I like totroll thrift stores for books. It’s always an adventure, and at 50 cents apiece, you can hardly go wrong. If you do, you can simply re-donate. No harm. No foul.
Occasionally you reach for a book that looks interesting and find the joke’s on you, because when you open it, you discover it’s one you donated months ago. Standing there looking at your own name and the little stamp you mark your books with, you feel strangely proprietary and a little ashamed all at the same time. Worse, it’s just possible that the book is looking back at you with an accusatory stare, as if to say, “How could you give me away? Don’t you love me anymore?”
More interesting, however, are the times you find other people’s names and marks. Or an inscription that says: “To Glenn, May this first Christmas as part of our family bring you joy, George and Grace, Christmas, 1993”; or “M. A. Crichton from Mrs. Pyle, Christmas, 1938.”
Then, too, there are the stamps along the deckled edges or on the title pages that say Estes Valley Library — Withdrawn; Vermillion Public Library, Vermillion, South Dakota; Dowse Memorial Library, Sherborn, Massachusetts; Rivoli Township Library, New Windsor, Illinois; Fort Loramie Jr./Sr. High School Media Center; West Slope Community Library, Portland, Oregon; or most exotic of all, U.S. ARMY RVN SPEC SVC LIBRARIES APO 96243. That’s when you know the book has a life of its own, a story to tell. You hold it in your hands, leaf through the pages, trying to imagine exactly how it got here. What circuitous path did it follow to wind up on this shelf, perhaps thousands of miles from where it started?
Sometimes, there are even clues, relics of another reader’s life, hidden among the pages — a receipt from a bookstore in the Denver airport, a flier for “Buddhism and Meditation” from the Rameshori Buddhist Center in Atlanta, or a small ivory card printed in pale blue with a drawing of a young Chinese student at his desk and the words “If found please return to,” but with nothing filled in.
Best of all are the bookmarks — Decitre Librairie Papeterie in Lyon, France; Arcadia Books in Spring Green, Wisconsin; Golden Braid Books in Salt Lake City; Frenchmen Art and Books in New Orleans; Lunenburg Bound Books and Paper in Nova Scotia; Eighth Day Books in Wichita; the iconic City Lights Books in San Francisco; and much closer to home, Blue Ridge Books in Waynesville, North Carolina.
Of course, the stores they represent are indies and not thrift stores, but you love them all the same. You can just visualize the people who work there, how the books are arranged, the comfy sofas and chairs, the jingle of the bell as the regulars come in the door. You wonder if they’re still in business, and if so, whether some day you could — would — pack your bag and go there.
How you would walk in and say hello to the woman or man behind the counter; tell them you’ve come all these miles because of the bookmark you hold in your hand, a bookmark you found in Manhattan Transfer by John Dos Passos or The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain, or The Buffalo Hunters by Mari Sandoz or Blondes, Brunettes and Bullets by Nils T. Granlund; or a thousand possible others.
And you are absolutely certain they will smile and be thrilled that you have come so far to visit their store. Then they will offer you a scone, show you around, pull volumes off shelves for you to admire. And you will buy something, new or used, not only because it’s the polite thing to do, but because you really do want that Penelope Lively or Kent Haruf or Philippe Claudel that’s sitting right there on the shelf. Besides, there’s always room in your luggage.PS
Patricia M. Walker is a retired teacher/purchasing manager/financial services administrator who was born and raised in Chattanooga,
Tennessee. She wrote her first novel when she was 9.
That rings a bell at a triple-dome Pinebluff structure resembling an albino caterpillar/spaceship — a real shocker in the cottage-y enclave adjacent to Pinebluff Lake.
“Oh yes, people stop and knock on the door,” says Candy Ruedeman, who bears no resemblance to an extraterrestrial. The undulating exterior of the domes is the antithesis of conventional stick construction with its straight lines and 90 degree angles. The shaded interior, resulting from limited windows, feels comforting and safe, enveloping its occupants. Inside, the air feels cool rather than AC-frosty. Each room is equipped with a ductless, wall-mounted AC/heating unit. Concrete blown over a foam core provides insulation. Poured concrete floors refresh bare feet.
Although above ground, construction surpasses FEMA’s guidelines for survivability. In 2016, Hurricane Matthew blew a dock off the nearby lake but swept over the domes without damage.
These monolithic dome homes — the semi-official title — are fire resistant, termite-and-rot-proof, energy efficient and, besides hurricanes, have survived tornadoes and earthquakes. Some are lavish multi-story residences with balconies and turrets. Others enable year-round swimming pools. A commercial dome housing offices or stores benefits from instant recognition. Ski resort domes, beach domes, mountain domes, office domes, school and studio domes exist. Still, not everybody could live in a house where hanging pictures can be a challenge, where straight-line furnishings don’t fit, where electric outlets can’t be added or moved, and where bumping into a textured concrete wall can skin a knee.
Skip and Candy Ruedeman weren’t “everybody.” He served in Vietnam as an Air Force fighter jet mechanic. She was a critical care nurse. Both grew up in Kentucky, in ordinary middle-America houses. Their only joint residential adventure: building a log home from a kit.
They were living in Colorado as retirement from the water-conditioning business approached. “We wanted to get back to the green, and be nearer the beach,” Candy says. Golf was a factor, but not primary. Skip had a cousin who lived in Moore County. They came for a look, liked the area but not the resort bustle of Pinehurst and Southern Pines.
“I can make a home anywhere,” Candy continues. “But we wanted a place where we couldn’t hear the neighbors.” The 1-acre heavily wooded lot in Pinebluff suited their needs.
Skip knew dome homes from helping a friend build one in California. The mechanics fascinated him. Explained simply, a ring foundation reinforced with rebar is laid for each dome. Vertical steel bars embedded in the ring attach at the overhead apex. A special fabric is placed on the base and inflated. Foam is applied to interior surfaces, which are then sprayed with a concrete mix that can be painted.
Because of zoning and planning requirements each window opening required a dormer-like configuration. The Ruedemans topped them with curved “eyebrows.” The division of interior space can be accomplished with straight walls, or curvy, suggesting niches. For their “Pine Dome,” Candy and Skip chose mostly curvy, creating the look of a modern art museum.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Alice whispers from the rabbit hole.
The 1,700-square-foot space was sectioned into a living-kitchen-great room, three bedrooms, two baths and two eating areas, but no formal dining room. Closing off a corner of the kitchen created a pantry. Conventional glass doors open onto a deck overlooking a clearing where Candy feeds the forest creatures. At one end of this three-hump caterpillar stands a conventional shed/workshop for Skip’s tools; at the other, a fenced vegetable garden.
Construction by professionals, with the Ruedemans crewing in, took eight months. Lacking straight lines, the house presented measuring problems for building inspectors. In December 2014, they moved in.
The couple decided to ditch all their furnishings except one bed and start anew at Ikea, supplemented by tables, shelves, and other pieces, including an African violet stand designed and crafted by Skip. Since the master bedroom had no wall space for their dresser, they created a closet around it. A desk belonging to Candy’s dad became a bathroom vanity.
Other décor choices have a single purpose: showcasing mementos accumulated by a close, loving family. One hallway is virtually covered with photos of their two sons and five grandchildren plus framed documents from Skip’s Air Force career. An old printer’s tray holds miniatures. A photo shows Candy skydiving. In one bedroom Candy hung sections from a quilt made by her grandmother. On a kitchen wall, a holder displays painted eggs. A dulcimer made by her father hangs on another.
The top section of a lawyer’s bookcase with glass doors stands opposite the sofa. In it is a collection of dolls and teddy bears, each representing a person or event. “That one is from my first Christmas. This is the first Christmas present Skip gave me,” Candy says. “This is the first time I’ve had them on display.”
Skip loved trains. A toy track and cars are mounted over the deck doors. Candy’s best idea was asking friends and family to paint wooden pulls for the kitchen drawers and cabinets. Each is different, personalizing a galley kitchen separated from the living room by only a counter.
But what must the neighbors think? That a UFO landed on their quiet street? Don Woodfield lives across from Pine Dome. He watched the construction from clearing the land to blowing the concrete. His opinions have been positive from the get-go.
“Never a thought,” Woodfield says. “Just we’ve got new neighbors. Let’s go find out about them.” So over he went, beer and snacks in hand, soon discovering that, like himself, Skip was a Vietnam vet. Later on, they worked together on a Habitat for Humanity home build.
By now, the caterpillar has settled into the landscape. The coffee-colored plush sofa and upholstered headboards don’t seem stranded against curving walls. But this summer something is missing.
Skip passed away last August, suddenly, at 76. Candy is comforted living among his handiwork.
“This house was our legacy. This is what we chose to do, the house Skip wanted to build.”
There have been offers to buy Pine Dome. But for now Candy, with visits from her children and grandchildren, will stay close to him here, in a house far from ordinary but close to home.PS
Near the end of the baseball classic Bull Durham, strong-armed Nuke LaLoosh goes looking for his catcher, Crash Davis, to tell him he’s been called up to the majors. He finds Crash in a pool hall owned by Sandy Grimes, who’s sitting with his back to a wall and a cue stick in his hands.
“Let’s get out of this dump,” Nuke says.
“You callin’ my place a dump?” Grimes jumps to his feet.
“No. He’s not. He’s not. All right?” Crash smooths it over. He turns to the phenom he’s been nursemaiding through the minors and says, “Do you know who this is? This is Sandy Grimes. Sandy Grimes hit .371 in Louisville in 1965.”
Grimes is quick to correct him. “.376.”
“I’m sorry,” Crash says, genuinely apologetic. “He hit .376. That’s a career, man. In any league.”
The chances are pretty good that, even when the full roster of the brand-new Sandhills Bogeys baseball team was introduced to their manager, Bernie Carbo, few if any of them knew who he was. And that’s OK, even if he was way, way better than Sandy Grimes.
The Bogeys are the newest “franchise” in the Old North State League, where 13 teams compete for a couple of months in the summer the old-fashioned way — with wooden bats — just like the pros. They’re playing in a park built especially for them on the campus of Sandhills Community College, and the only aluminum you’ll find won’t be in a bat, it’ll be in a soda can. The players on the Bogeys can be forgiven if they didn’t recognize Carbo’s name. They’re in their late teens and early 20s, guys playing in college or getting ready to, and the man they were being told was guiding their summer team is 74. Carbo played in the big leagues for 12 seasons with five different clubs in both the American and National Leagues. He moved to Southern Pines from Mobile, Alabama, about 18 months ago with his wife, Tammy, a retired educator. When they were first married, Bernie adopted Tammy’s son, who took the name Bernardo Christopher Carbo Jr., and is now a psychologist and an officer at Fort Bragg.
“Bernie’s a trip,” says Alec Allred, who started the Old North State League in 2018. “Anytime we can have a former big leaguer that is the manager of one of our teams, obviously you can’t say no to that. He’s an incredible baseball mind. I enjoy just sitting around listening to his stories. He’s a legend, truly. The players are going to enjoy playing for him. They get to be around it every day this summer.”
Sandy McIver, who was the pitching coach at Union Pines High School, and Tom Shaffer, who coached baseball at Georgetown University, will be doing most of the heavy lifting when it comes to coaching the team, but it would be a mistake to think of Carbo as little more than a conversation piece. If your goal is to get better and you have a chance to talk hitting with a guy who has been teammates with Frank Robinson, Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Lou Brock, Carlton Fisk, Jim Rice, Carl Yastrzemski, Fred Lynn, Willie Stargell and Dave Parker; a guy who has run a few questions about the art of hitting past Ted Williams, Henry Aaron and Stan Musial; a guy who has stood in the batter’s box against Bob Gibson, Jim Palmer and Nolan Ryan; you might be able to learn a thing or two.
And, if not, the stories are worth the price of admission.
“First time I faced Nolan Ryan I heard the umpire go ‘Strike one’; ‘Strike two’; ‘Strike three.’ I turned around to the umpire and I said, ‘I didn’t see any of those pitches.’ And the umpire said, ‘Neither did I, but they sounded good.’”
Versions of that story have been told about every pitcher whose velocity creeps into triple digits — including Bob Feller and probably going all the way back to Walter Johnson — but it’s a helluva a story, and even if it’s not 100 percent original, it sounds good, just like Ryan’s pitches. “Walk in the clubhouse, you’d see all the guys in the training room. We all knew who was pitching,” Carbo says. “Nolan Ryan. Nobody wanted to play. He struck me out 19 times in a row. He threw me a change-up and I hit a home run.
“Jim Palmer gets me out for five years,” Carbo continues, the memories stirred together like cream in coffee. “I get a base hit off him and he comes to first base and says, ‘I want to shake your hand.’”
Palmer even autographed a baseball for him. It said Jim Palmer 0-for-5 Years.
Those are the stories Carbo tells on himself. But if you think he couldn’t hit because a couple of Hall of Famers gave him fits, you’d be mistaken. The first major league draft was in 1965. Rick Monday, Billy Conigliaro and Ray Fosse were in it. So was Bernie Carbo, picked 16th. Johnny Bench was taken 36th. Carbo’s first full year in the majors was 1970. He hit .310 with 21 home runs and 63 RBIs and was second in the Rookie of the Year voting. That’s a career, man. In any league.
And he just happened to have a starring role in one of the greatest baseball games ever played. You can look it up. Game six of the 1975 World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. Carbo was on the Red Sox, but he’d previously been a Red for four seasons. He knew both dugouts intimately. The Reds had Pete Rose, Tony Perez, Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench, Davey Concepcion and George Foster. The Red Sox had Carlton Fisk, Fred Lynn, Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Rice, who couldn’t play because he was injured. Altogether there were six Hall of Famers in the series, seven if you count Reds manager Sparky Anderson.
With Cincinnati ahead three games to two in the series and leading in game six, 6-3, Carbo was sent in to pinch hit in the bottom of the eighth against reliever Rawley Eastwick. In 2015 the National Baseball Hall of Fame brought Fisk and Eastwick together on stage to reminisce about the game. It was Fisk’s home run that hit the left field foul pole (now named in his honor) in the 12th inning that ultimately won it for the Red Sox. They lost the series the next day. The film clip of Fisk waving the ball fair as he hopped and leaped and clapped his way down the first base line is a classic. It’s more famous in Boston than Sam Adams. But it was Carbo’s three-run blast that gave him the chance.
With the count 2-2, Carbo fouled off a couple of pitches and looked overmatched doing it. “Carbo had one of the worst swings that a major league ballplayer could have ever had; he just barely fouled the ball off to stay alive, or he would have been out,” Fisk said at the Hall of Fame. “And then the next swing it’s the best swing you could ever see in a game.” The drive easily cleared the center field wall, traveling somewhere between 420 – 450 feet, setting up Fisk’s heroics. “The game started on October 21st and ended on October 22nd,” Fisk said.
In the top of the 10th Rose came up to hit, looked back at Fisk and said, “This is some kind of game, isn’t it?” Undoubtedly there are a few expletives omitted in that telling, but the sentiment was sincere enough. Later, Rose told his manager it was the greatest game he ever played in.
Hitting advice, however, isn’t the only way Bernie Carbo can help the Sandhills Bogeys. He can tell kids what not to do, too. Carbo’s self-published biography is titled Saving Bernie Carbo. It’s written with a psychologist, Dr. Peter Hantzis, using an unusual format. Hantzis does a brief introduction of each chapter; Carbo talks the reader through it; and, at the end, the doctor makes “educational comments” evaluating Carbo almost as if he were making notes about a patient. Hantzis still uses the book in the psychology classes he teaches at the University of Massachusetts Lowell. “For Bernie the most important thing was finding his faith. That’s what really saved his life. And I agree. I think that’s exactly what happened,” Hantzis says.
During his talk at the Hall of Fame, Fisk said that Carbo was more than offbeat, “he was just off.” Carbo’s autobiography explains some of the reasons why. His father was a cruel man, a fighter in a circus, and he beat both Bernie and his mother. He was a man with unrealized baseball ambitions of his own who simultaneously lived through his son while constantly berating him.
“I became a drug addict and an alcoholic,” Carbo says of his years in the majors. “When I got to the big leagues, I quit working. What happened to me? I got worse.” Carbo can be a powerful force when it comes to explaining to young men how to honor their God-given talent.
His mother tried to commit suicide when he was a boy. She succeeded when he was a grown man. “My mother commits suicide. My dad dies. I’m going to commit suicide,” Carbo says. He was saved by a couple of former teammates, pitchers Bill Lee and Ferguson Jenkins, and a Baptist minister he shared a Tampa hospital room with. “God put me with a preacher,” says Carbo. And it took.
“Bernie Carbo did not receive treatment for his mental health and substance abuse problems until he was in his mid-40s,” writes Hantzis in Saving Bernie Carbo. “Sadly, even if Bernie had as a child been identified as a victim of abuse and trauma, his treatment options would have been limited. In the 1950s child psychiatry, child psychology, social work and family therapy were in their early stages, and unavailable to many children.”
Clearly, when it comes to the art of hitting, Carbo can be a constructive influence for players who want instruction. Not everyone on the roster will, and he knows that. The Old North State League isn’t necessarily a steppingstone to anything other than a summer of fun. “They’re coming to this league to have fun, to enjoy it and play baseball,” says Carbo. “But you never know who’s watching. David Justice went to Thomas Moore University. They were playing a Division I school and the Atlanta Braves had two kids they wanted to see on the Division I team. David Justice hit two balls out of the park. The guy from Atlanta calls the Braves up. ‘Thomas Moore has this kid and he’s just unbelievable.’ Next thing you know he’s the No. 1 draft choice. Plays in the World Series.”
But if you do want a little help swinging the bat, there’s probably no one better in the Old North State. “These guys obviously understand the sport at a different level. You know his spring training coach was Ted Williams. Can you imagine?” says Hantzis. “Bernie has a great style of communicating. He looks you right in the eye. He’s so sincere and he’s so interested in you. Bernie is unique. This is a great man.”
Sometimes, you do know who’s watching. One of the catchers on the Bogeys is Riley Cameron, who graduated from Union Pines in 2017, played two seasons at Wheeling University and will transfer next year to Catawba College. “I play summer ball every summer and I haven’t gotten to play close to home since I’ve been in college,” Cameron says, “so I’m glad that I can play in front of my family and friends again.”
Allred, who is an associate scout for the Texas Rangers, sees opportunity in the Sandhills because of its strong high school baseball programs and thriving tourist economy. “It’s just a perfect market for a baseball team,” he says. “Our players are at the forefront of our thoughts in terms of how we try to do everything, but we have started focusing more and more on the fan experience. That’s why we’re so excited about having this team in the Sandhills. We really want to try to go to a different level and incorporate a lot of what minor league baseball does in terms of the between-inning promotions and stuff like that to really get the fans engaged. This is almost going to be a pilot team for how we’re going to operate in the future.”
Besides knowing when to look for the curve and when to call it a night, Carbo can offer at least one more piece of wisdom. The first time he was getting ready to hit against the Cardinals Hall of Famer Bob Gibson, Carbo was in the on-deck circle but began creeping closer and closer to home plate, taking practice swings, trying to time Gibson’s pitches. (Just for context, in 1968 Gibson’s stat sheet read like this: He was 22-9 with an ERA of 1.12 and pitched 28 complete games, including three in the World Series. And you simply did not mess with Bob Gibson.)
“The ball goes whoosh!” Carbo says, turning his head quickly. “I go back to the bench. ‘Sparky, that guy just threw at me.’ When I got traded to the Cardinals, I got to know Bob a little bit. ‘Bob, do you remember throwing at me in the on-deck circle? He says, ‘Yeah, I missed you.’ I ask him ‘Did you intend to hit me?’ He says, ‘Yes.’”
The upshot is, you need to find those places in life where you’re safe. It took Bernie Carbo more than 40 years to find his.PS
Jim Moriarty is the Editor of PineStraw and can be reached at
jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.
Contrary to popular belief, grilling is not just for meat lovers. Whether you grill a juicy burger or mushroom caps, the universal experience is much the same — hot glowing embers, sparks flitting about like fireflies, the bitter aroma of smoke wafting in your face, and the sheer joy of preparing a meal under the open skies. The symphony of sounds, smells and the visual excitement of grilling speaks right to our hearts as most of us recollect beautiful childhood memories of breezy, carefree summer days spent with friends and family.
To clear up one common misconception for my fellow expats and anybody from north of the Mason-Dixon line: Grilling and barbecuing are not the same in our neck of the woods, despite most of the English-speaking world using these terms interchangeably. Ask any native Southerner with a penchant for pork. Authentic Southern barbecue calls for low heat, a considerable amount of smoke, and plenty of patience, to name just a few ingredients, whereas grilling requires hot and dry heat, which will swiftly and effortlessly cook the food. So, this season, join us in celebrating traditional, mouth-watering, grilling fare with a bit of a Bohemian twist!
Strip Steak with Cherry Mint Chutney
Instead of preparing sophisticated and laborious marinades and brines, stick to the basics. Achieve bold and intensely rich flavor with a simple yet potent pre-rub: Brush steaks with olive oil; mix equal parts of ground cumin, paprika and coriander; and rub on the meat. Sprinkle generously with salt and freshly cracked pepper and grill for about 4–5 minutes per side. For an exotic twist, serve it with a cherry mint chutney — use your favorite, basic vinegar-based chutney recipe, replace the fruit with fresh, pitted cherries, and add fresh mint leaves to it.
Moroccan Grilled Shrimp with Harissa
Coated in ras el hanout, a unique spice blend abundant with aromas of cardamom, cinnamon, ginger and rose, these crustaceans are exceptionally zesty as shrimp effortlessly adapt flavor. With a little char from the grill, a dollop of smoky harissa and fragrant, crushed mint leaves, the Mediterranean doesn’t seem so far away anymore. Make your own harissa using a mixture of dried and fresh chilis combined with caraway and cumin seeds, fresh garlic, lemon juice and rosewater. Blend into a fine paste. Pair with an herby couscous salad and fresh mint tea, or push the boat out with a mojito — the choice is yours.
Greek Chicken with Toasted Almond Hummus
Undoubtedly, the thighs are among the most richly flavored parts of the chicken, next to the wings. With a respectable skin-to-meat ratio and a high fat content, chicken thighs carry and amplify any flavor or seasoning you might add. For a Mediterranean twist, combine yogurt, olive oil, lemon zest, fresh minced garlic, oregano, salt, pepper, and marinate for at least 30 minutes (or up to several hours) in the fridge. Cook chicken thighs, bone-in, for about 8–10 minutes on each side until cooked through. Serve with fresh, chopped veggies and toasted almond hummus — simply dry roast sliced almonds in a frying pan until fragrant and puree together with your hummus ingredients.
Balkan Burger with Ajvar and Blue Cheese
How to elevate the ubiquitous, humble, all-American sandwich into epicurean realms: Dress it up with artisanal cheese and Old World-style relishes and condiments. The latter, we’re borrowing from Balkan cuisine. Ajvar, also called “Balkan caviar,” is made from sweet peppers and eggplant slow-cooked for several hours. The result is a refined, opulent, richly flavored spread that can be teamed with many dishes but works especially well atop a juicy burger, together with a pungent, sharply flavored cheese.
Grilled Peach Crostini with Whipped Goat Cheese, Honey and Thyme
The quintessential North Carolina summer fare, as far as I am concerned, is grilled peaches, hands down. Peaches are seductive in their natural state but become even more enticing grilled. The fruit sugar caramelizes and flavors intensify, the char marks form and smoke imparts woodsy notes into the skin and flesh. Grill for 2-3 minutes on each side, serve atop silky smooth whipped goat cheese on grilled slices of bread, and drizzle with honey. To whip goat cheese, combine 2 parts goat cheese with 1 part cream cheese, a generous dash of olive oil, and pulse in a food processor. PS
German native Rose Shewey is a food stylist and food photographer. To see more of her work visit her website, suessholz.com.
Question: How much should a house reflect its occupant’s background/taste/lifestyle/beliefs?
Somewhat, with a few pertinent artifacts, mementos?
Definitely, with unity of theme or period, palette or furnishings?
Completely, for Le-Arne Morrissett of the lilting Aussie accent.
This requires formidable juxtaposition, since Morrissett’s house is cookie-cutter contemporary, located in a cluster of villas, circa 1980s, overlooking Lake Pinehurst. The interior, however, conjures distant continents: A paella pan hangs from the wall, and a tagine sits on a rough-hewn refectory table, in front of a vast counter assembled from reclaimed wood which, aided by a massive cedar beam, divides the open kitchen from the great room containing a cream-colored sectional and two chairs upholstered in orange velvet.
“Orange is a color that has an awareness to it, and makes people happy,” Morrissett believes.
From the tagine comes chicken tagine, a Moroccan specialty redolent of preserved lemons, apricots, olives and spices. The aroma — totally casbah. From the paella pan comes Thanksgiving dinner.
Beside her front door, Morrissett planted a Buddha garden, selecting a small statuette from her collection. On the walls hang century-old woven tapestries called suzani, once included in bridal dowries.
A single swath of Uzbekistani fabric drapes a sidewall window and cascades onto the floor.
While the effect might excite a Western eye, Morrissett — having experienced Asia, India, Pakistan, Turkey, Europe — describes it as “calm,” a favorite word.
Zen abides here.
It was a former husband’s golf quest that lured this distaff Marco Polo to Pinehurst.
“I’ve always lived by the water,” Morrissett explains, looking out over the sun-sparkled lake. “I love the calmness and quiet nature of the water, the ducks and geese.”
What she didn’t love was the predictable condo layout, which cut 2,000 square feet into cubicles. So she took most of the main floor down to the studs, opened it up, then closed off the loft (accessed by a free-standing winding staircase) to make a guest suite. This created a second-story wall — perfect for hanging abstracts, one by her daughter at age 5. Other oversized décor includes two weathered barn doors attached directly to a wall. A ceiling fixture was constructed from three massive glass jars resembling light bulbs suspended from the cathedral ceiling.
The floors: What could this material be, so cool to bare feet? Puddles of bright, navy-blue-against-gray concrete, sealed with a glaze, common in Australia, replaced vinyl floors and, surprisingly, kitchen countertops. Carpet wears out, wood needs refinishing, Formica stains. Concrete is forever.
Area rugs in blue and orange Middle Eastern designs soften footsteps in high-traffic areas.
Morrissett is an artist. Her medium, hair, which she styles at Beautopia, her salon in downtown Southern Pines. But she also indulges in shoes. Remember Imelda Marcos, first lady of the Philippines, infamous for her politics, famous for her 3,000 pairs of shoes? Morrissett’s collection numbers only 100, visible from a made-to-order cabinet in the master bedroom.
“Shoes make me happy,” she says. No surprise, hers are colorful, unusual, better for dancing than office wear. So why not display?
Obviously, this lady revels in the unconventional. The remodel of her bathroom puts a tub inside the glass shower enclosure, a nod to Turkish bath houses — surely a first in Moore County. In her son’s room and throughout the house, case pieces are painted in East Indian motifs and hues. Buddha makes several more appearances. Because Morrissett loves to cook exotic dishes, the major investment went into the kitchen, now quasi-industrial, with gray walls, stainless steel cabinets and appliances.
“I live in this kitchen,” she says
The view, as seen from a large deck, remains an ungilded lily and emblem for Morrissett’s philosophies. “The lake reminds you just to breathe, to be so grateful of what is around you, to be aware of its sustainability.”
Decorating against the grain requires confidence, self-awareness, whether the result is Scandinavian contemporary in Hong Kong or Jaipur in a Carolina golf community. Morrissett has embodied both traits in this highly personal and expressive residence. “At night when you can’t see the lake I sit outside and look into the house . . . just magic,” she says. “This house was my therapy. I bought it by myself, furnished it by myself.”
Finally: “How a house lives is so much more important than how it looks.”
One early morning in 1979, Vinh Luu’s parents dressed him and his six siblings as if for school, before leading them cautiously out into the dark city streets of Saigon. Beneath those outfits, they wore as much clothing as they could put on, walking away from their family home with little more than the clothes on their backs. They were headed to an unnamed location to meet the smugglers they’d paid to arrange their escape. There they waited to be ferried in smaller, less conspicuous groups to board the rickety fishing boat they hoped would carry them to a new life.
The Luus had lived in Saigon since Vinh’s grandparents immigrated from China. His father worked as a dentist with the South Vietnamese Army, and his mother’s grocery business was the breadwinner for their large family. Vinh remembers her as a hard worker, and successful. Living in the capital city, the family did not see much bloodshed during the war years. “I remember after the fall of Saigon, you hear a lot of these celebrations by the Communists, shooting guns up in the air,” he says. “I remember seeing tanks tearing up the streets when they came in.”
After the fall of Saigon, the family stayed, hoping things would be better — they weren’t. In mid-1975 the Communist Army confiscated his mother’s grocery business, shutting down the entire supermarket with the promise that they would eventually return it to the local owners. His parents decided to flee soon after.
“You know, I think about it all the time,” Vinh says. “I can’t imagine bringing seven children, risking everyone’s lives for this trip. You take a chance at life; you have to make a decision. I can’t imagine just putting one life at risk, so for them to do that, it was desperate.” And not just their seven children — the Luus brought along extended family, loaning three uncles and numerous extended family the funds necessary for escape.
They paid extra — all in gold, as the currency was by then worthless — to ensure everyone was on the upper deck. Simple inland boats used mostly on the Saigon River, the holds were barely suitable for carrying any cargo, much less the human kind. During the escape, Vinh and his older sisters were separated from their parents and placed below deck. “This is a rickety old fishing boat,” Vinh remembers. “The smell of engine oil and saltwater down there — I passed out. When I woke up, I was completely naked. Literally, I was marinated in that engine oil, saltwater mixture.”
Eventually reunited with his parents on deck, his mother’s first concern was, “Where are your clothes?” Vinh’s infectious smile lights up his face as he gestures comically. “I’m like, ‘Mom, how am I!’ Come to find out later she had sewn gold necklaces and bracelets into our clothes to live off of at the refugee camp.”
Their ship floated in the South China Sea for nine terrifying days, struggling with broken engines, faulty navigation, seasickness, crowded conditions and little food. The passengers worked to stabilize the craft during storms, moving from port to starboard in an effort to avoid capsizing on the rough seas. Vinh remembers being so weak, he doubts he would have lived had they not made landfall when they did. One of his 2-year-old cousins died on the boat, as did his paternal grandfather. Their bodies were thrown overboard.
“After I reunited with my parents on the boat, I sat next to my dad. I don’t know when my grandfather died on the trip, but my dad, he was just bawling. I didn’t know why, and I cried with him. But now, looking back, I know why — either his father passed away, or he didn’t think that we were gonna make it.”
The boat landed on an isolated Indonesian island, where they remained for almost three months. Their boat disintegrated the day after landfall. Discovered by the island’s inhabitants, they were eventually moved to a more official camp.
Luu family at the island refugee camp.
“The first island we were on, it was like what you pay to go to now. It was like paradise. The men built huts out of coconut leaves,” Vinh says. They spent the next three months in the second, larger camp before being moved to Galang Refugee Camp, where they would be processed for relocation. The latter two camps were rife with disease. Vinh remembers being sick throughout, the family living in what amounted to a cardboard box.
Tote bag with the family’s official refugee case number.
He has a reminder of the camps preserved on one of the few family heirlooms to have survived the escape, a black leather tote bag. Marked on the bag and still visible is the family’s official refugee case number, which was used for everything in the camps, from housing to meals. It’s engraved in Vinh’s mind as well, a five-digit number he’ll never forget. He says it twice, first in Vietnamese and then in English — 62291.
Their stay in the camps was prolonged, since the Luus were determined to wait until space restrictions allowed for two conditions: that they go to America, and that they go together. Ultimately a church in Gastonia, North Carolina, sponsored the family. Vinh doesn’t remember much from his first sight of America, but he does remember his first days in Gastonia.
“We had a beautiful snowstorm. I ran outside barefoot — and came right back in,” he says and laughs at the thought of his cold-footed scamper.
That contagious grin is as etched on Vinh’s face as his family’s case number is on the leather bag. Starting school in Gastonia, he couldn’t speak the language. “I was pretty fortunate. We had a teacher’s assistant and she devoted a lot of time helping me. I was fortunate to have wonderful teachers growing up. They had an incredible, long-lasting impact on my life,” he says, his eyes beaming with gratitude.
Left: Vinh and his friends, Jason Jones and Dennis Muldowney.
Right: Vinh with his American mom and dad, Kathy and Jim Muldowney.
It didn’t hurt that he’s incredibly smart. It’s the first thing his close friend, Jason Jones, noticed about him. “The first time I heard his name was in algebra. Every time we had a test, our algebra teacher would announce who got a 100. She’d call out, ‘John Smith and Vinh Luu made a hundred.’ And then the next test, ‘Amy made a hundred and Vinh Luu made a hundred.’ And I was thinking, ‘Who is this Vinh Luu guy?’”
Despite having been in the country only a few years and still learning a new language, Vinh tried his hand at anything and everything. Jones produces their 1989 high school yearbook as proof. While keeping excellent grades and working as a grocery bagger at Food Lion, Vinh’s smiling face appears throughout the volume. Jones laughs and taps the Quiz Bowl Team image lightly. “Even though his English was bad, every week he would come and we would ask questions. And even though that was not his strength, he still wanted to learn; he still wanted to participate; he still wanted to just do it. That’s Vinh,” he says.
The two friends take trips together every few years. One took them to Las Vegas, where they elected to try something other than gambling on the strip. They rented bikes to ride the Red River Canyon, a challenging 30-mile trip. As the experienced cyclist, Jones could tell Vinh was struggling on the uphill, hot desert route. Every time he checked on him, Vinh’s reply was a quavering, “I’m O-O-O-K,” right up to the moment he dismounted and heaved his morning’s breakfast at the side of the road.
Jones wanted to call “a paddy wagon, or 911,” but Vinh wouldn’t hear of it. “And we finished that 30-mile ride. I couldn’t believe it — but that’s just the kind of guy Vinh is.”
Vinh’s older sister married and headed to San Francisco at the end of his junior year. His family decided to move with the newlyweds. Vinh went out that summer but found himself homesick for North Carolina. “There’s a big Asian community out there” he says, “and this is pretty funny, but I started school there, and I couldn’t find American kids. It was all Asian kids. And I was homesick. ‘Where are my American kids to hang out with?’” He laughs. His parents agreed to let him move home to Gastonia, where he stayed with his friend Dennis Muldowney’s family for senior year before enrolling at N.C. State.
His “American mom and dad,” Kathy and Jim Muldowney, say he’s been part of the family ever since. Jim gestures to a large photograph on the living room wall of their Raleigh home — a beautiful family portrait of children and grandchildren at the beach for a Thanksgiving reunion. Jim points to Vinh in the center of the frame. “That’s our family.”
“I joke he gets adopted by about 20 people a year,” Jones says of Vinh’s ability to make friends and create family. When an elderly neighbor mentions their worries about the long drive to a family wedding in Florida, Vinh volunteers to chauffeur them. A 90-year-old neighbor’s son visits regularly from out of state, and Vinh delivers him to and from the airport, refusing payment. A neighbor posts on the NextDoor app looking for assistance and Vinh answers the ad, generating another close bond.
Left: Vinh and his family.
Right:Vinh and his parents.
As the oldest son, Vinh still maintains his family role as patriarch despite the nearly 3,000 miles separating him from his West Coast family. For him, there are no passing acquaintances — every relationship sparks a long and meaningful connection. Jones remarks fondly that although “Vinh’s never married, I don’t know anybody that has as big a family as he does.”
After graduating from N.C. State, Vinh began a long career at Ericsson Telecommunications, working in the Research Triangle. During the ’90s a new co-worker arrived from Iran, a political refugee who relied on Vinh for his advice and guidance. Years and a few out of state relocations later, the two stay in touch. Vinh’s a good mentor for anyone, but particularly for those seeking to build a new life.
“Assimilate,” he says, passing along his best advice. “Your roots and everything, it’s very important to carry on. But the faster you assimilate, the better off you are. And there’s nothing wrong with that, because this is your new life. And work hard. There are so many opportunities here, people don’t realize.”
While the family was blessed to find a welcoming community in Gastonia, they met with their share of challenges. Vinh still remembers the time a group threw rocks at their home, shattering windows before beating a hasty retreat. The experiences of his early years — a house fire in Vietnam that claimed the life of an older sister and his family’s terrifying escape from Saigon — could have been a struggle to overcome, the stuff of mental anguish.Vinh mentions that at one time he suffered from sleep paralysis, a sensation of being conscious but unable to move before waking, evoking terror and a sense of powerlessness. But Vinh has a superpower of his own, a buoyant nature and deep connection to others through simple, genuine kindness.
“It’s much different now than in the ’80s when we came here. People are more knowledgeable about things outside the U.S. and Americans are very — they care,” he says. “So, these refugees that end up here, I think they’re gonna be well taken care of. There’s hope.”
After Ericsson closed its R&D section in the Triangle, Vinh Luu’s expertise brought him to the Sandhills in 2016 to work as a contractor on mobile wireless technology for U.S. Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. He feels as though he’s come full circle.
“You know, you have the Americans who went into Vietnam and fought for the South Vietnamese, us. And now, I’m doing work that protects the troops — keeps them safe, and America too, in that respect. It’s neat when I think about it. It’s more than a job, you’re actually protecting America.”
Service may be his profession, but his hobby is people. “I do a lot of stuff for some older folks that need help. I don’t have an exciting life,” he says with characteristic humor.
His friend Jason Jones goes to the heart of the matter. “Vinh is a good example of what America should be about — and has been about. This is why we are a country of immigrants, and this is why it is a dream.” The dream expressed by Martin Luther King Jr., “that every man is heir to a legacy of dignity and worth.”
It is an inheritance Vinh Luu earns every day.PS
Aberdeen resident Amberly Glitz Weber is an Army veteran and freelance writer. She’s proud to live in a country where there are Vinh Luus.
In June of 1865, two-and-a-half years after President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, more than 2,000 soldiers of the 13th U.S. Army Corps arrived in Galveston, Texas. Led by Maj. Gen. Gordon Granger, the troops marched through Galveston reading General Order No. 3 at numerous locations, including their headquarters, the courthouse, and at what is now the Reedy Chapel-AME Church. The order informed all Texans that, in accordance with a Proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves were free.
One year later, on June 19, 1866, the formerly enslaved people of Galveston celebrated a year of freedom with the Juneteenth holiday, a name derived by blending the words “June” and “nineteenth.” Also known as Freedom Day, Juneteenth is believed to be the oldest African American holiday, and currently 49 of the 50 U.S. states and the District of Columbia — in addition to the federal government — recognize Juneteenth as either a holiday or ceremonial holiday and a day of observance.
Juneteenth celebrations include picnics, rodeos, barbecues, parades, and readings of the works of Black authors like Ralph Ellison, whose posthumously published second novel is titled Juneteenth. Mitch Capel will host his second Juneteenth celebration this year at Cardinal Park. The Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Committee at Sandhills Community College will also host its second Juneteenth celebration this year.
Kim Wade
Educator and Community Activist
I can only imagine the mixture of overwhelming emotions felt on June 19, 1865, when slaves in Galveston, Texas, heard U.S. Maj. Gen. Gordon Granger read the Executive Order of the United States, that all slaves are free.
When reflecting on that day, once the slaves felt safe to react, I imagine them running, jumping, dancing and shouting with joy. I’m certain many fell to their knees and praised God for answering their prayers. I can feel their tears of relief and understand their fear and uncertainty — including the PTSD effects so many acquired after experiencing years of inconceivable abuse and separation from family.
To me, Juneteenth marks that moment in history when the dynamic for many slaves began to shift, for the first time in their lives, to being acknowledged as a human. We became more than humanlike plantation cattle. It is one of the original landmarks of unlimited possibilities for the formerly enslaved.
Juneteenth is Independence Day for African Americans because it marks a documented date when the last group of slaves across the nation finally got the news.
My family and I celebrate Juneteenth by attending festivals or hosting cookouts and now family reunions. I remember learning about President Abraham Lincoln freeing the slaves, but this portion of history was not something I was taught in school. Like many baby boomers, we learned most of our Black history through the grapevine of relatives, Black media and historians in our community.
One of the many personal stories about some of my ancestors becoming free slaves, documented in UNC-Chapel Hill historical archives, includes family members here in Moore County owning so much land they donated some of it to build what was known as a formal school for Negroes. That property is presently mapped as part of Hoke County. They were industrious enough to use the pine trees on their property to operate a lucrative turpentine business. Some of the same family’s offspring migrated to predominately Black Rosewood, Florida, where a racial massacre took place in 1923. These are the types of stories we share to honor the resourcefulness of our ancestors.
Every African American across this county and country has so much history about their ancestors we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Juneteenth, declared a federal holiday, will help document and create a platform for many of those treasured conversations for generations to come. It will not only include the story about slaves in Galveston, it will lead to many personal stories of the enslaved and their descendants throughout America.
Juneteenth is a time for all Americans to gather and celebrate African American history and culture. Together we get to reflect how far America has come and how much further we plan to go, despite the obstacles in our path. For those of us who embrace different cultures and love learning about everyone’s uniqueness and our different journeys, it’s an exciting time to be alive.
Danny Hayes
House of Fish Owner and Chef
Juneteenth wasn’t taught or celebrated in the school system where I was educated. I wasn’t aware of Juneteenth, the meaning of that day, or what actually occurred until about 15 years ago, setting me off on a quest for knowledge and understanding. Now that I know something about this incredible holiday, I choose to celebrate with food. The seafood dishes I will serve on the Saturday before Juneteenth will be inspired by what my ancestors would have had. It’s an acknowledgement that I stand on the shoulders of people who paid the price for me to live my dream.
The poem “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou speaks to how I feel about Juneteenth, especially two lines in the final stanza:
Bringing the gift my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
Diana Turner-Forte
Teaching Artist in Dance, Reiki Master and Holistic Health Practitioner
Juneteenth represents another day to express gratitude to a higher source for being alive and having the opportunity to share my passion for creative expression. It’s a day to celebrate freedom, not just for African Americans but for all of humanity. Every milestone in history is a step forward and should be appreciated.
My journey as a classical ballet dancer occurred during a matinee performance at Mershon Auditorium in Columbus, Ohio, when I was mesmerized by a live performance of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s Fall River Legend. I received the kiss of destiny and was lured into the program by the craftsmanship of the dancers, the synchronicity of movement to music, and the lighting and stage sets.
A few weeks later I was on a plane to study at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet School to be molded into a professional ballet dancer. It was in Canada, through the rigorous, disciplined daily ritual of mental and physical training, where my technique was refined and my awareness of classical lines, flexibility and physical form were honed. I was transformed into an artist and began my professional performing career with the Chicago Ballet in 1974.
In addition to Juneteenth, another 19th century milestone was the 1846 premiere of African American dancer George Washington Smith in the role of Albrecht with Mary Ann Lee in the first American production of the ballet Giselle in his hometown. Smith acquired his skills as a ballet dancer from studying with visiting European teachers in Philadelphia, a thriving arts hub at that time.
Trailblazers are driven by faith, passion and courage. They are always looking past the horizon with an innate knowing of potential opportunities. They are compelled to continue their journeys regardless of what others say or do. Friedrich Nietzsche speaks to this idea: “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
Racial, economic or educational obstacles are simply provocations for visionaries to take great strides forward aligned with their higher purpose. The voices of Black, Indigenous, people of color, women, healers, poets and artists are inevitably inclusive — filled with wisdom and clarity — and yet often end up being the most maligned contributors of a civilization.
Ideally Juneteenth will evolve into a celebration of American freedom, truth-telling, and multicultural community events in which citizens become more awake, spiritually grounded, and together seek to forge paths that offer meaning and hope to future generations.
Fallon Brewington
Chief Executive Officer Boys and Girls Club of the Sandhills
Growing up, I never really knew what Juneteenth was and what it symbolized. I honestly got the best explanation and understanding of it from the ABC show black-ish. If you haven’t seen it, I encourage you to watch it whether you are just learning about it or have known and celebrated it for years.
What Juneteenth personifies to me is yet another momentous day that I am proud of my heritage and history as a Black woman in America. In my family, we were raised to know how the strength and perseverance of our ancestors helped shape and mold us into resilient, powerful, proud people, and to take pride in the the color of our skin and what it means to be in it. It is a sacred legacy, to do whatever it takes to ensure the generations that follow have it better than we do, just as my ancestors endured injustice to pave a better way for me.
I spend time with my children on all holidays. It’s important to have those family traditions that they can reflect on when they get older and have their own families. It’s the same for Juneteenth. We celebrate by participating in various community events in Moore County, or we may go back to where I was raised in Richmond County. This year we will Celebrate at Cardinal Park.
My parents made sure we knew we were going to do more and have more opportunities than they did. It was their mission to ensure that their children would have the ability to do and experience just about anything we wanted. I now know how much of a sacrifice that was emotionally, mentally, physically, financially and even spiritually. I can see this as a parent trying to do the same thing for my own children, as well as the youth in our community. It’s the greatest gift to experience the fruits and rewards of their labor in my life, in my children’s lives.
Ultimately, I believe that’s the essence and spirit of Juneteenth. All of us, especially Black Americans, are the fruit and rewards of our ancestors’ labor and what they endured.
Mitch Capel
Storyteller, Artist, Actor, Poet
Juneteenth is a day of reflection on the struggles, hardships and injustices suffered by our ancestors who were held in captivity for over 400 years. It was a day of jubilation for the descendants of the 250,000 still enslaved people who finally received the news 2 1/2 years after the Emancipation Proclamation that the dream of freedom was a reality.
The historical legacy of Juneteenth shows the value of never giving up hope in uncertain times. Now that it is a federally recognized holiday, the level of acceptance and awareness will hopefully be accelerated. The history of this country has been distorted while being taught, and it is disheartening that there is now an effort to sugar-coat even more of the truth about this nation. If we ever want to have an honest accounting of who we are in America, we can’t pick and choose what we wish to remember. There is an African proverb that says: “Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse.”
In 1872, in Galveston, Texas, those formally held in bondage saved $1,000 to purchase a piece of land where they could celebrate Juneteenth because of laws barring people of color the use of public facilities. Ninety years later, in 1962, my father, Felton Capel Sr., purchased acreage in Pinebluff where folks could celebrate, recreate and gather because of residual effects of those same laws — renamed segregation — that were in place. The Cardinal Park has become synonymous with good wholesome fun for all communities in Moore and surrounding counties.
I have celebrated Juneteenth over the years telling historical stories around the country at festivals, museums and other venues where the day was being acknowledged. Last year we decided to celebrate Juneteenth at Cardinal Park in Pinebluff in an effort to bring about reflection and reconciliation in our communities. It was a joyously wonderful gathering of an estimated 750 people. This year we’re expecting the same, if not more.
One of my father’s, and my own, favorite stories is by the great African American poet laureate Paul Laurence Dunbar and is titled “Goin’ Back.” I love this poem because it captures the migration after emancipation and the climate 30 years later. My father loved it because he too left the South and moved to New York at an early age seeking a better life only to return soon after, realizing his best opportunity was where his roots were. Right here in Moore County.PS
When Bill and Mandy Berg moved from Charlotte to Pinehurst in 2018, Mandy’s goal was to create a “happy place” — light, bright, uncluttered, cheerful. The tools were at hand: Mandy’s profession is staging houses to look their best for prospective buyers. But this job had moving parts. The décor must be elegant for entertaining yet practical, given a family with two young children, a huge dog, a cat and all the attendant paraphernalia.
Mandy pulled it off, complete with white carpet in the bedrooms, off-white upholstery in living room and den, and vanilla walls throughout.
Not that anybody would notice a few muddy footprints or sticky fingers with all eyes on the view. The Bergs’ three acres slope down to Lake Inverness at the Country Club of North Carolina (CCNC) where a brood of ducklings paddle through the water lilies and a turtle climbs onto the grassy shoreline. Herons, largemouth bass and an eagle complete the wildlife backdrop. Sunsets can be spectacular from a deck stretching the length of the house, equipped for cooking, eating, relaxing, playing.
Naturally, this happy place, built in 1982 for a furniture executive, brings the view inside through windows and tall sliding glass doors . . . everywhere. In fact, if the 1 1/2-story house with slightly Asian lines, four roof pitches covered in wood shakes and a whiff of Mid-Century Modern was seeking a name, The Abode of Sliding Doors might work.
A door not facing the lake reveals a petite tea garden walled off for privacy, and the children’s upstairs bedroom doors open onto balconies. Even the laundry room has a view. The effect is absolutely mesmerizing, rain or shine, winter or summer, with dogwood, hydrangeas and azaleas splashing color onto the exterior gray longboards.
Mandy knew Pinehurst from her grandparents, who lived at CCNC. Her parents came up from Florida to play golf. After deciding to leave Charlotte, Mandy and Bill narrowed their house hunt to Pinehurst village or CCNC. At the time nothing in the village quite suited. Despite the view, even this house had its drawbacks, for Mandy at least. Every floor except the tiled kitchen was covered in thick white carpet. And every wall wore wallpaper. Bill, however, experienced the wow factor and, as a recreational handyman/renovator, he identified the projects. And the floorplan allowed the family to spread out, or come together. After some budget tweaking, they moved in, hired a contractor and pitched in.
Up came most of the carpet, replaced by whitewashed oak. Off came all the wallpaper, leaving some walls in need of repair. An upstairs playroom for Emma, 8, and Harry, 10, was squeezed under the eaves. After they are grown, it’s destined to become a guest bedroom. Then Bill had an idea: Why not cover an open space near the loft with strong rope netting secured to a frame, creating something like a hammock, where the kids (or grown-ups) could bounce around or simply peer down into the den?
“I was out of town when they built the hammock,” Mandy says. “I wasn’t that happy . . . it compromises privacy.”
But it sets the house apart from every other at CCNC. And the kids love it.
Bill also constructed and installed mantels for the double-faced fireplace, built the outdoor firepit, and created a desk to fill a pass-through between the living room and den. He framed the loft and installed a new kitchen backsplash. “I’m a hands-on kinda guy,” Bill says. “I got it from my dad, who was a This Old House kinda guy.”
His next project: docks, since “The lake is my favorite part of living here.”
.
The layout does retain some of its 1980s features. Back then, locating the master suite on the main floor was coming into fashion, especially for retirees. Turn left from the wide foyer with its handsome twin Chinese chests lacquered white and, beyond the TV den, the master suite opens out onto the deck, where railings have been removed to further expose the view. The living room is in use, flowing into a dining area with a spectacular white trestle table and molded Plexiglas chairs. Hanging low over the table is a chandelier more Star Wars than Phantom of the Opera.
Turn right from the foyer and find the kitchen — a surprise in an age of glamorous food preparation centers. No Sub-Zero, no farm sink, no island, no Viking or Wolf blast-furnace ranges. Instead, there are classic pine cupboards and a dinette glassed in on three sides. Except for new countertops and some minor adjustments, the L-shaped kitchen was left intact, at least for now. Mandy has plans. Beyond the kitchen is a modern butler’s pantry with laundry equipment, wine fridge, another sliding door and storage cabinets. This mixture of new and recently done (in white and sandy beige) adds to the retro charm.
Mandy’s signature hue, however, is blue — more bright navy than Carolina pastel. Bill also favors blue. Navy against white is everywhere, splashed on rugs, sewn onto pillows, woven into dinette chairs, dominating a collection of ginger jars. The dining room sideboard is lacquered a shiny dark royal, as is a writing desk in the master bedroom. Even the art, some commissioned, other pieces collected, explores shades of blue.
Ah . . . the art. That makes Mandy happiest. “It speaks to me,” she says. She planned white walls and retained some white carpet so the art would “pop.” Several paintings come from local artists, including Kristin Groner. Abstracts are both framed and flush-mounted. Mandy has an eye for placement — an art in itself. In the dining room a single painting, spotlighted by a recessed fixture, adds drama to the simplest meal. Just as dramatic is an old, stained, full-sized North Carolina state flag that Bill found on eBay and mounted over Harry’s bed, while Emma’s room requires a bean bag chair and sparkly princess-pink accents.
Each child’s room has its own small bathroom, beyond a blessing for teenagers.
“We’ve done a lot with a little, here . . . built a lot of value,” Bill observes.
Contemporary architecture and furnishings are rarely classified “romantic.”
The exception might be The Abode of Sliding Doors, sitting at the end of a narrow lane canopied by branches of tall trees, thick with new leaves. The sun shining through turns the canopy into a cathedral. Beyond, the grass slopes toward the lake, where two Adirondack chairs await sunset viewers.
But does the conglomerate create a happy house?
“The color, design and art make me happy,” Mandy says. “This is a joyful place.”PS
“Actually, pine trees were the reason peach orchards, as we knew them in the 1930s, ’40s, and ’50s, went away.”
It was 1997 and we were sitting in a semi-circle in the living room of Clyde Auman’s home listening to him reminisce about the old days of peach farming. The “we” was the latest crop of the Moore County Leadership Institute, a group of about 15 diverse residents of the county. Sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce, our group met once a month to tour a place important to the success of our county. It could be a historical location like the Bryant House, or something as integral to our economy as its peach farmers. Mr. Auman was, without a doubt, the patriarch of peach farming. His orchards were famous throughout the state.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Auman continued, “before the loblolly and longleaf pines got so tall, the frosty winds of early spring would blow right on through the orchards not harming the peaches. But then the tall pines stopped the circulating winds and allowed frost to settle, and that killed not only the current crop, but later even the trees.
“Right now, on our farm, we do just about as much with pine straw as we do with peaches.” He chuckled. “Can’t make it on one end, we try it on the other. We have a few peach farmers, here and yonder, but nothing like the heyday when the region was known throughout the country.”
Mr. Auman was in his 80s when he spoke with us and, as we left his house to get on the bus and head back to Southern Pines, I hung back from the group.
“You might remember my father,” I said to him as we stood at the back door of his home.
“Who is your father?” he asked.
“Monroe Bryant. He was superintendent of the ice plant in Aberdeen.”
“I do remember him. A good man. I hope he’s doing all right. I’m sure he’s retired by now.”
“Unfortunately, Dad passed away at an early age.”
The folks had boarded the bus and were waiting on me.
“He thought a lot of you and your peaches.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your dad. He and his ice plant played a tremendous part in our peach industry. We need to get together. Come back out sometime and let’s visit.”
When I got back on the bus I sat behind the driver. On our way out to the main road, he looked over his shoulder at me. “You got along well with Mr. Auman,” he said. “Must have some history there.”
“Yeah, he knew my father back in the day when peaches were king.”
“Your dad in the peach business?”
“In a way. Without the ice plant my dad ran, the peaches would have had a hard time getting to the markets up north and out west.”
By now two or three of our group had tuned in to our conversation. One asked the natural question. “What’s an ice plant? I’ve seen those ice boxes beside the road but surely that’s not it.”
I tried to give a short history of an industry that’s as extinct as the dodo bird.
“Think about a giant cooler,” I said, “one about the size of a football field and about eight or 10 stories high full of blocks of ice, each weighing between 350 and 400 pounds. That ice was used to cool down railroad cars carrying fruit from our region, like peaches, or vegetables from down in Florida, all heading north or west.”
“And that giant cooler is no longer there?” one of the ladies asked.
“Yep, just like the old iceboxes before electric refrigerators. That’s kinda what happened to the ice plant when refrigerated rail cars came along. It was the tallest building in the county until it burned down in the late ’60s.”
I thought about that conversation the other day when I rode by the dirt lane that used to lead to the ice plant. I was on the way back from Burney’s Hardware and decided to take a walk down the railroad tracks to see if I could find the former site of the plant.
I parked out of the way next to a vacant lot, locked the car and headed south. It was only about a half mile walk and I made it in no time. Tall longleaf pines were growing where the major ice storage room used to be, and the hole in the sand that was the engine room was thick in weeds and briars about head high. I stayed on the tracks and did a cursory inspection of the remains of the place that played such a major part in my early years.
The recollection of those days came back clearly. My dad was the head honcho of all the doings around the massive plant, and I remembered my own participation in what has turned into a dead industry.
City Products Inc., the corporate head of ice plants from Miami, Florida, to Aberdeen, North Carolina, had massive ice factories in Florida, including Miami, Belle Glade, Lakeland, Sanford and Jacksonville. There was also a plant in Florence, South Carolina. The Aberdeen location was the last stop on the way north and west. The locations of the ice plants were built close to major railroad switching yards, at just the right distances, to service the needs for massive freight requirements of railroads hauling perishable fruit and vegetables across the country.
As a young fellow, I naturally hung out with Dad as much as I could, and he often let me accompany him as he made the rounds of the peach packing houses in Moore County and the surrounding area. For me, it was fun — I got to eat all the peaches I wanted. Then, as I grew older, it provided much-needed college funds. I worked a couple of summers at the location in Aberdeen and later spent a summer at the plant in Lakeland, where Dad became manager after the Aberdeen plant was closed.
Often when summer employment came up among friends, I’d try to explain my job pulling ice. The ice was made in attached cans that would hold enough water to make a block that weighed 400 pounds, sort of like the ice in an ice tray. The cans were submerged in a refrigerated brine tank about half an acre in size. The metal cans were attached, 10 to a group. My job was to hoist the ice out of the tank, using a crane, and walk the cans down to a 10-foot dip tank, full of water, which would free the frozen cubes from the cans. Then, still using the crane, I’d lower the cans, now with loose ice blocks, to a swivel tray that would allow the ice to become free and slide on a conveyor into the storage room. I didn’t know what boredom really meant until I began pulling ice all day. But, hey, the job paid minimum wage — a dollar an hour — and that went a long way to provide spending money for college.
It’s remarkable how well the entire network of plants from Florida to North Carolina meshed to refrigerate rail cars traveling with highly perishable vegetables and fruits.
The plant was built in 1928 and the business was huge during the height of the Great Depression, when there was no shortage of laborers. Each plant location had bunkhouses, kitchens and dining halls to house traveling workers who would move as needed from one location to another following the rail cars north.
Platforms running parallel to the railroad tracks enabled workmen to ice 50 railcars at a time using just the right formula of ice and rock salt to cool the fruit or vegetables to the correct temperature and get them to their destination fresh and unspoiled.
Not long ago someone asked me what I remembered most about the ice plant. I guess it would have to be the immensity, the sheer monumental size of the major storage room, the huge electric motors that pulled the compressors that cooled and refrigerated the brine tanks and ice storage rooms, and in its heyday, the number of people it took to make it all work — and how few it took to close it all down.
Most of all, I remember my father. The endless hours he committed to making sure everything was done just right, never, ever doing things to just get by. He led by example, and I’m a better man for the experience of working with him.
Now the ice plant is just a hole in the sand where tall pines grow. The memories are all that’s still eight stories high. Most folks don’t even know it existed.
But it was here and what it did made a difference. In the process it even taught one kid about the world of real labor, sweat, the value of a dollar, and responsibility. A pretty cool job.PS
Tom Bryant is a Southern Pines resident, a lifelong outdoorsman and, in his youth, a reliable summer employee.
Judy Rankin reflects on golf, the Bells and Pine Needles
By Ron Green Jr.
Judy Rankin is on the road again, making the familiar 117-mile drive from her home in Lubbock, Texas, where she is near her children, to her other home in Midland, Texas, where she lived for many years.
That’s why when you ask Rankin where she lives, she says, “I wish I knew.”
One thing helps the miles roll away: an apple fritter and a cup of black coffee.
“I love apple fritters. You know how everyone loves Krispy Kreme doughnuts? Well, I love apple fritters,” Rankin says over the phone, having secured her morning snack for the ride.
Rankin, 77, is an elemental thread in the fabric of American golf, her success as a player followed by a nearly 40-year broadcasting career, setting her apart in a game made better by her contributions. Through grit and grace, Rankin had a Hall of Fame playing career, then enhanced it through her television work, sharing the gospel of golf in her comfortable and enlightening way.
When the U.S. Women’s Open is played in early June at Pine Needles Lodge and Golf Club, part of what the championship has become is because of Rankin and what she has done for the game. She is a living example of leaving something (in this case, golf) better than she found it.
Rankin also has a history with Pine Needles, which is hosting its fourth Women’s Open, but that doesn’t make her unusual. Almost everyone who came across the late, great Peggy Kirk Bell and her husband, Warren “Bullet” Bell, were left with a piece of the place and its people. Pine Needles is not just a destination, it’s a state of mind. That’s the lingering influence of Bell and her husband, an enduring legacy embraced and nurtured by their children and their families.
“There was something about Peggy,” Rankin says. “She was a magnet with people. There was a way about her.
“She was never a big, affectionate hugger, but she was affectionate in her way. I don’t know how you couldn’t like Peggy. She was such a wonderful role model for so many different things in the game. I admired her a lot.”
Whether Bell was cruising through the pine-shrouded streets in her authentic London taxi, her 1928 Model A convertible or her 1964 Lincoln Continental — just to name a few — or giving impromptu lessons to guests having a meal at Pine Needles (Bell often wore a golf glove inside to make a teaching point), she was a force of nature, and the Women’s Opens played at Pine Needles are a nod to her as much as they are to the Donald Ross design hosting the championship.
Bell’s only major championship victory came in the 1949 Titleholders, a tournament that was played for the final time in 1972 — at Pine Needles. Sandra Palmer beat Rankin and Mickey Wright, and the memory remains with Rankin.
“I think Bullet had it in for us because they made us play from so far back,” Rankin says. “The golf course was so long. That’s what I mostly remember. We swore on the 18th tee he had the markers back so far that your right foot was on a downslope. That became part of the lore.”
Rankin was an exceptional player, earning low amateur honors as a 15-year-old in the 1960 U.S. Women’s Open and a year later landing on the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine.
She won 26 times on the LPGA Tour and, in the process, became the first player to win $100,000 in a season. Rankin was named player of the year twice and three times won the Vare Trophy for lowest scoring average. She has been the captain of two U.S. Solheim Cup teams, both victorious, and was inducted into the World Golf Hall of Fame in 2000. Her contributions to the game were recognized by the USGA when it presented her with the prestigious Bob Jones Award in 2002.
Since 1984, Rankin has been in the television booth, covering both men’s and women’s professional golf, earning a reputation as one of the best analysts in the business. It has allowed her to stay close to the game and appreciate its evolution.
“I think (women’s professional golf is) in the very best place it’s ever been. There have been years and periods of time when it was great, but right now it’s like their time has come,” Rankin says. “Along with that is an influx of a ridiculous level of talent and depth. Women’s golf is fortunate that people are now recognizing it. That’s the driving force.
“If you ever played at a high level you stand in awe at what some of the players today can do. I defy anybody to watch the Korda sisters (Jessica and Nelly) play golf and not walk away with their jaw dropped.”
Like seemingly everything else, golf has changed in recent years, and the women’s game is no exception. The LPGA Tour is truly global, and the introduction of the Augusta National Women’s Amateur was like a booster shot to an already growing portion of the game.
Distance is a primary determinant in the women’s game, just as it is for the men. Rankin says it’s basic math — the longer a player can hit it, the more advantage they have going into greens with shorter clubs.
That’s not all that matters, but it has shifted the dynamic in recent years. So has the way players approach the game today. They are better prepared physically, mentally and through technology.
“The best example is Augusta,” Rankin says. “I don’t know if 30 years ago players in the amateur ranks would have had the talent or the composure to go play some of their best golf at Augusta. We saw (Jennifer) Kupcho do it, and now this 16-year old (Anna Davis) lit it up. That’s the kind of difference in the game and the difference in the young golfers.
“Maybe more of them know where it is they want to go and what they want to do because of the success of the LPGA Tour. If you go back into my time, it was not a very reasonable thing to do to turn pro. A lot of that drive and a lot of that composure is due to the LPGA and its success. A lot of people have seen them, and it’s an attractive place to be.
“Instead of being intimidated, they are inspired.”
As Rankin rolls on toward Midland, her personal horizon has widened. When she called the Chevron Championship in early April — won by Kupcho — it was her final major championship in a television booth. She is scheduled to work three more events this year but beyond those, she has nothing planned.
Rankin plays a little golf these days, rarely more than nine holes. She recently underwent surgery on her left hand related to Dupuytren’s contraction, an affliction that required surgery in her right hand about 15 years ago.
“This was all my choice. The Golf Channel has been great to me,” Rankin says. “I don’t know what would be down the road next year, but if there is any work at all, it would be very little. I’m 77, so it’s time. I had 25 years or whatever on the PGA Tour and I feel a little bit like a historian for the LPGA Tour. I will stay close to it. Maybe I’ll do a few other things, I don’t know.
“I felt like the time was right and I haven’t really looked back.”
Not with the road between Lubbock and Midland in front of her.PS
Ron Green Jr. is a Charlotte native and a senior writer for Global Golf Post. He’s covered the game for over 30 years.
Used to determine whether a user is included in an A / B or Multivariate test.
18 months
_ga
ID used to identify users
2 years
_gali
Used by Google Analytics to determine which links on a page are being clicked
30 seconds
_ga_
ID used to identify users
2 years
_gid
ID used to identify users for 24 hours after last activity
24 hours
_gat
Used to monitor number of Google Analytics server requests when using Google Tag Manager
1 minute
_gac_
Contains information related to marketing campaigns of the user. These are shared with Google AdWords / Google Ads when the Google Ads and Google Analytics accounts are linked together.
90 days
__utma
ID used to identify users and sessions
2 years after last activity
__utmt
Used to monitor number of Google Analytics server requests
10 minutes
__utmb
Used to distinguish new sessions and visits. This cookie is set when the GA.js javascript library is loaded and there is no existing __utmb cookie. The cookie is updated every time data is sent to the Google Analytics server.
30 minutes after last activity
__utmc
Used only with old Urchin versions of Google Analytics and not with GA.js. Was used to distinguish between new sessions and visits at the end of a session.
End of session (browser)
__utmz
Contains information about the traffic source or campaign that directed user to the website. The cookie is set when the GA.js javascript is loaded and updated when data is sent to the Google Anaytics server
6 months after last activity
__utmv
Contains custom information set by the web developer via the _setCustomVar method in Google Analytics. This cookie is updated every time new data is sent to the Google Analytics server.
2 years after last activity
SourceBuster is used by WooCommerce for order attribution based on user source.
Name
Description
Duration
sbjs_current_add
Timestamp, referring URL, and entry page for your visitor’s current visit to your store
session
sbjs_migrations
Technical data to help with migrations between different versions of the tracking feature
session
sbjs_first
Traffic origin information for the visitor’s first visit to your store (only applicable if the visitor returns before the session expires)
session
sbjs_current
Traffic origin information for the visitor’s current visit to your store
session
sbjs_first_add
Timestamp, referring URL, and entry page for your visitor’s first visit to your store (only applicable if the visitor returns before the session expires)
session
sbjs_session
The number of page views in this session and the current page path
30 minutes
sbjs_udata
Information about the visitor’s user agent, such as IP, the browser, and the device type
.
