Ma Bell

The grace of a smooth takeaway

By Bill Fields

Peggy Kirk Bell loved to go fast whether piloting a plane, driving a car or riding a motorcycle, and to be sure there weren’t many females negotiating Midland Road on a Yamaha 100 in the early 1970s. She had plenty of pop on her golf shots as well, for many years teeing off from the tips on her beloved Pine Needles Lodge and Golf Club and holding her own with the men in her group, whether it was her husband, Warren “Bullet” Bell, or, later on, her sons-in-law Pat McGowan, a PGA Tour member, and Kelly Miller, a scratch amateur.

Because she was a skilled golfer, the clubhead speed came at the right time, of course, her movements as coordinated as holiday decorations at the White House. Bell’s smooth swing — in addition to her textbook grip and setup and full turn — fit the classic ideal: Without good timing, power isn’t worth a flip.

“I found it more of a challenge than any sport I’d tried,” Bell wrote of taking up the game at 17 in a 2001 memoir, The Gift of Golf: My Life With a Wonderful Game, with PineStraw contributor Lee Pace. “You simply couldn’t haul off and slam the ball like you would a softball.” When no less than Tommy Armour stresses the importance of a good waggle, and teaches it to you, as he did for Bell, that has a way of helping your rhythm.

Forty years ago, the Bells allowed our Pinecrest High School golf team to hit balls, yellow ones, with a “PROPERTY OF WARREN BELL” stamp, after school on the far end of the practice range — as many as we wanted, until we got tired or it got dark. Mrs. Bell usually was busy teaching a paying student, but occasionally this major championship-winning amateur, LPGA charter member and renowned instructor would check out the actions of me and my fellow Patriots, who possessed more enthusiasm than talent.

“Slow it down a little,” Bell might say, the accent of her native Ohio softened by decades of life in North Carolina, the cadence of her words echoing a nice takeaway. She was big on the basics — making sure the handle of the club rested in the fingers, not the palm, of the top hand; that your posture was good; that your feet aligned parallel to the ball like the railroad tracks that went through town. She was a firm believer that a building can’t be very tall without a strong foundation, and after one of those gratis drop-bys from Mrs. Bell, you inevitably played a bit better.

When Peggy Kirk Bell died at age 95 on Nov. 23, the day before Thanksgiving, many people could reach deep into a well of memories of this champion player who evolved into a wonderful teacher of the game. Both a local institution around the Sandhills — you knew her as the nice lady in the Lincoln convertible even if you knew nothing about golf — and a national treasure, for Bell the game wasn’t just a living but a passion. She shared that deep affection each time she gave a lesson or told a story about someone she had known in her full life, which included most of the finest players over several eras, celebrities and ordinary folks who savored a shot hit far and sure no matter if such an occasion were the rule or a happy exception.

“She had great patience, a lot of stamina, and she understood that the spirit of the game is a social experience,” Michael Hebron, a PGA Master Professional who taught with Bell at Pine Needles’ innovative “Golfaris,” told Golf World upon her passing. “People were comfortable coming back because they knew they were going to have fun.”

The best teachers are generous souls as Bell was, the largesse contrasting with her love of a bargain, which made her a favorite of the Taco Bell drive-thru. That the U.S. Women’s Open was contested three times (1996, 2001, 2007) at Pine Needles was a fitting tribute to how the Bell family had nurtured the Donald Ross gem through good times and bad. Less remembered is how Peggy and Bullet, at a financial loss, staged the 1972 Titleholders Championship, the women’s major she had won as an amateur in 1949 and that had not been played since 1966. Sandra Palmer won the event’s first and only final playing at Pine Needles, by a whopping 10 strokes over Judy Rankin and Mickey Wright.

Bell was active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes — she is pictured at a meeting of the Pinecrest chapter in one of my yearbooks — and her family gave area clergy playing privileges. The same courtesy was extended to Golf World editors when the magazine was based in Southern Pines, even if their life’s work wasn’t quite so serious. Local law enforcement officers got the wave, too, if the tee sheet wasn’t filled up. My dad, a policeman and deputy in Moore County, had a Pine Needles courtesy card in his wallet when he passed away in 1980.

In addition to winning the Titleholders at Augusta (Ga.) Country Club, which was more or less the Masters for women, Bell won the North and South Women’s Amateur and Ohio Women’s Amateur as well in 1949, the third straight year she had won her state title. By then she had played on the golf team at Rollins College, where she graduated with an education degree in 1943, and won the International Four-Ball in 1947 with the legendary Babe Didrikson Zaharias, a close friend and frequent golf partner. Zaharias was godmother to the Bells’ first child, Bonnie, born in 1954. The last round of golf Zaharias played in 1956 before dying of cancer at 45 was with Bell.

Turning pro after playing on the United States Curtis Cup team in 1950, the year that the LPGA was founded, Bell, then Peggy Kirk, got her LPGA charter member card on April 15, 1951, signed by Zaharias, the fledgling circuit’s president. Bell played full-time for a couple of years, augmenting meager prize money with plenty of exhibitions, flying herself to tournaments in a Cessna purchased for $8,000. She split her time between competing and instructing — it was definitely trial by error in her initial lesson tee efforts — after marrying Bullet, and they began operating Pine Needles in 1953.

With the addition of two more children, Peggy Ann in 1958, and Kirk in 1962, she traveled less and developed into one of the game’s finest teachers. Bell’s specialty was her unique week long golf schools for women at Pine Needles called the Golfaris, group lessons that combined first-rate instruction in a homey atmosphere but were foremost a testament to her energy and expertise.

Bell got many plaudits for her enduring contributions, from being inducted in seven halls of fame to receiving some of golf’s top distinctions. None was greater than the 1990 Bob Jones Award, the USGA’s top honor, for distinguished sportsmanship in golf. Near the end of Bell’s life, there had been lobbying in some quarters for her induction into the World Golf Hall of Fame.

Whether that happens or not, Bell’s legacy includes too many smiles to count, brighter than any trophy, from golfers for whom she made a difficult game just a little easier. No small feat, that, by a good sport and so much more.  PS

Coincidentally

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” — Albert Einstein

By Lee Pace

Another year dawns and the largesse of the Sandhills golf community continues to evoke awe and grace. Forty golf courses in a 15-mile radius, one USGA event coming in 2017, another on tap for 2019, an interesting and ambitious project to redesign Pinehurst No. 4 and create a new short course at Pinehurst set to commence this year. The populace revels in a golf-centric environment where at any point you’re liable to see a license plate like 4RT or WHIFF or GOLF’N or a pedestrian walking down a sidewalk, pronating his left wrist as if to make a solid move through the ball.

It has always fascinated and amused me to ponder the series of dominoes that fell over five years from 1895 to 1900 that allowed this “Accidental Resort” to sprout into reality. There was no big city next door to give birth to Pinehurst. There was no ocean or mountain range to make it an aesthetic or seasonable destination, no river to provide convenient access.

No, we have this “St. Andrews of American Golf” thanks to at least five unrelated but important dollops of happenstance.

— A chance encounter on a train in 1895.

James Tufts made his fortune in patenting, manufacturing and sales of apparatuses and syrups found in apothecary shops across the land and, as he neared the age of 60, turned his business operations over to subordinates. He was active in philanthropic work and sought on behalf of the Invalid Aid Society of Boston to locate a wintertime health resort for those suffering from consumption.

Col. Walker Taylor was a sharp businessman himself and had opened an insurance agency in Wilmington in 1866 following the Civil War. He traveled extensively throughout the Eastern Seaboard, and having a gregarious personality, was wont to introduce himself to perfect strangers. One day in 1895, pure happenstance landed Taylor and Tufts on the same train. They struck up a conversation, and Tufts explained his vision to Taylor.

Taylor, family legend has it, suggested that the train station in Southern Pines might be a good starting point for Tufts’ search for a site for his new resort. It was right on two of the nation’s major north-south transportation arteries — the railroad and U.S. Hwy. 1. There was cheap land available, and it was halfway between Boston and Florida. And thus Tufts did in fact search for land — and found 6,000 acres about five miles to the west of the train station in Southern Pines.

— An astute decision by Tufts to eschew the advice of a trusted aide that “golf is just a fad.”

At first golf was not part of the Pinehurst dossier, and visitors enjoyed activities such as horseback riding, dancing, recitals, carriage rides, cards and a croquet-like game called roque. But in the fall of 1897, Tufts learned that guests were hitting small rubber balls with wooden sticks around the dairy fields and, in the process, aggravating the cows. So he built a nine-hole golf course as a lark in 1898, enlisting the help of Dr. D. LeRoy Culver, a Southern Pines physician who was an avid golfer, had played in England and Scotland, and understood the gist of what a course should look like. But Tufts wasn’t sold on the game’s prospects and inquired of the manager of the Holly Inn, Allen Treadway, if he thought nine more holes would be a good idea.

“Save your money,” answered Treadway, who later would be elected as a Massachusetts congressional representative. “Golf is a fad and will never last.”

Tufts’ instincts and better advice from others in his circle convinced him otherwise, and soon he embarked on the expansion of the golf course to a full 18 holes.

— A fateful coin flip in the village of Dornoch, Scotland, in 1899.

Donald Ross was a 27-year-old employee at Royal Dornoch Golf Club and was in charge of maintaining the golf course, managing the caddies, organizing competitions, and building and repairing clubs. His boss was John Sutherland, the club “secretary,” i.e., general manager. One day a golfer visiting from Boston suggested to Ross that America was ripe for growing the sport of golf, and an ambitious expert in the game might do well to immigrate and carve his niche in the game’s expansion. Ross and Sutherland both took a fancy to the idea and decided to flip a coin — one goes to America, the other stays at home and runs the club at Dornoch.

Ross won the flip.

And so he set off to America.

“My mother and Mr. Sutherland’s daughter were great pals,” says Donald Grant, a lifelong Dornoch resident and club member. “They lived side-by-side growing up. I heard the story often. I have no reason to doubt its truth.”

— That it was Boston, not New York or Philadelphia or a dozen other cities, where Ross arrived in 1899.

Ross’ contact in America was Robert Willson, an astronomy professor at Harvard and a member at Oakley Country Club in the Boston suburb of Watertown. Upon arrival in Boston, Ross phoned Willson, visited his home, and soon Willson helped Ross find work at Oakley Country Club, which was located eight miles from Tufts’ home in Medford.

Now that Tufts had a full 18-hole course at Pinehurst and a vision for building more golf, he needed a golf professional to work during the October to spring season. He learned that Oakley had in its employ a sharp young Scotsman whose responsibilities were geared around the summer golf season — an ideal fit to go South in the winter. They met at Tufts’ home in Medford. Tufts hired Ross on the spot and Ross began his new assignment at Pinehurst in December 1900. He was busy at first making clubs, managing the caddies, giving lessons and organizing competitions. He also tried his hand at designing and building new golf holes.

— And that this ground in Moore County should be predominantly sand, prompting a serendipitous connection for Ross between Scotland and his new wintertime home situated 120 miles inland from the coast.

Millions of years ago, the Atlantic Ocean covered what is now dry land along the East Coast. During the Miocene Epoch (circa 20 million years ago), the ocean receded and left a strip of what is now ancient coastline and beach deposits. The Sandhills are part of that band some 30 miles across and 80 miles long. Tufts liked the land as he first found it because its sandy composition drained quickly and was thought to have health-giving benefits.

Pinehurst was perhaps not oceanside itself. But its location was a kissing cousin to the seashore. The word “links” can be traced to the Old English word for lean, hlinc, meaning “lean terrain formed by receding seas.” The ground was perfect for golf and Ross’s tastes. It provided, in essence, an “inland links” terrain; the earth was gently rolling and sandy. Rainwater flowed through the sandy soil at Dornoch; it did so as well in Pinehurst, allowing for a golf designer’s dream environment.

“He was particularly attracted to the soil conditions here, as they reminded him of the old links land at home,” Richard Tufts, James’ grandson, said years later. “Even our native wire grass seemed to remind him of the whins he knew in Scotland.”

What if Tufts had gotten off the train in Raleigh and chosen the heavy clay environment there? It might have had no attraction had Ross landed just an hour north.

And so the dominoes fell — Tufts debarks in Southern Pines, tweaks his vision to include golf, Ross and not Sutherland comes to Boston, and Ross turns Pinehurst’s sandy ground into an American golf nirvana that draws visitors from the population centers of the East, Midwest and Deep South. By 1919, Pinehurst had 72 holes of golf and was by far the nation’s foremost golf destination.

It all makes perfect sense and hearkens the immortal words of former baseball great Yogi Berra, himself a frequent visitor to Pinehurst from his home in New Jersey: “That’s too coincidental to be a coincidence.”  PS

Lee Pace has authored five books on the evolution of golf in the Sandhills, most recently The Golden Age of Pinehurst—The Story of the Rebirth of No. 2.

Wintry Mix

Without warning, you alter my day —

wanting more firewood before

it becomes soggier with morning snow.

I see no reason to disembark the sofa.

Horizontal before the fireplace,

I offer you a quilt that needs no tinder —

but your posture is stern and straight.

Rising, I moan like only I can, still unconvinced.

Children sled outside, asphalt’s black spine

revealed with each pass, down the block where

we sometimes stroll comfortable evenings,

or other everyday occasions when we leave,

yet return. Warm in a wool scarf I gave you,

you emerge smiling, extending leather gloves

to fend off spiders and splinters, and seize

some oak, encouraging me to hurry inside.

— Sam Barbee

from That Rain We Nee30

January Books

By Romey Petite

The True Flag: Theodore Roosevelt, Mark Twain, and the Birth of American Empire, by Stephen Kinzer

The best-selling author of The Brothers and Overthrow examines the key figures who shaped American foreign policy during the Progressive Era, a turning point in U.S. history when opinions over the nation’s involvements abroad were sharply divided. Kinzer’s book delves into the Panama Canal, the Spanish-American War, and the subsequent annexation of the Philippines and the men (Theodore Roosevelt, Henry Cabot Lodge and William Randolph Hearst) who were convinced these efforts were necessary, as well as those who protested this period of expansionism (Mark Twain, Booker T. Washington and Andrew Carnegie). A former foreign correspondent for The New York Times and The Boston Globe, Kinzer has a unique perspective on this relevant, fraught and complex debate.

The 5 Love Languages: Singles Edition and The 5 Love Languages: Military Edition, by Dr. Gary Chapman.

While the initial title in The 5 Love Languages series was written for married couples, in Singles Edition Chapman seeks to show readers how they can better communicate in daily life and express themselves to the people that matter most, be it friends or family (or perhaps seeking closure in understanding a relationship that didn’t work out). In The 5 Love Languages: Military Edition, Chapman works with Jocelyn Green, writer of both historical and spiritual nonfiction, to provide advice for the struggles involved in a long-distance relationship, separating the jargon of fieldwork from home life, and strengthening relationships post-deployment.

The Sleepwalker, by Chris Bohjalian

New York Times best-selling author of The Guest Room has delivered a new foray into the realm of psychological mystery. Annalee Ahlberg, a habitual sleepwalker suffering from parasomnia, vanishes from her home one night. As her husband and children search desperately for some trace of her or what they fear most, a body, her eldest daughter, Lianna, slowly finds herself hypnotically drawn to the detective investigating the case. It’s a story certain to keep readers up at all hours, spellbinding until its close.

The Girl Before, by J.P. Delaney

The movie rights to this title were picked up before it even saw print, but don’t write it off as just the latest addition to Delaney’s ongoing suspense thriller obsession. The Girl Before is a gripping read of two girls told from both non-linear and multiple perspectives. The reader flips back and forth while flipping each page: going from one, Emma, to the other, Jane. Both, at one point, find themselves occupants of an apartment at One Folgate Street. In it, each finds the perfect location to suit their respective needs, provided for by the landlord, an eccentric architect. Unbeknown to Emma and Jane, the enigmatic location hosts a trap that the girl before — and the girl after — cannot help but fall into.

Fever Dream, by Samanta Schweblin

In this mesmeric first novel, Amanda lies in the hospital of an agrarian community struggling against the poisonous toxins in her body. A strange boy, David, sits next to her asking questions she replies to reluctantly, half-knowing where those answers will lead. While she struggles for her life, and to remember something the boy insists she must, together the voices weave an arresting narrative of horses, horrors and estranging rituals.

The Bear and the Nightingale, by Katherine Arden

Vasilisa Vladimirovich lives on the edge of a dense Russian wood, a land where the frigid weather rarely relents. The girl is happy there enjoying the folk stories told by her nursemaid. Her life changes when her mother dies and, just as in fairy tales, her father takes a new wife. Now, Vasilisa’s cold-heartedly devout stepmother forbids the girl to honor the spirits from local lore — including the appeasement of the icy demon Morozko. Determined to protect her family from the ravages to their crops and the fierce forest beasts, Vasilisa begins a quest that reveals curious gifts she’s long held back. Wise readers will draw comparisons to the fairy tale retellings of Angela Carter; others will simply enjoy this rare confection — a perfect winter tale.

Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk, by Kathleen Rooney

Rooney draws inspiration from the true life of poet and advertising writer Margaret Fishback, famous for her work for R.H. Macy’s. Dorothy Parker-esque drop-of-the-hat witticisms are all part of the job when you were once the most highly paid American woman in advertising. Rooney chooses an all-in-a-day format for her novel, selecting December 31 of 1984. A snappy, sensible octogenarian making observations with the brevity and lasting impression of a bee sting, Lillian finds herself dodging self-righteous vigilantes, phone calls from men she’s either mothered or been a mother to, and confrontations with shifty characters on New York’s streets. The format will doubtless put readers in mind of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway or the more recent Saturday by Ian McEwan. Rooney breathes life into what could have been a tired trope. Whisk yourself back to another turbulent year in history and ring in the New Year with Ms. Boxfish, the kind of witty woman you could only wish to be.

Lincoln in a Bardo, by George Saunders

A groundbreaking work of historical fiction, Lincoln in a Bardo is the story of Abraham Lincoln, his family, and his third son, Willie, who died when he was very young. What makes the tale truly remarkable is the way the categories of fiction and nonfiction are blurred. Told entirely through anecdotes, both true and fabricated, it is certain to generate controversy and furor from purists. Saunders is already an innovator in the short story form and a significant presence in the world of the short essay (he recently wrote an enormously entertaining piece after attending a Trump rally). His work manages to serve up portion after portion of humble pie with oscillations between both humility and humiliation. You may be scratching your head after hearing this is only his first stab at the novel. Lincoln in a Bardo doesn’t disappoint for a debut or for such a familiar and distinctive voice as Saunders’. It’s a peerless work of the genre achieving a new kind of authenticity.

PinePitch

Get To Know Your Town

The Citizen’s Academy invites residents of Southern Pines to get to know the inner workings of their community and meet some of its elected officials. Monthly sessions from January through May highlight town programs, services, policies, and procedures. Staff from various departments conduct tours, provide overviews of departmental functions, and answer questions — enabling participants to create an invaluable guide to the town and its services.

The program is free, but limited to 20, and application is required. Sessions will be held on Tuesday evenings, beginning January 10. In order to graduate (and receive a certificate!), participants must attend all five sessions. (One make-up allowed.) High school students are welcome to apply. Application forms are available online at www.southernpines.net/DocumentCenter/View/3841. For availability of individual sessions, call the library, (910) 692-8235.

For The Love Of Coffee And Tea

On Sunday, January 29, enjoy an afternoon at Pinehurst’s historic Fair Barn exploring the many varieties of coffee and tea and browsing the art on display and for sale. Coffee and tea samples and products will be available for purchase, and you can design your own coffee mug at the DIY coffee mug station. It will be a latte fun! The event is from 1 to 4 p.m. Tickets are $15 and available at Pinehurst Village Hall. The Fair Barn is located at the Pinehurst Harness Track, 200 Beulah Road South. For more information, call (910) 295-1900 or contact Danaka Bunch at dbunch@vopnc.org.

An Evening Of Baroque

On Sunday, January 8, the Weymouth Chamber Music Series presents “Light and Shadow,” a performance by Ensemble Vermillion, whose unique interpretation of 17th and 18th century chamber music will delight you. Musicians Frances Blaker (recorder virtuoso), David Wilson (baroque violinist), Barbara Blaker Krumdeick (baroque cellist), Barbara Weiss (harpsichordist) and Billy Sims (theorbo and baroque guitarist) are joined by soprano Molly Quinn and her silken voice in a program that features the music of Baroque masters Dietrich Buxtehude and JM Bach. Enjoy the music at 3 p.m. and stay for the reception to meet the artists in The Great Room at the Weymouth Center for Arts & Humanities, at 555 E. Connecticut Ave. in Southern Pines. Tickets, available at the Weymouth Center, are $10 for members and $20 for non-members. Call (910) 692-6261 or visit www.weymouthcenter.org for more information.

Hot Off The Algonquin Press

Susan Rivers will be at The Country Bookshop on Friday, January 13, at 5 p.m. to discuss her debut novel, The Second Mrs. Hockaday, published this month by Algonquin Books. The story, set in South Carolina at the end of the Civil War, is about Placidia, a young bride left alone to raise her husband’s baby, run his farm, and survive. Her husband returns from the war two years later and discovers Placidia accused of bearing a child and murdering it. The truth is revealed over the course of three decades through letters, court documents and a diary in this suspenseful narrative.  Rivers has an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University of Charlotte and currently teaches in upstate South Carolina. The Country Bookshop is located at 140 NW Broad St. in Southern Pines. Call (910) 692-3211 for more information.

Live At The Met

On Saturday, January 21, The Sunrise Theater will present Gounod’s opera Roméo et Juliette in HD via satellite from New York. The opera (in French with English subtitles) is based on William Shakespeare’s passionate play, The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, which tells the story of two teenage lovers whose marriage is forbidden by their feuding families, the Capulets and Montagues. The production features several memorable duets between the characters. The show begins at 12:55 p.m. Tickets are $27. The Sunrise Theater is located at 250 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Call (910) 692-8501 or visit www.sunrisetheater.com for more information

Campbell House Galleries

This month’s art exhibit, Color in Nature, features paintings by Glenda Parker Jones, Meridith Martens and Miriam Sagasti. The exhibit is presented by The Arts Council of Moore County and sponsored by Shirley and Bill Frei. Hosts Bonnie and Buzz Parker, Howard Schubert, Jean Webster, and Mickey and George Wirtz invite you to the opening reception on Friday, January 6, from 6 to 8 p.m. The exhibit will run through January 27. The Campbell House Galleries are open weekdays 9 a.m.–5 p.m. and Saturday, January 21, 2–4 p.m., and are located at 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Admission is free. For more information, call (910) 692-2787 or visit mooreart.org.

Celebrating January Authors’ Birthdays

On Saturday, January 7, between 10 a.m. and noon, bring the kids to Given Memorial Library to celebrate the birthdays of J.R.R. Tolkien and A.A. Milne. Special stations will be set up with creative and interactive projects and activities inspired by characters and settings from The Hobbit series and Winnie the Pooh. Alone or with a parent, kids can create characters, draw maps, and explore Chaos Tower. At the Photo Booth Station, they can get their pictures taken with a Hobbit or Pooh creature of their own making. A special map of the Kids Room will help them find books to check out and take home to read. Library cards are free, and kids of all ages are invited! The library is located at 150 Cherokee Road, Pinehurst. Call (910) 295-6022 or visit www.giventufts.com for more information.

The Rooster’s Wife

Aberdeen’s casual venue “with a totally serious appreciation for the best music found anywhere” presents the following this month:

Jan. 6, Missy Raines, 7-time IBMA Bass Player of the Year fronts her jazzy string band, the New Hip.

Jan. 13, House of Dues. Dance Party.

Jan. 15, Moors and McCumber, multi-instrumentalists, splendid songwriters ranging from Celtic through Americana

Jan. 19, Mitch Capel presents a Night of Love and Laughter.

Jan. 22, Louis Romano Quartet interweaves Latin, Middle, and Far Eastern influences within an American jazz framework.

Jan. 29, the Martha Bassett Trio returns with no genre left unexplored. Japanese guitarist Hiroya Tsukamoto will open the show.

For all of the above, doors open at 6 p.m. and music begins at 6:46 at the Poplar Knight Spot, 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Call (910) 944-7502 or visit www.theroosterswife.org for more information.

And on January 5, at 7:30 p.m., you can catch Miss Raines and the New Hip at the Roosters Wife at the Cameo Art House Theater. 225 Hay St, Fayetteville. (910) 486-6633.

Weymouth Writer-In-Residence Reading

On Thursday, January 12, Sheryl Monks will be reading from her collection of stories, Monsters in Appalachia, set mostly in the story-rich mountains of West Virginia and rural North Carolina. Monks brings to life factory and mine workers, mothers and daughters, outlaws, abused wives, schoolchildren, and monsters in tales that have been described as both gothic and grim, realistic and surrealistic, haunting and humorous. Monks grew up in West Virginia and western North Carolina, holds an MFA in creative writing, and is a past winner of the Reynolds Price Short Fiction Award.

Her reading at 5:30 p.m. and the wine and cheese reception following will be held at the Weymouth Center for Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Sponsored by St. Joseph of the Pines, this event is free and open to the public. For more information call (910) 692-6261 or visit www.weymouthcenter.org or Facebook.

Lucky Me

A felinista’s annual ode

By Deborah Salomon

January is reserved for the kitties.

I am an animal person, daughter of non-animal-loving parents. Dogs and cats? Out of the question. My first pet was a good-sized turtle named Dinky, for whom I created an amphibious habitat of Mar-a-Lago proportions. Dinky dined on raw hamburger. He lived nearly 10 years. Since then, I have rescued and/or companioned dogs, cats, birds, a stray horse and a pair of Pekin ducks. My living room became a hospice for a daughter’s terminally ill greyhound. All my kitties just showed up, usually in bad shape.

After a lifetime of effort, I decided, enough. I’m retiring.

Then, in 2011, a gorgeous all-black cat with thick, glossy fur and expressive eyes . . . just showed up. Later I learned he had been abandoned when his family moved. I made a shelter and fed him outside for six months. When I finally opened the door, he headed for the kitchen and sat down where a kitty bowl should go. He was neutered, declawed (horrible!), healthy. He is intelligent, contemplative, a pacifist. In ancient Egypt, where cats were sacred, he would be a sphinx. Here and now, he is my solace.

In temperament, he reminds me of the Dalai Lama, but I called him Lucky for obvious reasons.

A year later, a lumpy, grey-and-white neighborhood kitty (clipped ear, to signify a spayed feral) fed by many, including me, showed up with a bloody paw. Naturally, I took her in, intending to fix the paw and send her on her way. This wattling, cross-eyed girl hissed, growled and swatted me and Lucky, who hung his head in acceptance. I should have named her Dingbat. Instead, Hissy, which I softened to Missy when fear-based venom turned to honey — and she became a purring lap anchor.

This gal wasn’t going anywhere.

Watching the kitties’ relationship develop and grow — fascinating. Now, they are like the Odd Couple, affectionate even while sparring, respectful of territory, manipulative and oh-so-clever.

Whoever said you can’t teach cats was right. They learn on their own.

For instance —

Circadian clock: Good thing I’m an early riser because at exactly 4 a.m. Lucky paws my face — gently, politely. If I don’t respond, he licks my ear, which tickles. I keep kibble in the nightstand; a few will distract him, but not for long. Hissy, meanwhile, waits at the foot of the bed, rarely crossing the invisible line into Lucky’s territory. I get up, feed and let them out. Making inside cats out of strays is almost impossible.

At exactly 4 p.m. he begins lobbying for supper.

Gender politics: I can’t figure out why Lucky allows Hissy to push him off his bowl. Got so bad that I feed him on the window sill, which won’t accommodate her girth.

Now, when I put her bowl down, he runs for the sill.

Follow-up: Hissy follows Lucky around like a fussy mother or pesky younger sibling. If he wants to lie under the bushes or in a sunny spot, so does she. If he drinks out of the birdbath she wants some, too. At least once a day she washes his face and ears with her raspy tongue. He sits quietly, and smiles.

Communication: Look, I told Hissy, I’ll feed, shelter and love you, provide health care (urinary tract infection, $324), even cede the wicker rocking chair for clawing if you leave the upholstery alone. It worked. When Lucky wants something he finds me, utters a plaintive meow and leads me to it — usually the back door, but often just a rubdown. Poor fella limps, probably from an old hip injury. He can jump up but getting down must be painful, so he raises his paw and I lift him off. Then we sit and discuss our arthritis for hours.

Memory chip: Lucky and Hissy-Missy know their names, come when called. A few winters ago, Lucky learned the warmest spot was the cable box. I bolstered it with a folded towel to accommodate the overhang. Now, the first chilly day he hops up for naps. Lucky also remembers that the suitcase means Mama’s going away. Maybe she won’t if I crawl inside it, shed on her clothes and protest removal, he figures.

Body language: Hissy lumbers or scurries, never walks. She is constantly underfoot. If I wore shoes in the kitchen she’d have no paws left. Their reaction to wildlife varies. He sits, immobile, and watches the birds and squirrels — even the black garden snake. She crouches, wiggles and chatters but never pounces. Why bother when Mama’s got a stash of Sheba, Meow Mix and super-green organic kibble? But let another cat approach her purview and Hissy turns hellcat-on-wheels. Lucky, the pacifist, assumes the sphinx pose and stares down the intruder through half-closed eyes.

Affection: Cats — aloof? The minute I sit down Hissy Velcros herself to me. Her naps are my only relief. Lucky has a chair beside my computer desk. Otherwise, he’d be tip-toeing typos.

Bon appetit: CNN-watchers know that Anthony Bourdain of Parts Unknown will eat anything, anywhere. My kitties are equally (epi)curious — and very bold. Mind you, I only offer a speck. Lucky prefers specks of grilled cheese, buttered toast, pasta marinara, scrambled eggs and Greek vanilla yogurt. He goes bonkers over one cottage cheese curd. Hissy laps up homemade chicken soup like it’s Dom Perignon. The sight of Lucky licking the salt off a saltine (shaking his head after every lick) is YouTube-worthy.

Nobel laureate Anatole France said that until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened. Philosophers, including Mahatma Gandhi, suggest how a person treats animals offers an indication of character. My two foundling kitties, of unknown provenance and age but definite personalities, reward me with companionship, entertainment, adoration and intel on a supra-human level. They are, indeed, fortunate to have found me. But, in the end, I got the better deal.  PS

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

The Curious Case of Granville Deitz

The twists and turns in the life of the man who gunned down the chief of police

By Bill Case

Southern Pines Police Chief Joseph Kelly made a point of stationing himself at the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and May Street as grade school let out on Wednesday, March 20, 1929. His presence was little more than a casual reminder about the new stop signs installed for the cross traffic going up and down Massachusetts’ steep slope. The first day of spring was tomorrow, but Kelly would barely live to see it.

Parking his cruiser near the school wasn’t exactly high-intensity police work, though May Street had seen some notable exceptions. It doubled as part of what later became State Highway 1, and movers of bootleg liquor would inevitably pass through town. On one occasion a speeding motorist failed to heed the chief’s command to stop. Kelly leaped on the sedan’s running board as the driver swung a hammer at him. Eventually subdued, a search of the stranger’s automobile revealed a cache of contraband hooch. It was reason enough to carefully eye the traffic moving through the intersection on a crisp, sunny afternoon.

It’s unknown why 27-year-old Granville Deitz, a native of mountainous Greenbrier County, West Virginia, happened to be in Southern Pines, driving east on Massachusetts. He later said he was on his way home from Florida. Already wanted on the charge of burglarizing a U.S. post office and for holdups of several small town stores and gas stations, he was a man with something to hide.

Deitz blew through the recently installed stop sign, and Kelly motioned for him to pull over. He complied, parking on Massachusetts just west of the intersection. As Kelly approached the Chevy, something must have aroused his suspicion. Whether it was the car’s South Carolina license plate, the young man’s demeanor or the suspicious tools in the back seat, the chief guessed the slim, dark youth was bootlegging whiskey. At Kelly’s command, Deitz stepped out of the car. The chief bent over to commence his search. According to Deitz, he became angry when Kelly began reading loose mail left in the car. Blows were exchanged and Kelly reached for his gun. Claiming “it was either me or him,” Deitz fired four shots from his own revolver at a distance of three or four feet before Kelly could draw his weapon. A witness, local contractor E.V. Perkinson, gave a far more damning version of events. He testified that as soon as Kelly turned his back and leaned over, Deitz whipped out his gun and fired away.

Kelly was in a bad way, but somehow managed to stagger to his patrol car and drive one block to the residence of Dr. William C. Mudgett, where he collapsed to the ground. Dr. Mudgett made Kelly as comfortable as possible and summoned an ambulance to transport the gravely wounded chief to Highsmith Hospital in Fayetteville, an agonizingly long ride. The Sandhills did not yet have a hospital, though the cornerstone for the new Moore County Hospital had been laid the day before Deitz riddled Kelly’s body with bullets. The 51-year-old police chief died at 2 a.m. the following morning. He was survived by his wife and one child.

Meanwhile, Granville Deitz was in full flight. Abandoning his car, he sprinted south down May to Indiana Avenue, where he jumped into an unattended auto and tried to start it. The car’s owner, Homer Eckert, ran from his house to confront Deitz, who quickly concocted a story, explaining that “a man had been shot” and he urgently needed to rush to the Carolina Hotel in Pinehurst to summon a physician who was staying there. Deceived by Deitz, Eckert offered to drive the killer to the hotel. When they arrived at the Carolina, Deitz asked Eckert to wait for him while he located the phantom doc. The gunman slipped out the hotel’s back door and hijacked Mrs. L.L. Leonard’s cream-colored Buick from the nearby Pinehurst Garage (now Clark Chevrolet Cadillac). Soon he was steaming west on dusty Route 211 toward Candor.

Not knowing where the unidentified suspect was headed, Moore County Sheriff C.J. McDonald, Kelly’s Deputy Chief Ben Beasley and Southern Pines Mayor Paul Barnum quickly organized a posse. Fort Bragg dispatched airplanes to search the back roads for the stolen Buick. Meanwhile Deitz continued west through Candor. Fifteen miles beyond Monroe, he jettisoned Mrs. Leonard’s Buick, fled into the woods, and as The Pilot later phrased it, “vanished into thin air.” Not only had the police chief been murdered in broad daylight, the killer had made his escape from Southern Pines with relative ease. It seemed Granville Deitz was gone for good.

Beasley, who took over as chief in the aftermath of Kelly’s death, expressed confidence that the killer would be rapidly brought to justice, but the evidence he obtained searching Deitz’s Chevy wasn’t much to go on. Several different license plates and hotel keys were found along with some newspaper clippings recounting his own criminal exploits. It was as if Granville Deitz was the spiritual offspring of Bonnie and Clyde reading his own press notices. The most helpful clue came from the letter Kelly may have been reading just prior to the gunfire. It was from Mrs. E.W. Boso of Summersville, West Virginia (near where Deitz resided), addressed to J.L. Boso  in Winston-Salem, and signed, “Mother.”

The new chief called the police in Summersville and learned that Boso had been recently apprehended for committing crimes while working in tandem with Deitz, whereabouts unknown. Perhaps it was  Kelly’s discovery of the letter that had been the motive for Deitz’s violent actions. By April 18, The Pilot announced Deitz as the prime suspect in the Kelly killing. The fugitive’s high school picture accompanied the article.

Beasley’s investigation took him to West Virginia, where he learned Deitz had a steady girlfriend in Greenbrier County — Miss Maysel Gibson. While the details are a bit murky, it appears the young lady agreed to cooperate with the police rather than run the risk of aiding and abetting her boyfriend. When it turned out Deitz had fled north to Maine, the authorities asked Gibson to wire him money. A sting was set up in Millinocket, Maine, where two police officers waited for Deitz at the local telegraph office and seized him. He resisted, but to no avail. Beasley’s detective work had resulted in Deitz’s capture nearly seven weeks after the shooting. It was with grim satisfaction that on May 8, Beasley wired the new Southern Pines Mayor A.G. Stutz announcing that he had “Arrived Bangor, Me., 11:30 AM. Stop. Left 1 PM with Granville A. Deitz. Stop. Identification certain. Stop.” 

Extradited to North Carolina, Deitz was charged with first degree murder. The death penalty loomed. The Pilot’s editor, Nelson Hyde, rejoiced. “The man who in brutal cold blood shoots down an officer or citizen is not allowed to go away without the hail of vengeance trailing closely behind him,” he wrote.

District Judge Thomas J. Shaw set the trial date in Carthage for May 24, 1929 — a mere 20 days after Deitz’s capture. Deitz had precious little time to find counsel, let alone locate witnesses and prepare for a jury trial in which his life was at stake. His mother, Betty Nutter Deitz, rushed in and took charge. She assisted in retaining a defense team, including Fayetteville’s celebrated criminal lawyer Col. C.W. Ostenton. The dusty long-forgotten case docket in the bowels of the Moore County Courthouse show that the defense argued Kelly had no right to arrest Deitz for a stop sign violation, and that there was no evidence of any violation of any ordinance that would have allowed Kelly to detain Deitz. The defense also argued that Granville Deitz “had a right to resist and use all the force which in the judgment of the jury was necessary to free himself.” His argument was akin to a “stand your ground” defense.

The best thing going for the defense, however, was the steadfast support exhibited by Deitz’s family and friends. His mother was said to have “excited much sympathy for her son.” Several locals actually showered Deitz with gifts of books and flowers during his stint in the county jail. The eldest of nine children, Deitz had been the product of a good family. His father, Watson, kept food on the table by teaching, farming, surveying and running the local post office. Deitz’s mother taught school and managed the farm. Dennis Deitz, who idolized his older brother, noted that Granville, though small in stature, reveled in competition in anything, from football to formal debate. “His rebuttals were unmatched,” Dennis Deitz later wrote. “When an opponent made a point and gave his sources and authorities, he would reply by quoting an article from a noted expert, written three years before in maybe the Saturday Evening Post. The judges would be amazed. This unbelievable recall came from Granville’s imagination. The judges or opponents never suspected the truth.” Deitz’s talent with a gun was equally legendary. According to his brother, Deitz could shoot “flying hickory nuts with his pistol from 30 feet away,” and could fire and reload with blinding speed. It proved a lethal skill set.

The lawyers’ technical arguments and family aid weren’t enough for Deitz to overcome the evidence against him, however. The clincher for the prosecution occurred when J.L. Boso’s confession implicating Deitz in their series of gas station holdups was read to the jury. When the Saturday night verdict of guilty to the reduced charge of second-degree murder was read before a packed courtroom, Granville Deitz displayed no visible emotion. He kissed his mother goodbye after being sentenced by Judge Shaw to 25 to 30 years at hard labor in the state penitentiary.

Quite pleased to appear with their somber-looking trophy, the dignitaries who attended the trial posed in a photograph with the uncuffed Deitz. In a public statement after his adverse verdict, Deitz expressed his gratitude for the gifts of well-wishers and appreciation for the manner in which he and his family had been treated. A scathing editorial in the Sanford Herald wondered, “if these same people sent flowers and books to the wife who was made a widow and the children (sic) who lost a father while doing his duty as a sworn officer of the law, at the hands of this bloodthirsty criminal who it is believed took (Kelly’s) life to conceal crimes he had already committed.” In fact, the Southern Pines community had taken up a collection for the benefit of Kelly’s wife and child in addition to raising $2,500 in reward money, $250 of which went to Chief Beasley.

The town collectively breathed a sigh of relief that Kelly’s killer had been brought to justice and would be languishing in state prison for what could be the rest of his life. But Deitz’s escapades were far from over. On Dec. 12, less than seven months after his conviction, Deitz escaped the prison farm by automobile. According to The Pilot, two young women in a car with West Virginia plates had been seen in the area of the prison prior to the escape. Author James Boyd was moved to sarcastic whimsy in his column “Gallberries” carried in The Pilot:

—§—

Granville Deitz by leaving no

address has put some of our people at

a loss.

—§—

They don’t know where to send

him flowers now.

—§—

It was pretty tough to put him

on that farm.

—§—

He ought to have been sentenced

to a greenhouse.

—§—

Just because a man is a murderer

is no sign that he likes life on a farm.

Deitz made his way back home and promptly married Maysel Gibson. Later he remarked, “We knew when we were married that the possibility of eventual capture faced us. But we felt that life without each other would be an empty affair.” Realizing that Greenbrier County would be the first place the North Carolina authorities would look for him, Deitz and his new bride hightailed it north across the Ohio River to Gallia County, Ohio, where he assumed a new name — William Nutter.

Meanwhile, law enforcement and the press in Southern Pines obsessed over Deitz’s whereabouts. Labeled as something of a master criminal, he was the prime suspect in every unsolved crime. Every longleaf pine seemed to have a Granville Deitz lurking behind it. A lone gunman who engaged in a shootout in Heywood County was rumored to be the escaped fugitive. The holdup of a gas station in Vass was thought to be Granville’s work until the suspect was caught in Cheraw, South Carolina, and it was not Deitz after all.

In the July 4, 1930 “Grains of Sand” feature in The Pilot, the question was asked, “Wonder where Granville Deitz is spending the summer vacation?” Actually, Deitz, aka William Nutter, was faring quite well. After having worked in farming and carpentry in Gallia County, he moved 30 miles farther north to Jackson, Ohio, where he caught on with the local Pure Oil distributor making deliveries and collecting bills. Instead of robbing service stations, Deitz was receiving voluntary payments from them. Then, when his boss became ill, “Nutter” was entrusted with running the entire business. He applied himself to the task and kept the operation humming. Maysel taught school and gave birth to Elizabeth in 1931. The William Nutter family  had achieved a high degree of respect in Jackson. Life was as good as it could be for a couple hiding from the law.

But, public fascination with crime and criminals led to exposure. In 1935, a popular detective magazine mentioned Granville Deitz in its “most wanted” section and included his photo. When someone in Jackson saw the picture of the man known as William Nutter, the jig was up. Surely, a shiver ran up Deitz’s spine when police came to arrest him. Taken to the county jail, he awaited extradition to North Carolina once again. But local citizens didn’t turn away from the man they knew as William Nutter. Their outpouring of support led to a petition with 1,000 signatures beseeching Ohio’s governor not to allow his extradition. Deitz later said that the back door to the jail was intentionally left unlocked, but he was done running. Declining his chance to escape, Deitz waived extradition.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Deitz explained. “I didn’t want to come back and serve the long term I’ve got left because it was taking me away from my wife and baby and away from the life in which I was making good . . . There’ll probably be nights when I’ll just lie down and curse myself for not going out that back door in Ohio. But I’ll stop at cursing. I won’t go out any more back doors.”

Chief Beasley never witnessed the return of the fugitive he had labored to apprehend. Like his predecessor, he died in the line of duty, in October 1931, gunned down by a prisoner he was escorting to headquarters. Though reconciled to returning to prison, Deitz wanted out as soon as possible. The family retained Sanford’s J.C. Pittman in 1937. Sheriff McDonald declined to sign a parole petition prepared by Pittman. “Even if Deitz is a ‘changed man,’ I fear it would set a bad precedent for the other prisoners to extend clemency so soon to one who had been an escapee,” said McDonald. With Deitz stuck for the time being, his wife spent her summers in Raleigh taking teaching classes at North Carolina State and visiting her husband.

Lauded as a “model prisoner,” and with the acquiescence of his trial jury and Kelly’s family, Deitz was paroled in October 1940 after only five years of incarceration on the condition that he stay out of North Carolina. “I’m going to West Virginia as fast as I can get there to see my wife and child,” he said. Deitz planned to go back to his old job, which was waiting for him back in Jackson. “I want to go back to being a good citizen.”

We don’t know why, but Deitz decided not to return to Jackson, going instead to his home state of West Virginia, where evidence suggests he became an insurance agent for Mutual of Omaha. A natural salesman, Deitz made a success of his new career and rose to district manager. His entertaining storytelling led to speaking gigs at company sales conventions and local civic clubs, where Deitz would regale the crowd with mountain tales, some true, some folklore. He took the time to write his stories down.

Granville Deitz died in 1966 at age 64 while still on the job with Mutual of Omaha. In 1981, Deitz’s family arranged for the publication of his tales of the hills in a book titled Mountain Memories. A rousing success, it was reprinted three times. Brother Dennis Deitz subsequently published his own popular writings of Mountain Memories one of which discussed the exploits of his revered older brother. Absent in both publications was any mention of an encounter with the law in Southern Pines.

The crime and the killer may forever go unforgiven. Or, perhaps, a life can be redeemed, in part. Either way, Granville Deitz, the omnipresent menace, was a menace no more.  PS

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

Sweat Show

The Kiwi Roll ain’t hors d’oeuvres

By Bill Fields

Wrestling, the real kind, never appealed to me.

When we were forced to try it during physical education class at middle school, the mats could have used lots of Lysol. The moves were always a mystery. I didn’t know the difference between a Fireman’s Carry and a Double-Leg Takedown, and despite the best efforts of Coach Wynn, I never wanted to know. Other than when the dreaded pommel horse and parallel bars appeared, it was the only time I hated changing into gym clothes. 

For every Dan Gable grappling for Olympic glory for the United States, there seemed to be a lot more fellows like my unfortunate friend in high school, who, being on the small side, was recruited as a Pinecrest sophomore to wrestle in the lightest class. But he often struggled to make weight, and running down the aisle of a hot bus wearing a plastic suit while spitting into a bucket en route to a match at Lumberton wasn’t my idea of a good time.

Wrestling, the other kind, was a different story.

I am not ashamed to admit that I loved the professional version, the faces and the heels of this wacky world as essential a part of my television entertainment when I was a young teenager in the early to mid-1970s as Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart and re-runs of The Andy Griffith Show or Dragnet.

Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling was on WRAL-TV 5 at 11:30 on Saturday nights. The shows, taped in the Raleigh studio earlier in the week, were hosted by Bob Caudle, a weatherman at the station in his day job. “Hello, wrestling fans,” Caudle said at the start of every broadcast, the signal that it was time to settle in on the couch with a Coke and some potato chips.

With my mother gone to sleep and my policeman-father off to work the overnight shift, I had an hour with a familiar cast of characters: Johnny Weaver, Jerry Brisco, The Missouri Mauler, Argentina Apollo, Swede Hanson, Brute Bernard, Nelson Royal, Nikita Koloff, Krusher Karlson, Rip Hawk, Paul Jones, Bearcat Wright, and El Gaucho.

There was a former NFL player, Wahoo McDaniel; brother teams of Gene/Ole Anderson and George/Sandy Scott; wrestling giants Man Mountain Mike and Haystacks Calhoun, who weighed more than 600 pounds. One of my favorites was New Zealander Abe Jacobs, in his mid-30s and an undercard wrestler in the latter part of his career. Jacobs’ trademark hold was the “Kiwi Roll,” in which he would lock legs with his opponent, rolling around in a circle applying pressure to the ankle until the writhing foe gave up. Lots of guys performed the Suplex or Piledriver, or whip-sawed someone hard into a turnbuckle, but Jacobs’ signature submission move was unique, the Fosbury Flop without any following suit.

Regardless of who was wrestling on a given Saturday evening, the soundtrack was the same — the stomping of boots and slamming of bodies on the elevated canvas mat interrupted by shouts from a small audience in the studio bleachers, narrated by Caudle and a sidekick. I never mulled how much was fake or if everything was. Until NBC’s Saturday Night Live debuted in the fall of 1975, it was what I wanted to watch on television late on a weekend night.

Despite my loyalty, I never could persuade my father to write in for tickets to a Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling taping at Channel 5. We never went to the Greensboro Coliseum or Dorton Arena to see the spectacle in person either. Once, though, pro wrestling did come to the Armory on Morganton Road. Tickets were cheap, and Dad agreed to take me.

We sat in metal folding chairs, the variety of which villain manager Homer O’Dell used to surprise-whack a rival on TV as Caudle was doing an interview. If  Jacobs was there and Kiwi-Rolled anyone, I don’t remember. It was loud, with plenty of yelling.

My lasting memory of the matches is of a town tough a handful of years older than me who jumped on the ring apron, agitated and ready to rassle. He deserved to be sat on by Man Mountain Mike but instead was restrained and led away, screaming, told, no doubt, that he was not part of the show.  PS

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

Saved by the Dark Side

A family farm goes fungi

By Jan Leitschuh

Mushrooms add a depth of flavor to any number of dishes, meaty, with a hearty umami taste. Growing in dark, damp woodland places, who expected them to save the family farm?

Anyone with eyes has witnessed the shifts in rural agriculture, as the young folk and their young energies leave the farm for opportunities elsewhere, markets wither and long-stewarded properties sell out to housing developers. But some are bucking that trend. Welcome to one 21st century family farm in central North Carolina that has grabbed onto innovation as a way to survive.

Walk into one of the several “barns” on the pretty, rolling acreage here at Carolina Mushroom Farm in Willow Springs. No pink snouts or leathery golden leaves here anymore; hogs and tobacco have given way to at least three types of edible fungi.

Oyster mushrooms, pale and broad, aren’t hard to grow, says Shahane Taylor, 32, one of the four partners in the farm’s mushroom project. He walks to the sterile “prep” building, where special bags of straw are inoculated. Lined up like soldiers in a special 78-degree room are the bags of damp sterilized straw on which the inoculent thrives.

Oyster mushrooms double in size every 24 hours. They have broad, flat, upward-facing layers, and there is indeed a slight oyster-like appearance, unlike the more familiar button mushroom. You can grow oysters yourself, easily, in your kitchen. Besides the actual mushrooms, Carolina Mushroom Farm sells the grow bags too; if you don’t want to do your own research, gather materials, do the sterile prep and inoculation.

The taste of oyster mushrooms? Delicate and sweet. “Like chicken,” Taylor jokes, then adds, seriously, “like a chicken-seafood-y cross.” He likes a vegetable soup with oyster mushrooms.

Valuable shiitake mushrooms are a little trickier and slower to raise. Here, we move to another building where a sterilizing footbath awaits outside the door. Inside, there is another footbath, as well as a hand wash and special ventilation systems with HEPA filters to keep out molds and other contaminants, like foreign spores.

Step into yet another humid, warm room, and metal racks stacked with special blocks of compressed sawdust grow the umbrella-shaped brown caps of the delicate shiitake mushroom, famed for its savory taste and medicinal properties.

Shiitakes have a steak-like flavor that is prized in Asian cuisine, notably miso soup. Very umami, shiitakes are used to top meat dishes, added to stir-fries and used in soups. Shiitake pizza is Taylor’s favorite.

Shiitakes are one of the more popular forms of protein in China, and have a long tradition of medicinal use as well. Apparently, shiitakes have a strong antiviral effect due to natural interferons that inhibit viral replication. It has also been reported that the consumption of shiitake mushrooms lowers blood cholesterol levels.

In Asia, shiitakes are used to support cancer treatments. “Japan has developed an extract from shiitakes known as lentinan. The extract is used with patients undergoing traditional cancer therapy. In fact, in Japan mushroom extracts have become the leading prescription treatment for cancer. Lentinan may also prevent chromosomal damage induced by anti-cancer drugs. There are no known serious side effects,” reports the Mississippi Natural Products Association, a rural farmers’ cooperative.

But trickiest of all to grow are the baby portabella mushrooms.

Here at CMF they are reared on heavy trays of pasteurized compost, alive with beneficial microbes. “They are the most labor-intensive mushroom we grow,” says Taylor. “Baby bellas are especially sensitive in the early stages.”

But portabellas are very popular, so grow them they do. The smaller form, called cremini, is brown and a bit larger than a white button mushroom. They are mild, and can easily sub for the smaller white button ’shrooms in a recipe.

In their most mature form, the creminis grow out to the hefty, popular brown caps we know as portabellas. The large, beefy caps are terrific to grill, fabulous stuffed, and often substituted for meat among vegans. 

Among the three varieties, Carolina Mushroom Farm currently produces 500 pounds of edible fungi a week. They are scaling up quickly to 1,000 to 1,500 pounds in the near future. The quality of the product is excellent, and packaged professionally. Yet, this ambitious venture only came into being in late 2015.

How did this happen to a small family farm in mid-North Carolina? You could start this tale with the farm itself, or begin it in the Marines.

In the Marines, Dion Heckman, 28 and the second of four partners, was a roommate and good friend of Taylor. When they got out of service together in 2010, they continued to hang out.

“We got along really well, it’s just one of those things,” says Taylor. “Dion had a girlfriend who lived near Raleigh, so I’d come visit. And when we got out, Raleigh happened to be where we landed.” There is muffled conversation, and then Taylor comes back with a laugh: “Dion says to tell you he’s the brains of the business.

Both went to Wake Tech on the G.I. Bill, and that’s where Taylor met dark-haired Sabrina in late 2010. Now his fiancée, Sabrina is the daughter of agricultural speaker Jerry Carroll. Jerry is the third of the four mushroom farm project partners. The fourth, Steve Carroll, is Jerry’s brother and a research scientist for BASF.

Dating Sabrina, Taylor naturally got to know her dad Jerry, and got on well with both parents.

Jerry Carroll had been a farm producer, with 6,000 hogs and fields of tobacco on the family land, but saw the agricultural writing on the wall. Ask him why he got out of hogs, and he’ll shoot back, “Twelve cents a pound!” He says at the end he was losing 40 cents per pound and it was the last hog operation in his growing county. With the tobacco buyout in the early 2000s, the golden leaf also left the farm rotation.

There they were, a family farm with 85 rolling acres and several stoutly built farm buildings, the latter nearly paid off. And no crop.

Eventually living on the farm, Taylor hadn’t thought about working there, even with his horticultural experience. His studies had been in business and accounting, and working in media communications. He also worked at a specialty gardening store, and at a hydroponic lettuce farm. 

Heckman was drawn to the farm too. In their free time, they’d go fishing or target shooting there together, talk about the farm, especially the empty buildings. The expensive hog barns were just sitting there, used as farm storage. “We wanted it to be a working farm again,” says Taylor.

Pam Lockamy — Jerry and Steve’s sister — did her research and decided to build a new event space for weddings, to bring agritourism dollars to the throttled-back farm. Her husband, Ray, was looking to retire, and a wedding venue was their retirement plan. A beautiful red barn event space now marks the entrance to the farm, smelling of fresh pine lumber as the family works to complete the lofty interior.

With that plan in the works, the guys returned to look at production again. But producing what?

Jerry Carroll kept staring at the hog buildings. They were strong, well-kept and built to be sterilized. He wondered if there wasn’t a way to use this wasted asset. One day he turned to Taylor and asked the critical question: “What do you know about mushrooms?”

The answer “not much” was no deterrent. “The buildings they grow mushrooms in look just like what we have,” Carroll said.

“We had looked into strawberries,” says Taylor, “but there are a lot of strawberry growers and we wanted something unique. We looked up the top 10 most profitable greenhouse enterprises, and mushrooms were in the No. 2 spot.”

What was No. 1? “Marijuana,” he laughs. “Wouldn’t work here.”

Taylor started on a steep course of research, pulling his buddy Heckman along with him. “To do the scale we wanted to do, we knew we’d need a good team. We’d been best friends, Heckman knew the farm, so it seemed like a natural fit.” So in an era when the average age of the farmer in North Carolina is around 60 years, these two young Marine buddies joined their energies with brothers Jerry and Steve to form a partnership.

Taylor and Heckman began their research at the end of 2015. “When I say we immersed ourselves in it, I mean, we immersed ourselves in it,” Taylor laughs. “It was like going back to school. We’d all been in ag or hort backgrounds, but none of us had grown a mushroom.”

Turns out, the buildings were a perfect fit. Production began in 2016, and by autumn their product was not only showing up in restaurants but in the produce boxes of the local community cooperative, Sandhills Farm to Table, to great acclaim. On the very day of their first SF2T delivery, Sabrina also gave birth to their son, Addelynn.

The family farm, at least on this patch of ground, is not dying out. There is new life on these 85 acres, as the next generation reverses the trend and puts its energy into the age-old business of growing a crop for market.

Cream of Mushroom Soup

2 tablespoons butter

1/2 pound sliced fresh mushrooms

1/4 cup chopped onion

6 tablespoons flour or arrowroot 

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

2 cans (14 1/2 ounces each) chicken broth

1 cup half-and-half cream

In a saucepan, heat butter over medium-high heat; sauté mushrooms and onion until tender. Mix flour, salt, pepper and one can broth until smooth; stir into mushroom mixture. Stir in remaining broth. Bring to a boil; cook and stir until thickened, about 2 minutes. Reduce heat; stir in cream. Simmer, uncovered, until flavors are blended, about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Yield: 6 servings.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.

How to Beat the Holiday Hangover

Sure fire drinks to upgrade your new year cocktails

By Tony Cross

Now that the holidays are over, it’s time to regroup and get it together. For most of us that means back to the gym, reintroducing new, or old, diets, New Year’s resolutions — you still do those? — and moderation. There’s nothing wrong with most of these; I usually take a cleanse of some sort to detox the ridiculous amounts of excess that I happily ate, drank and whatevered to my body. Most articles from various publications preach about what you should or shouldn’t do at the beginning of each year. So, in the tradition of cliché January columns on the subject, I bring you: how to drink better this year. I’ve mentioned in previous columns how it’s good to have a handful (maybe I used the word “arsenal”) of drinks in your mental reservoir whenever you’re at a bar or restaurant. This piece of advice still stands.

Cocktail historian David Wondrich once wrote that if you’re a vodka soda drinker, you should probably just continue to drink vodka sodas. Clever, and more than likely true. Most vodka soda fans aren’t drinking for flavor, but if you are, keep on reading. One of my favorite tricks to play on guests is giving them gin instead of vodka. Whenever a patron asked me to come up with something inventive on the fly that used vodka as the main spirit, I would more than likely use Uncle Val’s Botanical Gin. Distilled in Sonoma, California, it tastes nothing like any gin you’re used to. This gin is a huge lemon and citrus bomb. I’ve converted plenty of gin haters with this beauty. Head over to 195 Restaurant or The Bell Tree and ask for one with soda. 195 likes to add a splash of organic grapefruit juice, resulting in your new allegiance to gin.

Hangovers are the worst. The only real cure for them is time, but the best way to make crippling pain hurry up and go away is, you guessed it, a drink. Everyone does the mimosa or bloody Mary, and using fresh ingredients with both will get you a better tasting drink. There are a few ways you can switch up these weekend morning staples. First, replace your bloody Mary vodka with a London Dry Gin. A good two ounces of Beefeater’s turns your bloody Mary into a treat. Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you? You can’t taste the vodka in a bloody Mary unless you put an insane amount in, and with the gin, the myriad of botanicals blend with all the flavors from the bloody Mary mix. Ironwood and The Sly Fox have great bloodys, and I always order them with gin. That’s a great way to switch it up at brunch. Have you had a Corpse Reviver No.2? This is a classic cocktail dating from the pre-Prohibition era. Don’t get this confused with the first type of Reviver (made with brandy, sweet vermouth and applejack); the Corpse Reviver No.2 is made with gin, Cointreau, Lillet Blanc, and fresh lemon juice (served up in an absinthe rinsed coupe glass). It’s perfect in the mornings, but if you’re having one of those days where it’s taking your funk a little longer to wear off, get to Chef Warren’s, where they make the best in town. This is an equal parts recipe, minus the absinthe. Don’t be afraid, the absinthe is primarily for the olfactory senses.

Corpse Reviver No.2

Absinthe (or Pernod)

3/4 ounce Conniption Gin (distilled in Durham)

3/4 ounce Lillet Blanc (available at Nature’s Own)

3/4 ounce Cointreau

3/4 ounce lemon juice

Take a half bar spoon of absinthe (or Pernod) and swirl (rinse) it in a chilled cocktail coupe, making sure the absinthe completely coats the inside. Discard any remaining absinthe and put the glass back in the fridge/freezer while making the cocktail. Place remaining ingredients into your cocktail shaker. Add ice, shake very well, until the drink is ice cold, and strain it into your coupe glass. Take a swath of orange peel, expressing the oils over the drink. Thank me later when you’re feeling better.

OK, Jamo and ginger guy/gal, you’re next. Probably more popular this generation than a Jack and Coke is the infamous Jameson Irish Whiskey with ginger ale. Popular at restaurants and your local pub — just ask the crew at O’Donnell’s how many bottles of Jameson they go through in a week. More than likely, any establishment with a liquor license that you frequent will be able to mix this up for you, and that’s great, but this is about loading up the arsenal, remember? Decker Platt over at 195 Restaurant carries Monkey Shoulder Blended Malt Whisky. Before you judge, know that Monkey Shoulder blends three Scotch single malts from Speyside, and it sits in used bourbon barrels for three to six months, giving it more of a mellow characteristic. One of the cocktails that Decker can make for you is called a Penicillin. Monkey Shoulder mixed with organic ginger, a local honey syrup, lemon juice and a splash of peaty Scotch whisky makes this a perfect wintertime concoction. Bringing this cocktail up to your nose, you’re tricked into thinking that the drink will taste smokier than it actually is.

Penicillin (Sam Ross, Milk & Honey, New York City, 2005)

1/4 ounce Laphroaig (or other smoky Scotch)

2 ounces Monkey Shoulder Whisky

3/4 ounces honey syrup (3:1)

3/4  ounce lemon juice

2 pieces ginger root

Put the ginger in your cocktail shaker, muddle to release the juice. Combine whiskey, honey syrup and lemon juice in your cocktail shaker, add ice, and shake until ice cold. Pour over ice in a rocks glass. Float Laphroaig on top of the cocktail (do this by pouring the 1/4 ounce over the back of a bar spoon on top of the cocktail). Garnish with a slice of fresh ginger, or candied ginger.  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern pines. He can also recommend a vitamin supplement for the morning after at Nature’s Own.