Almanac

April is the earliest fawn, dewy eyed and trembling, landing in a world so soft and tender you can barely remember the deep silence, the bleak landscape, the icy ache of winter.

The nectar of spring flows steady as milk from the mother. It is the wet kiss from doe to teetering fawn. It is here, now. And it is delectable.

Like the fawn, we’ve awakened to a warm and gracious Earth that simply gives.

A tabernacle of peepers sings out.

In the garden, thin spears of asparagus rise like tiny prayers to the sun, young turnips humming songs of the cool soil. Cottontail rabbit grows plump.

Purple martins chatter inside birdhouse gourds and everywhere — everywhere you look — edible flowers bloom.

Rosy pink redbud bursting from bare-branched limbs. Violet and clover spilling across lawns. Forsythia and dandelion mushroom like palatable sunshine. 

Even wisteria — sweet, aromatic miracle — twists around fences, buildings and treetops like ruche fringe, a garden party for this tender new world.

The trees are leafing out. There is pollen for the wasps, the beetles, the bees. And, do you hear that?

The chorus frogs have reached a crescendo, their many squeaking voices one.

The canticle of spring is growing stronger. Whitetail baby mews along.

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

Canticle of the Sun and Moon (flowers) 

Now that we’ve made it past the last frost, bring on the summer bulbs: gladioli (sword lily), flamboyant cannas, caladium (aka, heart of Jesus, angel wings, elephant ears).

Sew the first of the sunflowers.

And — at the end of the month — moonflowers.

Although they look like morning glories, which open at the earliest touch of light, moonflowers blossom beneath the stars — each ephemeral bloom lasting just one night. Kissed by the light of a near-full moon, the fragrant white flowers are nothing short of enchanting. Create your very own Midsummer Night’s Dream, plus or minus a mischievous garden sprite or two.

Poetry Month

What is a flower but a poem? Same of a tree, a nest, an egg.

Of course April is National Poetry Month. Look around. Birds weaving tapestries of needles and grasses. Spring tulips. Dogwoods like angelic flashes of white in naked woods. And, three words: violet blossom jelly.

Harvest wild ones in the morning. Three heaping handfuls. Place them in a pretty bowl.

Add boiling water. Stir, then keep covered for one rotation of the Earth.

Tomorrow, strain the liquid — deep and dark and blue. Add lemon juice; boil. Add cane sugar and pectin; boil and behold: wild fuchsia magic.

Just add toast.  PS

The Suitable Suitors

And a dancing bear

Fiction by Tony Rothwell

Ever since Sir Richard’s untimely death from a sudden stroke there had been an increasing number of enquiries of Lady Fiona as to how she was bearing up, did she need company, that sort of thing. They were kindly of course but, taking stock of those making the solicitations, it became clear that, while they had initially come from her relatives and lady friends, they were now beginning to emanate from gentlemen — single gentlemen. Indeed, when her period of mourning was over, it wasn’t long before the enquiries became invitations. And Fiona, who had at first consoled herself solely in the company of her faithful dog, Jack, found herself seriously considering the opportunities with which she was being presented.

Fiona was someone who loved life, but also someone who had not had what might be called a joyful marriage. It was true Richard had given her a title, a son (currently a soldier waging war against Napoleon in Europe), two well-found houses, one in the country, the other in the city, expensive jewelry and the latest clothes, but little by way of affection or even attention. He was always off with his friends or seeking influence among the aristocracy, leaving her to her own devices. To him she had been little more than an ornament, brought out when the occasion required.

But Fiona was not one to sit at home and wait to be ‘required.’ More and more she found amusement in the soirées of the likes of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, and other members of the smart set in London — a group of aristocratic ladies who dressed in the height of fashion, wore the most exotic, bejeweled and befeathered wigs, and gambled and drank away their husband’s fortunes in a life close to dissipation. In addition, she had taken a cicisbeo*, who accompanied her to parties and other society events. Her choice had been a most willing, and amusing, rake — but she gave him up when Richard died. What was she to do now?

She consulted an old friend and confidante who told her in no uncertain terms, “You, my dear, are what all men seek — good-looking, humorous, well-preserved and well-off. Now that you have no ties, it’s high time you made a tour d’horizon, see what, or rather who, might be available. And you never know, you may find a true soulmate even yet.”

And so, over the next few months, Fiona had a remarkably full diary, accepting many of the invitations that came her way. But eventually, and inevitably, her more persistent suitors, of whom there were five, started to press their case for a more permanent arrangement, along with remarks designed to run down their competition whenever the opportunity arose. This took all the enjoyment out of the situation for Fiona and she realized something had to be done.

One rare evening when she found herself at home with nothing in her diary, she sat down with Jack on her lap to decide on a plan of action. As was her custom, she talked to her dog as though he were a person — he was, after all, very intelligent — and started by describing each of the suitors. Jack was all ears.

“First there’s Gilbert Blunt. A divorcee; rotund, gouty, but a man with something very definitely in his favour — he farms half of Buckinghamshire! The trouble is I always view divorcees as potentially faulty goods, but I have to say his gifts are very generous.

“Then there’s Andrew Duncannon. He’s a bachelor and a barrister. Not sure why he has become one of my favourites as he tends to be rather quiet, but he helped me greatly with Richard’s affairs when I needed it. And just when you least expect it, he utters a witticism or droll remark which never fails to make me giggle. And his pronouncements of affection seem very sincere.

“Next there’s Sir Edward Ponsonby. A retired Major. He is by far the most handsome of the five and I dare say we make a good-looking couple when I am on his arm, no doubt like many a lady before me. He is a bit of a braggard though, constantly regaling me with tales of his derring-do in battle. When he retired, he bought himself a seat in Parliament and is an up-and-comer in Pitt’s Tory Party. He does well on his political connections and service pension, or so he keeps telling me.

“Number four is Spencer Blanchard, a lonely widower if ever there was one. A man who has devoted himself to public service and is currently an Alderman of the City and widely thought to be a future Lord Mayor of London. So, what do you think, Jack, how would you like your mistress to be Lady Mayoress of London — rather grand, don’t you think?

“And lastly there’s Neville Carlisle, a bachelor and a fat one at that! He’s an Oxford don, highly intellectual and obviously lives very well. He dazzles me with his understanding of just about everything, but does he talk! He’s really not my type, but I find it very difficult to say no to him. It’s as though it would somehow reflect badly on my judgment if I did so. Perhaps I fear what he would say of me, but he can be quite sweet when he’s not being brilliant. So, there they are, Jack — my five suitors.”

Jack looked at her, his head cocked to one side in a questioning sort of way. “I suppose you want to know my favourite? Well, if I had to choose now, I would put Sir Edward in the first position and possibly Andrew Duncannon the second, but it’s very difficult — they are all suitable in their own way.”

As she looked down at Jack an idea began to take shape. Yes, that was it. She would arrange a tea party at home and invite them all, but in such a way that they would think that they were the only one being invited. For good measure she decided on April 1st as the date. She’d often had fun on April Fool’s Day, so why not? She didn’t know what would happen, but she felt something would come of it, and if nothing else, it would be very amusing.

She had the invitations delivered the very next day.

Lady Fiona Holland

invites you to take tea with her

on April 1st. at four o’clock in the afternoon

to discus matters of mutual interest.

R.S.V.P.

The invitations might as well have been fireworks for the explosive effect they had on each of the recipients. Each knew that this was it. What else could there be to discuss but their betrothal? Five affirmative replies flew back.

Gilbert Blunt started thinking about an expensive ring, “diamonds and rubies I think,” he mused. Major Ponsonby rehearsed a speech as though he were about to address Parliament, or was it his troops? Alderman Spencer Blanchard envisioned a grand reception in Guildhall with the Lord Mayor in attendance, and Neville Carlisle started to get excited about the coming joys of the wedding night.

Only Andrew Duncannon had doubts. It certainly sounded like there was a real chance for him, but after a few minutes of quiet reflection he had convinced himself that Fiona needed more advice on her late husband’s affairs. Yes, that was it, how silly of him to get ahead of himself like that.

Over the next two weeks, Lady Fiona turned down all invitations and left the suitors to their own devices. Of course, they were out and about and when occasionally they saw each other they seemed to be overflowing with bonhomie as they put on their best “I know something you don’t know” smiles, or passed each other with a cheery wave as much as to say, “You don’t know it yet, dear boy, but you have lost the prize.” Andrew Duncannon was very perplexed and was once on the point of asking Blunt why everyone seemed so friendly all of a sudden, but he decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Perhaps Fiona could shed light on it on April 1st.

The day finally came around and the five suitors converged on Lady Fiona’s London residence — three on foot, Carlisle and Blunt in carriages, and all dressed in their very best town clothes and wigs impeccably powdered, except for Duncannon who was damned if he was going to pay the guinea tax imposed lately on powder**.

But what was this? One by one they saw their competitors making for Fiona’s residence. They tried to remember the wording of the invitation. Perhaps they had misunderstood. No, they couldn’t have — it was very plain. Had they been tricked? No, Fiona wouldn’t do such a thing. Nothing for it but to go through with it. Meanwhile Duncannon was wondering about the complete and very sudden disappearance of the bonhomie so recently displayed. No one spoke a word. They just glowered at each other, feeling confused, uncomfortable and very put out.

Carlisle was nearest the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by the butler and there in the foyer stood Lady Fiona, dressed in the latest Paris fashion, a long flowing dress of saffron-colored silk with matching hat, complete with feather. She smiled broadly at each one as she invited them in. Carlisle, who was determined to be the first to kiss the hand of the hostess, advanced, but so did Blunt at exactly the same time. The result was that the two of them got stuck in the door which only served to emphasize their considerable girths. After a swallowed curse Blunt gave way. The afternoon was not getting off to a good start for Buckinghamshire or Oxford.

The rest followed into the foyer and Fiona led the way into her most elegantly appointed dining room. As a husband, Richard had been rather dull, but he had money and he allowed Fiona to spend it. In front of them was a table covered in beautiful china and platters of various tea-time foods, surrounded by six chairs. A painting over the fireplace of Cupid, complete with bow and arrows caught Ponsonby’s eye and set his heart racing. 

Now, where were they to sit? There were no place cards.

All of them of course wanted to sit next to Fiona but while they were making their moves, it was Duncannon who stepped forward to hold a seat out for her which made the others seethe — an opportunity missed! Carlisle and Ponsonby immediately grabbed the seats on either side of her. Duncannon moved her chair in, and as the others sat down, he found the only seat left was behind a giant urn.

Lady Fiona bade them welcome, thanked them for coming and invited them to help themselves to tea; but it was not only muffins but also the atmosphere that could be cut with a knife. No one was making conversation. They looked a bit like children at their first birthday party. Suddenly it seemed, all these gentlemen didn’t know how to behave. Fiona, ever the hostess and not insensitive to the situation, broke the ice saying how mild the weather had been and where were those April showers? Upon which Carlisle began a long treatise on trends in temperatures he had been studying for the last 20 years and “don’t you know each year we are experiencing lower average temperatures,” at which Blunt interrupted saying that’s what must be affecting the yield from his thousands of acres of wheat, while Ponsonby interjected that farmers were asking far too much of the government in this time of war, as he was remarking to the Prime Minister only the other day, when Blanchard cut in with a statement that essential food costs were out of control in London and what he wanted to know was, what was Pitt proposing to do about that?

At this point, manners completely went out of the window with everyone barking over and at each other as though Fiona wasn’t even present. She filled her lungs and bellowed “WOULD ANYONE CARE FOR SOME RUM AND WALNUT CAKE?”

The room instantly fell silent except for Carlisle, who was still droning on about his temperature theories. But the others piped up with “Oh, yes, absolutely,” “indeed good lady,” “if you please,” “just a small piece perhaps,” “delicious tea,” they chorused, suddenly embarrassed by their show of ill-manners.

At that Fiona got up out of her chair and made towards the bellpull to summon the cake.

This was a signal for each of them to raise themselves out of their chairs and hurry to render her a service — no lady should be pulling bellpulls when there were five gentlemen present. As each did so, he realized that he was not the only one with the same thought and the matter then took on the form of a race to the bell — with disastrous results. Blunt fell, having tripped over Ponsonby’s foot, Spencer shot up and somehow impaled Blunt’s wig on his knife causing Carlisle to poke a muffin into his eye while Ponsonby, who had trodden on Jack’s paw, let out an ear-splitting howl as the dog sunk his teeth into the major’s knee. Meanwhile china and cutlery, muffins and eggs, were scattering in all directions, the teapot went flying and the urn was overturned. The gallant suitors then realized that they were, in any case, too late to assist Fiona, as one last china cup fell to the floor with an expensive crash.

Quiet descended on the room, broken in turn by a whimper from Ponsonby, a curse from Carlisle, an apology from Blanchard and an unfortunate noise from Blunt. Duncannon meanwhile picked up the urn and put its lid back on.

The cook and a maid, hearing the cacophony, came running in, the cook carrying the rather delicious-looking rum and walnut cake which she set on the table, while the maid started to clear up the debris. At this point, the gentlemen realized the best thing for them to do was retreat and enjoin the battle for Fiona’s hand on another occasion. They moved towards the door muttering “so sorry, have to go, Fiona,” “appointment in the city,” “vote in the House,” “need attention for my eye,” “my knee” and so on. Fiona, suppressing a smile, thanked them for coming, tried to apologize to Ponsonby for Jack’s behavior, and said goodbye as she watched their backs disappear into the foyer. Only Andrew Duncannon stayed to help clear up the devastation.

When they had brought the room to some sort of order, Fiona offered him a piece of the rum and walnut cake. “At least that didn’t perish in the fray,” she said. “Did you ever see such a thing, Andrew — will they ever forgive me? Will you ever forgive me? But it was funny, don’t you think? What will they say? I know I got you all here under false pretences, but I had no idea Armageddon would ensue, even though it is April Fool’s Day! Thank you so much for staying and clearing up, you are a dear and you seem to be the only one who came away unscathed.”

“It’s the least I could do Fiona, and if I may say so, it was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen since I witnessed a dancing bear, wearing a skirt, walking down Regent Street juggling coconuts.”

Fiona looked at him quizzically for a second, then realized what he had said, and broke out into peals of laughter, finally releasing the emotions bottled up over the last few months, not to mention the teatime debacle. “Andrew, you say the funniest things. You’re the only one who can make me laugh and I do love to laugh. I’m beginning to think you could steal my heart.”

“Really, Fiona, do you mean it? I’d walk down Regent Street wearing a skirt and juggling coconuts if you really did.”

“That won’t be necessary Andrew — just come here and give me a kiss.”  PS

Historical Notes:

The print by James Gillray that inspired the story “Company shocked at a lady getting up to Ring the Bell” was published on November 20th, 1804.

* In the 18th century in England, convention accepted that ladies who had given their husbands a son and heir could take a cicisbeo (Italian for platonic lover) who provided sexual services and escorted them to events their husbands would not be attending, as long as the relationship did not interfere with their marriage.

** The Prime Minister of the day, William Pitt, imposed many taxes during this period to help pay for the expensive war against Napoleon. The names of the gentry who paid the guinea tax on powder for wigs were listed on a notice in their local church and became known as ‘guinea pigs’— the origin of the phrase we use to this day.

Bears were first introduced to Europe in the Middle Ages and proved to be a popular sideshow entertainment in countries where bears were not indigenous. There is no evidence of one being seen in Regent Street juggling coconuts, but we can dream.

Tony Rothwell moved to Pinehurst in 2017. He spent 50 years in the hotel business but in retirement collects caricatures, writes short stories and sings in the Moore County Choral Society.

In the Spirit

Respect

Staying humble and giving credit where it’s due

By Tony Cross

I reminisce from time to time about my days — or nights — as a bar manager and the thrill I got creating a new cocktail menu. I constantly challenged myself to make each menu better than the last. To some, that might mean simply mixing a better tasting cocktail.

Making great-tasting drinks was definitely an end goal, but there was more to it than that. Our ABC system limited what I could play with, spirit- and liqueur-wise. What may have been available in the spring could be unavailable in the fall, and vice-versa. At the time, I usually had to order by the case. Like Tony Shaloub says on Monk, it was a blessing and a curse.

The first time I placed an order for a case of Rittenhouse Rye it was a blessing — our establishment was the first in Moore County to get this great-priced rye whiskey. We crushed sales and, within the month, I needed more. After ordering a truckload of cases, our local ABC decided Rittenhouse Rye deserved a place on their shelves.

On the other hand, there was a case of the Luxardo Maraschino liqueur that sat on our shelf so long it could have grown a beard. When I ordered it I was still learning the ropes and failed to realize that a little bit went a long way — it was going to take a while to go through 12 bottles. Then it dawned on me to take another bartender’s cocktail recipe with said ingredient (that I now possessed by the boatload) and put that drink on my menu. It would showcase two things: the spirits and liqueurs that I was still learning about (I had nobody to bounce ideas off, so you can imagine how long that would take.) while incorporating them into a cocktail that was already a winner.

It also highlighted the bartenders and the bars that I read and obsessed about daily. I noted on the menu next to the ingredients who created it, when and where they worked. Not only did this pay homage to the bartender, but it was always a great conversation piece for my guests. Here are a few of the cocktails I put on my menu, and the bartenders who created them.

Cubed Old Fashioned

Jamie Boudreau, Canon, Seattle, 2011

Jamie Boudreau was one of a few people I watched on a YouTube channel named “Small Screen Network.” His video clips were short and always to the point. Everything from what type of ice you should use and why, to how to shake and stir. In addition to technique, Boudreau had videos on how to make cocktails: barrel-aging, smoking cocktails, carbonating and, one of his signature drinks, the Cubed Old Fashioned. He used three different types of spirits and three different types of bitters. In addition to this spin on the classic old fashioned cocktail, Boudreau also created what he calls an old fashioned syrup, using whiskey, Angostura bitters and demerara sugar. He opened up Canon: Whiskey and Bitters Emporium in the same year that this cocktail was created. When I put it on the menu, it was the first time I worked with a cocktail that was a spin on the classic old fashioned and it was the first time I used Maker’s Mark 46. Boudreau’s original recipe called for equal parts Maker’s 46, Mount Gay Extra Old Rum, and Rémy Martin. It gave me the opportunity to share this new spirit with my guests.

Cubed Old Fashioned

3/4 ounce cognac

3/4 ounce rye

3/4 ounce aged rum

1/4 ounce old fashioned syrup

1 dash each aromatic, orange and chocolate bitters

Orange zest

Cherry

Combine all liquid ingredients in a chilled mixing glass filled with ice. Stir until proper dilution is achieved, and strain into a rocks glass over ice. Garnish with orange zest and a cherry.

Naked and Famous

Joaquín Simó, Death & Co. NYC, 2011

When Death & Co. released their Modern Classic Cocktails in 2014, I couldn’t keep my nose out of it. Loaded with much more than cocktail recipes, this was the best bartender’s manual available — at least I thought so. As for this particular cocktail, the folks over at Death & Co. describe it as “the bastard child born out of an illicit Oaxacan love affair between the classic Last Word and the Paper Plane, a drink Sam Ross created at the West Village bar Little Branch.” I was sold before making it since I love the Last Word.

My affinity for green chartreuse cocktails aside, this drink contains mezcal and yellow chartreuse. I was in possession of a rather large order of Del Maguey Vida mezcal prior to getting my hands on this book and I had also just received three bottles of yellow chartreuse. The Vida mezcal was already an ingredient in one of our margaritas, but I wanted to try something else and this was the drink to do it. I wasn’t thrilled the first time tasting yellow chartreuse and was having a hard time incorporating this liqueur into a cocktail. Naked and Famous was fantastic on the first sip. The smokiness from the mezcal is balanced with the soft bitterness of Aperol and the sweeter, less herbaceous taste of the chartreuse. The lime juice adds the acidity that cuts right through the three other ingredients.

This was the first time I’d done a riff on the Last Word, and it opened the door in my mind on how and why this works. Most of my staff loved the drink, and it went on our menu immediately. Most folks ordered it because of the name. I guarantee 90 percent of our clientele had no clue what yellow chartreuse was, and if they heard of mezcal, it was “tequila with a worm in the bottle, right?”

Naked and Famous

3/4 ounce Del Maguey Chichicapa mezcal (I used Del Maguey Vida at the time.)

3/4 ounce yellow chartreuse

3/4 ounce Aperol

3/4 ounce lime juice

Combine all ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice and shake hard. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. No garnish needed.  PS

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

All in the Family

Pinehurst’s Fownes Family left an enduring legacy in golf

By Bill Case

When Bill Fownes faced George Dunlap Jr. on Dec. 31, 1929, in the final match of Pinehurst’s Mid-Winter Tournament, he was a decade past his golfing prime. He had won the 1910 U.S. Amateur Championship and remained a top-ranked golfer for another dozen years — good enough to play on two Walker Cup teams, captaining the U.S. side in the 1922 matches. He won numerous championships in his home state of Pennsylvania, including four state amateur titles. By contrast, the 20-year-old Dunlap, already a four-time Mid-Winter champion, was emerging as one of America’s best amateurs. The Princeton junior would win the 1933 U.S. Amateur, and seven United North and South Amateur titles.

Time had contributed to Bill Fownes’ golfing decline — he was by then 52 — and health issues were dogging him. In 1926, he suffered a heart attack at his Pinehurst winter home after a round. It is unlikely he would have survived but for the quick actions of his caddie, who had been waiting outside to be paid. When Fownes failed to reappear, the caddie rushed inside and found him unconscious next to the doorway.

Notwithstanding the difference in their ages, Fownes and Dunlap shared much in common. Both lived in Pinehurst during the winter season and competed at amateur golf’s highest level. Fownes’ metallurgical engineering degree from Massachusetts Institute of Technology equated with Dunlap’s Ivy League education. Both were sons of amazingly successful and wealthy fathers. George’s father founded the renowned book publishing company Grosset and Dunlap, while Bill’s dad, Pittsburgher Henry C. (H.C.) Fownes, made his millions acquiring and operating an array of enterprises associated with iron, steelmaking, and oil. Furthermore, Bill, George Jr. and their fathers were all active members of The Tin Whistles, Pinehurst’s pre-eminent male golf society.

But the Fowneses had accomplished something that no other family could match. It was H.C. who in 1903 founded Pittsburgh’s Oakmont Country Club, designed its epic course, and fashioned it into the most demanding test in championship golf. Bill then took charge of pushing the penal nature of the course to the max. For decades, he would roam Oakmont’s grounds, plotting the placement of additional harrowing bunkers. The younger Fownes believed that “the charm of the game lies in its difficulties.” He explained his course design philosophy with the pithy aphorism, “A shot poorly played should be a shot irrevocably lost.”

Few of the several hundred spectators gathered at the first tee of Course No. 2 to watch the Mid-Winter’s championship match gave Fownes much of a chance against young Dunlap. The older man began the match unsteadily, losing the first two holes. He righted himself and stood only 1 down as the match reached the eighth green, where Dunlap’s ball rested 4 feet from the pin while Fownes’ checked up nearer the hole. According to the Pinehurst Outlook, “the Princeton golfer slightly hooked his putt and knocked Fownes’ ball into the hole.” This astounding break brought Fownes even with the nonplussed Dunlap.

Thereafter, the battle was nip-and-tuck with neither player gaining better than a 1-up advantage. The match stood all square on the 18th. Dunlap misplayed his approach, and suddenly Fownes faced a 5-foot putt to win the match. To convert it, Fownes’ ball needed to barely miss Dunlap’s, which was partially blocking the line. He nursed the tricky slider past the stymie and into the cup for the upset victory. The Outlook reported it as “one of the most stirring finishes ever seen in a Pinehurst tournament.”

The victory was Fownes’ last hurrah in competitive golf. Within months, he suffered a second debilitating heart attack. More seizures followed and he would lie bedridden for six weeks. Though Fownes would survive the scare, he curtailed his business activities and ceased playing golf altogether.

W.C. Fownes’ fragile health in 1930 contrasted markedly from that of his wiry and agile father, H.C., who at 74 still golfed daily and, according to the younger Fownes, “seemed to have almost unlimited stamina and endurance.” H.C. brought this same gusto to driving an automobile. He loved fast cars and motored his flashy Duesenberg from Pittsburgh to Pinehurst with pedal to the metal over the rutted dirt roads of the era.

This zest extended to his social life. A round of golf in Pinehurst was incomplete until he and his Tin Whistles playing partners sipped drinks at the home H.C. built on East Village Green Road in 1914. During the season, eight to 10 visitors usually lodged in its spacious quarters. A widower following his wife, Mary’s, death in 1906, the convivial entrepreneur was usually the last man to depart a party or a card game. H.C. favored bridge and poker, pastimes likewise enjoyed by Bill.

Father and son shared much more. According to Bill, they “went through the bicycling craze together,” and regularly played tennis. “So that from early boyhood . . . and because of (our) close association, I was frequently classed as his brother instead of his son; much to my father’s amusement and gratification.” The son’s premature baldness no doubt contributed to this misapprehension.

The men were inseparable business associates. Two years after his 1898 graduation from MIT, Bill joined his father, and extended family, in operation of their various enterprises. These included an iron casting foundry in Pittsburgh, a modern blast furnace in Midland, Pennsylvania, coal reserves and coke oven near Brownsville, Pennsylvania, and the Standard Seamless Tube Company. In 1929, the Fowneses diversified this portfolio, founding the Shamrock Oil & Gas Company. Bill served as his father’s alter ego in managing these undertakings though “no major decisions were made without his (H.C.’s) guidance and advice which in the last analysis was the determining factor.”

Most of all, the Fowneses, père and fils, shared a passionate love of golf. Though not in the same class as his son, H.C. became an exceptional player despite starting the game in 1898 at the age of 42. By 1901, he was competing in the U.S. Amateur, even winning three matches in the 1905 championship before his elimination. He captured The Tin Whistles club championship of 1906.

H.C.’s greatest playing achievement was winning Pinehurst’s 1918 Spring Tournament at age 62. He defeated son C.B. “Chick” Fownes (Bill’s brother) in the final match. Chick was a fine player despite suffering from palsy. “He is the greatest putter in the world,” marveled Walter J. Travis, America’s best player in the early 19th century, and noted for his own putting chops. The Outlook observed that the Spring Tournament’s all-Fownes final meant that, “not one man (of the 217 in the field) could beat a Fownes. Not one.”

While H.C., W.C., and C.B. may have cornered the initials market, they weren’t the only distinguished Fownes golfers of the period. H.C.’s daughter Mary took home the championship trophy at the 1909 Women’s United North and South Championship, while his niece Sarah finished runner-up in 1919 and 1922.

The family’s many fine golfers might never have chanced to take up the game absent a freak injury H.C. sustained in 1896 that was followed by a botched medical diagnosis. Then 39, H.C. sought to make a patch for a bicycle tire by heating it with a hot wire while neglecting to wear any eye protection. After completing the repair, he became aware of a black spot interfering with his vision. His physician grimly advised it was the result of arteriosclerosis and that H.C. could expect to live at best another two to three years. “This information, of course, was very depressing,” said Bill, displaying something of a gift for understatement. As a result, H.C. ceased his immersion in business ventures and “started traveling about the country seeking relaxation.” One recreational outlet was golf, which he took up at the suggestion of friend and fellow steel titan Andrew Carnegie.

H.C. eventually learned from a specialist that his eye’s blind spot was not, in fact, a death sentence. It had come from the subjection of his eye to the blinding light and heat caused by the tire repair. Given a new lease on life, he returned to work, but now balanced it with time for leisure — mostly golf. He began playing at Pittsburgh Field Club, a small athletic facility located in what is now Fox Chapel. Dissatisfied with the club’s rudimentary course, H.C. helped start Highland Country Club, which featured a nine-hole, 2000-yard layout. It was the venue where H.C. introduced many family members to the game. In fact, four Fowneses playing out of Highland (himself, his two sons, and brother William Clark Fownes, for whom W.C., Jr. was named) won the 1902 Pittsburgh district team championship.

With the game’s popularity on the rise, H.C. decided Pittsburgh deserved a course of challenge and stature. When he learned that farmland above the Allegheny River in Oakmont might provide a suitable location, he rounded up shareholders to buy the property and build a new course. To retain control, H.C. purchased the majority of the shares himself.

Who should design this new behemoth? The self-confident H.C. just happened to have someone in mind — himself. Fownes fashioned a virtually treeless, bunker-strewn course of architectural brilliance containing unique features like the notorious Church Pews bunker between the third and fourth fairways. The humps, moguls and terrorizing speed of Oakmont’s greens would prove humbling to the best putters. In an era when the longest courses topped out at 6,000 yards, Oakmont’s distance at its 1904 opening stretched to a hitherto unimaginable 6,600 yards, with a par of 80.

H.C. also assumed the role of Oakmont Country Club’s president. He adamantly rejected any favoritism toward wealthier, more prominent members. Bill wrote that his father “hated all pretense or show,” and was insistent “that every member in the club was entitled to equal rights.” The club welcomed female members, a rarity during that period. H.C. also took pains to recruit excellent golfers — three members, including Bill, would win the U.S. Amateur.

Bill’s victory in the 1910 championship at the Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts, featured a sensational semifinal match with legendary Chick Evans. Down two holes with three to play, all seemed lost for 33-year-old Fownes after he bunkered his tee shot on the par-3 16th. But when Bill holed a sizable putt for par and Evans three-putted, the deficit was cut in half. Fownes’ birdie on 17 squared the match, and after the frustrated Evans three-putted the final hole, the resilient Fownes escaped with a win. His 4 and 3 defeat of Warren Wood in the final proved far easier.

Throughout the first quarter of the 20th century, W.C. Fownes remained a mainstay in the U.S. Amateur. A four-time semifinalist, he qualified for the event 19 times in 25 years. His last notable performance came in 1919, held fittingly at Oakmont. He reached the semis before bowing to Bobby Jones.

The honing of his formidable skill had been enhanced in tournaments and exhibitions during Pinehurst winters. The Fownes family’s annual migrations to Pinehurst began around the time that H.C. started the Oakmont project. At first, only H.C. and golfing sons Bill and Chick made the excursion, bunking at the Carolina or the Holly. The Tin Whistles provided an ideal golf and social outlet for the men. Bill and his dad would both become presidents of the organization with H.C. serving in that capacity three times.

In 1908, Mary Fownes, age 24, joined her father and brothers at Pinehurst for the winter season. She often brought along her golfing cohort from Oakmont, Louise Elkins, who, like Mary, would eventually become a North and South champion. A popular social butterfly, Mary enjoyed bridge and hosted card parties for her Pinehurst friends. She also demonstrated formidable dancing acumen with an Irish jig that knew no equal.

From 1909 to 1913, H.C. leased Lenox Cottage on Cherokee Road. Formerly a rooming house, the cottage was large enough to house all the family’s golfers. Bill’s wife, Sara, and the couple’s two children, Louise and Henry (Heinie) C. Fownes II (named after his grandfather), came too. W.C. and Heinie were frequent winners in father-son tournaments. H.C.’s spry mother stayed in Arbutus Cottage next door.

Thus, the Fowneses became integral members of Pinehurst’s wealthy “cottage colony.” The cottagers were a closely knit bunch who hobnobbed with one another throughout the season, even holding their own golf tournament. The Fowneses stood atop the cottage colony’s pecking order following the 1914 completion of Fownes Cottage on Village Green, arguably the most impressive home in the village.

In those days, Pinehurst was essentially a company town run by the Tufts family. Everyone in Pinehurst, including the upper crust denizens of the cottage colony, depended on the Tuftses for staples of daily living. The Tuftses owned and operated the utility services, the local lumber company, laundry, service station and department store. To defray operating costs, they instituted a quasi-governmental taxing system. To avoid outcries of taxation without representation, Pinehurst kingpin Leonard Tufts established an unofficial village council in 1923. In recognition of H.C.’s business acumen, Leonard appointed the steel baron to the new council. H.C. also led other Sandhills’ organizations, serving as president of the Pinehurst Country Club’s Board of Governors and as a member of the Pinehurst Bank’s board of directors. Donald Ross referred to H.C. as “the best citizen in Pinehurst.”

H.C.’s most significant business contribution to Pinehurst, however, occurred during the Great Depression. The unprecedented economic downturn plunged the Tufts family’s holdings into receivership. It appeared doubtful that the family would retain their sizable Pinehurst assets after a creditor bank demanded payment of a $100,000 note. A group of cottagers anted up the funds to purchase the note, thereby keeping the Tuftses afloat. H.C. contributed the largest share — $30,000. This was no small gesture given that H.C.’s own investment in Shamrock Oil was tanking at the time.

While H.C. immersed himself in Pinehurst’s affairs, W.C. was gaining wide respect in golf for reasons unrelated to his playing ability. Collaborating with several noted golf architects, Bill assisted in finalizing the layout of incomparable Pine Valley after the course’s original designer died in 1918. Gravitating toward a role as golf’s senior statesman, Bill captained American teams in matches against teams from Canada in 1919 and ’20. Then, in 1921, he organized a team of top American amateurs that challenged and beat a British aggregate in an informal competition prior to the British Amateur at Royal Liverpool.

This match served as precursor and catalyst to the first Walker Cup held in 1921 at the National Golf Links on Long Island. The USGA, having taken note of Bill Fownes’ ability to run a team and inspire its players, appointed him playing captain. The U.S. won the cup 8 to 4 with Bill splitting his two matches. He would make the Walker Cup team again in 1924.

W.C. also became active in golf administration, serving on the “Implements and Ball” committee of the USGA during a period in which the advent of steel shafted clubs was about to render hickory shafts as obsolete as buggy whips. Many feared the newfangled clubs would ruin the game. In 1923, Bill’s committee, after exhaustive testing, recommended that steel shafts be approved. This finding was met with resistance by the Royal & Ancient Golf Club, the regulator of golf outside the United States. Six years would pass before the R&A finally permitted steel.

W.C.’s committee worried that the golf ball was traveling too far — a view still common today. To address this concern, the committee recommended that the ball’s minimum diameter be increased from 1.62 inches to 1.68 inches. The USGA adopted the proposal, but the R&A again balked. While the larger “American” ball was made mandatory for the Open Championship beginning in 1974, the governing bodies didn’t officially reach agreement on ball size until 1990.

In 1926, the USGA elected Bill president of the association — the first U.S. Amateur champion so chosen. W.C. was serving in that role when he sailed with the U.S. team to Great Britain for the 1926 U.S. Walker Cup matches at St. Andrews. Wife Sara and the couple’s comely daughter Louise, then 22, accompanied him aboard the ship Aquitania.

During the ocean crossing, Louise got reacquainted with tall, handsome Washingtonian Roland MacKenzie, whom she had met at Oakmont during the ’25 U.S. Amateur. The 19-year-old Brown University phenom had surprised everyone at that championship by winning medalist honors in the qualifier. Roland’s performance at St. Andrews in the ’26 Walker Cup was likewise impressive. The young bomber split his two matches and his thunderous tee shots amazed all.

During their time together aboard ship and in Scotland, Louise and Roland shared a mutual attraction. But the prospect of romance drifted away after the ship reached the New York dock. Instead, Louise married Halbert Blue, whose family owned the Aberdeen & Rockfish Railroad in the Sandhills. The couple would have two children, Bill and Dick. Meanwhile, MacKenzie continued playing amateur golf, making the semifinals of the 1927 U.S. Amateur. Selected to the Walker Cup teams of 1928 and ’30, MacKenzie excelled, winning all four of his matches. He also married but the union did not last.

During the 1930 Walker Cup in England, MacKenzie encountered dashing Hollywood movie star Douglas Fairbanks. At the actor’s invitation, Roland moved to California and caught on as an assistant director of several films. He and Fairbanks “usually played golf every morning before going to the studio, and never wanted for company,” remembered MacKenzie. “Among those who played a lot with us were Bing Crosby and Howard Hughes.”

Tiring of Tinseltown, MacKenzie moved back to Washington in 1932. After a stint in his family’s Dupont Laundry business, he turned pro, and in 1934 became head professional at Washington’s prestigious Congressional Country Club. He entered the 1935 U.S. Open at Oakmont and found himself the early leader with a 72 in the first round, though he would ultimately finish tied for 41st. The course’s notorious furrowed bunkers caused scores to skyrocket in that championship. Pittsburgh local pro Sam Parks wound up winning with a total of 299, the second highest winning score in the Open going back 100 years from today — the highest in that period is Tommy Armour’s 301 in 1927, recorded, naturally, at Oakmont.

Louise, whose marriage to Halbert Blue had gone hopelessly awry, reconnected with Roland at the ’35 Open championship and they started seeing each other. They would marry four years later. H.C. served as the tournament chairman for the ’35 Open, his final contribution to the game as he died three months later. A whirling dervish to the end, H.C. made a 1,600-mile automobile trip to Amarillo, Texas, to check on the status of Shamrock Oil not long before his demise. W.C. Fownes succeeded his father as Oakmont’s president, successfully guiding the club through the tail end of the Depression and the chaotic years of World War II. He ultimately resigned in 1946.

In his later years, W.C. tended to his gentleman farm adjacent to a home he acquired in 1928 on Crest Road in Knollwood, growing dazzling sunflowers. He played in his card club, the “Wolves Den,” collected antiques, served on corporate boards, and traveled. On one European vacation, he and wife Sara encountered a London cab driver who shared Bill’s interest in antiques. The impressed Fowneses spontaneously invited the delighted hack to visit in the Sandhills, all expenses paid.

Charles Goren, perhaps the mid-century’s foremost bridge authority, found himself subjected to a less welcome instance of Sara’s spontaneity. In 1949, the Fowneses invited Goren to stay with them. One afternoon, Charles sat in with Sara’s duplicate bridge group and won handily. When Sara tendered Goren his winnings based on the group’s standard 1/20th cent a point, he complained, stating he never played for less than a penny a point. Sara responded by tendering payment as demanded, but also summoning a cab and telling a flummoxed Goren to pack his bags.

W.C.’s son Heinie, who had played a key role in restoring Shamrock Oil to financial health, passed away from heart trouble in 1948. Two years later, Bill himself succumbed to a heart attack at age 72. The USGA paid W.C. this tribute: “As a friend and sportsman, he bequeathed to his fellows a spirit which will always live.” Wife Sara passed away in 1951. Chick died in Pinehurst in 1954.

The passing of Bill’s generation did not terminate his family’s association with Pinehurst or amateur golf. Bill’s son-in-law Roland MacKenzie found that the pro life was not his cup of tea. He regained his amateur status after he and Louise relocated to the Baltimore area. In 1948, MacKenzie captured the Middle Atlantic Amateur Championship, a tournament he had won 23 years earlier. Roland and Louise maintained the family’s connections with the Sandhills, purchasing a second home in the Old Town section of Pinehurst.

While in Baltimore, Roland had segued into land investment and farming, and he followed the same path in Moore County. In 1955, he acquired a large parcel several miles west of Pinehurst. He transformed the land into a peach farm and vineyard. In the late 1960s, MacKenzie and other associates decided to build golf courses on the property. Foxfire Resort and Country Club’s two courses, opened in 1968, were the happy result. Roland passed away in 1988, followed by Louise’s death in 1996.

The MacKenzie’s two children, Clark and Margot, became superlative golfers. Clark MacKenzie won the 1966 Maryland Amateur Championship and later captured several international seniors’ titles. Margot MacKenzie Rawlings still resides at her parents’ Pinehurst home. She continues to play excellent golf as a member of Pinehurst Country Club’s Silver Foils. Margot’s stellar playing career includes victories in the stroke play championship of the Women’s Golf Championship of Baltimore, and championships of numerous clubs including Country Club of North Carolina.

While these playing exploits through the generations are impressive, the Fownes family’s golfing legacy will always be magnificent Oakmont. The club has hosted a record nine U.S. Opens, two Women’s U.S. Opens, three PGA Championships, and five U.S Amateur Championships. The Amateur will return to Oakmont for the sixth time this year. While the course the Fowneses built in the hills outside Pittsburgh may be their ultimate mark in golf, the family’s footprints are a veritable stampede in Pinehurst.  PS

Pinehurst resident Bill Case is PineStraw’s history man. He can be reached at Bill.Case@thompsonhine.com.

The Naturalist

Requiem for a Dolphin

Pondering extinction in a river far away

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

On February 18, 1914, Charles Hoy, the teenage son of an American missionary in the Hunan Province of China, went duck hunting on Dongting Lake, an offshoot to that country’s longest river, the Yangtze. Instead of procuring waterfowl that cold winter day, young Hoy shot and killed an unusual freshwater dolphin. A naturalist at heart, Hoy kept the skull of the dolphin as well as several photos documenting his trophy, which he presented to the Smithsonian Institution upon his return to America.

Gerrit Miller Jr., a scientist at the renowned museum, examined the skull and declared that it belonged to a new genus and species of dolphin, which he christened Lipotes vexillifer in 1923. The name Lipotes comes from the Greek word lipos meaning “fat,” and the difficult-to-pronounce species name vexillifer is Latin for “flagbearer.” Scientific jargon aside, the dolphin is commonly known as the Yangtze river dolphin or baiji (pronounced Bi-gee).

Fast forward 83 years later, to December 2006, when our research vessel pulled into the enormous port city of Wuhan, China, along the shores of the Yangtze River. The city, with a population of more than 11 million people, was still many years away from achieving notoriety as the origin of a global pandemic that continues, as of this writing, to cripple economies and destroy lives.

At the time, despite it being a city larger than New York City, few Americans had ever heard of Wuhan. I confess to only having a vague understanding of where the city sat geographically within the vast country of China before that trip. I had traveled to the bustling city to join a team of two dozen scientists, gathered from around the world, to conduct a survey of the Yangtze River for the dolphin.

Since the species description in 1923, a major revolution and world war had prevented Western scientists from studying the unusual animal in more detail. In 1979, China opened its borders to the outside world, and the first surveys were conducted for the dolphin. A joint team of Chinese and European scientists found the baiji to be exceedingly rare and determined that only a few hundred individuals occupied the Yangtze, the only place in the world where the species is found.

By the time of our survey, it was estimated that the entire population numbered just a dozen individuals, and the baiji was widely considered the most endangered large animal on the planet.

Most people know dolphins, in particular the bottlenose dolphin, from attractions at large aquariums such as Sea World, or (if you are of a certain generation) television shows like Flipper. But few would recognize the baiji as a dolphin. With a long snout filled with scores of needle-sharp teeth, small beady eyes, broad flippers and a tiny fin on its back, the animal looks downright prehistoric.

For six weeks, our research boats, using high-powered binoculars and towing sophisticated underwater hydrophones to record any sounds the dolphins might make, combed the Yangtze River from one end to the other. Twice. We failed to see a single dolphin.

The Yangtze River is the third longest river in the world, behind the Amazon and the Nile, and has dozens of tributaries (most of which are dammed) and two main, large lakes. Aside from its wide mouth near Shanghai, the Yangtze is a relatively narrow river, averaging just over 1 mile in width throughout its course. It is entirely possible we missed an individual baiji or two but, considering the amount of effort involved and the thoroughness of the survey, it seemed unlikely a sustainable population remained in the river.

The results of our survey were published the following year declaring that the baiji was likely extinct in the wild. One of the lead scientists, Samuel Turvey, published a book, Witness to Extinction, chronicling the events of the survey. For a brief time, media outlets ran stories on the demise of the dolphin, both online and in major newspapers. But within a few weeks, the baiji was largely forgotten. The chances are good that — other than its mention here — you have never even heard of a baiji.

Extinction is something that we are taught in elementary school. We know that dinosaurs once walked this planet, and that wooly mammoths are relics of the last Ice Age. But the concept of extinction happening today remains a bit abstract and insignificant.

The loss of the baiji had no effect on global stock markets. There are no days marked on our calendars commemorating its demise. All that is left of the baiji’s time on this planet are a few dusty skeletons and remains preserved in vats of formalin, scattered in museums around the world.

In the nearly 100 years since the baiji was described, we still know virtually nothing about it. Basic questions about its home range, preferred habitat, what it liked to eat, even its average lifespan remain unanswered. What is more certain, the dolphin was a part of the vast tapestry of life unique to this planet, and its untimely demise should provide food for thought. It simply lived its life trying to survive and provide for its own, just like the rest of us.   PS

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

Poem

Beige Wall Telephone, 1960s

Beige Wall Telephone, 1960s

To you who have never known what it is to be tethered

     to the family’s one phone by a corkscrew cord

          filthied by idle fingers twisting it as we talked

and stretched by our efforts to sneak with the handset

away from the dining room where that cheap plastic box

     clung to the wall, my sister and I desperate

          to hide behind curtains or in a nearby room

and mumble dumb endearments to whichever lucky soul

we had a crush on that week: I won’t say how wonderful

     it felt to hear a call’s unexpected tremolo

          and rush to answer that sudden summons,

lifting the receiver’s heavy curve out of its metal hook,

or to dial seven numbers on a whirring analog wheel

     and hear a distant ringing pulse in the ear,

          knowing that actual bells trilled as a body

moved through space to deliver its hopeful Hello? –

no, it was awful, that phone, intended for businesses,

     brisk standing exchanges of information,

          not a home where its too-public anchoring

left adolescent siblings open to each other’s mockery

and the cocked ears of nosy parents straining to decode

     one side of conversations as we curled closer

          to the wall and whispered words downward

into the darkness that our huddling made, not pacing

like a barking dog chained to a stake in the backyard

     but trying our best to vanish, descending

          slow as a diver sipping words like oxygen

from a humming line whose other end kept us breathing.

— Michael McFee, from We Were Once Here,
Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2017

Story of a House

Return of the Native

Speaking fluent mid-century modernism

By Deborah Salomon     Photographs by John Gessner

What’s in a name?

Grandfathered by the Arts and Crafts movement, championed by Frank Lloyd Wright, architectural styles that flourished post WWII answer to contemporary, Scandinavian, modern, post-modern and, finally, mid-century modernism, a style nurtured at the N.C. State University College of Design. Here, famed California architect George Matsumoto inspired disciples Edward Lowenstein and Thomas Hayes.

Go forth, they were challenged, and shock the Georgians, the Taras, Colonials, Tudors, saltboxes and ranches tricked out in cherry highboys, mahogany dining tables, cut glass lamps and brocade upholstery. Out with the drapes. In with the light. Disciple Lowenstein shook up Guilford County while, in 1958, Hayes settled in Southern Pines, built himself a house in the genre’s extreme, opened an office with Calvin Howell, and began designing residences in stark contrast to the brick mansions and summery cottages à la Aymar Embury II. Soon after, Cecil Beith, a founding member of the St. Andrew’s Society of N.C., commissioned a residence on a 2-acre corner lot in Knollwood, where it appeared less Martian than those Hayes built in Weymouth.

Now, after several ownerships but minimal renovations, this Hayes creation, home to bachelor Guy Bailey, speaks modernism starting at the front door. To the left, an exterior wall composed of slate plates laid horizontally and vertically form a decorative pattern. To the right, a goldfish pond with running water. The window wall rising above it reveals the dining room, furnished with a glass table and clear acrylic chairs which, in their transparency, almost levitate. Pale oak floors need only a few area rugs, also pale. In the vestibule, grasscloth wall coverings, a sleek black lacquer case piece and a watery blue painting in a floating frame set an immediate tone — followed by a surprise:

The formal (as opposed to family) living room ceiling is composed of redwood slats, painted the color of beach sand and installed on a slant.

Minimalism reigns here, where less is enough.

Clean lines. Simple forms. Light. Abstract art. White, black, shades of gray, cream, vanilla, occasionally navy. A few books and plants, no clutter. Windows throughout, except for over the kitchen sink, are floor-to-ceiling, most uncovered. Bailey watches deer go by from a picture window set into the master bathroom wall.

Bailey belongs to a select group of mid-life or retired native-borns who have returned to Moore County. “We lived on Country Club Circle, near the Elks Club, in Judge McConnell’s house,” he says wistfully. “I realize now how wonderful it was to grow up in a small community.” His parents owned clothing stores on Broad Street, The Men’s Room and Fancy This. Bailey graduated from Pinecrest in 1979, tried college, worked in fashion/fabrics, lived in Charlotte, where he married and raised two sons.

In 2017 a series of life events (and his elderly parents) drew him back to Southern Pines. But, realizing that people are defined by their digs, where should he live?

“I wasn’t interested in building . . . we’d done that,” Bailey says. He looked around, mainly lakefront properties in Whispering Pines and Pinehurst. A friend discovered the Knollwood house which, coincidentally, belonged to the parents of a high school classmate. Bailey was familiar with the area from playing golf at Mid Pines Inn and Golf Club and visiting Peggy Kirk Bell’s family.

“I’ve always loved Knollwood Heights . . . it’s the antithesis of a typical Moore County neighborhood. When I walked in the house I didn’t want the Realtor to see how excited I was.”

About what, specifically?

The house, listed at 3,587 square feet, seems larger because space is lavished on living areas, not bedrooms, which suits Bailey fine. “I get up, shower, get dressed and leave.” Beyond the “formal” living and dining rooms (with fireplace and built-ins) is an enormous undivided kitchen-eating-relaxing room, nearly 60 feet long, accommodating an 8-by-10-foot island, “where we gather.” Bailey likes to cook, necessitating a few adjustments in the kitchen, namely swapping a flat-top electric range for natural gas. To further increase the spaciousness, Bailey removed a wall surrounding a stairwell leading to the finished basement, allowing even more light to stream through.

The 40-foot shallow lap pool was a huge attraction, as was the landscaping planned strategically to screen off neighbors.

“I love the seclusion so close to a main road,” Bailey says. And, he loves poring over Hayes’ renderings, which he found rolled up in the crawl space.

The basement appealed to an alter ego, eons from modernism. “My man cave,” Bailey calls the underground room containing remnants of his city life and homes: a pool table, office equipment, sports stuff, easy chairs, plaids and a worn leather couch for napping.

Arriving with virtually no furnishings was advantageous, especially since Bailey’s sister, niece and friends volunteered to scour Habitat and Designer’s Showcase for modernist period pieces — many large and showy like the circular étagère, perfect for a wide-open wall in the formal living room.

“I’m not an antiques kind of guy,” Bailey admits, a good thing since family heirlooms “went to the girls.” Exceptions: One hallway is devoted to photos of his children. His grandmother’s set of amber glassware lines a shelf. Otherwise, he forges boldly into abstract art; niece Grace Crawford contributed several sculptural, dimensional hangings made from insulation sprayed on canvas, then painted. Other canvases, some encrusted with sparkly granules, add the only primary colors in an otherwise black and near-white environment where Bailey feels comfortable, after years in high fashion.

In a period piece designed by a notable architect, little things still count. Bailey loves that a door in the master bathroom opens out onto the lap pool deck. Kitsch gets a nod from the white fur bedspreads. And, since he believes Hayes planned this house for entertaining, Bailey enjoys taking advantage by letting the extended family spread out on holidays.

Architecture and décor styles go through a process, from avant garde/trendy to commonplace, then classic. Still pre-classic, mid-century modernism paired with minimalism appears fresh as the azaleas currently ablaze in Knollwood. After four years, Guy Bailey has settled into his stunning surroundings. He acknowledges the serenity simplicity encourages. Practicality, too; open spaces and uncluttered surfaces are easy to clean.

But, should nostalgia surface, Bailey can retreat to his clubby, sporty, leather-and-plaid man cave; the best of two worlds under one roof.    PS

Weekend Away

Let’s Go to The Greenbrier!

The Madcap gents banish the beige at the legendary West Virginia resort

By Jason Oliver Nixon

The last few weeks of winter were drab, wet and all-around uninspiring. There was nefarious news on every front, and it felt like Groundhog Day on Elm Street. On eternal repeat.

John and I found ourselves ambling about in our pajamas at all hours of the day. We were lethargic. Our hair was tucked into baseball caps. My beard went untrimmed. And you can only watch Auntie Mame and Bridget Jones’s Diary so many times before you start quoting the lines in your sleep.

It was time for a prints-and-patterns intervention.

Hence, John and I booked an escape to the one place that always delivers a tip-top, terrific tonic — a balm to all things banal and beige.

The Greenbrier!

“Hello,” I trilled after ringing up the fabled West Virginia resort. “Any specials? Yes, yes, yes. AARP? Triple-A? Sure. Sign us up. Tout de suite! And patch me through to the spa.”

John and I have been lucky enough to visit The Greenbrier — “America’s Resort since 1778” — on various occasions. Each time, the hostelry has more than lived up to its legendary restorative prowess. And no, we don’t attribute the rejuvenation to the area’s mineral-rich waters that have made White Sulphur Springs a destination for generations.

It’s not the falconry or the gun clubs either. Although The Greenbrier has something for everyone — from escape rooms to bunker tours, spa treatments to off-roading excursions, golf and tennis to you-name-it — we aren’t really into what you might call “organized activities.” John and I go for The Greenbrier’s Dorothy Draper-designed décor, the riot of color, prints and pattern, and the pure theatricality that is the resort-styled version of The Wizard of Oz. There is nothing like it anywhere — especially since The Greenbrier’s closest twin, the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, has, tragically, been sold (its design future uncertain).

A little history . . .

Shortly after World War II, the legendary New York-based interiors superstar Dorothy Draper — sort of a midcentury Joanna Gaines but with verve — was commissioned to transform The Greenbrier into a showstopper. The resort had served as a 2,000-bed hospital during the war and needed, well, a bold new vision.

Draper, queen of theatrical, was known for design mantras such as “Banish the beige.” She took one look at The Greenbrier’s vaguely institutional architecture and white brick exterior, blinked, then lavished it with enough drama to attract the likes of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to the grand unveiling.

But back to the here and now and the warm embrace of the Greenbrier.

“Hello, hello. Bonjour! Yes, we are back. Yes, hello, hello,” I said to the lovely, slightly quizzical folks at check in. “Charge it, please. And which bar is open? Oh, it’s so good to be back.”

Our room was awash in cabbage roses, stripes and faux bamboo flourishes with “his” and “his” bathrooms. We couldn’t have been more content staying put, but seeing as we were finally someplace other than Instagram, we wanted to spend every waking moment soaking up all the design exuberance we could handle.

Happily, The Greenbrier was largely empty — AARP rates are more favorable mid-week, perhaps? (John handles the cash) — so we could scamper about like feral monkeys in a banana forest with eyes wide and mouths agape. We marveled at the inky green walls in the Victoria Writing Room; the rose-bloom upholstery and black-and-white tile floors in the Upper Lobby; a baroque plaster clock against blue-and-white striped walls; the coral-hued North Parlor; and busts of the presidents delightfully arranged next to the toilets. And that’s just scratching the sublime surface.

Dorothy Draper’s protégé, the equally iconic Carleton Varney, a longtime Madcap Cottage friend (he wrote the introduction to our latest book, Prints Charming: Create Absolutely Beautiful Interiors with Prints & Patterns), oversees the décor of The Greenbrier and constantly curates — and refreshes — the content.

Notes John, “The Greenbrier is always fresh. Never fussy. Never formal. That’s part of the magic. And there are families with kids. Older folks. New Yorkers. Southerners. And everyone in between.”

Our time at the Greenbrier was pure bliss. We dined on superlative Asian fare at In-Fusion (tucked into the glittering, Busby Berkeley-worthy casino). We washed away our cares with a 25-minute Sulphur Soak at the recently overhauled spa. We watched Aladdin in the resort’s movie theater (Hurrah! An open-for-business movie theater); we sipped cocktails in the Lobby Bar; we splashed about in a pool reminiscent of the Roman Empire; and we walked into White Sulphur Springs where the main drag is definitely on the move. (Think a slew of new restaurants popping up!)

But, really, John and I just lolled about with magazines and cocktails. And lapped up the luxe.

Then it was back to reality. Still, the hair is washed and the shirt’s tucked in. The beard is trimmed and the socks match. I’d say we are ready to tackle the world anew. At least for a few weeks.

Thank you, Greenbrier! Long may you reign.  OH

The Madcap gents, John Loecke and Jason Oliver Nixon, embrace the new reality of COVID-friendly travel — heaps of road trips. For more information, visit Greenbrier.com.

The Creators of N.C.

Every Moment is a Window

Through his art, Richard Wilson bridges the gap between then and now

By Wiley Cash
Photographs By Mallory Cash

Spend some time with visual artist Richard Wilson’s work, and you’ll quickly grasp the role historical connection plays in it.

Take his Shadow Series, for example. In each painting, an African American boy or girl stands in the foreground, the background comprised of images of an African American trailblazer. In one piece, a girl in a leather bomber jacket blocks the sun from her eyes and stares toward the horizon, as if searching for a sign of what’s to come; behind her is an assemblage of newspaper stories and photographs of Bessie Coleman, the first African American woman to hold a pilot’s license. Another shows a young boy in oversized boxing gloves gazing up at a speed bag that’s just out of reach; behind him, a newspaper announces that Jack Johnson has defeated James Jeffries to become the 1910 heavyweight champion of the world, the first African American to win the title. Other luminaries such as Arthur Ashe, Serena Williams, Michael Jordan and Barack Obama are featured in the series, each a guiding light for the young dreamer standing “in the shadow.” To the viewer, it’s clear that ancestors and aspiration are powerfully present in Wilson’s artwork.

And if you spend any time with the artist himself, you’ll understand that ancestors and aspiration are powerfully present in his own life.

The oldest of three boys, Wilson was born in Robersonville (Martin County) and moved with his family to Conetoe (pronounced Kuh-nee-tuh), another rural town in Eastern North Carolina, when he was 8. He grew up surrounded by family — siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. They were close-knit.

Today, Wilson is standing in the middle of his art studio in Greenville, N.C., where he and his wife have lived for just over 20 years. The walls around him are festooned with his original works and ribbons from national art shows; the floor cluttered with framed prints and works-in-progress. Wilson, a tall man who looks like a linebacker yet comports himself like a poet, admits that he has nearly outgrown the space that he built himself. On the wall opposite him is a framed original painting titled A Window Into the Past, in which an older African American man with a cane is picking his way across a field to a weathered two-story farmhouse. The man in the painting is Wilson’s uncle. The home, which has since been demolished, once belonged to Wilson’s paternal grandmother, Mary Battle.

“Every weekend we’d go to my grandmother’s house,” Wilson says, gesturing toward the painting. “All the children and grandchildren. That was the highlight of my week. My uncle, who was a sharecropper, would cook on the grill. We’d all play kickball and softball. I can still smell the rain on the dirt, the trees — pears and pecans. It was a beautiful life.” He sighs and his broad shoulders slump forward slightly. “But when my grandmother passed away, we all stopped going back there, and we just lost that connection.”

Although Wilson’s work is nothing if not realistic, each piece contains elements of symbolism that could be lost on the casual viewer. In the painting of Mary Battle’s house, the electrical service entrance — where the home had once been connected to a power line — is frayed and disconnected. That’s exactly how Richard Wilson felt in 2020, a year that saw a pandemic cripple the globe and political and cultural turmoil seize the heart and soul of the nation. Wilson used his art to reconnect with his family, his community and the landscape that once brought him so much joy.

Although he had featured his grandmother’s house in previous works, last year he found himself wanting to paint it again, and this time he wanted to include a family member. He called up his Uncle Bill and asked if he could come take some photographs of him. Uncle Bill happily obliged. It had been a while since they’d seen each other.

“We started talking about old times,” Wilson says, “and he started posing for me, and I started taking pictures of him. We had a great time.” But Wilson wanted to keep their reunion a secret. “I told him, ‘Don’t tell your children I’m doing this painting,’” says Wilson. “I wanted to put it on Facebook to see if they recognized the house and recognized that their father was in the painting.”

Imagine Wilson’s delight when, after posting the finished painting online, Uncle Bill’s youngest daughter wrote this: Hey, cuz, I really like this piece. It reminds me of back in the day, and the man in the picture reminds me of my pops.

Comments from other cousins followed, each expressing tender sentiments.

“And then they started buying prints,” Wilson says, supporting him at a time when art shows had been canceled due to COVID. “It brought us all back together.”

Wilson’s maternal grandmother, Francis Wilson Knight, lovingly known to everyone — family or otherwise — as Grandma Pigaboot, also bequeathed him a legacy that highlighted the importance of family, faith, land and self-reliance — all of which Wilson has made use of throughout his path to becoming a fulltime artist against incredible odds.

“My grandmother took us around and made sure that she introduced us to all of our family members,” Wilson says. “She was adamant about that, about knowing who your people are.” He stops speaking and smiles as if a memory is playing through his mind. “She also taught us how to be entrepreneurs. We used to turn in Coke bottles and get cash for them, and then we’d turn around and buy candy and sell it. Or we’d make Kool-Aid and turn it into freeze cups, and then we’d sell those.” She also taught Wilson and his siblings and cousins how to make use of the land by taking them fishing and teaching them how to sew gardens. And she instilled the importance of faith in their lives by ensuring that they accompanied her to church.

Richard Wilson has won countless awards for his art, which has been featured in television shows and films, showcased in public and private collections and purchased by the likes of the late Hank Aaron and Gladys Knight. Those early lessons from his grandmother have allowed him to turn a childhood spark of inspiration into the passionate flame that fuels his work. His Shadows Series makes that clear.

But Richard Wilson acknowledges that not everyone is as lucky to have had the family and influences he’s had. Yet that’s the great thing about forging a connection with people you love.

“If you didn’t have it then,” he says, “you can start it now.”

One could say the same about living your dream.  PS

Wiley Cash is the writer-in-residence at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, will be released this year.

Out of the Blue

Let It Be Over

Enough is too much

By Deborah Salomon

Seldom have Richard III’s words rung so true: “Now is the winter of our discontent . . . ”

Carol-less Christmas because singing spreads the virus.

Party-less New Year’s Eve. Midnight hugs prohibited.

Thanksgiving and Super Bowl Sunday spent with live-in family, forget about chili and party platters. Romantic Valentine’s Day dinners were take-out, including the martinis.

No snow, only rain, rain, rain. Cold winter rain owns a special misery.

An epic storm brings the Lone Star State to its knees: No heat, no water, burst pipes, dwindling food — almost enough to make Texans forget COVID-19 which, as a result, will surge.

In late February, parts of an engine fell off a United Airlines Boeing 777 just after take-off from Denver, bound for Hawaii. The cellphone videos matched the pilot’s shaky voice as he declared, “Mayday, Mayday.” Yet he returned to Denver with all 240 passengers safe. Nothing that dramatic since Capt. “Sully” Sullenberger landed a Charlotte-bound USAirways flight with zero engine power on the Hudson River in 2009.

Except now, a new fear of flying — not that anybody much is.

Ah, yes, the virus itself, which has crept like mold through . . . everything.

The winter just ending was chill, dreary and definitely damp. Never in 12 years have I worn my down parka and cashmere socks as much.

My two kitties looked in vain for the sunny spot on the porch to warm their old bones. I remember a few nice days when golfers surfaced without mufflers and knitted caps but even more when the birds seemed especially thankful for their daily ration of shelled sunflower seeds, which in a month doubled in price.

Several prominent people died since autumn, notably Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Alex Trebek. Jeopardy! is now a Travesty! The older a person gets, the more he or she muses on passings. I turned 82 in January.

But, when push comes to pushover, the deepest discontent remains the November election, with an aftermath that festered, then exploded on Jan. 6, when the Capitol was ravaged by its own citizens. When the actions of a defeated president flabbergasted — there is no other word — and embarrassed Americans expecting at least a modicum of civility. Back to Shakespeare: “Something is rotten in the state of . . . ” not Denmark, as written. Maybe Florida. D.C., for sure.

The cherry on top has to be what the Brits are calling Megxit. I knew from her first curtsy that Miss Markle planned to bag her prince and drag him back across the pond. In February, they sealed the deal with a cheeky note to the Queen: Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Being the dressed-to-kill Duchess of Sussex wasn’t enough. What she wanted was to be Queen of Hollywood, living in a seaside mansion more opulent than any British castle — and not half as drafty. So, Harry sold out his granny, his brother and his mother’s legacy for a green card, a year-round tan, tacos on demand, Lipton Orange Pekoe and driving his Range Rover on the right side of the road.

But will it last?

However, this tragic winter provided one belly laugh: Ted Cruz, with long hair and beard looking the part of an aging matador in search of a bull, pretending to chaperone a bunch of girls to Cancún instead of handing out water to his constituents. If only Jackie Gleason was alive to recreate the part.

All things considered, this April I won’t complain about pine pollen, hay fever, awakening day for the ants or new cheek wrinkles the bright spring sun reveals. I’ll try not to dread the summer heat, which will loom large. Because to have survived this winter upright and lucid makes anything seem possible.   PS

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