Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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Life in Rabbit Land

Hare, There and Everywhere

By Jim Dodson

Illustration by Gerry O’Neill

Is there anything nicer than a summer evening after a surprise rain shower cools off the world?

I think not. Of course, being in the “evening of life” myself, I am perhaps not an entirely objective source on the matter.

On the other hand, Homer’s grandkids seem to agree with me. Homer is the rabbit that has made my yard his home for several years. Or, at least, that’s what I nicknamed him.

I was sitting here quietly by myself moments ago beneath Old George, our elderly maple tree at the garden’s edge, enjoying the cooler air and an evening drink, when they suddenly appeared — three young rabbits racing directly past me into the front yard, chasing, tumbling and hopping joyfully over each other like a circus troupe of acrobats entering the center ring. I watched them race around until they settled down to nibble grass in the newest section of the yard.    

I call them Homer’s grandkids because young kits appear every spring from the burrow where they reside beneath an ancient oak stump near my east garden gate, a well-protected enclave. I have no idea if Homer was the original patriarch (or, for that matter, matriarch) of the burrow, but a decade or so ago he captured our affections by showing up every morning and evening like clockwork to hang out with our old, gray tiger cat, Boo Radley. The two would often sit together in the garden as evening fell, just watching the day’s peaceful end. Theirs was an improbable “friendship” that went on for several years until Boo passed on and Homer went, well, wherever aging eastern cottontail rabbits go. I was inspired to write a whimsical book for my own grandkids, wondering at the time if I would ever have some. My artist friend, Harry Blair, drew the illustrations.

We live in Starmount Forest, so-named because its former wealthy owner was determined to keep the old-growth hardwoods intact — until he built a country club in the middle of it and passed the forest on to other owners, whose heirs — legend holds — began turning the forest into a postwar neighborhood of attractive suburban houses.

Fortunately, it still retains some of its character as an urban forest of mighty oaks and maples, and remains one of the oldest and most popular neighborhoods in the city. Growing up in Starmount, I have a keen boyhood memory of the abundant rabbits in the yards and gardens of the neighborhood half a century ago. They clearly preceded humans in lovely Starmount Forest. And will likely outlive us all.

My mom, a dedicated gardener, liked to say that we were the “newcomers to Rabbit Land,” hence their natural “nibbling rights” in a special section of her backyard garden she set aside for them. She planted things rabbits love to eat — snapdragons, morning glories, daisies and black-eyed Susans — thereby keeping them away from her beloved peony border and roses. Decades later, I adopted a version of her strategy when I built a large woodland garden in Maine and included a huge patch of hosta plants at the back of our property, designed to keep the whitetail deer out of my flower beds. It worked like a charm. 

Like my mom, I find something comforting and even magical about our neighborhood rabbits. They’re all around us and simply part of daily life here, a reminder that nature is never far away. On an average morning or evening walk around the block, you’re liable see at least a couple dozen of them feeding peacefully in yards or resting under shrubs from the heat of a long summer day.

I’m sure part of my affection for them stems from growing up in a generation of kids weaned on Beatrix Potter’s beloved Tale of Peter Rabbit, the classic 1902 children’s book about a mischievous young rabbit who disobeys his mother and gets into big trouble in Mr. McGregor’s vegetable garden. It ends with Peter making a wild escape during which he loses his clothes and is put to bed with chamomile tea while his sisters, Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail, enjoy a nice supper. It was a fable meant to remind young ones to always mind their mama. I still own my childhood copy of the book, which I plan to soon pass along to my new granddaughter, June Bug. The wee book on Homer and Boo will soon follow.

Another book that will wend its way to her is a beautifully illustrated first edition of Richard Adams’ Watership Down, an allegorical adventure story about a group of brave rabbits who set off to find a safe haven after their rural Hampshire warren is slated for destruction and development — a tale that holds echoes of today’s headlines about immigrants.

Critics uniformly hailed Watership Down as a modern classic by comparing its epic motifs of spiritual faith, flight and survival to Homer’s Odyssey and Virgil’s The Aeneid. Adams himself described it merely as simple tales he improvised during a long family road trip to entertain his young daughters, Juliet and Rosamund. They pestered him to write down the story, which he eventually did, reading each bit as he finished it to his daughters. Rejected by seven major publishing houses before London-based, independent press Rex Collings published it in 1972, Watership Down quickly became a runaway bestseller in both Britain and America.

I read it the summer before my sophomore year in college and still rank it among my favorite books.

•

It’s no surprise that rabbits have a magical presence across mythology and human culture. The science, lore, mystery and magic of what some believe to be the world’s most misunderstood herbivore have been an integral part of our own evolution as a species.

Rabbits, either hunted or raised domestically, have been revered for ages for their meat and fur. They are also held in high regard for their prodigious reproductive abilities — averaging four to 12 kits per year. Rabbits reportedly flourish on every continent save for Antarctica.

Seen around the world as symbols of fertility, cunning and innocence, they also appear in the mythology of nearly every human society, from ancient Aztec to Asian. Native American peoples regarded the “Great Rabbit” to be the creator of the world. The rabbit is also one of the 12 celestial animals of the Chinese zodiac, where it is the symbol of longevity, peace and prosperity. Someone born under the sign of the rabbit is believed to be vigilant, witty, quick-minded and ingenious.

In Western society, the Easter Bunny evolved from German folklore. It joins Br’er Rabbit, Alice’s White Rabbit and the immortal Bugs Bunny as iconic figures in our narrative lore. In his unpublished memoirs, Bugs’ creator, Friz Freleng, claimed to have modeled Bugs Bunny on Clark Gable’s wily, fast-talking character in the 1934 hit comedy film It Happened One Night.

This may explain why my neighbors in the old Starmount Forest seem to share my affinity for our ever-present rabbits.

Life in Rabbit Land is good. 

In a current world that lately seems out of balance and frequently beyond our daily comprehension, the presence of peaceful cottontails at dawn and dusk reminds us of life’s beauty, brevity and sweet hope of renewal.

 

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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A Fish Tale

And a queasy oceangoing interview

By Bill Fields

It’s prime bluefish season in my adopted home state of Connecticut, where anglers pursue the aggressive and toothy species in Long Island Sound. Our now-defunct local minor league team, the Bridgeport Bluefish, had a fitting name. Its logo — cartoon fish with baseball bat — wasn’t in the legendary graphic-design class of another long-gone franchise, the Hartford Whalers, but was very good.

I still remember the fight put forth by a blue I reeled in some years ago when a friend’s father took us out on his boat. It weighed about 10 pounds, the biggest fish I’d ever caught. Because of their strong flavor and oily nature, blues aren’t the best eating. But my host kindly cleaned my catch, and I was determined to have it for dinner.

Although my girlfriend was a good sport and cooked it, the kitchen reeked for hours after a meal that neither of us wanted to replay. We agreed if there were any more bluefish in my future that a catch-and-release policy would be in effect.

My most memorable — and unexpected — fishing experience had taken place a decade earlier on the other side of the country in the company of one of the 20th century’s finest golfers.

In advance of the 1998 U.S. Open at the Olympic Club in San Francisco, I was writing an in-depth feature for Golf World recalling the leading characters in a previous Open at Olympic: 1966, when Billy Casper defeated Arnold Palmer in a playoff after trailing him by seven strokes with nine holes left in the fourth round. It was Palmer’s most heartbreaking attempt in his unrequited quest to add a second U.S. Open title to his dramatic 1960 victory.

Understandably, Palmer wasn’t eager to rehash the details of 1966, but he agreed to a short interview, which took place in the parking lot of a Senior PGA Tour event as he regripped his clubs with fresh leather wrapping. Casper, on the other hand, whose 51 PGA Tour wins are the seventh-most all time, welcomed a visit.

I had arranged to meet Casper at his San Diego home, but when I phoned to touch base on the day I was traveling west, he called an audible. “Let’s go fishing,” he said, before telling me where to meet him on the waterfront that evening. I assumed we would be going out in the Pacific Ocean on his boat. Upon arriving, however, I discovered Casper and I were among half a dozen passengers on a charter vessel motoring about 50 miles overnight and fishing for yellowtail the next day.

I settled into my bunk excited at the prospect of a captive interview subject. I woke up with a queasiness I’d never experienced as the boat rocked back and forth, minor movements that were causing major motion sickness. Shortly after sunrise, it was all I could do to make it to the galley, where I found Casper.

“They make a great breakfast burrito,” he said.

As Casper chowed down, I nursed a ginger ale. Another fisherman, seeing that I was hurting, said he had an extra anti-nausea wristband for which I would have emptied my wallet. I put on his gift and soon rallied enough to start interviewing Casper, who was friendly but clearly more interested in fishing than talking: There wasn’t going to be much on my microcassette tape to transcribe.

There was little action once we were outside with rod and reel. I was excited to catch a 30-inch barracuda, but the deckhand, viewing it as a nuisance, took it off the hook and threw the thrashing fish back in the ocean before I had a chance to get someone to snap a photo of me with my catch.

Eventually, as the afternoon went on, Casper and someone else landed a few nice yellowtail. The trip wasn’t a shutout. My appetite having returned in the fresh air and sunshine, I enjoyed the deckhand’s offering of the freshest sashimi I’ve ever had.

When we got back to land 20 hours after heading out, Casper and I said our goodbyes. Walking a couple of blocks to my rental car after my first ocean excursion, my legs felt as wobbly as Palmer’s game had been that fateful final nine in 1966.

That ’70s House

THAT '70S HOUSE

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By Jenna Biter

Photographs by John Gessner

The day’s waning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows to illuminate a houseful of delightful curiosities. Joseph Smith recovered the whale vertebra on the coffee table in an Army dive, and the Matisse knockoff was hanging in Allison Smith’s Raleigh apartment when the couple first met. A European motorcycle helmet is a marriage of opposites: red and green, old and modern. “It’s like a spirit animal,” Joseph says. The helmet is the anchor in the home’s sea of personality.

“We love the hunt for thrifted things, but we also just love keeping our money local,” says Allison from a clay-colored couch.

“That actually is a point of pride,” Joseph says, beaming at his wife as their 10-month-old daughter, Imeleta Kimbrell, named for both grandmothers and “Lettie” for short, babbles and squeals from the floor.

The Smiths moved into the 2,000-square-foot, mid-century modern fixer-upper in the spring of 2023. They swapped the walkability of a downtown rental for family life a few minutes outside Southern Pines where neighbors deliver brownies at move-in and gifts when a baby is born. “We were ready for a little bit more space,” says Allison.

The one-story brick build lounges on a smidge less than an acre in the shade of mature pines. Built in 1974, it has had numerous owners, and like a whisper loses shape in a game of telephone, its history has morphed into myths that can’t be confirmed but are fun to believe. One thing is certain: Before previous owners painted the house black, it was referred to as “the dentist’s office.” The house on Horseshoe Road is the rare instance where Allison is happy that the original brick had been painted.

Past the house number, set in a silver script that hints of diners and the Jetsons, lipstick red double doors welcome visitors into a curated space. The furniture and décor were inherited or purchased secondhand from estate sales, Community Thrift, Sandhills Coalition, Habitat for Humanity and Facebook Marketplace. “My favorite piece is probably that — what would you call that? Dresser? Chest? — the Asian chest,” Allison says, pointing to the black and gilt chinoiserie in the dining room. “That belonged to my grandparents. Ever since I was 5, I was like, “One day . . .’”

Beside the chest hangs a pair of portraits of girls who could fit in with the Brady Bunch. “We have no idea who they are,” says Joseph. The Smiths bought the paintings at a sale for something nearing $5 apiece and, in trying to identify the subjects, discovered their first Realtor had been the previous owner of the paintings, also bought them at a sale, and doesn’t know who the girls are either.

Potatoes fill a prized brown ceramic bowl displayed prominently on the kitchen island. “For me, my favorite thing is that bowl because Allison made it in a pottery class, and I love it,” says Joseph, with a wide grin. “I love that thing.”

Allison laughs. “He’s like, ‘If there’s a fire, other than you and Lettie, I’m taking that bowl,’” she says.

Smith House has two bedrooms for now, but soon there will be three. The room conversion is the last project in a series that started when they purchased the home serendipitously.

“We love mid-century modern homes,” Joseph says. “We were looking and looking. We really wanted to find a house that was us, or close enough to us that we could make it us. And we found a house.”

It was in Fayetteville. It had imported cypress panels and Japanese joinery. It was a mid-century modern dream, and for the Smiths, a Faustian bargain. “Are we going to go to Fayetteville and live in our dream house where we’re just far enough from her family to be too far?” Joseph says. Allison grew up in West End, a descendant of families who have been in the Sandhills for centuries. The Shaws — a many-times-great-grandmother was born in Shaw House. The Aumans of Auman Lake on her father’s side and the Pages of Aberdeen on her mother’s.

“The day that we’re going to sign the papers, our Realtor says, ‘Hey, you know there’s this other house. It’s the last day on the market on Horseshoe Road over by Pine Needles if you want to at least give it a look,’” Joseph recalls. They were last to tour the property for best-and-final offers.

“We walked in. We saw the parquet floors. The big floor-to-ceiling windows. The big doors.” They were sold. Within the first two years, Joseph and Allison had replaced the ceiling; opened the floor plan for dining, living and kitchen to mingle three-in-one; added birch paneling to the bedrooms; and remodeled the bathroom with upgrades that included a bidet after a trip to Italy. As DIYers, they did it all, from ceiling insulation to kitchen cabinets constructed of walnut plywood that complement the mid-century modern architecture.

“We both liked it before we got together,” Allison says of their mutual love for the aesthetic. “Neither of us took convincing to be into the style, thank goodness.”

“This might be, after the fact, why I think I like it,” says Joseph. “When I grew up, all of Las Vegas was mid-century homes like Palm Springs, kind of Eichler, single story, flat roof, palm tree.” (Joseph Eichler was an American real estate developer known for building mid-century modern houses priced for middle-class Californians.)

For Allison, relationships fed her appetite for good design. Her aunt and uncle worked at the architectural firm Hayes-Howell and Associates, and her grandmother “just had a love of beautiful things.” Allison jokes that her mom is the original Pinterest-er. To this day, Mom tears pages from home magazines and bestows them on whomever she thinks could be inspired to dive down a Facebook Marketplace rabbit hole.

“The age of good furniture is gone,” Joseph says, matter-of-factly, “and if it’s not gone, you’re going to pay $48,000, but you can get it secondhand and cheaper, and somebody locally benefits.”

It’s already out there. Somebody might as well add it to their collection of delightful curiosities.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

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The Self Checkout

When daughter becomes Mom

By Ashley Harris

Illustration by Campbell Pringle

My 76-year-old mother, recovering from a hip replacement, steered her cart toward a cashier at Walmart. A line of five carts snaked ahead of us, overflowing with groceries and restless toddlers. This could take an hour. No, I decided. It was time.

I gently took command of the cart and circled back to the spacious and orderly self-checkout section. Here patrons circulated freely, checked out quickly and marched out the door, smiling into the sunshine. Mom deserved this. “Let’s use the self-checkout.”

“No,” she said, her navy eyes widening with resolve, reminding me of the theory that all blue-eyed people shared one common ancestor, undoubtedly a stubborn soul who insisted on making her spears solely from the gingko tree.

I knew she was scared. Of the scanning and the codes. Of setting off some alarm that brought managers. I understood.

“This is exactly how I felt before I jumped off the high dive,” I reminded her. In her prime, Mom had been an expert swimmer, famous for her beautiful swan dives while I preferred to splash around in the kiddie section. “But you coached me through it. Remember?” At just 8 years old, I held my nose, dutifully stepped off the board, and much to my relief, bobbed right back up and doggie-paddled to her welcoming arms. That’s why I knew she could survive the self-checkout. I would be there for her. Still, she glared at me.

I sighed, moved by the gravitas of this moment. There comes a time in the life of every adult child when you realize that you must become the parent of your own parent. Today was the day I would take the bull by the horns. Or, in this case, the heifer by the hair.

“It’s so easy,” I said, rolling over to an empty register. “And there are friendly people here to help.” Sandra, one of my favorite clerks, chit-chatted with an elderly man while they weighed his avocados, the atmosphere lightened by laughter.

“OK,” Mom grumbled, realizing it was too late to protest.

“Watch this,” I said, grabbing a tub of potato soup and rolling it over the screen. A reassuring ping confirmed a successful scan. “Your turn.”

But when she tried the same thing with a box of coffee pods, nothing happened. “Here,” I said, grabbing the box and bouncing it definitively against the glass, which triggered the ping. “You must scan with authority. Show the scanner that you mean business.”

She nodded, and went for the next item, a box of tissues. This time she scanned it with a little more finesse, and the scanner obligingly pinged. Then she followed with a box of crackers. Ping. Shampoo. Ping. More soup. Ping, ping, ping. Suddenly there was no stopping the blue-eyed woman whose callused-kneed ancestor foraged through the forest every day until she found enough berries and nuts to feed her family.

“You’re getting good at this,” I said. “I’m proud of you.” But now it was time for the final exam — a bag of six oranges, which would require a code. It was time for the pro to step in.

“Weighing produce is fun,” I reassured her, picking up the bag. Suddenly, the thin cellophane split, and those six oranges rolled in six different directions. The serenity of the self-checkout devolved into utter chaos, as patrons shuffled and hopped, dodging oranges or trying to catch them. Some were returned to us, and some were never seen again. My face burnt with embarrassment as we paid and walked out.

“You’re probably never going to do that again, are you?” I asked her.

Mom shook her head, treating me to the stare of a woman whose bloodline stood down a woolly mammoth outside the cave.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Did you ever jump off the high dive again?”

I never did, and she knew perfectly well I never did.

“It’s OK, honey,” she said, softening. And Mom became Mom again. “With some things, once is more than enough.”

Matchless

MATCHLESS

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Matchless

The duel at CCNC

By Dale Moegling

By the end of the 1960s, professional golf had settled into a rhythm that made sense to everyone watching it. Four days. Seventy-two holes. Numbers gathered patiently and arranged on a leaderboard that revealed in orderly fashion who had played best. Arnold Palmer could hitch his pants for his army; Gary Player could fist-pump to the four corners of the earth; Jack Nicklaus could drive the ball vast distances and achieve the career grand slam in just seven years.

It was a system that worked. It was easy on the eyes — television’s eyes. It was also a system that had lost something. For Joseph C. Dey Jr., who after a 34-year career as the executive director of the USGA, became the first commissioner of the newly created PGA Tournament Players Division (soon to be the PGA Tour) in 1969, the game was missing something that had once defined it: match play, the mano a mano format abandoned by the PGA Championship after 1957.

Dey’s demeaner was as formal as a Windsor knot. “He never removed his jacket in the office, and was of the unshakable conviction that 9 to 5 meant exactly that, and not 9 until 4:50,” wrote another lion of the USGA, Frank Hannigan. Dey would resign as PGA Tour commissioner in 1974, handing the reins to Deane Beman. Among the things he accomplished in five years included two tournaments, one with a lasting impact and one whose fame was rather more fleeting.

Dey instituted the Tour’s stand-alone event now known as The Players Championship. A less enduring mark was left behind by the short-lived reintroduction of match play in professional golf known as the U.S. Professional Match Play Championship that debuted in 1971, followed by the Liggett & Myers Open U.S. Match Play Championship in 1972. Both were played in the late August heat on the highly regarded Dogwood Course of the Country Club of North Carolina, itself less than a decade old. The back-to-back years marked the return to Moore County of the best players in the world after Richard Tufts canceled the North and South Open following the 1951 season. The experiment in match play would last one additional year, played at MacGregor Downs Country Club in Cary, before it came to a merciful end.

As much of a button-downed traditionalist as Dey was, he was also willing to push the envelope. He once proposed that the U.S. Open be contested for three weeks over 216 holes on three different courses in three different parts of the United States. It was a concept that, to put it charitably, found no purchase with the USGA’s executive committee.

With visions of the grandeur of match play drama, the help of CCNC club president Richard A. Urquhart Jr., the influence of club member William M. Jennings (president of the New York Rangers and a member of the NHL Hall of Fame) and the financial backing of Milton E. Harrington, the president of Liggett & Myers, Dey’s dream of the psychological drama of one-on-one golf became a reality.

The field in 1971 was to comprise the 64 top names on the points list. All the usual suspects would be there. Lee Trevino. Palmer. Player. Nicklaus. And local favorite Julius Boros who had ties to Mid Pines Club. Rather than a traditional win-a-hole, halve-a-hole, lose-a-hole format, the matches would be contested at stroke play over 18 holes — pleasing for television in the days when only the last few holes could be broadcast.

A celebrity-rich field showed up for the Tuesday pro-am: singer Glen Campbell, the astronaut Gene Cernan, New York Yankees great Mickey Mantle, the jockey Eddie Arcaro and, probably the best known of all, Mayberry’s slapstick deputy Barney Fife, née Don Knotts.

The tweaking of the scoring, however, did nothing to alter the vagaries of match play. Nicklaus went out early. Player came undone in extra holes. Palmer didn’t fare any better. The finals produced DeWitt Weaver, whose previous best finish had been a third place in the ’71 Hawaiian Open, against San Diego’s Phil Rodgers, destined to become something of a short game guru in later years. Weaver’s one-under 71 was good for a 6-shot victory. The consolation match for third was won by Ken Still over Bruce Crampton. If match play was to survive on the professional tour, the “names” needed to survive to the weekend. Changes needed to be made. And made they were.

The 1972 version grafted the L&M Open at stroke play onto the U.S. Professional Match Play Championship, producing the world’s longest name for a single event. It would be dubbed, and redubbed, golf’s first doubleheader. The match play would involve 16 players. The first seven — Nicklaus, Trevino, Palmer, George Archer, Miller Barber, Frank Beard and Jerry Heard — came off the money list, joined by Weaver as the defender. The second eight would be determined by the first 36 holes of the L&M. “Billed by contestants themselves as ‘The Forgotten Open,’ or ‘The World’s Richest Qualifier,’ or merely, the satellite,” wrote Golf World magazine’s Dick Taylor.

The week began much as the inaugural had, with a wealth of celebrities playing in the Amateur-Celebrity Pinehurst Invitational on course No. 2. Glen Campbell was back, as was Cernan. They were joined by Robert Stack, television’s Eliot Ness. Bob Hope said he hadn’t seen that much sand since his last USO tour.

There was a remunerative benefit to being promoted from the L&M to the match play. First place was $40,000 compared to $20,000 in the stroke play. After the first 36 holes on CCNC’s Cardinal, there was a three-way playoff for the last two match play slots. Don Bies and Paul Moran got in, Jerry McGee didn’t. The weekend schedule looked like this: Saturday opened with the first round of matches, followed by the third round of the L&M and concluding with the second round of matches; Sunday began with the semifinal matches, followed by the final 18 of the L&M, finishing the day with the final match. What’s the old saying, a camel is a horse designed by a committee?

In the end, television got what it wanted: Jack Nicklaus in the final. He beat Frank Beard  2 and 1. The television coverage by CBS actually broke away after Nicklaus’ victory and before the four-man playoff for the L&M between Lou Graham, Hale Irwin, Larry Zeigler and David Graham, won by Lou Graham with a birdie on the third extra hole.

As Sports Illustrated’s Dan Jenkins wrote, “The format was different, but the result was the same. Jack Nicklaus won again.”

Sandhills Photo Club

SANDHILLS PHOTO CLUB

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Trains, Planes & Automobiles

Would you like to have fun expanding your photography skills through programs, outings, competitions, and workshops? We welcome you to learn more about our club and inquire about membership. For meetings and information visit www.sandhillsphotoclub.org.

Tier 3 Winners

Tier 3, 1st Place: Hogwarts Express by Pat Anderson

Tier 3, 2nd Place: Zoom Zoom by Neva Scheve

Tier 3, 3rd Place: Lean, Mean, Fighting Machine by Joshua Simpson

Tier 2 Winners

Tier 2, 1st Place: 500 mph Fly By by Michael Sassano

Tier 2, 2nd Place: May All Your Dreams Come True by Sue Lyons

Tier 2, 3rd Place: A Little Vintage Charm by Cathy Locklear

Tier 1 Winners

Tier 1, 1st Place: Captain’s Seat by Kim Butler

Tier 1, 2nd Place: In My Dreams by David Kiner

Tier 1, 3rd Place: The Getaway Car by Jean Antholzner

With Love and Appreciation…

WITH LOVE AND APPRECIATION...

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With Love and Appreciation...

By

Clyde Edgerton

Daniel Wallace

Joseph Bathanti

Jill McCorkle

Jaki Shelton Green

Michael Parker

Shannon Ravenel

 

Illustrations by Campbell Pringle

The 2026 induction ceremony for the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame takes place in October at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities. Could there be a better time to devote our Summer Reading issue to the current and soon-to-be members of that exclusive club than now? We’ve asked three members of the class of 2026 to write a letter to one of their favorite fictional characters and, to round out the field, we’ve surrounded them with four current enshrinees. The rules were simple: Pick a character you love, or hate, or even love to hate, and go from there. And we think you’ll agree, the places they went are extraordinary.

From: Clyde Edgerton

To: Manley Pointer, the Bible salesman in  “Good Country People,” by Flannery O’Connor

Dear Manley (if I may),

I got your penitentiary address from Henry Dampier, a character of mine who also sells Bibles. He knows you and I assume you know him.

A few days ago, Henry told me about your recent criminal activities, including getting caught again — stealing boxes of Gideon Bibles and then razoring out the title page (referencing “Gideon”).

I’ve not read the story “Good Country People” in a good while but I remember being drawn to your cleverness in that story, and also, aspects of your appearance — especially your yellow socks rolled down “to your ankles” or something like that. Images get stuck in your head, you know?

I am sending you this letter to let you know that you have been an inspiration to me in at least a couple of ways:

1. I sometimes go to bed at night happily anticipating the next morning’s completion of a scene I’m writing. On the second or third reading of “Good Country People,” when I was still a young writer, I came to realize that heaven for me would be the opportunity to write the last half or so of “Good Country People” — the part that would include your second visit to Hulga’s mother’s house. I realized that to know you were going back to visit again, and that I could write out what then happened, would be a kind of delightful heaven on earth for me. All this (including reading about your relationship to Hulga) fell onto me as I was learning to write fiction.

2. A couple of writers got in touch with me early in this century, saying they were hoping to publish a book-length tribute to Flannery O’Connor, written by different writers — would I contribute?

Of course. 

I decided to contribute a short story that included my character, a Bible salesman who was not you (but who knew you). I also wanted to include a “misfit” in my story — one who knew Miss O’Connor’s famous character, The Misfit. I wondered if the writers hoping to publish the O’Connor tribute book would accept a story rather than an essay. I was afraid they’d say no, so I didn’t ask, I just wrote the story, and I liked it so much I eventually made it into a novel: The Bible Salesman. I never heard from the writer/editors again, but was very happy, of course, that they — and you — helped me write a novel.

Thank you for your inspirations and best of luck in your post-prison endeavours. I wish for you the very best in all things. I read that you recently said that you were “going straight” now.

Have you ever thought about entering politics?

Please write back.

Sincerely,

From: Daniel Wallace

To: Neddy Merrill in “The Swimmer,” by John Cheever

Dear Ned Merrill,

This is the last time I’ll write to you. All the other letters have been returned to me, the sole response stamped on the unopened envelope by some heartless machine: OCCUPANT UNKNOWN. MOVED. VACANT. NO FORWARDING ADDRESS. Why do I keep hoping that somehow you will have returned to the house in Bullet Park, and that you will get my letter (the 5th? 6th?) and write back with an upbeat apology, explaining where you’ve been and what happened to you? I wonder if you even know.

I’m a fan, Ned. Maybe not a fan of yours but a fan of your incredible plan — to swim that Sunday morning the eight miles from the Westerhazy’s pool to your own home, realizing you could make it almost the entire way pool to backyard pool. You were not a young man, either, when the idea came to you, and perhaps that’s why you did it: a younger man would not have felt the need to prove to himself (and to all the lesser mortals) that something so incidental could be done, and certainly not with the same heedless and drunken joie de vivre. Only a man who had nothing to lose would do it, precisely because (whether he knew it or not) he had lost everything already. The old man’s still got it I can hear you telling yourself, over and over again, in those pools before the rains came.

You remind me of my father. You were more his generation than mine. I think you would have liked him. So many of the poolside scenes you swim through remind me of those “midsummer Sundays” at our own home, the kind when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.” I didn’t drink — I was just a kid — but my parents did. This is after we moved from Homewood to Mountain Brook, when my father started making real money and we had the pool in our backyard; in Homewood, we just had grass.

Those were the Sunday mornings the Hurleys would come over. Jack and Mary. They brought the V8 juice and the celery; my parents supplied the vodka, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco. By the pool they would shine themselves up with Baby Oil and sip on their Bloody Marys well into the afternoon, as the Alabama sun beat down on them. The Wallaces and the Hurleys drank, laughed, smoked, swam, all at the same time, too, sometimes, ashtrays and glasses balanced on a long yellow float.

As it was with you (there’s a bar beside almost every pool you swim through on your journey home) those Sunday mornings were just as much about drinking as the party the night before may have been. Drinking was assumed. An expectation. No matter how many Sunday morning Bloody Marys they had though (and it was impossible to say how many, because they came to the poolside in a gigantic pitcher) they were never drunken, or even tipsy. They were relaxed. “This is so relaxing,” they said, eyes closed behind their porthole-sized sunglasses. And the sun baked them lobster red.

They all seemed so old to me then, years beyond counting. But no: in 1970 I was 11 and my father was a mere 40 years old. The hair on his arms was going gray though and he wasn’t in the best of shape. Still, he would race me in the pool and win going away. And, like you, Neddy, he had a “simple contempt” for people who did not hurl themselves into pools, and pull themselves out of them by the curb — no ladder for him. He still had it! At 40 he was at the top of his game. That’s what it looked like anyway.

I imagine you were about 40, too, when your story takes place, when you almost seem to figure out how lost you were, and how much you’d lost.

Which brings me to why I’ve been writing to you.

My father died in 1997. He was 67, same age as I am now. And I can’t ask him, obviously, so I’m writing you to ask: When you swam back home, through almost a dozen pools, having a drink at as many of them as you possibly could, and when you made it back home and found that everything you had taken for granted wasn’t there anymore, when you caught up with yourself and the reality of your world — what did you do next? I can ask you that, right? Just because one story ends doesn’t mean they all do. When you finally don’t have it anymore, what do you have? How long can you keep on swimming? That’s what I want to know. That’s what I need to know. Sooner the better too, because summer is almost over. That’s how it feels, anyway.

Thanks, and I hope all is well,

From: Joseph Bathanti

To: Colin Smith, the main character and narrator in “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner,” by Alan Sillitoe

Dear Smith (Colin, if I may):

I recently reread Alan Sillitoe’s brilliant novella, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, in which you, the inimitable first-person narrator, claim to have authored the tale. Thus, the novella becomes a pedigree of metafiction. Most interesting — and I wish I had Sillitoe to consult on the matter. Is it he who brings you to life? Or are you the agent of that feat? And please stop me, if this gets to sounding like some puffed-up, egghead scholarly treatise.

Your voice is unforgettable. I’ve always had a soft spot for the cheeky and you have a gift for smartassery that would have been cherished in the working-class Little Italy of Pittsburgh in which I grew up, where the art of biting off your nose to spite your face has been empirically perfected. Tough kids with El Dorado-sized, Marxist chips on their shoulders and a viral antipathy for authority to match yours — and not a scrap of remorse among them. In truth, Colin, you’re a revolutionary; the authorities like to keep your sort in stir. You scare the bloody hell out of them. You even allude to Hungary and what I presume is the Hungarian Revolution of 1956; and there’s also the mention of “a big boot . . . likely to smash any nice picnic [you] might . . . make for [yourself].” It seems you’ve studied your fellow Englishman, Orwell: “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — forever.” You are a prole, one of the fellaheen, among those the “whip-hand” aims to force to their knees.

But you can take a punch as well as deal one. You throw the big race — the Blue-Ribbon Prize Cup for Long Distance Cross Country Running — so coveted by the “governor,” the borstal warden, a “pot-bellied pop-eyed, bastard” as you dub him — even though you’re meters and meters ahead of your closest competitor and the finish line’s in sight. Like a convict, mere hours from parole, who jumps the fence. Rather than curry favor, you symbolically spit in the governor’s eye, which fetches you his outrage and a goodly dollop of additional hardship in borstal. More than anything, you exemplify so gloriously Albert Camus’ famous injunction from “The Myth of Sisyphus”: “There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.” It’s the gesture, the gorgeous immemorable flourish, that seems precious, near sacramental, to you — that piss-on-everything mentality. It recalls Marlon Brando as he dies in Last Tango in Paris: removing the chewing gum from his mouth and fixing it to the underside of the balcony railing before collapsing. How I admire your flare for self-immolation — Bravo! — though I don’t possess your threshold nor stamina for Purgatory.

But, of course, there’s more to it than that. Isn’t there always? You hail from a withered home where the only things in abundance are neglect, ennui and not enough dollars — and let’s not even broach the subject of love, though it’s there, but in the guise of yearning and desperation; nor should we mention your philandering mam; and your dad, whom you find dead, “ . . . like a skinned rabbit . . . lino and carpet” soaked in his blood. A tram-load of dysfunction. Trauma. Post traumatic stress.

You’ve a heart, Colin Smith, and a capacious one, though you purposefully secrete it beneath the bilious Eiderdown of regret 

and cynicism. After all, you’ve been — what we call here in North Carolina — state-raised, first in Remand Homes, now in borstal — one joint after another — plotting your next lame caper and committed to the life of a lammist. You’re only seventeen, already “institutionalized.” Your name, Colin, means “whelp” or “young hound.” There it is: the childhood state in which you’re forever immured. Of course, all that’s left to you is scorn. Blessed searing scorn.

I actually have run from the “coppers” a few times and have found myself, along with a gaggle of my mates, in the backseat of a police car — but, just to be clear, for the most innocuous empty-headed schoolboy pranks, and we were released with barked threats of juvie and the legendary rubber hose designed to put would-be juvenile delinquents on the straight. Nothing even close to robbing a bakery and stashing the lolly in a drainpipe where it flows from the spout in a downpour and damningly presents itself at the feet of the suspicious copper at your door. I’ve not the sand for a life of crime and I had the tireless love and guidance of hard-working parents. They dreamt a better life for me long before I figured out how to dream that dream myself — and I continually remind myself of the advice dispended to Nick Carraway from his father in the second sentence of The Great Gatsby: “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone . . .  just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.” Again, there it is. More to the point, I’ve never been incarcerated — Grace of God, and all that — though, over the years, I’ve spent considerable time in prisons as a writing teacher. I’ve also been a long-distance runner, though with nary a jot of your virtuoso clout.

Thus, I’ve now twigged you coming and going; and, make no mistake, I strangely love you and your ilk, taking my place in the cellblock, shackled to a prison cot. And I know enough to declare you a poet and contemplative. You offer not only a lyric tutorial on running — I’ve never read a more convincing account of the fabled “runner’s high” — but your metaphysical riff on being the first and last man on earth simultaneously, as you run the dawn “frozen fields,” is the stuff of magic, clearly rooted in holy writ.

So, my iconoclastic falling-down funny brother-comrade, I look forward to your next book, and I pray you’re on the free side of concertina when you pen it. Please: never stop running; that’s how I imagine you — and weeping, perhaps as Jesus wept at the death of Lazarus.

Fingers crossed this missive makes it to you. Penitentiary mail is notoriously unreliable, and I hope this passes the grubby-handed censors.

In peace and solidarity,

From: Jill McCorkle

To: Charlotte, the barn spider in Charlotte’s Web, by E.B. White

Dear Charlotte,

Salutations! I have loved and admired you for 60 years and never glimpse the shining threads of a web that I don’t think of you. For almost 75 years, you have taught children  — young and old — about friendship and the seasons and cycle of life. You have shown us the best and the worst of humanity, from fat greedy rats to innocent humble souls like Wilbur, forever loyal in his love and devotion. Your voice is one of reality and acceptance of life’s journey  — a wise observation of grief — and what an individual leaves behind for future generations.

Here in the state of North Carolina, there are 8.2 million of Wilbur’s kind, not counting the additional wild ones roaming and rooting. Imagine the many webs it would take to save them! And especially at a time when there is so much talk about bacon products — soda, toothpaste, lollipops and cologne! — to name a few. I suspect the desire some have for bacon is not unlike what you felt about the many flies you devoured. But still, it is always hard not to think of Wilbur when pork products are discussed. And he was Some Pig; he was Terrific, in fact! And what a lucky guy he was to have you and Fern and your many descendants in his life.

We could use your wisdom these days, Charlotte. You said: People are very gullible. They’ll believe anything they see in print. And oh, what an understatement that is. You would not even believe what people are believing! And it goes beyond print — made-up photos and videos, manufactured voices. There is a widespread struggle for truth. And there are those who make Templeton the fat rat look like Gandhi. Some even tried to use your name as code for a cruel, coldblooded operation designed to harm innocent people. You will be pleased to know that there was great public outrage over the use of your good name. After all, you taught the opposite. When Wilbur asked why you had been so kind to him, you said: By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.

Are there enough webs? Enough words? I like to believe that wisdom such as yours will always be repeated and if said and seen enough, will continue to hatch and grow. Your words to Wilbur are always worth repeating and you, dear Charlotte, are my reason for allowing discrete cobwebs in corners and the eaves of the porch (thank you), and you remain a reminder to stop and admire the intricate and beautiful artwork of nature and declare it a miracle and rightly so.

Sometimes your voice comes to me in the cadence of an elementary school teacher’s voice, reminiscent of all those times after lunch we were told we could rest our heads on our desks and just close our eyes and listen while chapter by chapter, the teacher’s voice would lull us into your world and your final day with Wilbur: These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. . . . Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur — this lovely world, these precious days . . .

Your story left me crying and grieving too many times to count, Charlotte. I didn’t want Fern to grow up and choose time with a boy over time with Wilbur. And I didn’t want you to die. How could you die?! But then I learned something incredibly valuable. I could read your book all over again, and suddenly there you were — salutations! — and even knowing what was coming, I could once again get lost as I feared for Wilbur’s safety, marveled at your messages and hoped that Templeton — fat rat that he is — might have a change of heart. In addition to all else, you taught me the power of words on the page.

Thank you for all you have given to millions of readers (no exaggeration), and may your book always grace the shelves of schools and libraries as it finds its way into young hands and changes their lives in wonderful ways.

With sincere love and appreciation,

From: Jaki Shelton Green

To: Celie, the protagonist and narrator in The Color Purple, by Alice Walker

Dear Celie,

My mother taught me that the color purple was associated with royalty, luxury, power, spirituality, mystery and creativity, but your story taught me that purple was often a bruise, a dictionary version of a common contusion that happens when blood vessels under the skin break from an impact, leaking blood into the surrounding tissue. I became obsessed with the color purple in the 1970s and curated my second wedding in 1979 around shades of lavender, violet, grape, lilac, wisteria, magenta, fuchsia, mauve and plum . . . all juicy luxurious colors not knowing that within a year those lush sensual shades would be prickly stains on my broken heart.

When I met you in 1982 after my “royal purple marriage” withered away, your definition of purple seemed to make so much more sense to me. Thank you for daring me to turn all the wounded flower petals upside down and crawl inside them to explore the other side of breaking skin and ruptured voice.

Thank you for your lessons about reclamation, fulfillment and independence. In the 1980s your presence in the world became a map for many women who were struggling with granting themselves the urgent and necessary permissions they needed in order to begin unraveling the expectations enforced and placed upon us by society, whether it originates from our gender or race.

Our Southern lives are not too far apart. We both grew up in a time period with gender inequality and racial division. We both grappled with expectations placed upon us by male authority figures in our lives, taking on the responsibilities which come with expectations, while our own dreams and desires are muted, invisible, and erased.

Like you, Celie, I broke the bonds of betrayal, emotional impoverishment, self-hate, and began carving a pathway for the self that remembered to remember who she is and who she truly belongs to while re-embracing the color purple inside my gardens. Tiny purple blooms run rampant as groundcover almost choking out the other plants and my thoughts return to your words, “I don’t know how to fight. All I know how to do is stay alive.” So I allow them to make their own choices about survival and the other plants manage to keep on living.

And like the purple groundcover, you reminded us that we were never the bruises or the myths that someone tried to convince us that we were. Thank you, Celie, for demonstrating how you transformed from a silenced, abused victim to an independent, self-actualized woman. Thank you for demonstrating that female solidarity and “womanist” love are essential for overcoming both racial and patriarchal oppression.

Dearest Celie, you taught so many of us to sing out loud in fields of lavender declaring that we are a full embodiment of spiritual wholeness . . . celebrating how our relationships with other women can heal us and help us embrace the power to reject male supremacy, find our voices, reclaim our bodies, sexuality and cultural identity.

Celie, you may not remember, but my mother and my teenage daughter met you at the same time I met you. One paperback copy of Alice Walker’s The Color Purple was passed back and forth between the three of us. We were three generations in a matriarchal household daily discussing your identity search, racism, sexism and sensitive, often contrasting, generational perceptions about self-worth and double consciousness.

Thank you for being the character that my mother cheered on knowing you would not perish. Thank you for all the questions your character served nightly at our dinner table.

Thank you, Celie, for the uplifting lessons that my daughter and I taught each other about the power of intuitiveness, the power of utterance, the power of silence and witness, and all the grace that we granted each other in order to agree to disagree about your journey to liberation.

I am truly grateful for you allowing the ink’s breath to dream you awake.

With deep respect and admiration,

From: Michael Parker

To: Darl Bundren, a character in As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner

Darl Bundren
Mississippi State Asylum
Jackson, Mississippi

 

Alright now, Darl,

I thought of you the other day. I went for a long drive, trying to find some open country. I had to pass by all sorts of places you never, thank God, got to see: storage units, used car dealers, Korean barbecue, nails, nails, nails. I was in search of a landscape you would have encountered on the way to Jefferson with your family. On a backroad that dipped through a stand of pine down to a sudsy river I pulled over and felt, suddenly, your presence. I remembered how, when I first met you many years ago, in college, I didn’t understand you because the professor said I had to. He wanted me to understand his version of you. He wrote on the board some of the things you said: “The hallway looks like a searchlight turned into rain.” He said what the hallway represented and the searchlight and the rain. All of a sudden it was Psych 101.

He barely mentioned the passage that spoke to me the most, the one that, if I had to sum you up (and why should I, how could I, though that’s the sort of thing we did in classes back then, pick a line and slim you down to fit it): “In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know if I am or not.”

It wasn’t just because I had a hard time sleeping, then and now, or because, around the time when everyone else’s mind shuts down, mine ramps up. The way that second sentence ended in a period instead of a question mark opened something up for me: how a little squiggle of punctuation makes a question more desperate than the way you wrote it, which is just as much statement. But not. That’s what I liked. It is, but not. I didn’t know what I was, I didn’t even know if I was or not. Most days that is still the half-statement, half-question, Darl. See, you stuck with me, even though it’s been forty years now.

This kid who sat beside me in class said, “This mess is harder to understand than calculus if you ask me.” I had not asked him and had no idea how to even spell calculus, but I wanted to say, it’s not that bad if you listen hard and also maybe it’s just hard in a different way.

I do get that some of the things you said took a while to hear, though. You said you heard teeth in your brother Jewel’s breath. And, “In sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gesture of dolls.” That one went right over my head. But in that same chapter you said, “If we could just ravel out into time. That would be nice. It would be nice if you could just ravel out in time.” I never heard anyone say “ravel,” always “unravel,” and I too wanted to untwist into time. If I could just. Instead, I got more twisted up. I never forgot to wonder how nice it would be to ravel out. You taught me that also, Darl.

I wrote a term paper on you. I compared you to Hamlet, because, see, I don’t think you were as crazy as everyone claimed. I believe you were faking it sometimes, because faking crazy is a way out of just going along. You never did just go along. The people in Jefferson called you “queer.” They meant odd. I read up on you recently and found a few professors saying you liked men. They said you were queer, as in “a queer,” like people used to say back in high school. Queer was a slur, but over time it has become an umbrella term classifying all kinds of sexual configurations. I like how that word has changed meaning, how it went from the worst thing you might get called in high school to a word people nowadays use with pride. I get a kick out of the professors who don’t understand the original meaning of the word. He’s a queer one, I heard people say about some fellow when I was growing up, but the next time they would say he was peculiar. The professors seemed to believe you were confused about everything; therefore, you must be confused about what you like and who you like to do it with. “I don’t know if I am or not” does not mean you are confused. It means you know way more than the rest of us and are too smart to claim that such things can be figured out one way or another.

A hillbilly Hamlet! Wrote the professor at the end of my term paper. He gave me a B minus. To get an A on any term paper about you (as if our connection had any kind of term limit; as if I didn’t believe you when you said, “it is as though time, running straight before us in a diminutive line, now runs parallel between us like a looping string, the distance being the doubling accretion of the thread and not the interval between”) would have bummed me out big time. I’d as soon my GPA suffer than agree with the professor and confine you to what struck me as another life sentence in the state asylum up in Jackson, where they shamefully sent you.

I ran into the kid who said he preferred calculus on the quad one day. Fuck a bunch of Faulkner, he said. I’m going to see if I can’t take that class pass/fail. I was reminded of what you said about your brother: “Jewel knows who he is because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not.” Though I liked that kid. I like people like him, for they make me question how they know what I don’t know and whether I even know it.

You don’t have to write back. I like writing to you, Darl. I feel myself raveling right out.

Signed,

From: Shannon Ravenel

To: Johnny, a character in “Boy and Dog,” from Facing the Music, Stories, by Larry Brown

Dear Johnny —

There are many reasons to ponder this story about the death of your beloved dog, Bozo. You loved him so much. He was eleven and you are only eight. He must have seemed almost like your big brother. It is very, very sad to think of you finding his dead body run over by a 1965 Mustang driven by a guy who returned to the place where he’d hit Bozo, not to see if Bozo was OK, but to find his car’s hubcap. He didn’t care about having killed your dog. And so you killed him, with a yellow brick. And all hell broke loose after that, which you describe in your unusual literary format (293 one-sentence paragraphs, each sentence in five words), obviously a story emerging from the terrible grief of losing a beloved pet dog.

The double viewpoint — the boy’s and the author’s — captures my attention and makes me wonder. Could an eight-year-old really throw a brick hard enough to kill a grown man in his car? Could a boy that age really cause the hugely explosive scene, observe it, and outwait its end in order to retrieve his beloved dog’s body?

Or could that boy have had an extraordinary imagination? Could he have grown up to be an author? I think I know the answers.

Love,

Clyde Edgerton was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2016. He is the  author of 10 novels, a book of advice, a memoir, short stories and essays. He has received a Guggenheim Fellowship and, most recently, a 2025 O. Henry short story award. He lives in Wilmington, N.C.

Jill McCorkle was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2018. Her first two novels were published simultaneously in 1984 by the newly launched Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill. The author of seven novels and five short-story collections, her many accolades include the John Dos Passos Prize for Excellence in Literature and the North Carolina Award for Literature.

Daniel Wallace will be inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2026. He is the author of six novels, a memoir, a short story collection and a children’s book. Wallace is the J. Ross MacDonald Distinguished Professor of English at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, his alma mater.

Michael Parker will be inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2026. He is the author of eight novels and three collections of short stories. He has received fellowships in fiction from the North Carolina Arts Council and the National Endowment for the Arts, as well as the Hobson Award for Arts and Letters, the North Carolina Award for Literature, and the 2020 Thomas Wolfe Prize.

Joseph Bathanti was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2024. Among his many awards are the Sam Ragan Fine Arts Award, the Sherwood Anderson Award and the North Carolina Award for Literature. He is the author of over 20 books, including poetry, novels, short stories and nonfiction. He was North Carolina’s poet laureate from 2012-14 and joined the faculty of Appalachian State University in 2001.

Jaki Shelton Green was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2014 and is the ninth and current poet laureate of North Carolina. Her honors include receiving the North Carolina Award for Literature in 2003 and the North Carolina State University 2026 Honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters. Author of 10 books of poetry, an LP and two audio collections, she serves as poetry editor for Walter magazine and is a professor of Documentary Poetry at Duke University.

Shannon Ravenel will be inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2026. Born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, she was editor of the Best American Short Stories series for 13 years and one of the founders of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill. In 1986 she introduced the annual anthology New Stories from the South. During her time at Algonquin, Ravenel nurtured and advanced the work of numerous writers from the American South, including Clyde Edgerton and Jill McCorkle.  PS

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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Deuces Up

A rooms with a view

By Lee Pace

Ten years ago, Pinehurst Resort seemingly had it all — a world-famous golf course that had hosted three U.S. Opens, eight more layouts designed by the greats of the golf architectural world from Donald Ross to Tom Fazio, and more than a century of history that staked it to its lofty position as the “St. Andrews of American golf.”

What it didn’t have, however, was a convenient venue for golfers coming off the No. 2 course to enjoy a post-round libation and the attendant scorecard parsing and bet-settling. There was a portable “veranda bar,” or golfers could walk from the locker room down two corridors to the 91st Hole, which was mostly a grab-and-go station in the center of the clubhouse with a view of the practice putting green.

“It was kind of the missing puzzle piece,” says Pinehurst President Tom Pashley. “We did not have a fitting end to a round of golf on one of the world’s finest golf courses. It seemed like an odd omission.”

Pashley had just taken over from Don Padgett II in running the resort in 2014 when he huddled with Pinehurst owner Robert Dedman Jr. and personnel from golf operations, food and beverage, and the resort’s architectural and design consultants. The result in September 2016 was the opening of The Deuce — a facility on the east side of the clubhouse with an indoor bar and restaurant and outdoor veranda bar no more than 25 yards from the back edge of the 18th green of the No. 2 course.

Now on the cusp of its 10-year anniversary, The Deuce has proven an overwhelming success. The food is excellent. Prime rib does double-duty as a slab on a dinner plate or sliced thin for the popular French dip sandwich. Buffalo wings and tater tots with three dipping sauces fly out of the kitchen. There is a lunch buffet to get golfers in and out and on to the first tee of No. 2 in timely fashion.

The drinks menu is creative and expansive — from Pinehurst 1895 Lager to margaritas made with cucumber-jalapeno agave to an old-fashioned cocktail flavored with orange and black cherry syrup — and accented with a piece of bacon cured daily in the kitchen with maple syrup and brown sugar. The Deuce Mule is vodka and ginger beer with a splash of cranberry juice served in a copper mule mug.

The décor is spot-on with sepia-toned photos of Donald Ross and his pencil-notated hole drawings. There are vintage postcards and scorecards and photos ranging from historical to contemporary, including, of course, the “Payne Pose” of Payne Stewart reacting to his winning putt in the 1999 U.S. Open. There’s a view out a series of picture windows onto the home hole of No. 2, and every visual of the name Deuce has the capital-D fashioned to resemble the numeral 2.

And then there’s the vibe.

The veranda fills on nice weather afternoons as golfers finish their rounds, slake their thirsts and watch their buddies come in behind them. They may linger long enough to place a bet or two on whether some random 15-handicapper from Wisconsin can two-putt from 35 feet.

“It’s changed a lot since The Deuce opened,” says longtime Pinehurst caddie Thomas Trinchitella. “People enjoy watching golfers come up 18. They make a lot of bets. You get a nice clap for a good shot. You hear cheering and good-natured booing depending on what happens.”

“The Deuce has added so much energy to that side of the building,” Pashley adds. “You have a veranda full of people, and if you hit a good shot it’s so cool to hear a round of applause. If you make a long putt, people get excited.”

Pinehurst officials considered a number of promotional tie-ins to the numeral 2, and the one that has stuck and become popular is awarding golfers a special coin if they make a 2 on any hole — generally a birdie on one the four par-3 holes. One side has the word “Deuce” and the year, the other side “2 on 2 / I’ll drink to that!” The design is tweaked each year, and the coin for 2026 is copper-colored. The resort handed out more than 5,000 Deuce coins in 2025, and the pursuit and acquisition of the coins has become a big deal in social media channels with these kinds of posts accompanied by photos or video clips:

“Mine from last year is a prized possession.”

“I made a 2 on 17 on New Year’s Day. Really cool tradition.”

“Missed a two-footer for two on six and it still haunts me.”

“Love the coins, the tradition and the memories on nine and 17,” one father posted of him and his son both making birdies in one round.

“One of my best golf moments ever. Hit it inside 12 inches on 17 and tap-in.”

It adds up to an experience that draws the likes of Bryson DeChambeau and his caddie when they were in Pinehurst early in 2024 — just months before he won the U.S. Open.

“No one noticed them or bothered them. They were wearing jeans and hoodies,” says bartender Stephen Coleman. “They just had burgers and a couple of drinks and watched the golf on TV. They had fun hanging out. That’s what The Deuce is all about.

“Everyone calls it the Disney World of golf. A lot of people say that. Everyone is so into golf it’s hard to have a bad time.”

Adds Vanessa Dozier, assistant manager at The Deuce: “It’s 100 percent family — you’ll see golfers from all over the world at the bar, and you’ll see locals who’ve made The Deuce their spot. It exudes what Pinehurst is all about — laughter and excitement and passion for golf.”

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

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An Orange Crush

Setting the wheels in motion

By Robert Kowalski

It was that coming-of-age summer. My companions and I had escaped the prying eyes of our parents. Our interests turned from baseball cards to rock ’n’ roll.

Gary Evans lived a few doors down from me. He was several years older, so we didn’t hang out, but he had two things that piqued my interest that summer. First was his stunningly attractive sister, Amanda. She was every boy’s crush. Even the most courageous among us knew she was out of their league. Still, that didn’t stop us from hanging around the Dairy Queen where she worked part-time. She always gave us that beguiling smile that said she knew we weren’t there just for the chocolate-dipped cones.

The other item of interest was his 1968 Schwinn Orange Krate. The Orange Krate and its two siblings, the Lemon Peeler and Apple Krate, were to bicycles what muscle cars were to automobiles. The Krates were cool. They had a 5-speed stick shift; spring suspension front fork with a drum brake; longhorn handlebars and a banana seat with shock absorber suspension. Mania on two wheels.

For weeks I slow-walked by Gary’s house, admiring the bicycle he had abandoned after he moved on to automobiles. It was now or never. Could I strike a deal with Gary and make the Krate mine? I gathered my courage and $35 in lawnmowing money and negotiated my way to being the bike’s new owner. In an instant I became relevant. The guys were jealous. The girls were impressed. The stuff that dreams were made of came to pass.

For five weeks that summer, the Krate and I paraded through the neighborhood. We were inseparable. We got stares of admiration from the kids. The girls took turns riding it around the block. Every day was a breath of fresh air. That is, until the day everything fell to pieces on a hot, muggy August afternoon.

The guys and I got together for a swim at a local park. I left the Krate securely chained to a light pole. When I came back a couple of hours later, I went numb and all wobbly in the knees. The Krate was gone. All that was left was a broken lock lying on the ground. My best friend, Don, and I searched the park for hours. Nothing. Not even a ransom note.

At dinner that night, I broke the news to my dad. Ever the stoic, he looked at me and said, “Son, sometimes life throws you a curve. And all you can do is move on.”

His words didn’t help. I continued stabbing at the mashed potatoes. As we left the table, he put his arm around my shoulder and whispered, “Next time get a bigger lock.”

There would be other crushes in life. But there would never be another Orange Krate. Today, the Krate is a collector’s item. Some owners asking as much as $10,000 on eBay. Quite a nice investment had I been able to keep it. Still, I wouldn’t give up the great memories $35 bought me long ago — or my father’s advice.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Late Summer’s Song

The sound of the mourning dove

By Susan Campbell

The beauty of doves is taken for granted. They are numerous, even abundant, everywhere we look. Their cryptic coloration and still habits make them easy to overlook. Mourning doves are the most familiar of the group statewide. Of course, we also have plenty of rock doves (aka pigeons) and increasing numbers of Eurasian collared doves here as well. However, it is the mourning dove that deserves our attention.

The species has a sleek, medium-sized light brown body and wings that are splotched with black. It also has a small head, a pale bluish crown and eye ring as well as a long wedge-shaped tail that is edged in white. At close range, a rosy sheen can be seen on the breast feathers of the males. The mourning dove’s name originates from its plaintive song. The hooting quality of the notes has been known to fool people into thinking they are hearing an owl.

By late summer doves are flocking in large numbers, in and around big fields. They feed busily on the ground, swallowing a variety of seeds as they fatten up prior to migration. All doves will consume large amounts of whole seeds in their crop and then perch in a safe spot to digest. Where and how far they may fly depends on weather and food availability. Most do not move long distances but rather seek out areas that will hold a diversity of grains for weeks at a time. Flocks of hundreds of birds can be found perched on wires or in snags adjacent to good foraging habitat.

Young of the year blend in well with the adults very soon after fledging. Their tails may not be quite as long, nor will their heads be as distinctly patterned, but these are field marks that are only visible at very close range. Three to five clutches of two is not unexpected in a season. With the moderate climate in North Carolina, especially along our coast, mourning doves have been found breeding in every month of the year.

There is no better time for individual mourning doves to seek safety in numbers than early September. Labor Day weekend marks the beginning of hunting season, and doves are the first on the calendar. Their robust population handles the harvest nationwide. This is due, at least in part, to their fast and erratic flight behavior that makes the birds a challenging target.

Dove hunting has a rich cultural history in the South. It is a time to bond with family and friends, enjoy the waning days of summer afield and perhaps even bring home enough plump breasts for a hearty meal — or at least some tasty hors d’oeuvres. Scouting out the right spot is the key. Hunters will survey different known locations looking for the best variety of seed-bearing cover crops, strategic perching sites and hopefully at least a few doves hanging around. For those who do not have access to suitable private land for hunting doves, the State Game Lands (Sandhills, Caswell, Jordan and others) offer opportunities. Both manage habitat specifically for mourning doves year-round. But even if you do not hunt, take some time out and look for these attractive birds — no binoculars are required.