Bird Man

BIRD MAN

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Bird Man

On a mission to help save a species

By Jenna Biter

Photographs by John Gessner & Todd Pusser

“I’ve always been interested in birds,” Dr. Joseph H. Carter III says, as matter-of-fact as his graying hair and beard.

The ecologist looks out from a pair of rimless glasses. He’s reclined in a dark leather chair with a knee propped up on a dark wooden desk opposite a fireplace framed by white tiles painted with mallards and other birds. A stuffed-animal opossum stares down from a shelf. Volumes including Saving Species on Private Lands and Manual of the Vascular Flora of the Carolinas line the wall behind him. “I started my life list of birds when I was 13.”

A birder’s “life list” is precisely what you’d think. It’s a running total of all the species they’ve spotted and identified. Carter has tallied 300 and some. “It’s really not that many,” he says. Most of the birds on his list are local to North Carolina, the place where his interest took flight.

Amassing an eyepopping number — say, a thousand or more — hasn’t been Carter’s life mission. That was reserved for one species in particular, the red-cockaded woodpecker.

After earning a degree in biology from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington and graduate degrees from North Carolina State, Carter launched his environmental consulting firm, Dr. J.H. Carter III & Associates, in 1976, when he was 26 years old. His first contract was with the North Carolina Department of Transportation consulting on the four-laning of U.S. 421 north of Wilmington.

It was in the Sandhills, where he grew up, that Carter’s devotion to the once-endangered (now-threatened) red-cockaded woodpecker transformed into one of the largest, longest-running research studies of any one species. The Sandhills Ecological Institute, a nonprofit organization Carter founded in 1998, helps run the study and is located next to his consulting firm on Midland Road.

Carter spent his boyhood in Southern Pines distracted by the flash of feathers. “I’d be watching out the windows at school,” he says. “Every day I wrote down every bird I saw, even if it was a starling or whatever.”

After school let out, Carter continued his birdwatching exploits at home. He’d walk into the family house on the “Little Nine” — the Southern Pines Golf Club’s now fallow nine holes — and right back out with binoculars dangling from his neck, disappearing into the woods bubbling with creeks and swamps in the swaths of nature the golf course didn’t occupy.

“My first pair of binoculars were my dad’s. He was in the Navy in World War II and brought his nautical binoculars back. They were about this . . . ” Carter says, measuring a great distance between his hands, “and weighed about seven or eight pounds. I probably did permanent damage to my neck wearing those things.”

Carter began banding birds when he was out of school with mononucleosis. “I got a banding permit from the federal government and just dove in,” says Carter. In the ’60s, it wasn’t difficult to acquire a permit for yard banding. Today, a citizen scientist needs to be involved with a research project to tag birds.

Carter set up a system of feeders and super-fine “mist nets.” Attracted by the food, the birds would fly into the nets, safely and temporarily captive. Carter took measurements, weighed the birds, distinguished the sex if he could, banded them and turned them loose. “I banded everything that came to the feeders,” he says. “Every day it was sunup to sundown — band, band, band, band.”

That winter Carter tagged more than 300 evening grosbeaks, 400 pine siskins and 900 purple finches traveling from Canada in a winter finch invasion. After he recovered from his illness, his hobby remained. He zigzagged across the Sandhills banding with his birder-mentor, a woman named Mary Wintyen. After getting his driver’s license, his territory expanded: Drowning Creek, Little River, the local lakes.

“I was going to the lakes looking at the waterfowl,” Carter says. “Other kids were doing teenage stuff. I was out there crawling around in the woods, trying to find neat things. I kept up with snakes and salamanders and all that stuff.”

But neither snakes nor salamanders — not even waterfowl, northern finches or other birds — would weave through Carter’s life like the red-cockaded woodpecker, a species he saw for the first time in September 1963 near the 12th green of the golf club.

Red-cockadeds are smallish woodpeckers, slightly longer than a new No. 2 pencil from eraser to the blunt end. The birds are almost entirely black and white, but the males wear a cockade, a tuft of red feathers on each side of its head, that gives them their name. Native to forests across the southeastern United States, their homes of choice are old longleaf pines, where they’ll peck themselves cozy cavities in which to roost and nest.

“After they make a cavity, they dress up the tree, and the tree gets a reddish appearance. Then they peck what we call resin wells in the tree,” Carter explains. “Because the tree’s alive, it bleeds resin, and it eventually turns the tree white. We call them candlesticks in the forest.”

If the sap has dulled to a dirty, yellowish gray, the red-cockaded woodpeckers have vacated long ago. Carter remembers seeing abandoned cavities while crisscrossing Moore County with Wintyen. “You’d see them on the golf courses. You’d see them on the side of the road,” he says. Birds were still active but their numbers seemed to be declining, and Carter was curious.

“I’ve been interested in the red-cockaded woodpecker since I was 15. That was when the first paper I co-authored was published in our Carolina Bird Club journal, the Chat,” says Carter. He and Wintyen wrote the paper for the bulletin in 1965. They described the cavities they’d seen. Where they were. What they were like. Only one nest, possibly two, was active, and Carter didn’t know the cause of the species’ decline. At the time, it wasn’t clear.

“One thing just built on another and the woodpecker got listed as an endangered species,” he says.

Congress protected the bird under the Endangered Species Act of 1973. It was around then that Carter graduated from UNCW and applied to NC State for his master’s degree. Initially rejected, he decided to plead his case in person and pitch his plan for a sweeping study of a the red-cockaded woodpecker. “Survey everything, tag all the trees, catch all the birds, band all the birds, and then just track what was going on to answer some of these questions: Why are the birds decreasing? How many are there? All the basic demographic questions you need to answer,” Carter says, outlining the elephant-size task.

The secretary for the head of the Zoology Department was out, but Carter could see that the head of the department himself — Dr. David E. Davis — was in his office, seated just around the corner. “He spoke, like, six languages. He could lecture in Russian. He’s way, way up there,” Carter says. “I asked if I could talk to him and he said yes. I sat down. I didn’t know I was supposed to be scared of this guy. He listened, thanked me and sent me on my way.”

Later Carter got a phone call from an ornithologist he knew at NC State. So long as he could finish his master’s in a year, he was in. He began surveying Southern Pines, Pinehurst, McCain, the northern part of the Sandhills Game Lands and the western part of Fort Bragg. “It was getting a population estimate as well as being able to characterize the habitats they were in. You know, how old were the pines? How dense were the pines? How much of a midstory, scrub oaks and whatever?” Carter says. “So I did all that and then I graduated with my master’s degree.”

Banding the birds would have to wait until a sprawling study was funded. “We started banding in ’79,” Carter says. The grant secured money for red-cockaded woodpecker research across 400 square miles of the Sandhills. Originally the study lived at NC State. Eventually it moved to the Sandhills Ecological Institute, which was founded and runs — with the help of Carter — to study and preserve the longleaf pine ecosystem.

Through decades of bands-on-birds, boots-in-field research, scientists could finally answer the whys behind the red-cockadeds decline, a mystery that long ago grabbed the attention of a self-admitted obsessive teen. Loss of habitat was one factor: Across the centuries, tens of millions of acres of longleaf pine had been logged. Moreover, the policy of total fire suppression, adopted in the 20th century, was harming the biodiversity of the still-standing longleaf forests.

In retrospect, Carter knew something was off since the time he was just a curious kid exploring the woods with his dad’s old binoculars. There were no birds to see where turkey oaks and vines and shrubs crowded a pine forest’s midstory. But the aha moment didn’t come until years later when Carter surveyed Fort Bragg’s blast sites, where fire was the way of things. “All of a sudden, you can see to the horizon. There is no midstory,” Carter says, a touch of awe warming his gravelly voice.

There were woodpeckers all over the place. There were songbirds all over the place. To Carter, it was like discovering Atlantis. “You can’t have a longleaf pine forest without frequent, low-intensity fire, and its cycle and its nutrients.”

By the end of the ’80s, the red-cockaded woodpecker population had leveled, and there was potential for an uptick. Sometime around then, Dr. Jeffrey Walters, who had been involved with cockaded research since early days, secured funding to determine whether drilling artificial cavities into trees could boost the woodpecker’s numbers. As it turned out, it could, and Carter’s firm still drills artificial cavities today. You can even spot one of his company’s nests on Pinehurst’s No. 2 golf course.

Thanks to conservation efforts, the red-cockaded woodpecker was downgraded from federally endangered to threatened in October 2024. There are now an estimated 7,800 active clusters across 11 states in the Southeast — up from an all-time low of roughly 1,500 in the early ’70s when the Endangered Species Act became law.

As a threatened species, red-cockaded woodpeckers are still protected by the act. According to Carter, they are a “conservation-reliant species,” and their numbers will drop if management ceases.

Carter pushes back from his office desk. His cast of characters watch attentively from their fireplace tiles and shelf as he prepares to leave. “It’s a labor of — I hate to say labor of love, that sounds tacky as hell,” Carter says, “but it takes people who are willing to basically dedicate their lives to projects like this. Whether they’re studying elephants or bacteria or whatever, it takes folks like that. We’ve all benefited from each other and the sacrifices that we were willing to make to keep these things going.” 

No Day at the Beach

NO DAY AT THE BEACH

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No Day at the Beach

George Washington’s 1791 Southern Tour

By Warren L. Bingham

As the hero of the American Revolution and a man of action, George Washington knew his presence mattered. Shortly after becoming president, he planned to visit all 13 states, “to see and be seen” while promoting the new Constitution and the federal government.

By 1791 Washington had made trips to the Middle and Northern states. That spring he would conduct the Southern Tour, traveling to Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia. Except for brief visits in the 1760s as a landowner in North Carolina’s Great Dismal Swamp, Washington had never been south of Yorktown.

The Southern Tour was the most challenging of Washington’s journeys. The president would leave from the nation’s temporary capital, Philadelphia, and be away over three months to reach the farthest points in South Carolina and Georgia. Roads were bad. Crossing water was often an adventure. Inns were few and far between, and the standard unreliable. Horses required proper provisions. Bad weather, clouds of dust and even highway robbery loomed as threats — though one supposes the prospect of holding up Washington and his traveling party would have required an extraordinarily witless band of criminals.

Nonetheless, the 59-year-old Washington and eight traveling companions embarked on the Southern Tour on the first day of spring of 1791. Cabinet members Thomas Jefferson and Henry Knox escorted the entourage from Philadelphia to Delaware. Washington left a detailed itinerary with Vice President Adams and his cabinet members if they sought to get mail or messages to him.

Washington was paid a whopper of a salary as the first president, $25,000, but he covered his own expenses for his residence, office and presidential duties, including travel. He paid his household staff and secretaries from his earnings.

The presidential entourage included seven servants from his Philadelphia home, two of them enslaved men on loan from Mount Vernon. William Jackson, a longtime secretary of Washington’s, served as top aide on the trip. Jackson, an officer during the Revolution and a Charlestonian, was young and single, making him ideal to take along on the journey. The trip was considered too arduous for a lady, so first lady Martha Washington remained at home, even though she was a veteran of some wartime camps.

Transportation included the president’s own cream-colored coach and four, a baggage wagon pulled by two horses, and a few extra saddle horses. Washington’s personal mount, Prescott, a tall white parade horse, made the trip. Quite aware of looking presidential, Washington, who stood 6 feet, 2 inches tall, made a dashing impression riding high in Prescott’s saddle. Folklore suggests that a greyhound named Cornwallis accompanied the travelers, but alas, the presence of the hound is likely a myth.

Washington was a planner, and he immersed himself in the journey’s details. He consulted with his secretaries and gentlemen travelers to understand the roads and inns of the South. The president decided to go south along the fall line and the Coastal Plain and to make the return north through the Piedmont, the higher land between the Lowcountry and the mountains. He charted a route that gave him a good feel for the region, though he specifically wanted to visit Charleston, South Carolina, then the fourth-largest city in the country and a place of influence and affluence. Georgia’s two notable places were Savannah and Augusta, so he was going no farther south than those towns. Atlanta didn’t yet exist.

The trip from Philadelphia to North Carolina was a memorable one. The travelers endured near-calamities while crossing both the Chesapeake Bay near Annapolis and the Occoquan River in Virginia. Stops in Fredericksburg, Richmond and Petersburg went well, however, and represented Washington’s typical reception. The president was feted by dinners, dances and cannon salutes. Upon his arrival, parades ensued, church bells rang and choirs sang. Eighteenth century drinking was impressive and many toasts were offered — usually 13 (one for each state, of course) with a few more thrown in for good measure.

Hosts dressed up in their finest clothes, and women wore sashes adorned with words of tribute such as “Long Live Washington!” Some towns were lit up with torches, candles and bonfires, a prospect that would have alarmed any self-respecting fire marshal, had such public safety civil servants existed then.

Elected officials, Masons, ministers and veterans of the Revolution were received by the president. He sometimes attended church services and occasionally had the luxury of riding Prescott around town simply to see who he might see.

Traveling between the larger towns wasn’t easy. Local militias often escorted the president, stirring up a choking dust. The inns along the road were often “indifferent,” a term Washington used to politely describe barely acceptable accommodations for man and beast.

On Saturday, April 16, 1791, nearly four weeks after leaving Philadelphia, wind, rain and lightning filled the air as the president and his party made their way into North Carolina. Washington wrote:

The uncomfortableness of it, for Men and Horses, would have induced me to put up; but the only inn short of Hallifax having no stables in wch. the horses could be comfortable & no rooms or beds which appeared tolerable, & every thing else having a dirty appearance, I was compelled to keep on to Hallifax.

At the end of this stormy day, Washington crossed the Roanoke River, arriving in Halifax around six in the evening for his first true taste of North Carolina. Any visit Washington had previously made to the Great Dismal Swamp hardly counts — it’s like saying you’ve been to Dallas after changing planes at DFW.

It’s not certain where Washington lodged during his two-night visit to Halifax, but it was probably Eagle Tavern. As much as practicable, he refused private lodging during his presidential journeys, either paying his way or agreeing to stay in community-provided accommodation. At times during the Southern Tour, however, there simply wasn’t a suitable public place available. Of course, the horses had to be properly cared for and fed — and some public houses weren’t even reliable enough for that.

Halifax was home to several notable North Carolinians, among them, Congressman John Baptist Ashe, future Gov. William R. Davie, and Willie Jones, who had led North Carolina’s opposition to the Constitution and was no fan of the federal government. Indeed, Jones suggested he would receive Washington as a great man — but not as president of the United States.

Though Washington was greeted politely and treated respectably in Halifax, there’s no doubt that the presence of Jones tempered the enthusiasm. After all, Washington was in town for only two days, but the locals had to live with Jones long after the president was gone.

Samuel Johnston, an Edenton lawyer and the squire of Hayes Plantation, wrote in a late-May letter to James Iredell that “the reception of the president in Halifax was not such that we could wish tho in every other part of the country he was treated with proper attention.” In 2011 — with the specter of Jones long dead and buried — Halifax commemorated the Southern Tour on Historic Halifax Day.

When he reached Tarboro, Washington was impressed by the bridge — a rarity in 1791 — over the Tar River. Apparently, the number of cannon in Tarboro was in agreement with the number of bridges. Washington wrote, “We were received at this place by as good a salute as could be given with one piece of artillery.” Reading Blount, a veteran of the Revolution and a member of the state’s prominent Blount family, led the president’s entertainment.

Washington made his way from Tarboro to Greenville along roads that no longer exist, but his route probably tracked near today’s Route 33. In Greenville, the president, ever a farmer, was pleased to learn about local crops, including tobacco, and was intrigued by tar-making and its commercial value. Nonetheless, Washington wrote that Greenville was a trifling place. Greenvillians shouldn’t fret; the president would say the same thing about Charlotte.

After a night near present-day Ayden, during which Washington worried about the horses going uncovered without stables, the travelers passed near Fort Barnwell en route to New Bern. Likely edging out Wilmington as the largest town in North Carolina in 1791, New Bern turned out smartly for Washington. Mounted militia and town leaders met the president’s party several miles outside town to act as escort. The city provided a new but never occupied home for the president’s stay, the John Wright Stanly home, which still stands and is part of today’s Tryon Palace complex.

On his second night in town, Washington was entertained at a gala at Tryon Palace, and his dance card was full. In recent years, a yellow gown worn that evening by Mrs. Ferebe Guion was shown and evaluated on PBS’ “Antiques Roadshow.” The dress, value unknown, remains in the hands of Guion descendants.

In an age of slow and unreliable mail, Isaac Guion, Ferebe’s husband, took advantage of the presidential traveling party and their Southern passage to send a letter to a friend in Georgia via the president. Imagine the conversation. “Uh, Mr. President, as long as you’re going . . .” I suspect William Jackson, the secretary, handled it, but indeed the letter was carried to Georgia and ultimately delivered.

In the 1940s, A.B. Andrews Jr., a Raleigh lawyer and history buff, came across the letter, acquired it, and presented it to the town of New Bern. It’s kept in the archives in the Kellenberger Room, a wonderful collection of local, regional and state history and genealogy at the New Bern-Craven County Public Library. With all these ties to the Southern Tour, New Bern held major commemorations of Washington’s visit in 1891 and again in 2015.

A cannon salute roared as Washington left New Bern, and the presidential party traveled through Jones County, a namesake of Halifax’s Willie Jones. Longtime Pollocksville mayor and avocational historian Jay Bender wonders why Washington stayed so far inland as he went south from New Bern. The old King’s Highway, the post road that went from Boston to Charleston, came through New Bern and tracked more directly to Wilmington. The reason might have been lodging and services for man and horse, since Shine’s Tavern in Jones County, where Washington put up for the night, enjoyed a good reputation.

The travelers arrived at the coast, a few miles from Topsail Beach, on Saturday, April 23. By late afternoon they linked up with present-day Holly Ridge and the King’s Highway, today’s U.S. 17. Washington lodged at Sage’s Inn, one of the establishments he labeled as “indifferent,” though another traveler of the era described the proprietor, Robert Sage, as a “fine jolly Englishman.”

On Easter Sunday, the presidential party followed the King’s Highway toward Wilmington, resting in Hampstead. Some claim that Hampstead takes its name from Washington requesting ham instead of oysters for his breakfast that morning. There is a large live oak hard by U.S. 17 in Hampstead that supposedly is where the travelers rested. A local DAR chapter has kept the tree marked as the Washington Oak for a century or more.

At some point on Easter, Washington wrote a long diary entry in which he observed that the land between New Bern and Wilmington was the most barren country he ever beheld. The travelers had gone through a vast longleaf pine savanna, and Washington had never seen anything like it.

While Washington attended church services several times during the Southern Tour, he made no mention of Easter or attending a service in Wilmington. The Port City’s streets were lined with people to catch sight of America’s hero as Washington was led to his lodgings, a home on Front Street provided by the widow Quince, who gave up her home for the president while she stayed with family elsewhere in town.

Historian Chris Fonvielle, an emeritus professor at UNC Wilmington, says that Wilmington entertained Washington lavishly, and that it was evident that the president “enjoyed the attention from the ladies and drinking with the gentlemen.” Indeed, Washington’s diary indicates there were 62 ladies at the ball. Fonvielle confirms that Washington spent time at two taverns, Dorsey’s and Jocelyn’s. Tavern keeper Lawrence Dorsey famously told the president, “Don’t drink the water!”

Washington’s party continued south on Tuesday the 26th with several stops in Brunswick County. The president met with Benjamin Smith of Belvidere Plantation. Smith was prominent in many ways, a future governor and large landholder, and an officer under Washington’s watch at some point during the Revolution. Southport was originally named Smithville in Benjamin Smith’s honor as he donated the land for the town. Bald Head Island is still known to some as Smith Island, as its original owner was Benjamin Smith’s grandfather, Thomas Smith.

After a night at Russ’ Tavern, about 25 miles south of Wilmington, the travelers stopped at William Gause’s Tavern on the mainland side of what’s now Ocean Isle Beach. Local lore says that the group took breakfast there and went for a swim in the swash, waters that are now the Intracoastal Waterway. The story goes that the president hung his clothes to dry in a large live oak by Gause’s that still stands. Washington crossed into South Carolina early on the afternoon of April 27.

The president continued his travels through South Carolina and Georgia and returned north to North Carolina in late May with stops in Charlotte, present-day Concord, Salisbury, Old Salem and Guilford Courthouse. Washington moved fast on the northbound return. His departures were often at four and five a.m. after one-night stays. In Charlotte, the president was hosted by Thomas Polk, a former officer during the Revolution and the great-uncle of future president James K. Polk. Washington lodged at Cook’s Inn on the corner of Trade and Church Streets where reportedly he left behind his powder box — not gunpowder but powder for body and hair.

Washington enjoyed two nights in Old Salem. Though he planned to spend only one evening, the president agreed to spend another day upon learning that North Carolina governor Alexander Martin was on the way to meet him but wouldn’t arrive until the next day. The president was impressed by the Moravians’ “small but neat village” and their ingenuity, having devised a clever water distribution system.

Before the creation of Greensboro, the county seat of Guilford was Guilford Courthouse, the site of a significant battle of the Revolution just 10 years earlier. Throughout the Southern Tour, Washington enjoyed seeing the battlegrounds that he had long read about. This was no different. “I examined the ground on which the action between Generals Greene and Lord Cornwallis commenced,” wrote Washington.

His last stop in North Carolina was an overnight stay with Dudley Gatewood in Caswell County, just south of the Virginia line. Gatewood’s home was disassembled and moved to Hillsborough during the 1970s, where it was reassembled and served many years as a Mexican restaurant. Sadly, the home gradually fell into disrepair and was torn down in 2024.

The travelers continued north through Virginia, spending time at Mount Vernon and in Georgetown, Maryland, where the president met with area residents to make plans and arrangements to create the new federal capital on the Potomac. Washington celebrated July 4 in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and the travelers arrived back in Philadelphia on July 6. Church bells pealed to honor his return. The odometer had turned nearly 1,900 miles and Washington noted that he had gained flesh while the horses had lost it.

America’s first president never again went south of Virginia, but his visit to North Carolina and the South in 1791 was a great success. The Stanly House in New Bern and Salem Tavern in Old Salem are the only extant places where the first president slept, but the legacy is alive and well. The journey was a remarkable physical feat, and politically, Washington’s presence among the citizens and leaders of the nascent United States created considerable good will and acceptance of the new federal government, helping to cement the legacy of 1776. 

All the Right Moves

ALL THE RIGHT MOVES

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All the Right Moves

When downsizing is the perfect choice

By Deborah Salomon  
Photographs by John Gessner

Residential downsizing for senior couples can be a challenge. Cherished possessions may be dispersed, gardens and neighbors left behind. Creating a rewarding life with curated furnishings, new fabrics and colors requires time, expertise, motivation and energy. That calls for a Cynthia Birdsall. “I ran the renewal. I was the architect, general contractor, interior designer,” says Cynthia of the Birdsalls’ move from Dunross, a 9,000 square foot, six bedroom, 10 bathroom, three-story castle with workshops and outbuildings built for Donald Ross in Knollwood, into a 4,500 square foot single-story two-bedroom 1970s “ranch” in an over-55 development. Finding that size house on one floor took two years.

The Birdsalls maintain an active social life. “We weren’t ready for assisted living. We still wanted a neighborhood,’’ says Cynthia. She hired the painter, the cabinetmakers and electrician. “The guys trusted me.” Bruce Birdsall’s health and mobility was an impetus for change. Cynthia’s renovation not only included friendly doorsills but space suitable for resident caregivers, if needed in the future for either of them. During the transition the couple moved into an apartment for two years. Furnishings that could not be used were stored.

Two bathrooms were gutted. “We had to take out a wall to build a shower in one,” Cynthia says. While designing space for their new lifestyle, Cynthia did not ignore their enthusiasms. “I’m all about wine,” she says. Several temperature-regulated “wine rooms” store and display her collection. Bruce has a coffee station, stockpiles single malt Scotch and keeps a stable of vintage cars and motorbikes. The couple entertains, thus the bar with refrigeration, icemaker and tools to suit a professional bartender. Against an exterior wall they added an adorable, enclosed garden with a wrought iron gate and a variety of surfaces including grass, concrete, pebbles and water where two elderly miniature French bulldogs hang out, weather permitting.

Frequent guests may remember leather-upholstered chairs and a stretch sofa that survived the move from Dunross. Cynthia is a seventh-generation Texan comfortable with fur, skins and leather, which appear throughout. In contrast, over the simple, 12-seat dining room table — made from a single mesquite tree — hangs an ornate, sparkling chandelier. More Paris than Dallas. She doesn’t assign a period or style to her furnishings. “It’s just what I’ve collected over many years because I love it.”

Cynthia chose an interesting black-coffee hue for the engineered flooring, an ideal background for light-colored area rugs. The sparsely furnished two-part living room and oversized Carolina room illustrate a concept originating in the foyer: space as a décor element. The foyer contains only a table. But what a table it is.

“We wanted our guests to have room to move around,’’ Cynthia explains.

Walls are a soft vanilla throughout. Woodwork, including crown moldings, is finished in light-reflecting semi-gloss. Paintings hang singly rather than in groups, creating drama. Windows are shaded by white venetian blinds, never drapes.

This absence of “stuff” conveys calm, something uber-active Cynthia seeks and appreciates.

Exceptions exist, particularly in the kitchen, where Cynthia had some wall cabinets removed to create a pantry and transformed the island base into shelves for her cookbook collection. A quartz countertop splattered in bright blue adds pop. Meal prep becomes happy time.

“When we cook for the family (with children and grandchildren) we cook as a group, and dance around,” she says.

Perhaps the most interesting space is the master suite with seating area, an impressive 18-foot-by-28 foot corner room furnished in custom-made pieces designed by Cynthia. Their shapes suggest frill-free Scandinavian modes popular in the early 1950s. In contrast, the showstopper is a cabinet from Bruce’s family that contains Cynthia’s perfume bottle collection.

The AARP reports that downsizing can have both positive and negative effects on seniors. A survey found that 75 percent of Americans ages 50 and over have a strong preference for staying in their longtime family home. The Birdsalls have had other homes and lived at Dunross only a few years, lessening the emotional attachment to any one place. Their upscale downsize happened under favorable conditions with enviable results: familiar neighborhood, same friends, comfortable furnishings, safe environment. They even have worked out sleeping arrangements for visiting children and grandchildren since the house has only two bedrooms — option one: rent the Pinehurst church that is now a residence.

Downsizing wears many faces, from worry to acceptance and relief. This face, thank goodness, is smiling. “This was the right decision for us,” Cynthia says. 

Poem January 2026

POEM

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The Other Side of the Mirror

“Let’s pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze . . .
And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away,
just like a bright silvery mist.”

    — Lewis Caroll, Through the Looking Glass

 

There’s always a reason I’d rather stay home,

as I brush my hair, gaze into my reflection, sit

before the dresser where I combed my curls

as a girl, forever getting ready for the life

that hadn’t arrived yet. Mirrors remained

unfazed, as I exchanged one image for another,

changed my hairstyles and hats, traced fingers

along a scar, abandoned myself for imperfections.

I have come close to escaping into another world,

always about to leave or about to live, my eyes

child-like, clear as glass, considering what time

it must be . . . to keep from disappearing

into my own unbreakable stare.

— Linda Annas Ferguson

The Winter Blues

THE WINTER BLUES

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The Winter Blues

There’s no better time to have the blues than in winter, and the Arts Council of Moore County seconds that emotion with its exhibit “The Winter Blues.” The artworks in the juried show can be viewed at the Campbell House Galleries, 482 E. Connecticut Ave. in Southern Pines, beginning the 9th of January. In total 122 pieces were submitted by 74 artists in media ranging from paintings and glass to ceramics and fiber, and of that number, 95 works by 64 artists were accepted for the show. The art was judged by the ACMC Visual Arts Committee comprised of Kate Curtin, Katherine MacRae, Stuart Fulghum, Paula Montgomery and Nanette Zeller. The pieces will remain on display at the Campbell House until February 11.

We Could Dream This Night Away, Caitlin Gironda
Winter Branches, Leslie Bailey
Deep Blue Ice, Janet Borchardt
Silver Sky, Pat McBride
Northern Lights Totem, Laura Harris
Frosty Night, Jean Smyth
Out of the Blue, Nancy Crossett
The Horse Trainer, Vanessa Grebe
Snow Gums Ablaze, Samantha Stouffer
Icy Blues, Pam Griner
Icy Blues, Pam Griner
My Winter Dreams Were of The Summer Garden, Ellen Burke
Winter Birch, Jill Hunt
Winding Down, Alicia Crownover
Slovakia in Winter, Mariangela Rinaldi
Winter Calm, Bobbie Britt
Left Bank of Creek Feeding into the Potomac, Susan Beveridge
Waiting, Jordan Baker
Breakfast on Snow, Beth Roy
Winter Birches, Jude Winkley
Taking Flight, John Regan
Winter Cardinal, Shawn Bourdon
Stormy Weather, Ulli Misegades
Winter Dragon Fly, Dian Moore
Dashing Through the Snow, Susan DeYoung

The Art of Making Merry

THE ART OF MAKING MERRY

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The Art of Making Merry

A special feel for Christmas

By Deborah Salomon

Photographs by John Gessner

‘Tis said that on a crisp, clear December night the lights on Evon and Jerry Jordan’s showplace home are visible from the International Space Station — hyperbole until viewed with roof lines draped in tiny white lights and a lineup of trees across the façade.

Christmas is a full-time job for the Jordans and their helpers. Half a dozen indoor trees plus those outside — the largest overlooking the pool — illustrate how these great-grandparents make an art of making merry.

The dozen trees or maybe more

Are decorated tip to floor 

With ornaments from every child

Rambunctious, meek and mild.

“Evon’s always had a special feel for Christmas,” Jerry says. “She’s decorated ever since I’ve known her.”

Such a show demands an audience: “I’m one of eight kids,” Evon says. That adds up to more cousins, in-laws, nieces, nephews than a five-legged dog has toes. Forty, to be exact, who visit regularly.

Some tree themes and colors change from year to year, but the Jordans aren’t into silver and royal blue Picasso-esque ornaments.

Holiday greenery

Adds to the scenery

But the dominant color

Just has to be red,

Including the coverlet spread on a bed.

The 10-foot tree rising beside a graceful hallway staircase illustrates another Christmas décor principle: Too much is never enough.

Baubles and bangles

Ribbons in bows,

Tinsel, poinsettias

Rows upon rows . . .

At parties guests usually gravitate to the kitchen, right? The Jordans’ has a marble-topped island the size of Manhattan.

Their kitchen is white as a Christmas Eve snow,

Here’s where for cookies Santa surely will go.

Except last year brought a buffet surprise —

Exotic yummies from the land of the Thais.

Beauty, love — all of the above — and a creche complete the Jordans’ holiday scene because, as Jerry says, “That’s what Christmas is all about.”

Cup o’ Joy

CUP O' JOY

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Cup o' Joy

Served hot, with a side of sweet

By Jenna Biter   •   Photographs by Tim Sayer

Welcome Old Man Winter’s cold, dark days and nights the delicious way by sipping hot drinks and nibbling tasty treats in the great indoors. We asked eight local coffee and bake shops to warm our souls with piping-hot drinks and seasonal sweets from their winter menus. They delivered like Santa on Christmas morning.

Agora Bakery + Café

15 Chinquapin Road, Pinehurst

Red and green. Ribbons and wrapping. Tinsel and tree lights. This holiday season, Agora is celebrating with another classically Christmas pairing: booze and eggnog. Co-owner Ginny Tran baked up a bourbon hot chocolate twist on the café’s quintessential, two-bite-size macaron. Front of house lead, Ali Yap, concocted a silky-smooth eggnog latte to wash the crunchy confection down.

Buggy Town Coffee

201 S. McNeill Street, Carthage

Just like that, owners Darryl and Meg Russell are celebrating a decade of Buggy Town Coffee. It’s another December, and the café’s festive favorites have reappeared on its winter menu. Enjoy a practically plate-size molasses ginger cookie finished with crystallized ginger bits. For optimal levels of cheer, dunk chunks into a steaming hot mug of velvety eggnog latte. Dip, sip, repeat.

Crossroads Coffee Co.

133 Main Street, Vass

Sing your way to Crossroads for a Christmas carol in a cup. Owners Kasi Caddell and Mollie Jolly (also celebrating 10 years in business) are striking the harp and joining the chorus with the return of their beloved Fala Latte, a holiday harmony of gingerbread and maple. Warning: Consumption could result in decking the halls and spontaneous caroling. Between singing and sips, enjoy the nostalgic taste of a Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cake reimagined as a cake pop.

Amor Ciego Coffee Co.

175 W. Pennsylvania Ave., Southern Pines

Carolina Holguin Leal likes to bring flavors from her native Colombia to her customers at Amor Ciego. This winter, she’s baking milhojas, Spanish for “a thousand leaves” and aptly named for the dessert’s layers and layers of puff pastry. Leal’s take on the Latin American favorite with French roots features a pastry cream filling, a smooth and glossy smear of caramel-like arequipe and a coconut flake garnish. She’s pairing the dessert with a naughty-and-nice returner, the spiced bourbon latte.

DeLucia’s Bake Shop

4245 Seven Lakes Plaza B, West End

A Yule log was a select piece of timber burned in the hearth on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. With its scratch-made chocolate sponge cake, mascarpone whipped cream filling, chocolate ganache topping and sugared rosemary and cranberry garnishes, DeLucia’s dessert-ified Yule logs can keep your sweet tooth satisfied all season long. Slice off a sliver and enjoy it with a chestnut praline latte.

The Fox Brew Coffeehouse

2145 Foxfire Road, Suite 11, Foxfire Village

The Fox Brew is celebrating its first Christmas in business. Owner and operator Denna Schreiner is marking the occasion with a whole lot of gingerbread, minus the cumbersome house-making. Cut into a hot and fresh gingerbread waffle drizzled with a cream cheese glaze. Continue the festive fun with a Gingerbread Man latte, featuring notes of hazelnut, vanilla and of course, gingerbread.

Maisonette

290 S.W. Broad Street, Southern Pines

Maisonette is making your holiday season merry and minty. Sip on a Salty Snowflake Latte, a back-by-popular-demand oat milk drink inspired by those classic white chocolate-covered peppermint pretzels. To go with the drink, head chef Monica Bryan created a Whoopie Pie from cakey chocolate cookies and a white chocolate and peppermint buttercream filling. A little salty, a little sweet, a lot of yum.

Pine Scone Cafe

116 Brucewood Road, Southern Pines

905 Linden Road, Pinehurst

At Pine Scone, the Grinch steals more than just Christmas; he runs away with the month of December. Owner, operator and recipe creator Rae Anne Kinney and her coffee-slinging crew are back serving No. 1 seasonal best-seller, the Grinch scone, a triangle of crumbly baked goodness, featuring crème de menthe, white chocolate and candy canes. Double down on mint and pair it with a peppermint mocha (white or dark chocolate, take your pick) with crushed candy canes sprinkled on top.

Poem December 2025

POEM

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A Christmas Night

It was a cold night

And there was ice on the road,

Our car started to slide

As it moved up the small hill,

And the headlights caught the old man

In a thin jacket

Pushing a cart filled with sticks.

There were some bundles and a package

Piled on top, and the old man

Grinned and waved at us

As he pushed the cart

Into the yard of the little house

Where a single light shone.

The tires gripped the road

And we drove on into the darkness,

But suddenly it was warm.

Season of Giving

SEASON OF GIVING

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Season of Giving

By Lara Sierra   •   Photographs by John Gessner

The spirit of giving, celebrating all the good in this world, is never felt more profoundly than during the holidays. We’re fortunate to have a plethora of charitable organizations — far too numerous to mention here — that embody this spirit every month, every day, of the year. They thrive because of the dedicated and willing volunteers who selflessly share their compassion and talents.

Each of the volunteers featured here was quick to insist that they were just one of many who donate precious time to help others. To us, they represent a veritable legion of the kindhearted. They spoke about their pride, not in awards or accolades, but in the work itself and the satisfaction and enjoyment they gain from it — the person who says a quiet thank you; a beautiful, thriving garden; the look on an animal’s face going home with its forever family; the bond fostered between a human and a horse. Without fail, they talked about the relationships they built. Their service delivers a simple message: A life of giving is the best present of all.

Habitat for Humanity
Sandra Thomas

When Thomas was no longer working full time, “I just couldn’t sit around at home,” she says. She saw an advertisement for a volunteer orientation at Habitat for Humanity of the NC Sandhills. Ten years and 5,000 hours later, she’s going to have a street named after her in a development in Aberdeen. “Habitat’s goal is to get people into affordable housing,” she says. The pathway to homeownership often involves sweat equity, contributing to building someone else’s home. Thomas works full shifts three times a week — and any other time she can get there. “I have so much gratitude to the people who donate goods and the people who buy, which is how we raise money. Habitat is up there with my commitment to church and my commitment to God,” she says.

On days when she’s not volunteering, Thomas likes to visit the latest Habitat project. “The new development has eight to 10 houses with a circular drive,” she says with obvious pride. “The camaraderie with the people around here is special. Building houses isn’t getting any cheaper. We try to keep our prices reasonable, but it’s hard. My hope is that people can always be kind, always be thoughtful.”

Sunrise Theater
Leigh Bozich

When Bozich inherited a house and moved to Moore County from Florida, she was a stranger in a strange land. A big movie fan, that feeling didn’t last long once she became involved with the Sunrise Theater. “It gave me access to the community,” Bozich says. “I’ll work concessions, in the box office or as an usher. You get to see everyone in town. Really, it gave me a connection, which is kind of what I needed. And I got to see movies that I wouldn’t normally be able to see at the big movie theaters.”

Another coveted role is sitting on the film committee. “Working out what films people want to see isn’t always easy. We bring diverse films and diverse programming that sometimes are harder to find. I personally tend to seek out socially conscious things. Sometimes you just kind of throw it out there and see if they come.” Leigh has an obvious passion for her subject matter, but what is it that keeps her coming back? “I get that connection with our community,” she says. “And I get to share my love of film with others.”

Prancing Horse Center for Therapeutic Horsemanship
Barbara Brazer

The Prancing Horse Center for Therapeutic Horsemanship is a refuge of calm amid its 15 horses, two goats, a cat, and a part-time dog. “We are a therapeutic horse facility,” says Brazer. “Horses have a very good intuitive aura about them, and they can bond to people with all kinds of issues — physical, autistic, mental, cognitive, stress-related and so on. But we’ve expanded a lot from just horse riding lessons. We wanted to do more. For example, we had a group of all wheelchair users. They came out and brushed the horses, fed them treats and just spent time bonding with them.”

Prancing Horse now includes a military veteran’s program. “The veterans don’t necessarily ride but do a lot of that groundwork, brushing and so on, just generally interacting and getting that emotional regulation that helps with anxiety and PTSD. Some people immediately bond with a horse, and it’s lovely to watch. Just being around the animals gives people benefits.” As for the goats? “Well, really, they just provide comic relief,” Brazer says.

She began volunteering at Prancing Horse shortly after moving to Moore County. “It brings people so much joy, especially the kids,” she says. “Some start off absolutely terrified, and usually by the end they don’t want to get off the horse. Personally, seeing their faces light up is what gives me the benefit.”

Moore Free & Charitable Clinic
Shirley Baldwin

Baldwin, a retired nurse, has been volunteering at the Moore Free Clinic for 17 of the 20 years of its existence. “I started as a triage nurse and now I do education for diabetes, high blood pressure, nutrition, that sort of thing,” she says. “The reality is there are a lot of individuals who cannot afford their health care. Because really, if you had to choose between health insurance or putting food on the table, what would you do? We give fantastic quality primary care for people who can’t afford to see a doctor otherwise.”

Supported entirely by donations and volunteers, the clinic offers a wide range of services. “This, in essence, is a doctor’s office,” says Baldwin. “We now have a dental clinic. A gynecologist comes in and volunteers. We have an optometrist and someone who’ll be coming in to do physical therapy. We have medication in our pharmacy. It runs the whole gamut.”

It’s more than the impressive range of care that drew her to the clinic. “I enjoy this. I don’t plan on retiring until they kick me out because I get the satisfaction of helping those who can’t help themselves,” says Baldwin. “A former patient just came in and said, ‘I’ve gotten off track and I need to see you.’ Or someone might just say, ‘Thank you for listening.’ And that’s a million-dollar payment to me.”

Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities Dirt Gardeners
Lucy Meldrum

“I was a vegetable gardener in New Jersey, but it’s hard to grow vegetables down here,” says Meldrum. “Everyone thinks they know gardening until they move here!” She’s gotten her gardening fix helping to maintain the grounds surrounding the Boyd House, the elegant home of the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities. The work of keeping the estate looking as cared for as it did in the days of Katharine and James Boyd falls to the group known as the Dirt Gardeners. “I’ve been volunteering for around 13 years,” says Meldrum. “The work we do is your usual garden maintenance. We clean up the front, put in plants and do a lot of weeding.” They also propagate plants for the annual plant sale fundraiser.

Spending so much time with the land, Meldrum notices the intricate changes that increasingly affect how things grow. “Everything is growing late this year,” she says. Projects and plantings go hand in hand. She points to a pathway the Dirt Gardeners are putting in for children. “There’s always something that people can do even if they don’t know much about gardening,” she says. “Soon enough everyone enjoys working with the plants — seeing them grow, making a place thrive.”

Sandhills/ Moore Coalition for Human Care
Donna Blasingame

“This place has been a lifeline for me,” Blasingame says over the hubbub of trucks, volunteers and customers queued up outside the Coalition for Human Care. Customers are asking if the doors can be opened early; tables are being moved to make way for suitcases; trucks are waiting to park and unload. All the while, Blasingame carefully weaves her way around the site, answering questions, repricing items and checking in on her fellow volunteers. “We are affiliated with 70 churches, so we are always busy, and every penny stays in Moore County,” she says.

The Coalition has four stores, each selling different wares, from home goods to electricals, budget buys to a slightly more expensive boutique. They even sell wedding dresses. One store is called Miss Hallie’s House, named for the woman who donated her house to the Coalition in her will. “We are very blessed with donations,” Blasingame says, “but we still need people to support us because in order for the coalition to work we need volunteers. We are so busy.”

Blasingame’s husband passed away two years ago. “I’m among very supportive people. That’s why this place has been such a lifeline,” she says. In a back room of one of the stores, volunteers celebrate a birthday with doughnuts and friendly chitchat. Before long, they are all up, sorting, pricing, moving and doing their bit.

Moore Humane Society
Karen Kocher

“I started volunteering after I was at a friend’s house and a farmer brought in a crate of six puppies,” Kocher says. “We took them over to the shelter and I realized that’s just a day in the life of a volunteer — in comes someone who needs help with the animals, and in come people who adopt them. I thought, what a joyous place, so I signed up straight away.”

The Moore Humane Society, a no-kill shelter, quickly became the place where she invested her time. That connection has lasted nine years. “What amazes me about volunteering there is discovering how many people truly love animals enough to give up their own time to care for them,” she says. “There are people who’ve donated hundreds and hundreds of hours. To see the love that these people have for animals that are not their own is special. So I’ve found my people, the people who really feel that every animal deserves an awesome life. I’m so incredibly grateful to be able to see the little look on the face of an animal when they get the leash put on to go to their new home. Seeing the delight of the animals and their owners.”

And what does the society need from the community? “Everything we get is from donations, and every little bit counts. So if people feel compelled to donate funding or unused food, beds, leads and so on, they can drop it off. And of course, we also need volunteers. We could always use the help.”

Sam

SAM

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Sam

A kid’s Christmas with an all-time great

By Bill Case

I was 17 and in my senior year at Hudson High School, in the Ohio town of the same name, when I was informed by my parents, Bea and Weldon Case, that we would be spending the 1965 holiday season in Boca Raton, Florida, where they had recently bought an oceanside condominium. I harbored mixed feelings about leaving my hometown during Christmas break — I would miss hanging out with my friends and, for me, the snow blanketing northeastern Ohio reflected the spirit of the holidays better than palm trees.

But there was an undeniable plus to a Christmas vacation in Florida. My folks were members at the Boca Raton Hotel & Club and they assured me I could play golf there. I loved golf and had developed a decent game, sporadically breaking 80; good enough to start on Hudson’s golf team the previous spring. With the ’66 season fast approaching, a few rounds in the sun would give my game a boost.

I started playing golf when I was 8, mostly with my mother, who demonstrated considerable patience with my beginner’s futility. Improvement was agonizingly slow. When I was 10, I finally broke 60 for nine holes, carding a 59. Prior to this personal breakthrough, the legendary Sam Snead had posted a 59 of his own at the age of 46 in the Sam Snead Festival at The Greenbrier where The Slammer served as head professional. As the first sub-60 round shot in a professional event, Snead’s achievement had caused a big buzz in golf circles. Though my score was for only nine holes, our respective 59s created a sort of bond between Sam and me, if only in my imagination.

As a result, Snead became one of my favorites. Mesmerized by the rhythm of his swing, I sought him out in Ohio tournaments like Akron’s American Golf Classic and the Cleveland Open. The year before our Boca vacation, I followed Sam’s group at a practice round during the Thunderbird Classic in Rye, New York. Playing with the seven-time major champion were three young pros I’d never heard of. I knew from reading Snead’s autobiography, The Education of a Golfer, that he was more than happy to take on all comers provided there was money on the line and the wagers to his liking. The chapter titled “Hawks, Vultures, and Pigeons: Gambling Golf” revealed his betting tips. The grousing I overheard at the Thunderbird from his playing partners (i.e., pigeons) confirmed that Sam, per usual, was cleaning up.

On the eve of my first round of golf on our Florida vacation Dad said to me, “There’s a good chance you’ll see Sam Snead tomorrow. You know, he’s Boca Raton’s pro during the winter.” The prospect of encountering Sam, perhaps even meeting him, jumpstarted an adrenaline rush.

I would be going to the course as a single, at least on that day. Mom was finalizing Christmas preparations and Dad was needed on a business call, immersed as he was in expanding the business of Mid-Continent Telephone Corporation, a holding company he and his three brothers founded in 1960. His duties as Mid-Continent’s president left little time for golf, but like many corporate executives, Dad did enjoy playing in pro-ams. He drew several of the game’s greatest as his partners, including Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Julius Boros and Tom Watson, twice. On these occasions, Dad, sporting a 14 handicap and a unique golf swing, generally worked his way around the course without embarrassing himself. He attacked the ball with a ferocious fire-and-fall-backward lunge that left observers scratching their heads. Prior to his second game with Watson, Tom greeted him this way: “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve forgotten your name. But I’ll never forget that swing!”

Dad did find time to drive me over to the club in the morning. He told me to take a caddie and handed me $10 to pay the man. I considered this rather extravagant since I generally received just $6 for a double-bag loop at Hudson’s Lake Forest Country Club, but it was Dad’s money, so fine. When I arrived on the putting green at the Boca Hotel’s course, I met my caddie, Jack, a rawboned, wizened smoker probably four times my age. “It’ll be slow out there since you’re a single,” he cautioned me. “And the group in front of us is a fivesome.” A fivesome! That seemed peculiar for a posh resort. “Won’t they let us play through?” I asked.

Following a prolonged drag on the vanishing stub of a Marlboro, Jack shook his head. “Not likely. It’s Mr. Snead’s group.”

It was then that I peered over my shoulder and saw Sam Snead in his signature coconut straw hat, rolling a few putts. “Well,” I thought, “I’m in no hurry, and I’ll get to see Sam hit plenty of shots.”

And that’s what happened for the first two holes. But while waiting at the third tee for Snead’s group to clear the fairway, I saw him, roughly 250 yards away, misfire on his second shot. He angrily launched his club high into the air toward the green. It seemed eons before the whirly-birding iron fell back to Earth — a remarkable, but troubling, sight. The great man seemed in a foul mood. Perhaps Sam was on the losing end that day.

When Jack and I mounted the tee of the sixth hole, a 185-yard par-3, I saw Sam off to the side of the green with his hands on his hips, shaking his head impatiently. His body language left no doubt he was exasperated. I gathered his displeasure stemmed from the inability of a player in his group to escape a greenside bunker.

As I took all this in, the agitated Snead turned in my direction, raised his arm, and waved at me to hit up. An electric shock coursed through my body at the prospect of playing through the immortal Slammer and his fivesome. My hands shook so much it was a struggle to tee up my ball.

Somehow, I steadied enough to strike the shot solidly with my 4-wood. The exhilaration I felt watching the ball fly onto the green and spin to a stop 20 feet from the pin was overwhelming. This tee ball, struck 60 years ago, remains the single most memorable shot of my golfing life. My spikes barely touched the ground as I galloped off the tee toward the green. And even the wheezing Jack found a renewed spring in his step.

At the green, I thanked Snead and his playing partners profusely for their courtesy. But Sam, still miffed, did not react. No “nice shot,” no “take your time,” nothing, except his glowering demeanor. Was it something I’d done? Had I appeared impatient in waiting to play? Anxious to exit Snead’s presence and without lining up, I lagged my putt to a foot of the hole and tapped in. Jack and I double-timed it to the seventh tee as I hyperventilated.

When Dad picked me up after the round, I told him about the sixth hole in vivid detail. “Isn’t it great you got to see one of the greatest golfers of all time, Samuel Jackson Snead?” he said and smiled. “And isn’t it great you rose to the occasion by hitting a good shot? The only thing better would be playing head-to-head with Sam.” I appreciated Dad’s praise, but this “head-to-head” stuff seemed odd.

Christmas morning arrived two days later. I had asked my folks for a Ben Hogan “Sure-Out” model sand wedge (golfers of my vintage will recall its huge flange). The “Sure-Out” had been the difference maker for Julius Boros in his victory at the 1963 U.S. Open. To my delight, the coveted wedge, adorned with a bow around its mammoth flange, was my final present.

Or so I thought. That was when Mom, with a mischievous glint in her eye, said, “Oh, Weldon, don’t we have another small gift for Bill?”

“Almost forgot, but it’s right here,” Dad reached into the pocket of his robe, pulled out an envelope and handed it over. I assumed that inside was a check, maybe for as much as $25.  But instead I found a note in Dad’s handwriting. It read, “You have a tee-time tomorrow at 9:40 a.m. at the Boca Raton Hotel & Club. Your playing partner is Samuel Jackson Snead.”

I was thrilled, stunned, grateful, humbled and over-the-moon. A round with Sam Snead was the most incredible present a young aspiring golfer could imagine. During his epic career, Snead would win 82 PGA tour events, tied decades later by Tiger Woods for the most all-time. He had been triumphant in every important tournament except the U.S. Open where, to his frustration, bizarre occurrences had torpedoed several near victories. His name belongs among the greatest of all time with Jack Nicklaus, Woods, Bobby Jones and his contemporaries Ben Hogan and Byron Nelson, both of whom, like Sam, were born in 1912.

My initial elation was followed by a second wave of worry, intimidation and even dread. Aside from the 4-wood shot, my recent exposure to the Slammer had not been particularly agreeable. If I played like a dog, like the poor soul who couldn’t escape the bunker two days before, would Sam treat me with disdain?  He’d certainly been frosty enough on the sixth green.

After a fitful night’s sleep. Dad drove me over to the club the next morning. Instead of dropping me off, he parked the car and escorted me to the putting green, where he snapped my picture, a lanky 160-pounder on a 6-foot-1 inch frame. At the appointed time, Dad and I entered the pro shop, where we met Sam. He couldn’t have been friendlier.

“Nice to meet you,” he greeted us in his smooth Virginia mountain drawl. “Bill, I hear you play on your high school team. That’s great. It’ll be just the two of us; we’ll have a good game. And just call me Sam.”

Out to his golf cart we went. Before we teed off, Dad took another photograph, this time of Sam and me. I confess, I’ve lost track of it but I well recall a broadly smiling Snead, nattily attired in red slacks, navy blue alpaca sweater and the ever-present straw hat sitting beside me, who was clearly starstruck.

Boca’s course was jammed, and I envisioned a protracted five-hour round. But when Sam and his familiar straw hat came into the view of players in the group ahead, they invariably waved him through. It was as if the Red Sea parted for us as we sped through foursome after foursome. Since Snead graciously allowed me to hit first off each tee, the golfers in our wake may have concluded I was winning our friendly match. Far from it.

Playing from the regular white tees, Sam nonchalantly made par or birdie on every hole. I was doing OK, mostly avoiding serious trouble. Then I made an unforced error by cutting things too close in laying up short of a stream crossing the fairway. After my ball toppled over the edge and into the water, Sam pithily observed, “If you’re going to lay up, lay up.” Over the years, I have often repeated his advice to players making the same mistake — and I let them know who gave it to me.

Sam was pleasant, but he tended to let me take the lead in our communications. And I felt some pressure to fill the airspace. I had one advantage making conversation — I had read The Education of a Golfer. I asked Sam questions about how he went about fashioning a club from a swamp maple tree limb during his youth. I asked about a boxing match he fought during his teens. And, of course, I fished for details about that incredible 59. The round, it turned out, could have been one shot better since Sam had missed a 2-foot putt.

Then I delved into the betting chapter of the book. Sam quickly warmed to this subject, regaling me with colorful anecdotes about how sharks he encountered tried to fix bets to their advantage. One sought additional strokes by claiming he had recently arrived in Florida from the North and hadn’t touched a golf club all winter. Actually, the hustler had been playing in the Sunshine State for weeks, even trying to conceal his tan from Snead by whitening his hands and face with corn plaster. Sam countered by carefully feeling the man’s calluses when shaking his hand. “When those calluses are thick, that tells you the man’s been playing plenty,” he said.

At one point on the front nine, Sam struck a shot he considered not up to his standard. He muttered, “I just can’t play my best unless I got a bet going.” I responded rather cheekily, “Well, I am sorry, Sam, that I won’t get to see you at your best.” Silence from the Slammer. To my surprise, I was hitting my drives within 20-25 yards of Sam’s. Since he was then 53, I figured he must be losing yardage off the tee. Wondering how much, I began posing a question with, “Now, when you were at your peak . . . ”

As the words left my mouth, I knew this was a misstep. Even assuming his peak was behind him, Snead wasn’t about to acknowledge it. Besides, Sam was still playing great golf in 1965. He finished 24th on the PGA tour money list (there was no Senior or Champions tour available in ’65) despite playing in only 15 events. Snead had won his seventh Greensboro Open earlier in the spring, making him the oldest (52) to have won a PGA Tour event. The record still stands 60 years later.

In a feeble effort to erase my faux pas, I uttered something inane along the lines of, “Not that you aren’t still at your peak.” I forget what was said next but do recall a distinct, if brief, lull in our conversation. If Sam was annoyed by my babbling, he didn’t show it, and our amiable dialogue resumed. It is telling that on the hole following my misbegotten inquiry, Sam let out the shaft and outdrove me by 75 yards.

Dad was waiting for us as we finished on the 18th, done in 2 hours and 45 minutes. After holing out and shaking hands (Snead, quite bald, never removed his hat in these situations), Dad asked Sam how things went.

“Well, your son did just fine,” he offered. “Shot 82 and kept the ball in play — just one double bogey and that was from a mental mistake (the bonehead lay-up). I believe he learned a lesson from that. He should keep on playing.” I absorbed another lesson from the round: Think before you speak.

Sam shot 66 and didn’t seem to be doing anything special. He holed one long putt and birdied the par 5s, but otherwise his round appeared relatively routine. Had I the temerity to bet him, I would have become one of Sam’s countless “pigeons.”

I don’t know for sure the amount Snead charged for the round. I think it was around $150. An old pro friend of mine believes that figure is too low, but an aged article I unearthed in the Sports Illustrated archives reported that in 1959, Snead charged $50 per round and $25 for each additional player. I can only imagine what a superstar like Sam would charge today.

Regardless of the cost, playing with Snead was priceless. There are still times when I have failed to do as Sam counseled — lay-up shots still occasionally roll into the water. But I’ve faithfully followed his advice to keep playing. After all, golf is the game of a lifetime. And my life was enhanced by that unexpected 1965 Christmas present.