Freeze Frame

Freeze Frame

Art Direction by Brady Gallagher

If J. Geils isn’t available, maybe Paul Simon is. Give us those nice bright colors. Give us the greens of summers. Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day. Oh, yeah. We’ve got a Nikon camera. And we used it to give some classic album covers a special Sandhills spin. As Taylor Swift might say, we’ve got pictures to burn.

What: Chris Stamey/Winter of Love

Who: John Gessner, local photographer

Where: the Gessner record collection

Photograph: Self-portrait

 

What: Stevie Wonder/Hotter than July

Who: Joseph Hill, local photographer

Photograph: Tim Sayer

 

What: Blur/Leisure

Who: Julia Lattarulo, Realtor Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices Pinehurst Realty Group by day, swim coach by night

Where: FirstHealth Aquatic Center

Photograph: John Gessner

 

What: David Bowie/Aladdin Sane, Diamond Dogs, Hunky Dory

Who: The Violet Exploit, local band

Where: Create Studio

Photograph: Tim Sayer

 

What: Carlos Santana/Santana’s Greatest Hits, 1974

Who: Jeff Moody II, DC

Where: Pinehurst Chiropractic Center

Photograph: John Gessner

 

What: Culture Club/Colour by Numbers

Who: Alex Weiler, local musician and artist

Where: Swank Coffee Shoppe

Photograph: Tim Sayer

 

What: Bruce Springsteen/Born in the U.S.A.

Who: Tyler Cook, owner of Latitude Builders

Where: current construction site

Photograph: John Gessner

 

What: Michael Jackson/Thriller

Who: Courtney Kilpatrick

Where: Courtney’s Shoes

Photograph: Tim Sayer

     

What: Craig Fuller Eric Kaz

Who: Craig Fuller, then and now

Photograph: John Gessner

 

What: Grease     

Who: Red’s Corner founders, Bill and Rachel

Where: Red’s Corner       

Photograph: Tim Sayer

Reflections at 40

Reflections at 40

Four decades of photos, art and fun

By David Kiner

What do you feel and visualize when you hear the words solitude, neglect, passion, joy, surprise or isolation? Do you think you could capture each in a photograph? You could. We all have the gift of imagination and creativity and, like all beautiful artwork, photography tells simple stories.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of the Sandhills Photography Club. Established in 1983, it’s an integral part of this community, attracting photographers of all skill levels, from an amateur with a cellphone to gifted professionals with a trunk full of gear. “We have a wonderful complement of experience and skill levels among our members,” says Jacques Wood, president of SPC. “Regardless of experience level, club members love photography, are ready to learn new techniques, and enjoy sharing and seeing the work of others.”

Brian Osborne, owner of The Photo Classroom and founder of the Professional Photography Group, Charlotte’s largest professional photography team, had this to say about the club: “Over the years, I have spoken to a wide variety of camera and photography clubs but SPC is hands down my favorite. The thing that I love most about this organization is not only the community they share, but their earnest desire to learn and grow.”

Photography has changed dramatically over the past four decades but the principles have remained the same — finding ways to capture moments, stopping time through light, composition, texture and color. In 1983 the Club began with nine members and grew quickly to 25, with many knee-deep in the chemicals found in their darkrooms. Today the club is 100 strong and its members are knee-deep in pixels instead.

Local artist and founding member of the Artists League of the Sandhills and SPC, Betty Hendrix, remembers those early days. “We were still using slides to view our work, or physically bringing photos in for display. And the word Zoom was a children’s TV program,” she says.

Linda Piechota has been a member of the club for 34 of its 40 years. “I recall, way back then, being kind of ambivalent about entering a contest, and showing my first photo. How silly of me. We are more like a family than a club. None of us could have imagined how things have changed with technology. But one thing that hasn’t changed is the passion I see in our members.”

The club is impressively comprehensive with its own website, a monthly newsletter called “In Focus,” workshops, field trips, exhibitions and competitions. The William Stoffel Awards, named after one of the club’s co-founders, are presented annually to members accumulating the greatest number of competition points in each of the competitive tiers. The competitions are held every other month with the themes identified in advance. It’s the job of the photographer to capture what they feel best describes that theme. Submitted photographs are judged by an outside professional who both encourages and provides constructive feedback, an essential part of the growth of the members.

Like a composer who writes musical compositions, photographers don’t simply take snapshots. They can capture distant galaxies or extreme closeups. The heavens are vast and astonishing, but so are the tiniest of details found in the pistil of a flower or the mystery in the face of an insect. To see what others don’t is a common theme among those who fall in love with photography. You become increasingly aware of what’s around you.

“Hard work and staying with it is the key, and not being afraid to shoot, shoot, and shoot more,” says Walter Morris, an early club member and its second president. Once, on a two-week trip to Africa, Morris took over 7,000 photos. He kept “the 20 I liked. What makes a photo great? Well, you know it when you see it.”

Like all artistic endeavors, photographers grow by learning from others and exploring new scenes. “In this club, we learn so much from each other,” says Susan Bailey, coordinator of the club’s outings and a board member. Her love affair with photography started over 40 years ago. She’s in charge of full-day or half-day outings that range from trips to the beautiful gardens in Raleigh or Durham, pontoon excursions on Jordan Lake, or even the marvels of the North Carolina Zoo. “It’s wonderful to go on the club’s group outings,” says Bailey. “There is as much laughter as there is the clicking of our cameras.”

The club is also known for its two- or three-day field trips, headed up by Gary Magee, another long-standing member and a former two-term club president. This past spring the members went to Murrells Inlet, South Carolina. Other trips have taken members to the North Carolina mountains, its beaches, or even to the marshes and dunes of Amelia Island, Florida. “The idea of traveling in a group is very special,” says Magee. “We can dine together, stay at the same hotel and enjoy the beautiful gifts of living in the South.”

As with most of today’s activities, new technologies have continued to be a driving force for all the members. During the pandemic, the Sandhills Photography Club quickly adopted Zoom. Now its members and guests, far and wide, can participate in the vast number of activities the club offers. “Zoom made such a positive impact on us. At first it was just a means to stay together, to hold our sanity. But to our surprise it has expanded our membership base,” says Jerry Kozel, co-chairman of the club’s competition committee. “We have folks from all over the United States, South Africa and Australia involved.” Zoom also allows the club to reach out to professional photographers from all over the country who serve as judges in its bi-monthly competitions. “These are men and women with enormous experience who give such worthwhile advice,” says Kozel. “We store that information on our website so members who have missed a meeting can watch it at a later date.”

Technological advances extend well beyond communications software. Today’s cameras are getting smaller, more sophisticated, and moving to mirrorless models. Improvements in image sensors and lenses are astronomical. Cameras have more automated features like face and object recognition. Who knows what artificial intelligence software will bring? But one thing never changes — the conversation between the artist and the viewer. In the meantime, the members of the SPC will continue to find solace and joy in their love of photography.  PS

David Kiner is a member of the Sandhills Photo Club and a former faculty member at Syracuse University.  He happily resides in Southern Pines and can be reached at dbkiner@gmail.com.

The Great Unknown

The Great Unknown

What surprises lurk in Pinehurst’s next U.S. Open?

By Jim Moriarty

Feature Photo Caption: Jason Gore on the fourth tee in the third round of the 2005 U.S. Open.

A U.S. Open is guaranteed to surprise. It’s built into the DNA. Because an Open is just that — open — it is the moon shot destination of every Tin Cup Roy McAvoy, every Caddyshack Carl Spackler, every Goat Hills assistant pro, every whistlestop, RV-driving, 4 o’clock in the morning coffee-drinking golfer with 14 clubs, a rainsuit that doesn’t leak and the most peculiar of ideas: that they can flat-out play this idiotic game. And every U.S. Open will have one of those guys you never heard of up on the leaderboard, posting a low score and a sweet story. In the 2005 U.S. Open at Pinehurst’s No. 2 course, that guy was Jason Gore. And the story was bigger than he was.

A refugee from the PGA Tour’s minor league —the Nationwide Tour in those days — with the thick-chested physique of a stevedore and a neon smile as wide as all 88 keys on a baby grand, Gore’s self-deprecating grace quickly earned him favorite son status when he joined two-time U.S. Open champion Retief Goosen and tour veteran Olin Browne (who may be more famous these days as the father of the country/soft rock singer Alexandra Browne) at the top of the leaderboard after 36 holes. Golf World, the ultimate insider’s magazine first published in Pinehurst in 1947, described Gore as a “cross between Cinderella and the Michelin Man.”

It was an apt description, since the tires were among the few things left when Gore’s car was ransacked in Asheville en route to the national championship he would make, in many ways, his own. After getting through second stage qualifying in Atlanta, Gore flew to Knoxville, Tennessee (site of that week’s Nationwide tournament), to pick up his car, a black Ford Expedition with dark tinted windows and fancy chrome wheels. He, wife Megan and their 8-month old son, Jaxson, who was sporting two ear infections, headed east on I-40. “There was a thunderstorm coming through and it’s 2 o’clock in the morning and the walls are starting to close in,” Gore recalls, so they stopped and checked into a hotel.

Exhausted, they left most of their belongings in the car. In the morning Megan went to get a change of clothes and came back in tears. “They’d punched out the keyhole on the driver’s side and popped it open, tore out the dash, the Alpine stereo, took everything except the baby seat,” says Gore. “They cut themselves when they were tearing out the dash and there was blood and wires hanging everywhere.” Missing were all of Megan’s clothes and Jason’s briefcase with his laptop and his U.S. Open credentials. As luck would have it, his clubs had gone ahead of him with his caddie, Lewis Puller.

Gore rolled into Pinehurst in the jerry-rigged SUV version of Apollo 13, talking his way past a phalanx of security guards. “Go ahead,” one uniformed officer finally told him, “we heard about you.” By the weekend, every golf fan in America had.

Gore was the kind of player known to golf’s cognoscenti, if not to the general public. He and his Pepperdine University teammates won the NCAA team championship at Conway Farms Golf Club in Chicago in ’97, with Gore making double bogey on the last hole to lose the individual title to Clemson University’s Charles Warren by a shot. He won the California State Open and California State Amateur that year along with the Pacific Coast Amateur. His accomplishments earned him a spot on the victorious U.S. Walker Cup team at Quaker Ridge Golf Club where he accounted for 2 1/2 points. Then, the morning he was leaving for Boise, Idaho, to play in his first professional event, his mother, Kathy, found his father, Sheldon, on their living room floor dead from a heart attack.

“I had kind of a rough start to my golf career,” Gore told the media in ’05 when speaking about his father. “It’s taken a little while to get over that and try and become myself again.” At the age of 31, Gore had already bounced back and forth between the PGA Tour and its primary satellite twice. That he could play well wasn’t a shock. But could he play well enough to win a U.S. Open?

After his second round of three under par 67, Gore low-keyed it by describing the other time he led the U.S. Open. He was one of the first players on the course at the Olympic Club in ’98, drove it through the fairway into a bunch of “crap” (as he described it) on the opening hole, pitched out and holed a 90-yard wedge shot for a three. There was a leaderboard on the second tee and his name was at the top. Gore with a red -1. “So, this is old hat for me,” he said with that wide grin. His run in ’98 was short-lived. A 77 that day put a quick end to his Olympic feats.

Jason Gore tees off on  the second hole during the final round of the 2005 U.S. Open.

On Friday evening Gore made a foray to fill his car with gas and get a prescription at Eckerd’s for Jaxson’s ear infections. Had he been promoted to recognizable celebrity status? “I got a couple of waves when I was putting gas in the car,” he deadpanned.

Unknown to Gore, on Saturday while he was on the course the Golf Channel had his Expedition cleaned and pressed. “They took my truck, fixed the air conditioning and put a new stereo in. It was so awesome,” he recalls. “They had me up on set on Saturday night after I played and showed me the video. It was Rich Lerner. Rich covered the NCAAs in ’97. We were all kids. It was just the nicest gesture. I’ll never forget that.”

Lerner, golf television’s most gifted essayist, has fuzzy recollections of their good deed. “I do remember that being a part of the J. Gore story that everybody fell in love with — how good-natured he was about all of it,” Lerner says. “He was down on his luck but he didn’t wear it that way. He came across as a guy who had all the good fortune in the world and that’s what I think resonated with so many people.”

Gore’s two-over-par 72 on Saturday put him at level par for the championship and three shots behind the leader Goosen, the odds-on favorite to add Pinehurst to the championship venues he’d collected at Southern Hills Country Club and Shinnecock Hills Golf Club. They would be playing together in the final twosome on Sunday. That it was Father’s Day was not lost on Gore.

It didn’t go well for either player. Goosen, the quiet, intense South African who, as a young boy, survived being struck by lightning, didn’t survive Pinehurst’s greens. His 81 dropped him from first to a tie for 11th and opened the door for the eventual champion, New Zealand’s Michael Campbell, to stroll through.

It was worse for Gore, described this way by Golf World: “The solid tee-to-green game Gore had sustained for three days abandoned him, and he hit only four fairways and eight greens. Despite a front nine 40, Gore still was only three off the lead, but four bogeys, a double and a triple coming home — capped off by a sloppy four-putt on the 72nd green — made for a sour end to his dream.”

That four-putt also cost him five bucks. “We hadn’t had much to say to each other all day,” Gore remembers of his Sunday with Retief. “We’re in the final round of the Open so we’re not going to talk about the weather, right?” Then, as they were walking from the 15th green to the 16th tee, both having played themselves out of it, Goosen turned to Gore and said — and here Gore produces a very fine South African accent in his retelling, “Have you ever played cricket?” Gore told him he hadn’t, to which Goosen replied, “We’re having a helluva a day of cricket because we both have so many overs.”

Gore started laughing and asked Goosen if he wanted to play the last three holes for five bucks. Might as well play for something, right? That made Goosen laugh. And so the game within the game was on. They were tied playing the 18th where Gore’s four-putt six lost to Goosen’s par four. Did he pay off? “I saw him at the TaylorMade trailer at Disney. I walked in and handed him five bucks. He laughed and took it,” says Gore. As luck would have it, they were paired together two years later in the final round of The Players Championship. Gore asked if he could get his five bucks back. Goosen said sure. Gore shot 70 and finished T23. Goosen shot 71 and ended up T28. “I still haven’t seen my five bucks,” Gore says with that Cheshire cat grin. “At this point I don’t even want him to pay me because it ruins the story.”

Jason Gore at his condo in Florida

After his final round 84, after Campbell had wrapped his arms around the silver trophy and Tiger Woods’ caddie, Steve Williams, had wrapped his arms around his fellow New Zealander Campbell, after the throngs had fled the village of Pinehurst, Gore stopped in the dark downstairs bar at Dugan’s Pub for a quiet beer and even quieter reflection. “That day was such a blur,” he says. “It’s not that I didn’t play well, I just played incorrectly. I tried to win which, at Pinehurst in a U.S. Open, you don’t do that. You have to stick to your game plan. I learned a lot that day.” After Dugan’s Gore went back to his hotel room at the Pine Needles Lodge. Campbell, joined by a cast of thousands, was in the room directly above Gore’s. “I got to hear him party all night,” he says.

Turning a negative into a positive was something Gore had done after losing the NCAA individual title and he did it again after losing the U.S. Open. He won three times on the Nationwide Tour in July and August of ’05 (his seven career wins on the developmental tour are still a record), then won the 84 Lumber Classic in September for the only PGA Tour victory of his career. Though Gore was born and raised in California, his mother was from Monroeville, east of Pittsburgh, not too far from the Nemacolin Woodlands Resort, site of the 84 Lumber. Gore visited for a month every summer as a kid, cutting his teeth at nearby Manor Valley Golf Course. He was the favorite son once again.

“After I won, I thought I had to continue to get better and do more stuff and I kinda lost my game,” Gore says. Shoulder and back injuries didn’t help. By 2018, he was in the insurance business. Then the USGA came calling, asking Gore to become its first managing director of player relations, a position he held for three-and-a-half years before taking a similar job — senior vice president, player adviser to the commissioner — at the PGA Tour. People who run championships often don’t see things the way people who play in them do. Gore has helped both organizations clear that hurdle.

“My wife and I were high school sweethearts. We grew up in Southern California, born and raised there,” says Gore, who moved east with Megan, Jaxson and his sister, Olivia, after the USGA hired him. “Until we lived in New Jersey I thought snow came out of those machines.”

Now Gore has temporary digs in Ponte Vedra, Florida, and commutes back and forth to New Jersey. His personal possessions in the condo are sparse: a wooden block with Vin Scully’s farewell line from his last L.A. Dodgers’ game and a few guitars. Musically, Gore refers to himself as a 12-handicap. “I’m the guy who shows up in the pro-am with the $10,000 set of clubs and thinks he’s going to beat the pro. That’s me with guitars. You walk into my house in New Jersey, you’d think Slash lived there. I just think they’re works of art. I love them.”

Gore describes his son, Jaxson — he of the double ear infections who’s almost 19 now — as someone with high-functioning autism. “He writes screenplays. We got him a talk-to-text. He’s super, super sharp but there’s a chance he could live with us for the rest of his life, which is fine. He can’t cook an egg but he makes up for it in so many different areas. He sees life through a different set of glasses and it’s awesome. He’ll sit in the basement and just write and create and I’m, ‘Come on, Jax, let’s go out somewhere and see reality.’ And he goes, ‘Dad, I don’t really like reality.’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah, me neither.’”

In 12 months, Pinehurst No. 2 will become reality once again for the best players in the world. “It’s the U.S. Open,” said Gore in 2005 with a grin that still refuses to vanish, “crazy things happen.”

If we’re lucky.  PS

Jim Moriarty is the Editor of PineStraw magazine. He can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

It Takes A Village

It Takes A Village

Geneva McRae, Demus Taylor and Taylortown

By Bill Case

Having been gone so long she couldn’t remember when she left, Geneva McRae decided it was time to come home to Taylortown — the African American community of 650 souls where she had spent her formative years. Decades before, the untimely death of Geneva’s father, Charlie, caused her mother, Lowverta McRae, to relocate from Taylortown to New York City along with her six children. Lowverta sensed her kids stood a better chance of advancing their fortunes up north rather than in the Sandhills, where employment opportunities for Blacks were mostly limited to low-paying service jobs with the Pinehurst resort.

For the energetic and adventurous Geneva, New York proved a godsend. She would thrive there during a remarkable career in public service. First, she served a three-year hitch in the U.S. Army that featured culturally broadening deployments in England, France, and Germany. Following her discharge, McRae attended night school at City College of New York where she received a degree in education. While taking graduate studies in public administration at NYU, she taught at a city elementary school.

After passing a civil service examination she was hired by the New York State Employment Service where she steadily rose through the ranks holding management positions of ever-increasing responsibility, including the supervision of the agency’s first Job Corps unit. Her success caused a sister public entity to come calling. She took a two-year leave of absence to run South Bronx’s “Hunt’s Point” program for job training and health needs.

Shortly thereafter, McRae was recruited to serve as deputy director of New York City’s Model Cities Program. In that role, she helped underprivileged women receive the training necessary to become nurses. She also administered programs providing medical internships for minority candidates. “That’s where I got my education — my baptismal if you will — in community work,” McRae told The Pilot staff writer Huntley Womick in a 1990s interview.

Given her well-developed social network, McRae’s friends assumed she would remain in New York after retiring in 1978 at age 63. But the Sandhills called her home. She owned a tract of land in Taylortown — left to her by Lowverta — who instructed her daughter to never sell it. McRae built a house on the property and, when it was completed in 1982, she moved in. Her roots in Taylortown, however, stretched well beyond her ownership of land.

“Our forefathers, mine included, founded this community in the early 1900s, and built homes and churches,” she told The Pilot. The founders left “a pioneering spirit that continues to live in the hearts of the people.”

Demus Taylor

Taylortown’s strong religious ethos also attracted McRae. She expressed pride that the town’s people are “taught to love God and love the community.” Throughout its history, Taylortown has been home to an array of vibrant, well-attended churches including House of Prayer, Galilee Baptist, Spruill Temple Church of God, and Spaulding Chapel AME Zion. Geneva became a devout member of the latter, serving on its board of trustees.

Spaulding Chapel AME Zion had also been the chosen church of the town’s founder Demus Taylor — at 6 feet 5 inches, a larger than life figure. He was born into slavery, perhaps as early as 1821, though the exact date is unknown. His ancestors were from the West African Ebu tribe. Among Demus’ “owners” was James Taylor, brother of the 12th U.S. President, Zachary Taylor. According to one account, Demus’ ownership changed hands five times before his emancipation. After gaining his freedom — and the ability to trade his labor for wages — he worked in the turpentine trade, notching trees at a nickel apiece. Like Paul Bunyan, the lean, powerful Taylor could do the work of three men, notching hundreds of trees daily with his trademark axe. Apparently Demus was too productive for his own good. His employer determined the per tree stipend was too generous and trimmed Taylor’s compensation to a flat rate of $2 per day plus all the rations the man with the axe could eat.

When James Tufts came to Moore County in 1895 and founded Pinehurst, the aging Demus saw an opportunity for a new gig. With golf emerging as the resort’s primary attraction, Taylor (by then presumably in his mid-70s) decided to try caddying. He became a good one, often looping for Donald Ross. According to Golfdom magazine, Taylor ingratiated himself with the legendary golf professional and budding architect, becoming Ross’ “top Sergeant” at the resort’s caddie shack.

At first, Taylor and numerous Black workers resided at the “Old Settlement” — an area adjacent to what is now the 15th hole of the No. 3 golf course. Around 1905, Taylor bought property from Tufts located across current Route 211. Like a latter-day Moses, he led a migration of Black workers to this land, initially referred to as the “New Settlement.” Eventually, the transplanted residents began calling the area Taylortown, a fitting tribute to Demus.

Taylor died in 1934 and the stories reporting his demise gave a range of his age from 106 to 113. Numerous Taylortown men would follow Demus’ example by caddying at the resort including Hall of Fame loopers Robert “Hardrock” Robinson, Willie McRae (unrelated to Geneva), and Sam Snead’s man, Jimmy Steed. Over the years, the community would become home to scores of other resort employees: maids, laundry workers, masons, and laborers. Robert Taylor, Demus’ son, founded a school for Taylortown children. And, before moving to New York City, Geneva McRae graduated from that institution — the Academy Heights High School.

When McRae returned to Taylortown in 1982, she discovered her New York-honed community service skills were in high demand. In 1984, she joined the five-member board of the Taylortown Sanitary District, an entity founded in 1963 for the purpose of providing the first water service and streetlights for the town. She was elected chairperson of the board in 1985.

In 1981 J.O. Quin and Perry Barrett haul a ladder truck to Taylortown.

The advent of the Sanitary District marked an early step toward self-government for Taylortown’s inhabitants. Its establishment provided the necessary governmental entity to borrow money to construct the water lines and repay the loan. The Pinehurst Community Foundation pitched in to assist its Taylortown neighbors by paying for a legally required engineering study. Prior to the time the district came into being, “only six or eight houses had indoor plumbing,” according to early district board member Floyd Ray. Many residents had been forced to carry water from a pump or neighboring well to their homes for cooking, drinking, and bathing.

The Sanitary District represented real progress but residents of Taylortown hoped the time would come when the community could independently provide other governmental services. The county sheriff was primarily responsible for policing, but deputies patrolled the community sporadically at best. Far flung Moore County Emergency Services provided fire protection with additional assistance from Pinehurst. Periodic attempts to provide such services locally had failed to get off the ground.

In the 1960s, for example, community leaders urged Moore County officials to appoint a part-time deputy sheriff to patrol Taylortown. The sheriff and county commissioners were amenable to the concept but indicated the officers’ compensation would need to be borne by Taylortown residents. Had the community then possessed the status of a municipality with taxing authority, funding for the officer probably could have been arranged. But it was not, and the initiative went no further. 

In 1980, former Taylortown resident Perry Barrett launched a heroic, though ultimately futile, effort to establish a local fire department in his hometown. Barrett, then a head carpenter for the Nassau County (New York) maintenance department, got wind of the fact that New York-based fire departments were jettisoning and junking a couple of their fire trucks. Perry saw an opportunity to create a fire department in Taylortown and persuaded the authorities to give him the trucks. After making repairs, he got behind the wheel of one of the pumpers and began the long journey south. The truck’s engine blew en route and an exasperated Perry was marooned alongside the highway. He eventually managed to get the trucks to North Carolina, an achievement that garnered national publicity. North Carolina governor Jim Hunt awarded Barrett the Order of the Longleaf Pine, but his exploits would go for naught. Absent municipal status, Taylortown was in no position to operate, house, or staff safety forces of any type.

Such disappointments led civic leaders to consider the possibility of incorporating Taylortown as a municipality and momentum in that direction increased after Pinehurst proposed a new planning and zoning ordinance in 1981. As a municipality, Pinehurst under state law could zone unincorporated areas located less than one mile from its boundaries, thus including much of Taylortown.

This situation annoyed town resident Ruth Jackson who expressed the frustration shared by many in her community. “Who is representing Taylortown?” she inquired at the public hearing on the zoning ordinance. “We’ve requested water, sewer, and police services from Pinehurst several times. And every time, we’re told to go to Carthage. Now you come looking for us when it’s something we don’t even want.” Jackson further noted that hearings were being scheduled on weekday afternoons when Taylortown laborers couldn’t leave work to attend.

Given her successful role as Sanitary District chair, Geneva McRae realized she would be expected to take the point in any incorporation campaign at the North Carolina legislature. So she, together with Sanitary District commissioner Micajah Wyatt, took charge. Geneva’s background in community organizing came in handy. “I’ve never worked as hard on any job and put in so many hours,” she told an interviewer. “But it [was] a labor of love.”

She and Wyatt formed the Taylortown Executive Committee which sponsored fundraising activities to pay for a survey of Taylortown’s boundaries. Next, Geneva turned her attention to the churches — familiar ground for her. She asked for and received assistance from the Ministerial Alliance, a group established in the ’70s consisting of Black ministers from Taylortown and other Moore County churches. The alliance members would prove vital to the effort. McRae also met with Raeford mayor J.K. McNeil to prepare a feasibility study to support incorporation.

In June 1986, a petition to incorporate Taylortown was submitted to the North Carolina General Assembly. State Representative James Craven of Pinebluff adopted Taylortown’s incorporation as his personal cause by introducing proposed legislation to make it a reality.

In one meeting on the bill, Pinehurst mayor Charles Grant sought to derail it, claiming that state law did not permit incorporation by a small community located within one mile of a larger one. Craven countered that the cited law only applied when the larger community had a population of at least 5,000, which Pinehurst (at the time) did not. Mayor Grant argued that incorporation would cause problems with overlapping police jurisdictions. The resourceful McRae was prepared to respond. “If police will be a problem, why does Pinehurst tell us this is not in their jurisdiction for police services?” she asked.

Rev. H.C. Johnson, a Ministerial Alliance member, also spoke in support of Taylortown’s bid for municipal status, and did so emphatically. “I don’t want Pinehurst telling us what to do. We poor folks made Pinehurst what it is. We worked for nothing, $40 a week. We made it what it is and want to leave it there.”

First village council members: Jesse Fuller, Frances Johnson, Floyd Ray, Geneva McRae and Daniel Morrison

However, the opposition of Pinehurst, coupled with the fact that the General Assembly was in short session resulted in the bill going nowhere. While frustrated, McRae and other incorporation proponents were not discouraged. “We were so determined to make Taylortown a municipality that we did everything required of us and more,” she told a writer for the Citizen News-Record.

Craven’s bill was finally taken up for consideration by the General Assembly the following year. A series of legislative committee meetings on it necessitated attendance by McRae and members of the Ministerial Alliance. Bishop Larry Brown, minister at Taylortown’s House of Prayer, was among the faithful attendees. Brown estimates he made at least 25 trips to Raleigh. In a recent interview with Pilot reporter Laura Douglass, the bishop indicated that more than one opponent of Craven’s bill questioned whether a town of Black people would be able to govern themselves. But the presence and advocacy of Brown and his fellow men of the cloth gave a spiritual dignity to Taylortown’s presentation, impressing the legislators.

Eventually, Pinehurst dropped its objection to the concept of Taylortown’s incorporation, but the village remained opposed to Craven’s bill when it was amended to include within the proposed municipality three vacant parcels comprising 31 acres located on the north side of Route 211. Pinehurst was itself attempting to annex the parcels, now the Pinecroft Shopping Center that includes the Harris Teeter grocery store.

The question of which town should wind up with the 31 acres constituted the last roadblock for McRae and the other proponents of incorporation. A key Moore County state senator, Wanda Hunt, also the chairwoman of the Senate’s local government committee, was feeling pressure from both sides. She wanted to vote for Taylortown’s incorporation, but because a property owner in the disputed area (who happened to be a Hunt supporter) preferred that his property remain in Pinehurst, her vote was up in the air. Moreover, the North Carolina League of Municipalities was siding with Pinehurst. After what Craven would describe as “a lot of lobbying,” he convinced both the League and Hunt to support his bill. With them on board, the state senate unanimously approved Craven’s bill 40-0. The inclusion of the three valuable parcels within Taylortown’s corporate limits would furnish a welcome boon to the new municipality’s tax base.

On July 13, 1987, Taylortown became a municipality. As was her style, McRae gave credit to everyone but herself for the achievement but, absent her organizational skills and tenacity, incorporation likely would have remained a pipedream.

As a result of incorporation, the Sanitary District was disbanded. To run the municipality’s affairs, a five member village council was established, initially consisting of McRae, Floyd Ray, Jesse Fuller, Frances Johnson, and Daniel Morrison. The new council selected McRae to be the town’s first mayor. Described by one writer as “a willowish wisp of a woman who, nevertheless, packs a wallop,” McRae would serve two terms in the post.

Her tenure was an active one. Under her leadership, Taylortown entered into a formal fire protection agreement with Pinehurst. That arrangement continues to this day. A police department was established after the council figured it could pay an officer of its own less than it would pay in a contract for law enforcement with the county. McRae would persuade county officials to establish a voting precinct inside Taylortown. Olmsted Village was annexed into the village. The council authorized new recreational facilities and, with financial assistance from the Sandhills Garden Club (arranged by McRae), beautification of the community became a priority.

Over the years following McRae’s departure from municipal government, many other improvements have taken place within the community. A new village hall was completed in 2000. Pinecroft and Harris Teeter occupied the once heavily contested 31 acres. Government funding was obtained to update the water system and additional streetlights were installed. Today, Taylortown Museum honors Demus Taylor and other community founders like the remarkable McRae who passed away in 2008 at the age of 93. And another gain to the community occurred when Perry Barrett, once the young man who brought fire engines to Taylortown and is now in his 90s, moved — like Geneva — from New York back home, an echo of McRae’s own words: “I love Taylortown and I love its people. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. This is home.”  PS

Pinehurst resident Bill Case is PineStraw’s history man. He can be reached at Bill.Case@thompsonhine.com.

Pretty as a Picture

Pretty as a Picture

Hospitality in gracious surroundings

By Deborah Salomon

Photographs by John Gessner

The Country Club of North Carolina residential enclave reads like an architectural history of North Carolina, from elongated ranches to mid-century modern, a 1950s genre developed at N.C. State. Showplace homes speak A-frame chalet to antebellum frilly, New England saltbox to French chateaux, log cabins to painted brick with interiors ranging from formal to fun.

Not surprisingly, some homes display multiple styles, defying or at least resisting classification. Jane and Paul Whit Howard boast just such a home, built in 1991 on 1.7 acres. It’s refreshing, spacious, light, practical, retro, inventive, livable and, most of all, beautiful. Its kitchen may be modest in size and its bathrooms not quite spa but colors and fabric designs vibrate with the intensity of the jungle paintings of Henri Rousseau. The living room is sunken and hardwood floors have a whitewash. Deep tray ceilings speak to quality and detail. 

      

The grey exterior offers few clues but a portrait of well-worn golf bags between foyer and living room does. The Howards are both from eastern North Carolina, now retired. For decades their primary residence was Raleigh, with regular treks from beach to mountains. They brought their penchant for Southern hospitality with them to Pinehurst.

“I love to entertain,” Jane says. “I’m more of a Southern cook than a Julia Child. This kitchen is very adequate. It has everything I need.” Everything included shifting space to create a butler’s pantry for storage and another for food.

Instead of glamorizing the kitchen, the Howards poured resources into a defining feature, a covered veranda comprising living room, dining/cooking area, wood-burning fireplace and an uncovered conversation pit with fountain. Its square footage approaches a two-bedroom apartment. This addition earned its keep during the pandemic, when friends gathered once a week en plein air for casual dinners and COVID-talk.

A third outdoor space resembling an English tea garden, in place before the Howards’ acquisition, is ideal for morning coffee.

    With retirement looming and a son, Witt, who was an avid junior golfer at the time, the Howards were ready to leave their red brick ranch in Raleigh behind. They ruled out the beach. “Too much sun, heat, crowds,” Jane says. They knew Pinehurst from renting a weekend retreat. After visiting friends at Eastlake — “It felt so good to be here,” Jane recalls — she began looking at properties “on the QT.”

In 2017 they found the one at CCNC with a modified, elongated ranch layout. “I knew this was a party house from the beginning,” Jane says. It had been on the market for three years. She recognized its “good bones” required only bathroom upgrades and cosmetic work.

No problem. “We love to do that, the designing and creating,” Jane says. “My husband is a mechanical engineer — and a frustrated architect.” Her flair for interior design, fueled by a career as a worldwide travel consultant/tour leader, is evident, beginning at the front door where a wide pane of beveled glass with no covering allows maximum light to flood the entranceway.

Since they are only the second owners, the house hadn’t been put through interim, perhaps unwise, remodels.

      

The “designing and creating” part involved a trade-off: Jane craves green and pink, long a favorite in gracious Southern homes of the mid-to-late 1900s. Paul Whit was ready for change. Jane retained her favorite color combination in the dining room, as background for a magnificent breakfront and other family antiques in dark woods, with a table set in silver napkin holders and gleaming crystal. In contrast, instead of sedate florals, for the dining room and elsewhere Jane chose bold fabrics featuring a green that trended more avocado-olive than lettuce. A pair of small, upholstered chairs brings her trademark green into the kitchen-family room, brightened by blue and white pottery.

In return for color concessions, “I got my rose garden,” Jane beams — 16 bushes in a raised bed on its own patio, with space to sit and admire.

   

Paul Whit had another request: A comfortable/casual atmosphere where men could put their feet up. That relaxed, hospitable vibe explains the informal living room with simple navy blue sofas, built-ins filled with books and family photos, a games table for bridge and Jane’s baby grand piano. On the veranda maintenance is simplified by chairs and sofas with cushions enclosed in wicker lattice.

No amount of outdoor dining or green accents are preparation for the guest bedroom used most often by the Howards’ son and his wife, Hadley. “Mom, I want dark walls and blackout shades,” he said. Mom’s response — breathtaking: navy blue walls and white carpet complemented by a geometric modern painting. Walls in the master suite glow a Caribbean aquamarine, also surprising. In a few months Jane and Paul Whit will repurpose an office adjoining the master suite as a nursery for their first grandchild and trade sleep space with the new parents.

      

Now, if only Jane knew for sure why one bathroom had a door opening onto the yard. Probably in preparation for a pool, which never materialized. Nor do the Howards plan to add one. “We’re over that,” Jane says.

At a time in life when most couples think condo or cottage the Howards — active and outgoing — still require more than elbow room. Jane plays pickleball, Paul Whit loves golf. They both enjoy yard work. The entire property is fenced for two lucky Lab-retrievers. Their house welcomes a crowd. And as the day winds down, fans whir on the veranda, ice tinkles in the glass, the dogs stretch out on the cool floor . . . and life looks good.  PS

Poem June 2023

Poem June 2023

this I know for sure

We are the breath the skin the muscles the heart the hands the unmeasurable bones whispering across the Atlantic Ocean. We are the bellies of Middle Passage ships. We are the blue door of no return on Goree Island. We are the mornings that broke with our living and our dead fastened together. We are the eyes bearing witness to sharks following our human cargo waiting for the feast of dead or sick bodies tossed overboard. We are the shadows in the back of the eyes of daughters throwing themselves and their babies overboard. Our blood is the red that stole the blue of the ocean. We are scattered bones rising up from the bottom of the Atlantic revealing a pathway marking the route. We are the fruit of those bone trees planted deep in the fertile Atlantic. We carry a DNA of survival, strength, extraordinary will. From forced migration to slave market we are all the links of all the chains of the past and future. Binding spiritual links from the bones in the Atlantic to the bones of slaves in a place like Galveston Texas where ancestral whispers became the wind… Caressing tired bones with a timeless spirit of rebirth and love. The wind heard first. Whispering from the trees, from the ground beneath their feet, whispering…

Freedom

Freedom

Freedom                                                                                   

The wind knew and rattled tiny bones beneath the feathers of birds. The wind knew. Giving voice to the rain falling creating fertile freedom ground. The wind whispered to every butterfly, every insect pollinating from flower to flower. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Eagles stopped in midair to listen to the wind’s song… Freedom came today. Freedom came today… And because our people are a chosen people we could understand the dance of the trees, the tremble of the water. Hoes stopped striking. Hands stopped picking. Feet stood still. A mighty storm named freedom rained over them. Soaked them clean. Mothers kissed hope into the air above babies’ heads. Grandmothers and grandfathers stretched prayers into a sky that would not bend. Men asked where will this freedom live. Children asked what does this freedom taste like. What does this freedom smell like. What does this freedom sound like.  What does this freedom look like. Mama, tell me what this freedom gonna feel like. We screamed a jubilee into the clouds. We shed the skin of a slave. We shed the rags of a slave into the river. Our freedom skin was a shining brand-new nakedness that outshined the sun. We be clothed in freedom’s gold. On Juneteenth dead bones came alive and flew on the wings of Sankofa birds all the way back to the river where blood is born… All the way back to the womb that never forgets. We are the Juneteenth resurrection… We are the ancient prayers answered. We are the cup overflowing inviting generations to this feast of freedom. 

— Jaki Shelton Green

Back to the Future

Back to the Future

Revitalizing West Southern Pines

By Ann Petersen

Feature Photo caption: West Southern Pines Rosenwald School, 1925

 

Blanchie Carter Discovery Park today

Photograph by John gessner

The land tells its own story. Hope, creativity and adaptability are its chapters. History is alive at 1250 West New York Avenue.

In 1923, the town of West Southern Pines was chartered as one of the first African American townships on the East Coast. Jim Town was the slang expression for it in those days, either in reference to James Bethea, who owned the general store and other property in the new township; or because of the Jim Crow laws of the day, explains Kim Wade, an expert on West Southern Pines’ history.

The citizens of the new township, often earning as little as 50 cents a day, dreamed of building a Rosenwald School to ensure their children’s education. Julius Rosenwald, the co-owner of Sears, Roebuck and Company, and his wife, Augusta, Jewish immigrants from Germany, established the Rosenwald Fund in 1917 “for the betterment of mankind.” Among its contributions, the Rosenwald Fund (in common cause with Booker T. Washington) helped build schools in an effort to strengthen rural Black communities in the United States.

With little more than hope to drive their funding, the community raised $6,000, above and beyond municipal taxes, to match the grant from the Rosenwald Fund. Four acres were donated by William and Emma Junge as a site for the school. The land was cleared by the community, and the school was completed in 1925. In the 1940s the Rosenwald School gave way to a more modern structure, and the property became West Southern Pines High School. While the name implied the school was for students in higher grades of secondary education, it was actually the school all children of color attended, regardless of age or grade level. Though the town charter was rescinded in 1931, the community, and school, strove to maintain their viability. A gym and lunchroom along with multiple wings of classrooms were added.

   

Work and play at the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park, 1998

Photographs Courtesy Ann Petersen

Many West Southern Pines alumni are still in Moore County. Some, after living successful lives elsewhere, have circled back home. Dorothy Brower, a member of the high school’s last graduating class, is just one example. She returned after a career that included being the director of the Orange County Campus of Durham Technical Community College and the affirmative action officer. Other alumni include Shirley Bowman, Dorothy Douglas Jackson, Walter Powell, Martha Dickerson, Jennifer McCall, Carolyn Penland, Bill Ross and Tessie Taylor.

Retired Lt. Col. Vincent Gordon came back after his stint in the service, followed by his work as an administrative officer with the census bureau in Washington, D.C. When Gordon, one of four sons of a school principal and a Moore County Schools teacher, returned, he was armed with the kind of experience that would prove invaluable when 1250 New York Avenue eventually transitioned to the Southern Pines Housing and Land Trust.

In the 1960s, it was the hope of then-Superintendent Bob Lee to desegregate Moore County Schools and create a heterogenous school system with equal access to education, regardless of race. While Lee and his family endured hateful threats, he worked tirelessly to achieve that goal. With the support of a fearless school board, the dream became a reality and, with desegregation, West Southern Pines High School would become Southern Pines Elementary School.

In 1995, my eldest daughter, Katie, was 5 years old, and my husband, Bruce, and I hoped for what all parents desire: a creative, inspiring, sound education for our children; an education where they would be loved and nurtured. Our decision ultimately fell to Katie and her soon-to-be principal, Blanchie Carter.

  

Work and play at the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park, 1998

Photographs Courtesy Ann Petersen

I remember walking through the halls of Southern Pines Elementary, trailing behind Blanchie and Katie. As Bruce and I checked out the surroundings, our loquacious child peppered Blanchie with comments and questions. When we reached the media center Katie turned to us and announced: “This will be my school.” And it was.

There was one drawback to the school at that time. The playground was a treeless desert, a home to unrelenting heat in the late summer and blistering winds in the winter. Periodic dust tornadoes would flit across the barren land. It was a place that bred anger and frustration for the students and the teachers. Riddled with sand spurs, the playground made recess, meant to be a healthy break in the day, anything but. It was, instead, a time to endure. 

I signed up to co-chair the playground committee for the PTA. Our goal was to raise $25,000. Bruce, as he was prone to do, signed on to help. We ended up raising 10 times that amount. Fueled by both hope and good luck, we started searching for someone with expertise to help us with the playground. We discovered one of the world’s premier designers of parks for children, an Englishman, was on the teaching staff at the N.C. State School of Design.

Enter Robin Moore. His first lesson was to teach us we were not building a playground, but rather a discovery park. He was right. Blanchie Carter Discovery Park was born.

Moore led us to Dr. Nilda Cosco, a native Argentinian who is an expert on learning through play, also on the faculty of the N.C. State School of Design. She earned her reputation as a leader in the field by working with economically, physically and mentally challenged children in Buenos Aires. I like to think there is a magical matchmaking component to the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park. Shortly after Moore and Cosco began to collaborate on the park in West Southern Pines, Bruce and I received notice of their marriage.

   

Work and play at the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park, 1998

Photographs Courtesy Ann Petersen

By 2006 the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park was built. The New York Times ran a feature on the park. Southern Living magazine came calling. Students read about the park in their national Scholastic magazines. James “Pygie” Pugh showed up with his D-6 bulldozer to cut the peripheral trail. Interns came from England to work with the students. Hope and curiosity had carried the day.

Mary Scott Harrison, the principal of the school following Blanchie’s retirement, recognized the extraordinary benefit the park served. Discipline problems dissipated. Both students and teachers were happier. Teachers designed lessons that could be taught outdoors. The school nurse created a walking club that met each morning and walked the peripheral trail. 

The staff at Southern Pines Elementary School was as good as any in the country. With the likes of Elaine Simon, Barbara Kelly (Smith), Mamie Allen, Damita Nocton, Edith Moore, Annie Osterman, Liz Lyndsey, Elizabeth Strickland, Toni Hyman and Jane Kschinka, led first by Blanchie Carter and then by Mary Scott Harrison, children thrived. Four years after Katie enrolled at the school, Jennie, her younger sister, entered the magic that was SPES. Jeff Moody, a retired track star turned elementary gym teacher, knew each child’s name. He could spot the gift Jennie possessed as she raced around the track. “She’s fast. Be patient and let her lead the way. She’s a runner,” he told us. Jennie’s running career, which eventually led her to Dartmouth College, began on the SPES track.

I have not cried when my children advanced from one educational level to another with one exception: I cried the day they both left 1250 West New York Avenue.

In 2020, Southern Pines Primary School (having supplanted Southern Pines Elementary School) was rendered outdated, and the property was vacated. Students of both Southern Pines Primary School and Southern Pines Elementary School enrolled in their brand new school on Carlisle Street. With that change, the land readied for another new chapter. 

Bruce Cunningham working on the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park, 1998

The school board offered the land up for sale. There were struggles as the community sought to, again, purchase the land. As stories have a way of doing, this one came full circle when the land, primed for a new beginning, became the property of the Southern Pines Housing and Land Trust, an effort led by Vincent Gordon.

The purchase was driven largely by descendants of those who had attended the original Rosenwald School who hoped to not only embrace the history of the land, but to preserve Blanchie Carter Discovery Park as a learning venue for all children of Southern Pines to visit and enjoy. The final payment for the land was made by the Town of Southern Pines. Council member Mike Saulnier, who understood the importance of preserving the park, gave birth to a solution that resulted in a contract between the town and the Land Trust. 

The former school now proudly houses the West Southern Pines Center for African American History, Cultural Arts and Business. But hopes and dreams need funding to be realized. With a strong board of directors; Executive Director Sandra Dales; Director of Operations Nora Bowman; the relentless efforts of Tom, Lori and Rachel Van Camp; and an army of volunteers led by Susan Ward, who has managed the maintenance of the park, the weekend of May 19-20 will be filled with events to further the goals of refurbishing both the auditorium and Blanchie Carter Discovery Park.

On May 19, the auditorium where I once watched colorful Christmas pageants will play host to a jazz concert featuring Nnenna Freelon, a seven-time Grammy nominee. Tickets are on sale now at ticketmesandhills.com. With luck, similar fundraisers will become annual events. There will be an invitation-only dinner and auction on May 20 recognizing the contributions of the community, including businesses like the Pinehurst Resort, First Citizens Bank, First Bank and The Friends of the Pinehurst Surgical Clinic. Attendance will likely exceed 350.

Hope has never left 1250 West New York Avenue. Some hope for a museum that embraces the history of West Southern Pines. Others hope for a commercial revitalization of businesses there. A youth basketball team meets in the gym to practice, and the players hope for victory while their coaches — who refinished the gym floor themselves — hope the young players will learn the lessons of collaboration and teamwork. Moore and Cosco have returned to work on the rebirth of the Discovery Park, hoping the land will not only enhance the lives of local children, but serve as a training center for teachers studying early childhood development. It remains a place where dreams can come true.  PS

Bruce Cunningham and Ann Petersen were awarded the Governor’s Volunteer Award for their work on the Blanchie Carter Discovery Park.

A Legend Slept Here

A Legend Slept Here

Reimagining the Rassie Wicker Cottage

By Deborah Salomon Photographs by John Gessner

   

Should the spirit of Rassie Wicker return to his modest Pinehurst cottage, finding pipe and slippers — let alone his bed and a hearty breakfast — might pose a problem. Rooms have been added, space repurposed. The house now sports two front and three back doors, two full-size dining tables, a living room and a sitting room, plus a kitchen without defining walls or a Sub-Zero. Narrow hallways and a warren of cubbies, closets and pantries fulfill the owners’ requirements in clever ways, none of them glamorous, all of them practical.

Which suggests a kinship between Wicker, who built the cottage in 1923, and Bob and Lisa Hammond, whose purchase in 2017 initiated changes accomplished mostly with their own hands during weekends, while sleeping in a backyard cabin/guest house.

   

Bob, a retired optometrist, and Lisa, an almost-retired nurse, bring extensive construction know-how. Bob added some doors, sealed others. He crafted the footed Shaker-style kitchen cabinets, built tables with a skill tempered by homeowner pride — not unlike Wicker’s own.

A mystical connection, perhaps?

Rassie Wicker, born in 1892 to a carpenter/cabinetmaker father employed by Leonard Tufts, grew up to be a force in Pinehurst history. After graduating from a one-room schoolhouse he continued studies at what would become N.C. State University, returning to Pinehurst as surveyor-civil engineer and self-styled Moore County historian.

   

After serving in Europe during World War I, Rassie married Dolly Loving, had two children, and in 1923 built a home on Dundee Road. Over the years Pinehurst’s “Renaissance man” helped configure village streets and greenspaces. He died in 1972, and Rassie Wicker Park was named in honor of him in 1995.

The Wicker homestead had been updated and well-maintained when Bob and Lisa discovered it while living in a three-story brick Federalist in Holly Springs. Lisa wanted an old house to restore in retirement. Golf sweetened the deal for Bob.

“What about Pinehurst?” he suggested.

Like other retirees, Lisa pictured something walking distance to the village. Availability for these prime locations was, as usual, tight. Then, while driving out of Pinehurst they spotted the Wicker cottage, its brown shakes painted yellow, in a neighborhood Tufts intended for resort employees.

   

The cottage had been remodeled in the late ’90s, but Bob wasn’t thrilled with its flat roof. Nevertheless, the guest cottage and workshop were a plus, as was the acre of land. They returned to take a look. Soon after, by chance, Lisa met Rassie’s granddaughter, Jill Wicker Gooding, who still keeps a house in Pinehurst.

“This house was meant to be, for us,” Lisa concluded. “We felt an instant connection.”

With help from a contractor, the two medical professionals from Ohio converted space to better uses, even locating a stall shower outside the bathroom proper. They added 900 square feet onto the back, forming a living-dining room with walls sized to fit their furniture, including dining and coffee tables crafted by Bob. In another life, the coffee table was a flatbed trolley carrying wood around a lumberyard. “She finds a picture, I make it,” says Bob.

A sun porch was converted (with beadboard paneling and ceiling-height windows) into a guest room — bright and charming as a treehouse. “Dolly’s kitchen” became another bedroom, while the new kitchen-without-walls spread in several directions. The master suite was cobbled from three original bedrooms. That unattractive flat roof gained a pitch, with its rafters removed and reinstalled as shelves. The yellow exterior shakes are now a fresh vanilla.

Some wide knotty pine floorboards, full of character, come from trees Bob estimates were 400 years old.

Furnishings, many family heirlooms, are more homey than elegant. “This is our style, no high-end antiques,” Lisa says. Some enjoy a secondary use, like the carpenter’s bench with attached vise that became a kitchen island — Bob cooks, too — with a school desk (Lisa’s mother was a teacher) anchoring one end. A butter churn and bottle capper became lamps.

“Our goal was to renovate while honoring the past,” says Lisa.

   

Several tones of sea blue and bright navy flow from room to room. Previous owners had finished off the guest cottage, now with covered deck, perfect for visiting family.

No secret documents or family jewels were plastered into the walls, but they did discover a formal handwritten message from father to son inside a medicine cabinet, dated September, 1923: “Made by J.A. Wicker for Rassie E. Wicker.”

The yard offered additional surprises from the plant-loving Wickers. In 1986 Jill Wicker Gooding wrote to her grandmother Dolly on her 90th birthday:  “I remember the round-leaf sweetgum when it was too small to climb and I remember the sunken garden before the ivy took over.”

Sweetgum trees were impacted by blight, but the one Rassie moved to his yard lives on. Lisa dug out the brick-walled sunken garden, now ablaze with azaleas. Bob built a window box to fill with pansies. Incredibly, the original wooden picket fence still stands.

Inside and out, among early 20th century cottages built to draw residents to a fashionable winter mecca, this one stands apart. In 2017, Rassie Wicker Cottage was awarded a Pinehurst Historic Plaque by the Village Heritage Foundation, which recognizes the preservation of historic buildings, both grand and simple. It hangs above one of the front doors.

“We think Rassie would be proud,” Lisa says, and smiles.  PS

Ladybug, ladybug

Ladybug, Ladybug

Fly away home

By Amberly Glitz Weber     Photographs by Laura Gingerich

   

Children’s voices lilt and pitch as they pile out of minivans in a dirt parking lot and file down a well-tended forest trail deeper into the woods. It is a cool morning with a mist in the air and the sun dappling through the pine trees. They pass animal pens and an apple orchard. Hens cluck to the anthem of a large Black Copper Maran rooster. Goats bleat and a large sow snuffles into her feed trough.

As the children shuffle down the sand path into a forest clearing and settle onto log seats around a stone fire circle, a woman’s voice begins singing softly: “Good morning dear friends/so glad to see you.” It is a gentle, untrained voice that carries a smile in it as the children settle into rapt attention.

This is the daily ritual at Ladybug Farm, Shawna and Jared Fink’s 16-acre Pinebluff farm that hosts a variety of nature immersion classes and other programs. Such attentiveness on the part of preschoolers may be difficult, if not impossible, for most parents to imagine. Is it magic that holds them spellbound on their log seats, cradling a hot cup of tea from homegrown tea leaves and nibbling at fresh-baked bread? If so, it is a magic made wholly by the woman with kind eyes singing on the other side of the circle.

Shawna did not grow up with a farming background in her home in upstate New York, though she did live in a rural community “with more registered dairy cows than people,” she says. Her father’s garden offered a place for special time spent together after her parents’ divorce, and long walks in the woods accompanying him in his hunting and trapping were treasured. “I didn’t realize at the time how important and sacred nature was to me, but now, reflecting on it, I think it led me here today,” she says.

 

For a woman so integral to this family farm and forest school, it was a gradual metamorphosis — Shawna never even intended to leave her hometown. After starting a degree in art and art therapy, she changed over to education. Preparing herself for the New York State school system, Shawna added a concentration in high school math to her undergraduate degree in elementary education and special education with an art minor. “I love doing things, and learning, and I’m a believer you can just keep learning your whole life,” Shawna says.

The following year, Jared’s job took them to Pennsylvania, where Shawna planted the first of many rudimentary gardens that would follow her from place to place.

“We had a little apartment, and we were on the second floor so I had no yard,” she says.  “I asked the neighbor, ‘Can I put a few things in the garden?’ A couple of months later, it’s like beans, huge cosmos, sunflowers, a little bit of lettuce and a couple of carrots — enough to feel that connection to the earth.”

Shawna finished her master’s degree in curriculum and instruction while in Pennsylvania. “The plan was to return to New York. A lot of people were pushing me toward administration and leadership, but then you’re so disconnected from the children,” she says. “So, curriculum and instruction was a great outlet for me.” It also gave her the opportunity to begin incorporating Waldorf school principles into her educational philosophy.

   

With that degree complete, Shawna was ready to find work in her field, and Jared was willing to follow wherever that led. They searched from Florida to Hawaii to Thailand before a cousin in Sanford pointed them toward North Carolina. An interview with Hoke County, followed by an immediate job offer, brought them south.

It was a difficult start for a first-year teacher and a daily battle. “I felt I was needed there, but I was also passing the gardens of Aberdeen Elementary every day on my commute from Moore County, and I really wanted to be at that school,” she says. Shawna joined Aberdeen as a third-grade teacher the next year, and her “heart fell in love with it.”

While at Aberdeen Elementary, Shawna taught inclusion to a third-grade class containing children of different ages and varying abilities. Children with special needs, as well as those considered gifted, all had to be tested at a third-grade level. Using differentiation and small groups, she got amazing test results, winning The Growing to Greatness Award. She led nationwide classroom management workshops through FoodCorps, sharing the feasibility of getting kids outside and managing children in an outdoor setting with other teachers.

“There’s something so wholesome to me that even when I was teaching, gardening was something that I did,” Shawna says. Third-grade curriculum included the functions of the stems, roots, leaves, area, perimeter — answers to all of which were to be found hands-on in the garden.

   

“The kids knew, every Friday, you bring your boots, you’re going out rain or shine in the garden and doing things. So, I was already doing that a lot, and it filled my soul.” She experienced the growth of a child who had required police restraint in his own home, isolated by severe behavioral issues, for whom a daily start in the garden was life-changing.

“I saw the changes that happened in my children when I allowed them to go out in the garden every morning,” Shawna remembers. “It just changed the whole dynamic, responsibility level, the attitudes of my children, it was incredible.” She gloried in watching her class develop a connection to their food, fondly remembering a precocious child’s exclamation,“OMG, this broccoli doesn’t even need ranch dressing!”

After advocating for the interests of her self-contained classroom and the individuality she felt necessary for the success of all her children, mass curriculum changes caused her to depart public education. Unsure of her next step, she knew the one constant was that it would involve nature. “To see children who don’t have that connection to their food develop that connection really changed me, and so when I left teaching that was still a very big part of what I wanted to do,” she says.

The road to Ladybug Farm continued to meander, as she launched a landscape consulting business but missed working with children. Motherhood came and with it a resurgence of her interest in childhood education, the richness of Waldorf and myriad other doctrines offering enrichment to the whole child.

   

The Finks’ final move to their Pinebluff land and the adventure of building their own home while living in a fifth-wheel RV brought another whirlwind of activity. “We were in the camper before we even had a well dug, and borrowed a hose from the neighbor’s house,” Shawna says. “We could have workmen running power tools or air conditioning, but there just wasn’t enough for both.” Their second child was born and the family moved into the completed home when he was 6 months old. “We made the most of it, and I was so happy, and excited, but it was nice when we moved into the house. We called it our castle, because it seemed so big.”

Throughout the frenzy of construction, a newborn, and building the infrastructure of a fully functioning farm, Shawna continued to host play dates and draw her community into the nature they had cultivated. As the farm grew she began hosting field trips for local schools and her dream along with it. “I want children and families to develop a connection with nature. I want a community — that is my goal. A community-based farm where people can come to develop a connection with nature. The school started from there, with a few children in the fall.” The first session hosted an autumn-only program, which eventually grew to a full year.

    Like the apple orchard that started as a testing ground for cider varieties, the programs at Ladybug Farm have blossomed naturally over time. The Nature Immersion Forest Kindergarten for 3- to 6-year-olds led organically to the Nature Immersion Forest Homeschool program, as children who aged out of the first group couldn’t bear to leave the farm entirely. The kindergarten, now in its fifth year, has grown to two days a week, as Shawna adds more Waldorf rhythm and handicrafts. The Finks finished their hoop-style greenhouse, which grew from a desire to create a wheelchair-friendly space with wide aisles and raised beds. Forest classes benefit from the extended growing period and are able to harvest the fruits of their labors before summer vacation. Adults wanted to join the community, sparking a Winter Greenhouse Gardening Program. Jared continues to expand his passion project, LBF Carpentry, with the twin goals of crafting heirloom furniture while offering community workshop space and woodworking classes.   

As full as life is at Ladybug Farm, it remains an integrated part of its Sandhills community. “I really like chocolate, but you can’t grow chocolate here,” Shawna says with a smile. “So everyone thinks, ‘Oh you’re self-sustaining, you don’t need anyone else.’ No, self-sustainability is never going to be the goal — you can be community sustainable. And you can go to Java Bean and get your coffee beans. And then go here and get something else. But you’re always going to need your community.”

The home Shawna and Jared built looks out on a garden, bees from their apiary buzzing through the celery stalks while ducks waddle into a stock pond. In early spring, the white “castle” on the hill will attract its namesake ladybug in droves, carpeting its southern walls in the sunshine. The insect has brought a fitting name to this 16-acre farm. Dainty and colorful, they may not seem particularly fierce and yet one ladybug can decimate 5,000 aphids over the course of its lifetime. It is a telling reminder of the power a single person can have on their own environment. One Shawna Fink keeps in mind, as she tends deep roots of her own at Ladybug Farm.  PS

Aberdeen resident Amberly Glitz Weber is an Army veteran and freelance writer. She’s grateful for every minute spent out of doors, rain or shine.

The Acorn and the Tree

The Acorn and the Tree

Sharing the gifts of love and life

By Jenna Biter     Photographs by Lolly  Nazario

Mothers do big things. They plan weddings and crisscross the country (sometimes the globe) to visit children and babysit grandchildren. They do small things, too, like pack lunchboxes, sort smelly laundry, and cheer from the sidelines in excited shouts or whispers. Better than anyone else, mothers navigate awkward, in-between-sized things, like bad breakups or even worse grades.

Mom often does it all without audience or recognition. Sixteen-year-olds don’t remember when she changed their diapers or cooed nighttime lullabies. Her love becomes expected. Some moms relearn calculus only to teach it. Others drive to college in the middle of the night like it’s no big deal. Above all else, moms expertly watch.

She watches, drives, coos, changes, navigates, cheers, sorts, packs and plans. At root, a mother does. Her world is a deep sea of verbs that almost always includes sharing. Mothers and children share hugs. Some share daily conversation. And then there are the lucky few — like these five mothers and their children — who share passions.

 

Hannah Mebane

Louisa and Walter Mebane

Two-and-a-half-year-old Walter takes his tot-sized violin out of its case a second time. Meanwhile, big sister Louisa asks Mom if she can add a heart-shaped sticker to her practice chart. The 6-year-old violinist just cycled through “Mississippi Stop Stop,” the first rhythm to her first song: “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

“Sure,” Hannah Mebane says.

Hannah started playing the violin at Pinehurst Elementary in fourth grade. Fast forward a few decades, and she has taught music and orchestra in Moore County for 11 years. But 2023 will be her last. Hannah has her hands full with kids, a part-time real estate gig, and plans to go from private lessons to a full-time, Suzuki-method studio. There, Hannah will be able to teach even more kids the way she teaches her own.

 

Pam Owens

Travis Owens

Tucked off a backroad — where wildflowers grow tall and dew perpetually clings to emerald grass — sits an old cabin that a trio of fairy godmothers should inhabit. But sprites are nowhere to be found, only sloping candlesticks, jugs with full bellies, and a family of four professional potters hard at work to keep the legacy of Jugtown Pottery alive.

Like the clay they shape with their hands, the Owenses seem to have surfaced from the North Carolina ground. Vernon practically has. Coming from a long line of Seagrove potters, he grew up just around the corner. Pam had to move a little farther. With New England pottery-making in her blood, she originally came south to apprentice with Vernon. Then she returned to marry him, and together, they passed the cumulative talent of generations on to their children, Travis and Bayle.

“I stayed, as a baby, in the room where my mother was working,” Travis says in an easy Southern drawl. “That’s my memory of being very small: being in the workshop, especially with her.”

 

Tracey Greene

Claire Greene

Eleven-year-old Claire Greene practices on her balance beam at home while her mom, Tracey, gives pointers. Up next, 5-year-old Caroline tries a move with instruction from Claire.

“I help train her,” the big sister gushes. “She can already do a bridge, and her cartwheel is getting a lot better.”

Like mother, like daughters.

From ages 4 to 14, Tracey participated in competitive gymnastics. The sport was her lifeline. After her mom, Pat, died from breast cancer, coaches became like second parents. For Claire, gymnastics, as well as dance, provide similar support. They have been her throughline from one military move to the next.

“I started gymnastics when I was 2,” Claire says with a broad smile. “I remember some pictures of us doing stuff together: me mocking Mom, wanting to do what she was doing.”

Then the roles reversed. Watching her daughter compete, Tracey yearned to join in and soon did. She has been tumbling every Wednesday night since an adult class started at Sandhills Gymnastics this January.

 

Barbara Burley

Nikki Windham

At only 14 years old, Barbara Burley sat at the hospital bedside of a sick child she would babysit. From then on, she knew that she wanted to be a nurse. She pursued a nursing degree and didn’t look back for decades. For 47 1/2 years, Barbara worked nights in the pediatric unit at Moore Regional Hospital. Her last night was New Year’s Eve 2020.

While the night shift wasn’t easy, it allowed Barbara to take her daughters, Beth and Nikki, to and from school, attend their every practice and game, and sometimes even get some sleep.

“She was always at everything. I thought her schedule was great as a kid,” Nikki says. “I didn’t realize how hard it is until I had my children and started working the night shift. You just don’t sleep.”

Nikki graduated from nursing school exactly 25 years after her mom. Thanks to Barbara’s good reputation, she got her first nursing job at Moore, where she worked in the neonatal intensive care unit. Ministering to children must run in the family. Beth also works with kids as a pediatric occupational therapist in the county. 

 

Christina Baker

Amara Baker

Christina Baker points past the fence. “Here comes Amara.” Back from an hour-long lesson, the teenage brunette rides toward the Baker family’s barn on a matching horse named Zeppelin. Amara dismounts, unlatches her helmet, and shelves her tack before hosing down the retired racehorse. She started riding more than a decade ago, first falling for the flat-out speed of foxhunting, and then the discipline of eventing. Inspired by her daughter, Christina decided to take the reins herself.

“Having a teenager is difficult,” Christina says. “I’m not even close to the center of Amara’s world anymore. But, as long as horses are a big part of her world, sharing that activity lets me have a special little place in it, even if it’s just for a one-hour ride.”