Sunblock

SUNBLOCK

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Sunblock

Scientists flocked to Pinehurst for the eclipse of 1900

By Bill Case

Situated on Ritter Road in the Old Town section of Pinehurst is a decidedly quirky monument that could conceivably double as an immovable outdoor coffee table. A rectangular brick base, 18 by 21 inches wide and 18 inches in height, supports a circular sandstone slab 4 inches thick and 30 inches in diameter. Punched in the middle of the slab is a tiny hole.

Curiously, there are no inscriptions on the monument to indicate its significance. In 2001, the Pinehurst Civic Group placed a small engraved marker near the monument, a foot above ground level, for the purpose of enlightening puzzled passersby. The marker, titled SOLAR ECLIPSE MONUMENT MAY 28, 1900, reads:

On this spot astronomers and scientists from around the country came to observe and photograph the eclipse. The punchmark in center is basis for all computations of location and distance measurements in this section of the country. It is also part of a gigantic scheme of world mapping that covers the entire Earth. Additional information at Tufts Archives in village.

To increase awareness of the mostly overlooked site, a tall historic landmark sign with identical verbiage was recently erected along Ritter Road by the village of Pinehurst. 

So, what circumstances caused eminent men of science to select Pinehurst, then solely a winter resort town, as the ideal spot to observe and study the solar eclipse? It would have been an inconvenient time for them to work here. By May 28, 1900, the fledgling resort and town would have already ceased operations for the summer. Who were these scientists, and what did they accomplish? Where did they eat and sleep?

While the Tufts Archives has in its collection numerous photographs pertaining to the Pinehurst eclipse expedition of 1900, it has little documentation concerning it. Like the resort, the Pinehurst Outlook, first printed in 1897, was in mothballs for that summer and would not resume operations until early November. The January 5, 1900, edition of the paper did, however, herald the fact that “an excellent view of the total eclipse of the sun (on) May 28 . . . one of the great events of 1900, may be had at Pinehurst.”

Fortunately, other newspapers, including the Baltimore Sun, Charlotte Daily Observer, Charlotte News and the Henderson Gold Leaf, did report on the Pinehurst eclipse expedition. A digital search of these ancient publications helped piece together the story.

The Naval Observatory in Washington, D.C., was the prime mover in organizing the Pinehurst expedition. Stimson J. Brown, the director of the observatory, petitioned Congress to authorize $5,000 to fund three eclipse stations. Two were in Georgia — one in Barnesville and the other in Griffin. The third was to be located in the vicinity of Southern Pines. The three expeditions were charged with performing identical missions, the thought being that if cloud cover hampered observations at one of the sites, hopefully the sky would be clear at the others. The May 28 total solar eclipse was the first in America since 1878, and with scientific techniques having improved markedly, there was much to be learned.

Brown tabbed the observatory’s professor of mathematics, Aaron N. Skinner, to find a suitable location to observe the eclipse in or near Southern Pines. Following Skinner’s two-day visit to the area in April 1900, he chose Pinehurst as the site. Though the town would be closing down on May 1, four weeks before the eclipse, resort owner, James W. Tufts (according to a report authored by Skinner) “courteously extended an invitation to the N.O. to locate an eclipse observatory on the property.” Tufts assigned resort general manager C.D. Benbow the task of arranging necessary housing. Skinner reported that J.M. Robinson, owner of The Lenox rooming house (which later burned down and is now the site of a residence at 175 Cherokee Road), was induced to keep his operation open “for our entertainment.”

In fact, the emptiness of the town was viewed as a plus, according to the May 20 edition of the Charlotte Daily Observer (in an article reprinted from the Baltimore Sun), which said, “There are no curious persons to hinder the work . . . on the eventful morning.” Furthermore, the Pinehurst location seemed “to be all that is desired. There are no trees, woods, or buildings to obscure the view of the sun.” A marked contrast to the Ritter Road of today.

Professor Skinner and the observatory’s assistant astronomer, Theo King, arrived in Pinehurst on May 3 to begin preparations for the expedition on the “plot of ground about 800 feet southeast of the Carolina Hotel,” which was then in the final phase of construction. Because the station’s precise longitudinal and latitudinal position was critical, the first order of business was to lay out a “meridian line” toward true north.

Naval Observatory records indicate that Skinner, in locating that line, placed a landmark exactly 1,100 feet north from the tiny hole in the monument slab. Does this landmark still exist? Using the compass on an iPhone and proceeding due north from the monument approximately 1,100 feet, I saw a circular metal object in the ground off Caddell Road. It was covered with design features that looked like astrological symbols. Could this be the long lost marker?

Uh, no. What I had discovered was a manhole cover — albeit an intricately designed one — made in India. The marker does, however, still exist. As luck would have it, Jill Gooding, the granddaughter of Pinehurst’s jack-of-all-trades (including surveyor) Rassie Wicker, was able to show me the location of the true north marker stone I had failed to find.

On May 8,, 1900, team members began trickling into Pinehurst to join Skinner and King. This was more than just a Naval Observatory operation. A contingent of six from Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, led by 35-year-old physicist and professor Joseph S. Ames, would play a key role in the expedition. Ames would later ascend to the presidency of Johns Hopkins. He would also serve as a founding member and longtime chairman of the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, the predecessor of NASA. Professor R. W. Wood from the University of Wisconsin, Dr. F.L. Chase from Yale, and the Cincinnati Observatory’s E.I. Yowell rounded out the expedition. Ultimately 16 team members would have roles to play during the actual eclipse.

Other expeditions were arriving at various destinations along the eclipse’s 50-mile-wide path. The Smithsonian Astrological Observatory shipped several railroad cars of equipment from Washington, D.C., to Wadesboro, N.C. They were joined by teams from Princeton University, the University of Chicago, and the British Astronomical Association. Wadesboro was chosen because of the belief that the town’s high elevation made it less likely that clouds would impede visibility. Unlike Pinehurst, spectators flocked to Wadesboro in massive numbers (including those who arrived on a special excursion train from Charlotte) to view the eclipse and the feverish efforts of the Smithsonian expedition. The wave of people and publicity would cause Wadesboro to be generally remembered as the best place to have witnessed the 1900 eclipse.

The Naval Observatory’s longtime historian, Geoffrey Chester, explained to me why eclipse expeditions proliferated at the turn of the century. Scientists were eager “to help refine the theory of the moon’s orbit in order to provide more precise data for navigational almanacs,” he says. “By observing the actual times of the ‘contacts’ of the moon’s climb with that of the sun, and comparing those with predicted values, those corrections could be incorporated into a refined theory.”

Moreover, the Naval Observatory’s historian says that “there were many measurements that could only be made during a total solar eclipse — in particular, high-resolution spectrograms of the sun’s chromosphere . . . and the solar corona,” which enabled scientists to measure the elements present in these areas.

A May 26, 1900, article in the Charlotte Observer confirmed that the Naval Observatory’s expedition would indeed be studying the “the nature and constitution of the corona and chromosphere of the sun,” and elaborated on the reasons in layman’s terms: “(The atmosphere) of the sun consists of vapors or metals such as iron, calcium, and silver, together with many ordinary gases, such as hydrogen and oxygen. This atmosphere is called the chromosphere. Outside it, and seen on the Earth only at times of total eclipses, is a sort of irregular halo, with streamers going off in different directions, all of a brilliant white color against the blue of the sky. The cause of this corona is unknown . . . an attempt will be made to see how many different agencies are taking part in it, and to learn if its existence depends solely on the sun itself.”

On May 8, the various instruments required by the expedition were shipped from Washington to Pinehurst by the Seaboard Air Line Railroad via freight car, and the team members diligently worked to assemble them. With the exception of last-minute adjustments, the staging of the Pinehurst site was completed several days later. A number of brick and cement piers, as well as wooden structures and tarps, were constructed to support and house the equipment. Among the instruments was a telescope mounted on two axes of motion parallel to the Earth’s axis, transits, and several types of spectrographs designed to assist the scientists in their quest to analyze the corona and chromosphere by splitting their emitted light into its component parts. A darkroom and 40-foot tower housed the camera equipment that would photograph the various phases of the eclipse. From a distance, the site would have given the impression of an outdoor produce market next to an oil well.

While attendance for the eclipse at Pinehurst was paltry compared to Wadesboro, there was an influx of camp followers in town as the event approached. Ames reported that in the final two days, “all the meals at the astronomers’ boarding house (the Lenox) were served in two or three relays.” The actual working team of the expedition was “given the right of way, and had the privilege, if it may be called that, of having breakfast at 5 a.m.”

After that, according to Ames, “came the preparations of the buildings for action. The curtains were raised from the sides of the observatory, rafters were taken out, and hastily constructed roofs were taken down. In a short time, all the instruments were exposed to the sky, where the sun was slowly rising.”

Final rehearsals followed as the team members synchronized their watches. “We all knew that the instant of second contact had been calculated at 46 minutes, 16 3/10 seconds past 8 o’clock.” Ames confided, “There is enough uncertainty as to the moon’s true position at any time to make it possible there might be an error of a second or two in this predicted time.” The excitement within the team “was more intense than one would have expected. No one was willing to acknowledge this until afterwards.”

When the moment of first contact was announced, tensions were forgotten as the team sprang into action. They knew that the big moment of the “second contact” would be occurring in an hour and 10 minutes. “Everyone had his piece of smoked metal or colored glass,” said Ames, “and was intently watching the wasting away of the sun.”

Ames was fascinated by the spectacle unfolding before him. In conveying its grandeur, he wrote, “No wonder the poets of ancient civilization could picture the conflicts of huge beasts, one consuming the other in this great spectacle of nature.”

One researcher who was especially interested in examining shadow bands readied his stroboscope and spread a large linen sheet perpendicular to the sun’s rays, but the results of that particular experiment proved disappointing. Ames reported that “the shadow bands were conspicuous by their feebleness.”

At 8:46 and 6 3/10 seconds the team “heard the cry ‘Attention!’” meaning there was less than 10 seconds to go before the second contact. “All the photographic slides were withdrawn. Not a sound was heard even from the surrounding crowd,” wrote Ames.

Announcement of the command to “Go!” was assigned to Johns Hopkins team member Dr. W.B. Huff. He was to shout it immediately upon observing the flash signaling the start of the second contact. To perceive it, Huff employed a binocular, one barrel of which was fitted with a small diffraction grating.

Ames vividly describes the flurry of activity when Huff gave the command. “The lenses were uncapped, shutters were opened, and as the monotonous calling of the seconds proceeded one could dimly hear the sounds of changing plates and sliding camera boxes.” The predominant thing in the observers’ consciousness “was the rapidity of the flight of seconds and the absolute need of never allowing one’s mind to leave the work in hand even for an instant.”

However, there was a glitch in the timing of the command. “Unfortunately the small diffraction grating attached to the binocular failed to render viable the flash at the second contact and delayed the starting signal by 25 or 30 seconds,” said Skinner’s report. “Consequently valuable time was lost.”

Once the action started time passed rapidly until Huff shouted, “Done!” The eclipse was over as the crescent of the sun gradually peeked out from behind the moon. After the taking of a few final spectrum photos, the dismounting and packing of the equipment commenced. “As fast as the covers were screwed on the boxes were carried to a freight car standing nearby,” wrote the professor, “and in an almost incredibly short period the appearance of the whole place had changed entirely.” By 10 o’clock, all evidence of the expedition was gone, except, of course, for the monument.

Notwithstanding the delay in calling out the flash, the expedition provided substantial data and excellent photographs of the corona and total eclipse. Ames declared it a success and credited “the energy and industry of Professor Skinner, who has done everything in his power to carry out the plans formed early in the year by Professor Brown.”

The expedition was largely forgotten in Moore County until an article in the Nov. 28, 1931, edition of the Pinehurst Outlook when the paper’s editor, Bion Butler, described efforts to determine the precise longitude and latitude of what is now the Moore County Airport. It was the legendary Rassie Wicker who arrived at a simple solution: Use as a starting point the solar eclipse monument, known to have a north longitude of 35 degrees, 11 minutes, and 38.23 seconds and a west latitude of 79 degrees, 28 minutes, and 12 seconds, then work from there. And that’s what happened.

Thus, the humble “coffee table,” left behind by the Naval Observatory nearly 125 years ago, rather uniquely, served a practical purpose — as well as commemorating a historic astronomical event. Doesn’t that make it the best type of monument? 

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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October Dreams

The house on the hill that haunts my slumber

By Jim Dodson

During the decades we lived on a forested hill in Mid-Coast Maine, October’s arrival was greeted with relief and joy.

To begin with, it signaled the final exodus of summer tourists, who left behind their spending money in the pockets of local businesses. The cost of a seafood supper roughly halved and it was possible to venture into town to lunch with friends without being caught in a traffic jam. By mid-month, even the annual invasion of “leaf peepers” was drawing to a close.

On our hilltop, we watched the 500-acre forest around us erupt into a dazzling pageant-fire of golds and reds, and wildlife grew more active as the days grew shorter.

I remember walking down our long gravel driveway to fetch the afternoon mail with my toddler daughter, Maggie, and pausing to watch a flock of ring-necked pheasants calmly cross our path, spectacular creatures completely unconcerned by our presence.

The family of white-tailed deer that inhabited our forest could be seen most October evenings finishing off the last of the hostas, which I had strategically planted at the rear of our property to keep them away from the house in high garden season. We were often visited by beavers and skunks and, on one memorable occasion, a gangly, young male moose harmlessly crossing our upland meadow to the late summer bog where bullfrogs croaked at night. The fireflies were gone by then, replaced by the lonely cry of coyotes deep in the woods.

October is a time of serious preparation in Maine. For the last time of the year, somewhere around mid-month, I mowed the half-acre of grass that surrounded our hilltop lilium and put away my beloved John Deere lawn tractor until next spring. I also cut down and raked out several large perennial beds, and split and stacked hardwood for an hour each day, preparing our wood pile for the cold days and nights just ahead. October was the month of our first evening fire, something we all looked forward to.

The last warm days of the month were a bonus. We packed up a picnic and took the kids to one of our favorite spots, Popham Beach State Park, a spectacular 3-mile sandy spit near the mouth of the Kennebec River, where a short-lived colony was established in 1607. Popham was — and probably still is — the most popular beach in Maine. But, by October, the beach belonged again to the locals. Our children, far-flung and now in their 20s and 30s, have fond memories of walking out to the famous “Rock Island” at low tide and swimming in the ocean, warmed ever so slightly by the summer’s passing. On the way home, if the timing was right, we stopped off at our favorite seafood shack at Five Islands for fried clams and blueberry ice cream, even as its owner was preparing to shut down for the season.

The decision to sell our beloved house in 2008 was possibly the toughest one we’ve ever had to make. A year before, however, we moved to North Carolina, foolishly believing that we would simply keep our precious Maine house and return to it each summer. But, after letting it sit empty with only a caretaker looking after it for one full winter, it became clear that this was a recipe for trouble. Maine winters are tough on people and houses alike. We reluctantly decided to sell the place to a charming young couple from Connecticut who dreamed of making my dream house theirs.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Thanks to a national collapsing housing market and the start of the Great Recession, the sweet couple from Connecticut failed to sell their house in time, and we wound up selling to a couple from Massachusetts, who got a sensational deal. The wife adored the gardens and the quiet of the forest. The husband, however, complained that the house’s exposed hemlock beams made the interior “look unfinished.” He also didn’t like the closets or the notches on the rear of the utility door that memorialized the growth of our four kids.

I nearly backed out of the deal, but finally signed because the woman loved the place.

I stayed out of Maine for more than a decade, joking to friends that it was too soon to return and risk never coming back. That hilltop, after all, is where I designed, built and owned my first house, got married and had my children, created my first garden, and stayed longer than anywhere else. If you are curious to see why it will forever own a piece of my heart, try googling “Zillow, Topsham Maine, 12 East Merrill  Road.”

Looking back, however, coming home to North Carolina was one of the wisest moves we ever made. Over 17 years, I’ve had the opportunity to create four arts magazines, publish nine books, and make scores of new friends while deepening my oldest friendships. Moreover, during the past decade, we’ve fully restored a lovely mid-century house in my boyhood neighborhood, just two doors down from the house where I grew up. Talk about a spiritual homecoming.

Fortunately, Octobers here are also spectacular. The murderous heat of summer is finally gone, the garden is winding down for another year, the night skies are clearer, and Piedmont North Carolina kindles its own breathtaking pageant-fire of leaves.

But every now and then I have dreams about our old house in Maine.

Invariably, it’s October in this dream and I’m walking through the empty rooms of our old place, wondering what will come of it now that I’m long gone. You see, I never went back there to see it.

Not long ago, however, my savvy wife, Wendy, proposed a cure for my October dreams.

Next year, either in September or October, we plan to rent a house somewhere on the coast of Maine.

Who knows? Maybe when I’m there I’ll dream about our wonderful house and garden back in Carolina.

Naturalist

NATURALIST

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Seeing Red

North Carolina’s most beautiful bat

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

Some animals have a serious image problem and are in dire need of a better PR person. Take snakes, for example. Most people fear them. Many despise them. Lots hate them. Ditto for spiders. And don’t get me started on wasps.

Sharks were, until recently, feared and loathed as much as any animal. Today, due in large part to the popularity of “Shark Week” on the Discovery Channel and social media campaigns by nongovernmental organizations like the Atlantic White Shark Conservancy and Ocearch (each with hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of followers), the tide is turning for these toothy predators. Many people find them fascinating and donate hard-earned cash to protect them for future generations to enjoy. Heck, a few years back on Cape Cod, a dozen vacationers enjoying a summer day at the beach rallied to help save a young great white shark stuck on the sand during an outgoing tide. They poured water over its head and gills until a boater was able to tie a rope around its tail and drag it into deeper water, where it swam away of its own accord. A video of that event went viral and racked up millions of views.

Bats, by any measure, are right up there with snakes, spiders and wasps on the unlikeable scale for much of the human population, perhaps due to their secretive nocturnal habits. Bats carry an aura of the supernatural and have long been staples in the annals of horror literature and cinema. Worldwide, they are the subject of myth and folklore. Many people fear bats as carriers of disease that will attack at any given opportunity. Granted, some individual bats can be infected with a disease such as rabies, but it is important to keep things in perspective. Far more people are bitten by rabid dogs in a given year than by rabid bats. And consider this: Beavers can carry rabies as well. Yet most people don’t fear beavers.

Bats are among our most fascinating and beneficial animals. All 17 species of bat that have been recorded in North Carolina are avid consumers of insects. Studies have shown that they eat millions of tons of insects each and every night, many of them agricultural pests. Without bats flying about the landscape, farmers would need to spend millions more dollars on pesticides.

One North Carolina bat in particular has recently captured my imagination. It all started last summer when I was sitting out in a patch of ironweed growing in the heart of the Sandhills Gameland trying to photograph sphinx moths at dusk. The moths would appear like clockwork just as the sun dipped down over the pines, hovering over the vibrant purple flowers of the ironweed like nocturnal hummingbirds.

Around the same time, several eastern red bats could be seen flying high over the ironweed patch, their velvety wings silhouetted against the golden-hued sky. With 4-inch-long bodies and wing spans just shy of a foot, the bats were not much larger than the moths. Their swooping flights over the tree canopy as they chased insects, including the sphinx moths, was mesmerizing.

As the planet’s only true flying mammals, bats are evolutionary marvels. With nearly 1,400 species recognized by scientists, bats are found across the globe, occupying all the continents except Antarctica.

True to their name, red bats are indeed gingers. With bright reddish orange fur coats, especially prevalent in males, red bats are strikingly beautiful.

Unlike most of our other native bat species, red bats tend to lead solitary lives and are not particularly social. I can relate. This quirk of their personality has saved them from a deadly fungal infection that has drastically reduced populations of their more communal cousins. The infection, known as white-nosed syndrome, has wiped out millions of bats across North America and is widely considered to be among the worst wildlife diseases in modern times.

If you step outside in the Sandhills on most summer evenings and see a bat flying overhead, chances are good it is an eastern red bat. They even overwinter here, hibernating in leaf litter on the forest floor. In fact, on warm winter days, it is not uncommon to see them flying about in the middle of the day searching for a snack. Not that long ago, while walking across the campus of Sandhills Community College on a sunny December afternoon, I saw a red bat casually swooping about the parking lot by the library hunting the few diurnal insects active at that time of year.

During hot summer months, red bats roost in trees. Hanging upside down among leaves and pine cones, their colorful fur coats allow them to blend in seamlessly with their surroundings. Unlike our other native bat species, which give birth to a single pup, eastern red bats can give birth to as many as four pups, though two is much more frequent. They make excellent moms.

Now that red bats are on my radar, I intend to spend many sunsets in the coming year gazing towards the heavens with hopes of spying these aerial acrobats. Before you judge me as strange, just take a look at their puppy-dog faces. Red bats are ridiculously cute.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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Big Trouble in Oaxaca

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

Amanda Schuster’s Signature Cocktails is a beautiful cocktail recipe book that pays homage to older cocktails, as well as those that will be soon. I’ve been in the process of mentally preparing myself for a brick and mortar bar of my own, and every now and then I come across a drink that I visualize serving in my fantasy lounge. “Big Trouble in Oaxaca” is one of them, courtesy of Schuster’s book.

The name of the drink pays homage to the ’80s movie Big Trouble in Little China. It’s essentially a riff on a margarita, and what first got my attention is how it glowed on the page. Bright and fluorescent, its hue reminds me of when I’ve had one too many B vitamins . . . if you know, you know. Created in 2018 at the restaurant Drink Kong by bartender Livio Morena, this cocktail seems to fit the bar’s trademark ’70s and ’80s nostalgic theme. The neon color comes courtesy of Midori melon liqueur (which was first popular in the late 1970s) and was used “because in 2018 it just seemed so dated and weird that it might be the perfect way to attract attention to the bar, and also show love for Japanese culture,” says Morena.

Personally, I can see this drink catching the eye of anyone in a dimly lit cocktail lounge. The fact that it tastes amazing only solidifies the odds of me serving this one night as a drink special. Hypothetically, of course.

SPECIFICATIONS

1 1/2 ounces tequila blanco

3/4 ounce pineapple liqueur

1/2 ounce Midori liqueur

1/2 ounce green ancho chili liqueur

1 ounce fresh lemon juice

1/2 ounce sugar

EXECUTION

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker, add ice and shake hard for 10 seconds. Strain into a chilled rocks glass over a large cube. No garnish. 

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

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A Ghostly Story

A pint of the occult, please, barkeep

By Tony Rothwell

Driving out of London to the east through the beautiful rolling countryside of Essex, you may come across Dedham, a medieval village on the banks of the River Stour. There are a few shops, a handsome church, and a prominent black and white building, the Marlborough Head Hotel. Built in 1495 for a wool merchant, it was first an apothecary and then, in 1704, converted to an inn. The Duke of Marlborough (a forebear of Winston Churchill) was the hero of the day after a number of successful battles in Europe, so it was fitting that the inn should bear his name.

In November 1970, the phone rang at the inn, and a caller with an American accent booked two single rooms. The guests, a man and a woman, arrived at the Marlborough in the early evening and, after settling in, came down to the bar for a drink. Nothing unusual so far. My father, who owned the inn, was filling in behind the bar because Flip, the barmaid, was late.

The man told Dad he was a journalist, sent by Esquire magazine to write an article on English ghosts. He introduced his companion as a medium from the College for Psychical Research in London. They had heard about a ghost sighting in the village and asked my father what he knew about it.

Over the 500-plus years, thousands of stories must have been told in Marlborough’s bar; certainly the inn’s creaking, uneven floorboards, centuries-old beams, huge fireplaces and hidden passages made it the perfect setting for a ghost story.

Dad told them that the previous Saturday night, Halloween, a regular named Phil was walking home in the dark after several pints, and the last thing he remembered before collapsing to the ground was a ghost appearing in front of him. Passersby saw him lying in the road, dead to the world, and carried him back to the inn, where Dad ministered brandy. When he revived, Phil described seeing a white apparition, arms outstretched, screeching.

There was major skepticism in the village about the story, given the alcoholic intake of the storyteller, but it made regional news anyway, and somehow word reached the wider world. The man from Esquire — as luck would have it, already in London — hightailed it out with his medium in tow to investigate. It was, after all, a hot lead.

As Dad told the story, the lady took off her jacket, saying she was getting very warm and was “probably going into a trance.”

The London medium started telling Dad his life story — eerily accurate in its detail — including, among other things, that he had two sons, Bill and Tony. But, she said, she was sensing a third name. Charlie.

My elder brother, Bill, got the nickname Charlie when he went away to boarding school, and when I, Tony, followed him to the same school four years later, the nickname transferred to me. There was one other thing: There would be a marriage in the family which would involve someone from Beckenham. As I was the only unmarried person in the family at that point, I took particular interest when Dad passed this bit of information on to me!

Soon the ghost-sighting story started to lose steam. It came out that some village lads had been responsible for the whole thing. They knew Phil always walked home on a Saturday evening around 11 o’clock — following the announcement of “Time gentlemen please!” — and the village, having no streetlights, would be perfect for a big, white-sheeted apparition rising out of the dark. That their prank would go “viral,” or what passed for it in those days, was strictly a bonus.

A year or so later, when I was working in London for a hotel company, I began falling for a very pretty girl, Camilla. We started going out and occasionally went down to her parents’ house in Sussex for the weekend, about 50 miles south of the city. One evening we set out on our usual route but the rush-hour traffic was solid, so Camilla suggested a different way. As we drove through this unknown-to-me territory, I asked where we were. Camilla replied, “Beckenham. We used to live here.” The car swerved a little.

“Did you say Beckenham?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “I’ll show you the house where I grew up.”

I kept the medium’s prediction — now a bit of family lore divined across the bar in the Marlborough Head Hotel — to myself until after we were engaged, now some 52 wedding anniversaries ago. And all because Flip the barmaid was late for work.

Neither the barmaid nor the medium was invited to the wedding — but the story certainly made it. 

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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October Books

FICTION

Brightly Shining, by Ingvild Rishoi

Christmas is just around the corner, and Ronja and Melissa’s dreamer of a father is out of work again. When 10-year-old Ronja hears about a job at a Christmas tree stand near where the family lives in central Oslo, she thinks it might be the stroke of luck they all need. Soon, the fridge fills with food, and their father returns home with money in his pocket and a smile on his face. But one evening he disappears into the night under the pretense of buying Christmas gifts — and his daughters know he has gone to his favorite local pub, Stargate. Melissa decides to take his place at the Christmas tree stand, working before and after school in the December dark, and brings along Ronja, who quickly charms all the middle-class customers. The sisters dream of a brighter place of kindness and find help from some of those around them in this story that has all the markings of a magical modern classic.

The Library of Heartbeats, by Laura Imai Messina

On the peaceful Japanese island of Teshima there is a library of heartbeats, a place where the heartbeats of visitors from all around the world are collected. In this small, isolated building, the heartbeats of people who are still alive or have already passed away continue to echo. Several miles away, in the ancient city of Kamakura, two lonely souls meet: Shuichi, a 40-year-old illustrator who returns to his hometown to fix up the house of his recently deceased mother, and 8-year-old Kenta, a child who wanders like a shadow around Shuichi’s house. Day by day, the trust between Shuichi and Kenta grows, until they discover they share a bond that will tie them together for life. Enchanting, touching and emotionally riveting The Library of Heartbeats is a story about loss and hope, pain and joy, reality and imagination, and the promise of healing and overcoming the odds.

NONFICTION

Trails & Treats: A Hiker and Runner’s Guide To Great Trails and Good Eats In North Carolina, by Palmer McIntyre and Hollis Oberlies

Want to step out of the old routine and discover the beautiful landscapes of North Carolina? Trails & Treats describes 30 trails across the state, broken down into four geographical areas: the Triad, Triangle, Mountain and Charlotte regions. Not only does the book provide the distance of each trail and level of difficulty for hikers or runners, in it are recommendations for the restaurants, coffee shops, local markets and picnic areas that are worth a visit before or after the workout. A great read for seasoned hikers and runners or first-time explorers.

The Name of This Band is R.E.M: A Biography, 
by Peter Ames Carlin

In the spring of 1980, an unexpected group of musical eccentrics came together to play their very first performance at a college party in Athens, Georgia. Within a few short years, they had taken over the world with smash records like Out of Time, Automatic for the People, Monster and Green. Raw, outrageous and expressive, R.E.M.’s distinctive musical flair was unmatched, and a string of mega-successes solidified them as generational spokesmen. In this rich, intimate biography, Carlin looks beyond the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll to open a window into the fascinating lives of four college friends —Michael Stipe, Peter Buck, Mike Mills and Bill Berry — who stuck together at any cost, until the end.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Still Life, by Alex London

Of course, just when you finish creating your still life, a dragon has to jump in to stir things up! Art meets fantasy in this laugh-out-loud picture book. This one is perfect for that kid who loves jokes, riddles and a little sarcasm. (Ages 4-6.)

Name That Thing! by Gareth Moore

How many sports can you name with just the balls as clues? How many dinosaurs from just their nicknames? How many buildings from only the shape? How many dogs from their original jobs? Name That Thing! is a fun-fact quiz book for that inquisitive kid — and equally interested grownup — to investigate together. (Ages 6-12.)

The Café at the Edge of the Woods,
by Mikey Please

Fans of Julia’s House for Lost Creatures will delight in this charming, offbeat foodie tale with a sprinkle of adventure, a side order of friendship and — oh, yeah — ogres. This one is sure to be a hit with kids who want to giggle, and adults who are game to try pickled bat and slug fondue. (Ages 4-8.)

When We Flew Away, by Alice Hoffman

The ’40s gave us the Diary of a Young Girl, written by Anne Frank. In the ’50s, it became a movie, and in the 2000s a Netflix adaptation. Each succeeding generation searches for more of Anne’s story. When We Flew Away imagines Anne before the diary — the apple of her daddy’s eye, a girl with friends and a sometimes-pesky little sister, but mostly, just a girl. This important book is sure to be on the top of readers’ stacks this fall. (Ages 12 and up.)

The Last Dragon on Mars, by Scott Reintgen

Danger, fast-paced chases, secret underground military agencies, and an unexpected dragon named Doom — what more do you need? A classic adventure story, The Last Dragon on Mars is the book we’ve been waiting for. (Ages 12 and up.) 

Art of the Manor

ART OF THE MANOR

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Art of the Manor

Grand spaces and small treasures

By Deborah Salomon   •   Photographs by John Gessner

Imagine a residence resembling an Impressionist watercolor of all things spring. Imagine that it never fades or droops or goes to seed from summer’s heat. Turquoise predominates, cool as a rushing stream, channeling Monet. Birds flutter, some painted, some carved, some blown glass perched on a delicate glass birdbath. Yellow walls warm as May sun illuminates a living room housing two grandfather clocks, skirted end tables, leafy wallpaper, a thickly upholstered extra-long, 60-year-old sofa and, for contrast, a porcelain urn tall enough to house the ashes of a dynasty of pharaohs.

Mallory Hickey, dressed in lime linen, calls the result “my happy house.” Her friends call it “Mallory’s Gallery.”

The house, an elegant yet informal English country manor clad in white stucco with narrow shutters, was built in 1923 by the Tufts organization for a Mrs. Butterfield who, according to correspondence on file in the Tufts Archives at the Given Memorial Library, expressed multiple petty grievances. Subsequently, Richard Tufts is said to have lived there. Without complaint.

In an era when country homes needed names, this mild-mannered specimen was called Blackjack Cottage, not for connections to gambling or even rakish Black Jack Bouvier, Jacqueline Kennedy’s hard-drinking, high-rolling father. Rather, the lot was overgrown with blackjack oak trees named for its bark divided into ebony plaques.

Could this be why Hickey painted the foyer opening onto an otherwise pastel interior . . . black? No. “Black is neutral,” the chatelaine says. It’s also a contrast. The antique Irish rocking horse leaning against the staircase suggests that surprises await.

For 30 years Hickey has been leaving her imprint on this manor on the edge of Pinehurst village, where construction dug up a crumbling tombstone engraved “John O. Fisher 1889,” its provenance a mystery.

In the early 1990s Hickey and her late husband, John, Michigan residents, contemplated early retirement, she from an upper-echelon job with American Airlines, he from marketing. They took two weeks off to scope out Hilton Head, Savannah, et al. Friends had moved to Pinehurst. It made sense to stop on the way home one lovely October.

“We checked into the inn. I thought, what a cosmopolitan place,” Hickey recalls. Just for fun, they looked at houses. In Blackjack Cottage she saw beyond the shag carpet and flocked wallpaper. They rented, then purchased, the property, which she would spend decades transforming.

“I’ve done the kitchen twice,” she says.

First, they needed to replace the upstairs master suite with something more substantial and comfortable, preferably on the ground floor. The new wing of mammoth proportions has a vaulted, timbered ceiling rising 20 feet, dwarfing two queen-sized beds. Its seating area with sofa, tables, fireplace and bay window overlooks a terrace. Here, summery pastels give way to richer hues, forest green and deep coral, a contrast continued in the TV/library/den, just off the living room, where dog art rules.

On the bay windowsill, Gracie, a 14-year-old retriever mix, stretches out in her bed. “We found her in a dumpster in the Dominican Republic, when she was a puppy,’’ Hickey says. Also in residence, three cats, the eldest pushing 20.

Each room contains something notable. In the dining room one of three corner cupboards displays Hickey’s collection of vibrant Majolica pottery. The dining table (with no extensions) seats six — eight in a pinch — since this hostess prefers intimate, informal dinners seasoned with lively conversation. Its skirted chairs are upholstered in white. Not to worry, she explains, ketchup wipes off.

About that twice redone kitchen: If most Pinehurst manor house kitchens are sequined ball gowns, this one is a finely tailored suit in sand, beige and off-white with a beadboard ceiling and furniture-finish island, softened by an eyebrow window over the farm sink. In here, the cry of the Wolf range goes unheeded. Hickey did not submit to Sub-Zero, either. In a home a shade under 5,000 square feet, the proportions of the modest but elegant kitchen meet her needs. “When guests congregate here I chase them out,” she says pleasantly.

Upstairs belongs to family mementos, beginning with photos of Hickey’s mother and grandmother in the stairwell, continuing with a framed christening dress, a bedroom set, quilts, art and snapshot collages. “My grandfather came over from Russia,” she says, drawing attention to a photo. “He jumped ship in New York.” She saved his bed, along with a figurine of a lady that was broken in a fall and mended by a child with chewing gum. A narrow indoor balcony overlooks the sunroom, a veritable bower adjoining the living room. Sitting there is like being outdoors minus inclement weather.

The gardens are lush and densely shrubbed, a goldfish pond is covered with wire to thwart fishing birds.

Mallory’s Gallery, indeed, enhanced by grand spaces and small treasures — stained glass window panels, a framed Hermes scarf and, on the swinging doors, raised metal finger plates from New Zealand.

“I live in a bubble — secure, far from the madding crowd,” Hickey says. Then admits the obvious: “I love Monet water lilies.”

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Archives: October 2024

Libra

(September 23 – October 22)

When the shoe no longer fits, no amount of stretching or bending will change that. This year has given you loads of opportunities to release what no longer serves your highest path. And with the solar south node eclipse in your sign on October 2, suffice it to say that this month is going to be more of the same — uncomfortable yet, ultimately, liberating. A word of advice on moving forward: You’re going to want arch support.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Be the squeaky wheel.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Dog-ear the page for later.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Best not to download the app.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Lie down if you start feeling dizzy.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Hint: They can’t read your mind.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Book the trip.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Bypass the candy corn.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

It’s time to call the shots.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Write a love note to yourself.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Prepare for liftoff.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22

Sometimes more is more.

Dressed to Thrill

DRESSED TO THRILL

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Dressed to Thrill

Audrey Moriarty

In the early 1930s, in a village not so very far away, masquerade balls were all the rage. Over time, the Carolina Hotel celebrated New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day and Valentine’s Day with dress-up galas. Guests and cottagers were “invited” to attend by Leonard Tufts himself, and admission was by card only. Invitations for guests were procured at the Carolina office. Other balls, sponsored by the Sandhill Shrine Club, were held at the Pinehurst Country Club. Donald Ross was the chairman of the Ball Committee and invited attendees by letter describing the club’s purpose, and enclosing a ticket and a stamped envelope. Tickets were $5, and proceeds supported the community’s “little sufferers.”

These events, however, were no match for the revelry of the employees’ masquerade balls. The annual “Frolic in the Spring” was attended not only by employees, but cottagers and guests as well. Held at the Carolina Hotel, the annual ball started with a parade from the dining room, down the great hall, and into the ballroom. According to the April 3, 1931, Pinehurst Outlook, “The annual employees’ masquerade brings out the best array of costumes seen during the entire season.”

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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Archives: October 2024

We Shall Gather

There’s no need to rush

By Lee Pace

At the address of the golf swing, we talk about ball position, spine angle, grip pressure, takeaway and turn. At impact we talk about compression and clearing the hips and head position. Yet one element of the swing — under-appreciated and under-attended on the pages of golf magazines, YouTube instruction videos and Instagram golf pros — is the transition.

The top of the swing is the promised land of hitting good golf shots.

Getting too quick is kryptonite.

Taking your time is pure gold.

After all, if you’re going one direction and then want to reverse 180 degrees, you have to stop. What’s your hurry?

Renowned instructor Bob Toski tells his students to use the “Coca-Cola Swing,” employing a “pause that refreshes” at the top of the backswing.

“There should be no flash of speed at the top of your swing,” Toski says. “The club should be quiet and not bouncing. This gives you a chance to move the lower body down into the swing. You want to feel that you push the club back and pull it through. Think push, pause, pull.’”

Sean Foley, instructor over the years to noted golfers such as Tiger Woods and Justin Rose, counsels his pupils to be patient with the downswing. He uses the word “collect” in talking of the process of moving from backswing to downswing, particularly as it applies to the Englishman Rose.

“Too often, Justin gets a little tense at the top, and his transition back down to the ball is rushed,” Foley says. “Your arms should just fall from the top, rather than jerking the club down.”

Fred Couples, owner of the most liquid swing in golf and 1992 Masters champion, likes the word gather.

“Couples talks about ‘buying time’ at the top of the backswing,” says golf instructor Jim Nelford, a contemporary of Couples’ on the PGA Tour of the 1980s and ’90s. “Never be in a hurry. Take your time on your backswing. Couples will gather at the top and just let the club drop.”

Pat McGowan, a PGA Tour regular from 1980 through the early 1990s, was struggling when the tour arrived in New Orleans for the USF&G Classic in late March 1989. He was miserable throughout a practice round on the difficult Jack Nicklaus-designed English Turn Golf Club, all the penal water and sand accentuated by brisk winds. His friend and playing companion Phil Blackmar convinced McGowan to make rehearsal swings when the tournament started by swinging back to perfect position and exaggerating a pause to five seconds.

“You’ll look like an idiot, but so what?” Blackmar said, plunging the gallows humor knife as only good golf buddies can do. “You’ll look bad shooting 78. You might as well try it.”

McGowan did as suggested, shot a 68 to open the tournament, followed with a 70 and a pair of 71s for a ninth-place finish, his best of the year. You might get that story today from McGowan if you get rushed at the top on the practice tee at Pine Needles Lodge and Golf Club, where McGowan is the lead instructor.

“Some people act like the ball’s moving, that you’ve got to hit it before it runs away,” McGowan says. “The ball’s not going anywhere. Finish your backswing first. That exaggerated pause at the top during the practice swing carries over to the full swing and slows you down.”

Andrew Rice teaches that very move from his outpost at the Westin Savannah Harbor Golf Resort. He calls it the “Power Pause Drill.” At first, he’ll have a pupil swing to the top and pause for a count of three, then hit the ball. After that exaggerated feel, he’ll ask them to pause for just one second. The idea is that the feeling will become engrained.

“One thing I see is that golfers don’t complete their backswing,” Rice says. “Another is that they go jumping out of the gate with rotation, trying to get some energy running down the shaft into the clubhead. It’s a short, incomplete backswing.

“With this drill, they make a full, complete backswing and store that energy. It’s like touching home plate.”

John Marino, the longtime head pro at Old Chatham Golf Club in Durham, spent a lot of time talking golf over the years with Dick Coop, the professor at the University of North Carolina who had a sideline consulting with professional and elite amateur golfers on the mental side of the game. Coop played golf himself and was a member at Old Chatham.

“Dick liked to say, ‘If your shaft was a perch, let the bird land on it before you start your downswing,’” Marino says. “A smooth transition will help create good balance and good sequencing. Everyone wants to be ‘that guy’ at his club with perfect tempo. That idea helps you get there.”

Cameron Young is the poster boy on today’s PGA Tour for the benefits of coming to a complete stop at the top of the swing and then exploding into a massive spark of speed through the ball (he was No. 7 on the driving distance meter in 2023 with 316 yards a pop). Young learned to play golf from his father, David, who was the head pro at Sleepy Hollow Country Club, just north of New York City. As a junior golfer, Cameron struggled to match his swing plane going back and then coming through.

“Cam’s worked hard on not having a lot of rerouting during the transition, so the clubhead comes down not too far from the direction where it went up,” his father says. “He wants to get the lower body working toward the target while he pins his arms, club and upper body back, which makes it look like he’s standing still. There’s no conscious effort to pause.”

And you can find a talented and social media-conscious golfer on Instagram and YouTube today named Ben Kruper, who bills himself as “The Pause King.” Kruper developed his distinctive pause in 2023 working on his game while playing mini-tour events and developing a digital venue presence.

“I had a super quick transition and wanted to do something kind of drastic,” he says. “It’s helped my game a ton. That quick transition would get me way behind, I’d get stuck, and I’d have to flip at the ball. Under pressure, it got so out of hand.”

In one YouTube video, Kruper wields his syrupy tempo to one pure strike after another as golf instructor Grant Horvat watches.

“My God, you can’t hit it any better,” Horvat enthuses. “Perfect dollar-bill divots, one after another. You know, you’re pretty good at golf.”

With that, it’s off to the practice tee with a bottle of Coke to set beside that bucket of balls.