Landmarks of Life

The joys of the familiar

By Bill Fields

If I’m going to have a hot dog not terribly far from where I live, I’ll go to Walter’s in Mamaroneck, N.Y. There is a reason Walter’s has been serving its excellent hot dogs since 1919 and the stand where I go a couple of times a year has been there since 1928. The franks — once rated by Gourmet magazine as best in America — of a beef, pork and veal blend are made in-house and delicious. A little mustard, also Walter’s own, is the only condiment that should be added to $2.65 worth of flavor.

I don’t believe the hot dogs sold at The Ice Cream Parlor in downtown Southern Pines have received national acclaim, but one “all the way” makes me almost as happy. For North Carolina natives, there is something about a dog with chili, slaw and onions that sparks memories of the pit stops on childhood trips. Our road food — and that meant a hot dog loaded with Carolina-style toppings — on drives from the Sandhills to the Triad came from a place in Seagrove. The highway is quicker and the car seat safer from spills now, but the trip not nearly as anticipated.

Much of the comfort from a hot dog at the corner of New Hampshire and Broad these days is simply because The Ice Cream Parlor has been around for a while — not as long as Walter’s but for decades. Given how much change has taken place in Southern Pines, Pinehurst and the surrounding communities — how much is different from when I was growing up or even just 20 or 30 years ago — I consider constancy an increasingly treasured thing when I can find it.

I feel similarly about a pint from O’Donnell’s, a bucket of range balls at Knollwood or a walk on Ridge Street and back retracing the steps to and from school in days that simultaneously seem both distant and near.

If memories are, as someone said, the cushions of life, to be able to experience now what was experienced then is a sturdy foundation that grounds, informs and enriches.

I haven’t flown a kite in an empty field just north of Southern Pines in a long time, but I could. I hit tennis balls on the downtown courts as I did. The courts are smoother and the nets don’t sag, but for night play I miss putting in a quarter and hearing the lights whine before kicking on.

The Country Bookshop and the Southern Pines Public Library are in different locations than when I first discovered the joy of reading so long ago, but they’ve been in their present spots many years and it is a pleasure to spend time in either.

My friends aren’t playing guitar at The Jefferson Inn for the fun of it and a few Budweisers on the house as they did in the late 1970s, but I can still go there for a drink as folks have since the formative days of Southern Pines. The Lob Steer Inn — I loved that name and its salad bar — is no more, but Beefeaters remains. John’s Barbecue on Highway 15-501 is long gone, but Pik N Pig has been a Carthage staple for great barbecue for many years.

They’re still playing ball at Memorial Field and across the street from the National Guard Armory like they have for decades. Likewise at the town basketball courts, except the rims and nets are in better shape than when I played there if someone was desperate to fill out a pickup game with a good-shooting, slow-footed kid whose vertical leap could be measured with a ruler.

I sure can’t jump any higher now, but my spirit soars about what endures on my old turf, especially since so much doesn’t. PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent.

A Night Out

Better late than never

By Renee Phile

It was a brisk Saturday night and we ventured up to Raleigh. Destination: The Cheesecake Factory.

“Shouldn’t we make reservations?” I asked.

“Nah, we should be good,” he said.

The drive was uneventful until we pulled into the parking lot of the Crabtree Valley Mall. The cars maneuvered like ants marching to a fallen morsel of chocolate chip cookie. After 20 minutes we found a spot deep in the parking garage’s Siberia section — nestled between a blue SUV and a white Ford Ranger. Taste buds at attention, we hiked to the mall and upstairs to The Cheesecake Factory. Men, women and children littered the hallways, many sitting on the floor. The noise overwhelmed my brain.

“They must be waiting for takeout . . . or something,” I mumbled.

“Probably,” he said.

We filed in, took spots at the end of the line and inched up slowly. My stomach growled.

“What was that?” he asked with a laugh.

“What was what?” I said.

Pictures of luscious cheesecake covered the walls. Strawberry, chocolate, salted caramel. My mouth watered.

Minutes ticked by. We inched deeper into the chaos. Finally, we arrived.

“How many?” the hostess asked.

“Two,” he said.

“OK.” She tapped something on the screen of her computer and handed us a blinky piece of plastic.

“How long will that be?” he asked.

“Oh, about an hour and 45 minutes.”

He looked at me. I looked back and shook my head. No way. My stomach screamed.

“We’re good,” he said and handed her back the blinky thing.

We walked out, picking our way through the standing, sitting and leaning bodies, past the pictures of cheesecake — salted caramel, chocolate, strawberry.

“Where do you want to eat?” he asked.

“Somewhere without an hour and 45 minute wait.”

He took out his phone and began to search.

I willed him to hurry. My stomach rumbled like the mating call of a moose.

“What the heck was that?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

I didn’t answer.

He tapped a number into his phone.

“Hi. Uh, how long is the wait for a table for two?” he asked.

“Two hours.” I heard a voice say. I gasped.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and clicked off.

“Let’s just go to McDonalds,” I suggested.

“No McDonalds. What are you craving?”

“Cheesecake.”

“What about seafood?”

“That too.”

He tapped his phone and began searching.

“Red Lobster is 3 miles from here,” he said.

“Good.”

After 20 more minutes freeing ourselves from the parking garage, we were on the road to our third choice.

We parked, shuffled out of the car and walked up to the hostess stand.

“How many?” she asked.

“Two, but how long is the wait?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she said.

I groaned, but at least there wasn’t an hour before the 45. We were handed another blinky piece of plastic, and the minutes ticked by as we sat by the lobster tank.

After the full three-quarters of an hour mostly spent staring at crustaceans with bad intent, we were seated in a distant a corner. An angel appeared, eyes bright and smile wide, movements fluid and secure.

“Welcome to Red Lobster! My name is Penny. What can I get you to drink? Oh wait, I always start with the lady first.” She turned and grinned at me.

She filled my soul with warmth . . . and cheesy biscuits, creamy seafood dip and chips, boiled shrimp covered in butter, sweet coconut shrimp, and garlic lemon tilapia.

“This,” I said in between bites of pretty much everything, “was worth the wait.”

He nodded.

She kept appearing to fill our drinks and bring us more cheesy biscuits.

He asked her if she was in school.

“No, I’m a mommy and I work here on nights and weekends.”

“Boy or girl? How old?” he asked.

“A little boy. He’s 6.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket to show us a gorgeous kid with her eyes and smile. He held a soccer ball and grinned back at us.

He tipped her way more than 20 percent that night, and when she realized it, she bounced back to our table.

“Thank you so much! No, really, thank you!” she exclaimed.

Then it was his eyes, that wonderful blend of blue and green, that sparkled.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

No Abbey Makes Me Crabby

Let’s go to the DVD

By Deborah Salomon

I still miss Downton Abbey. Please don’t brand it a posh soap opera. These days nothing plays more soap operatic than cable news, where madmen run around threatening to blow the world to smithereens; where porn stars tell all; where espionage happens right under our noses — as reported by babes in low-cut dresses and guys with four-day beards.

The Abbey had a presence, a sense of place, since the main floor and outdoor scenes were filmed at Highclere Castle; not sure about the bedrooms, but they seemed real enough. The paintings were real, the books and duvets were real. The endless teacups appeared to be fine bone china. But I wondered about wearing sleeveless frocks in vast chambers heated only by fires laid by a scullery maid. You could lose yourself in the plots, which often culminated in shock and were never interrupted by commercials.

That’s what I want from a drama . . . escape. The era should allow fabulous costumes but confront universal situations: single motherhood, rape, infidelity, anti-Semitism, premarital sex, breast cancer, homosexuality, politics, racial tension, women’s rights.

Of course back then women couldn’t vote, but at least the guys stood up when one entered the room. As for war, I read that the World War I bunker scenes were the most authentic ever filmed.

DA offers plenty of sex but no nudity. Six seasons and only one bloody episode, when Robert’s ulcer bursts, during dinner.

The plot had enough scope to allow characters to develop, grow. Mr. Barrow will always be an opportunistic villain, but toward the end we understand, even sympathize. Chauffeur Branson sheds his socialism to become the voice of reason. Butler Carson turns Lothario. Footman Molesley, a lifelong loser, finds his mojo in teaching school. Kitchen maid Daisy finds her voice. Isabel Crawley never lost hers. Dowager Countess Violet — the ultimate snob — softens into a wise and kindly aristocrat. Who thought she would be left standing after the writers killed off Mr. Pamook, Lavinia, Sybil, William, Matthew, Isis (the yellow Lab), Michael Gregson, numerous pheasants and grouse?

Mrs. Patmore, the cook borrowed from Shakespeare, ties everything together with one-line zingers.

Over the six seasons the Crawleys almost became my family.

Trouble is, characters are so engraved on the actors that I cannot watch m’lord Hugh Bonneville play anything else. Heartthrob Dan Stevens (Matthew Crowley) in a flashy action flick, or as Beauty’s Beast, à la Disney? Please.

Part of the mystique falls to British entertainment in general, which owns a certain dry, witty refinement poorly imitated by Madam Secretary and The Good Wife. By contrast, watching the half-dead stagger toward Armageddon is neither escape nor entertainment. So of course I bought the complete Downton Abbey on DVD because my TV has a built-in player. Now, when the world closes in, I pick an episode and escape to Yorkshire.

Which fields another annoyance. My TV isn’t smart enough for streaming. I wouldn’t know Hulu from a Zulu. Purchased in 2008, it is sized perfectly for the room, has an excellent quality picture and good sound. Why should I replace it? I subscribe to premium cable and Netflix DVD. But, unless I purchase and attach another gizmo (not guaranteed to work) I won’t see The Crown until released on disc. But even with the smartest TV I wouldn’t give up cable because the song-and-dance coming out of Washington mustn’t be missed.

Television illustrates the American dilemma: too many choices. Quantity over quality. Twenty Oreo flavors, a dozen Coke varieties, 15 shampoos under the same brand, 3,000 apps and countless short-lived sitcoms that have not progressed beyond canned laughter. Then, repeat the nonsense On Demand.

That’s why British drama on PBS is so precious, including my other addiction, Call the Midwife, with an unlikely plot peopled by Anglican nuns, pretty young nurses and the wretched poor of London’s East End — yet mesmerizing in its seventh season.

Still, nothing compares to the Abbey, which closed its massive doors in 2015. An interactive set re-creation drew crowds last winter in New York. The merchandise continues to sell: Christmas tree ornaments, tea, cookbooks, T-shirts and “companion” DVDs chocked with backstage tidbits . . . all except one, which will forever remain a mystery:

Who really killed Vera and Mr. Green? PS

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

Endless Love

When all the time in the world isn’t enough

By Stephen E. Smith

My review copy of Matt Haig’s How to Stop Time fell open to an insert from Variety magazine announcing that the “story selection and rights have been acquired by SunnyMarch and Studiocanal” and that the film adaptation of the novel will star Benedict Cumberbatch.

Review copies always arrive with baggage — blurbs, author interviews, questionable testimonials, all of which I ignore. But it’s difficult to overlook a printed warning, tucked between the title page and cover, stating that the novel is soon to be a major motion picture. Before I’ve read the first word, I assume I’m being pitched a puffed-up film treatment, or worse yet, a story intended as fodder for the movie industry. A novel worth reading stands on its own.

Haig is a British author with an impressive track record. He’s written umpteen novels for adults and children, and his memoir Reasons to Stay Alive was on the best-sellers list for 46 weeks. So his latest offering certainly deserves a critical read, Cumberbatch notwithstanding. But like a film treatment that leaves the heart and soul of the story to be fleshed out by the filmmaker, this yarn about a 400-year-old man who could live to be 1,000 never quite comes together as a rewarding work of fiction.

Tom Hazard, the narrator/protagonist, is living the uneventful life of a history teacher in present-day London, but his attitude toward humankind has been shaded by the trauma of witnessing his mother, a peasant woman accused of being a witch for raising a child (Tom) who hasn’t aged appropriately, executed by drowning in the 1600s. Tom is one of a small group of secretive humans who age at such a leisurely pace that they appear immortal to ordinary beings. They’re called Albatrosses, Albas for short, because the bird of that name is rumored to live a long life. Regular folks, those of us who usually expire before the age of 100, are called Mayflies. So what we have is a protagonist granted a long, disease-free life and a chance to observe the world with all its faults and favors who instead spends his time ruminating on the disadvantages of an existence that offers almost endless opportunity for pleasure. Which is the novel’s primary conceptual fault. Sure, Tom’s mother suffered an unfortunate end, and there’s the certainty of losing friends and loved ones who aren’t blessed with Tom’s affliction, and it’s likely Albas would be of interest to scientists studying longevity, but the blessings of a long and healthy life far outweigh these impediments. If fate offered us the chance to be an Alba, we’d probably rejoice.

Despite this obvious incongruity, the novel’s concept should allow the author to present the reader with complex and unfamiliar perspectives, and Tom’s longevity should have blessed him with insights into the mysteries of life that he can share with the reader. But none of this happens, although there is the occasional hackneyed rambling about the past and its relationship to the present: “There are things I have experienced that I will never again be able to experience for the first time: love, a kiss, Tchaikovsky, a Tahitian sunset, jazz, a hot dog, a Bloody Mary. That is the nature of things. History was — is — a one-way street. You have to keep walking forwards. But you don’t always need to look ahead. Sometimes you can just look around and be happy right where you are.” That’s as philosophical as Tom gets.

“The first rule is that you don’t fall in love,” Tom is told by a fellow Alba, introducing an intended unifying subplot that centers on Tom’s emotional attachment to a woman in the present. Thus we have a contemporary love story, albeit a slight one. And there’s a manipulative antagonist, Hendrich, the head guy with The Albatross Society, whose purpose is to ensure that Albas remain a mystery to Mayflies. The narrative alternates scenes set in the present with chapters that explicate Tom’s backstory. In his former existence, he loved a woman, Rose, who died of plague, and he has a daughter, Marion, also an Alba, who has disappeared and is the object of a half-hearted search that stretches into the novel’s melodramatic conclusion. But none of these characters is adequately realized, and they function merely as plot devices or foils.

During his passage through time, Tom meets Shakespeare, Captain Cook, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Josephine Baker and others, but these historical characters appear to no particular purpose and only serve to tease the reader with subplots that never quite materialize. Tom is hired by Shakespeare to play lute at the Globe Theatre and finds himself in a minor dustup that does nothing to advance the plot, and he discusses The Great Gatsby and the fleeting nature of happiness with Fitzgerald: “‘If only we could find a way to stop time,’ said her husband [Scott]. ‘That’s what we need to work on. You know, for when a moment of happiness floats along. We could swing our net and catch it like a butterfly, and have that moment forever’” — a simplistic reading of Scott and Zelda’s story that will strike Fitzgerald aficionados as clichéd.

How to Stop Time has received positive reviews in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Kirkus, People and other media, but potential readers will have to part with hard-earned bucks for the book and, more importantly, they’d have to spend hours reading 330 pages that they’ll likely find less than satisfying. They’d be wiser to save their money for a theater ticket and popcorn. With Benedict Cumberbatch in the starring role, the movie might be worth the price of admission — and their valuable time.  PS

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press awards.

Mole Talk

Small ears that hear everything

By Clyde Edgerton

Moby and Medley are moles, sitting at a table in the Sandbucks Coffee Shop, where they meet once a week to talk about life underneath and around the Yardley home. They hear a lot of what goes on up above among the humans and human media. They don’t see, of course, and their lives are relatively dull, same-o same-o. Dirt, roots, dampness, clay, dryness and darkness.

MOBY: What’s the latest?

MEDLEY: I’m writing an important report on Republicans and Democrats.

MOBY: How do you know about all that?

MEDLEY: I can hear. You know, don’t you, that Mr. and Ms. Yardley, up above, are split?

MOBY: They’re getting a divorce?

MEDLY: No, no. I mean one’s a Democrat and one’s a Republican.

MOBY: Seems I remember something about that.

MEDLEY: My report is getting reviewed in The New York Times and at Fox News.

MOBY: Those organizations don’t like each other, right?

MEDLEY: Right. They see news differently. 

MOBY: But isn’t all news the same?

MEDLEY: Oh, goodness gracious, no. There’s red news and there’s blue news.

MOBY: I thought there was only true news.

MEDLEY: Not anymore. Everything is either-or. Left or right. Up or down. Black or white.

MOBY: I’m just glad I can’t see. What color are we?

MEDLEY: I’ve heard that we are some shade of gray more or less. And did you know, the blues think all the reds are idiots.

MOBY: Really? What do the reds think of the blues?

MEDLEY: That they are all idiots.

MOBY: It’s a shame, isn’t it? Do they ever talk to each other?

MEDLEY: Not much. They holler. And they acted that way right before the Civil War, too.

MOBY: Oh, mercy. Do you think there will be another Civil War up there?

MEDLEY: No way.

MOBY: I wonder how the Yardleys live together — you know, one red and one blue.

MEDLEY: I think they talk only about sports, music, the weather and Naked and Afraid. They avoid politics.

MOBY: What’s politics?

MEDLEY: “Naked and afraid.”

MOBY: Oh. What about that Second Amendment thing?

MEDLEY: Have you read it?

MOBY: I just keep hearing about it.

MEDLEY: If you live in one of the 50 states it keeps you safe.

MOBY: Really? That’s what it says.

MEDLEY: That’s right. It says, “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

MOBY: That’s all it says?

MEDLEY: That’s the whole amendment, every word.

MOBY: That’s a load off my mind. Who could be against that?

MEDLEY: Nobody, of course. It’s common sense. The blue and reds agree on that one. Without that amendment we just couldn’t feel secure.

MOBY: Is there an amendment that lets us buy cars?

MEDLEY: Oh, yes. That’s the Third Amendment. And the Fourth Amendment lets us buy refrigerators. You can’t own something unless there is an amendment for it.

MOBY: How did you learn all that?

MEDLEY: Google. You can hear Google now, so people don’t have to read.

MOBY: So, what’s the title of your report?

MEDLEY: It’s called “Equality, Fair Play, Guns, Cars, and Refrigerators: Security in America.” I also wrote some stuff about globalization. See, the more guns that get into the little states around the world, the more secure they will be — just like in the U.S.

MOBY: That’s a load off my mind.

MEDLEY: Mine too. How about another cup of coffee?

MOBY: You bet. That’s good coffee. 

MEDLEY: Seventh Amendment: “Good coffee is necessary to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

May Bookshelf

FICTION

Overkill, by Ted Bell

In Bell’s newest Alex Hawke thriller, while on a ski vacation in the Swiss Alps, Hawke’s son, Alexei, is kidnapped in the confusion following the crash of a burning tram. To save his son Hawke enlists the aid of his trusted colleagues. Meanwhile, Russian President Vladimir Putin has narrowly escaped a coup and fled to Falcon’s Lair, a former Alpine complex built by the Nazis, where he can plan his path back to power. Hawke must find out who took his son and why and, in the process, defeat Putin’s scheme for a triumphant return.

Southernmost, by Silas House 

When a flood washes away much of a small community along the Cumberland River in Tennessee, Asher Sharp, an evangelical preacher there, starts to see his life anew. Unable to embrace his estranged brother’s coming out, Sharp tries to offer shelter to two gay men in the aftermath of the flood. He’s met with resistance by his wife and his church. He loses his job, his wife, and custody of his son, Justin, whom he decides to kidnap and take to Key West, where he suspects that his brother is now living. The emotions are heartfelt and the love is fierce in this thought-provoking novel.

Tin Man, by Sarah Winman

In a spectacularly gorgeous novel, a copy of a Van Gogh sunflower painting won in a raffle impacts the trajectory of the lives it touches, infusing hope, possibility, and color. Told in two parts, this insightful story explores the solace, friendship and deep love that follow two boys as they grow to men in Oxford, England. The beauty, tenderness and rich, warm prose in Winman’s latest work will not leave you untouched.

Our Kind of Cruelty, by Araminta Hall

In a twisted psychological thriller that will have you cringing, laughing, and gasping in horror, Mike is building the perfect life for Verity and himself. He would do anything to make her happy. The only hitch is that Verity is marrying someone else. But that doesn’t stop Mike — surely she’s just trying to teach him a lesson, trying to get him to make a grand gesture and bring her back to him. Spending 300 pages inside the mind of Mike Hayes is an adventure you won’t soon forget.

My Ex-Life, by Stephen McCauley

When his young lover leaves him for an older and more successful man, and his ex-wife’s daughter contacts him for help with a sticky situation, David Fiske finds himself leaving his (soon to be sold) San Francisco apartment, temporarily moving in with his ex-wife, Julie, and unwittingly becoming the No. 1 light bulb changer in Julie’s Airbnb. The perfect book for the beach or the book club, My Ex-Life will make you laugh while you’re shaking your head.

Warlight, by Michael Ondaatje

When their parents go to Asia after World War II, Michael and his sister, both teenagers, are left in the care of a stranger, The Moth. Or so they thought. It will be years before they discover what their mother really intended. In the meantime, they are going to school by day and mingling with The Moth and his unusual friends by night. A great coming of age story.

Love and Ruin, by Paula McLain

History tells us that Martha Gellhorn was more than a typical woman of her time and more than Ernest Hemingway’s third wife. Filled with a sense of adventure and wanderlust, she was a daring war correspondent and a gifted author in her own right. McClain captures the turbulent mood as the seeds of war are being sown in this absorbing novel written by the acclaimed author of The Paris Wife. 

NONFICTION

The Soul of America: The Battle for Our Better Angels,
by Jon Meacham

The Pulitzer Prize winner and New York Times best-selling author of American Lion, Franklin and Winston and Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power helps us to understand the present moment in American politics by looking back at critical times in our history when hope overcame division and fear. Tom Brokaw calls it “a historically rich and gracefully written account of America’s long struggle with division in our immigrant nation and the heroic efforts to heal the wounds.” 

Margaritaville: The Cookbook: Relaxed Recipes for a Taste of Paradise, by Carlo Sernaglia, Julia Turshen and Jimmy Buffett

Chef Carlo Sernaglia, Margaritaville’s concept chef, combines his worldly work in the kitchen with the James Beard award-winning cookbook writer, Julia Turshen, co-author of Gwyneth Paltrow’s game-changing recipe book It’s All Good. Buffett writes the forward and, no doubt, these recipes will be a bit of paradise.

Robin, by Dave Itzkoff 

Everyone is raving about this biography of the late comedian and actor Robin Williams. Interviews with friends and family combined with Itzkoff’s insightful analysis create a full portrait of Williams, the man and the myths surrounding him. Meticulously researched, this page-turning read comes from the culture reporter for The New York Times, whose work also appears in Vanity Fair, Maxim, Details, GQ, Wired and Spin.

Calypso, by David Sedaris

A true joy to read, Sedaris’ thoughts leap off the page. His essays reflect on family, marriage, sisters, his aging father and his deceased sister and mother. Most of the remembrances take place at the newly purchased family beach house on the North Carolina coast. Funny and truthful, Sedaris delivers a wonderful collection. 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

A Truck Full of Ducks, by Ross Burach

When you call for a truck full of ducks, fun and frivolity are delivered ASAP.  This hilarious book is perfect for story time or any time a little one needs a big laugh. (Ages 2-5.)

Alma and How She Got Her Name, by Juana Martinez-Neal

Alma Sophia Esperanza José Pura Candela is a little girl with a big name and an even bigger story to tell. This super cute read-aloud is a great introduction to family history or just a lovely way to dive into the deep stories behind everyday things — like a child’s name! (Ages 3-6.)

Ten Horse Farm, by Robert Sabuda

The pop-up book master’s newest creation is sure to delight horse lovers of all ages.  Pop-up spreads of horses grazing, prancing, pulling and galloping leap off the page, stunning scene after stunning scene, in this creation inspired by historic horse activities and the author’s own horse farm turned artist’s studio in upstate New York.  (Ages 8-adult.)

The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl, by Stacy McAnulty

Being a genius is hard, hard, hard.  Lucy Callahan doesn’t even remember the bolt of lightning that made her a math prodigy, but she does remember that on her first day of school (seventh grade, even though she already has her GED!)  Lucy’s grandma made her promise to make one friend, join one activity and read one book that is not a math book.  What Lucy expects to find is a school full of inferiors. What she actually discovers is a great friend, a talented boy with a camera, and a dog that desperately needs the help of all of them.  Sweet enough to be a summer read and powerful enough to be a strong Newbery contender, The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl is an absolute must read for anyone heading into middle school . . . even if they are a genius.  (Ages 10-14.)

For Every One, by Jason Reynolds

In this letter to himself, the ever amazing Jason Reynolds encourages anyone who has ever had a dream, a goal, a mission or who has burned with passion for an idea, to not let the “legs of passion turn to soot.”  Originally performed at the Kennedy Center for the unveiling of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial and later as a tribute to Walter Dean Myers, this stirring and inspirational poem is the absolute perfect gift for graduates, those starting new jobs or anyone  pondering a life change. Reynolds encourages dreamers  to push away the noise of the world, to dream, to go, and to never look back. (Ages 12-adult.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

Game Show

And now for something completely different

By Tom Bryant

Kettle Time Deer Stew

Night before, soak dried beans. Day of, cut deer meat into chunks, add beans and boil till tender. Add any vegetables you got. Simmer slowly, nearly all afternoon. Try this with squirrel or rabbit.

— From the Touchstone Plantation, late 1800s

Friends were visiting from Arizona for several days, and as always when we have out-of-town guests, we planned to find something unusual and interesting to do. High on our list after the usual fare of historical golf courses, shopping and restaurants is a little museum in downtown Ellerbe, North Carolina, about a 30-minute ride from Southern Pines.

This was our third or fourth visit to the Rankin Museum, and I still saw interesting things I hadn’t noticed before. The museum was created from the lifetime collection of Dr. Pressley R. Rankin Jr. of Ellerbe and is named in his honor. It has always amazed me that this gentleman was able to collect so many artifacts. The accumulation fills a museum that would make a much larger city proud. Little Ellerbe is off the beaten path, but the Rankin Museum draws people from all over the country. If you haven’t had the opportunity to visit the area, I highly recommend it.

On this trip I noticed, in a far corner, a recipe for deer stew from the Touchstone Plantation. I’m a hunter and fisherman, and although I do not hunt deer, I’m not opposed to the folks who do. With all my interests in the outdoors, I really don’t have time to add another sport like deer hunting. I am fortunate, though, because I have good friends who keep me stocked with fresh venison, and I’m always looking for new and different recipes.

After the War Between the States, the South was a destroyed, defeated country that had to exist on whatever resources the land could provide. Game from the forest and fish from lakes and rivers did a lot to keep Southerners from starving. That subsistence necessity in those terrible times hung on over the years; and many folks, not only from the South, but now from all over the country, enjoy food derived from the sports of hunting and fishing.

I’m mostly a bird hunter, specifically ducks, geese and doves. I also hunt quail when I’m lucky enough to find them, and I have several ways to prepare all kinds of nutritious and delicious game.

I collected the plantation recipe at the Rankin Museum from a historical perspective, rather than an epicurean one. It looked interesting but was probably created to fill hungry bellies rather than satisfy taste buds.

After our houseguests departed, Linda, my bride, and I prepared for a camping trip in our little Airstream trailer to Huntington Beach, South Carolina. We made plans for the trip back in the winter and really had not done a lot of planning for the adventure. The deer stew recipe got me in the mood to cook some game, so I decided to take along a few doves, ducks and a venison roast to prepare while we were there, to sort of live off the land, as it were.

A cousin from Charleston gave me a call right before we were to leave and wanted to stop by Huntington Park on her way back from a business trip to Wilmington. She was interested in camping at the park and had a friend with her, and I invited them to have lunch with us, then check out the place.

Many years ago, I found the out-of-print L.L. Bean Game and Fish Cookbook, and it has been the anchor in my wild game cooking. Over the years, I’ve also added to my repertoire recipes from good hunting and fishing buddies. There’s a duck marinating concoction that I’m reluctant to pass along because it’s an old family recipe of Bennett Rose’s, and I don’t think he would wish to spread it around that much. I realize Bennett is a good shot, and with me, discretion is the better part of valor. Anyhow, it’s the best marinade I’ve ever tried and is also good on any dark red game meat. I did dress the mix up a little by adding a touch of good red wine, though. Red wine makes anything taste better and is also good to sip while the meal preparation is underway.

I had done the prep work on my game before we left home, so all I had to do to prepare for lunch was fire up the grill. The menu wasn’t going to be that extensive: grilled marinated teal duck breast, grilled doves wrapped in maple-flavored bacon, and grilled venison strips with horseradish dipping sauce. For hors d’oeuvres, Linda was whipping up some of her favorites, and I had some venison link-sausage to grill, then cut into 1/4-inch chunks to dip in Colonel Hawker’s sauce. It was going to be a dipping kind of meal, easy to eat and easy to clean up afterward. The ducks, doves and venison, along with a good tossed salad and Linda’s Southern cream cheese pound cake for dessert, should fill the fare, I thought.

I was wrong.

My cousin and her friend arrived just in time to do a little scouting around the park and then join us for lunch. Charleston was only about an hour away, so we could catch up on family goings-on, and they would get home in time for supper.

I had the campsite all prepared. The Airstream awning and outdoor rug were in place. Chairs were set in a semicircle, good for conversation, and I had the screen house set up over the picnic table to keep us out of the bugs while we ate lunch.

When my cousin and her friend returned from their scouting trip around the park, I had already fired up the grill. We sat under the awning and talked. Linda poured drinks and served the hors d’oeuvres while I put the sausage links on to cook. Our guests were comfortable under the awning.

In no time, the sausage was ready and I served it along with the sauce to our guests.

“Wow, this is really good,” my cousin said, as she tasted a piece of sausage.

“It sure is,” her friend added. “What is it?”

“A good friend who is a big deer hunter gave it to me,” I replied. “It’s venison sausage.”

My cousin’s friend made a weird noise and spit the piece into her napkin. I thought she was choking, and I prepared to administer the Heimlich maneuver.

It was soon evident, though, that the lady was not choking but was extremely averse to eating any kind of wild game. Needless to say, the conversation bogged down after the hors d’oeuvres, and my cousin and her friend made excuses and a hasty retreat toward Charleston.

As I watched them drive away, I wondered where in the world that lady, who hated the idea of eating venison, thought those packages of bacon, chicken and steak that she bought every week at the grocery store came from. PS

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

Mom’s Way

A son remembers that nobody did collards and cornbread better

By Tom Allen

My mother did not fancy herself a cook. Cooks were known for their, well, cooking. When I grew up, cooks were women. I don’t recall hearing a man referred to as “a good cook” even though some were good at cooking — fried fish or barbecued chicken. I guess Hubert Byrd was a cook, probably a good cook. He owned Sleepy’s Grill, in our community, and Lord, he could cook — hamburgers and hot dogs and the best chili.

In the rural culture of my childhood, cooks were women you paid to bake a 12-layer chocolate cake at Christmas or fix a pot of chicken pastry (pastry, not dumplin’s) because pastry was hard to make. There was always something on a cook’s stove — cold biscuits, fried applejacks, crispy fatback. Mom never paid anyone to cook anything. If she couldn’t cook it, we didn’t eat it.

Some cooks worked outside the home — schoolteachers, nurses, mill hands. Regardless of employment, for some, cooking was a side hustle, a second or, perhaps, only stream of income. Most cooks, like good beauticians, were extroverts, people-persons, so that chocolate cake or pot of pastry came with 30 minutes of conversation, the catching-up kind of conversation, not gossip. Cooks don’t gossip. Might lose a customer.

Cooks liked to cook. Mom cooked, not for enjoyment or for money, but out of necessity. We had to eat. Nevertheless, Mom was a good cook, or maybe I should say, she cooked good, at least I thought she did.

Mom baked, which comes under the umbrella of “cooking,” but only two things — coconut chess pie and peach cobbler. That pie was her go-to, year-round dessert. If someone had a baby, a hysterectomy, divorced or died, Mom delivered a coconut pie. Peach cobbler, made with canned peaches (the slippery, cling kind), was a summer dish, although canned peaches are on the shelves year-round. Two years ago, when she died, I included a copy of her handwritten cobbler recipe in the service bulletin. Folks smiled as they shared stories of pies and cobblers that accompanied her support and sympathy.

But my favorite meal Mom cooked was a Southern staple, as indigenous as “Dixie” or a “Bless your heart.” I didn’t miss the combo until I left home for college. Absence, I learned, affects the stomach as much as the heart. Her collards and cornbread filled the void; that combo was my only request when I came home, regardless of the season, since Mom cooked and froze the greens for future consumption.

Collards, those dark green, loose-leaf cultivars, are a fall crop, made sweeter by nip of a first frost. My dad sowed seed in late summer, then thinned and nurtured each plant. By November, he harvested the massive leaves for Mom to cook down in a pot of water, seasoned with fatback or bacon grease. No onion, garlic or red pepper flakes. Perhaps a sprinkle of sugar. Mom’s collards, unlike others I’ve eaten, were chopped fine, to the point you could eat them with a spoon. Collards were a traditional side at Thanksgiving and Christmas, but were just as good thawed and reheated during spring break or with corn and butterbeans from Dad’s July garden.

Collards cooking have an unforgettable smell — pungent, foul. A saucer of cider vinegar or a scented candle toned down but never dispelled the aroma. But that smell was a small price to pay for a plate of pure goodness.

Cornbread was the essential accompaniment. Mom fried her simple version in lard, later canola oil. The batter — Old Mill of Guilford cornmeal, scant water, pinch of sugar, pinch of salt — was dropped by spoonfuls into an iron skillet, where it cooked up, thin and crispy. “Lacy cornbread” she called it. Leftover pones sat on the stove, a paper towel underneath to soak up any grease. Sweet tea completed the meal. Hard to come by in Kentucky, where I attended seminary.

Two years ago, we ate the last package of Mom’s frozen collards. Mother’s Day without her still falls bittersweet. What I wouldn’t give for a plate of collards, lacy cornbread, and her strong, brewed tea, yet I will forever cherish memories of a bitter green made savory and sweet by one who cooked but most of all, was simply . . . good.  PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

Flower Power

The essence of good scents

By Karen Frye

Flowers have a way of making our hearts feel something sweet and wonderful, but there is a special healing power they can bring to your life, too.

Decades ago a prominent British physician, Dr. Edward Bach, believed disease was the manifestation of negative states of mind, a disharmony between a person’s physical and mental states. He observed that worry, anxiety, impatience and unforgiveness depleted a patient’s vitality so much that the body lost its resistance and became more vulnerable to disease.

Dr. Bach closed his practice, left his home in London and spent the rest of his life traveling throughout England in a search for curative plants. He discovered 38 remedies, one from water, the others from flowering plants and trees. Today, more than ever, the connection of the mind and the body are well recognized and the research continues to grow.

Flower remedies are made simply by transferring the essence of the flower into liquid — usually water — by steeping the petals or leaves. Each flower or plant has a specific healing effect. The essences are subtle but, taken regularly, can have a positive impact on our consciousness. The effect of the remedies is not to suppress negative attitudes but to transform them into positive ones, stimulating the potential for self-healing. There are remedies to help release guilt and shame, increase self-esteem, stimulate creativity, become more balanced and grounded. The purpose of the essences is to support the immune system by relieving depression, anxiety and other trauma that weakens the body. It is important to note that they are not a replacement for traditional medical treatment, but work in conjunction with modern medicine. They are gentle and safe and have no side effects. All ages can use them.

In addition to the 38 individual essences, 39th, is Rescue Remedy, is a combination of five flower essences: impatiens, star-of-Bethlehem, cherry plum, rockrose and clematis. This is the first-aid remedy for sudden shock, an accident, a family upset, a stressful event like an exam or an interview, going on stage or giving a speech. One of the single flower remedies, sweet chestnut, is for agonizing mental anguish, total exhaustion, feeling the future is hopeless. Another flower, honeysuckle, helps the bereaved.

The work of Dr. Bach, who died in his sleep in September 1936 shortly after his 50th birthday, lives on with the help of his friends and family. People all over the world use Bach Flower Remedies. His purpose in life was to find what he knew nature had to offer us. There are now hundreds of remedies identified and studied to assist in just about any mental or emotional condition that hinders health. Healthy mind, healthy body. PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

The Dash of Life

Savoring time between the beginning and the inevitable

By Jim Dodson

At the beginning of Episode Two of my favorite British TV program of the moment, a charming series called Delicious, the central character, a roguish head chef, speaking from his grave in a Cornwall churchyard, recalls a famous poet’s observation about the symbolism of markings in stone.

“On a gravestone you see two dates — a beginning and an end, with a tiny dash in between. That dash represents everything you’ve ever done. Everywhere you’ve ever been. Every breath kiss or meal. It all boils down to just one little dash. . .”

As a chronic wanderer of old burying grounds and admirer of witty epitaphs, I learned years ago that burying stones “speak,” telling tales and offering nuggets of wisdom to those willing to listen. 

Most of us, however, are living in a time when daily life seems like a frantic dash from one place to the next. With work ruled by the tyranny of deadlines and calendar books, and private time invaded by social media and the clamors of an info-addicted world, it is often not until one reaches a certain age or experiences some kind of unexpected drama that the need to pause and reflect upon one’s own mortality — the meaning of the dash — becomes clear.

One year ago this month, I had my dodgy gall bladder removed. Frankly, I wasn’t sorry to see it go. The blessed little thing had been bugging me for years. At the same time, I owe that mysterious little organ a genuine debt of gratitude because in the course of a common preparatory scan, a small growth near my lower intestines was detected. It was nipped out by artful surgical procedure, revealing itself upon analysis to be a slow-growing tumor. Fortunately, the prognosis is excellent. There is only a four-percent probability of recurrence, which means no follow-up therapy is required for the time being.

Life is full of verdicts, large and small. Needless to say, I was relieved by this one and, to be blunt, awakened by it. But for a chance discovery, things could easily have gone a very different direction, as I’d enjoyed the kind of good health one might easily take for granted. In short, I was lucky to have had that aching gall bladder.   

But mortality is full of wake-up calls and epiphanies. Wise souls take notice of the changing landscape around them, and sometimes within.   

On one hand, I was powerfully reminded of the brevity of my time on this Earth, and on the other, comforted by the fact that I had excellent role models for aging smartly and — begging to differ with poet Dylan Thomas — going gently into that good night. Both my parents had their own run-ins with the dreaded C-word at about my age but never complained and went on to live astonishingly full and happy lives for the next two decades.

Their dashes, in other words, were both robust and well-lived till the end, full of gardens and grandkids, travel and exploration, making new memories and doing good work, making friends and keeping faith in the sustaining power of human and divine love. My old man worked until he was 80 and moderated the men’s Sunday School class at our church for almost a quarter of a century. My Southern mama cooked every week for the church feeding program and worked with homeless families. During the last two decades of their lives, they went to movies and took walks like old lovers, and snuck off to the hills for private weekends away. I took to kidding them that they were behaving like irresponsible teenagers.

More important, when their “Time” finally arrived, their “dash” expired its length — I was fortunate to sit with both at their bedsides as they slipped the bonds of this Earth. Nothing was left unspoken, and they displayed no fear whatsoever about the end of their days or the adventure that lay ahead. Sages of every faith tradition hold that human beings tend to pass away as they have lived their lives.

My father’s final words on a sleety March evening were, “Don’t worry. It will be fine in the morning. Go kiss your babies.”  Sure enough, the sun came out at dawn, birthing a beautiful spring day. And I did as instructed.

On a summer afternoon four years later, while sharing a glass of wine on the terrace of her favorite seaside restaurant in Maine, I remarked to my mom that she must really miss my father. She simply smiled. “Of course I do, Honey. But don’t worry. I’ll see him very soon.”

A week or so later, she suffered a stroke and was talking about her grandchildren as her nurse in the ICU changed her sheets moments after I left her. “Your mom’s heart monitor suddenly went flat and I looked over at her,” she told me later. “Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. I’ve never seen a more peaceful passing.”

Every now and then I stop by the simply dated gravestones of my folks in a beautiful cemetery not far from our house, just to say hello  — and thanks for the guidance. 

That said, a surprising number of friends my age — I recently turned 65, though I don’t feel anywhere close to that — confess amazement over how rapidly their lives are passing, how quickly their days seem to have vanished down the rabbit hole of time. Perhaps they hear the clock of the world in their inner ear. “Is it already Monday again?” quips our dear old pal Susan with a husky laugh. She walks with my wife and me every morning at five, as nature and the neighborhood are both just stirring.

Susan’s question is more of an amused observation about the speed of life than a complaint about its brevity. She teaches special-needs minority kids in one of the most disadvantaged neighborhoods of the city. And though she herself cracked 65 a few month ahead of me, her bounteous enthusiasm, creativity and passion for doing good work and making a difference in a small person’s life are flat-out palpable. She radiates joy and an infectious curiosity about what lies ahead — proof of Poor Richard’s admonition that a long life may not be good enough, but a good life is long enough.

As for my part, the older I get, the slower I plan to walk. Part of the reason is creaky knees. As the tortoise proved, slow and steady wins the race — if this life is a race at all. 

The other reason for slowing down my dashing life is to see more of the passing landscape. Not long ago, my wife and I began “training” for a walk across Italy from Lucca to Rome this coming September with 50 or so other pilgrims from our church.

During the weekly “practice” hikes around the city at dusk, which are really just a lovely excuse to socialize and drink good wine afterwards, I am invariably somewhere at the rear of the pack, ambling along at my own pace, the aforementioned knees gently complaining with every step, but happy to follow where the others lead. This is a trick I learned early in life, for I’ve long been something of a solitary traveler, taking my own sweet time to get wherever I’m going.

As the second son of an itinerate newspaperman who hauled his family all over the deep South during some of the region’s most turbulent years, I experienced a decidedly solitary boyhood, exploring the woods and fields largely on my own or reading books on a rainy porch. Occasionally I’d check out historic graveyards, battlegrounds and Indian burial mounds with my older brother and father. Dick and I both became Eagle Scouts but were never too keen on the group dynamic. We preferred going our own ways at our own rhythm.

As we passed through one of the city’s older neighborhoods on our practice hike the other evening, my bride — chatting pleasantly with other pilgrims as she motored by her slow-footed husband — glanced around and remarked, “You know, I’ve never seen the city from this angle before. It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

Indeed it was, and is.

As the sun set, her comment made me think about how slowly I plan
to walk across Tuscany this summer, taking in all I can before my “dash” runs out.

Emily Webb Gibb’s ’s haunting farewell speech from Thornton Wilder’s poignant play Our Town was also suddenly in my head.

Gibbs is the young heroine who passes away in childbirth and looks tearfully back on a wonderful life and family she fears she may have taken for granted, as the stage manager leads her to join the other spirits in the village cemetery.

“. . . They’re so young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? . . . I love you all, everything. I can’t look at everything hard enough. It goes so fast. . . . We don’t have time to look at one another. I didn’t realize. All that was going on in life and we never noticed. Take me back — up the hill — to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Good-bye, Good-bye, world. . . Good-bye, Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths and sleeping and waking up. Oh, Earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?”

May is a lovely time to wander a churchyard, I find. The Earth is in bloom and old stones speak of the need not to dash too quickly through the journey.

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.