Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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The Sacred Month

A time to go inside

By Jim Dodson

Long ago, I decided that November is the most sacred month.

To my way of thinking, on so many levels, no other holds as much mystery, beauty and spiritual meaning as the 11th month of the calendar.

The landscape gardener in me is always relieved when the weather turns sharply cooler and there’s an end to the constant fever of pruning and weeding, plus fretting over plants struggling from the heat and drought of a summer that seems to grow more punishing each year.

Once the leaves are gathered up, and everything is cut back and mulched for the winter, not only does my planning “mind” kick in with what’s to be done for next year, but the beautifully bare contours of the earth around me become a living symbol — and annual reminder — of life’s bittersweet circularity and the relative brevity of our journey through it.

The hilly old neighborhood where we reside is called Starmount Forest for good reason, owing to the mammoth oaks and sprawling maples that kindly shelter us with shade in summer and stand like druid guardians throughout the year, season after season. Beginning this month, the skies become clearer and the nighttime stars glimmer like diamonds on black velvet through their bare and mighty arms, hence the neighborhood’s name: a “mount” where the “stars” shine at night.

Of course, there is risk living among such monarchs of the forest. Every now and then, one of these elderly giants drops a large limb or, worse, topples over, proving their own mortality, sometimes taking out part of a house or a garage, or just blocking the street until work crews arrive with chainsaws. As far as I know, no one has ever been seriously injured or killed by our neighborhood trees, though the growing intensity of summer storms seems to elevate the danger. Lately, some neighborhood newcomers, prefiguring catastrophe, have taken to cutting down their largest oaks as an extra measure of security in a world where, as actuaries and sages agree, there really is no guaranteed thing. In the meantime, the rest of us have made something of a Faustian bargain with these soulful giants for the privilege of living among them. We care for them and (sometimes) they don’t fall on us.

Speaking of “soul,” no month spiritually embodies it better than November.

All Souls’ Day, also called The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, comes on the second day of the eleventh month, a day of prayer and remembrance for the faithful departed observed by Christians for centuries. The day before All Souls’ is All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day or the Feast of All Saints, a celebration in honor of all the saints of the church, whether they are known or unknown.

Every four years, the first Tuesday that follows the first Monday of November is our national Election Day, a day considered sacred by citizens who believe in the right to vote their conscience and tend the garden of democracy.

Congress established this curious weekday of voting in 1845 on the theory that, since a majority of Americans were (at that moment) farmers or residents of rural communities, their harvests would generally have been completed, with severe winter weather yet to arrive that could impede travel. Tuesday was also chosen so that voters could attend church on Sunday and have a full day to travel to and from their polling place on Monday, arriving home on Wednesday, just in time for traditional market day across America.

Like daylight saving time (which, by the way, ends Sunday, Nov. 3) some critics believe “Tuesday voting” is a relic of a bygone time, requiring modern voters to balance a busy workday with the sacred obligation of voting. For what it’s worth, I tend to fall into the camp that advocates a newly established voting “holiday weekend” that would begin with the first Friday that follows the first Thursday of November, allowing three full days to exercise one’s civic obligation, throw a nice neighborhood cookout and mow the lawn for the last time.

While we’re in the spirit of reforming the calendar, would someone please ditch daylight saving time, a genuine relic of the past that totally wrecks the human body’s natural circadian rhythms? Farmers had it right: Rise with the sun and go to bed when it sets.

Next up in November’s parade of sacred moments is Veterans Day, which arrives on the 11th, a historic federal holiday that honors military veterans of the U.S. Armed Forces, established in the aftermath of World War I with the signing of the Armistice with Germany that went into effect at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. In 1954, Armistice Day was renamed Veterans Day at the urging of major U.S. military organizations. 

November’s gentler sunlight — at least here in the Northern Hemisphere — feels like a benediction falling across the leafless landscape, quite fitting for a month where we go “inside” literally and figuratively to celebrate the bounty of living on Earth. In the Celtic mind, late autumn is the time of the “inner harvest,” when gratitude and memory yield their own kind of fertility.

“Correspondingly, when it is autumn in your life, the things that happened in the past, the experiences that were sown in the clay of your heart, almost unknown to you, now yield their fruit,” writes the late Irish poet John O’Donohue.

First shared by Squanto and the pilgrims in 1621, Thanksgiving was decreed  “a day of public Thanksgiving and Prayer” on November  26, 1789, by George Washington. Then it was proclaimed a national holiday on the last Thursday of November by Abe Lincoln. Finally, during the Great Depression in 1939, it was moved to the third Thursday of the month by Franklin Roosevelt to extend Christmas shopping days. But for most folks, the observance of Thanksgiving embodies, I suspect, many of the things we hold sacred in life:

The gathering of families, memories of loved ones, lots of laughter, good food and friendly debates over football and politics.

I give extra thanks for Thanksgiving every year, especially the day after when some who hold bargain-hunting on “Black Friday” a sacred ritual thankfully disappear and I am free to enjoy my favorite “loaded” turkey sandwich and take a nice long afternoon nap by the fire to celebrate my favorite holiday.

Preserving a Historic Graveyard

PRESERVING A HISTORIC GRAVEYARD

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Preserving a Historic Graveyard

Woodlawn Cemetery is hallowed ground in West Southern Pines

By Elizabeth Norfleet Sugg   •   Photographs by Laura Gingerich

In a quiet acreage filled with arching, magnificent pines rest the memorials to a multitude of lives well spent. Woodlawn Cemetery, a historically African American burial ground, is on the corner of West New York Avenue and South Pine Street in West Southern Pines, surrounded by neighborhood streets carved out by families who came to this budding town to seize opportunity and put down deep roots.

A year after Southern Pines incorporated in 1887, the Seaboard Air Line Railroad began its route through the town, a desirable East Coast midpoint. With nearby Pinehurst opening its resort in 1895, the two municipalities were in the early stages of developing a tourist economy as fair-weather resorts, in the process generating a range of service jobs that lured workers to the area. Fort Bragg, now Fort Liberty, opened in 1918, and a continued migration to West Southern Pines came from men and women who served in the military. They met others in this close-knit community and began second careers becoming teachers, principals, nurses, opening an auto repair shop, corner stores, and ministering at a growing cluster of churches — living lives that would inspire generations to come. It’s both striking and humbling to learn that over 170 veterans from conflicts as far apart as World War I and the Persian Gulf War are buried at Woodlawn.

“Woodlawn Cemetery is a home to so many who gave to this nation, and their descendants continue to give,” says retired Col. Morris Goins, whose family has deep roots in West Southern Pines beginning  with his grandparents, Theadore Roosevelt and Marie Goins. His father, Thomas Theadore Goins, and four uncles served in the U.S. Army in World War II, the Korean War and the Vietnam War, collectively. Two of his uncles, Master Sgt. Henry Lewis Wooten Jr. (1925-1963) and Command Sgt. Maj. Fredrick Robinson (1933-2009), received the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.

Goins’ uncle Cecil Roosevelt Goins (1926-2000) served in World War II when the Army was still segregated and became one of the few African American officers in the 1st Infantry Division during the Korean War. Later, in the U.S. Marshals Service, Cecil Goins went to Selma, Alabama, following the violence of Bloody Sunday. Another historic assignment took him to Houston, where he protected Muhammad Ali during his trial for refusing to be drafted in 1967 during the Vietnam War. Another uncle, retired Maj. Allen Thurman Goins (1935-1997), was a Cobra helicopter pilot in Vietnam. On a flying mission making a “gun run” into a small village, his helicopter — call sign Panther 6 — was hit by ground fire. A bullet burrowed between Goins’ cheek and flight helmet, another between his temple and helmet. He woke up in a hospital. The injuries caused periodic seizures, ending his flying career. Decades later Morris Goins was walking in Washington, D.C., dressed in his uniform, when an older gentleman stopped him, read the name on his chest and asked if there were any aviators in his family. Given away by a strong family resemblance, Goins confirmed that the person the gentleman served with was his Uncle Allen.

In 1923 West Southern Pines became one of the first incorporated Black townships in North Carolina, and even after it was annexed by the municipality of Southern Pines in 1931, the community maintained its significant rooted heritage. Woodlawn Cemetery began on land that belonged to the Buchan family, about 6 -7 acres that backed up to the Rosenwald School built by the West Southern Pines township in 1925. As the neighborhood grew, the heart of the community was its school and the tree-lined burial ground that abutted it.

Retired Lt. Col. Vincent Gordan, one of four sons of a school principal and an elementary school teacher, grew up in a Sears and Roebuck house around the corner from West Southern Pines High School. Gordan was working as a senior trainer at the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. After American Airlines Flight 77 struck the Pentagon’s west side, Gordan immediately began knocking on doors to help evacuate the building. The next day cots were brought in for Gordan and his colleagues to begin orchestrating the multi-level U.S. response to the attack by al-Qaida. Gordan’s final career move was as a division chief for the U.S. Census Bureau managing a $200 million budget. The experience proved invaluable when the late Rev. Fred Walden asked him to take over a nonprofit to help reinvigorate the West Southern Pines community — the Southern Pines Land & Housing Trust.

Walden was a beloved figure in Southern Pines, a veteran himself having served as an Army chaplain assistant. When he moved his young family back to Moore County in 1973 he continued a legacy begun by his great-grandparents, followed by his grandparents, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and their children. Taking over from his uncle, A.C. Walden, he ran the West Side Garage for 45 years, balancing faith ministries, serving on the Southern Pines Town Council, membership at the Rufus McLaughlin American Legion Post No. 177, and becoming a founding member of the Rotary Club of the Sandhills. Walden established the nonprofit Southern Pines Land & Housing Trust (SPLHT) to help protect property for the African American community and others in Southern Pines, and to aid people in keeping their land to foster the creation of generational wealth so vital to sustained financial well-being. In 2018, Walden called Gordan to come home and help reinvigorate the organization and its mission. His words were, “Vince, I need you.”

“My original reason (for taking the position as board chair) was because Fred saw his community going down,” says Gordan. “When I came home from the military West Southern Pines was a totally different atmosphere and environment than the one I left. There were changes that needed to be made, and I now, too, wanted to make them.”

The organization is headquartered in the former schoolhouse that in the 1940s became the segregated West Southern Pines High School and that in the 1960s evolved into the desegregated Southern Pines Elementary School. The Land & Housing Trust campus includes a playground named for an adored school principal, Blanchie Carter Discovery Park, the school gymnasium and auditorium — both of which can be rented out through the West Southern Pines Center, an entity under the umbrella of the SPLHT. In recent years Woodlawn Cemetery has also been overseen by the SPLHT with the Buchan family formally deeding the land to the Trust. The cemetery’s point person is yet another veteran, retired Staff Sgt. Bill Ross, who was a special populations coordinator with the Moore County Schools until his retirement there.

“Woodlawn was the only place to bury African Americans up to the 1970s,” says Ross, who like Gordan grew up in West Southern Pines, walking to school in the family-oriented neighborhood. Ross’ maternal grandparents were Claude and Essie Strickland, who moved from the Dunn area to West Southern Pines in the late 1800s. Claude Strickland opened a popular corner grocery and also worked for Hayes Book Shop delivering newspapers. What spurs Ross’ volunteer service is a desire to bring back “the camaraderie that I grew up with, that family connection, our community.” Once a star basketball player in the nearby gym, Ross watches over his family members buried in Woodlawn, his father Lucius Ross, a WWII veteran, mother Edith and, tragically, his daughter Barbra, who died in 1998.

Bringing much needed structure to the care and landscape of Woodlawn Cemetery has been a goal of the SPLHT board. In 2023 Gordan and Ross reached out to the Southern Pines Garden Club for its assistance updating the landscaping at both the front and side entrance gates. With funds raised from their annual Home & Garden Tour, the Southern Pines Garden Club also committed to building the recently completed brick memorial wall where brass nameplates will honor the veterans buried there. Patrick Kujawski of RK Masonry donated the labor.

Morris Goins and his wife, Yolanda, a mathematics professor pursuing a Ph.D. in higher education and the daughter of retired U.S. Army veterans Leon and Pearline Pempleston of Petersburg, Virginia, also plan to contribute to the restoration of Woodlawn. Plans in the works include irrigation installation, sodding the entire cemetery, employing ground-penetrating radar to locate old graves without markers, installing markers where there are none or where they’ve been lost, and creating a fund where the SPLHT can regularly contract with a landscaper for weekly maintenance.

For decades the maintenance was done by family members and volunteers like longtime friends Peggie Caple and Joyce Jackson, who joined the West Southern Pines Garden Club Cemetery Committee. Annual Memorial Day celebrations were held through 2019 to help raise money for landscaping and to pay Woodlawn’s longstanding caretaker Halbert Kearns. The group planned Woodlawn Cemetery Days with special speakers in addition to music events at area churches called “Woodlawn Day in Song.” The effort was aided by twice-a-year cleanup days conducted by the Pinecrest Air Force Junior ROTC. The cemetery committee was dedicated to the cause, even outlasting the garden club itself. Originally from Virginia, Jackson was the clerk in the Southern Pines Water Department during the week and worked evenings and weekends in the Carolina Dining Room at the Pinehurst Resort. Caple is a West Southern Pines native who has never lived more than a few blocks away from her childhood school and Woodlawn Cemetery. A longtime director of financial aid at Sandhills Community College, she finished her career there as the disabilities and placement testing coordinator.

“In our area Woodlawn is the resting place of African American descent,” says Caple.

The renewed spirit to preserve West Southern Pines is special to Matthew Walden, Fred Walden’s son, who is also a minister. Under the leadership of executive director Sandra L. Dales, he serves on the SPLHT board, which is securing funding to convert the former school and its campus into a multipurpose community and business center with an incubator kitchen and workspace for area entrepreneurs. Nora Bowman is chief operating officer of the West Southern Pines Center and handles the renting of the gymnasium and auditorium as well as the development of local events. Bob Smith is the curator of the future museum at the SPLHT dedicated to preserving the history of the area’s remarkable citizenry. Walden’s involvement with the organization his father began is born of the same desire to bring back the family-oriented community that he believes has been so vital to grounding his life. On walks through Woodlawn, he’s with family.

“When I see their names, memories come alive,” he says.

To learn more about the SPLHT or to contribute financially or as a volunteer, visit splandandhousingtrust.org.

Cabin Chic

CABIN CHIC

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Cabin Chic

Destination down a dirt road

By Deborah Salomon   •   Photographs by John Gessner

Interesting people pull together interesting houses, sometimes for themselves, other times as business ventures.

“Interesting” barely describes Graham Settle, who grew up in a Sanford family of veterinarians; whose educational background stretches from East Carolina University to Harvard; whose careers extend from Wall Street to international diplomacy; and whose passport entries – including Afghanistan during tense times — would make Marco Polo envious.

“After 18 years living abroad with diplomatic credentials, my wife and I decided on a career as a free agent for global missions,” Settle says. “We had narrowed possible places (for home base) down to three: Singapore, Tirana (Albania) and Pinehurst.”

But when humans plan, fate may have other ideas. Shortly before making the move, Settle’s wife died of a brain aneurysm, leaving him alone with two young children.

In February 2014 he left Kazakhstan with the children, a kitten and six duffle bags to bring his wife’s remains back to the United States. Although not on the original list, they moved into a condo in Raleigh. Before long, Settle decided to home-school the children by traveling the world for a year.

Fast forward . . . they’re college age now, and Dad, shadowed by his German shepherd named Oscar, isn’t a pipe-and-slippers guy. He needed a project, somewhere to reclaim his roots. No surprise, then, that his real estate portfolio opens with the nation’s largest, if defunct, truffle farm.

In Carthage. Who knew?

Truffles, ultra-gourmet ,uber-ugly tubers (not mushrooms or rich chocolate bonbons), grow underground, requiring trained pigs or dogs to sniff them out. Prices start in the neighborhood of $200 per ounce and, depending on the variety, can run into the thousands.

But why would this adventurous world traveler want to farm truffles, no matter how exotic?

He doesn’t, really.

The wild and wooly 250 acres of Spring Hills Farms he purchased in 2020, in addition to the bankrupt truffle farm, suited another plan: a venue for weddings, business retreats, family holidays and other gatherings supervised by Mother Nature. Settle allowed air conditioning and cell access but, sorry, no Wi-Fi, no TV. Instead, on chilly nights, logs radiate heat from the east iron woodstove.

To protect the wildlife (whom he feeds) from coyotes Settle fenced the acreage, an act he compares to framing a work of art. This frame measures more than 3 miles. He paid five figures to bury wires visible from the cabin, which faces Morses Lake, and is accessed by a narrow, bumpy dirt road.

Settle describes the cabin, built in 1971, as “the middle of nowhere, the center of everything.” Quite the approbation, coming from a man who has been on the edge of everywhere and done an awful lot. But the cabin, formerly used to prep veggies to feed the truffle hogs, needed work. It had to remain “rustic,” a la Country Living, but luxurious enough to draw the Range Rover crowd.

Practical, too. Even fun.

The interior is an open two-story space with 15 windows and a sleeping loft. The kitchen corner (gas stove, dishwasher, jumbo fridge, copper-glass backsplash) has an interesting 6-foot-square table on wheels and original cabinets, all suitable for caterers. The loft accommodates two double beds arranged on a cashmere rug, from Mongolia, no less. Beneath the loft, a mattress fits a cedar swing, suspended by ropes, creating another sleeping space. Pine plank walls are painted charcoal navy, while the reddish ceiling fans evoke a tiki bar. A round leather rust-colored ottoman/storage unit houses a feather-down topper quilt brought back from Pakistan.

A Tiffany floor lamp passes for authentic, though Settle says everything is either a knock-off or secondhand, including a magnificent 9-foot tufted leather sofa where Oscar, Settle’s constant companion, is allowed to nap. The effect is masculine casual, a whiff exotic, except for the flowered curtains — chosen by Settle’s three sisters — of the Laura Ashley persuasion. For the kicker Settle opens an interior door with a flourish. “Hemingway cabin; Martha Stewart loo,” he says with a grin. The toilet-bidet combo sports a heated, lighted seat.

Spring Hills Farms has hosted one small wedding ceremony by the lake, with guests seated on benches made from split tree trunks and the reception under a tent.

There’s no denying the calm, the peace, of being surrounded by nature, its vistas, sounds and aromas. Settle has a place in Seven Lakes, also the Raleigh condo, but his heart remains in rural Moore County.

Destination weddings are all the rage. Safari, anyone? Spring Hills Farms is reaching out to city slickers weary of hotel extravaganzas, riverboat cruises and Caribbean beaches. Oscar and those thousand-dollar truffles are waiting just down Union Church Road.

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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It Still Stings

Stuffed and trimmed on Thanksgiving

By Bill Fields

Inundated as we are with sports on television these days, it’s easy to forget that wasn’t always the case. Prior to cable television, college football teams weren’t playing on multiple nights of the week. Until Monday Night Football debuted in 1970, NFL games were, with rare exceptions, only on Sunday.

Thanksgiving was a longtime exception. Turkey Day college games were popular in the 19th century and have been a staple of the National Football League since its founding in 1920. When I was a sports-loving kid in the 1960s and ’70s, having a holiday football game to watch on TV was almost as big a treat as getting to eat my mother’s once-a-year dressing that went with the bird.

Fifty years ago, though, the pleasure of a big game on the tube gave way to the pain of its outcome. Thinking about the events of that Thanksgiving still gives me indigestion.

By 1974 I had been a Washington Redskins (now Commanders) fan — there were a lot of us in North Carolina back then — for about a decade, a period marked mostly by frustration. My football hero, quarterback Sonny Jurgensen, was great, and so was his favorite receiving target, Charley Taylor. But the team from old D.C. always seemed to be missing some puzzle pieces. Things seemed poised for change when Vince Lombardi became coach in 1969, but the former Green Bay mastermind died just a year later. It would be up to George Allen, who came east from the Los Angeles Rams in 1971, to build on Lombardi’s positive impact. The Redskins made it all the way to Super Bowl VII after the 1972 season, losing to the undefeated Miami Dolphins.

Through wins and losses, the common thread for Washington players and supporters was disdain for the Dallas Cowboys, our opponent on Thanksgiving Day 1974. The Cowboys had been NFC East champions for five straight years until Washington dethroned them in 1972 on the way to the Super Bowl. Dallas was back on top in 1973.

Prior to the Washington-Dallas Thanksgiving tilt at Texas Stadium, which came 12 days after the Redskins beat the Cowboys 28-21 in D.C., Redskins defensive end Bill Brundige summed up the rivalry this way: “They hate our guts, and we hate theirs.”

One of Brundige’s comrades on the defensive line, Diron Talbert, was particularly salty in talking about the Cowboys’ star quarterback, Roger Staubach. “If you knock him out,” Talbert said, “you’ve got that rookie facing you. That’s one of our goals. If we do that, it’s great. He’s all they have.”

“That rookie” was strong-armed Clint Longley from Abilene Christian University, who hadn’t taken a snap all season but was thrust into action after Staubach was knocked out (literally) early in the third quarter and Washington was ahead 16-3. With such a lead and a seeming liability behind center for Dallas, the visitors were in an enviable spot. “Get in,” Cowboys coach Tom Landry told the 22-year-old after he found his helmet. “Good luck.” But as Staubach sat dazed on the bench, Longley was dazzling on the artificial turf.

Longley led one scoring drive, then another. Still, Washington led 23-17 with time running out. It looked like the dreaded Cowboys were going down despite the admirable efforts of the backup QB, and my Thanksgiving night turkey sandwich was going to be a celebratory meal.

Then, with only 28 seconds left, given lots of time in the pocket, Longley threw a 50-yard strike to wide receiver Drew Pearson, who had streaked past defensive backs Ken Stone and Mike Bass to get wide open to catch Longley’s perfect pass and glide into the end zone. Efren Herrera’s extra point made it Dallas 24, Washington 23.

As Washington frantically tried to move into position to give Mark Moseley a field goal attempt, quarterback Billy Kilmer was hit by Jethro Pugh and fumbled. That Jurgensen, in his final season, wasn’t in the game to have a chance for his golden arm to pull off a miracle made it even worse for a devotee of Number 9 in burgundy and gold.

“I don’t know what to say,” Allen said. “It was probably the toughest loss we ever had.”

A half century later, you’ll get no argument from this fan.

PinePitch

PINEPITCH

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PinePitch

Sound and Swagger

The high octane swing band Good Shot Judy pumps up the jazz on Friday, Nov. 14, at 7 p.m., at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. A Good Shot Judy show offers all those tunes you can hum along to, if you don’t know most of the words. But the music itself is only part of the allure. Tickets are $27. For information call (910) 692-3611 or go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

Hail the Sugar Plum Fairy

Gary Taylor Dance presents that family holiday tradition like no other, Tchaikovsky’s timeless ballet The Nutcracker, at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, at 7:30 p.m. on Friday, Nov. 29. Join Clara on her magical journey to escape the Battle of the Toy Rats and Soldiers and travel through the Land of Snow to the Land of the Sweets. There will be additional matinee performances on Nov. 30 and Dec. 1 at 2 p.m. For information go to
www.ticketmesandhills.com.  

Wave a Flag. Thank a Veteran.

The annual Veterans Day Parade up and down Broad Street in downtown Southern Pines begins at 10 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 9. It may not be exactly the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month — it’s not 1918 either — but the meaning remains exactly the same. For additional information visit www.southernpines.net.

BYO Pepcid

Come for the chili. Stay for the heartburn. The annual SoPines Chili Cook-Off supporting the Special Forces Association Chapter 62 and sponsored by O’Donnell’s Pub, 133 E. New Hampshire Ave., closes down a city block in front of the pub on Sunday, Nov. 10, from noon to 3 p.m. A pinch of this, a dash of that, and pretty soon you got a three-alarm fire in your mouth.

Et Tu, Puccini?

Torture, murder and suicide during the Napoleonic Wars with some of Giacomo Puccini’s best-known arias. What’s not to love? Tosca, Puccini’s opera in three acts, comes to the screen at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, on Saturday, Nov. 23, beginning at 1 p.m., courtesy of the New York Metropolitan Opera. For additional info call (910) 692-3611 or go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

The Guitar Man

World-renowned guitarist Lukasz Kuropaczewski will appear in the Bradshaw Performing Art Center’s McPherson Theater, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, from 7 to 8 p.m. on Thursday, Nov. 7. Kuropaczewski, who started playing the guitar at the age of 10, has toured in Europe, the United States, Canada, South America and Japan, giving solo recitals in London’s Royal Festival Hall, the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, Warsaw’s National Philharmonic Hall, Tchaikovsky Hall in Moscow, the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival, and New York’s Carnegie Hall. He was a member of the faculty at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia from 2008-2010, and is currently on the faculty of the Academy of Music in Poznan, Poland, and the Kunst University Graz, Austria. For tickets and information visit www.ticketmesandhills.com.

A Little Ludwig

One of the most distinctive artists of his generation, Sir Stephen Hough, will join the North Carolina Symphony, led by music director Carlos Miguel Prieto, in a performance of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3 on Thursday, Nov. 14, beginning at 7:30 p.m., at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. A true polymath, Hough was the first classical performer to be awarded a MacArthur Fellowship. Additional selections include Gibson’s warp and weft and Brahms Symphony No. 1. For further information visit www.ncsymphony.org

Meet and Greet

The opening reception for a unique exhibition presented by the Arts Council of Moore County, “Healing Through the Arts,” will be held from 6 to 8 p.m. on Nov. 1 at the Campbell House Gallery, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. The show features the life experiences of military veterans and spouses, and encompasses painting, photography, printmaking, jewelry, pastels, poetry and music. The artists represented include Ashleigh and Carlin Corsino; Richard Davenport; Corrie Dodds; Enrique Herrera; Kenny Lewis; Jason and Michelle Howk; Linda Nunez; Franklin Oldham; Amy Parks; Roger Price; Douglas and Maria Rowe; and Rollie Sampson. The show runs through Dec. 18. For information call (910) 692-4356

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

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Leroy’s Send-off

Farewell to the last of the Slims

By Tom Bryant

It was about bedtime when my phone rang. “Honey, your phone’s ringing.”

“Let it ring, it’s bedtime.”

I heard Linda as she answered it anyway. “Yeah, he’s right here. I’ll get him.”

I grimaced as she handed the phone to me. “Hello.”

“Cooter!” Bubba had bestowed the nickname early in our friendship and has continued using it to this day. “It’s too early to hit the hay. Boy, what’s wrong with you. Getting old?”

“About the same age as you,” I replied. “Maybe a little smarter when it’s time for bed. What’s up?”

“You coming up for Leroy’s doings on Friday?”

“That’s my plan. The funeral is at 3, right?”

“Yep, and here’s the scoop. Some of us are gonna meet at the old store and Ritter’s gonna cook up some venison steaks. Then we’ll have sort of a wake for Leroy, then head up to the family graveyard right before 3, honor Leroy, and then back to the store to finish all the remembrances and finally shut down. Why don’t you plan on spending the night at my place and then in the morning after breakfast you can head home?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I replied. “I’ll see you Friday.”

I hung up the phone and explained to Linda what Bubba had cooking. She said, “I thought the old store was closed.”

“It is, but Bubba is opening it for this occasion.”

Later, as I was trying to go to sleep, I remembered all the history of Slim’s country store. Actually, Slim’s grandfather opened the store around the turn of the century. It ran successfully for many years, then fell into disrepair after the old man died. Slim made his fortune out West in the real estate business, then returned home, retired, restored and opened the old store, and ran the place, as he said, “so all my reprobate friends would have a place to go.”

Leroy, Slim’s only heir, inherited the store after Slim went to that always-stocked filling station in the sky, and promptly sold it to Bubba, who kept it open with Leroy running it until the economy tightened and they decided to close. Leroy wanted to retire and do more fishing, and Bubba said it was one more thing he didn’t have to worry about.

Leroy passed away after a short illness, and the graveside service was to be at the family graveyard about a mile from the old country store. Thus the reason Bubba had put together the event, as he put it, to celebrate the history of Slim’s grandfather (also named Slim), Leroy and the legacy of the now obsolete, retired country store.

Friday rolled around fast, and I decided to drive the Cruiser up the road to see Bubba and friends and pay my respects to the last of the Slims. Wiregrass had grown up in the gravel lot where folks used to park while shopping, or just holding forth. Several pickups were in the front, and I saw Bubba’s Land Rover nosed in on the side. Chairs had been moved from the inside to the wraparound porch.

Ritter’s portable cooker was near where the old horseshoe pit used to be and was smoking with smells good enough to make my mouth water. I walked up on the porch side-stepping some decaying boards. H.B. Johnson was leaning against a support column with an ever-present half-chewed cigar in his mouth.

“H.B.,” I asked. “Where’s Bubba?”

“Inside behind the counter. He’s putting the finishing touch on the words he has to say about Leroy.”

“That’s right,” I responded. “He’s the preacher today.”

I walked on inside, and after Bubba and I had insulted each other sufficiently, we laughed and settled down to the doings of the day.

“You ready to say grace over Leroy?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, that is after I have another couple glasses of Ritter’s apple brandy. Come on, let’s see if the chow is ready.”

It was, and it was outstanding. Ritter had made his famous smoked briskets along with barbecue pork shoulders and all the fixin’s. In no time we had finished the preliminary part of Leroy’s funeral, kind of a pre-wake, and prepared to move on to the family plot to finish with the early ceremony.

Bubba did a fantastic job with his good words about Leroy, and I noticed many eyes watering and lots of sniffling going on.

Later that evening, after we again gathered at the store and celebrated Leroy’s life, more of the folks started drifting off, other things to do. Bubba and I were left on the porch by ourselves. All the chairs were put back in the store with the exception of our two favorite rockers.

“You did a good job, Bubba.”

“It was harder than I thought it would be. We’re gonna miss old Leroy.”

“Yep,” I replied. “The last of Slim’s lineage.” The moon was rising over the tree line, and we could hear a barred owl calling back toward the graveyard.

“Must be looking for its mate,” Bubba said.

“Or maybe a mouse for dessert.”

We were quite deep in our own thoughts. Nothing emphasizes one’s mortality more than a funeral.

“So what’s gonna happen to the store now that Leroy’s gone?”

“Why, I’m thinking about giving it to you. Give you something to do.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got enough going on now.”

“Well, there is some good news. Johnson expressed an interest in buying it. He’s going bonkers since he sold the farm and doesn’t have anything to do.”

“It would be good for him. I’d love to see the old place reopen.”

“Well, you know what the Bible says,” Bubba replied. “One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh. So says Ecclesiastes, I think.”

Bubba’s Biblical knowledge always impressed. The moon was over the tree line now, and we heard the owl’s mate call right behind the store.

“How about Leroy’s marker stone? I asked. “And what’s gonna be on it?”

“I think, just dates, you know, birth and death. What’s gonna be on yours when its time?”

“I haven’t a clue. Never thought about it.”

“Look at you, Cooter. Hunted and fished and camped all over the country from the Everglades in Florida to the mountains of Alaska and you don’t have a clue. I’ve got a good one for you, though, that will cover all the bases. ‘I married the perfect lady.’”

“Good,” I replied. “It would work for you, too.”

The good friends sat slowly rocking, watching the moon continue to rise slowly through grey-white clouds, and thinking of their futures that stretched away like an unmarked trail.

“The heck with this. Let’s go home,” Bubba said. “How about some fishing in the morning? I noticed bream rising to the hatch in the pond in front of the house before I left this morning.”

“Sounds great. I’ll call Linda and tell her I’ll be late. Good old Bubba, always a plan.”

The moon was fully up now and the guys laughed at an old joke Bubba told, then loaded the trucks and headed home. It had been a good day.

Passages

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Day of the Dead

Party like it’s forever

By Tom Allen

Several months ago, while perusing the aisles of Home Goods, I noticed a discreet display of party items for el Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, observed annually on Nov. 2. If Hobby Lobby can haul out the holly in July, why not Day of the Dead decor at the end of August? Funky, multicolored skulls, brightly colored tissue paper banners, marigold-embossed plates, napkins and cups, and scented candles made up the display. Small because, with the exception of Latino friends, most folks in the Sandhills have little to no idea what the day is about, much less the importance of the celebration in other cultures.

El Dia de los Muertos coincides with, and finds its roots in, the Christian observance of All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day, the days following Halloween or All Hallows’ Eve. My only experience growing up, and into adulthood, was with the latter. The candy and costumes of childhood morphed into teenage mischief and pranks, which got me grounded on two occasions — once for shooting off bottle rockets in a cemetery, where family members were buried. 

The Day of the Dead, like Christmas and Easter, has ancient European pagan origins, with some traditions eventually Christianized and (reluctantly) allowed by the Roman Catholic Church. Spanish conquistadors brought the faith and corresponding traditions to the New World. Short life spans, made even shorter by bubonic plague, perhaps instilled a desire to find some glimpse of hope and joy after such a dark and deadly season.

Those of Mexican ancestry brought Day of the Dead celebrations to the United States. Observances grew over the years, with homes, graves and even some churches displaying “altars” adorned with pictures of deceased loved ones, colorful banners, crosses, candles, decorative skulls and chrysanthemums (the aroma is supposed to help the deceased spirits find their way back to Earth, if only for a day). Bread, or pan de muerto, along with the departed’s favorite foods, are also offered.

Growing up in the South, and in eastern North Carolina, I was taught cemeteries were hallowed ground. When you visited, you were quiet, reverent, trod gingerly. “Don’t step on that grave,” my mother chided. (How can you not step on a grave in a graveyard?) My dad was a member of a Ruritan club, the affiliate of a national, rural civic club. Ruritans made sure our two community graveyards were mowed, at times even restoring aged, broken gravestones. Lovingly, they still do.

My mom brought flowers to decorate the graves of family members at Christmas and Easter, their plastic or silk petals eventually blistered by the sun or blown away by storms. But the point was to remember, to leave some visible symbol that someone who cared had been there, to simply honor the fact the deceased lived and loved and mattered. 

But I’m not sure Mom would have embraced el Dia de los Muertos. Those who observe the tradition, mostly friends of Latino ancestry, descend on family cemeteries to clean graves and scour headstones. Some remain to pray in silence, but many, after the cleanup, do anything but mourn and remain silent. They bring flowers, sing, dance, eat and drink (cue the mariachi music). They tell stories. They laugh. They acknowledge that death is a part of life, but affirm that heaven might be a little closer to Earth than others might realize, and that the deceased may come to visit, if only for a while.

After my parents died and their house was emptied and readied for the young couple who would purchase it, my wife, two daughters and I gathered one more time, in that empty house. We spread one of my mom’s crazy quilts and had a meal of hot dogs and fries from The Grill across from my folks’ house, a beloved community kitchen that my parents patronized frequently. We cried a little, laughed a lot, then shut the door, one final time, on that space and its memories. We stopped by the cemetery and visited their graves, recalling long lives and a deep love, especially for their two granddaughters. No surprise that when our girls married, they asked that their bouquets be left at their grandparents’ graves.

While Day of the Dead rituals may not be how many choose to remember the departed during the first days of November, I do wonder if the occasional celebration of lives past but absent, whenever and wherever it takes place, might cushion our sadness and buoy our spirits. I think my mother would scowl at shagging to beach music on her grave, but she loved a good glass of champagne. I don’t think she’d mind a toast to her good life. And my dad? A gardener, he would smile if someone enjoyed a homegrown tomato sandwich at his final resting place, especially a Purple Cherokee, from that last plant to squeeze out fruit before the first frost.

Who knows? Someday, you may find me sitting by their graves, noshing on an “all the way” hot dog, smiling over the memories, singing their favorite hymns. If you do, don’t think me daft. Come, sit down and join the party.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Thrush in the Brush

The subtle beauty of the hermit thrush

By Susan Campbell

As the temperature and leaves drop, many birds return to their wintering haunts here in the Piedmont of North Carolina. After spending the breeding season up north, seedeaters such as finches and sparrows reappear in gardens across the area. But we have several species that are easily overlooked due to their cryptic coloration and secretive behavior. One of these is the hermit thrush. As its name implies, it tends to be solitary most of the year and also tends to lurk in the undergrowth.

However, this thrush is one of subtle beauty. The males and females are identical. They’re about 6 inches in length with an olive-brown back and a reddish tail. The hermit has brown breast spots, a trait shared by all of the thrush species (including juvenile American robins and Eastern bluebirds, who are familiar members of this group). At close range, it may be possible to see this bird’s white throat, pale bill and pink legs. Extended observation will no doubt reveal the hermit thrush’s distinctive behavior of raising its tail and then slowly dropping it when it comes to a stop.

Since one is far more likely to hear an individual than to see one, recognizing the hermit thrush’s call is important. It gives a quiet “chuck” note frequently as it moves along the forest floor. These birds can be found not only along creeks, at places like Weymouth Woods and Haw River State Park, but along roadsides, the edges of golf courses and scrubby borders of farms throughout the region. It is not unusual for birders to count 40 or 50 individuals on local Audubon Christmas Bird Counts. However, they feed on fruits and insects so are not readily attracted to bird feeders. Over the years I’ve had a few that managed to find my peanut butter-suet feeder, competing with the nuthatches and woodpeckers for the sweet, protein-rich treat. This tends to be after the dogwoods, beautyberry, pyracantha and the like have been stripped of their berries.

During the summer months, hermit thrushes can be found at elevation in New England and up to the coniferous forests of eastern Canada. A few pairs can even be found near the top of Mount Mitchell here in North Carolina (given the elevation) during May and June. The males have a beautiful flute-like song that gives them away in spite of their camouflage. They nest either on the ground or low in pines or spruces, and mainly feed their young caterpillars and other slow-moving insects.

As with so many migrant species, these thrushes are as faithful to their wintering areas as their breeding spot. I have had several very familiar individuals over the years along James Creek around our Moore County banding site. Keep in mind that if a hermit thrush finds good habitat, he or she may return year after year. With a bit of thick cover, water not far off, and berries and bugs around, there is a good chance many of us will be hosting these handsome birds over the coming months — whether we know it or not.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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November Books

Fiction

Eurotrash, by Christian Kracht

The eponymous narrator “Christian” has arrived in Zurich to care for his 80-year-old mother after her discharge from a mental institution. Reckoning with his family’s dark history — his long-dead grandfather was intimately associated with and unapologetically supportive of the Nazis — and struggling to navigate the emotionally wrenching terrain of his relationship with his mother, Christian sets off on a road trip with her. As they traverse Switzerland in a hired cab, mother and son attempt to give away her vast fortune, which they’re carrying in a large plastic bag, to random strangers. By turns disturbing, disorienting, hilarious and poignant, Eurotrash tells an intensely personal and unsparingly critical story of contemporary culture.

Pony Confidential, by Christina Lynch

Pony has been passed from owner to owner for longer than he can remember. Fed up, he busts out and goes on a cross-country mission to reunite with Penny, the little girl he was separated from and hasn’t seen in years. Now an adult, Penny is living an ordinary life when she gets a knock on her door and finds herself in handcuffs, accused of murder and whisked back to the place she grew up. Her only comfort when the past comes back to haunt her is the memory of her precious, rebellious pony. Hearing of Penny’s fate, Pony knows that Penny is no murderer. So, as smart and devious as he is cute, Pony must use his hard-won knowledge of human weakness and cruelty to try to clear Penny’s name and find the real killer.

Nonfiction

Ghosts of Panama: A Strongman Out of Control, A Murdered Marine, and the Special Agents Caught in the Middle of an Invasion, by Mark Harmon

The once warm relationship between the United States and Gen. Manuel Noriega has eroded dangerously. Newly elected President George H.W. Bush has declared the strongman a drug trafficker and a rigger of elections. Intimidation on the streets is a daily reality for U.S. personnel and their families. The nation is a powder keg. Naval Investigative Service Special Agent Rick Yell has worked the job in Panama since 1986, and lives there with his wife, Annya, and infant child. Like most NIS agents, he’s a civilian with no military rank with a specialty in working criminal cases. The dynamic changes suddenly when Yell inadvertently develops an intelligence source with unparalleled access to the Noriega regime. The powder keg is lit on December 16, 1989, when a young U.S. Marine is gunned down at a checkpoint in Panama City. Yell and his cadre of trusted agents deploy immediately to investigate the killing, and what they determine will decide the fate of two nations. When President Bush hears the details they uncover, he orders an invasion that puts Yell’s family, informants and fellow agents directly in harm’s way. 

How Women Made Music: A Revolutionary History,
from NPR Music by National Public Radio, Inc.

NPR Music’s Turning the Tables launched in 2017 and revolutionized recognition of female artists. How Women Made Music: A Revolutionary History brings this impressive reshaping to the page in a must-have book for music fans, songwriters, feminist historians and those interested in how artists think and work. In it Joan Baez talks about nonviolence as a musical principle; Dolly Parton identifies her favorite song and explains the story behind it; Patti Smith describes art as her “jealous mistress”; Nina Simone reveals how she developed the edge in her voice as a tool against racism; and Taylor Swift talks about when she had no idea if her musical career might work. This incomparable hardcover volume is a vital record of history destined to become a classic.

Children's Books

Alfie Explores A to Z, by Jeff Drew

When Alfie’s pet dust bunny Betty disappears, his search for her leads him to Dee’s Diner, through Ice Cream Island, and more. I Spy meets Where’s Waldo with a poetic alphabetical twist in this gorgeous picture book. (Ages 3-7.)

Best in Show, by David Elliott

Perfectly positioned petite poems pronouncing praise for perfect pets, this collection of short poems of beloved dog breeds also includes factual history and details. A perfect pick for dog lovers of any age. (Ages 3-7.)

When We Gather: A Cherokee Tribal Feast,
by Andrea L. Rogers

In the fall we gather for Thanksgiving but in the Cherokee culture the communal feast happens in the spring with the emergence of the green onion shoots. Family, community and the harvest are all celebrated in this lovely read-together that gives a nod to respecting the Earth by leaving more than you take and sharing what you have to give. (Ages 4-8.)

Sylvia Doe and the 100-Year Flood, by Robert Beatty

Sylvia Doe doesn’t know where she was born or the people she came from. She doesn’t even know her real last name. When Hurricane Jessamine causes the remote mountain valley where she lives to flood, Sylvia must rescue her beloved horses. But she begins to encounter strange and wondrous things floating down the river. Glittering gemstones and wild animals that don’t belong — everything’s out of place. Then she spots an unconscious boy floating in the water. As she fights to rescue him — and their adventure together begins — Sylvia wonders who he is and where he came from. And why does she feel such a strong connection to this mysterious boy?

Known for his Serafina series, Beatty will be donating 100 percent of his earned royalties from Sylvia Doe and the 100-Year Flood — a story he’s been writing for several years — to the people impacted by the catastrophic floods caused by Hurricane Helene in Asheville, North Carolina, where he lives. The real-life 100-year flood struck at the same time the book was scheduled to launch. (Ages 8 -12.) 

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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A Grain-Free Thanksgiving

Paleo pies for the holidays

Photographs and Story by Rose Shewey

In need of a flaky, buttery pie crust that isn’t made with grains? I have you covered. Using simple pastry-making techniques, you can have a grain- and gluten-free pie crust that rivals traditional crusts in every way. While most no-wheat pie crusts come out looking rather pale, this crust will give you the warm, golden glow of a pie worthy of your Thanksgiving dessert spread. 

Paleo Pie Crust

(Adapted from Bojon Gourmet)

Makes 1 pie crust

5-6 tablespoons (80 milliliters) ice cold water

2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice, strained

1/2 cup (75 grams) cassava flour

1/2 cup (60 grams) blanched almond flour

1/4 cup (28 grams) arrowroot flour

2 1/2 tablespoons (15 grams) finely ground chia seed or flax seed

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt

8 tablespoons (115 grams) cold, unsalted butter (or plant butter), sliced 1/4-inch thick

Prepare the Dough

Stir together 5 tablespoons of ice water and lemon juice and set aside. Combine the cassava, almond and arrowroot flours with the ground chia seed and salt in the bowl of your food processor. Scatter the butter pieces over the top and start pulsing while gradually pouring in the ice water/lemon mixture until all the liquid is incorporated. Pinch the dough with your fingers — it should hold together easily, with lots of butter chunks the size of chickpeas. If the dough is dry, drizzle in more ice water by the teaspoon while pulsing the mixture until the dough is evenly moist but not sticky. Do not over-process the dough. Gather and flatten the dough, wrap and chill until firm, for about 30 minutes.

Fold the Dough

Roll out the dough on a piece of floured parchment into a large 1/4-inch thick rectangle. The dough will crack and tear the first time you are folding it but will hold its shape with repeated folding. Periodically dust the dough lightly with cassava flour. Flip the dough over by placing a second piece of parchment on top of the dough and carefully turning it over. Fold the dough in thirds like folding a letter, then fold in thirds the other way. Flatten the folded dough slightly, re-wrap, and chill until firm, 30 minutes. Repeat the rolling and folding process one more time. The dough will become smoother and pliable the second time around.

Shape the Crust

Roll out the dough into a 12-inch circle on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper, dusting the dough with cassava flour as needed, rotating and flipping it to prevent it from sticking. Carefully place the dough into a 9-inch pie plate, fit it into the corners, and trim it to a 1-inch overhang. Save the scraps to patch any tears in the dough once it is par-baked. Fold the overhang of the crust under and flute the crust if desired. Prick the bottom of the crust with a fork. Chill the crust until firm, at least 30 minutes.

Bake the Crust

Par-baking or “blind baking” is recommended (see instructions online) before adding in the filling but this step is optional. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Fill and bake your pie as directed in your recipe.