Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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Life in Rabbit Land

Hare, There and Everywhere

By Jim Dodson

Illustration by Gerry O’Neill

Is there anything nicer than a summer evening after a surprise rain shower cools off the world?

I think not. Of course, being in the “evening of life” myself, I am perhaps not an entirely objective source on the matter.

On the other hand, Homer’s grandkids seem to agree with me. Homer is the rabbit that has made my yard his home for several years. Or, at least, that’s what I nicknamed him.

I was sitting here quietly by myself moments ago beneath Old George, our elderly maple tree at the garden’s edge, enjoying the cooler air and an evening drink, when they suddenly appeared — three young rabbits racing directly past me into the front yard, chasing, tumbling and hopping joyfully over each other like a circus troupe of acrobats entering the center ring. I watched them race around until they settled down to nibble grass in the newest section of the yard.    

I call them Homer’s grandkids because young kits appear every spring from the burrow where they reside beneath an ancient oak stump near my east garden gate, a well-protected enclave. I have no idea if Homer was the original patriarch (or, for that matter, matriarch) of the burrow, but a decade or so ago he captured our affections by showing up every morning and evening like clockwork to hang out with our old, gray tiger cat, Boo Radley. The two would often sit together in the garden as evening fell, just watching the day’s peaceful end. Theirs was an improbable “friendship” that went on for several years until Boo passed on and Homer went, well, wherever aging eastern cottontail rabbits go. I was inspired to write a whimsical book for my own grandkids, wondering at the time if I would ever have some. My artist friend, Harry Blair, drew the illustrations.

We live in Starmount Forest, so-named because its former wealthy owner was determined to keep the old-growth hardwoods intact — until he built a country club in the middle of it and passed the forest on to other owners, whose heirs — legend holds — began turning the forest into a postwar neighborhood of attractive suburban houses.

Fortunately, it still retains some of its character as an urban forest of mighty oaks and maples, and remains one of the oldest and most popular neighborhoods in the city. Growing up in Starmount, I have a keen boyhood memory of the abundant rabbits in the yards and gardens of the neighborhood half a century ago. They clearly preceded humans in lovely Starmount Forest. And will likely outlive us all.

My mom, a dedicated gardener, liked to say that we were the “newcomers to Rabbit Land,” hence their natural “nibbling rights” in a special section of her backyard garden she set aside for them. She planted things rabbits love to eat — snapdragons, morning glories, daisies and black-eyed Susans — thereby keeping them away from her beloved peony border and roses. Decades later, I adopted a version of her strategy when I built a large woodland garden in Maine and included a huge patch of hosta plants at the back of our property, designed to keep the whitetail deer out of my flower beds. It worked like a charm. 

Like my mom, I find something comforting and even magical about our neighborhood rabbits. They’re all around us and simply part of daily life here, a reminder that nature is never far away. On an average morning or evening walk around the block, you’re liable see at least a couple dozen of them feeding peacefully in yards or resting under shrubs from the heat of a long summer day.

I’m sure part of my affection for them stems from growing up in a generation of kids weaned on Beatrix Potter’s beloved Tale of Peter Rabbit, the classic 1902 children’s book about a mischievous young rabbit who disobeys his mother and gets into big trouble in Mr. McGregor’s vegetable garden. It ends with Peter making a wild escape during which he loses his clothes and is put to bed with chamomile tea while his sisters, Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail, enjoy a nice supper. It was a fable meant to remind young ones to always mind their mama. I still own my childhood copy of the book, which I plan to soon pass along to my new granddaughter, June Bug. The wee book on Homer and Boo will soon follow.

Another book that will wend its way to her is a beautifully illustrated first edition of Richard Adams’ Watership Down, an allegorical adventure story about a group of brave rabbits who set off to find a safe haven after their rural Hampshire warren is slated for destruction and development — a tale that holds echoes of today’s headlines about immigrants.

Critics uniformly hailed Watership Down as a modern classic by comparing its epic motifs of spiritual faith, flight and survival to Homer’s Odyssey and Virgil’s The Aeneid. Adams himself described it merely as simple tales he improvised during a long family road trip to entertain his young daughters, Juliet and Rosamund. They pestered him to write down the story, which he eventually did, reading each bit as he finished it to his daughters. Rejected by seven major publishing houses before London-based, independent press Rex Collings published it in 1972, Watership Down quickly became a runaway bestseller in both Britain and America.

I read it the summer before my sophomore year in college and still rank it among my favorite books.

•

It’s no surprise that rabbits have a magical presence across mythology and human culture. The science, lore, mystery and magic of what some believe to be the world’s most misunderstood herbivore have been an integral part of our own evolution as a species.

Rabbits, either hunted or raised domestically, have been revered for ages for their meat and fur. They are also held in high regard for their prodigious reproductive abilities — averaging four to 12 kits per year. Rabbits reportedly flourish on every continent save for Antarctica.

Seen around the world as symbols of fertility, cunning and innocence, they also appear in the mythology of nearly every human society, from ancient Aztec to Asian. Native American peoples regarded the “Great Rabbit” to be the creator of the world. The rabbit is also one of the 12 celestial animals of the Chinese zodiac, where it is the symbol of longevity, peace and prosperity. Someone born under the sign of the rabbit is believed to be vigilant, witty, quick-minded and ingenious.

In Western society, the Easter Bunny evolved from German folklore. It joins Br’er Rabbit, Alice’s White Rabbit and the immortal Bugs Bunny as iconic figures in our narrative lore. In his unpublished memoirs, Bugs’ creator, Friz Freleng, claimed to have modeled Bugs Bunny on Clark Gable’s wily, fast-talking character in the 1934 hit comedy film It Happened One Night.

This may explain why my neighbors in the old Starmount Forest seem to share my affinity for our ever-present rabbits.

Life in Rabbit Land is good. 

In a current world that lately seems out of balance and frequently beyond our daily comprehension, the presence of peaceful cottontails at dawn and dusk reminds us of life’s beauty, brevity and sweet hope of renewal.

 

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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A Fish Tale

And a queasy oceangoing interview

By Bill Fields

It’s prime bluefish season in my adopted home state of Connecticut, where anglers pursue the aggressive and toothy species in Long Island Sound. Our now-defunct local minor league team, the Bridgeport Bluefish, had a fitting name. Its logo — cartoon fish with baseball bat — wasn’t in the legendary graphic-design class of another long-gone franchise, the Hartford Whalers, but was very good.

I still remember the fight put forth by a blue I reeled in some years ago when a friend’s father took us out on his boat. It weighed about 10 pounds, the biggest fish I’d ever caught. Because of their strong flavor and oily nature, blues aren’t the best eating. But my host kindly cleaned my catch, and I was determined to have it for dinner.

Although my girlfriend was a good sport and cooked it, the kitchen reeked for hours after a meal that neither of us wanted to replay. We agreed if there were any more bluefish in my future that a catch-and-release policy would be in effect.

My most memorable — and unexpected — fishing experience had taken place a decade earlier on the other side of the country in the company of one of the 20th century’s finest golfers.

In advance of the 1998 U.S. Open at the Olympic Club in San Francisco, I was writing an in-depth feature for Golf World recalling the leading characters in a previous Open at Olympic: 1966, when Billy Casper defeated Arnold Palmer in a playoff after trailing him by seven strokes with nine holes left in the fourth round. It was Palmer’s most heartbreaking attempt in his unrequited quest to add a second U.S. Open title to his dramatic 1960 victory.

Understandably, Palmer wasn’t eager to rehash the details of 1966, but he agreed to a short interview, which took place in the parking lot of a Senior PGA Tour event as he regripped his clubs with fresh leather wrapping. Casper, on the other hand, whose 51 PGA Tour wins are the seventh-most all time, welcomed a visit.

I had arranged to meet Casper at his San Diego home, but when I phoned to touch base on the day I was traveling west, he called an audible. “Let’s go fishing,” he said, before telling me where to meet him on the waterfront that evening. I assumed we would be going out in the Pacific Ocean on his boat. Upon arriving, however, I discovered Casper and I were among half a dozen passengers on a charter vessel motoring about 50 miles overnight and fishing for yellowtail the next day.

I settled into my bunk excited at the prospect of a captive interview subject. I woke up with a queasiness I’d never experienced as the boat rocked back and forth, minor movements that were causing major motion sickness. Shortly after sunrise, it was all I could do to make it to the galley, where I found Casper.

“They make a great breakfast burrito,” he said.

As Casper chowed down, I nursed a ginger ale. Another fisherman, seeing that I was hurting, said he had an extra anti-nausea wristband for which I would have emptied my wallet. I put on his gift and soon rallied enough to start interviewing Casper, who was friendly but clearly more interested in fishing than talking: There wasn’t going to be much on my microcassette tape to transcribe.

There was little action once we were outside with rod and reel. I was excited to catch a 30-inch barracuda, but the deckhand, viewing it as a nuisance, took it off the hook and threw the thrashing fish back in the ocean before I had a chance to get someone to snap a photo of me with my catch.

Eventually, as the afternoon went on, Casper and someone else landed a few nice yellowtail. The trip wasn’t a shutout. My appetite having returned in the fresh air and sunshine, I enjoyed the deckhand’s offering of the freshest sashimi I’ve ever had.

When we got back to land 20 hours after heading out, Casper and I said our goodbyes. Walking a couple of blocks to my rental car after my first ocean excursion, my legs felt as wobbly as Palmer’s game had been that fateful final nine in 1966.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

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The Self Checkout

When daughter becomes Mom

By Ashley Harris

Illustration by Campbell Pringle

My 76-year-old mother, recovering from a hip replacement, steered her cart toward a cashier at Walmart. A line of five carts snaked ahead of us, overflowing with groceries and restless toddlers. This could take an hour. No, I decided. It was time.

I gently took command of the cart and circled back to the spacious and orderly self-checkout section. Here patrons circulated freely, checked out quickly and marched out the door, smiling into the sunshine. Mom deserved this. “Let’s use the self-checkout.”

“No,” she said, her navy eyes widening with resolve, reminding me of the theory that all blue-eyed people shared one common ancestor, undoubtedly a stubborn soul who insisted on making her spears solely from the gingko tree.

I knew she was scared. Of the scanning and the codes. Of setting off some alarm that brought managers. I understood.

“This is exactly how I felt before I jumped off the high dive,” I reminded her. In her prime, Mom had been an expert swimmer, famous for her beautiful swan dives while I preferred to splash around in the kiddie section. “But you coached me through it. Remember?” At just 8 years old, I held my nose, dutifully stepped off the board, and much to my relief, bobbed right back up and doggie-paddled to her welcoming arms. That’s why I knew she could survive the self-checkout. I would be there for her. Still, she glared at me.

I sighed, moved by the gravitas of this moment. There comes a time in the life of every adult child when you realize that you must become the parent of your own parent. Today was the day I would take the bull by the horns. Or, in this case, the heifer by the hair.

“It’s so easy,” I said, rolling over to an empty register. “And there are friendly people here to help.” Sandra, one of my favorite clerks, chit-chatted with an elderly man while they weighed his avocados, the atmosphere lightened by laughter.

“OK,” Mom grumbled, realizing it was too late to protest.

“Watch this,” I said, grabbing a tub of potato soup and rolling it over the screen. A reassuring ping confirmed a successful scan. “Your turn.”

But when she tried the same thing with a box of coffee pods, nothing happened. “Here,” I said, grabbing the box and bouncing it definitively against the glass, which triggered the ping. “You must scan with authority. Show the scanner that you mean business.”

She nodded, and went for the next item, a box of tissues. This time she scanned it with a little more finesse, and the scanner obligingly pinged. Then she followed with a box of crackers. Ping. Shampoo. Ping. More soup. Ping, ping, ping. Suddenly there was no stopping the blue-eyed woman whose callused-kneed ancestor foraged through the forest every day until she found enough berries and nuts to feed her family.

“You’re getting good at this,” I said. “I’m proud of you.” But now it was time for the final exam — a bag of six oranges, which would require a code. It was time for the pro to step in.

“Weighing produce is fun,” I reassured her, picking up the bag. Suddenly, the thin cellophane split, and those six oranges rolled in six different directions. The serenity of the self-checkout devolved into utter chaos, as patrons shuffled and hopped, dodging oranges or trying to catch them. Some were returned to us, and some were never seen again. My face burnt with embarrassment as we paid and walked out.

“You’re probably never going to do that again, are you?” I asked her.

Mom shook her head, treating me to the stare of a woman whose bloodline stood down a woolly mammoth outside the cave.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Did you ever jump off the high dive again?”

I never did, and she knew perfectly well I never did.

“It’s OK, honey,” she said, softening. And Mom became Mom again. “With some things, once is more than enough.”

Sandhills Photo Club

SANDHILLS PHOTO CLUB

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Trains, Planes & Automobiles

Would you like to have fun expanding your photography skills through programs, outings, competitions, and workshops? We welcome you to learn more about our club and inquire about membership. For meetings and information visit www.sandhillsphotoclub.org.

Tier 3 Winners

Tier 3, 1st Place: Hogwarts Express by Pat Anderson

Tier 3, 2nd Place: Zoom Zoom by Neva Scheve

Tier 3, 3rd Place: Lean, Mean, Fighting Machine by Joshua Simpson

Tier 2 Winners

Tier 2, 1st Place: 500 mph Fly By by Michael Sassano

Tier 2, 2nd Place: May All Your Dreams Come True by Sue Lyons

Tier 2, 3rd Place: A Little Vintage Charm by Cathy Locklear

Tier 1 Winners

Tier 1, 1st Place: Captain’s Seat by Kim Butler

Tier 1, 2nd Place: In My Dreams by David Kiner

Tier 1, 3rd Place: The Getaway Car by Jean Antholzner

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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Deuces Up

A rooms with a view

By Lee Pace

Ten years ago, Pinehurst Resort seemingly had it all — a world-famous golf course that had hosted three U.S. Opens, eight more layouts designed by the greats of the golf architectural world from Donald Ross to Tom Fazio, and more than a century of history that staked it to its lofty position as the “St. Andrews of American golf.”

What it didn’t have, however, was a convenient venue for golfers coming off the No. 2 course to enjoy a post-round libation and the attendant scorecard parsing and bet-settling. There was a portable “veranda bar,” or golfers could walk from the locker room down two corridors to the 91st Hole, which was mostly a grab-and-go station in the center of the clubhouse with a view of the practice putting green.

“It was kind of the missing puzzle piece,” says Pinehurst President Tom Pashley. “We did not have a fitting end to a round of golf on one of the world’s finest golf courses. It seemed like an odd omission.”

Pashley had just taken over from Don Padgett II in running the resort in 2014 when he huddled with Pinehurst owner Robert Dedman Jr. and personnel from golf operations, food and beverage, and the resort’s architectural and design consultants. The result in September 2016 was the opening of The Deuce — a facility on the east side of the clubhouse with an indoor bar and restaurant and outdoor veranda bar no more than 25 yards from the back edge of the 18th green of the No. 2 course.

Now on the cusp of its 10-year anniversary, The Deuce has proven an overwhelming success. The food is excellent. Prime rib does double-duty as a slab on a dinner plate or sliced thin for the popular French dip sandwich. Buffalo wings and tater tots with three dipping sauces fly out of the kitchen. There is a lunch buffet to get golfers in and out and on to the first tee of No. 2 in timely fashion.

The drinks menu is creative and expansive — from Pinehurst 1895 Lager to margaritas made with cucumber-jalapeno agave to an old-fashioned cocktail flavored with orange and black cherry syrup — and accented with a piece of bacon cured daily in the kitchen with maple syrup and brown sugar. The Deuce Mule is vodka and ginger beer with a splash of cranberry juice served in a copper mule mug.

The décor is spot-on with sepia-toned photos of Donald Ross and his pencil-notated hole drawings. There are vintage postcards and scorecards and photos ranging from historical to contemporary, including, of course, the “Payne Pose” of Payne Stewart reacting to his winning putt in the 1999 U.S. Open. There’s a view out a series of picture windows onto the home hole of No. 2, and every visual of the name Deuce has the capital-D fashioned to resemble the numeral 2.

And then there’s the vibe.

The veranda fills on nice weather afternoons as golfers finish their rounds, slake their thirsts and watch their buddies come in behind them. They may linger long enough to place a bet or two on whether some random 15-handicapper from Wisconsin can two-putt from 35 feet.

“It’s changed a lot since The Deuce opened,” says longtime Pinehurst caddie Thomas Trinchitella. “People enjoy watching golfers come up 18. They make a lot of bets. You get a nice clap for a good shot. You hear cheering and good-natured booing depending on what happens.”

“The Deuce has added so much energy to that side of the building,” Pashley adds. “You have a veranda full of people, and if you hit a good shot it’s so cool to hear a round of applause. If you make a long putt, people get excited.”

Pinehurst officials considered a number of promotional tie-ins to the numeral 2, and the one that has stuck and become popular is awarding golfers a special coin if they make a 2 on any hole — generally a birdie on one the four par-3 holes. One side has the word “Deuce” and the year, the other side “2 on 2 / I’ll drink to that!” The design is tweaked each year, and the coin for 2026 is copper-colored. The resort handed out more than 5,000 Deuce coins in 2025, and the pursuit and acquisition of the coins has become a big deal in social media channels with these kinds of posts accompanied by photos or video clips:

“Mine from last year is a prized possession.”

“I made a 2 on 17 on New Year’s Day. Really cool tradition.”

“Missed a two-footer for two on six and it still haunts me.”

“Love the coins, the tradition and the memories on nine and 17,” one father posted of him and his son both making birdies in one round.

“One of my best golf moments ever. Hit it inside 12 inches on 17 and tap-in.”

It adds up to an experience that draws the likes of Bryson DeChambeau and his caddie when they were in Pinehurst early in 2024 — just months before he won the U.S. Open.

“No one noticed them or bothered them. They were wearing jeans and hoodies,” says bartender Stephen Coleman. “They just had burgers and a couple of drinks and watched the golf on TV. They had fun hanging out. That’s what The Deuce is all about.

“Everyone calls it the Disney World of golf. A lot of people say that. Everyone is so into golf it’s hard to have a bad time.”

Adds Vanessa Dozier, assistant manager at The Deuce: “It’s 100 percent family — you’ll see golfers from all over the world at the bar, and you’ll see locals who’ve made The Deuce their spot. It exudes what Pinehurst is all about — laughter and excitement and passion for golf.”

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

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An Orange Crush

Setting the wheels in motion

By Robert Kowalski

It was that coming-of-age summer. My companions and I had escaped the prying eyes of our parents. Our interests turned from baseball cards to rock ’n’ roll.

Gary Evans lived a few doors down from me. He was several years older, so we didn’t hang out, but he had two things that piqued my interest that summer. First was his stunningly attractive sister, Amanda. She was every boy’s crush. Even the most courageous among us knew she was out of their league. Still, that didn’t stop us from hanging around the Dairy Queen where she worked part-time. She always gave us that beguiling smile that said she knew we weren’t there just for the chocolate-dipped cones.

The other item of interest was his 1968 Schwinn Orange Krate. The Orange Krate and its two siblings, the Lemon Peeler and Apple Krate, were to bicycles what muscle cars were to automobiles. The Krates were cool. They had a 5-speed stick shift; spring suspension front fork with a drum brake; longhorn handlebars and a banana seat with shock absorber suspension. Mania on two wheels.

For weeks I slow-walked by Gary’s house, admiring the bicycle he had abandoned after he moved on to automobiles. It was now or never. Could I strike a deal with Gary and make the Krate mine? I gathered my courage and $35 in lawnmowing money and negotiated my way to being the bike’s new owner. In an instant I became relevant. The guys were jealous. The girls were impressed. The stuff that dreams were made of came to pass.

For five weeks that summer, the Krate and I paraded through the neighborhood. We were inseparable. We got stares of admiration from the kids. The girls took turns riding it around the block. Every day was a breath of fresh air. That is, until the day everything fell to pieces on a hot, muggy August afternoon.

The guys and I got together for a swim at a local park. I left the Krate securely chained to a light pole. When I came back a couple of hours later, I went numb and all wobbly in the knees. The Krate was gone. All that was left was a broken lock lying on the ground. My best friend, Don, and I searched the park for hours. Nothing. Not even a ransom note.

At dinner that night, I broke the news to my dad. Ever the stoic, he looked at me and said, “Son, sometimes life throws you a curve. And all you can do is move on.”

His words didn’t help. I continued stabbing at the mashed potatoes. As we left the table, he put his arm around my shoulder and whispered, “Next time get a bigger lock.”

There would be other crushes in life. But there would never be another Orange Krate. Today, the Krate is a collector’s item. Some owners asking as much as $10,000 on eBay. Quite a nice investment had I been able to keep it. Still, I wouldn’t give up the great memories $35 bought me long ago — or my father’s advice.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Late Summer’s Song

The sound of the mourning dove

By Susan Campbell

The beauty of doves is taken for granted. They are numerous, even abundant, everywhere we look. Their cryptic coloration and still habits make them easy to overlook. Mourning doves are the most familiar of the group statewide. Of course, we also have plenty of rock doves (aka pigeons) and increasing numbers of Eurasian collared doves here as well. However, it is the mourning dove that deserves our attention.

The species has a sleek, medium-sized light brown body and wings that are splotched with black. It also has a small head, a pale bluish crown and eye ring as well as a long wedge-shaped tail that is edged in white. At close range, a rosy sheen can be seen on the breast feathers of the males. The mourning dove’s name originates from its plaintive song. The hooting quality of the notes has been known to fool people into thinking they are hearing an owl.

By late summer doves are flocking in large numbers, in and around big fields. They feed busily on the ground, swallowing a variety of seeds as they fatten up prior to migration. All doves will consume large amounts of whole seeds in their crop and then perch in a safe spot to digest. Where and how far they may fly depends on weather and food availability. Most do not move long distances but rather seek out areas that will hold a diversity of grains for weeks at a time. Flocks of hundreds of birds can be found perched on wires or in snags adjacent to good foraging habitat.

Young of the year blend in well with the adults very soon after fledging. Their tails may not be quite as long, nor will their heads be as distinctly patterned, but these are field marks that are only visible at very close range. Three to five clutches of two is not unexpected in a season. With the moderate climate in North Carolina, especially along our coast, mourning doves have been found breeding in every month of the year.

There is no better time for individual mourning doves to seek safety in numbers than early September. Labor Day weekend marks the beginning of hunting season, and doves are the first on the calendar. Their robust population handles the harvest nationwide. This is due, at least in part, to their fast and erratic flight behavior that makes the birds a challenging target.

Dove hunting has a rich cultural history in the South. It is a time to bond with family and friends, enjoy the waning days of summer afield and perhaps even bring home enough plump breasts for a hearty meal — or at least some tasty hors d’oeuvres. Scouting out the right spot is the key. Hunters will survey different known locations looking for the best variety of seed-bearing cover crops, strategic perching sites and hopefully at least a few doves hanging around. For those who do not have access to suitable private land for hunting doves, the State Game Lands (Sandhills, Caswell, Jordan and others) offer opportunities. Both manage habitat specifically for mourning doves year-round. But even if you do not hunt, take some time out and look for these attractive birds — no binoculars are required.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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Frozen Banana Daiquiri

By Tony Cross

My earliest recollection of a frozen daiquiri dates back to 1993-1994, when I lived on Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, Japan. There were many Saturdays that my parents, brother and I would go to the bowling alley in the late afternoon. There was a bar counter that served food and drinks, and behind it was a medium-sized black machine that had two neon colors of frozen slush rotating up and down, back and forth.

“Frozen Daiquiris” the machine read.

I vaguely remember sneaking a sip of my mother’s one night. “Eww, disgusting!” I thought. In a million years I would never have believed that a daiquiri would be my favorite drink in the world. But here we are. The frozen daiquiris of my bowling alley days were indeed disgusting. Artificial ingredients, corn syrup, and zero balance — one might wonder why this was even a thing. But frozen cocktails were most definitely a thing, especially the banana daiquiri.

Quoting from Garret Richard and Ben Schaffer’s book, Tropical Standard: Cocktail Techniques & Reinvented Recipes, “Harry Yee (who is known for the famous cocktail Blue Hawaii), has claimed to have been the first to put a banana in a daiquiri, in the 1950s.” Yee, who spent more than 30 years as head bartender at the Hilton Hawaiian Village, started adding bananas to blended daiquiris, helping to put Hawaii on the exotic drinks map. Yee-haw to that!

These days, there are bartenders who use high-quality banana liqueurs in their daiquiris (I’ve gone this route), leaving the blender behind. But Richard’s adaptation of Yee’s daiquiri was all the rage in my kitchen a couple of years ago. There is chemistry in these ingredients — some of my favorite rums have notes of banana. Pro tip: Make sure to keep the rum in the freezer; this will help the temperature drop quicker in the blender with less water dilution. You’ll notice that the banana liqueur is optional in the specs — it’s something I like to add to Richard’s recipe.

Specifications

2 ounces Flor de Cana 4-year-old rum (keep at freezer temperature)

1/2 ounce Giffard Banane du Bresil (optional)

1/2 ounce strained lime juice

1 tablespoon sugar mix*

60 grams unrefrigerated very ripe/overripe banana (usually 1/2 of a whole banana)

5 drops salt solution**

1/4 teaspoon xanthan gum

Lime zest (garnish)

 

Execution

Combine all ingredients, sans xanthan gum, in a blender. Dry blend (without ice). Once sugar is dissolved, slowly add the gum while blending. Add 170 grams of crushed ice while continuing to blend. Pour unstrained into a large, chilled coupe. Garnish with lime zest.

*Sugar mix: equal parts (by weight) of turbinado and cane sugar

**Saline solution: combine 80 grams of water and 20 grams of salt into a dropper bottle

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Leo

July 23 — August 22

Well, you’re gonna love this. This month, the solar eclipse in your sign spells all eyes on you. Imagine starring in your own sitcom, navigating plot twists and obstacles with charm, wit and flawless hair. Everyone notices. Dream come true, right? But here’s the kicker: You must drop the performance. It’s raw or nothing, baby. As for the lunar eclipse at month’s end, ask yourself this: Is it retail therapy or a shopping addiction?

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

 

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)  

Two words: early bird.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Think of it as an initiation. 

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Stock up on chocolate. 

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Stretch those hip flexors. 

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

You don’t have to do it alone. 

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Bring a hammock.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

You’re in the weeds, darling. 

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Pause before texting back. 

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Freeze your pesto. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Bookmark the recipe. 

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Trust your body’s wisdom. 

PinePitch August 2026

PINEPITCH

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PinePitch

August 2026

Live After 5

Dance at least part of the night away to the Chapel Hill-based, 10-piece band Liquid Pleasure at Live After 5 on Friday, Aug. 14, at the Village Arboretum, 375 Magnolia Road, Pinehurst. Scarlet Tantrum cranks things up at 5:15, and the music ends at 9 p.m. There will be stuff to keep the kids happy and food trucks for anyone who works up an appetite. For more information go to www.vopnc.org.

Money Monsters

Ever wonder where all that money went? Well Doug Lynam, the author of Taming Your Money Monster will break your problem down into nine “personalities” and offer a way to tame each one of them at 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, Aug. 29, at the Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. For more information go to www.sppl.net.

Hot Time in the Old Town

If it’s August it must be First Friday. Florencia & The Feeling, a funk, jazz, Latin-flair pop quintet from Johnson City, Tennessee, takes the stage at 5 p.m. (or thereabouts) on the greenspace beside the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, on, yes, Friday, Aug. 7. The band starred at the 2025 FloydFest and the 2024 MerleFest, if all that festing sounds good to you. The local rules don’t change just because it’s hot as you-know-what. No doggies, no outside moonshine. Well, fact is, there isn’t even any inside moonshine, but there will be beer and wine for sale. For more information you can always check out www.sunrisetheater.com

Double Vision

The dueling art openings for August happen on Friday, Aug. 7. The Arts Council of Moore County’s opening reception for the Fine Arts Festival is from 6 – 8 p.m. at the Campbell House, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. The art will remain on display through Aug. 26. For more information go to www.mooreart.org. The Artists League of the Sandhills’ opening reception for “More Than Miniatures — Small Wonders” is from 5 – 7 p.m. at 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. The art hangs until Aug. 28. Get more information at www.artistleague.org.

Wrap Your Arms Around This

Weymouth Equestrians will hold two sessions of “Hug-a-Horse” at 10 a.m. and 11 a.m. on Saturday, Aug. 22, at the Weymouth Center barn, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. The squeezing, hugging and patting are free, but tickets are required and limited to 15 per session. For more information go to www.weymouthcenter.org

Pinkie Fingers Up

Enjoy a spot of tea and a gallery crawl in Seagrove on Saturday, Aug. 8, visiting Blue Hen Pottery, Dean & Martin Pottery, Eck McCanless Pottery, From the Ground Up, Red Hare Pottery and Thomas Pottery. You can run hot and cold with fancy new tea ware or iced tea pitchers and tumblers. Shops are open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. along the N.C. Pottery Highway. Maps are available at all the shops. Each stop will have tea from Carriage House Tea, and homemade treats and samples from The Table in Asheboro and the Seagrove Café. 

Get Your Pollen On

On Friday, Aug. 7, the Southern Pines Public Library and Moore County Master Gardeners will give a presentation at SPPL, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., at 10:30 a.m. on what a pollinator is and why they’re important. Then you can put that knowledge to good use on Saturday, Aug. 22, at 9 a.m., by joining citizen scientists all across the Southeast when you gather data counting pollinators in the gardens at Sandhills Community College. Registration is required. For info on the pollinator presentation go to www.sppl.net, and to join the pollinator census go to www.sandhills.edu/gardenevents.

All Jazzed Up

The Come Sunday Jazz series presents the Brian Felix Organ Trio on Sunday, Aug. 23, at 2 p.m. on the lawn of the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Rooted in organ-driven jazz, funk and soul, the trio blends reggae, samba, gospel and surf rock into its distinctive, unified vision. For additional info go to www.weymouthcenter.org.

Cruising Altitude

The Nashville-based jam band Airshow performs live with special guest Retrograde at 6:30 p.m. on Saturday, Aug. 22, at The Jive Hive, 2151 Vass-Carthage Road, Carthage. Formed by Cody Chelius and Steve Gallagher, along with Bill Baker and John Rodrigue, the foursome delivers a unique contrast of acoustic and mind-bending electric sounds. For information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

End the Summer Swingin’

The Sandhills Community College Jazz Band takes the stage at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst at 6:30 p.m. on Monday, Aug. 10, for “Swingin’ Under Blue Skies.” The concert is free but tickets are required. For info and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.