Gone Fishin’

By Jim Dodson

As you read this, I’m sitting by a trout stream in an undisclosed location somewhere deep in the North Carolina mountains. If I was wrapped in hickory smoked bacon, Lassie probably couldn’t find me.

But fear not, friends, I’ve left behind a few well-chosen words from my dear old friend Ogden Nash, who always has something timely to say.

To Donald on his way to Cleveland:

Love is a word that is constantly heard,

Hate is a word that’s not.

Love, I’m told, is more precious than gold,

Love, I have read, is hot.

But hate is the verb that to me is superb,

And love is a drug on the mart.

Any kiddie in school can love like a fool,

But hating, my boy, is an art.

   *

The danger of a hole in the porch screen:

God in his wisdom made the fly

And then forgot to tell us why.

   *

An ode to poison ivy:

One bliss for which there is no match,

Is, when you itch,

To up and scratch.

   *

Song of the Interstate:

I think I shall never see

A billboard lovely as a tree.

Indeed, unless the billboards fall

I’ll never see a tree at all.

   *

Wish you weren’t here:

Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,

Some hate having their picture taken.

How can your family claim to love you

And then demand a picture of you?

     *

To the family at the start of the week:

How pleasant to sit on the beach

On the beach, on the sand, in the sun

With ocean galore within reach,

And nothing at all to be done!

No letters to answer,

No bills to be burned,

No work to be shirked,

No cash to be earned.

It is pleasant to sit on the beach,

With nothing at all to be done.

     *

To the same family at the end of the week:

One would be in less danger

From the wiles of the stranger

If one’s own kin and kith

Were more fun to be with.

     *

And finally, a few original Ogden-inspired lines jotted down by a
pristine stream where the trout are laughing at my hand-made flies:

A gal at the beach paints her toes,

To catch the attention of beaus;

But a guy at the beach will just scratch his feet,

And wonder if anything good’s left to eat.

     *

Gardener’s lament:

To a gardener  in the heat of late summer,

Oh, my, what a seasonal bummer,

With hydrangeas so wilted, you feel almost jilted,

It’s a wonder you bother to rose.

     *

Politics as use-you-all:

I suppose I’m the Average American,

Tho I can’t say  just how the hellican,

Vote for these two, either one of which who

Make me wish I was just a mere skeleton.

     *

A brief escape:

So here I sit by a stream,

Dreaming the American dream,

I might not come home, just pick up and roam,

At least till I find some ice cream.  PS

Contact editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.

Comfort Zone

How a classic Pinehurst cottage brought a globe-trotting couple home at last

By Deborah Salomon   •   Photographs by John Gessner

Anyone who doubts a couple in midlife prime can radically change careers, continents, lifestyles and homes needs to look in on Kirk and Victoria Adkins at Red Gables, a 107-year-old, one-of-a-kind Pinehurst cottage that flouts the luxury revamps shared by contemporaries.

No paneled Sub-Zero, spa bathroom or sound system. One TV, zero chandeliers. Master bedroom barely wide enough to accommodate a king-sized bed. A garden filled with homey zinnias. A far cry from the Adkins’ British country manse, their London muse (row house) with pink exterior, an iron-gated farmhouse in a Parisian suburb or the glass-walled Hong Kong condo fifty-two stories above the harbor.

ps-1house-8-16

Not to say this restraint implemented by soothing hues and minimal furnishings isn’t gorgeous. Or that Kirk and Victoria miss the opulence.

“It feels good to get back to ‘comfortable,’” Victoria says. “Possessions don’t make you who you are. I’m happier now working (in real estate) than I was going to museums and social events.”

Kirk, glows with pride over how impossible engineering feats like air conditioning were engineered: “Every inch is usable — not a spare space, even behind walls, that we didn’t make into cupboards.” Besides, Victoria adds, “The village is a happy place.” Kirk finds its residents interesting and worldly, retired from careers in finance, medicine, law, management.

Kirk belonged in the corporate column. After an MBA from Wake Forest University, the Indiana native was posted internationally for twenty years as an executive at the Sara Lee consumer goods division, then Hanes. He and Victoria, a special education teacher, dated in high school, reconnected at a friend’s wedding. As a “corporate wife” she became an expert at moving — nineteen times, covering four continents. To keep their two sons and adopted daughter from Siberia rooted in America, they rented a house on the Jersey Shore for summer vacations.

When Hanes discontinued operations in Hong Kong, Kirk was still young enough to chase a dream: “I wanted to get into golf,” not as a pro, or an equipment retailer. “I wanted a degree in agronomy.” In other words, he wanted to arrive at the course before dawn, plan for and supervise crews who kept the terrain in optimum condition. Adieu Savile Row suits and leather briefcases and business class flights. Bring on the rain jackets, sunscreen and golf hats.

Kirk applied to Purdue University and North Carolina State University, only to be advised that what he needed was the kind of hands-on program offered by Mike Ventola at Sandhills Community College. In 2012 Kirk and Victoria rented a house in Pinehurst while he attended SCC and interned at Forest Creek.

“We didn’t plan to stay after that,” Kirk says. But, Victoria adds, “We met people and fell in love with the village.” Kirk currently serves as assistant superintendent of world-famous Pinehurst No. 2.

Rank that alongside Kate Middleton’s aesthetician or Stephen Curry’s physical therapist. Obviously, Europe had refined their housing requirements: something with history, character and a unique feature. Something close to the action, like twenty-five yards from the Carolina Hotel driveway.

ps-2house-8-16The Carolina Hotel, along with the village, was nouveau-chic when, in 1909, Bostonian Emma Jane Sinclair commissioned architect W.W. Dinsmore to design a winter home with satellite cottages for her married daughters. The Pinehurst Outlook of that year called it “A little gem, in mission style, with bright red rows of tile and stucco walls . . . which adds tremendously to the attractiveness of the outlook from the hotel.”

In truth, the Southwestern exterior probably raised a few eyebrows among residents who chose the more familiar white clapboard/black shutter New England motif.

In 1918, the property was sold to coal baron Henry B. Swoope of Pennsylvania — a descendant of one of George Washington’s Revolutionary War colleagues. Swoope’s letters to tradesmen on file at Tufts Archives show his displeasure at the milkman for running out of cream — also arrangements to have unloaded an entire railway car of “egg” (large lump) coal for his and other furnaces. Poor Mr. Swoope died in 1927, at 46, leaving a wife and nine children. The house later passed to L.L. Biddle II of the prominent Philadelphia family, later intermarried with the Dukes of Durham.

When the Adkinses discovered Red Gables, barely used by Canadian owners, the property stood neglected and sad. “We asked people about it and they said, ‘Run, don’t walk away! You’d be crazy to buy that house!’” Victoria recalls.

But Victoria and Kirk saw only the unique features: a vaulted ceiling over the living room; beadboard walls and terra cotta tile floors; original three-over-three square windows with wavy glass; an attic that could be opened up as a master suite.

They hired a contractor, a designer — and dug in.

First, the AC. The stucco exterior and painted beadboard walls made conventional ductwork impossible. A space was created over the kitchen ceiling and behind the attic knee wall for the new system. Victoria moved the front entrance to an existing patio door and converted the vestibule to a pantry. The hopelessly dated kitchen was opened up with an island separating it from the dining area, which replaces a formal dining room and flows into the living room. The window removed to make room for a refrigerator was re-installed elsewhere. Light was a priority; the living-dining area has only one lamp, but Victoria increased recessed spotlights from 28 to 90. An entire wall of windows in addition to French doors further brightens the main floor. Although modest in size, the practical kitchen suits Victoria and Kirk, who both cook.

A narrow hallway leads to two small bedrooms joined by a double bath, Kirk’s office and, at the end, a sun porch, now Victoria’s office with adjacent laundry room.

ps-4house-8-16Bathrooms were renovated but not enlarged. One clawfoot tub remains.

The major new construction was the master suite overlooking the living room, accessed by a narrow staircase original to the house.

“I like the way the boards creak,” Victoria says.

Creating the loft sitting area, bedroom and, especially, the bathroom presented a second challenge. “They said we’d never fit a shower in there,” Kirk smiles, pointing to the large glass-enclosed installation. Fitting a mirror over the sink was another puzzle that failed several times before succeeding. Finally, the master bedroom, as planned, proved too narrow to accommodate a king-sized bed. Victoria wouldn’t budge. The dimensions were altered. Still, the sleeping space is smaller than dressing rooms in most luxury homes.

Victoria and Kirk think differently. “What more do you need than a bed and nightstand?” she says. “Our first night was so much fun, like sleeping in a treehouse.”

Above the bed buzzes a triple ceiling fan resembling airplane propellers encased in wire frames . . . just mesmerizing.

The Adkinses’ frequent moves were not conducive to amassing furniture. Even so, to prevent any sense of clutter, Victoria refined her collection to one or two antiques per room. The palette of dusky turquoise, soft green, beige and vanilla unite and soothe, from area rugs to dog-friendly leather upholstery. A credenza from France fills an entire wall in Kirk’s office, while his desk is British. Kitchen shelves and counters display Victoria’s collection of blue pottery jugs and canisters. Tiny lights illuminate glass-front cabinets.

ps-3house-8-16One tall, non-functioning radiator holds potted plants. Dark-stained beams in the vaulted ceiling, beadboard walls painted cream, pine flooring found in the attic satisfy Victoria and Kirk’s love for wood. Art reflects Kirk’s golf involvement. Just inside the front door hangs their signature piece. The nine-by-four-foot painting, done in photo realism, depicts Kirk and Victoria, their children and dogs, playing in Kensington Gardens adjoining the Albert Memorial in London. The artist tricks the eye by repeating the same family members in different sections of the park.

The wall, prominent and perfectly sized for this treasure, helped convince Victoria to take on Red Gables, at 2,450 square feet by far the smallest of their homes. Converting the free-standing garage into guest quarters is always an option.

The house stands on half an acre, about one-third of the original parcel. Much of it was overgrown with vines, home to snakes and varmints. A backhoe was brought in to clear the front yard. Victoria decided on simple groundcover and a clear view of the hotel beyond the lighting kiosks that flank the driveway entrance. The red tile roof had been replaced but otherwise, Red Gables exterior remains much as it was during Pinehurst’s Golden Age.

“For us, (the house) is magical,” Victoria says.

“We got rid of a lot of baggage, which has taken stress out of our lives,” Kirk continues. “We have what we need and need what we have.”

Or, as Victoria sighs, “What a relief!”  PS

Senses of Summer

A lifetime of family vacations shaped the author’s sense of time and travel, emphasizing the importance of simply being present

By Sam Walker

It’s been said that humans are marvelous sensing instruments. Smells, sounds and sights can be powerful triggers of memory and story. This has been especially true for me in experiences of summer. Long before there were Currituck sunsets or Oak Island strolls, there was the back seat of an old Buick on its annual trek from a Philadelphia suburb to the Jersey Shore. Stuffed in between bedding, a Samsonite suitcase and the dreaded summer reading books, I’d try to fall asleep.

What air conditioning? In the early ’50s, blasts of summer air through open windows and parents’ cigarette smoke made the trip a torture to be endured. Mercifully, a two-lane road called the Black Horse Pike signaled hope. The last turn, air changing, the night quieter and rest came. That is, until the fragrance of marsh and tidal mud flats began to stir my consciousness. Low tide brought high hopes of adventure; and something else I came to realize — a peace awakened, a settling of spirit I still treasure.

Time turned into an overstuffed station wagon and a bright orange, slightly rusted VW “Thing” winding down the final stretch of a Maine coast road. Passing Harmon’s store and the sign for Prouts Neck, the energy of anticipation grew feverish. Songs learned the previous summer swelled, as the caravan crossed the finish line and acknowledged the welcome wave from Nick, the rotund summer cop.

Down the lanes shouts of friends reunited mixed with the laughter of the children who simply had to have the bikes unloaded first. Off they went with shrieks of “come on” in the hope that pals not seen in a year would be back at the same old cottage. The coolers moved to the fridge but all else could wait. Neighbors hugged and hollered “hey” across porches and driveways. Magic beckoned with sounds of stories from circles of beach chairs, cookouts on the rocks by the bay, evening sing-a-longs, and “hoots” from a sea glass cave at low tide — maybe a piece of blue this year. On the first new morning, birdsong joined the quiet harmonies of the sea, rendering a settling of the spirit once again.

As years and family grew, a new oasis was discovered. Vistas framed by ancient live oaks draped in moss welcomed us for several summers to the wonder and mystery of the Lowcountry. Causeways connected islands, finally leading to the one most seaward. Fripp Island, named for a clever swashbuckler and steeped in lore of pirates and Gullah heritage, boasts wide beaches sloping gently to an ocean that can be both tranquil and treacherous.

Early morning bike rides featured a tapestry of colors — great blue heron, snowy white egrets, slumbering gators the shade of mud and forest, brilliant oleander, and always the oaks. Presence mattered. Time did not.

The island store had a special nook with shelves of Pat Conroy books. He lived on Fripp, and the proceeds from book sales helped support the island conservancy. I hoped I would run into Pat, be invited for supper and chat about how his stories always touched something in me. He once told an interviewer, “I write to try and explain my life to myself.” I savored everything he gave us. I missed seeing him then, and hear him now in the words he left behind.

During one such island visit, a beachside afternoon of umbrellas, dolphins and parades of brown pelicans was jolted by a low-flying rescue chopper. The tranquil sandbar of yesterday had, without warning, turned into a treacherous riptide that would tragically claim a young life. I stood with the family at water’s edge. Presence mattered. Time did not.

Even now the scene is vivid. The seemingly blissful world of live oaks and blue heron can also hold scars of sadness. At eventide that day, the pelicans returned gliding low along a now-deserted beach. It seems that life has times when spirits are shattered, but always, I believe, with the promise of place and memories that settle us once again.  PS

Sam Walker, a retired minister, maintains a curiosity about life and is an old friend of PineStraw. 

Straight Off the Shelf

The comfort of a country store

By Tom Bryant

Over the years I believe I’ve accumulated enough knowledge to become something of an expert on country stores. One of my favorites is Slim’s Place, the one I frequent the most and perhaps have something of a bias toward, since my good friend and hunting buddy Bubba owns it.

Discovering country stores became a hobby for me on our many road trips across the country. When I venture north and west of the Mason-Dixon line, I have a tendency to equate my experiences to those in the sunny South, thinking they would automatically be different. However, I’ve discovered that often that premise is not true. For example, on a recent trip to the state of Washington, I checked out numerous backcountry small stores and, to my delight, found that most of them seemed to be familiar the minute I walked in. The reason for this, I believe, is the people who frequent these establishments. I noticed they aren’t different from their counterparts across the nation. They might talk a little differently, but hey, folks have said that I sound a little funny myself.

What makes a country store a country store? To me it’s the merchandise stacked on shelves, sometimes haphazardly. Things you will not find in other mercantile locations. For example, pickled eggs and pickled sausage links, cast iron frying pans and Dutch ovens and galvanized buckets of all sizes. In some places, I’ve found coveralls big enough to fit three regular people, denim shirts that will wear forever and straw hats, the kind that have a plastic shaded green part in the front brim.

Most of the establishments have a central gathering area for the good old boys to kick back and wrangle the day’s news, for better or worse. In these places, one thing that you will not find is the lack of an opinion.

At Slim’s country store, the focus of the patrons is the huge pot-bellied stove that’s centrally located. A mismatched collection of chairs, some slat-backed and some rockers, surround the old cast iron contraption. It’s a great place to hold forth. When the weather is warm, the boys will move to the wrap-around porch with its rockers, gliders and swings. Sometimes it seems as if being outdoors even improves the conversation, or makes it lighter anyway.

You will notice that I keep referring to the patrons of these establishments as boys. Now ladies are allowed, of course, and sure enough they come to buy things, but they let their husbands, grandfathers and sons do most of the loitering. My grandfather had a country store on a busy corner of the farm in South Carolina. Many times, my grandmother would send me to the establishment to fetch him. She would direct me with, “Tell your granddaddy that supper’s ready and he needs to get home before it gets cold.”

Granddad’s store was built for convenience more than profit. It was a place to pick up a loaf of bread or quart of milk. Grandmother even sold eggs from her free-range chickens. But folks really enjoyed the gathering and camaraderie of the neighborhood. It was a place to disseminate information, good and bad. With my grandfather, it was also a place where he could help neighbors down on their luck. Years after the old store closed and he had passed away, my uncle showed me a store ledger listing items charged and canceled because people couldn’t afford to pay. The business was literally a life-saver during the Depression.

Country stores come in all sizes and locations. There’s one in a small town I visited not long ago that’s a hardware store. It was Friday, close to lunchtime, and I stopped to get directions to a restaurant. When I walked in, I noticed five or six gentlemen in a corner sitting around in a semicircle. Their conversation stopped when I entered the store and everyone checked out the newcomer. The place was huge with high ceilings and many intriguing goods that lined the numerous shelves. I made a mental note to come back when I had more time. To me, it was the best of all worlds, a country hardware store.

The success of the small enterprises out in the country has spilled over to the big boys. Ace Hardware has just opened a new mega-store in Pinehurst. It resembles country hardware stores about as much as Wal-Mart does the A&P where I worked when I was in high school.

Burney Hardware has evolved over the years to the amalgamated personality it is today. It was initially located in downtown Aberdeen in a big two-story building, and it had just about everything a small town would need in the way of hardware. The folks there even sold me shotgun shells for a nickel apiece. On weekends, after I finished my job washing cars at O’Neal’s Esso service station and I was fairly affluent with the day’s salary of $4, they would cut me a deal: five #8s, 12-gauge for twenty cents. Needless to say, my ratio of ammunition spent to game in the bag was a lot better in those days. Even in these so-called lucrative times, I still have a problem keeping myself from running through a whole box of shells at the skeet range. You can’t eat just one of those clay targets.

Burney moved from its original location and is now situated on a busy highway right at the edge of town. It still has the ambience of the past, just much bigger, and you can find galvanized buckets in several sizes.

The big boys in the hardware business are doing well. I love to browse through their acres of merchandise. I even bought my latest surf-fishing cart at the Ace Hardware when we were at Pawleys Island, South Carolina. I use it all the time at the beach. It’s great, of course, for fishing, but also for hauling chairs, coolers and beach umbrellas to the strand.

There is a need for both the small traditional country stores — in many cases a living history of the neighborhoods they serve — and the new businesses that have expanded in size and merchandise. I will continue to enjoy both. But there is something about a cold winter afternoon at Slim’s Place after a morning in a duck blind, kicked back in front of the old pot-bellied stove that’s glowing red with a fresh load of coal, savoring a hot mug of coffee sweetened with a little of Ritter’s apple brandy. The big stores are gonna have to go a ways to compete with that.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman, PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist and a pot-bellied stove authority.

Ruth Pauley Turns Thirty

The Ruth Pauley Lecture Series will celebrate thirty years of its remarkable existence this upcoming season. Having served on the board in various capacities for twenty-seven of its thirty years, I am proud to look back at its history and success.

Although I did not personally know Ruth Pauley, I did know and serve on the board with some of her friends, Virginia Leiss, Eunice Minton, Mary Dezarn, Katharine McLeod, Annette Galbreith and Jane McPhaul. All of them were enlightened community leaders who cared deeply about important issues confronting our society. It was very fitting they would choose to start a lecture series named for their good friend, and that it would be free and open to the public.

The sponsors are four local organizations: Sandhills Community College, American Association of University Women, League of Women Voters, and Moore County Schools. They are the glue that holds RPLS together. Each offers some financial support, but they contribute greatly by serving on the board and sponsoring the receptions after each lecture, where the audience gets to meet the speakers, converse with them and enjoy refreshments.

There are also ten representatives from the community on the board. We are lucky to have access to so many persons with a wide range of expertise, experience and personal connections.

The series is committed to presenting lectures by highly informed speakers in order to help deepen our understanding of important and relevant issues facing humanity. Some of my favorites have been Dr. John Hope Franklin, Susan Eisenhower, Jane Goodall, Arun Gandhi, Alan Simpson, Robert Edsel, Ernest Green and Morris Dees. For a list of all the speakers and topics, visit our website, www.ruthpauley.org, and click on the entire list of speakers. I think it is amazing.

In the beginning we often did not have the speakers of the series decided very far in advance. I remember the year we had Maya Angelou. We had no prospects until fall, when Jack McPhaul and Dr. G. McLeod Bryan invited me to lunch and inquired if I thought the board would like to have her speak. Wow!

In this age of technology and instant information, I still love to be in the presence of a live speaker and converse personally with him or her. RPLS offers these opportunities to our community because it really is a “community” project. Thanks to our organizations, individuals and businesses for our success. As the African proverb says, “It takes a whole village to raise a child.” I think our lecture series has succeeded because of such support, and I hope it continues at least another thirty years.

Please join us. The 2016-2017 season is our most ambitious yet, with six lectures scheduled in celebration of our thirtieth anniversary.

All lectures will be held at 7:30 p.m. in Owens Auditorium at Sandhills Community College. PS   — Peggy Olney

September 27, 2016. Len Elmore, “Courtside View: Saving College Sports”

October 11, 2016. Mark Shields, “The Challenge of Governing in a Polarized World”

November 3, 2016. Grace-Marie Turner and Richard Kirsch, “Experts Debate: Obamacare and the Future of Our Health Care”

February 9, 2017. Susan Southard, “Nagasaki and Beyond: The Ethics of Collateral Damage”

March 9, 2017. Abdullah Antepli, “New Frontiers in Civil Rights: A Muslim View”

April 20, 2017. Joe Romm, “Almost Everything You Know about Climate Change Is Outdated”  PS

Simply De-Vine

Watermelon makes cool, refreshing memories

By Jan Leitschuh

August boasts an abundance of produce, but it’s also a time of change. The blasting heat usually causes a decline in some produce while bringing others forward. Early August offers up outstanding freestone peaches, cantaloupe, sweet bell peppers, honeydew melons, heirloom tomatoes, the very last of summer’s blueberries, and watermelon in the markets and local gardens, before easing into okra, eggplant, cherry tomatoes, field peas, muscadines and more peaches late in the month.

This means it’s often your last chance to grab a really fine, peak-season summer watermelon. If you love watermelon but have been avoiding the hefty fruit because “it’s just too much,” and you lack refrigerator space, then this word salad is for you.

The South is known for its really fine melons, and Sandhills melons are the apex. The light sandy soil lets vine-producing nitrogen slip on through, while retaining more of the minerals that encourage sweet fruits. The result, say some of our local farmers, is that produce buyers from other states seek them out. Watermelon is the most-consumed melon in the United States.

Memories have been made around the massive red fruits. Before air-conditioning — that culture-changing innovation that swept folks off their porches and into the interior of their houses — an iced melon was a genuine refreshment, and a worthy excuse for social lollygagging. Perhaps this is a practice worthy of reinvention?

Watermelons are, in essence, a social fruit. They come in big, unwieldy packages and need refrigeration after cutting. To be fully eaten, they need to be shared.

My husband, a Charlotte native, recalls his Uncle Sam bringing over a chilled watermelon on sunny summer Sundays. Chances were, he grew it in his own large truck garden. Three generations of Millers would gather in the backyard as Sam split the melon into juicy, seedy slices. A saltshaker appeared on the old yard table.

The grownups would sit around under the shade tree, telling family stories, rocking on those old 1950s metal chairs with the tubular loops that glided back and forth. Grandma Miller would air herself with an old church bulletin, while the young’uns would run around spitting black seeds at each other. The occasional bee would buzz, sipping at the rinds the kids chucked into the neighboring field.

Later, these same children would grow up and gather with their peers, injecting alcoholic adulterants like rum or vodka into their melons.

In an era even earlier, say, Grandma Miller’s younger days, food was unpredictable enough that nothing was wasted. Even the watermelon rinds were preserved for future use, converted into food treats such as watermelon rind candy, pickled watermelon rind, watermelon rind chutney and more. My mom, a Wisconsin gal who loved the South, made them to be consumed with pork in the fall or put on a little crystal dish at Thanksgiving. I’ve only heard of one millennial who has ever tried this, and she learned from a grandmother of the South.

Change is constant, and things are different. Today, the old recipes live on, but their electronic info is stashed on the internet rather than inside a granny-woman’s head. We live less gregarious lives, tucked in our air-conditioned houses on hot days. Farmers grow smaller “icebox” sized melons, easier to consume. Grocery stores offer servings, useful pre-wrapped watermelon slices, or even pre-chunked into handy plastic containers.

Chefs do clever things with melon, carving them up, or making culinary creations that go well beyond simple slicing, salting and eating. A quick search of online recipes reveals, in the first score of offerings, instructions for making: watermelon ice pops (for the kids) and sorbets or sherbets (for all); watermelon gazpacho; watermelon cake; watermelon jellies; watermelon salsa; watermelon agua fresca; watermelon and strawberry lemonade; minted watermelon and cucumber salad — which seemed weird at first, but upon reflection actually makes sense, as the ingredients are juicy, cool and refreshing; and tomato, watermelon and feta skewers.

Something sweet and light has to be a nutritional lightweight, right? I was surprised to learn that watermelon has more lycopene than tomatoes. Lycopene is a powerful antioxidant, and it also gives watermelon its pink-red color. It’s a splendid source of vitamin C, which strengthens immunity, heals wounds, prevents cell damage and promotes healthy teeth and gums. It also provides vitamin B6, which helps brain function and to convert protein to energy.

Watermelons come in a wide array of sizes with flesh that can be red, pink, yellow or orange. The popular “seedless” varieties contain a few white seeds that are small, soft and edible. By weight, watermelons are 92 percent water — no wonder they’re so hydrating and refreshing!

Tap a ripe melon and you’ll hear a hollow thump. The rind should be smooth, round and unblemished, with a yellow spot on one side where the melon sat on the ground, ripening in the sun. Once cut, store melons in the fridge. Cover slices with plastic, or deconstruct into chunks and cover.

If you need to consume watermelon quickly to free up fridge space, consider using it as a base for healthy, hydrating smoothies, chilled fruit soups or summer drinks. You can freeze leftover drinks for a sort of sorbet treat, or a watermelon ice.

Icy Watermelon Cooler

8 cups (1/2-inch) watermelon cubes

1/3 cup water

1 (6-oz.) can frozen limeade concentrate

(Adult option: rum or vodka)

Preparation

Place watermelon cubes in a single layer in an extra-large zip-top plastic freezer bag and freeze eight hours. Remove and let stand at room temperature fifteen minutes.

Process half each of watermelon, water and limeade concentrate in a blender until smooth; pour mixture into a pitcher. Repeat procedure with remaining half of ingredients; stir into pitcher, and serve immediately.

Watermelon Rind Preserves

6 cups watermelon rind, diced

4 1/2 cups sugar

1 lemon, sliced thinly, then seeded

1 tsp. allspice (optional)

Preparation

Peel green skin off the watermelon, but leave a little of the red pulp on rind. Cut into one-inch slices, then slice into one-inch cubes. Place rind in a large pot and cover with the sugar until the fruit doesn’t show. Cover with plastic wrap; refrigerate overnight.

Place pot on stove and add lemon slices and allspice, if desired. Boil whole mixture until rind is clear, about two hours.

Pack into clean, hot jars. Wipe rims and screw on lids. Process ten minutes in boiling water deep enough to cover lids by at least one inch. Serve the preserves on buttered toast, if desired.

NOTE: After cutting watermelon, save the rind in the refrigerator until you are ready to prepare the preserves.  PS

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

Old Sol and Johnny Sunflower Seed

One man’s love affair with summer’s essential flower

By Ross Howell Jr.

Last summer a neighbor got me thinking about sunflowers, and I put in my first seeds ever.

He was notorious for planting sunflowers near street signs, by sidewalks, or next to abandoned brick piles. He planted anywhere he discovered a patch of open ground, sometimes surreptitiously in the dead of night, earning the nickname the “Sunflower Bandit.”

My neighbor prefers to think of himself as “Johnny Sunflower Seed,” playing on the name of our American hero of childhood lore. And I’d say he’s earned the right. Scion of an old North Carolina family whose ancestors include a legend in the hunt for Pancho Villa during the Mexican Revolution, a state senator, and a respected judge, he has served in the U.S. Navy, navigated a sailboat across the Gulf of Mexico, earned a commercial pilot’s license, and was once homeless, while struggling with addiction. Now, he tends brick-edged flower beds he’s fashioned with owners’ permission in front of businesses and apartments along a nearby street.

He says his mother, a Louisiana girl, was the person who first got him interested in sunflowers.

“There were beds along a stone walkway at our house,” he recalls. “And one spring, I think I was about 14, my mother brought me these seed packets. She said if I planted them along the walkway, they’d grow into enormous flowers.” His face brightens as he recounts the event. “Well, I planted those seeds, and I’ll bet I checked them every half hour to see if they’d sprouted. I watered and watered. And here grew these giant plants, eight, nine feet tall, with big yellow flowers, and everybody commented on how beautiful they were.” He smiled.

“When you’re a kid, things like that make an impression on you. Sunflowers are spiritual, you know?” he says. “They reach toward the sun, like they’re reaching to God, and they turn their faces, following the sun, like they’re following God.”

I remembered, listening, that it was my mother who first got me interested in sunflowers, too. She favored the giant ones, saving their seeds for the winter feeder by her window — cardinals, chickadees, titmice and evening grosbeaks sampling the buffet as big snowflakes fell, dusting their feathers. Her sunflowers grew ten, even twelve feet tall, with seed heads so broad it seemed miraculous the plants could support them.

“Add soil as they grow,” my neighbor suggests. “Say you add six inches of topsoil? That root is going to spread another ten inches.”

He favors the tall, broad-shouldered yellow sunflowers. I go for the modest sizes myself, heights of five, six feet, because I like to cut flowers for my wife, Mary Leigh. This year I planted two varieties of yellow, and a red. The red sunflowers have faces of red, orange and ocher. They’re more finicky than the yellow, and want more care. The reds don’t stand the heat as well as the yellows, either, even if carefully watered. Still, I like working with them, and maybe I’ll get better at understanding their needs.

But give the big yellow sunflowers a little water and plenty of soil, and they can take pretty much anything old Mr. Sol can beam down. And their stalks support burdens that sometimes seem impossible.

In late summer they stand tall and regal, resilient and undaunted, among flowers frumpy and withered by circumstance. That’s what I like about them.

I bet that’s what my neighbor likes, too.  PS

Ross Howell Jr. is catching up on his reading, starting a new novel, and anxious to hear from readers about favorite fall or winterplants, shrubs and trees.

August Books

By Kimberly Daniels Taws

The Perfect Horse: The Daring U.S. Mission to Rescue the Princess Stallions Kidnapped by the Nazis, by Elizabeth Letts

The New York Times best-selling author of The Eighty-Dollar Champion returns with a brilliantly written story about Hitler’s effort to build an equine master race with the finest horses in Europe gathered in one place. As the end neared, these beautiful animals were within days of being slaughtered when a controversial covert mission was planned to rescue the horses and smuggle them to safety.

The Fall of Heaven: The Pahlavis and the Final Days of Imperial Iran, by Andrew Scott Cooper

This gripping account of the rise and fall of Iran’s Pahlavi dynasty was researched and written with full cooperation from Empress Farah, Iranian revolutionaries and United States officials from the Carter administration. Starting with Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi’s childhood, his courtship and marriage to the powerful Farah Diba, the plan to launch Iran as one of the five great Western powers, to life in the embassy during the Iranian Revolution, this book details the final days of one of the world’s most legendary ruling families and sets the stage for the current state of the Middle East.

How to Read Water: Clues and Patterns from Puddles to the Sea, by Tristan Gooley

From the author of The Lost Art of Reading Nature’s Signs comes a guide to reading the hidden world of water — bodies both great and small — with skills, tips and useful observations.

War Porn, by Roy Scranton

This masterpiece of a novel takes its title from the term used to describe the videos and images of graphic violence brought back from combat zones and viewed voyeuristically. Experiencing war through the lives of a woman in Utah, a man serving in occupied Baghdad and an Iraqi math professor, the novel merges home and hell, moving back and forth to reveal the humanity that connects us all.

The Nix, A Novel, by Nathan Hill

This family epic about a mother and son finding their way back to each other in both desperate and comic ways reflects the cultural tensions of the past five decades. The Nix is a humorous and heartbreaking work with dead-on descriptions and craftsmanship that draws comparisons to early John Irving.

A Great Reckoning, (A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel), by Louise Penny

The intricate old map found stuffed into the walls of the bistro in Three Pines seems like a curiosity at first, but when the map is given to Inspector Armand Gamache, he shatters the secrets of an old friend and an even older adversary. Louise Penny can craft a riveting and fun detective story like no one else and will be in Pinehurst on September 5 to talk about the book. Tickets are available at The Country Bookshop.

Cooking for Picasso: A Novel, by Camille Aubray

This book is true candy, a sweet treat that includes modern family drama, love, cooking and Picasso in the south of France. A young girl and her aunt head to a cooking class in the south of France and solve the mystery of a grandmother who was there years before.

To the Bright Edge of the World, by Eowyn Ivey

The author of The Snow Child, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, returns with a transporting tale of adventure, love and survival in the winter of 1885. Colonel Forrester, a decorated war hero, leads a small group of men on an expedition to explore the untamed Alaska Territory, leaving his newly pregnant wife on her own at the Vancouver Barracks. Forrester’s terrifying encounters and the deep information about the natural world from the native tribes that blurs human and animal, living and dead, are all recorded in a journal for his wife, who battles a winter that batters her courage.

The Book That Matters Most, by Ann Hood

At the end of a twenty-five year marriage, Ava is desperate for companionship and joins a book group where each member presents the book that matters most to them. Ava rediscovers a mysterious book from her childhood that helped her through the trauma of the sudden death of her mother and sister. Ava’s story alternates with her adult daughter, Maggie, who lives in Paris and is falling into a destructive relationship with an older man. Ava’s quest to find the book’s author unravels her past and offers her and Maggie a chance to remake their lives. 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

By Angie Tally

Finding Wild, by Megan Wagner Lloyd. This charmingly illustrated book conveys a beautiful message about the many forms nature can take. Not only is it a great gift title, but Finding Wild can also serve as inspiration for home or classroom discussions: “Where do you find Wild?” Ages 3-6.

The Girl Who Drank the Moon, by Kelly Barnhill. A misunderstood witch, a poetry-spouting swamp monster, a tiny dragon with a simply enormous heart, a girl fed from moonlight, and a town filled with tragic sadness all come together in this brilliant new novel from the author of Witch’s Boy. Fans of Maile Meloy, Alice Hoffman and Shannon Hale will devour this sad, funny, charming, clever stand-alone fantasy adventure. Ages 10-14.

What Elephants Know, by Eric Dinerstein. In the king’s elephant stable on the Nepalese borderlands, it is said elephants choose their people, and Devi Kali has chosen Nandu, a foundling and now adopted son of the head of the stables. But when the stables’ very existence is threatened, it seems Nandu must be willing to give up what he holds most dear to ensure its survival, the elephants’ well-being and the livelihood of his people. Brilliantly written and a literary masterpiece for young readers. Ages 9-12.  PS

Almanac

By Ash Alder

Welcoming the Harvest

August is a poem you can taste. Swollen fruit beckons us to the garden, the orchard, the roadside stand, and for some of us, the trailing vines that wind along the woodland path. The air intoxicates us with notes of wild honey and dandelion. Damselflies dance between milkweed and goldenrod, fiery sunsets fade into star-studded twilight, and come nightfall, the crickets and katydids gift us with song. Nothing gold can stay, they lament.

And so we savor each delicious moment.

The Wheel of the Year, an annual cycle of eight seasonal festivals (or sabbats) observed by modern pagans, includes a grain harvest celebration called Lammas (loaf mass) on August 1. Also called August Eve, the first harvest festival of the year includes a feast of thanksgiving, the first sheaf of wheat ritually baked into a sacred loaf said to embody the spirit of the grain. Regardless of which seasonal festivals you choose to observe, now’s as good a time as any to consider the abundance of the season, especially when you’re slicing that thick Cherokee Purple for the perfect ’mater sandwich. And as you sow your autumn garden — beets, carrots, peas and greens — try whispering a little song of thanks into the soil and see what follows: a new delicious season of magic, no doubt. Another harvest. But for now, listen to the katydids.

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” — Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Starry Eyed

The gladiolus, or ‘sword lily,’ is the birth flower of August. Bright and showy, they symbolize a heart “pierced with love.”

Astronomically speaking, there’s a lot to pierce the heart with love this month: the Perseid meteor shower, for instance, which happens August 11–13 and is visible worldwide. Predawn is the best time to see it, and since the quarter moon will have set by 1 a.m., the dark sky should be an ideal canvas for this (pardon) stellar show.

Native Americans called the full moon of August the “Sturgeon” or “Green Corn” moon. On August 18, see what you’re inspired to call it. And if you’re prone to set intentions, the full moon is prime time. It’s also a good night for onion braiding, an ancient way to store bulbs pulled from the garden in late July. Some believe that onion braids offer protection, but they’re simply lovely. You need no reason more.

Taste of Summer

National Peach Month is here. A fun fact: True wild peaches (small and sour) are only found in China, where the fruit is said to have mystical properties and grant longevity to those who eat them. Our peaches (plump and sugary) have magical qualities, too. Don’t believe it? Sink your teeth into a just-picked one and see if you don’t grin like a sweet-toothed squirrel.

Also, August 3 marks National Watermelon Day. Slice one for a picnic in the backyard, where the kids can make a sport of seed spitting. Since watermelons are more than 90 percent water, they’re a tasty way to help stay hydrated on hot summer days. Slip them into salads and salsas, or treat yourself to something even sweeter, like a mint and watermelon soda float. The following recipe (and a delicious homegrown watermelon) came from a friend:

Fresh Mint and Watermelon Float

2 1/2 cups fresh watermelon chunks

12–15 fresh mint leaves, coarsely chopped

12 oz club soda or carbonated water

Vanilla ice cream

In a blender, combine watermelon, mint and water. Blend and pulse quickly for 30–60 seconds (or until watermelon breaks down). The blending will “de-carbonate” the water, but it should still have some fizz. Pour mixture through a fine mesh strainer into a large bowl to remove seeds. Fill two glasses with vanilla ice cream and pour watermelon soda over top. Garnish with additional fresh mint. Serves two.  PS

Arneis the Alternative

The “Little Rascal” of summer wines

By Robyn James

Whenever we enter the dog days of summer, the search is on for refreshing whites to quench your thirst and complement your summer menus of salads, cold plates and seafood. New Zealand sauvignon blanc, Oregon pinot gris and Portugal’s vinho verde are always favored go-to summer whites. But what’s the new secret for a sommelier’s alternate summer white? Try the Italian grape arneis. You can’t really call arneis a “new” grape, since there are references hinting back to the 1400s and definite vineyard references to the grape in the 1800s.

If there were ever a wine region known solely for its red wines, the Piedmont region of Italy would be it. This is nebbiolo land, home to the majestic red wines of Barolo and Barbaresco, some of the hardest, most tannic wines on earth. Decades ago, wine geeks joked that these winemakers made wines for their grandchildren to enjoy.  Fans of these reds have usually assumed they were produced from 100 percent nebbiolo grapes and in most cases they were right. However, Italian law does allow winemakers to blend arneis into their Barolos and Barbarescos to soften the rock-hard tannins. Just as France permitted the Northern Rhone region to blend the white viognier grape into their tannic syrah as a miniscule softener, so goes Piedmont, Italy. Because of this potential blend, many locals refer to arneis as Barolo bianco or nebbiolo bianco even though there is no genetic thread to connect the grapes as relatives. Centuries ago, arneis was planted among the more valuable nebbiolo grapes in a field blend with the hope that the birds would swoop in to eat the cheaper, fruitier arneis and spare the pricey nebbiolo.

Roughly translated, arneis means “little rascal” or “difficult person.” It can be tricky to cultivate, prone to mildew if picked too late, and before the twentieth century winemakers had all but given up on it and extinction threatened.

Modern winemakers plant it in chalky, sandy soil to develop a light-medium body dry wine with more crisp acidity and structure. Common flavors are almonds, apricots, peaches, pears and hops. Winemakers in the United States, always up for a challenge, are planting arneis in Sonoma, Mendocino, Russian River and Oregon with great success. Even Australia and New Zealand are experimenting with plantings.

Two of my favorites come from the Damilano Winery of Barolo and the Cantine Tintero winery from the commune of Mango in Piedmont.

Damilano is one of the oldest wineries in Barolo, passed down to family members for many generations. They pride themselves on their arneis which is dry, delicate, with impressive acidity and full fruit flavors. It has pear flavors, citrus zest and finishes long. It sells for about $18.

Another family operated winery, Cantine Tintero produces Barbaresco, moscato, a rosato (rosé), a blended red, blended white and an arneis.

Possibly the best value I have ever discovered, this delicious white, under $12, has alluring floral aromas and flavors with great acidity and a pleasant spiciness. Branch out, try an arneis and cool off with something different for the summer.  PS

Robyn James is a certified sommelier and proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at robynajames@gmail.com.