Simple Life

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A Spring Awakening

And a journey from darkness to light

By Jim Dodson

I celebrate April’s return every year because it’s the month that a divine awakening changed my life.

It was 1980. I was the senior writer of Atlanta Weekly, the Sunday magazine of the Journal-Constitution, the oldest newspaper magazine in the nation. It was probably the best writing gig in the South. Over the previous three years, I’d covered everything from presidential politics to murders in the “City Too Busy to Hate,” as Atlanta liked to promote itself in those days.

One minute I was interviewing a grand dragon of the Ku Klux Klan in Alabama, the next riding along with the Repo King of Atlanta as he repossessed cars in the city’s most dangerous federal housing project, a shotgun on the seat of his truck. I’d also written several pieces about young women from the South who were drawn to Atlanta’s bright lights only to wind up murdered or missing.

Looking back, though I didn’t realize it then, I was in search of an answer to a question that had no answer.

Three years before I snagged that job, Kristin, my girlfriend back home in North Carolina, was murdered in a botched holdup by three teenage boys at a Hickory steakhouse where she worked as the weekend hostess. I’d left Kristin on a beautiful October Sunday after making plans to get married and move with her to England, where she had a job as an understudy awaiting her in London’s West End.

The low point of my Atlanta odyssey came on a hot July night in 1979. I was working on a cover story about Bob Stivers, the city’s famous medical examiner, whose forensic sleuthing reportedly inspired the popular TV show Quincy. The week before that Saturday night, I’d watched half a dozen autopsies at the ME’s elbow, equally mesmerized and horrified. When Stivers invited me to ride along with the squad that picked up murder victims, I jumped at the chance. Saturday nights were particularly busy in the city that had recently been declared America’s “Murder Capital.”

My new fiancée, Hank Phillippi, was the nighttime weekend anchor at WSB-TV. We shared an old, brick house near the east-side entrance to Piedmont Park. Our weekend routine was to have a glass of wine and watch Saturday Night Live when Hank got home from the studio before midnight.  

On that fateful night, waiting for a call from Bob Stivers’ death crew, as I was standing in the darkness of our backyard, waiting for my dog, Magee, to do her business, I saw a car pull up beside our neighbor’s house. We were friendly with the Emory med students who lived there.

As I watched, a man emerged from the backseat of the car and calmly walked to our neighbor’s backdoor and knocked. A med student still in scrubs opened the door. There was a brief exchange of words, followed by two gunshots. The medical student collapsed on the ground. The assailant bolted for the running car, which sped away.

By the time I reached his side, a young woman from the house was screaming hysterically. I asked her to fetch me a couple towels and call 911.

Fortunately, at that moment, Hank arrived home. She took charge and phoned the police as I cradled the wounded man in my lap, attempting to keep him conscious. He died 15 minutes before cops arrived. “We get drug hits like this every weekend,” the cop said.

I chose not to follow the victim’s body down to the city morgue.

The next morning, though, as I was walking Magee, I heard a chapel bell in the distance softly chiming “Blessed Be the Tie That Binds,” one of my favorite hymns since childhood. Tears filled my eyes.

As Hank slept in, I fetched a cup of coffee, sat on our front steps taking stock of my life, and suddenly realized what was missing. I hadn’t been to church in five years.

I got dressed and went to services at the historic All Saints’ Episcopal Church downtown, famous for feeding the homeless and never locking its front doors. The rector, a wonderful man named Harry Pritchett, gave a powerful sermon about how God finds us in the darkness when we least expect it. It felt like he — or maybe God himself — was speaking directly to me.

Not only did I begin attending All Saints’ regularly, but also made a decision in favor of writing stories that enriched life rather than revealed its dark side. I even set my mind on attending seminary, until a wise old Bishop from Alabama named Bill Stough, the editor of the Bishop’s Fund for World Relief, convinced me to follow a “ministry closer to your heart,” as he put it. “You are a born writer,” he said. “You can serve the Lord better by writing about life than becoming a parish priest.”

Not long after that harrowing summer night, Hank and I called off our engagement, but have remained dear friends for more than 45 years.

As for me, that following April while working on a sample story about youth baseball tryouts, I ventured over to a rundown ball field in my midtown neighborhood, where a desperate league director convinced me to take on the coach-less Orioles. They were a wild bunch, many of whom lived in Federal housing. This was during the peak days of the “Missing and Murdered” crisis affecting Atlanta’s Black teens. I made a deal with my team’s families to drive them home after all games and practices.

I also made a deal with my rambunctious “Birds”: If they played hard and behaved like gentlemen, I would buy them all milkshakes after winning games.

They took the offer to heart. We won the Midtown League Championship in a romp that season, which convinced me to stick around Atlanta for one more year. We went undefeated for a second time. It only cost me 200–300 milkshakes.

I never wrote another crime story again.

Crazy as it sounds, almost a year to the day later, I woke on an April night to find Kristin standing beside my bed. She looked radiant. I thought I must be dreaming, but she was so lifelike, especially when she smiled and spoke. “Pook,” she said, using her pet name for me, “it’s time for you to leave here and go north. That’s where you’ll find what you are looking for. I’ll always love you.”

Days later, I resigned from the magazine, turned down what might have been a dream job in Washington, and headed for a trout stream in Vermont.

God, Kristin and my baseball team found me in the darkness when I least expected it.

It’s been a wonderful life ever since.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Aries

(March 21 – April 19)

Just as genius requires a touch of madness, passion requires a touch of grace. When Mercury enters your sign on April 16, don’t be surprised to find yourself in an argument sparked by your own bluntness. On that note, this month is a good time to deepen your meditation practice. Don’t have one? Try listening to the sound of water, taking a cold shower, or candle-gazing.
At month’s end, Venus in Aries amplifies your natural urge to take initiative in pursuits of the heart. Remember,
sometimes the poison becomes the medicine.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Two words: mud mask.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Decline the deviled eggs.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Let your eyes do the talking.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Sign up for the workshop.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Relax the muscles in your face.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

It’s time for a fresh perspective.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Eat your spinach.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Go fly a kite.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Keep your bag packed.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Plant your feet directly on the earth.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Splurge for the one you really want.

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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Cleats and Reels

A boy’s spring outfit

By Bill Fields

I was a boy of two minds when the temperatures warmed up and the days got longer.

Spring brought baseball, of course, as it did for many kids of my generation. I’d read reports in the newspaper about the Citrus and Cactus leagues. Promos for the game of the week would show up on television. My friends and I would ready our arms in the backyard. Would this be the year I learned how to throw a curveball? Growing feet meant a new pair of cleats, which without question would allow me to run the bases faster and cover more ground as an infielder. The hopes of an aspiring ballplayer at the dawn of a new season are many. 

But as things began to bloom outside our house in Southern Pines — white dogwood at the top of the driveway, azaleas of several colors on either side of the front door — my mind also was on fishing.

No doubt my father took me with him to an area pond when I was too young to remember it. Even if an outing ended with a bare stringer, he went home happy, the weight of everyday life seeming to have lessened a bit with every cast — the cigarettes and beers probably played a part too.

In my earliest, vague recollections of fishing, I am holding a bamboo pole and doing my best to follow Dad’s instructions to pay attention to the movement of the cork signifying a snacking sunfish below the surface. (Despite the fact that most of our “corks” were white and red plastic spheres, we never called them anything else.)

With rare exceptions, our fishing dreams were much bigger than our catches. Curt Gowdy, the marlin-catching host of The American Sportsman on ABC, had nothing to fear. We never needed to look and see if there was a taxidermist listed in the Moore County phone book.

Once, casting a purple worm off a dock at Badin Lake, Dad caught a largemouth weighing 3 or 4 pounds. The size of his smile as he posed for a picture looked as if he’d landed a lunker. That same trip I hooked a large carp, but it wriggled away before I could lift it out of the water and document the catch.

Our best haul came late one afternoon at a private farm pond in Eagle Springs on the property of one of Dad’s schoolmates. Going for bream, earthworms were the customary bait. Occasionally, Dad would splurge for a couple dozen crickets. But for this trip, we were armed with a special bait, a jar of catalpa worms.

They were velvety, brightly colored creatures that appeared every couple of years on a tree in our yard. Once harvested, we’d store them, much to Mom’s displeasure, in the produce drawer of the refrigerator. Threaded on our No. 8 hooks in Eagle Springs, the catalpa worms worked like magic. We caught dozens of bream bigger than one of Dad’s large hands on an angling day like no other.

Fishing was mostly about the preparation and the quest. Dad had an old aluminum tackle box that opened to reveal two rows of slots to hold hooks and lures. I pored over its contents between fishing outings, envisioning a healthy bass being attracted to one of the topwater plugs. I graduated from a bamboo pole to a hand-me-down rod and reel from my father.

It was a big occasion when I had saved enough of my allowance money to walk into Tate’s Hardware and buy a Zebco Model 33 spincast reel. Buying a Zebco 33 was a rite of passage, like getting your first pocketknife.

The Zebco 33 was a revolutionary design when R.D. Hull invented it in the 1950s, when it sold for a whopping price of $19.50. With the monofilament line enclosed in a metal cover and featuring a push-button action, the design was backlash proof and easy to cast.

Appropriately equipped, I at least looked the part. A Zebco 33 did everything but make a fish bite what was at end of your line.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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April Books

Fiction

Heartwood, by Amity Gaige

In the heart of the Maine woods, an experienced Appalachian Trail hiker goes missing. She is 42-year-old Valerie Gillis, who has vanished 200 miles from her final destination. Alone in the wilderness, Valerie pours her thoughts into fractured, poetic letters to her mother as she battles the elements and struggles to keep hoping. Beverly, the determined Maine state game warden tasked with finding Valerie, leads the search on the ground. Meanwhile, Lena, a 76-year-old birdwatcher in a Connecticut retirement community, becomes an unexpected armchair detective. Roving between these compelling narratives, a puzzle emerges, intensifying the frantic search, as Valerie’s disappearance may not be accidental.

Great Big Beautiful Life, by Emily Henry

Alice Scott is an eternal optimist still dreaming of her big writing break. Hayden Anderson is a Pulitzer-prize winning human thundercloud. They’re both on balmy Little Crescent Island for the same reason: to write the biography of a woman no one has seen in years, the octogenarian who claims to be the Margaret Ives — tragic heiress, former tabloid princess, and daughter of one of the most storied and scandalous families of the 20th century. Margaret has invited them both for a one-month trial period, after which she’ll choose the person who’ll tell her story. But the problem is, Margaret is only giving each of them pieces of her story, pieces they can’t swap or put together because of an ironclad NDA and an inconvenient yearning pulsing between them every time they’re in the same room. And it’s becoming abundantly clear that their story — just like Margaret’s — could be a mystery, tragedy or love ballad . . . depending on who’s telling it.

Nonfiction

Making the Best of What’s Left: When We’re Too Old to Get the Chairs Reupholstered, by Judith Viorst

In a career that has spanned more than 50 years, Viorst has captivated readers with her bestselling children’s books and collections of poetry. Now in her 90s, she writes about life’s “Final Fifth,” those who are 80 to 100 years old. Her signature blend of humor and vulnerability infuses personal anecdotes and observations, drawing you into her world of memories and candid conversations. She discusses the afterlife (she doesn’t believe in it, but if it exists, she hopes her sister-in-law isn’t there). And she explores the late-in-life meanings of wisdom and happiness, second chances and home. With a wit that defies age, Viorst navigates the terrain between grief and levity that will resonate with those in their Final Fifth as well as anyone who has parents, relatives or friends in their 80s and beyond.

Boat Baby: A Memoir, by Vicky Nguyen

Starting in 1975, Vietnam’s “boat people” fled the Communist government and violence in their country any way they could, usually by boat across the South China Sea. Nguyen and her family were among them. Attacked at sea by pirates before reaching a refugee camp in Malaysia, her family survived on rations and waited months until they were sponsored to go to America. But deciding to leave and start a new life in a new country is only half the story; figuring out how to be American is the other. Boat Baby is about growing up in America with unconventional Vietnamese parents who didn’t always know how to bridge the cultural gaps. It’s a childhood filled with misadventures and misunderstandings. Nguyen’s parents approached life with the attitude, “Why not us?” In the face of prejudice, they taught her to be gritty and resilient, skills she used as she combatted stereotyping throughout her career, fending off the question “Aren’t you Connie Chung?” to become a leading Asian American journalist on television.

Children's Books

Frank and Bert: The One with the Missing Cookies,
by Chris Naylor-Ballesteros

Best friends don’t get much more adorable than Frank and Bert. They’ve played hide-and-seek (kind of), learned to ride a bike (with only a few uh-ohs), and now they’re going on a picnic with fingers crossed for no rain, no wasps, and no scary squirrels. A fun read-together on a springtime picnic. (Ages 3-6.)

My First Lift-the-Flap Fairy Tales,
by Ingela Arrhenius

Just what did Jack trade for those magic beans? What destruction did Goldilocks wreak upon the three bears? Find out this and much more in this retro-cool lift-the-flap collection of classic nursery rhymes that includes QR codes for read-along recordings. (Ages birth-6.)

The Cartoonists Club, by Raina Telgemeier and Scott McCloud

A graphic novel that is both a friendship story and the perfect choice for budding comics, artists, storytellers and all-around creative kids, readers of The Cartoonists Club can learn about making comics and use their creativity and imagination for their own storytelling adventures. (Ages 9-12.)

A Burning in the Bones 3,
by Scott Reintgen

Fantasy, thriller and adventure all wrapped up in one, the Waxways series is the perfect choice for tweens looking for something slightly more sophisticated. Book 1 was a survival thriller, book 2 a political chess match, and now book 3 is a plague story laced with complicated warfare that will have readers on the edge of their seats. Don’t miss this thrilling conclusion to a fabulous series. (Ages 12-16.)

PinePitch

PINEPITCH

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PinePitch April 2025

Just Hanging Around

The Arts Council of Moore County opens its exhibit “Palustris: Nature’s Narrative” on Friday, April 4, from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m., at the Campbell House galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. The paintings will hang until April 25. If you need more info, call (910) 692-2787. Five miles away there will be an opening reception from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. at the Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen, for the show “Light and Color: A Love Affair with the Sandhills,” featuring the work of Jennifer Walker. For additional information go to www.artistleague.org.

Jazzy Sunday

The Come Sunday Jazz Series will feature John Brown on Sunday, April 27, beginning at 2 p.m., at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Bassist, composer, producer, actor and educator, Brown is a native of Fayetteville. He has performed for President and Mrs. Barack Obama and appeared with artists like Wynton, Ellis and Delfeayo Marsalis, Elvin Jones, Diahann Carroll, Rosemary Clooney, Cedar Walton and Nicholas Payton. He received a Grammy nomination for his performance and co-writing Nnenna Freelon’s 1995 Shaking Free. Brown has taught at Duke University since 2001 and is currently the director of the jazz program and professor of the practice of music. For additional information visit www.weymouthcenter.org.

Shark Week

The Ruth Pauley Lecture Series will feature National Geographic Explorer and marine biologist  Dr. Jess Cramp speaking about “The Untold Story of Sharks” on Tuesday, April 29, at 7 p.m., in the Bradshaw Performing Arts Center’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Dr. Camp is a shark researcher specializing in conservation policy and engaging communities in ocean management. She co-championed a grass-roots campaign that resulted in formation of the Cook Islands Shark Sanctuary in 2012, an area exceeding 770,000 square miles. She is the founder and executive director of Sharks Pacific, a nonprofit organization that conducts research, outreach and advocacy throughout the Pacific Islands region. Dr. Cramp was named an AAAS If/Then Ambassador, a program created by the American Association for the Advancement of Science to bring together 125 women from different science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM) careers to serve as role models for middle school girls. For more information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Boogie Walk & Belly Roll

Indulge your inner Myrtle Beach Ocean Drive at the Moore Area Shag Society’s monthly dance on Saturday, April 5, from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m., at Down Memory Lane, 161 Dawkins St., Aberdeen. The doors open at 6:30, and there will be a cash bar. Tickets are $30 in advance and $35 at the door. For information call (919) 345-4105.

Burnin’ Up

Starworks is holding a two-day celebration of the Promethean arts, starting Friday, April 4, through Saturday, April 5. We’re talking hot stuff here. The creative contribution of fire is featured in tours, workshops, demonstrations, guest artists and food trucks. Ok, so the artists and trucks aren’t actually on fire. Both days finish with live music. Friday’s slate begins at 1 p.m. and features a “Kids Draw It, We Make It” glass demonstration. The Saturday events begin at 9 a.m. The live bands pack it in at 10 p.m. both nights. Tickets are $10. Workshops are extra. Gather at the Starworks Café & Taproom, 100 Russell Dr., Star. For the full schedule and all costs visit www.StarworksNC.org/Firefest.

Spring in Your Step

Southern Pines’ annual Springfest Arts & Crafts Fair will be held April 26 from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Two blocks on both sides of Broad Street will be closed to accommodate the food, games, rides, music and 160 vendors offering art, jewelry, photography, woodworking and more. Kids ages 3-12 can sign up for bicycle, tricycle and electric car races in front of the Sunrise Theater. Registration begins at 10 a.m., with the races at 11. For additional info call (910) 692-7376.

Home & Garden Tour

The 77th Annual Home & Garden Tour sponsored by the Southern Pines Garden Club is Saturday, April 5 from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Tickets are available online prior to April 5 or in person on the day of by going to the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities or to one of three locations, Birdwood Cottage or The English Cottage in Southern Pines or Twin Willows in Pinehurst. Cost is $25 in advance and $30 on tour day. The online address for tickets is https://www.tickettailor.com/events/spgc/1564777.

Dig In

Petunias, begonias, marigolds, oh my! It’s all on sale at the annual Landscape Gardening program’s spring bedding plant sale on Saturday, April 26, at the Sandhills Horticultural Gardens, 3245 Airport Road, Pinehurst. All plants are grown and cared for in greenhouses by students in preparation for the sale. Proceeds support the SCC gardening program. For more information go to www.sandhills.edu/gardenevents.

Get Your Motor Running

The 4th Annual Corvette Club Show will be on Saturday, April 19, from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., at the Sandhills Community College Automotive Technical Center, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. There will be prizes, music, food trucks, oohs and aahs. Vote for best in show. April 27 will serve as the rain date. For additional information go to www.corvettesofsandhills.com.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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A Cake for Every Season

No-bake Easter sweet treats

Photograph and Story by Rose Shewey

Today, I am going to answer a question you didn’t know you had: The humble carrot cake — is it a fall treat or a spring dessert?

It’s a bit of a conundrum. With carrots being harvested both in the spring and autumn, one could argue carrot cake can be either one — a celebration of spring and fall. Case closed. However, there are those — in my experience, mainly hobby pastry chefs — determined to limit this modest delight to just one season. To me, the correct answer is, and always has been, carrot cake is an anytime cake. Spring, summer, fall or winter. It’s truly a cake that fits just about any occasion.

The much more pressing question is, come Easter, should I make carrot cake or cheesecake? Cheesecake is the quintessential spring dessert in my book. Indecision being my biggest vice, I am making both and combining them — a folksy carrot cake as the supporting act for opulent cheesecake is exactly what I want to adorn my Easter brunch array.

That’s not the whole story. I am making this entire affair a no-bake event.

If you want to serve them alone, it’s worth noting that this no-bake carrot cake makes for some scrumptious carrot cake bars, should you be short on time or if cheesecake isn’t your cup of tea. Vice versa, if carrot cake isn’t your jam, this no-bake cheesecake will happily go atop any crust of your choosing.

No-Bake Carrot Cake and Cheesecake

(Serves 6)

Carrot Cake Ingredients

1 cup coconut flakes, toasted

1 cup cashew nuts or walnuts

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

Pinch of sea salt

6-8 medjool dates, pitted and sliced

1 cup grated carrots

1/3 – 1/2 cup coconut flour, as needed

Cheesecake Ingredients

16 ounces cream cheese, room temperature

1/3 cup powdered sugar

zest of 1/2 lemon

1 tablespoon lemon juice, freshly squeezed

8 ounces heavy whipping cream

Method

To make the carrot cake base, add coconut flakes, cashews or walnuts, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt to a food processor and pulse until the nuts are crumbly. Now add in the dates and mix until you have a dough-like consistency but do not over-process — you don’t want a puree. Add in the carrots and pulse until everything is well incorporated.

Scrape out mixture into a bowl and add about half of the coconut flour and stir with a fork or spatula; if the mixture is still overly wet or sticky, work in the remainder of the coconut flower.

Line a 6-7-inch springform pan with parchment paper and press the carrot cake mixture into the bottom. Use a flat-bottom glass to achieve a smooth layer. Set aside.

To make the cheesecake, add the cream cheese to a bowl and sift in the powdered sugar. Mix with a fork until roughly incorporated, add lemon zest and juice and mix with a handheld mixer until well combined and creamy. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, whip heavy cream until soft peaks form and fold into the cream cheese mixture. Pour cheesecake mixture into the prepared springform, atop the carrot cake base, and refrigerate for at least 4 hours before serving.

The Naturalist

THE NATURALIST

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Birdies, Eagles and Fox Squirrels, Oh My!

High-class habitat for our largest tree squirrel

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

I was out of the country last June when the U.S. Open rolled into town. With limited internet access, I was unable to follow the championship’s progress. It was only when I returned home in July that I learned Bryson DeChambeau had won.

Not being on any social media platforms, I also missed some of the viral videos posted during the Open — by professional golfers and spectators alike — of the Sandhills’ unique fox squirrels. Judging by the number of stories produced by various media outlets, it seems like the visitors from out of town were not familiar with our local bushy-tailed rodents. Professional golfer Min Woo Lee’s video of a curious fox squirrel approaching his caddie in the middle of a fairway on the famed No. 2 course drew over 300,000 views and was even mentioned by Golf Digest magazine. “Hello Pinehurst. What is this animal?” Lee asks in the video. “Is it a skunk, or a raccoon, or a squirrel?”

It’s easy to understand his confusion. After all, Lee hails from Australia, a continent that is packed full of animal oddities — the platypus and the bilby (Google it, they are adorable) to name two — but has no native squirrels. Nada. Zilch. So it’s easy to imagine Lee’s initial reaction upon seeing an animal with white ears, a white nose, black face and a long bushy tail for the first time. Nearly the size of a housecat, fox squirrels are the largest tree squirrel in North America.

When the inquisitive squirrel approached Lee, he quickly held his club at arm’s length and exclaimed, “Back up brother! Back up!”

Tee it up on any of the local golf courses and chances are you will see a fox squirrel at some point during your round. They are as much a part of the Sandhills landscape as pine trees and blue skies.

Though North Carolina never has listed the species as endangered or threatened, fox squirrels have always been considered uncommon. Throughout the southeastern United States, fox squirrels are strongly associated with the longleaf pine tree. Their large body size gives them a competitive advantage over their smaller cousins, the highly adaptable grey squirrel, enabling them to rip open the large, calorie-rich pine cones of the longleaf. Vast longleaf forests once stretched from southern Virginia down to Florida and along the Gulf Coast to east Texas. Today, over 90 percent of those forests have disappeared, having been converted into everything from agricultural fields to housing developments. The resulting loss of longleaf caused severe population declines to animals that depended on that ecosystem for survival, fox squirrels included.

When I was growing up in Moore County, you would occasionally encounter a fox squirrel here or there. You might spy one sprinting across a backroad around West End or shredding a pine cone on the grounds of Sandhills Community College. We even had them visit our yard periodically in Eagle Springs. But if you really wanted to guarantee seeing one, all you had to do was head to the links.

Throughout my teenage years, my father and I played golf most weekends, wherever we could get a late afternoon tee time (he worked most weekend mornings) and the best rates. No matter where we played, Seven Lakes, Whispering Pines, Foxfire, Deercroft or Pinebluff, I would see fox squirrels. They were always the highlight of my day — well, except for the time I holed that 120-yard shot from the fairway for an eagle at Hyland Golf Club (it was Hyland Hills then), still my all-time best golfing experience. Even on our family vacations to North Myrtle Beach, I would occasionally see fox squirrels loping across golf courses with their distinctive bounding gait.

Fox squirrels are denizens of open forest canopies that are free of dense underbrush, which historically in a longleaf pine ecosystem was the result of frequent fire. Golf courses mimic those old-timey pine forests, in a roundabout way, with their park-like landscapes and abundance of food and nesting trees favored by the multi-hued squirrels. A number of scientific studies have even shown that golf courses may hold the key to survival for fox squirrels in parts of the Southeast, especially in urban areas.

As an example, I recently found myself at Innisbrook Golf Resort, just north of Tampa, Florida, visiting family and friends. The property’s four golf courses are surrounded by a sea of humanity, in the form of  never-ending strip malls, hotels and restaurants. Yet, fox squirrels were thriving in surprisingly high numbers along the manicured fairways bordered by huge pines and oaks. I even saw one sneaky squirrel steal a granola bar from the golf cart of an unsuspecting golfer who was up on the green putting for birdie.

As photography started to become an integral part of my career, one of the first subjects I set out to photograph were fox squirrels. Late Pinehurst resident and golf aficionado Parker Hall was kind enough to help my endeavors, arranging access to the Country Club of North Carolina and providing me with a golf cart to lug around my heavy gear. Over the course of two winter afternoons, I was able to greatly expand my fox squirrel portfolio. Up until that point, I had never seen so many fox squirrels in such a small area.

My last golf course fox squirrel encounter happened over the Christmas holidays. I was visiting my folks for a few days and found myself driving north along Hoffman Road near Foxfire Village. Late one morning on a straight stretch bordering one of the golf club’s fairways, a solid black fox squirrel, with bright white paws and ears, stepped out onto the asphalt. I came to a complete stop, allowing the beautiful mammal to pass safely across the highway into a patch of nearby pines. Watching its long, flowing black tail disappear into the forest, I was reminded of a life lesson instilled in me at a young age: Always be respectful of the locals.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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The Wandering Path

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

In the 2022-23 time frame, alcohol sales increased by 1 percent, but the sales of non-alcoholic wine, beer and liquor grew by over 32 percent. “An increasing consumer focus on moderation, health and wellness is having a positive impact on all no-alcohol sub-categories, with growth rates higher than their full-strength equivalents,” says Susie Goldspink, head of no- and low-alcohol insights at IWSR (originally known as International Wine and Spirits Record, though they now deal in beer and ready-to-drink beverages as well).

Indeed, the market is starting to get flooded with all things alcohol-free. My business operates out of a health store and, in the past couple of years, I’ve seen more brands like these than I can count.

A lot of folks, me included, take breaks from alcohol even when it’s not “dry January.” We’d like to have something to drink that makes you feel good without being high or drunk (canned THC cocktails are a whole other story). My problem with most of these RTDs (ready-to-drink) is simple: They don’t taste great; they use buzzwords for sales (e.g., ashwagandha); and they’re pricey. I haven’t had the opportunity to try tons of spirit-free liquors, but every one that I’ve tasted (besides Seedlip) has been uninspiring, to say the least.

Enter Pathfinder, a non-alcoholic spirit made from a distilled hemp-based liquid. Pathfinder has a lot going on, made from Douglas fir, orange peel, ginger, sage, wormwood, juniper, etc. On the palate, it’s similar to an amaro — think Cynar — and is perfect for cocktails. Speaking of, I found this delicious recipe, The Wandering Path, from bartender Jeffrey Morganthaler’s blog. It was created by his business partner, Benjamin Amberg, at their acclaimed bar, Pacific Standard. This sour cocktail is as easy to make as it is delicious.

Specifications

2 ounces Pathfinder

1 ounce fresh grapefruit juice

3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

1/2 ounce egg white

Execution

Combine all ingredients in a shaker, add ice, shake hard until cold, and double strain into a coupe glass (a sour glass is pictured). No garnish.

Character Study

CHARACTER STUDY

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A Sandhills Treasure

Leading from behind the podium

By Tony Rothwell

As the last note dies away, Anne Dorsey turns to face the audience. She bows, then turns back to face the chorus, sweeping a hand from one side of the stage to the other, passing on the applause to every singer and musician in the Moore County Choral Society. It’s a love affair that has lasted 22 years.

On April 27, the Moore County Choral Society will hold its 50th anniversary concert in the Robert E. Lee Auditorium at Pinecrest High School. Dorsey has wielded the baton in very nearly half of them. Befitting the occasion, the Choral Society will be joined by a professional chorus, local high school choruses, the Arc of Moore County Joyful Noise and a full orchestra.

Dorsey will have chosen a program with a careful balance between old favorites and new, or lesser-known, pieces — perhaps from a different country or in a foreign language — adding up to a memorable performance. It’s what she has done, time and time again.

To get the chorus to where it needs to be, rehearsal after rehearsal, Dorsey’s approach depends on the situation, but humor is her main weapon. She is witty, quick with words, and has an infectious smile that radiates from behind the podium. And the chorus works hard for those smiles. One place you don’t want to be is on the end of her black look. It happens when she has just told a section, or indeed the whole chorus, precisely what she is expecting — a clean cutoff at the end of a phrase or a particular vowel pronunciation — and it is not delivered. It’s a well-practiced skill she developed studying with the legendary, and fear-inducing, Dr. Lara Hoggard and the Carolina Choir at UNC-Chapel Hill.

“Choir was everything,” she says of her undergrad days. “I never missed. I was never late. I wanted to be like him.”

Born in Rockingham, Dorsey sang her first solo at the age of 3 in a recital in Ellerbe. In junior high school she sang alto, “because I could read music and hear a harmony part which helped me develop a musical ear,” she says. Inspired by the Carolina Choir, it was during her high school years in Henderson that Dorsey decided she wanted to be a school choral director. “I heard them sing and I’d never heard anything like that sound,” she says. “I wanted to be part of it and learn how to make it.” 

With a music education degree from UNC in one hand and a teaching certificate in the other, Dorsey moved to Moore County in the fall of 1977, too late to land a teaching position, but not too late to be hired by organist Paul Long at the Community Congregational Church of Southern Pines as choir director. “The ink was still wet on my diploma, and I got a job with a Juilliard genius,” says Dorsey. At roughly the same time she discovered the Moore County Choral Society, then in its infancy, and joined as a member under Dr. Armand Kitto. It was the beginning of an incredible 48-year relationship.

Dorsey did finally get that teaching job — in the Hoke County School System. Over the course of her career as an educator, she taught grades 4-12 and did children’s choir work at church and in the community. “Every grade, every class and every student taught me something — probably more than I taught them,” she says.

In the spring of 2002, Dorsey filled in for John Shannon, then the conductor of the Moore County Choral Society, and upon his resignation she was offered the job of director. She found that working with adults is both the same and different from working with young people.

“I sometimes forget who I am dealing with, but I have largely been forgiven for that,” she says with a smile. “I have certainly been stretched, and I have, in turn, tried to stretch those who sing with MCCS. No year should lack musical challenge; no season should be without something new, something difficult, something different, and also be appealing to our audiences.”

Chris Dunn, executive director of The Arts Council of Moore County and a brass trumpeter in MCCS, says, “As a musician who has played many concerts with Anne, I marvel at how nothing seems to faze her. One example was at the beginning of a concert the entire brass section missed an entrance. Anne turned to us with a stern look but continued conducting as if everything was fine. We can laugh about it now, but not then.”

Twenty-two seasons bring with them a sense of perspective. “The talented members of MCCS have brought fine choral art to the Sandhills for half a century,” says Dorsey. “The conductors — only five of them in 50 years — have been blessed with hardworking singers whose talent and passion for choral music have been freely shared year after year to bring beauty to our audiences. I believe that arts organizations enrich the communities they serve. What an honor it is to be part of one so fine.”

At the April concert, the Anne Dorsey Scholarships, now in their 36th year, will be awarded to two gifted Moore County students who intend to study music beyond their high school years, a fitting reminder of Dorsey’s roots in music education.

“I look at a piece of music like a sculptor looks at a slab of marble,” she says. “It is beautiful but it doesn’t speak. The artist must shape it, refine it, and polish it until its beauty shines and is unforgettable. My favorite job as a conductor is to dig into the tiniest details of a piece — the dynamics, phrasing, tempo, style — because therein lies the beauty.”

A beauty she has revealed for over two decades, and counting. 

Poem April 2025

POEM APRIL 2025

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Greedy

The catbird is pecking away

at two ripe tomatoes.

I wave my hands and shout,

My tomatoes! as though 

I’d produced them

from my breasts or belly.

 

The catbird aerializes

on the tomato cage,

jabbing and jabbing the red fruit.

I have more on the counter

that I won’t eat before they rot,

or that I’ll give away.

 

It’s unseemly, this stinginess,

a memory of not-enough,

the necessity of preserving

a crop from rabbits and deer,

the otherwise marvelous

round-backed bugs, grasshoppers

flaring red underwings,

 

or birds like this one,

gray as a civil servant,

an actuary of ripeness,

that tilts its head to eye the fruit

and flaunts its rusty bottom

in salute.

— Valerie Nieman