Boys to Men

Coming of age in Troop 48

By David Claude Bailey   •   Illustration by Romey Petite

“Don’t pat the pancakes!”

The voice comes to my 11-year-old ears as if through gauze, muffled but clearly insistent.

I’m hunkering in front of a campfire, dodging the smoke that seems to chase me no matter where I drag the massive cast-iron frying pan in which half-a-dozen pancakes sizzle and pop. 

I’m delirious from having spent the night doing what Boy Scouts do on camping trips, swilling soft drinks, telling stories, and feeding our faces and the fire until 2 or 3 in the morning. Once I hit the sack, I’m dealing with a caffeine buzz only achievable in the 1950s before they took the good stuff out of soft drinks, not to mention the two quarts of Double Cola pooling in my bladder. And am I the only one who hears a raccoon raiding the unwashed pots and pans? I get up as soon as I see the slightest glimmer of dawn because I never really did go to sleep and because I’m cold and hungry and someone’s making a fire.

“Bailey. Don’t pat the pancakes.”

It’s our scoutmaster, John Samuels. I could spend a few lines describing his long rangy gait and his penetrating blue eyes below his beetling, sandy eyebrows or his infectious smile that we all want to trigger. But it’s easier just to conjure up John Wayne, whom, to my impressionable eyes, he resembled in every possible way.

I shift yet again away from the smoke, huffing and puffing as I drag the black mass of smoking cast-iron behind me. “Patting them makes them fall so that they’re flat,” Mr. Samuels says, a twinkle in his eye to blunt the bite of his criticism. I stop the spatula a quarter inch from a flapjack, obedient to his command, as yet another finger of smoke finds its way into my stinging nostrils and bleary eyeballs.

Troop 48 was the best thing that ever happened to me, except maybe getting a bike for Christmas when I was 8. The bike freed me from the half-a-mile range of my mother’s booming voice to wander the back alleys of Reidsville with a gang of three, scrounging stuff like an old washing-machine motor that we lugged home and played with until smoke and flames summoned a neighbor.

But it was Boy Scouts that truly liberated me from my Pennsylvania Dutch mother, who was loving, to be sure, but who had a maddening way of insisting there was a right and wrong way to do everything — and there was never any doubt which hers was. She never resisted watching as I tied my shoes — and letting me know that I was still doing it the wrong way.

Nothing beat spending a weekend with boys my age, semi-supervised by a former Merchant Marine turned repo man who, on occasion, packed what looked to me like a huge, black pistol. (I later learned it was a .22-caliber Colt Woodsman.) Like most good teachers, Mr. Samuels liked to fix things. In his case, boys who needed just a bit of guidance and attention at a crucial point in their lives — and at an age, I might add, that didn’t make them particularly appealing to their fathers or anyone else.

I’ll speak for myself. My dad did his best considering that his role model was a father who had nine children and acres of corn and tobacco that had to be tended so that the aforementioned children and wife wouldn’t starve. Plus, during the ’50s, children in my neck of the woods mostly raised themselves without the benefit of Dr. Spock or any helicoptering. Dads, at the prompting of mothers who read magazine articles on that new phenomenon called parenting, occasionally tossed a baseball with their sons or played golf with them (mine never did) or took them fishing and hunting (on rare occasions when other men weren’t available). But most kids were turned loose, along with the dogs, in the morning, and were only noticed if they didn’t come home for supper at night.

Mr. Samuels, who had no children of his own (but a stunning wife who sometimes accompanied him on camping trips), took an interest in whether you knew how to handle a knife or an axe and would show you how to retain your fingers and toes doing so. He’d watch you try to put up a tent and coach you on how to do it in less than an hour. He taught us gun safety, knowing that the subject was, in fact, as serious as death — and your reading this might very well be a tribute to his tutelage.

At 11 and 12, boys are between boyhood and manhood, some still believing in Santa Claus while noticing that they’re growing hair where there didn’t used to be any. On the way to becoming men, boys need mentors. Mr. Samuels took an interest in each and every one of us, even a geeky, one-eyed clumsy mother’s son like myself. I realize now that he liked seeing us grow into men and wanted us to share the values he held dear, which is what Scouting is all about, despite recent revelations and its detractors.

But Troop 48 was not your run-of-the-mill Scout troop. We were a resourceful and mischievous lot who had a reputation throughout the council (and Reidsville) for being wild and crazy. Guilty as charged. Troop 48 viewed jamborees in the same way that some aboriginal tribes regard others occupying open range, a good excuse for a raiding party. Initiations, I’m ashamed to report, could sometimes be described as medieval in their ingenuity. And consider that my best friend taught First Aid to Fritz Klenner, the protagonist in Bitter Blood.

The Chinese invented gunpowder. Troop 48 re-invented the gun. Since South Carolina and Myrtle Beach were only several hours away, any boy who’d recently paid a visit to either one brought fireworks on camping trips. Mr. Samuels never blinked an eye as long as we didn’t disturb his sleep or lose a digit. Armed with hundreds of firecrackers, some clever troop member figured out how to take a firecracker and an acorn and turn a harmless tent pole into a weapon of minimal destruction. 

Doubtless thinking that any one of us could throw an acorn a lot harder than the improvised gun could shoot it, Mr. Samuels just shook his head and warned us not to put out anyone’s eye, especially mine. I found the protective glasses my mother insisted that I wear at all times — and actually put them on — and soon we were facing off in Dodge City–style showdowns with shooters, each with his own personal fuse lighter. In the end, someone came up with the idea of replacing the acorn with something a little higher caliber, explosively speaking. This, in turn, required a series of precision actions on the part of fuse lighters that remains highly classified, Troop 48-eyes (or eye)-only information to this day. When the required calculations were just right, the projectile would explode as it flew through the air. When the fuse-lighter’s timing was even slightly off, the tent pole ended up looking like a peeled banana, which Mr. Samuels noticed, thus putting an end to our gunplay.

And here I was in charge of pancakes after telling Mr. Samuels that my mom let me cook breakfast now and again, and his having eaten one of them and saying it was pretty good, if a little flat from my patting it . . . when I saw stars and smoke and flames all at the same time as John Samuels planted his size 12 boot against my backside, kicking me head-first into the fire as I patted, surely, my 20th pancake of the day. In good time, he hove me up like a puppy out of a well, holding and shaking me by the front of my untucked shirt and twisting his head slightly and smiling like a jackdaw. “Didn’t I tell you not to pat the pancakes,” he asked quite reasonably.

I allowed as how he did and how I wouldn’t do it again. He deposited me back in front of the fire after kicking it back into shape and putting the pan back in front of me again, buffing the dirt off the spatula on his pants.

I have never, ever patted a pancake again — or idolized anyone as much since. PS

David Claude Bailey, who went on to attain the rank of Eagle, is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave and clean but rarely reverent.

Living la Vie en Rose

Designer brings Paree to Pinehurst

By Deborah Salomon  •  Photographs by John Gessner

Don’t judge a book by its cover, but do heed what a front door says about a house. Especially if the door is bubble gum pink.

Why?

“Because I like it,” Cathy Carlisle says.

Those four words explain what sets Rambler Cottage apart from retreats built in Pinehurst in the early 1900s for golfing snowbirds. One by one, these white clapboard “cottages” have become showplaces for family heirlooms, antique-barn finds, High Point upholstery, built-in bookcases, plantation shutters, heart of pine floors, Capel rugs, miles of moldings, magazine kitchens and spa bathrooms built around claw-foot tubs.

Instead, Cathy, an American Society of Interior Design member, has indulged her love for formality, à la française.

“I got that in Paris,” she says, pointing to a handsome 19th century breakfront — and lots else. The trips were for stocking her shop in Rocky Mount, where the Carlisles lived (in a home built like a European villa) before relocating to Pinehurst full time in 2000. Cathy’s romance with formality began during childhood, when dinner was served in the dining room, with silverware and linens. This era worshipped Givenchy, Dior, Catherine Deneuve, Chanel, Jack and Jackie in Paris.  “By the time I was 7 I knew I wanted French (things),” Cathy says. “My mother took us to museums and plays, places where we wore white gloves.” When working for a client, “I have to make them happy. This is to make me happy.”

Cathy interprets French décor not as rustic Provençal, but with carved chairs, pastel fabrics, lace demi-drapes, fanciful chandeliers and sconces, gilded mirrors and frames for her own paintings, described as abstract impressionist, adorning what appears to be an average-size cottage from the exterior, but extends in many directions.

In fact, legend has it that Donald Ross dubbed the house “Rambler” because it rambles on and on.

As does its story.

The three-quarter-acre plot where Rambler stands was purchased in 1910, likely from the Tufts family, by Warren Manning, a landscape architect employed by Frederick Law Olmsted. Manning was tasked with the first village plantings, according to documents at the Tufts Archives. But he never developed the land, instead selling it to F.W. Von Cannon, cashier of the new Bank of Pinehurst, who built the cottage in 1915. Publications describe it as having a gabled roof, front shed dormer and screened porch, later enclosed as part of the entranceway. The cottage was classified as year-round occupancy, which meant multiple fireplaces and a full kitchen.

The original floor plan has all but disappeared into renovations accomplished by half a dozen owners, resulting in a warren of small sitting rooms which Cathy furnished with settees, benches, mini bureaux, fanciful objets d’art and books cantilevered, not piled or stacked, on tables.

But given her penchant, why Pinehurst, not francophone New Orleans?

Sam Carlisle, an attorney/mediator/arbiter, was attending a seminar at the Carolina Hotel. “No matter where Cathy is she looks at houses,” Sam says. Fatefully, she picked up a sales brochure describing Rambler. “I have to see this house before we leave,” she told Sam. They rode by in the pouring rain, with no intention of moving anywhere for 20 years. Coincidentally, a few days later Sam’s law partner proposed the two couples buy a condo in Pinehurst, to share. “I told him, well, Cathy already found this cute house …”

Cathy and condo have little but their first letter in common. “I could never be happy in anything modern,” she says.

They returned on a Sunday, bought Rambler as a vacation property the following Thursday. The house had been updated in the ’70s and looked it — which provided Cathy the thrill of the chase.

Sam had doubts: “The only way you’ll make that house French is to rename it Rom-blay.”

How wrong he was.

Cathy began by creating a vestibule with a hot pink bench (matches the front door) opening into a foyer “to introduce my house.” The foyer’s formality sets the tone, which contrasts sharply to the picket-fence-and-shutters street view. Its flooring: classic black and white tiles, while a green marble-topped round table from a Paris flea market stands in the center as it would in a European townhouse or an antebellum Southern mansion. Spiral topiary rises from pots here and everywhere. Exit right, into the high-ceilinged salon, another surprise, since it appears to have double fireplaces a few yards apart, although one is in the dining room, separated from the salon only by columns and a half wall.

“Cathy was always going to have a fussy parlor,” Sam says. She chose to place ornate French furnishings, tiny footstools and curvy-legged tables on wall-to-wall sisal carpeting (“I like a mix”) instead of polished hardwood or Oriental rugs, which she “doesn’t like.”

She does like mirrors: An architectural installation covers a wall in the foyer and others, ornately gilded and framed, reflect living and dining rooms.

A second exit from the vestibule reveals another surprise. This room, probably the original master bedroom, is totally Sam’s. The floors, sanded and whitewashed pine. The upholstery, Scotch plaid; and on the walls — painted a striking brownish-black, with a hint of aubergine — hang 11 shotguns belonging to his ancestors as well a collection of antique maps, most of eastern North Carolina and all identifying Tarboro, where Sam and Cathy grew up and became high school sweethearts. “This one from 1775 is of North and South Carolina during the Revolutionary War. George Washington had a copy,” Sam explains proudly.

Europeans do not overemphasize kitchens. Cathy’s, mostly black and white with lemon walls, is both functional and a good backdrop for her collection of green Majolica pottery.

Surprises continue. Up a narrow flight of stairs typical in Pinehurst cottages, the fabrics, painted white floors and woven area rugs are pure Martha’s Vineyard B&B except for the original paneled floor-to-ceiling sleeping porch, which made summer nights almost bearable.

What Cathy does emphasize is her garden — actually a series of “secret gardens” grouped, with seating, for relaxing and conversing, all designed by Cathy in 1994, when she razed the area and began anew. Along one side, neatly trimmed shrubs form ellipses with focus plantings in the center.

Why the unusual forms?

“Because I like it,” Cathy repeats. “I find them pleasing to the eye.”

The final surprise, so very Cathy, so very French, is her garden studio, contrived from a single-car garage, of no use since its driveway lost access to the alley. Here, she employs blue and white for country French freshness. Here, flooded by sunshine from skylights and paned windows, Cathy paints, designs, reads and plans. Those plans include a shocker: The Carlisles will soon move to a more formal historic house in the village on which Cathy will, once again, imprint her style.

Why?

Certainly not because they need more space, or a better location. “Just because I love old houses,” she says.  PS

Cereal for Breakfast?

Umm . . .maybe not

By Karen Frye

One of the biggest game-changers in the food industry was when processed food became more desirable than fresh food. For some people, the convenience of breakfast cereals became a priority. I clearly remember Saturday grocery shopping with my mother, staring at all the beautiful cereal boxes, and making my choice. I typically went for the Rice Krispies, a pretty boring selection with all the cereals on the market these days.

If I had only known back then, or even cared, I would have stayed far away from the cereal aisle. Cereal is what I call “dead food.”

Most breakfast cereals are heavily marketed as being healthy — low fat, whole grain, high fiber, all natural. When you look at the ingredients, the first few on the list are refined grains and sugar. These are highly processed foods that are loaded with added sugar. The cereal manufacturers are experts at marketing, especially toward children, using bright colors and popular figures to attract attention. Cereal costs a few cents to make, and usually sells for $4-5 a box. Huge profits for a multi-billion-dollar industry.

The way that cereals are manufactured, a process called extrusion, is probably not what you would ever imagine. The grains are mixed with water, processed into a slurry, and placed in a machine called an extruder. This process denatures and alters the structure of an otherwise healthy grain. The grains are then forced out through a tiny hole at a high temperature and pressure, which shapes them into little o’s or shreds or flakes, also destroying much of the nutrients. Next, the cereal is sprayed with a coating of oil and sugar as a sealant to give it a crunch. Unfortunately, even the cereals sold in natural food stores are made using this same method.

I do agree that breakfast is an important meal, but you should be mindful of what you choose. Children are the largest consumers of breakfast cereal. It would be wise to serve your family something healthier for the first meal of the day. There are options that could become as easy as pouring milk over extruded grains. Hot cereals like oatmeal are a good option, and can be prepared the night before to eat in the morning. Eggs provide much needed protein in the morning. I like to make deviled or boiled eggs, and they are ready to grab on the go.

Retire your cereal bowl forever, or maybe start filling it with fresh seasonal fruit.  PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

Trespassing on Fertile Ground

Writing a book requires a curious spirit, a rental car and potential bail money

By Wiley Cash

On two separate occasions, my career as a novelist has nearly resulted in my being charged with breaking and entering. The first instance occurred at my elementary school. When I was 35 years old.

In June 2013, I was invited back to my high school in Gastonia, North Carolina, to receive an alumni award that was to be given during the school’s graduation ceremony. After flying down on Friday and settling in at the hotel, I woke up early on Saturday morning with a little time to kill, and I thought I’d drive my rental car over to Robinson Elementary, where I had gone to school as a child. The baseball field behind the school serves as the model for the ball field in the opening scene of This Dark Road to Mercy, a novel whose final edits I was then in the middle of completing. I wanted to see the ball field again and make certain that I had gotten it “right” on the page. I wanted to know that my memory had done it justice.

I followed the sidewalk to the back of the building, where a playground sat, the old baseball field resting at the bottom of the hill. I stood there, picturing my characters, two young sisters, playing on the ball field. Once I was certain that I had imprinted the scene upon my mind, I made my way back to the front of the school. That is when I passed the gymnasium. At that moment, the exact smell of the gymnasium came back to me, a scent I had not smelled in almost 25 years: fresh carpet, new paint, well-used basketballs, and something else that I wasn’t able to place. I couldn’t resist my curiosity in wondering whether or not the gym still smelled the same. I checked the door. It was unlocked. I opened it and stepped inside.

I have two bits of news to report: First, the gymnasium at Robinson Elementary has smelled the exact same for almost 25 years. Second, Robinson Elementary’s security alarm is really loud.

I slammed the door and stood there for a moment, and I’m not going to lie: I considered fleeing. Before I continue, let me tell you a little about my rental car. It was a souped-up, turquoise Camaro. The guy at the rental place had been excited when he told me about the car, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t quite my style. Now, I pictured myself in my suit and tie, burning rubber in a turquoise Camaro as I peeled out of my old elementary school’s parking lot. I did the only thing I could think to do: I pulled out my cellphone and called 911 on myself. The conversation went something like this: No, I don’t work for Robinson Elementary. No, I don’t have a child who goes here. No, I’m from out of town. But I’m a writer, and I wrote about Robinson in a novel that will be out next year. I have to let you go. The police are here.

A similar line of questioning occurred during my parking lot police interrogation. As soon as I was released my wife called. “Is that a siren?” she asked. I gave the only answer I could give. “I set off the alarm at my elementary school.” Apparently, my wife is used to this type of behavior because all she said was, “I’ll talk to you later.”

The second time my career as a novelist nearly resulted in a rap sheet for breaking and entering occurred last spring, just west of Gastonia in the small town of Bessemer City, where much of my forthcoming novel The Last Ballad is set. The novel, which is based on true events, tells the story of a young woman who is swept up in a violent mill strike during the summer of 1929. Her name was Ella May Wiggins, and she worked at a mill in Bessemer City called American Mill No. 2. After a little research, I was able to locate the crumbling mill: It had been sold several times over the intervening decades, and, from where I sat parked along the road in front of the old mill, it appeared abandoned.

I got out of the car, a Subaru Forester — more inconspicuous and better suited for exploration than the Camaro — and approached the gate, assuming it would be locked, but there was no lock, and when I tried to open the gate it opened easily. I climbed back into my car, drove through the open gate, and parked in front of the mill.

For the next half hour I took pictures outside the mill, wondering where Ella had entered it, wondering how I would capture it on the page. It was painted a fading white, but I knew from old photographs that the red brick beneath had once been exposed. I also knew that Ella had worked as a spinner, but from outside the mill, I couldn’t imagine where the spinning room would have been located. I considered trying the doors to see if any of them were unlocked. I even considered climbing up the ramp and trying to gain entry to the doors in the loading area. But the place was so quiet and felt so undisturbed that something gave me pause. The mill felt haunted, whether by Ella’s presence or my own imagining, I could not tell. I decided to snap one more photo of the mill before getting back into my car and heading for Asheville, where I was scheduled to give a reading that evening.

And that’s when I saw him: a scarecrow of a man standing on the loading dock about 100 yards from me. I lowered my camera, feeling as if I’d just been caught stealing secrets. The man wore blue jeans and a button-down shirt, a baseball hat pulled low over his eyes. His face was obscured by shadow, but he appeared to have a mustache and to be wearing thick glasses. I lowered my camera, and I stared at him. He stared back at me.

My car was parked between us, and I considered sprinting to it and getting behind the wheel and stepping on the gas for Asheville. But instead I approached the man where he stood. I didn’t say a word until I was within 10 feet or so of where he loomed above me from his perch on the loading dock.

“Hello,” I said. “My name’s Wiley Cash, and I’m a writer, and I’m writing about a woman who worked at this mill in 1929. I was just taking a few pictures for research.”

Silence.

“Her name was Ella May Wiggins,” I said. “She was shot and killed during the Loray Mill strike.”

More silence.

“Have you ever heard of her?”

He raised his eyes, looked out toward the road where the gate remained open from my illegal entry. He stared at my Subaru, and I suddenly wished I’d been driving the Camaro. Finally, he looked at me. I wondered if he would go inside and call the police, or if he’d disappear and return with some kind of weapon and take the law into his own hands.

“Well,” he said, “I reckon you’d better come inside and have a look around.”

His name was Walter, and he was 67 years old. He’d grown up in Gastonia not too far from the place where I’d grown up, and he’d been working at the mill — under one owner or another — since the late 1970s.

“There were almost 200 employees back then,” he said. “Today, we’ve got two on the floor.”

Inside, two middle-aged women were busy packaging cloth rope and preparing it to be shipped. Neither of them looked up when Walter and I passed.

The mill appeared even older once I was inside it. It was dark and musty, the hardwood floor worn smooth from decades of foot traffic and pocked from years of heavy machinery being moved across it, the ceiling low and riddled with what appeared to be hand-hewn beams and crossbeams where single bulbs cast soft yellow light defined by deep shadows.

“This is probably exactly what this place looked like when she worked here back in ’29,” Walter said. He stopped, looked at me. “What did she do?”

“She was a spinner,” I said.

“Come on,” he said.

I followed him up a rickety staircase to the second story. It ran almost the length of the mill, but it was virtually empty. The roof pitched above us at a sharp angle. Sunlight streamed through dirty glass windows and chinks in the walls. Gaps in the flooring made it so I could see through to the story below.

“This is where the spinners would’ve worked,” he said. “The machines would’ve been up here.”

“Would it have been loud?” I asked.

“Deafening.”

“And hot?”

“You can’t imagine,” he said.

“She worked 70 hours a week for $9,” I said. “And she had five children. Four had already passed away. She joined the strike because she thought the rest of them might die if something didn’t change.”

He drew his lips into a straight line, shook his head in what seemed like either disbelief or disappointment. I thought of the two silent women at work downstairs, and I wondered if Walter saw anything of Ella’s story in theirs.

When I left, I told Walter that I’d make sure he got a copy of my novel when it came out. I told him I’d drop by the mill and see him. He smiled.

“If we’re still here,” he said. “If so, I hope you’ll stop by.”

I’ve learned that sometimes, as a writer, you have to get out of the (rental) car and open doors. Other times, it’s best to wait for doors to be opened to you. PS

Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington, North Carolina, with his wife and their two daughters. His forthcoming novel The Last Ballad is available for pre-order wherever books are sold.

Sunday Lessons

In the loving hands of a remarkable grandmother

By Kathleen Causey

The black cat clock sat directly above the living room chair where my grandmother wove the rag rugs she sold all over the country. Its large eyes clicked back and forth in time with the swishing tail, mesmerizing my little sister with its quirkiness. I watched my grandmother’s hands, bent in strange ways from my own, twisting the multi-colored satin blanket binding with amazing speed and spinning tales in a soft voice without dropping a stitch.

Hattie Mae Cochran wasn’t my blood relative. I inherited her at age 7 when my mother married her son. This would be my mother’s third marriage and his as well. The union brought a boatload of half-brothers and stepsisters, and it was never comfortable explaining the relationships of our family. The best part of the deal was inheriting Grandma Cochran. She didn’t have her mother’s Cherokee dark looks, but was fair-haired, light skinned and small in stature, with the patience to explain why her strong-minded son demanded so much from his children.

After church on Sunday our extended family met at Grandma’s house. We would stop and pick up the bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and she would have the veggies ready, covered and sitting in their bowls on the back of the stove. In the summers, we followed her down the garden rows helping to hold the basket as she picked ripened tomatoes and cukes for our lunch. In the winters when it was too chilly to play outside, I would squeeze in at her feet with my siblings and cousins in her tiny living room and hear the stories of her life — how they built their cabin too close to a rattlesnake den in Wilkes County and the snakes would try to crawl up through the cracks in the floor in the winter; how, come spring, they moved the cabin farther up the ridge; how they used newspaper to fill the cracks to stop the freezing wind from blowing through. Her fingers stopped only to hand us a needle to thread as she filled our imaginations.

My stepfather, with his Elvis Presley good looks, ran a strict house, demanding perfection and routine, and never spared the rod. Grandma was my savior. I spent weekends with her, bravely following her down into the cellar with my arms filled with Mason jars as she used a stick to clear the spider webs away from our path. She taught me how to make bread and butter pickles; how to put up beans; how to use my fingers to cut in the butter to make biscuits; how to make a flaky crust for her wonderful lemon meringue pie. Grandma made lacy, intricate doilies; crocheted afghans and quilted like a magician. On special weekends, she allowed me to hunt through her private quilt collection she kept in the closet of the guest room. One hangs on a ladder rung in my dining room. The circles of material were from colorful scraps of dresses and shirts. It took months to finish and she couldn’t bear to sell it, or give it away until it became mine.

I overheard my parents say that the year my Grandma gives up her garden will be her last. When that spring came and she said she wouldn’t be planting, my heart was heavy with the grief of what was to be. I am a grandmother now, and though this woman has long left this world, her voice is with me. She is there with each pie crust I make, with each tomato I pick, with each stitch I sew.  As summer comes and the earth starts to warm, I look at my own hands and how they are changing with time, and I hope one day my granddaughters will sit and ask why my fingers are crooked and bent; and perhaps they will listen patiently as the tail of the clock swishes and the eyes click back and forth.  PS

Kathleen Causey lives and golfs in Seven Lakes, North Carolina, volunteers at the Sandhills Woman’s Exchange, and knows way more about cyber security than your average grandmother.

Marriage in the Age of Social Media

The father of the bride-to-be gets a lesson in millennial weddings

By Tom Allen

June belongs to fathers and brides, except this father will walk his daughter down the aisle in August.

My wife and I knew the FaceTime call was coming. Our daughter Hannah’s boyfriend, Zach, gave us the heads-up. He planned to propose, at a lovely spot overlooking Grandfather Mountain, in Western North Carolina. When the ringtone sounded, everyone smiled through a few tears.

Hannah struck up a conversation with this nice chap her freshman year at N.C. State. They started dating early in her junior year. The “M” word came up, occasionally. He asked our blessing in December, proposed in February. “You can do this,” I told myself, much like I had when I learned I was going to be a father or the day we moved Hannah into her college dorm. “Millions of dads go through this every year,” I reasoned. Treading in the footsteps of Spencer Tracy and Steve Martin, I became, until August 19, the father of the bride.

Friends who’d been through the experience gave the same advice: “Keep quiet and write the checks.” I understand what’s required of the bride’s family — our bank account is leaner than it was three months ago. I’ve given up purchasing that red Toyota Tacoma flatbed truck (with extended cab, back-up camera and heated seats). Still, I shun the stereotype. No, I won’t lose sleep over Hannah’s choice of hors d’oeuvres for the reception. I really don’t have an opinion on the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses (although my mouth dropped when informed there would be 10). But Hannah has a sister in college. Retirement looms. I’m not content to live on beans and bread for the sake of a reception feast that rivals William and Kate’s. Grass-fed prime rib and imported Champagne? Surely Pinterest offers creative ways to serve chicken and green beans. Would Emily Post sneer at a Sara Lee pound cake for dessert?

What to wear? What to wear? The guys (10, of course) are donning black suits and skinny ties, the color of which has yet to be determined. No sweat. I’m sure, after numerous texts, Snapchats and Instagrams, the perfect shade will emerge. And how hipster will I look in a skinny tie, whatever that is? Hannah and my wife, Beverly, scoped out mother-of-the-bride dresses on a recent Saturday. Feeling a bit left out, I stayed home and mowed the lawn. I anticipated pictures. A text requested my opinion. “Lovely . . . for the grandmother of the bride,” I responded. The second ring, a few minutes later brought a similar comeback. “A little low cut, don’tcha think?” After the third ding, everyone agreed. Emojis confirmed the choice. “You look smashing,” I texted my wife. “Love the bling.”

I look forward to the father-daughter dance, at the reception. Though I’m partial to “My Girl,” by The Temptations, Hannah has a Stevie Wonder hit in mind. Either will be fine. We both love to dance, and I’ll love dancing with her. We haven’t decided whether we’ll interrupt for a real throw-down. Bruno Mars and “Uptown Funk”? Hannah and her dad could go viral.

I think I’m ready to walk my daughter down the aisle — a bittersweet moment, same as when she was born, when I waved goodbye on her first day of kindergarten, and when we moved her in to her college dorm. I’ll selfie a pep talk. “You can do this. Millions of dads do every year.”

The ceremony will be intensely personal, given my profession. After another minister asks, “Who brings Hannah to marry Zach?” and I’ll respond, place her hand in his, then I’ll officiate their ceremony. I’m honored she asked, and like walking her down the aisle or waving goodbye as we drove away from the dorm, I’ll get through it, just fine. Besides, my officiant fee is a bargain.

What words will I offer Hannah and Zach? I’ll encourage them to be kind, to dream, to pray. I may tell them to pay off their credit cards every month and change the oil in the cars every 3,000 miles. I might remind them of how fortunate they are to have families who love them, friends who stick by them, and faith to guide them in tough times. We’ll be sad that my parents, who loved and nurtured Hannah and her sister, died before the happy day (my mother appreciated a fine glass of Champagne). I’ll remind Hannah and Zach that marriage is serious business, that living with imperfect people takes work. I’ll bless their union, then introduce a new couple, and a daughter with a new last name.

Beverly and I will smile, with the occasional tear, while the family poses for pictures. Afterwards we’ll celebrate like our wedding is the only one in the world.

On what I suspect will be a hot, humid August night, Beverly and I will say our goodbyes and watch as Hannah and Zach’s happiest day winds down. I’m not sure if they’ll drive away in Zach’s college Kia or a horse-drawn carriage. Do millennials Uber to their wedding night destination? Who knows? I’ll rest well, perhaps dream of that red Toyota Tacoma, and wonder when I’ll get to be the father of the bride again.  PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

Calls of the Wild

The season of the full-throated eastern phoebe is here

By Susan Campbell

Eastern phoebes are small black-and-white birds that can be easily overlooked — if it weren’t for their loud voices. Repeated “feee-bee, fee-bee” can be heard around wet areas all over our state during the warmer months. The farther west one travels through the Piedmont and into the Foothills, calling males become more and more common. From March through June, they loudly and incessantly declare their territory from elevated perches adjacent to ponds and streams.

Phoebes have an extensive range in the Eastern United States: from the coast to the Rockies and up and across central Canada. In the winter they can be found in southern states from the Carolinas over to Texas down into Mexico and even in northern Central America. They are exclusively insectivorous, feeding on beetles, dragonflies, moths — any bugs that will fit down the hatch. Although they don’t typically take advantage of feeders, I have seen one that did manage to negotiate a suet cage one winter. The birds’ feet are weak, and they are not capable of clinging. So this bird actually had perfected a hovering technique as it fed in spurts.

Originally, Eastern phoebes would use ledges on cliff faces for nesting. We do not know much about their habits in such locations since few are found breeding in such places now. Things have changed a lot for these birds as humans have altered their landscape and offered them an abundance of urban locales in which to nest.

In our area, phoebes can be easy to spot as a result of their loud calls, but their nests may not be. Good-sized open cup structures, the habitats will be tucked in out-of-the-way locations. Typically they will be on a ledge high up on a girder under a bridge or associated with a large culvert. The corner of a porch or another protected flat spot often suits them. Grasses and thin branches are woven and glued together with mud, so the nests are necessarily located near wet areas.

The affinity eastern phoebes have for nesting on man-made structures in our area may indicate that these are safer than more traditional locations. Climbing snakes are not uncommon in the Piedmont and Sandhills. Black rat snakes and corn snakes are not as active in buildings as they are on bridges and other water-control structures. It might be that the birds are adapting their behavior in response to these predators and others that are less likely to dwell so close to human activity.

In recent years it has been fascinating to discover the variety of locations that these little birds choose as support structure for nesting.  Light fixtures and light boxes (such as the one on our hay barn that is this year’s choice for the local pair), gazebos, porch support posts and other domestic structures suit their needs as long as they are covered by at least a slight overhang. Water, of course, is a necessity for phoebes in summer, and they require mature trees for perching and foraging, as well. So keep an ear out and perhaps you will find one of these adaptable birds nearby — ’tis the season! PS

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

Taylor & Ren Babcock

TAYLOR & REN BABCOCK

Home
Author Archives: pinestrawmag

Taylor and Ren Babcock were married in a sentimental spot, the Southern Pines United Methodist Church, the same church where the bride’s parents wed. Growing up in Pinehurst, Taylor spent many adolescent years in United Methodist and preferred a Moore County wedding to one in Raleigh, couple’s current city. The Babcocks brought their vision for a romantic garden wedding to life, holding the reception outside on the Weymouth Center lawn under bistro lights. The groomsmen were gifted Peter Millar golf shirts, holding true to Pinehurst’s favorite pastime. Having enlisted help from the best vendors and friends they could find, the Babcocks can confidently say their wedding day was the best day of their lives.

Photography: Amaris Photography | Ceremony: First United Methodist Church | Reception: Weymouth Center | Wedding Attire: Jos. A. Bank, Watters, and New York Bridal | Shoes: Badgley Mischka | Flowers: Jack Hadden Floral & Events | Hair & Makeup: Marti Prevette and Jen Galster from Sky Parlor Salon  | Cake: The Bakehouse | Entertainment: The Dickens Band, CE Rentals

My Mother’s Pocketbook

By Tom Allen

Mom said her boy loved to plunder. Sounds illegal. I prefer “explore” but will make do with “nosey.”

Two places were off limits to my curiosity — the bottom drawer of Dad’s chest of drawers and Mom’s pocketbook.

Mom never called her pocketbook a “purse.” Something colloquial, perhaps. The first time I took a peek, her pocketbook was on the kitchen table. I, perhaps 5 or 6 and not tall enough to look inside, leaned the bag in for a good snoop. “Leave that alone. That’s my pocketbook.” Her tone of voice reinforced the prohibition. I apologized and got the message — hands off, that’s mine.

Mom owned several pocketbooks — one she carried most days, the others for dressier occasions. She preferred darker bags for winter, softer colors for spring and summer. I have no idea why the prohibition against snooping. I doubt she carried anything illegal or illicit; what mattered was that the contents were her business, her stuff. And don’t we all need a space for odds and ends? Some nook or niche to stash a pen or some quarters or a few Tic-Tacs? Maybe a drawer or, if you’re lucky, a closet? Mom carried the usual items — a wallet, some Kleenex, a tube of lipstick. What else was for her to know and for me not to find out.

If my dad drove a car until the wheels fell off, Mom would tote a pocketbook until its fabric was worn or dirty. And, unlike Imelda Marcos, Mom wasn’t a packrat. When the time came, she dumped the purse and bought a new one, probably from Belk, with a coupon, on Seniors Day. When Mom became a grandmother, a pocketbook was the ideal Mother’s Day gift from our daughters. Mom could make it last, at least until the next May, if not the Christmas after.

I recall, as a teenager, the first time Mom asked me to fetch the wallet from her purse. Was she serious?  Was this a set-up? Would my hand be mauled by a steel trap, a finger bitten off by a pocket-sized varmint? I snatched the wallet, without another glimpse into the nether regions. At last, I must be worthy of her trust. Even today, when my wife asks me to retrieve something from her purse, I get a little uneasy.

Mom’s last pocketbook was a camel-colored Kim Rogers number with a mismatched Aigner wallet, purchased, I’m sure, from Belk. Age and illness robbed her of mobility and independence. A move from her home of 60 years to a furnished assisted-living residence disconnected her from familiar possessions as well as her few living friends. My dad’s death, six months before hers, compounded the loss. At this final residence, Mom — whether sitting in her lift chair or napping in her hospital bed — kept her pocketbook nearby, ready with a pen, a tissue, or just a reminder that something still belonged to her.

I handled financial matters in Mom’s last year and, with her permission, took anything from her wallet or pocketbook that might compromise security or identity. She understood, yet when poking around for her wallet, there was still a sense I’d violated her last private space. Even more, there was a sense that the child had attained adulthood. As the circle closes, the son becomes the parent, the caregiver — an honor but, at times, sad, even terrifying.

After she moved, I left $12 — a ten and two ones — in her wallet. Eight months later, on the night she died, I took her pocketbook home.  I did not look inside for months. When I did, I found that $10 bill. Perhaps she tipped a caring aide or gave a folded bill to a granddaughter as grandparents often do. Along with the wallet, I found high school snapshots of our daughters that Mom could proudly show. There was a Cover Girl pressed-powder compact, a red Revlon lipstick, a handful of tissues, two pens, some melted Halls cough drops and a few coins. Pen marks covered the fabric lining.  Lipstick stained a zippered compartment. The soft faux leather still smelled like the house where I grew up, a place my parents made into a home.

Mom’s pocketbook rests in the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers, not off limits to anyone.  I’m saving it for a plundering grandchild who might walk away with a $10 bill. Me? I’m content to watch memories in the making, while thinking of how very happy one mother would be.  PS

Tom Allen is a longtime — and deeply loved — contributor to PineStraw.

Maybe Baby

For Taurus, golden days are ahead

By Astrid Stellanova

May means in Taurus-speak, maybe, or maybe not. Taurus, we know better than to pull your tail and enrage the hothead in you. Friends know you as surprisingly sunny and funny when unprovoked. Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth II, Adele, George Clooney, Tina Fey, all share the sign of Taurus, and none of them seems too ill-tempered, right?  — Ad Astra, Astrid

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

If anybody crosses somebody in your camp, you’re liable to burn their house down, eat the provisions and take their mule. You are a fierce adversary, Sugar, with a fierce sweet tooth, right? But there is the other side, all generous and loving, and when that side shines, everybody wants to stand in your golden light. This is the reason you collect friends — and enemies — like nobody’s business. Speaking of which, a business opportunity opens in due time. You have every reason to give it a very good look. 

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

This month is Willy Wonka fun and crazy for you. Find the wild child in you to go with it and play. The fact that you finally made it into the candy factory says a lot about just how tenacious you are. You earned your pass and then some. The month you are going to have is one you have longed for, Honey.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

Last month’s shenanigans left you a little sheepish and secretly ashamed. Get over it, Sweet Thing. You may have gone to the extremes, but there ain’t no reason you can’t reboot and move on. You paid to play, and nobody had more fun than you did. BTW: Brace yourself for an unexpected love to surface.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

Two days this month will reveal aspects of your abilities and talents that you have denied or suppressed. If you can just go with the flow, these talents will lead you to unexpected outcomes offering a brand-new vocational choice. Pay extra attention to the number 4 for additional clues — and don’t argue so dang much. 

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

There is either a good time or a good story this month for Virgo. When you stop muddling over something long past, you will find the traction to move forward. The fact that it is over is something you ain’t quite accepted yet. Sugar, the past is as stale as an old doughnut, but the present is where your true joy lies. 

Libra (September 23–October 22)

The past month was a doozy, and you felt like a wing-walker with a drunk pilot at the controls. This is a time of trusting in yourself and waving bye-bye to the ding-dong person formerly in charge of your destiny. You are the pilot of your life, Sweet Thing. You don’t have to do aerial tricks to prove it, either.   

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

It was sweeter than a bite of a hot buttered biscuit drizzled with honey just to watch the face of a rival fall behind as you roared to the front, wasn’t it? You have pulled way ahead, but they ain’t giving up quite so easy. It might pay off for you to form a peaceful pact with them, or else spend the rest of the year playing a mean game of tag.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

You’ve dodged a few bullets this year. Beginning to face that maybe careless and reckless ain’t just your driving traits?  Now, settle down and cogitate. Let the lessons and the luck sink in, Sugar. It is fun to be one step ahead of trouble,
Twinkle Toes, but it might detract from more important work you have yet to do.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

Recent events have confirmed your latest inspirations were a success, and some powerful folks are about to bet on you and your newest ideas. If you were a horse, you would give Seattle Slew a run for the money. All signs point to your standing in the winning circle, Honey Bun. Bow, smile and say thank you.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

In the past, you let one close to you dictate the terms of your life, right down to who, what, where and how things would go down. Have you noticed how wrong they were about what worked for you?  Fire their fool self. You are in a unique situation, Honey Bunny, to reposition your life and your happiness.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

When you got right down to it, you immediately figured out what you needed. That wasn’t so hard was it?  Now you have won the admiration of someone who could use your past experience. Pay it forward. Give this person the benefit of what you know. Your lives intersected for a good reason, Sugar.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

By garaging your three-horsepower moped, you have found the peace and quiet you didn’t know you needed.  As entertaining as it was to watch you roar around town in a ball cap and gray pantyhose, it seems about time you embraced your serious side. You are going to need it. There is a real challenge ahead, Darling. You are up to it.  PS

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.