Southwords

Delightful Din

Gathering of the Clan

By Eileen Phelps

Cleaning bathrooms, changing beds and vacuuming the dust bunnies — not to mention the clusters of spiders that adopt our Southern home every spring — were my tasks. Expecting guests? Not exactly. The preparations were for the children’s arrival.

Well, that is not accurate either. No longer were our four rambunctious offspring merely children. Somewhere along the way they had morphed into four college-educated, successful, gainfully employed adults. (My husband frequently reminds me that they don’t live in our basement.) They had also multiplied from four to 11. That math is as old as the human race.

Their arrival coincided with the celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary. Since my husband and I had not provided all with an invitation to an around-the-world cruise to celebrate the occasion — their request — our children decided to create a family party for which they would be chief cooks, sharing the workload equally. Of course, all of this camaraderie would require the “four plus” to move back home for a week to ensure the festivities would be worthy of our 40 years of marital bliss. Oh, and did I mention the dog? Yes, he joined us, anticipating some extra morsels on the floor from the throng of munchers. That makes a party of 13 . . . plus the dog . . . for seven days . . . in the same house.

The first two offspring, living locally, arrived bag and baggage a night early to claim the best beds. Their spouses would arrive two days later, however, because of previous commitments. Most of us know this as a job.

Next was the long-distance son whose 12-hour drive meant a midnight arrival with three excited young ones who were wide awake and ready to play as if it were dawn. The dog accompanied them. Daughter number three sauntered in rather early the following morning. (Did we even go to bed?) Hubby works remotely and needed to be situated at the computer and logged on by business hours. Good luck with that.

The day of the feast arrived with each daughter and our sole daughter-in-law prepping their assigned part of the meal. The men decided to take the grandchildren to the park, assuming five adult males could handle three young children. Consensus among the men was that the outdoors was considerably safer than the kitchen.

My job was to bathe in the glow of my four favorite girls giddily executing the steps toward a fabulous meal. The sum total of my participation was pointing out the location of this spoon or that dish. They chopped, baked, mixed, frosted, wrapped, poured and measured the ingredients to a four-course meal while howling at their own mistakes and cheering on each other’s success.

By the time the men and their charges ambled in, dinner was served. Sitting at the table, all 13 of us, I was speechless. As with most parents, it had never occurred to either my husband or myself that our kids would ever grow up. It was not a quiet, romantic meal. Placid is not a word to describe our family. There is always a smidgen of sarcasm, in addition to at least one sibling finishing the sentence of another, all while multiple conversations float in the air simultaneously. Somehow everyone knows the gist of all the other conversations and jumps in accordingly. Quiet is not in our family vocabulary.

Days flew by with visits to the playground, eating, swimming at the lake, snacking, tripping over toys, eating more, fishing at the pond, running laundry, eating. You get the picture. Between chasing the little ones during the day, and trying to stay up at night with the adults playing dominoes, I was exhausted. But I never stopped smiling. You see, that is what family is all about — sharing special occasions, listening to each other’s successes, sympathizing with our losses, laughing together. Our four children, grown now but still kids to us, all get along. Sure they argue and squabble like all siblings, but despite the separate lives they live, our kids always end up together. Sometimes at our house.

Cleaning bathrooms, changing beds, vacuuming the dust bunnies . . . the cleanup is complete. It’s pretty calm here now. I smile at the memories. Peace and quiet is overrated.  PS

Eileen Phelps is a retired Pinehurst Elementary fifth grade teacher who loves reading, gardening, and spending time with her grandchildren.

In The Spirit

Diff’rent Strokes

A new vodka tonic from Reverie

By Tony Cross

I may have mentioned before how I never really cared for tonic water. Back when my brain stopped developing, I believe. Schweppes, Canada Dry, store brands, no tonic product was pleasing to my taste buds.

Then the market changed. Fever Tree dropped their tonic water, and it was (and still is) damn good. I was more smitten about their ginger beer at the time, but there was no denying their tonic. And then I tried a small batch of tonic syrup from Seattle, called Bradley’s Kina Tonic. In love I was. The syrup was so good! A bit complex with flavors, and unlike any other tonic drink I had ever tasted. So, of course, I had to make my own.

After a few weeks of tinkering with a base recipe, I had made what I thought was a feeble attempt at a tonic syrup. It was bitter, had baking spices, but also that citrus glow. I used lemon and grapefruit, but also added orange in the mix — I totally stole that idea from the Kina Tonic. They incorporate orange oil into their tonic, and it’s just what mine was missing. Now I had this tonic that sort of tasted like you took the Fever Tree and Kina tonics and mixed them together. A bitter marriage, if you will. I took it to market, i.e., the restaurant I bartended in, and we took it out for a test drive. It sold. The syrup was well received, and everyone was happy. That is, until I ran out on a Saturday night, then some people were not so happy.

Fast forward a few years, and my tonic syrup, TONYC, is in the actual marketplace. Local supporters wanted their own, which gave me the idea to batch it up and see if it would sell in stores. Within six months, we were on the shelf in Southern Seasons and represented by a wine distribution company. This was fantastic, but I was just starting out with our kegged cocktails, and what I really wanted to do was gin and tonic on draught.

I remember the sadness I felt as the first sip of my draught gin and tonic hit my palate four years ago. Man, oh man. It was bad. Over-carbonated, metallic and bitter to the nines, that G&T is a prime example of how you can’t just “scale up” a cocktail and put it in a keg. Doesn’t work that way. If it did, Reverie Cocktails would have a massive portfolio of draught cocktails right now. It took me a year before I debuted our Strawberry-Lavender Gin and TONYC; semi-sweet, fragrant, and a touch of bitterness. That cocktail has been our spring and summer flagship ever since. We love that cocktail.

At the end of last year, I got it in my head to try again and make a gin and tonic, but without the supporting cast of other ingredients. Just a light, crisp and bitter tonic cocktail that enthusiasts couldn’t pick apart. For a good month or so I thought about the way I wanted to tackle this drink and decided to do a vodka tonic. Crazy (to me), considering I never drink them. I ended up approaching this cocktail the same way I did with our tonic syrup years back: Make it for tonic and non-tonic lovers. Kind of a silly juxtaposition, but it worked when I made the tonic syrup back when I was behind the stick — I had converted non-tonic fans, and had regular patrons give their nod of approval.

I’m thrilled to report that our vodka-tonic is yum. Biased? Of course, but do you really think I’m going to try to plug a sub-par drink? I am definitely not smart (I found out that “spinach” doesn’t have two “n’s” in my early 30s), but I’m confident enough that the reception will be positive once it’s debuted. So far, I’ve only had a small circle of people try it.

This is what we did. We kept it simple. Good quality (and tasting) water, our TONYC syrup, and clarified orange juice. Wait. What? That’s right. I realized one day while walking my pup that I needed to incorporate oranges into the equation somehow. Whenever making a tonic drink from scratch with our syrup, the flavors pop when you express oils from an orange peel over the drink; I had to do the same when mixing it on draught. Luckily for me, my first instinct was correct, and that is never, ever the case when trying to create a carbonated drink in keg form.

You see, I got myself a centrifuge from ol’ St. Nick, and it made this whole orange thing possible. Running fresh orange juice through my centrifuge allows me to clarify the orange juice. In a nutshell, that means the juice has the solids taken out of it, allowing for a clear juice. This, in turn, means it won’t separate in the keg. It will be shelf-stable (once mixed as a cordial) and better yet, it will allow for maximum carbonation.

I’ll stop right there with the nerd talk. Point being, clarified orange juice for the win! It brought the cocktail together, the way bitters can. It’s light, crisp, bitter, and slightly rounded from the citrus. I made the first correct batch back in January and let it sit for a month, just to make sure that there weren’t any nuances to the drink that soured or fell flat. I taste-tested it while watching the Deontay Wilder/Tyson Fury fight, and it’s spot-on. And, for some strange reason, so is my memory. I guess that’s a good thing, considering I had more than two, but fewer than seven.

I chose to pair the tonic water with vodka instead of gin so that it could shine. But don’t get it twisted; it’ll do the trick with gin or rum, too. We hope to have our vodka tonic available in the myriad businesses that support us. Oh, and we’ll have those things called growlers available for delivery, too. See you soon.  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

Bookshelf

April Books

FICTION

Braised Pork, by An Yu

This smashing debut is a dreamscape of a novel set in Beijing. Jia Jia discovers the body of her distant husband in the bath with an unusual drawing of a “fishman” beside him. Using the sketch as her guide, she begins a journey of self-discovery through the smog-choked streets of Beijing, to a village in Tibet, and a mysterious world of water. Exquisitely attuned to the complexities of human connection, and an atmospheric and cinematic evocation of middle-class urban China, Braised Pork explores the intimate strangeness of grief, the indelible mysteries of unseen worlds, and the energizing self-discovery of a newly empowered young woman.

Simon the Fiddler, by Paulette Jiles

In Jiles’ deeply satisfying work of historical fiction, Simon Boudlin has avoided conscription into the Confederate Army for the last time. The young fiddler had been making his way through the South playing his music until the fateful day when he was rounded up and sent to an encampment on the Rio Grande. There, at the war’s end, he sets his eyes on a beautiful Irish girl indentured to a Union colonel. She captures his heart and is gone. Thus begins Simon’s long and treacherous journey working and playing music across the postwar Texas landscape to find her. Hope and yearning rise off every page, along with characters and an unforgettable story crafted in exquisite detail.

Redhead by the Side of the Road, by Anne Tyler

Micah Mortimer is a middle-aged man living alone in Baltimore. Although his family is raucous, he lives a very regimented life alone in his basement apartment, where he is the building super. He is also the self-employed Tech Hermit, carefully driving to his appointments under the approving watch of the Traffic Gods. He is myopic, yet the appearance of a teenage boy claiming to be his son and the break-up with his comfortable girlfriend yield a clearer vision of his life. Tyler has produced yet another charming and absorbing read. 

Sin Eater, by Megan Campisi

Condemned to be a Sin Eater after stealing a loaf of bread, May must get used to a life of being shunned and feared. At first confused and distressed, she eventually grows into her role and uses it to her advantage. A twisted tale influenced by a not-so-ancient practice of absorbing one’s sins by eating from atop their coffin or deathbed, Campisi has cooked up a delightfully macabre novel that is sure to stick with you. The Handmaid’s Tale meets Alice in Wonderland in this gripping and imaginative historical novel about a shunned orphan girl in 16th century England who is ensnared in a deadly royal plot and must turn her subjugation into her power.

The Book of Lost Friends, by Lisa Wingate 

From the New York Times best-selling author of Before We Were Yours comes a new novel inspired by historical events: a dramatic story of three young women on a journey in search of family amid the destruction of the post-Civil War South, and of a modern-day teacher who rediscovers their story and its vital connection to her own students’ lives. In her distinctive voice, Wingate brings to life startling stories from actual “Lost Friends” advertisements that appeared in Southern newspapers after the Civil War, as freed slaves desperately searched for loved ones who had been sold off.

Afterlife, by Julia Alvarez

Antonia Vega, the immigrant writer at the center of Afterlife, has had the rug pulled out from under her. She has just retired from the college where she taught English when her beloved husband, Sam, suddenly dies. And then more jolts: Her big-hearted but unstable sister disappears, and Antonia returns home one evening to find a pregnant, undocumented teenager on her doorstep. Antonia has always sought direction in the literature she loves — lines from her favorite authors play in her head like a soundtrack — but now she finds that the world demands more of her than words.

The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, by Grady Hendrix

Patricia Campbell’s life has never felt smaller. Her husband is a workaholic, her teenage kids have their own lives, her senile mother-in-law needs constant care, and she’s always a step behind on her endless to-do list. The only thing keeping her sane is her book club, a close-knit group of Charleston women united by their love of true crime. One evening after book club, Patricia is viciously attacked by an elderly neighbor, bringing the neighbor’s handsome nephew, James Harris, into her life. James is well traveled and well read, and he makes Patricia feel things she hasn’t felt in years. But when children on the other side of town go missing, their deaths written off by local police, Patricia has reason to believe James Harris is more of a Bundy than a Brad Pitt. James is a monster of a different kind — and Patricia has already invited him in. Steel Magnolias meets Dracula.

NONFICTION

Navigate Your Stars, by Jesmyn Ward

Speaking about the value of hard work and the importance of respect for oneself and others at Tulane University’s 2018 commencement, Ward inspired everyone in the audience with her meditation on tenacity. Navigate Your Stars is a beautiful, inspiring book about striving to be the best you can be. Beautifully illustrated in full color by Gina Triplett, this gorgeous and profound book will charm a generation of students — and their parents. Ward’s voice shines through as she shares her experience as a Southern black woman, addressing the themes of grit, tenacity and the importance of family bonds. A perfect gift for anyone in need of inspiration from the author of Salvage the Bones, Men We Reaped, and Sing, Unburied, Sing.

American Harvest, by Marie Mutsuki Mockett

Having grown up in Carmel, California, when Mockett inherits a massive Nebraska wheat farm that had been in her father’s family for generations, this Japanese-American woman sets out to learn about the land in the middle of America, its people and culture. She travels with a group of evangelical Christian harvesters, led by Eric Wolgemuth, the man whose team cuts the family’s wheat. They follow the ripening from Texas to Idaho. Along the way, she thoughtfully explores the connotations of the divide: the politics, religion and science. There are lessons in history, the Bible, farming methodology, and a renewed appreciation of the vastness of this stretch of the American landscape.

The Heart: Frida Kahlo in Paris, by Marc Petitjean

In 1938, just as she was leaving Mexico for her first solo exhibition in New York, Frida Kahlo was devastated to learn from her husband, Diego Rivera, that he intended to divorce her. In early 1939, anxious and adrift, Kahlo traveled from the United States to France — her only trip to Europe, and the beginning of a unique period of her life when she was enjoying commercial success on her own. In The Heart, Petitjean delves into Kahlo’s time in Paris, her whirlwind relationship with the author’s father, and the darker corners of her personal narrative.

The House of Kennedy,
by James Patterson 

The Kennedys have always been a family of charismatic adventurers, raised to take risks and excel, living by the dual family mottos: “To whom much is given, much is expected” and “Win at all costs.” And they do — but at a price. Across decades and generations, the Kennedys have occupied a unique place in the American imagination: charmed, cursed, at once familiar and unknowable. The House of Kennedy is a revealing, fascinating account of one of America’s most storied families, as told by one of America’s most prolific storytellers.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

A Book for Escargot,
by Dashka Slater

Oooh la la! Escargot, the adorable French gastropod, is back for another adventure. On a mission to try something new, Escargot ventures to the library and sets out to be the star of a magnifique book of his own. Silly, fun, and just a little French, Escargot is sure to become a story time favorite. (Ages 3-5.)

I Found a Kitty!, by Troy Cummings

Adorable, lovable Arfy from Can I Be Your Dog? has found a friend. Unfortunately Arfy’s humans are allergic so in the ultimate pay-it-forward move, Arfy sets out to find a place where Scamper can play, cuddle, get brushed and sing but most of all a place where he will be adored. (Ages 3-6.)

Roy Digs Dirt, by David Shannon

Some dogs dig bones, some dig big comfy couches and some dig fancy collars, but Roy? Roy digs dirt. Giggle-inducing and just plain fun, young readers will really dig reading about Roy’s adventures again and again. (Ages 3-5.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally

Character Study

Songs of the Season

With faith of his father, Dixie Chapman made the journey from the course to the choir

By Jenna Biter

Dixie Chapman walks me through the open floor plan of his home to the sitting area: a plush-looking sofa across from twin armchairs. Paintings of a sun-drenched farm scene and a portrait of a bearded man I feel I know hang on the walls. The room itself is a warm conversation, if a room can be such a thing. I pick the plush-looking sofa, and he takes a chair opposite. I wonder if it’s his favorite and look him over: silver hair combed to the side, dark-rimmed glasses, a gray turtleneck, quarter-zip pullover, stone khaki pants, polka dot socks peeking out beneath pant legs, golf sneakers.

He wears the ensemble comfortably, like a faithful uniform. And, in a way, it is his uniform. He’s a golfer and has been his entire life. With famed amateur golfer Dick Chapman as his father, he almost has to be. But Dick Chapman is a story for another day.

Richard Davol Chapman Jr., better known as Dixie, is a golf lover like his dad. He plays four times a week, weather permitting, and resides with his wife, Pidgie, on the grounds of the Country Club of North Carolina in an elegant, easy home tucked away under trees on the bend of a road with a garden oasis for a backyard. “We’re very happy,” Chapman says. “It’s a great house as far as flow is concerned. You go here and there, and it’s not complicated at all.” Uncomplicated — that’s how he seems to live his life, rooted in his marriage and balanced by golf, his career as an investment manager and his expression of faith: hymn writing. “I’ve got a nice little triangle there,” he says.

Chapman was born into music almost as much as he was born into golf. “I’ve always liked to sing. We went to The Village Chapel when I was growing up. My father actually became the choirmaster, and he had a very good voice. I kind of grew up with music.”

He pauses. “I tried to learn the piano but that never worked; my fingers are too short.” Holding up his hands in a piano spread, he laughs. “They never flew . . . no, no, no.” Chapman shakes his head and smiles. “But we had an organ in the house, a small organ; my father played. And we had a piano; my mother played show tunes.”

Chapman studied English in college and has written poems throughout his life. A couple of decades ago, Johnny Bradburn, the music director of the church he was attending, read his poetry and liked what he read. He asked Chapman if he thought he could write a hymn.

“Well, I don’t know. I never tried to do that,” Chapman responded. “Lo and behold, the first one I wrote, the choir sang. And I was out of town.”

He and the music director began collaborating on hymns. “He had the unique ability to write,” says Chapman. “I would sing to him, and we would go over lines and over lines, and he’d get the melody, and write it down. Put it into musical notation. So then, when I sang a solo, he would play the music.

“I’ve written, I don’t know, 140 or so hymns since then,” he says. Adding with a laugh, “I’m not on the same level as Charles Wesley, who wrote 6,000.” While Chapman admires Wesley, an 18th century leader of the Methodist church, he doesn’t aspire to be as prolific. “I don’t want to write one every day.”

I ask if he finds writing hymns relaxing. He hesitates and says, “Well, it takes attention, and it’s exciting. I enjoy it thoroughly.” Then he tacks on, “It’s relaxing when I finish it.”

Sensing that he doesn’t want to turn his worship into a chore, recuperation between hymns seems necessary, even if it’s only a pause to enjoy a completed song. “Some take me longer to write than others, and I’m always revising. It’s never going to be right the first time you do it. You have to keep revising and improving the metrics, improving the words that you want to use,” he says. “It’s an interesting process. I’m just waiting to hear the next one.”

Chapman usually writes when he feels a nudge. “A line will stick with me. Sometimes it just comes out of the blue, and I hear something in my head, and the spirit guides me.” Sometimes Pidgie is the nudge. She often prints out familiar songs for her husband to mark up and transform. “I like to take a melody from a well-known song and incorporate it into a religious song,” Chapman says.

He’s got a hymn for Lent. It’s called “Vigilant.” He pauses, clears his throat and begins to sing. “Vi-gil-ant. Be viiiii-gilant,” he trills up and then down, holding onto the words. “The day of the Lord will soon begin,” he sings and then shifts back into speech to explain the accompaniment for this particular hymn. “It was all brass of course. And that song went so well with that.” Then he picks up where he left off. “Vig-il-ant. Bah, bah, bah, bah . . . ” He imitates blaring brass and trumpeting trumpets. “Ta, ta, ta, ta . . . you know?” He’s a musician lost in the song.

We run through a list of seasonal hymns. Chapman hums low, testing out melodies before belting into song. “No,” he mutters and adjusts his tone. He taps his foot for time, polka dot socks coming in and out of view. He sings through four or five songs. “Do you still have someone to write music for you now? Are they still performed?” I ask.

“No, I wish I did, but I don’t. It’s frustrating.” Chapman frowns. After leaving the church with the talented music director for a new spiritual home, he hasn’t had many opportunities to share his songs publicly. One day, though, he hopes to combine 10 or 20 of his favorites into a booklet and publish them.

“Vi-gil-ant. Be viiiii-gilant.”  PS

Jenna Biter is a fashion designer, entrepreneur and military wife in the Sandhills. She can be reached at jenna.biter@gmail.com.

Golftown Journal

Out of the Box

A new teacher, and concept, in town

By Lee Pace

Jim Nelford grew up in Vancouver in the 1960s and, as the youngest of four kids, developed a keen competitive spirit and an abiding love for all sports. He played baseball, hockey and basketball among them. He learned golf on summer visits to an uncle’s cabin, where the family had access to a rudimentary course with sand greens. “I loved to cross-train,” he says. “I loved to play basketball, I loved to play hockey, skiing, anything that was fun. One of my goals growing up was certainly to be a professional athlete, but if that ended, I wanted to own a sporting goods store. I could be around games and the coolest equipment all day, every day.”

Which is why this former PGA Tour golfer and golf instructor, today ensconced at Mid Pines Inn and Golf Club in Southern Pines, brings a different approach to playing and teaching the game. A lesson with Nelford will be built around references to key motions in other sports — throwing a football, shooting a basketball, hitting and pitching a baseball, executing a slap shot in hockey. The bedrock fundamental will not be making a full turn or releasing the club through impact or keeping a still head. 

It will be about using the lower body. 

Golf Digest once said, ‘Jim Nelford, pound-for-pound, is the longest hitter on the PGA Tour,’” says Nelford, who turns 65 in June. “They first started testing how fast you could swing a golf club in the early ’80s. We were at the Buick Open and just hitting balls into a net. My average speed was 116, 117, which is what Justin Thomas is today. They said, ‘Can you swing faster?’ I said, ‘Of course I can, that was just my Tour swing, get it in the fairway.’ So I hit 123. They said, ‘The fastest we have is Jim Dent. He’s 123 also.’

“I was 5-9 and 155 pounds. As a smaller guy, I had to use my body better. I had to be more athletically inclined and use my whole body to be able to get it up with the big guys. And I was able to do that.”

Nelford played golf at Brigham Young University and in his senior year made All-American, won two Canadian Amateurs in 1975-76 and the Western Amateur in 1977. He earned his Tour card and began hitting the Monday qualifying circuit in 1978. By 1982, he was making cuts consistently and in 1984 was tagged by Golf Digest as a “guy to look out for.” His best money-winning year was 1983, when he won $110,000 and had three top-10 finishes.

Nelford was on the cusp of his first Tour win at the Bing Crosby Pro-Am at Pebble Beach in 1984 and in the clubhouse with a one-shot lead over Hale Irwin. Irwin came to the tee of the par-5 18th and yanked his drive to the left, over the Carmel Bay coastline, rocks and sand. He flailed his arms in horror. 

But the ball miraculously hit a rock and bounced into the fairway. Irwin birdied the hole to tie Nelford and won a playoff on the second hole.

“That shaped Jim Nelford’s whole life,” said Ben Wright, a CBS golf commentator of that era. “If he had gone on to win a tournament he flatly deserved to win, his whole career might have taken off.”

A more critical juncture in Nelford’s life followed one afternoon in September 1985 when a freak boating accident while water-skiing on a lake outside Scottsdale ripped his right arm to shreds. Doctors considered amputating the arm. They told him he’d never play golf again. But Nelford and his parents implored the doctors to put his arm back together and give him the chance at a full recovery.

Nelford told his friend Lorne Rubinstein, the Toronto-based sportswriter, “There hasn’t been a Ben Hogan story recently.”

Nelford made his way back to the Tour, essentially playing “with half a right arm,” and by 1988 had made 16 more cuts to reach the Tour-mandated 150 to secure his pension. But his days competing at the highest level were essentially over.

In the ensuing three decades, Nelford has worked in broadcasting — even getting a brief gig with CBS on Masters telecasts — but his niche and passion today is teaching the golf swing. And his approach to teaching is built around the tenets he learned playing all sports as a kid.

“What do you do in other sports and what is similar — is there a similar move in every sport?” Nelford says. “I didn’t swing it the way everyone else did, and I knew that. But there was no teaching on that side of it, of the athletic side of the game. It was basically square lines golf, which I call ‘golf in a box.’”

Nelford and his fiancée, Paula Allen, had been living in Florida when he reconnected with former BYU teammate and tour traveling companion Pat McGowan, the son-in-law of the late Peggy Kirk Bell and a longtime instructor at Pine Needles. Nelford worked with McGowan’s son Michael and helped him shore up his ball-striking enough to finish 13th in the Latin America Tour Q-School and shoot 64-65 en route to a tie for second in an early 2020 Golden State Tour event. Nelford has relocated to the Sandhills and is working to establish a teaching practice at Mid Pines. 

“It’s stunning how well Michael’s hitting it,” Pat said in late February. “What Jim has brought to his game is so refreshing. I thought Michael needed a fresh set of eyes. He is now bombing it with effortless power and a controlled trajectory.

“I think Jim’s on to something with his approach. He’s seen about 25 people and helped all 25.”

Nelford has a sharp intellect and a deep reservoir of stories and comparisons to great golfers and athletes across all sports. He might talk of Seattle quarterback Russell Wilson learning to connect on the deep ball by perfecting his footwork. He’ll cite Rod Carew as a great singles hitter but a lousy power hitter because he didn’t use his lower body well. He’ll draw on an adult golfer’s memories of playing American Legion baseball and how the lower body and instinctive rocking motion are paramount to making solid contact at the plate.

“Shoot a basketball? You’d better use your legs,” Nelford says. “Does a pitcher sway? Of course he does. Does a hockey player move? Of course he does. Nobody’s trying to keep their head steady. Your engine is always your lower body, and it’s dynamic. We do move it because we need momentum. It’s why a pitcher goes back and forth, they have momentum.”

Exhibit A in golf is Jack Nicklaus, who in his prime would gird up over a shot with his lower body while letting his arms hang loose.

“Jack comes in with soft hands and arms, which obviously means he’s not fighting where the club is going,” Nelford says. “He’s letting it go. Where is he operating from? That big ass and legs, and he loads them up. That left heel comes off the ground, and he fires his legs hard. We do that in every sport.”

Nelford rails against standard teaching protocol built on perfect alignment and bromides like “turning in a barrel.” He’ll cite elite golfers who tell him they’ve gone an entire career with no one teaching them to use their legs. He’s evangelical talking about the need for innovation in golf instruction, and how the “glacial pace of learning the game” restricts its growth. Don’t bother with parallel alignment sticks on the tee with Nelford; his ideal stance is slightly closed to the target line to allow more room to turn off the ball. He emphasizes rotation of the hips, not of the shoulders.

“Focus on the lower body, and the upper body will go where it needs to,” he says. 

It adds up to being an athlete, not just being a golfer. Nelford knows of what he speaks from six-plus decades of doing both: “I am giving you permission to get out of the box, permission to act like an athlete.”  PS

Lee Pace hit a two-run, last-inning double in Little League but it was downhill from there. He hopes to reclaim his limited athleticism on the golf course soon. Meanwhile, contact Jim Nelford at jimnelfordgolf@gmail.com to learn more of his approach.

Almanac

By Ash Alder

April doesn’t make a grand announcement.

She’s subtle. Sort of hums to let you know she’s close. Flutters in the periphery. And when she lands — like the ruby-throated hummingbird at the garden feeder — the world sings out.

April is a month of sweet transition. Purple martins replace purple finches. Yellow jessamine twists, climbs, dances across the landscape. Silver maple is flowering, and on the ground beneath it, you find the first of hundreds of brilliant green samaras (seed pods) that will spiral to the earth in the coming weeks. You pick up the fruit, spin it between your thumb and forefinger, hold it in your palm as if you are holding the wings of some tiny, mythical creature.

A ragtag choir of a dozen songbirds blurts out their threats and primal longings, and just beyond the flowering maple, a skinny tabby all but grins while brushing past the garden path.

The mornings are knit scarf- and corduroy-cool, but in the afternoon, your feet are bare, and you are sunning in a patch of tender young grass.

April is the last frost, dahlias in the garden, spring rain and fresh asparagus.

And as the first seeds of summer crops are sown (green beans, melons, cukes and squashes) you realize this: April is your answered prayer. Here and now. Late winter’s wish, come true.

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. — Margaret Atwood, Unearthing Suite, 1983

Rain and Glory

Cows lie down this month same as any. But if you’re curious to know when the April showers are coming, observe a pine cone (they close when rain is on its way).

Of course, you don’t have to wait until May for the flower show. This month, fragrant jessamine and blooming azalea would be enough to satisfy any flower-loving gardener. But look and see hummingbird candy everywhere: coral honeysuckle, iris, buckeye, wild columbine.

Now is time to plant dahlias, petunias, angelonia, heliotrope, lantanas and begonias. And in late April, color your midsummer garden electric with glory lily tubers. This tropical vine grows fast, climbing upward of 7 feet with its curling, grasping tendrils. Its flaming red and brilliant yellow flowers make it an absolute showstopper, and with its long, bright green stamen dangling beneath its down-facing petals, this deer-resistant “Flame of the Woods” resembles, to this nature-lover, some kind of exotic jellyfish.

Oh, lovely April: Bring on the rain, bring on the glory. 

Hug a Tree

April is a month of celebration. Easter Sunday, of course, on April 12. Earth Day on Wednesday, April 22. And on Friday, April 24, Arbor Day.

According to the Arbor Day Foundation, “One large tree can provide a day’s supply of oxygen for up to four people.”

Let that land for just a moment. Breathe it in, if you will. And if you’re interested in learning about the foundation’s bold “Time for Trees” initiative and how you can get involved, visit www.arborday.org.

April is a promise that May is bound to keep. — Hal Borland 

April Sky Watch

According to Space.com, two of the 10 “Must-See Skywatching Events to look for in 2020” occur this month.

First: the “Glory Nights” of Venus. April 2 and 3, Venus will appear high in the sky and as close to the Pleiades star cluster as it can get, lighting up the blue-white stars in such a way you’re sure to go all dreamy. Venus hasn’t been this close to the Pleiades since April 2012, and it won’t again for another eight years. Catch it if you can.

Next, on April 7, get ready for the supermoon — the biggest full moon of the year and, because of its closeness to Earth, “a dramatically large range of high and low ocean tides.”

Warm Your Bones

Spring is here, yes. But if you can’t seem to shake the final chill of winter, here’s one for you: golden milk. Warm and delicious and, according to Ayurvedic medicine, a powerful healing tonic for inflammation and digestive issues, this holistic, dairy-free beverage gets its golden color from its star ingredient: turmeric.

There are dozens of recipes available online. Most call for coconut or almond milk. Here’s one borrowed from WellnessMama.com that serves four. Golden milk in five glorious minutes. But if you’re worried about the possibility of staining your blender and/or countertops, this may be risky business.

Ingredients

2 cups milk of choice, such as almond pecan, coconut or dairy

1 teaspoon turmeric

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Pinch of ground pepper

Tiny piece of fresh peeled ginger root or 1/4 teaspoon ginger powder

Pinch of cayenne pepper (optional)

1 teaspoon raw honey or maple syrup or to taste (optional)

Instructions

Blend all ingredients, except cayenne pepper and honey, in a high-speed blender until smooth.

Pour mixture into small saucepan and heat for 3-5 minutes over medium heat until hot, but not boiling.

Add cayenne pepper and honey, if desired; stir to combine. Drink immediately.

Branching Out

Branching Out

A dream home comes true

By Deborah Salomon     Photographs by John Koob Gessner

The story of this house starts like many others: Retired executives Linda and Don Branch — well-traveled golfers — fall in love with Moore County, secure a lot in a gated community, build a showplace home, make friends and live happily ever after.

Carefully integrated details set it apart.

Location, location, location: Linda drove through the gates of Forest Creek and said, “I’m done. I feel both elevated and relaxed. Don’t try to sell me on anything else.”

The architecture: faintly chateau, with pinkish bricks resulting from a white frosting, designed by an architect whose “find” was a fluke.

The foyer: a two-story atrium with balcony, adorned by stained glass panels that diffuse and tint sunlight.

The layout: upstairs, a private two-bedroom apartment for golfing guests.

Adaptations: a master kitchen with two cooking triangles bridged by a 14-foot granite island.

Unique: a high-walled private garden with shower protruding from the front — not back or side — façade.

Convenience: a sweet little elevator tucked beside the staircase.

Memorabilia: a piece of the Berlin Wall, Post-it Notes and a Cuban cigar press as décor artifacts. Who else does this?

Last but most unusual: an adjoining lot that they purchased as a habitat for red pileated woodpeckers.

Definitely different, even in an enclave where triple crown moldings and coffered ceilings, waterfall showers, wine caves, media centers and doggie grooming salons are de rigueur.

Linda and Don were ready to retire after 37-year careers with 3M. Living in Brussels, Paris and elsewhere made them crave a subtle European flair played out against minimalist precepts. The ornate retro-green handpainted Asian wallpaper in the dining room, located just beyond the foyer, comes from London; in the same room, a Louis Phillipe breakfront occupies a niche built to accommodate it. The American cherrywood table speaks Shaker simplicity, and plays against the chandelier and heavy tapestry drapes.

First impressions made by the stained glass stylized bird panels set into foyer windows hint at drama within.

Linda explains: “We wanted light but privacy, too, and pieces of color,” provided by the antique hand-blown glass. This feature was so important that architect Bill Hirsch traveled to Minnesota to see how the same panels had been installed in the house where they lived, enabling him to plan their removal and relocation.

How the Branches connected with Hirsch — pure serendipity.

Linda and Don had purchased a lot in Forest Creek for a permanent home rather than do the snowbird commute from Minnesota. They were living in Belgium at the time, making plans. By coincidence, Don found online Designing Your Perfect House, a best-seller by Hirsch. The book was just what they needed to refine their ideas. Lo and behold Hirsch, who has worked all over the world, lives in West End.

Hire that man!

Not only did he understand their goals, but introduced Linda to Agnes Preston-Brame, an artist and interior designer from Budapest who lives in Greensboro. She added the European undertones Linda sought. “I really needed help. Because we’re eclectic I wanted someone to help me pull together what we had (with new purchases).”

The two women stormed the High Point Market, furnishing the entire house in less than a week.

The result is full of surprises.

Just inside the front door is a two-part powder room and, beyond that, the stunning dining room which, along with a passageway through a hall, leads into a mostly white kitchen of magnitude and placement that render it the main-floor hub. Linda and Don, both experienced multi-ethnic cooks, have separate black granite sinks, preparation and storage areas, burners on the range top.

“In our old house we kept stepping over each other,” Linda recalls.

At the end of the kitchen stands a small marble-topped breakfast table. “My grandfather was a pharmacist,” Don says. “This marble was part of the soda fountain (in his store). It gives us a sense of history.”

Remnants from trimming the marble slab were made into trivets.

A half wall separates the palatial kitchen from a seating area which, conforming to a popular trend, replaces a formal living room. Furnishings here are contemporary but not stark, some with Scandinavian lines. This carries forward a long-standing preference.

“Our first house had Stressless recliners,” Don says, of the Norwegian design similar to Eames, conceived in the 1930s. Don insisted on a wood-burning fireplace. Linda agreed, “If he promised to take care of it.”

The covered veranda beyond the kitchen is protected by motorized phantom screens that, at the push of a button, swish down without poles interrupting a view of the pond.

The main floor master suite with seating nook is a slightly more traditional foray in soft retro green (similar to the dining room, which Linda finds restful) flowing around a massive sleigh bed in dark woods. A hallway of closets leads to the bathroom, with a glass-enclosed shower that opens directly into the secret garden enclosing another shower. High walls offer privacy but no barrier to falling leaves and pine needles.

Don and Linda first experienced this bathing arrangement on their honeymoon, in the Virgin Islands. Hirsch had seen something similar in Bali. Other luxury homes have outdoor showers for muddy kids, sweaty golfers and equestrians but not as a bathroom extension, with garden. Its placement allows for Linda or Don, still lathered up, to hear guests arriving at the front door.

Guest apartments, usually second floor or over a free-standing garage, for children and grandchildren, are common features in this echelon of 6,000-plus square foot homes, many built, as was this one, by Will Huntley. Since Linda and Don have neither, they devised The Locker Room: closed-off quarters with two bedrooms (one, a delightfully feminine lavender modifying the clubby masculinity elsewhere), workout equipment, a common room, bathrooms, kitchenette/dining area and, of all things, golf lockers where frequent guests can leave equipment, clothing, toiletries. A few friends have earned a locker nameplate. “We’ve had as many as 100 in a year,” Linda says.

Even Bella, their tiny Papillon mix, has her own gated condo behind the kitchen for mealtime and quiet snoozes.

Although most of their furnishings reflect High Point rather than heirloom, Linda has incorporated personal items, including a painting of herself by a European artist friend, which hangs on the balcony overlooking the atrium-foyer: The scarf she wears in the stylized action portrait is her real-life favorite; the MiniCooper detail reminds her of when a similar car ran over her foot. Across from it hangs Don’s choice, an enlarged Wine Spectator cover by Andy Powell.

Both Don and Linda grew up in less-impressive surroundings, Linda in a split-level ranch, Don in several homes he describes as decidedly middle class. This house fulfills Linda’s requirement for a happy retirement: a beautiful home and time for travel. In February, instead of running away to Florida or the Caribbean, they spent several weeks in Vietnam.

Linda and Don’s longstanding method of selecting and furnishing their homes, including paintings from artists met along the way, worked.

“When we agree on something we just do it,” Linda explains. “So far, all our decisions have been good.” Especially this one, which they call “rightsizing,” since it is slightly larger than their former residence.

Techie Don, after settling a few issues with Electra, agrees. “From the time we married, home and house were very important to us. People who walk in say it’s comfortable. That’s how we planned it, intuitively, to be practical for the way we live.”

His final thought represents the combined efforts of architect, builder and occupants.

“This really is our dream home.”  PS

The Kitchen Garden

Ode to Compost

Dig in when the mood strikes

By Jan Leitschuh

April is a month to stir the winter-sluggish soul. Soft temperatures and sunshine tempt us out into the yard. Bulbs, blossoms and shoots poke forth in the garden.

An ancient craving takes root: Turn up some soil and plant something.

Here in the Sandhills, our sandy soils can be worked earlier than those with more clay-based underpinnings. Tilling the tight, wet clay characteristic of other areas of the Piedmont too early can result in virtual pottery — clumps and chunks of garden not conducive to deep root structure or drainage. It’s hard to wreck the loose soil structure of our well-drained, sand-based soil. So, we can get to it as soon as the mood and temperature strikes.

But we need to do some critical soil preparation first.

Our unique Carolina Sandhills is an area about 10-35 miles wide within the state’s southwestern coastal plain, a unique region that bleeds down into South Carolina and Georgia. Strong winds from the last glaciation kicked up sand dunes from the shallow seas of the area — putting the “hills” in Sandhills.

It’s no accident the Sandhills was the last area of the state to be developed agriculturally, but peaches, tobacco, blueberries and cotton eventually thrived alongside the longleaf pine and wiregrass. Over time, area farmers learned how to manage sand’s natural tendencies and lower fertility to grow an agricultural bounty.

We kitchen gardeners can, too. Sandy soils have several pluses but need a little love. In some cases, a lot of love.

The East Coast is blessed with plenty of rainfall in a year’s time. This bounty also tends to wash minerals down into the deeper levels of the soil. This descent is accelerated on sand, as you might imagine. This is one reason that our sandy soils here tend to be quite acidic.

Our sandy soils also drain so well that when summer’s heat bakes, we find our seeds drying up and our sets needing daily watering. Skip a day and your plants might stress and drop blossoms — no blossoms, no veggies.

Vegetables need a deep and well-drained soil with adequate moisture, organic matter, and a much gentler pH. Sand has some of these plusses.

Our sandy soils are deep and well-drained, so good news there. Roots can penetrate easily. Sandy soils also warm up earlier than clay soils, so heat-loving plants can go in somewhat earlier.

Sand’s negatives include difficulty holding moisture and nutrition. Luckily, there is a simple solution: loads and loads of compost.

Organic matter, broken down, will loosen the tightest clay and “fatten” the fastest-draining Candor sand. Compost helps sand hold more water. Digging the soil is a dream, easy. And the decomposition process of organic matter feeds the soil biome, adding nutrients as it further breaks down the organic matter.

Compost also captures the nutrients we might apply. It helps hold soil fertility and manage the pH. This is especially beneficial in the case of, say, nitrogen, which may otherwise wash down into the water table. Why not hold on to what you paid for, and let it benefit the plant?

At Cottage Garden Farm, fertility and compost start in the fall. I beseech my landscaper husband to bring home bags and bags of the autumn leaves he scoops up for clients who want to discard them.

My favorites are crape myrtle and maple leaves, since their small size and tender composition break down easily. Whole oak and magnolia leaves are too waxy to break down quickly, and layers of them can form a mat that smothers the plants beneath. But, run over these with the mower and chop them into bits and the tough leaves break down much quicker. I dump these on the garden, around the fruit trees and blueberries each fall. They cover the soil, protect the roots and feed the worms before breaking down into lovely soil. Tilling the garden in spring is a pleasure, seeing the rich dirt turning up. Four inches of fall leaves are more than enough.

Grass clippings are also useful if you know they have not been sprayed. I tend to not use these in my vegetable garden, where I grow food I might eat. I use them around ornamental trees and such. But, with all the Bermuda grass grown in this area, you might be adding weed seeds. Experiment in a small area if you have access to some.

Do not use uncomposted sawdust, fall leaves or straw right now because as it breaks down, it will rob the soil of nitrogen and, consequently, starve the plants of this essential nutrient. These need to be piled to compost.

On other occasions we have planted a cover crop in the fall. Vetch, winter rye and crimson clover send their roots down deep, “digging” plenty of organic matter into the garden all by themselves. Many studies have shown the benefits of keeping roots in the garden over winter — they hold soil and provide places for the soil biome to colonize and expand. Come spring, if you can bear to weed-whack down the gorgeous crimson clover blossoms, you have added “green manure” or even a mulch to your garden, depending on whether you till it or not.

If you have done neither last fall — and now it’s spring — it’s time to haul in bags of compost. Some local businesses offer compost by the scoop if you have access to a truck and strong backs for unloading. Dump your coffee grounds directly into the garden. Start a compost pile — there are many good how-to resources online.

What about the abundant horse manure in this equestrian area?

It’s a valuable resource, and I’ve loved it, but it pains me to acknowledge it is not without problems.

Has it composted? You don’t want it too fresh, to damage plants. Ask the owners if they spray their fields for broad-leaved weeds — a persistent herbicide often used that can wreak havoc with your garden for years. Sometimes, even if the owners don’t spray, the herbicide can come in via the hay.

Finally, the harsh acidity of our sand. Compost helps here too. If you have limed your garden appropriately, compost will help stabilize the pH.

How do you know if you need lime, or another common soil deficiency here, potassium?

You probably need it, unless you are growing blueberries. But the only way to know for sure is to test your soil. The Agriculture Extension Soil Conservation program in your county offers free (April-October) or very low-cost (November-March) soil test kits. You may even be able to have the kit mailed to you. Then simply follow the directions and mail it to the enclosed address at NC State, or drop it off at your local extension office. They will mail or email your results and the staff/master gardener volunteers at the extension office will help you interpret and develop a plan to correct any problems.

So, give in to that urge. Turn that soil, spade your compost into your garden area. Toss in some seeds and sets. You are participating in a spring ritual as old as agriculture itself, one that does the body, and soul, good.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of Sandhills Farm to Table.

Sporting Life

Airstream Adventures

Wit and wisdom of the campground

By Tom Bryant

When late winter rolls around, opening the door to an early spring, Linda, my bride, and I saddle the 4Runner and hitch up the little Airstream for our escape south to Chokoloskee Island below Everglades City, Florida.

It’s a good ride and we take our time, stopping along the way for needed R&R and also to see the sights. Fishing is ostensibly behind the outing, but these trips really have evolved into a chance to have great conversations with fellow campers. It seems as if everybody has a good fish story, and I try to get these folks to share some of their best tales.

Camping is a really great sport, and more and more people are getting into it. On our last summer camping trip to Huntington Beach State Park in South Carolina, we were surrounded by a whole slew of tiny RVs that were just big enough to house a bed and maybe enough headroom to allow changing clothes. But the little units didn’t seem to have much more room than that.

We’ve noticed that as the baby boomers retire, many have discovered the fine art of outdoor life; and with some that means the open road. Most of the campers we’ve met are quite competent; but unfortunately, there has been an encounter or two with folks who don’t have a clue about how to handle a trailer.

One example was a gentleman we met in a small campground in Florida. He was towing a 30-foot Montana fifth-wheel, and it was a pain to watch him try to back that huge trailer into his camping spot. We were camped right across the road, and I tried to help his red-faced wife with hand instructions, and in her situation, shouts to keep the exasperated fellow from running into a tree or knocking over a water spigot. It wasn’t pleasant.

It was a particularly hot day, and after about 15 minutes, he finally got parked. When he stepped out of the big 350 Ford tow vehicle, he was drenched in sweat. I walked back over to commiserate with him, and he looked at me bleary-eyed and said, “If I ever get this blankety-blank camper home, I’m gonna sell it, and my next outdoor adventure will be at a Holiday Inn.”

“Nah, man. You’re just getting the hang of it. In a couple more weeks, you’ll be an old hand.”

“The folks who sold me this thing didn’t tell us that there would be so many problems. I mean you have to hook up, unhook, do the water, the electric, the sewer line. I mean it’s almost like you have to build a house before you can sit down, have a drink and enjoy yourself. No, man, I realized on this trip I’m not designed to be a camper.”

I’m afraid that there are a lot of people just like this guy. They have charged into the camping fray without actually realizing that there is more to it than cruising down the highway. It reminded me of that classic movie The Long, Long Trailer with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz and all the problems they had.

That evening after supper we were sitting outside enjoying a glass of wine when the couple next door came over. We invited them to join us for a spell. It turned out that this was their first jaunt into the camping world, too, and they were seriously thinking about giving up and going home.

Linda laughingly told them about our first adventure driving home from the Airstream dealer when I wasn’t sure how to unhook the trailer when we got home. “Tom got out the manual and stood there scratching his head staring at the camper. He said, ‘Honey I think we’re gonna have to haul this thing around forever. I don’t know how to get it off the car!’”

We all laughed, then Linda followed up with, “We made one practice trip to Huntington Beach, though, and then two weeks later, we packed up the little ‘Stream,’ as we call her, and shoved off for Alaska. We were gone two months and drove over 11,000 miles. What a great trip!”

She looked over at me grinning, “Tom turned into a long-distance truck driver and has never looked back.”

We talked a little more, and it seemed as if the couple was not as upset and crestfallen as they had been when they first arrived. It could have been the couple of glasses of wine they had while sitting under our awning, but I hope they decided to give the sport a little more time. We left early the next morning, so I don’t know how things worked out with them.

We have run across the least experienced campers in our adventures but also some of the most knowledgeable. There was one old gentleman we met in Iowa, actually while on our trip to Alaska. The campground was right on the banks of a beautiful river, and as we were checking in, the manager said, “I know how you Airstream folks like to stick together, so I have a real surprise for you. I’m putting you right across from another Airstream, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased to meet the gentleman who owns it.”

That was an understatement. As we pulled into our site, I saw that the Airstream the manager was talking about was a real vintage model. I was just finishing the chore of unhooking and attaching the water and electric when a bearded fellow walked over and said, “I like your Bambi. I own the old unit across the way. Soon as y’all get settled come over and join me for a cocktail. Tonight I’m having martinis.”

“We’ll do that, and I’m looking forward to it,” I replied.

After we got settled, Linda and I ventured over to the site where the antique Airstream was parked. The bearded gentleman was sitting under his awning enjoying a libation.

“Hey folks, come on and sit.” There were a couple of vacant chairs right next to a small wooden table with a half-full pitcher of martinis on it.

Our host poured drinks and we began talking about our adventures. We learned that his Airstream had belonged to his uncle, who gave it to him when he came home from the Vietnam War. He had completely restored it and it looked great. Since then he had traveled to every state in the union except Hawaii and related that he had no real desire to see that part of the world again.

The conversation drifted here and there as we shared stories about different experiences on the road. Before long, we had to head home for supper.

As we shook hands, I asked him what his most memorable time with his Airstream was.

“Well, I noticed that you folks were kind enough not to mention that I have only one arm. I was in pretty bad shape when I came home from that lousy war. Left my other arm over there. Isn’t it funny how we won all the battles but still lost the war?”

He paused and patted his Airstream and said, “This little baby brought meaning back to my life. Hope to see y’all in the morning.”  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Passion of the Garden

Keeping Pinehurst forever in bloom

By Claudia Watson   •   Photographs by John Koob Gessner

Chris Jones has the soul of a gardener. As assistant superintendent of the grounds department at Pinehurst Resort, he eagerly awaits the Eastertime explosion of colorful tulips extending from the Midland Road roundabout to The Carolina Hotel.

“It’s short-lived but quite beautiful, and I always stop to appreciate the moment,” he says of the over 12,000 bulbs his crew planted last fall. “It brings a lot of smiles to our community.”

The annual tulip bloom is a seminal moment for a resort that takes pride in extending the spirit of Pinehurst’s character and charm, showcasing its beauty beyond golf. For 17 years, the affable Jones has been the hands-on and boots-on-the-ground kind of guy who, like any gardener, is always looking at the land, no matter how familiar, for new possibilities.

He was just 16 when he took his first job in a greenhouse in his hometown, Rocky Mount, North Carolina. Though he didn’t grow up living on a farm, he often visited relatives who did, in an extended family that had farmed vegetables, row crops and tobacco for generations. His mom, who loved to garden, had vegetable and flower gardens.

“She let me experiment in the garden as a kid. We’d work in the flowerbeds tending her favorite bearded irises, and other days we’d pick beans and corn on my aunt’s farm,” he recalls. “My fascination with growing things was always there for me — it’s something of an inheritance from my family.”

With an avid interest in plant science, he jumped at the chance to take specialized horticulture courses in high school and later received a landscape gardening degree from Sandhills Community College.

After college and an 18-month internship at Homewood Nursery in Raleigh, he found his way back to the Sandhills. When Pinehurst Resort hired him and told him they had a greenhouse, he knew he had found the answer to his career dreams. Encouraged by the department’s manager, Chris Burrows, Jones spends his time directing crews, working with suppliers, designing the landscape, and ordering the plants and materials needed to keep the resort’s grounds in top shape and beautiful.

A team of 10 full-time employees, augmented by a few temporary summertime workers, maintains acres of flowerbeds, shrubs and turfgrass along Carolina Vista to The Carolina Hotel, and all of the hotel and spa grounds. The Holly Inn, Manor Inn, Pinehurst Brewery, as well as the Member’s Club, pool and tennis complexes, and soon, the renovated marina complex are also in their charge.

Two additional employees handle duties in the nearly 20-year-old greenhouse nurturing the crop held there and often transferring numerous towering ficus trees and areca palms to meeting spaces at the hotels. A massive potted, 25-year-old sago palm, dubbed the “granddaddy” of the greenhouse, is retired and quietly watches the activity with nowhere to go.

Springtime means moving 60 Boston ferns from the greenhouse’s cozy climate to the wide porches of The Carolina Hotel and designing 125 pots with panache to enliven the resort’s grounds. And, there is no reprieve during the holidays when they tend to 500-600 poinsettias on display in the hotel.

From late winter to early May, the resort’s 17,000-square-foot greenhouse, tucked behind the stables at the Pinehurst track facility, becomes the hub for Jones’ operations. With nearly 2 acres of beds planted each spring and fall, he has the effort down to pure science and timing.

Work on this year’s spring beds began last fall, when he tested the soil, selected plants, calculated quantities and placed orders. In the early spring, the grounds crew tills organic matter from Brooks Contractor into the soil, readying the beds for planting.

The suppliers’ trucks begin arriving in late February to off-load thousands of seedling plugs grown in cell trays. In a typical year, Jones will order over 100,000 plant plugs.

“This is when things start happening in the greenhouse,” he says with a wink. “It’s crazy fun and often challenging if the weather isn’t cooperating.”

The grounds team gathers and begins the labor-intensive process of pulling the delicate seedling plugs from their cells and transplanting them into the larger Ellepots. The advanced organic paper pots are made in the U.S. on a machine from Denmark and decompose in three to five months.

The spring season order includes many different kinds of plants with a wide range of growing requirements, from tender annuals and perennials to succulents and just about everything in between. Under Jones’ management, the plugs grow large enough to transplant into the ground within five weeks.

“Our greenhouse is full and beautiful for six weeks,” he says, emphasizing it’s also one of the busiest times of the year.

“In mid-April we start planting, and it takes three to four weeks. The entire crew works quickly pulling out old plant material, tilling the soil, and planting all of the new beds on the property.”

Jones designs both large and small landscapes throughout the resort. He knows that most Pinehurst visitors are there to play golf and not to appreciate it as a garden space, “but gardens are important to our Southern charm and history, so we want to make them enjoyable and beautiful.”

And they don’t happen by accident. Jones says the first tip is to follow the golden rule of gardening: The better the soil, the better the garden.

To build good soil, a soil test is essential. “A soil test gives the baseline of your flowerbeds, vegetable gardens, and turf,” he says. “If your plants are looking bad or dying, it could be because they’ve used up most of the available nutrients from the soil, or possibly the pH is off from the optimal range of what you are trying to grow.”

Jones recommends consulting the North Carolina Cooperative Extension office in Carthage. Soil test kits and analysis are free or low-cost, and the analysis results arrive by mail or email in a few weeks. The Cooperative Extension’s master gardeners are available to answer questions about soil tests or gardening concerns. He also suggests that homeowners review the plant’s cultural requirements — essential information about the soil, sunshine, water and the climate needs. It can be found on the plant’s tag (though that information is generic and, hence, sometimes wrong) or by researching the plants.

Jones has had his share of vexing challenges, from frostbitten and dead plants to the deer that recently discovered the buffet of tulips and pansies along Carolina Vista. He regularly sprays Liquid Fence to keep them away.

Experience being the teacher, Jones uses only time-tested, durable plants that resist disease, pests, and tolerate the Sandhills growing conditions.

He calls heat-loving lantana a workhorse. “It offers options for color and size, and it doesn’t mind sandy soil or require lots of irrigation, plus it’s a butterfly magnet.”

Last year, at the Holly Inn, he used a combination of New Gold lantana, a low-growing, dense variety, and mixed in a spikey, deep blue salvia, Rockin’ Playin’ the Blues, Salvia longispicata x farinacea, from Proven Winners.

“It was outstanding, full, and very natural,” he says. “It looked sensational into fall and generated lots of compliments.”

Another of his favorites is Lemon Coral, sedum mexicanum, a beautifully textured succulent with chartreuse foliage that edged the beds along Carolina Vista last spring.

“It held up and grew back despite being trampled during the U.S. Kids Golf Parade of Nations,” he laughs. “Now, that’s a great plant!”

A homeowner can spend a lot on their landscape only to see plants and shrubs fail because they are not well-suited to our climate, soil, or they have low disease resistance. Jones recalls the candy-colored beds of impatiens planted each spring along Carolina Vista and throughout the community.

“They were gorgeous, but an invasion of impatiens downy mildew (a fungus-like water mold that is wind-borne) ended their reign. When that happened, suppliers and consumers got turned off. We looked for newer varieties with greater disease resistance,” he recalls.

“The same thing happened with begonias. Some of those have terrible disease resistance, but many of the newer varieties perform beautifully, and we’re using them in beds.”

Shrubs can also succumb to disease and old age. Recently, Jones needed to replace some hollies and laurels in the resort’s landscape and introduced distylium, a broadleaf evergreen that provides the backdrop to a more modern view.

“I wanted something that had a lovely, full look and didn’t need excessive pruning,” he says, echoing homeowners weary of their shrubs pruned to look like “meatballs.”

“We’re using it as a mid-range low shrub for the foundation, and it’s adapted well and is now the go-to replacement as we renovate.”

Jones, a flower lover at heart, also cautions homeowners who are tempted by the big, showy blooms in garden centers.

“Look for a plant that has a bud that’s still closed,” he says. “If you buy the one that is in mid- or full-bloom, you’ve already missed the first couple weeks of their beauty.”

He uses angelonia, a late-summer blooming annual, for continuous color in combination pots or the garden.

“We plant it as a mature plug with glossy green foliage. But when the summer heat comes on, it gets taller and fuller with upright spikes of color — so it’s working for the season, not just a few weeks.”

And, like home gardeners, he understands the temptation to tear out plants that didn’t work or are deteriorating and plant anew.

“I see areas that we want to update with something more than azaleas, camellias and hollies,” he says. “As we introduce new plants, some perennials and shrubs, the landscape is becoming more visually exciting.”

A few years ago, an area across from the member’s pool and tennis facilities needed renovating. Shaded by towering longleaf pines that notoriously suck up soil nutrients and moisture, the understory beds were robbed of life.

Now renewed, the space features lovely miscanthus sinensis Adagio and panicum virgatum Thundercloud grasses and colocasia esculenta Coffee Cups, a graceful tropical plant that grows to 6-feet tall. The black stems support cup-like foliage, which collects rainwater, and when full, the stem bends to pour the water.

In 2017, after the renovations of the hotel’s east wing, his interest was sparked when asked to redesign the large, overgrown area that runs hundreds of feet in length from the east wing to the spa.

Jones introduced many plants not used anywhere else in the resort, including beds of hydrangea paniculata Tardiva, a cold-hardy, late-blooming variety of hydrangea. Its showy white flower heads turn purplish-pink in the late fall as the foliage changes from yellow to mahogany.

“It’s a fabulous space for weddings and small outdoor gatherings,” he says. “And it takes your breath away when it’s in bloom during the late summer.” The project was a source of well-deserved praise and a sense of pride for him.

“I designed this on paper,” he says. “I researched plants, studied their cultural requirements, made the soil amendments, and designed and installed a new irrigation system. I was on hand for the entire process. And I loved it. When I walk by it now, I think, wow, I created this.”

Jones is among only 11 commercial landscape professionals in the U.S. who carry the credential “Proven Winners Certified Landscape Professional.” And he is a founding member of that company’s advisory committee. The award designates that he has professional expertise in the use of their branded plants and expertly showcases them in landscape designs.

His professional growth as a respected landscape professional doesn’t outweigh his centering passion. “My favorite place is still the greenhouse. It’s enjoyable and always uplifting to be able to create beautiful things,” he says. “At the end of a week after planting, fertilizing, and watering all those seedling plugs, there’s nothing better than opening that door on Monday morning and seeing a bunch of buds coming on.”  PS

Claudia Watson is a frequent contributor to PineStraw and The Pilot and finds the joy in each day, often in a garden.