before spreading it.

Notes: Dried figs work best; fresh figs can be used but the cheese will be softer overall. In a pinch, you can use 1-2 tablespoons of fig preserve instead of dried or fresh figs.

2024 Department Focus on Food

Month: September 2024