State of Mind

State of Mind

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Hurricane Watch

The storms that bring us together

By Tommy Tomlinson

There’s always a moment late in the fall when I wake up groggy and wonder if my hurricane bag is packed.

I don’t have a hurricane bag anymore. But I did have one for years. Part of my job when I was at the Charlotte Observer was to head out to the coast when a hurricane was coming in.

It is such a strange feeling to be the only car heading down one side of the highway when thousands are fleeing in the opposite direction.

The contents of the hurricane bag: toilet paper, of course; a portable radio; extra batteries; bottled water; food with a shelf life (peanut butter, soda crackers, canned peaches, Chef Boyardee); maps; Swiss Army knife; raincoat; bug spray; first aid kit.

We had a guide that we printed out and took with us. Get to a safe place and stay there until the hurricane moves through. Don’t drive into a puddle if you don’t know how deep it is. (A colleague of ours once drowned a rental car.) Look out for critters. Hurricanes cause floods, and floods flush all sorts of animals out into the open. I discovered that was true when I covered Hurricane Floyd back in 1999. I was somewhere outside of New Bern, driving through a neighborhood. I saw a family cleaning up their flooded house and pulled over to talk to them. Their yard was knee-deep in water. I started wading across and noticed a clump of debris floating by. As it got closer, I could see it wasn’t debris. It was a flotilla of fire ants.

I backpedaled pretty fast, considering how deep the water was.

The water is often the biggest problem when a hurricane comes through, more than the wind. One time — I think it was Hurricane Bonnie in 1998 — I checked into a hotel in Havelock as the storm rolled in from the coast. It was a mom-and-pop place, two stories tall. They gave me a second-floor room and I grumbled about it as I hauled my luggage and gear up the steps. The storm came through during the night. The next morning I went downstairs to find that every room on the first floor had flooded.

Another time — Hurricane Fran in 1996, maybe — I stayed in a room with a sliding glass door that led out onto a balcony. When the hurricane hit, that door warped and wobbled like a rubber sheet. I crouched on the far side of the bed for hours, expecting the glass to shatter. It never did. I always wondered if the folks who made those doors prepared them for something like that.

Every time a hurricane strikes, it leaves shattered lives behind. Floyd alone led to the deaths of 52 people in North Carolina and caused more than $3 billion in damage. My job as a reporter covering those storms was to tell the stories of the people who lived through them the best I could. I always tried to remember that I was one of the lucky ones. In a few days I’d be going back to my warm, dry home. The folks I was talking to may have just lost theirs.

What struck me the most about covering hurricanes is how people look out for one another. “Look for the helpers,” Mister Rogers said, and that’s never truer than after a storm. When roads are flooded, folks with canoes and johnboats get stranded people out and supplies in. When power lines are down, people empty their freezers and fire up their grills to feed the neighborhood. A storm tends to flatten the fences that separate us. When we’re wet and hungry, we’re all the same.

I have been far away and covered even bigger storms. I spent a week south of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and most days I would prefer not to think about that. And of course, the storms keep coming. Hurricane Helene was two years ago, but Asheville and the surrounding mountain towns are still recovering.

Not three months after I came to work for the Observer in 1989, Hurricane Hugo came right up I-77 and slammed into Charlotte in the middle of the night. I was living just south of the border in Lancaster, South Carolina. Nobody expected the hurricane to make it that far inland. I fell asleep not sure if it was coming. I woke up to the sound of my front door being blown open. I lived in an old duplex, and the door was not quite square in the frame. I’d slam it shut and the wind would blast it open again. At some point I realized I needed something heavy to brace against it. I grabbed the old Royal typewriter my mom and dad gave me when I was 12. I jammed it against the bottom of the door and it held. I was grateful for my mom and dad, and grateful for being a writer.

For the next several hours I watched the pecan tree outside my bedroom window being bent to its limits. The wind was like a claw hammer trying to pry loose a stubborn nail.

Finally, it let go. I stepped into my front yard and saw my neighbors stumbling out of their houses. None of us said anything for a while. That’s the thing, the quiet just on the other side of a hurricane. Assessing the damage, helping the needy: That comes later. But first you’re just stunned by nature’s power, your world forever changed. PS

Tommy Tomlinson is the author of two books, The Elephant in the Room and Dogland. He was a longtime columnist for the Charlotte Observer and has written for Esquire, The Atlantic, ESPN the Magazine and many other publications. His online newsletter is called The Writing Shed. He lives in Charlotte with his wife, Alix Felsing.

Poem November 2026

Poem

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Dish Towel

By erri Kirby Erickson 

One of my parents’ dish towels

hangs on the handle of our stove.

It is aqua-blue, covered with red

and yellow poppies. How many of

their dishes this towel must have

buffed, plus silverware, glasses,

cookpots and pans. For decades

Mom washed them and Dad did

the drying. But after he died, she

stood alone at their sink, letting

the water grow cold — soap suds

like glaciers slipping into the sea.

Six months a widow and she, too,

was gone, leaving a lone bowl in

the drainer, a single spoon, a fresh

dish towel draped just so on a ring.

                 

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight collections of award-winning poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home.

The Art of Frying a Turkey

The Art of Frying a Turkey

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The Art of Frying a Turkey

Be careful. Be very, very careful.

By Warren Henry Lewis

Photograph by John Gessner

There’s a particular sound the Sandhills makes in late November: the low roar of a propane burner in a distant driveway, bringing oil up to temperature in a pot big enough to defend the castle ramparts. By the third week of the month it’s a neighborhood chorus, with cul-de-sacs across the county contributing versions of their own.

Frying a turkey has become as regionally native as barbecue, even though the technique arrived from Louisiana by way of tailgate parking lots and word of mouth. It earned its place here on merit: crisp skin, meat that stays moist, a bird that’s done in under an hour instead of half a day tying up the oven.

It also remains, by a wide margin, the most dangerous thing most people do to their food all year — worse than egg salad in the heat of summer on a picnic. The U.S. Fire Administration and the National Fire Protection Association both flag turkey fryers every autumn, and the failures follow a short, repeatable list. Get the process right and it’s no more hazardous than a grill. Skip a step and you’re explaining to your insurance adjuster why there’s a scorch mark up the side of the garage.

The oil, not the bird, is what matters most. Frying works by immersion in oil held around 350 degrees — hot enough that the exterior sets almost instantly, sealing moisture in rather than letting it render out over hours. That’s the whole appeal. It’s also the whole risk: A few gallons of oil at 350 degrees is a few gallons of oil that will ignite on contact with an open flame if it spills, and it spills for one reason more than any other — too much oil in the pot, displaced by too much turkey.

Measure your oil level before you ever turn on the burner. Set the bird in the empty pot, cover it with water until submerged, pull the turkey out, and mark the waterline — that’s your fill line. Think Archimedes and the bathtub. Dump the water, dry the pot completely, and fill to that mark with oil, no higher. Skipping this step and eyeballing it is how oil ends up on the ground, on flame, and on the side of a house.

The second potential failure is moisture. A wet or partially frozen turkey dropped into hot oil turns instantly to steam, and steam expanding inside oil doesn’t simmer — it explodes outward. This is not good. Thaw the bird completely, days in advance, and pat it dry inside and out immediately before frying. Maybe even twice. No standing water in the cavity. No ice crystals in the joints. If you’ve brined it, dry it again after — thoroughly, longer than feels necessary.

Where you fry matters as much as how. Outdoors only, on a flat surface, well clear of the house, the garage, the deck, and anything with a roofline — the NFPA’s standard is 10 feet minimum, and farther is better. Not on a wooden deck. Not under an overhang, however far it seems. Level ground keeps the pot from tipping; a fryer set up on grass or gravel that gives even slightly under the stand’s legs is a recipe for disaster.

Lower the turkey into the oil slowly, and stay at the pot the entire time it cooks — this isn’t a set-it-and-forget-it appliance. Kick back in a lawn chair but keep your eyes open. Unlike with BBQ ya’ really gotta pay attention, so maybe reconsider that second beer. It’s only an hour or so. A turkey fryer left unattended, even for the few minutes it takes to answer the door, is the single most common thread running through the incident reports. Keep kids and pets well back from the whole operation — oil that’s already hot stays hot for a long time after the flame is out.

Have a plan for what goes wrong before you need it. Grease fires don’t respond to water — water on burning oil throws flaming oil into the air, which is how a contained fire becomes an unconfined one. Keep a Class K or ABC-rated extinguisher within reach, and know that smothering — a metal lid, baking soda in quantity — works when an extinguisher doesn’t. I’m a big fan of fire blankets. We have them in our kitchen, and keep ’em in our cars as well. Keep the propane tank and hose connection away from the burner itself. Check for leaks with soapy water before lighting, not after.

Done with attention to these few points, a fried turkey is worth the trouble: skin the color of an old saddle, meat that hasn’t spent four hours drying out in a 325-degree oven. Pull it at 165 degrees in the breast, 175 in the thigh, let it rest 20 minutes under foil before anyone touches it with a knife. The Sandhills didn’t invent this method, but by the sound of more than a few driveways in late November, it’s adopted it as its own.

Basic Wet Brine for a Fryer Turkey

A brine does two things worth doing — it seasons the meat all the way through, not just the surface, and it helps the bird hold on to moisture during the fast, hot cooking a fryer puts it through. Scale this up proportionally for a bird larger than 14 pounds, and give yourself two days, one to brine, one to dry.

1 gallon water, plus more to top off

1 cup kosher salt

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 tablespoons black peppercorns

4 bay leaves

1 head garlic, halved crosswise

1 orange, quartered

A handful of fresh thyme

Instructions

Bring half the water to a simmer in a large pot with the salt, sugar, peppercorns and bay leaves. Stir until the salt and sugar dissolve completely, then remove from the heat and add the garlic, orange and thyme. Let it cool to room temperature — don’t brine with warm liquid.

Combine the cooled brine with the remaining cold water in a container large enough to hold the turkey fully submerged — a clean cooler works well for a whole bird. Add ice as needed to bring the temperature down and keep it there.

Submerge the turkey breast-side down. Weight it if it floats. Refrigerate, or keep the cooler packed with ice, for 12 – 18 hours. Longer than 24 and the texture turns spongy rather than juicy.

Lift the turkey out, discard the brine, and rinse the bird under cold water to clear off surface salt. Then — and this is the step that matters for a fryer — dry it completely, inside and out, and let it sit uncovered on a rack in the refrigerator for several hours or overnight before frying. A brined bird holds extra surface moisture, which is exactly the hazard discussed above. It has to be gone before the turkey goes anywhere near the oil.

***

I’m from the Northeast and typically November was cold enough (32-40 degrees) to leave the turkey in the brine outside. Down here, you’ll have to make gobs of space in the refrigerator.

Having sold Chef Warren’s, Warren Henry Lewis is now channeling his creativity toward writing. A knitting novella is in the works.

Warren Lewis surrounded by Southern Pines firefighters Andrew Whitaker (kneeling), L-R: Eric Adams, Brody McGraw, Logan DeBerry, Jay Lacsina

Birdwatch​

Birdwatch

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Quoth the Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary . . .

By Susan Campbell

The raven is one of the most widely recognized and intriguing birds in the Northern Hemisphere, being a species that has associated with mankind for thousands of years. It is certainly not one that is common in the Piedmont of North Carolina — however, it is a bird seen more frequently each year, even in more urbanized areas such as the Triad and even in the Triangle area. The common raven is a rarity in the Sandhills, but that is likely to change before long.

In our state, common ravens breed at elevation in the Appalachians and can be found roaming the mountains year-round. For several decades now the species has been frequently found farther east, across the foothills, no doubt a range expansion facilitated by human activity. Ravens, as well as their crow cousins, are opportunistic feeders. Roadkill is a major and easy source of food — as are landfills, parks and campgrounds. Even pet food bowls and bird feeders have been known to attract their attention. Some birds have even learned that gunshots during hunting season may mean a meal in the not-too-distant future. Ravens are also capable of taking eggs, chicks and even newborn small animals such as lambs.

Common ravens are massive, jet-black birds, half again as large as a crow. They have heavy, serrated bills and long wedge-shaped tails. Their wings are designed for soaring, since they typically have large territories across forested, as well as open, expanses. Individuals or pairs can be seen soaring effortlessly high in the sky. Their vocalizations often give them away, especially in remote areas. The common raven’s call is a harsh or gurgling croak that, not surprisingly, carries a long way. They may learn to mimic a variety of sounds, including human vocalizations if they are kept in captivity.

These birds are exceptionally intelligent and are likely the smartest of all birds found in North America. Not only do they readily figure out where to find their next meal, they will work in pairs to acquire certain types of food. One individual will divert the attention of a nesting adult bird while its mate steals an egg or nestling. Common ravens can be destructive in their search for food, tearing into campers’ tents and other manmade structures and, in numbers, can foul sensitive equipment. They can certainly become a nuisance if they linger too often or too long around human habitation. This can be very problematic given how long-lived the birds are and that they are also non-migratory.

It is a real shock each time I spot one of these impressive birds. There seem to be individuals that regularly patrol Interstates I-40 and I-540 west of Raleigh year-round. I have also noticed them above U.S. 1 just north of Sanford. I would not be surprised if a pair is breeding in the area along the Deep River. Riverside bluffs at lower elevations mimic the cliff habitat where common ravens usually nest. They also make the ledges on tall buildings their home as well.

Ravens are clearly adaptable and perfectly happy to live alongside us — more and more, all of the time.  OH

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com.

Sandhills Photo Club

Sandhills Photo Club

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Churches & Graveyards

Tier 3 Winners

Tier 1, 1st Place: Arlington by Donna Ford

Tier 3, 3rd Place: Perpetual Peace by Susan Bailey

Tier 3, 2nd Place: Resting Among the Flowers by Dee Williams

Tier 2 Winners

Tier 2, 1st Place: Graveyard Gaze by Joshua Simpson

Tier 2, 2nd Place: Lighting the Way by Jacques Wood

Tier 2, 3rd Place: Majestic Orthodox Church in Santorini by Cathy Locklear

Tier 1 Winners

Tier 1, 1st Place: St. Patrick Owns the Night by Phil Lewis

Tier 1, 2nd Place: Here Lies the Thagards by Jameson Everett

Tier 1, 3rd Place: Norwegian Triple Crosses by Sarah Mason

Tier 1, Honorable Mention: Duke Night Sky by Kate Annett-Hitchcock

Tier 1, Honorable Mention: Rock Castle View from Hore Abbey Window by Deb Castle

Cape Cod Soul

Cape Cod Soul

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Cape Cod Soul

Heartwarming highlights on a Southern shore

By Hazlette Huskins

Photographs by John Gessner

Chris and Kerrie Szczuka grew up in the small Massachusetts towns of Salem and Holyoke, respectively, and when they began to search for a place to settle down as a young family, they managed to combine her love for rural farmland with his desire for proximity to the coast. Newburyport fit the bill, an hour north of Boston, where they could take their three kids — Jack, Craig and Emma — for activities and lessons. As an engineer with a firm that has offices nationwide, Chris eventually decided to look at other locations to call home, and they honed in on the Research Triangle. With what they considered a God wink to their plans, they relocated to Apex and settled into Salem Village.

In 2020, they began looking for lake property and, impressed with the clear Moore County lakes, eventually found the perfect lakefront lot in the Seven Lakes West neighborhood. At just over an acre, it gently slopes toward the waterfront with a long-distance view across the broadest part of the lake. They visited occasionally, bringing their boat to check out neighboring lakeside properties, and saw several places that reflected the New England style they are so fond of.  While their youngest child was in high school in 2023, they began the construction process so that it would be completed once they were ready to move.

With the help of Susan Arciero Interiors, they began designing the home around a few basic principles: cedar shake siding was a must, a gable roof line to create a little more interest, and a main floor that would feature one-level living just for them. Dreading the thought of passing empty children’s rooms as they went about their day, they created a separate area for the (now grown) kids to feel at home, even in a new build in a new town. Ascending to the small cluster of rooms upstairs feels like entering a pilothouse overlooking the most magnificent view of the lake.  With a family of tennis enthusiasts, Kerrie decorated a small sitting area at the top of the stairs with some memorabilia, including her childhood racket and tennis balls from both the French and Australian Opens. No space is wasted, even along the staircase wall where book club progress is measured spine by spine along a narrow shelf. With the help of K. P. Quality Builders, they thought ahead with smart details like an upper level closet that could one day be easily converted to an elevator.

Downstairs, the breakfast nook accommodates a crowd, with built-in upholstered benches around a custom-built dining table Chris commissioned from Oak City Customs in Raleigh. A favorite painting adorns one wall and ties in the colors from the rest of the home. Created by a former neighbor in Massachusetts, it is a treasured piece that invokes the memory of a Cape Cod beach where the family spent time when the kids were young.

Continuing the creamy wall color with a similar hue in cabinetry, the kitchen wows in its simplicity. Gingham-wrapped books of favorite recipes were gifts from the kids that stand on a countertop, while the beginnings of a teapot collection fill the glass-front cabinets along the ceiling — proudly representing Ireland, England, their wedding day, and soon, a piece from China. LA Cabinets in West End created the kitchen cabinets and matching living room built-ins, with rattan inserts to disguise speakers, as well as the storage cabinets with floral cut-out detail in the mud room. Tucked behind barn doors, Chris has a home office that allows for focus when necessary, and a spectacular view of the glistening lake when a break is needed.

A few creative and heartwarming highlights are found in unsuspecting places, such as the wallpaper. The piano room just off the foyer is partially covered in an enlarged Nav Chart Art map of Newburyport, with stars indicating the places they called home during their time there.

Another way of preserving the family’s past is displayed in the walk-through pantry. With a nostalgic nod to the sitcom Who’s the Boss?, one of the doors had to be swinging, and both have porthole windows to let light pass through. At first glance you notice a display of Kerrie’s grandmother’s blue and white Currier & Ives china. On the wall itself, you discover a recipe in her grandparents’ handwriting, enlarged and printed onto a wallcovering. Her Italian grandmother lived on a lake in New Hampshire where Kerrie spent much of her summers growing up, and this nook honors her in a unique way.

The lower level with direct access to the backyard and the lake beyond is a vast space designed for late-night hangouts and leisure activities. The shower was extended to accommodate the family’s two golden retrievers, Alice and Maggie, who often come home soaking wet from a swim. Outside, the couple formed a mini beach area complete with chairs and an umbrella. Their boat, fittingly named Waggin’ Wheel, sits at the head of the inlet and admires each sunset across a 1 1/2 nautical mile stretch of Lake Auman.

A standout feature is the cupola above the garage with a whale weathervane atop, lovingly called Winnie the Whale. While Winnie seems to have been purchased specifically for this house, she came from Newburyport and has been watching over the family for 18 years, at one time residing on a stake in their Apex yard. She appears right at home after her latest and final move.

The couple incorporated pieces that reflect traditional New England style and stayed true to the origin of certain items, including wood canoe paddles from Maine-based Shaw & Tenney that hang high on the living room wall. A New York artisan, The Carving Company, created the hand-carved wooden exterior house sign that hangs over the front door and mirrors its color. Presented with numerous shades of blue paint options, Kerrie decided to flip the samples over to read the names instead.  Newburyport Blue was staring back at her and the door’s fate was sealed.

Chris and Kerrie love the natural cedar shake siding that adorns the facade and, faithful to the Nantucket style they adore, intend to let it age gracefully. It lends an unpretentious welcome that greets you at the Dutch front door, perfect for the two pups to keep an eye on passersby.

This custom home has packed so much charm and love for family into its walls that it immediately has a sense of place. It was built at a time when their family had begun to scatter — more far than near — for their next stages in life, and has established a refreshing place to relax, recharge and reconnect in a home that embraces old memories, new friends, and life by the water.  PS

Hazlette Huskins is a native North Carolinian, international business graduate of UNC Wilmington, real estate broker, children’s book author and an Arts Council of Moore County Fine Arts Festival award recipient.

Tea Leaf Astrologer​

Tea Leaf Astrologer

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Libra

(September 23 – October 22)

Zora Stellanova

Someone’s feeling extra flirty this month. Mirror face aside, get ready for a cosmic reset on Oct. 10 sure to set your gaze in a bold new direction. Of course, this does mean you’ll need to make a choice. And with your ruling planet Venus in retrograde now through mid-November, one choice you ought to make is self-restraint, particularly when it comes to extraneous spending. Hint: Shop your own closet, sweetheart. You’re already extra.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Let yourself be surprised.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Listen for the crows.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Host a soup swap.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Check the air filters.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Change the batteries.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

There’s a first for everything.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Add more nutmeg.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Do the words bobtail cat mean anything to you?

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Explore moon meditations.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

It’s time for a color refresh.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

Embrace the wild rumpus.  OH

Zora Stellanova lives in the N.C. mountains with her wolfdogs, Venus and Lilith. Although she prefers divining with loose-leaf pu-erh, she recommends a mugwort and passionflower blend for those seeking wisdom and clarity from the dream realm. 

Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

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Color Me October

A delicious chill in the air

By Deborah Salomon

The seasons — and their respective colors — have long influenced my life.

Unlike most Americans, spring is not my favorite. I love daffodils, tulips, iris, budding trees. The birds I fed all winter have a spring in their chirp, now that plump bugs replace their diet of sunflower seeds and peanut butter sandwiches. But spring spreads an ominous prescience: summer. Muggy heat, damaging storms, huge electric bills, mosquitoes, hay fever.

Summer belongs at the ocean, with a cool breeze and water lapping my feet. Summer thrives at the farmstand, where the farmer’s daughter sells prize tomatoes and hours-old corn, blueberries begging pie crust, fragrant melons.

Anywhere else summer, in my book, is to be endured, nothing more.

Color summer fiery orange from sun-up to sunset.

September is a pass-through. Color it undecided.

Then comes October, which I adore. It is the yellow month, when trees positively glow. Early October offers a delicious chill tamed by fleece or corduroy.

Coffee smells and tastes better on an October morn, ditto eggs and bacon, shunned during summer. True, the sun is noticeably lower, the days shorter. But October offers renewed energy, football, cider doughnuts, long walks, a comfy month despite looming November.

Well, nothing good lasts forever.

Paint November a dreary khaki. The sky is gray, the air damp. Once-fiery leaves turn crinkled and brownish, like cornflakes. They fall and must be raked. Coats appear, although Southerners resist winter wardrobes, preferring to scurry from car to office or store in shirtsleeves. For me, November’s redeeming icon is cornbread turkey stuffing, perfumed with sage from the patio herb pot.

December has to be red and green and sparkly silver, representing holidays meant to cheer, affirm, inspire, this year challenged by worldwide messes and climate change. Will there be frost . . . or dandelions? A roast of beef or ribs on the grill?

January, definitely blue and white — the cold colors. After living most of my life far north I’ll never get used to a warmish January. I still crave soup and stew, strong tea spiked with a drop of brandy, a real fire in the fireplace. I want twinkling stars against a velvet sky, icicles on the lilac bush, enough snow to mask the dirt, and never mind if rosy-cheeked kids track it inside on their boots.

February is pink and strewn with holidays, most boasting a celebratory food, from decadent Valentine chocolate to heart-month healthy kale. The days stretch longer. Winter grows tired, soggy. Around here you can almost feel the trees shoring up strength to bud, then blossom.

March could be anything, a blizzard or a heat wave to confuse wildlife. April is spring fashion month — the good, the bad, the laughable. Will jeans continue to widen or remain stovepipe? Will the middle-part hairstyle (think Mona Lisa with a much-needed shampoo) have survived winter? Will the fellas on TV still wear running shoes with business suits?

I’ll give April purple, a color with limited applications. I don’t see many purple sofas or jackets. Maybe a blouse or two. Or a tie, if the gentleman dares.

Summer commences in May, stretches on and on. To which I will raise a drippy cone of black raspberry or peach and be thankful that, eventually, October will return.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

The Naturalist

The Naturalist

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Ticked Off

Something wicked this way comes

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

Vampires are real, though they look nothing like the Hollywood stereotypes who wear dark capes and speak in strange European accents. True vampires possess eight legs as adults (six in larval form) and are not much bigger than a peppercorn kernel. An estimated 900 species can be found crawling the globe, primarily in warm, humid forests across every continent except Antarctica. Some specialize in sucking the blood of rabbits. Others prefer the blood of bats. One species only laps up blood from the inner ears of cows. A surprising number are cold-blooded connoisseurs, preferring the taste of turtles and the occasional snake. And yes — a very small percentage of species bite humans and suck their blood from time to time.

I am speaking, of course, of ticks, the bane of hikers, dog walkers, campers, hunters, gardeners and outdoor enthusiasts everywhere. Despite ticks’ notoriety for sucking blood, most of the general public know very little about them.

Here’s a little factoid to tuck into your memory rolodex — it may be of use the next trivia night down at the local pub. Ticks are not insects. They are arachnids, most closely related to spiders and scorpions, and have been sucking blood for over 120 million years. While T. Rex was chowing down on a Triceratops, chances are good that ticks were chowing down on it.

That’s all well and good. Everything has a right to make a living.

However, it’s what ticks carry in their saliva that make them public enemy number one. Tick spit can harbor a smorgasbord of pathogens — everything from bacteria and protozoa to viruses. The list of diseases that ticks can transmit to humans is fuel for nightmares and fodder for medical journals. Typhus. Rickettsialpox. Q fever. Colorado tick fever. Babesiosis. Hemorrhagic fever. Tick-borne meningoenchephalitis. Bourbon virus (definitely not a disease that causes one to crave Jack Daniels). Tick paralysis. Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Ehrlichiosis. Tularemia. Lyme disease. Heartland virus. Anaplasmosis. The list goes on and on.

One in particular, a strange disease known as Alpha-gal syndrome, has been dominating news headlines of late, due to its rapid spread across the eastern half of the United States. The syndrome, transmitted through the bite of a lone star tick, causes an allergic reaction to a sugar molecule that is found in the red meat of mammals, like cows and pigs. For those unlucky enough to acquire it, the simple act of eating a cheeseburger or a sausage biscuit can trigger an outbreak of itchy skin, bad heartburn, vomiting and shortness of breath. A severe reaction can even result in death. The disease seems to affect people differently. Some have mild reactions to meat. Others are so allergic that even drinking a glass of milk can cause life-threatening anaphylaxis. Some carry the allergy for the remainder of their lives. Others may completely lose the allergy after a few months.

“I woke up in the middle of the night covered in hives,” former Dismal Swamp State Park ranger Tony DeSantis recently told me by phone. His experience was back in 2008, well before Alpha-gal syndrome was mentioned in the news media and on the radar of most clinical physicians.

“It was bizarre,” continued DeSantis. “I could not figure out if I had bug bites or if it was some other rash. It happened a couple of times, and I could not piece it together.” Eventually, he realized that the rash would develop only after eating beef.

“Every time that I ate beef, several hours later, I would break out from head to toe in intense hives,” he said. “It was bizarre. I never had any issues with eating beef before.” Why the sudden change?

The breakthrough came a few months later, when a fellow park ranger pointed DeSantis to a scientific paper linking the bites of lone star ticks to an allergy of the sugar molecule, alpha-galactose, found in the meat of mammals. “That’s when it clicked for me,” DeSantis said. “I knew my rash was the result of a tick bite.” Working at the state park for six years, pulling ticks off clothing and skin while walking the trails, had become a daily routine — just part of the job. DeSantis recalled one researcher, who had visited the swamp years before, remarking that “it was the tickiest place that they had ever seen.” Lying along the border of southeastern Virginia and northeastern North Carolina, the state park is nestled within the Great Dismal Swamp, an enormous wilderness area of nearly 150,000 acres. It is the largest remaining swamp in the Eastern United States.

Finally linking tick bites to his beef allergy gave DeSantis some peace of mind, but it required making a committed lifestyle change. “Since 2008, I have just avoided beef and have never had a problem,” DeSantis said.

This past summer, I ventured onto a friend’s property bordering the Great Dismal Swamp with Maurice Cullen, a retired Virginia Beach science teacher and amateur lepidopterist. Our goal that evening was to find and photograph caterpillars and moths. Over six hours, we documented dozens of species. Returning home late that night, I jumped into the shower before bed and immediately discovered three lone star ticks, easily recognized by the large white dot on their abdomen, embedded deep in my skin. One was attached to my shoulder, another to the back of my neck at the edge of my hairline, and the third  . . . well, let’s just say it was somewhere less pleasant.

I texted Maurice warning him about the ticks. He replied that he had not found a single one on his clothes or skin. Lucky me. I guess I am a tick magnet.

With tweezers, I carefully removed each one and flushed them down the toilet. I have been bitten by dozens of ticks in my lifetime, and thus far, I have yet to experience any serious reactions to their bites. Knock on wood. Still, over the following weeks, I paid close attention to what my body was telling me, constantly checking for weird rashes and noting any feverish symptoms. As someone who relishes a good cheeseburger, I am not sure I have enough willpower to change my diet like DeSantis.

While tick diseases are certainly scary, there is no need to fear the outdoors. It is important to understand that not every tick carries a disease. If you do find a tick crawling on you, remember that it needs to bite you in order to transmit disease. Even then, research suggests that a tick needs to be attached for at least 24 to 48 hours to transmit most diseases. Checking your body thoroughly soon after each outing is the most effective defense against the little vampires.

So go on that hike. Take the dog for a walk. Take your kid camping. The wonders of the outdoors far outweigh the risks.  PS

Naturalist and photographer Todd Pusser grew up in Eagle Springs. He works to document the extraordinary diversity of life both near and far. His images can be found at www.ToddPusser.com.

Golftown Journal

Golftown Journal

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Get a Grip

Connecting you and the club

By Lee Pace

Sam Snead struggled with putting yips for over half a century, trying side-saddle and mallet putters. Ernie Els suffered a horrific six-putt from 2 feet at the 2016 Masters, later blaming performance anxiety. And who around Pinehurst will ever forget Rory McIlroy missing two putts from inside 4 feet in the final three holes of the 2024 U.S. Open on Pinehurst No. 2?

Who knows? Maybe a Reverse Taper Grip from Golf Pride, invented and designed in a lab on the outskirts of Pinehurst, might have helped.

Since 2019, Golf Pride has operated out of its Global Innovation Center on land next to Pinehurst No. 8 that was conceived and shepherded from soup to nuts by company CEO Jamie Ledford. The company was founded in Akron in 1949 by a golfer named Thomas Fawick, who believed that molded rubber would offer better traction and durability than traditional leather. Fawick soon introduced the slip-on grip, revolutionizing the industry and creating the modern regripping market.

The company was acquired by Eaton in 1968 and moved to North Carolina a year later, with operational headquarters in Southern Pines and a manufacturing plant in Laurinburg. The latter shut down in the early 2000s, and now some 50 million grips a year are produced out of company facilities in Thailand and Taiwan.

Ledford, a golfer since his boyhood days in the Pacific Northwest, had a decade of experience as director of consumer products for Starbucks Coffee Company and in business development with Callaway Golf. Among his priorities on taking the Golf Pride presidency was to find a better home for the business, which operated out of a nondescript commercial structure off U.S. 15-501 in Southern Pines. Word got around town, and one day he got a phone call from an executive at Pinehurst Resort suggesting that some unused land along the entry road to Pinehurst No. 8 north of the village might be an idea for Golf Pride.

The 36,000-square-foot facility combines traditional Pinehurst brick and wood architecture with a modern open-office interior, with plenty of natural light and graphics displays that tell the company’s history. There are offices in one wing and a manufacturing operation in another, where ideas for new grips can be turned into workable prototypes within days. Most significantly to the public, there is a “retail lab” where golfers can bring their clubs and get fitted for new grips and watch as they’re installed.

The company sought to make the process as easy and expedient as going to the barbershop and getting a haircut.

“We’re here to innovate and create new grips,” Ledford says. “We built this facility as a bit of a statement of purpose for Golf Pride in the future. We’re 77 years old this year. But it’s really easy for a brand that’s 77 years old, that’s been number one for a long time, to just kind of focus on the past and lose its way. And this place is really built on what our future is. I’ve been pleased how it has rejuvenated Golf Pride and given us a whole new boost of energy.”

Much of that energy has revolved around Ledford and his team energetically proselytizing on the marriage of hands and clubs, and expanding its product line with cutting-edge ideas. Its Align Technology uses ridges on the underside of the grip to help lock your hand placement for consistency. The MCC Grip is a hybrid that fuses moisture-wicking brushed cotton cord in the upper hand area for all-weather traction with high-performance rubber in the lower area for feel and responsiveness.

“We just wanted it to be the single best place in the world to get your clubs regripped,” Ledford says. “Grips matter. The industry is built around clubheads and shafts and balls. But the grip is our only physical connection to all this other gear. It’s the most overlooked and unappreciated equipment category in golf. Golfers are making choices about what grips they want, much like running shoes for your feet.”

The putter comes in at the finish line.

Rolling a golf ball 8 feet on slippery grass with a slight break down a slope is the most sensitive action in the game. It’s where the marriage of hands and club is most important.

“Putting is 100 percent feel,” says Bruce Miller, Golf Pride’s putter grip product manager. “The putter grip is your only connection. Putting is like a surgeon with a scalpel. It’s all about slow, smooth, deliberate motions and pace of stroke. The grip shape, size and taper absolutely have an effect.”

The Reverse Taper grip is the company’s best answer so far. The grip is thicker on the bottom, the concept being that the thicker lower area prevents the bottom hand from squeezing too tightly and leading to a wrist breakdown at impact. That taper configuration is opposite from a popular putter grip that is thicker at the top, thinner below.

The research generated by Miller and his team showed that a high percentage of players isolated the issue to the lower hand, the one farthest from the shoulders. Feedback from golfers tested and quizzed was that the lower hand invited the most “flipping” or “yippyness,” and it was the lower hand that would misbehave and decelerate or “give it the gas” through impact.

“We tried to zero in on the hands and think about the role that each of your hands plays in a good putting stroke,” Ledford says. “That led us to this counterintuitive place of making the bottom of the grip bigger, reversing the taper. Initially, we were a bit concerned about flipping convention on its head, but the user testing was so strong, we had to go with it, and it has been steadily building a following.”

“By providing the player with more ‘meat on the bone’ in the lower part of the putter grip, it assisted them in evening out their hand pressure and avoiding the lower hand jumpiness,” Miller adds.

You have to wonder what old Sam Snead would have made out of the Reverse Taper Grip. His putting woes were so gnarly he took to hitting a putt like you would a croquet ball — straddling the line of the putt (which led the USGA to outlawing that down-the-line stance in 1968).

“I’ve gotten rid of the yips four times, but they hang in there,” Snead said. “You know those 2-foot downhill putts with a break? I’d rather see a rattlesnake.” PS

Lee Pace has written about golf in the Sandhills for more than three decades from his home in Chapel Hill. Write him at leepace7@gmail.com and follow him @LeePaceTweet.