The Way We Were

Century-old apartment house gets a new lease on life

By Deborah Salomon     Photographs by John Gessner

Soft green, rose and plaid upholstery. A what-not shelf filled with elephant miniatures. Floral duvet, matching bedside table skirt and drapes. Dark woods and polished silver. A baby grand in the parlor. Bedrooms sized like bedrooms, not basketball courts. Antiques with family connections.

Genteel, pretty, Southern.

So goes Thistle Cottage, built on the edge of Pinehurst village by the Tufts family in 1916 as four apartments with separate entrances and separate furnaces to accommodate senior resort staff. Legendary Carolina Hotel doorman Sam Lacks and headwaiter George Ashe lived there. Subsequently, Annie Oakley and her husband, Henry Butler, occupied a first-floor apartment while she entertained guests during the winter season.

The apartment idea caught on. In 1918 the Pinehurst Outlook reported “the number of applications has surpassed expectations.” The building was renovated and minimally landscaped in 1922. Apartments got not only fresh paint but “modern” furniture, justifying $750 rent from October to May. Henry Page Sr. lived there in 1932, Roy Kelly from 1938 to 1962. In the 1980s Page and Hayley Dettor reconfigured the house as a longitudinal 3,200-square-foot two-story single-family dwelling with an unusual (for the Sandhills) full finished basement.

Yet something was missing.

No longer. In Jane and Jim Lewis’ 20-year tenure, scruffy grounds have become magnolia bowers with a carpet of English ivy.

“We didn’t want any newfangled vegetation,” Jane says.

Now three mini-porches and a secret garden exude a rocking-chair charm never out of style. Just inside the front door a 1990 version of a glamour kitchen suits the classic American cuisine Jim prefers when they eat in, which is most of the time.

“Meatloaf,” he nods. “I don’t go for fancy seasonings.”

Instead, Jim (from a South Carolina tobacco town) and Jane (family roots deep in antebellum Virginia) relish surrounding themselves with history.

“You can tell a lot about a man by looking at his books,” Jim believes. An entire wall of bookshelves in the TV room reveals his love of baseball and American history, while Jane falls into the gardening/interior design category, having worked with the fabric company Brunschwig & Fils Inc., whose installations at the White House and Palace of Versailles join the dining room, living room and bedrooms of Thistle Cottage — its name, bestowed by the Tuftses, emblematic of Scotland.

“I’m sentimental,” Jane says. “I like to mix in old family books . . . look inside them and see which great-great (relative) it was given to.”

How Jane and Jim Lewis found Thistle Cottage begs the beginning  “. . . once upon a time.”

They both have fond memories of Southern living. Jim moved around a lot — 14 times since his marriage alone. Jane, from a Navy family, lived mostly in Charlotte, with her grandmother and “old maid aunts who didn’t have any other place to go.” He graduated from Davidson, she from Queens College. As a communications executive at Southern Bell, then Lucent Technologies, Jim was sent to Savannah and Richmond, which they loved, finally Denver. As Jim neared retirement, he requested relocation to Charlotte, now a big, busy city — less than ideal for retirement, they discovered. Pinehurst was a frequent golf destination. “I tried to persuade Jane that this was the place (to live),” Jim says. They struck a deal. “We’ll practice living here for a year and if Jane doesn’t like it, we’ll go back to the empty-nester in Charlotte.” To this end, Jim looked around and found Thistle. “I liked it the minute I walked in . . . the open space (kitchen, breakfast room, family-TV room). I called Jane to come down and take a look.”

They bought Thistle in 1997 as a weekend retreat. “We subscribed to the newspaper, pretended we lived here,” Jim recalls. By 1999 the transition was complete. They sold the empty nest and took up permanent residence in a house with plenty of history for Jim to explore, plenty of land for Jane to garden and plenty of room for their sons and, later, grandchildren, to spread out.

At first glance, except for the grounds, Thistle looked “finished” to Jim. He admired the thriftiness of a previous owner, who took down paneled doors and laid them horizontally as wainscoting. Still, they found plenty to do. Removing a wall between smallish dining and living rooms made both appear larger. They created an upstairs spa bathroom and dressing room with washer-dryer, installed crown moldings, replaced crumbling exterior wooden shutters with hard-to-find replicas, lighted and brightened everything.

“I like happy colors,” Jane declares. No contemporary grays and neutrals. From three previous houses she brought forward the same stunning crimson wallpaper in the dining and living rooms. The kitchen and family rooms are a pale yellow. Oriental rugs feature primary rather than shaded colors. The master bedroom is done in red toile and the living room, a masterful mix of Brunschwig & Fils fabrics in bold hues — mostly florals, one geometric. Jim’s study is painted a forest green, to match his favorite sweater.

Jane’s antiques — tables, rush-bottomed chairs, sideboards, case pieces — are crowned by a grandfather clock crafted in the early 1800s by John Weidemeyer of Fredericksburg, Va. This “case” clock, long in Jane’s family, has a false front where coin silver spoons were hidden from Union Gen. Philip Sheridan, who charged down the Shenandoah Valley in 1864. Jane owns several of the spoons. Her collection of China export porcelain plates in the butterfly pattern hang on dining room walls.

She is especially fond of etchings by Hungarian artist Luigi Kasimir, picturing European churches, which she found bargain-priced in a second-hand shop. They set a classic tone in the foyer and upstairs hallway. Portraits of Gen. Robert E. Lee and Gen. Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson hang over a bedroom mantel, stripped to its original pine.

A painting of the Pine Crest Inn by local artist Jessie Mackay underlines Jim’s opinion that this landmark, although not luxurious, is as steeped in tradition as Pinehurst No. 2. “Everybody who’s anybody in the game of golf has been there.”

But the conversation starter in Jane and Jim’s Thistle has to be a bar nook built by a previous owner, with shelves displaying 280 mini liquor bottles, no duplications, the kind available on planes and trains in the good old days. They belonged to an aunt who began collecting them in the 1930s. Many, although unopened, are empty, the contents evaporated through the seal. Jim put up the narrow shelf and cataloged the bottles. Dusting them is a delicate chore, performed by Jane.

Historian Jim enjoys the Annie Oakley connection. Photos, memorabilia, even a gun of the era (“It came with the house”) form a small shrine in the family room. He’s ready with lore and dates, books and posters — proud of living where she did even if the walls are now crimson.

Jim and Jane Lewis have succeeded in providing Thistle Cottage an atmosphere both elegant and comfy, respectful of an era in the South — the ’50s and ’60s — which has yet to gain status with millennials busy simplifying and modernizing. An era when elders still recounted the history of their possessions.

“I love the lived-in feeling,” Jim says.

“Oh yes, we’ve been happy here,” Jane adds.

The upscaling of Thistle Cottage, particularly the landscaping, helped this outlying street where modest houses are being rejuvenated or replaced for a new generation of residents. “Now we have mothers with jogging strollers come by,” Jane notices. “It’s a real pleasure.”  PS

Almanac

January is a masterpiece unfurling.

In the garden, everything feels like a tiny miracle. Each ice crystal. Each smiling pansy. Each tender bud on the heirloom camellia.

Notice how the curling bark of the river birch looks like downy feathers.

Even the sunlight looks softer than you’ve ever seen it.

Folk singer Cat Stevens made popular the Christian hymn that says as much:

Morning has broken, like the first morning

Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning

Praise for them springing fresh from the world . . .

In January, the sweetness of infinite possibility appears in many forms, and in every direction.

You clean the birdbath, add fresh water, return to the kitchen for the whistling kettle. As your sachet of tea pirouettes in hot water, the aroma of citrus, clove and cinnamon permeates the air, and there is movement in the periphery. Flashes of red. Through the window, you watch a pair of cardinals splash round in the clean water, preening each feather — each tiny miracle.

January is a threshold to wonders yet unknown. You enter bright-eyed, as if your very breath brings to life each miracle. As if you can taste the sweetness of the first morning with every cell.

The New Year, like an Infant Heir to the whole world, was waited for, with welcomes, presents, and rejoicings. — Charles Dickens, The Chimes

Royal Mayhem

What’s a Twelfth Night Feast without the possibility of being crowned king or queen for the evening? In ancient Roman times, a single bean was baked into a fruit-laden pastry, the recipient of which appointed “Lord of Misrule” for the night. Also called “King of the Bean,” whoever received the loaded slice of cake was decked in full regalia. And don’t forget to celebrate the “Queen of the Pea.”

Twelfth Night falls on January 5, Eve of Epiphany and the new moon, a good time to set intentions (and drink wassail).

What magic are you calling in this new year? Crown yourself King or Queen for the night, fill your chalice, and dream bigger.

Sweet Herbal Magic

While the soil is cool, plant spring bulbs and fruit trees, harvest edible weeds and winter greens, and when the work is done, create sacred space to enjoy this winter season . . . and tea.

January is National Hot Tea Month.

Loose leaf is best.

Indulge.

Add honey, lemon, spices, sticks of cinnamon.

Cook with it.

Chai and matcha shortbread cookies. Roasted oolong ice cream. Tea-smoked quail, turkey or duck.

Detoxing? Dandelion root has long been used to help cleanse the liver and gallbladder.

Sore throat? Try peppermint, echinacea, ginger root or slippery elm.

And if you’re dreaming of summer: sweet rose.

Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols. — Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain

Happy New Year

Although the ancient Roman farmers’ almanac dubs Juno the tutelary of the month, conventional wisdom claims that January is named for Janus, two-headed god of beginnings, endings, and everything in between: gates, transitions, passages, and doorways.

Speaking of doors . . .

Know how Denmark celebrates New Year’s Eve? Breaking dishes on the doorsteps of those nearest and dearest, a strange yet endearing way of expressing love and best wishes. The bigger the pile of shattered dishes you discover at your front door on January 1, the bigger the fortune you will receive in the coming year.

You might try an alternate gesture of kindness here: a gift from the garden; a letter; sachets of spicy loose-leaf tea.  PS

In The Spirit

The Ice Has It

More than just frozen water

By Tony Cross

Years ago, when I was thumbing through my first bartending book, I came to a short passage about ice. It was only a page long, quick and to the point. It explained how ice is an ingredient and a tool. I came straight up off the couch. Sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s true. I had never given any thought to ice. None at all. This was before craft cocktail bars were everywhere and I had never seen any kind of “special” ice. While this may sound overly dramatic, the fact is, ice is just as an important as your spirits and mixers. 

Let’s talk about ice as an ingredient. We use it to chill cocktails by shaking and stirring but, at the same time, we’re using it for dilution. If you’d like to run a test, make two of the same cocktails. In the first one add all of the ingredients in any mixing vessel you have available and place it in the fridge to chill. Then, make the second cocktail by shaking or stirring. If you’re making a Manhattan, for example, you’ll stir the cocktail, and strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. Place both drinks side-by-side, and sample. You’ll immediately notice that the first cocktail tastes hot, or boozy. The second cocktail (if made with the appropriate specs) will taste balanced. 

Just because your second cocktail in this experiment tasted balanced doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s good. What kind of ice did you use? Was it the crescent-shaped ice from your freezer? If so, that’s no good. (Unless you have no choice, and it’s either bad ice versus no cocktail, and you’re losing your mind.) Even if your freezer filters the water before it produces ice, that same finished ice will soak up any odor coming from the rest of the compartment, e.g., leftover spaghetti that you froze last spring. Any smells from your freezer will be absorbed in your ice. The solution: Use your freezer only for ice cubes and buy ice molds online. I recommend 1-inch or 2-inch squares, and if you want to splurge, a gas-eliminating sphere ice maker from Wintersmiths. 

Here’s why these types of ice are a tool in your arsenal. The 1×1-inch (actually 1.25×1.25-inch) are the first molds I used. I didn’t have one of those Kold-Draft ice machines when I was bartending, so I always had to fill my trays (copious amounts, mind you) the night before my shift started. I used distilled water, and they would be ready the next morning. These cubes can be used to shake cocktails with, but are ideal for stirring. When stacked with orders, I’d stir my drinks as follows (for one cocktail): three 1×1 cubes, and a fourth that I cracked with the back of my bar spoon. I used a cracked cube to speed up dilution while the others chilled the drink to the proper temperature. If you’re shaking, 4 or 5 cubes will do the trick. 

The 2×2-inch cubes are ideal for shaking cocktails. I used to add the smaller size when shaking (and still do if I don’t have the larger ones handy), until I read a passage from Dave Arnold’s Liquid Intelligence book. He explains he was never on the “large cube for shaking” bandwagon until he conducted a test and found that when shaking your cocktail, not only are you diluting and cooling the temperature, but you’re aerating it. This gives your drink its velvety texture — just like that thin layer of foam that sits atop a daiquiri for under a minute after it’s first poured. Using a big cube also eliminates the chances of having tiny ice chards break off while you’re shaking and having to double-strain the drink. If you’re using a big cube to shake your cocktails, make sure you shake hard for at least 10 seconds. 

Now that you’ve stirred or shaken your cocktail, which type should you use if you’re straining it over a glass with ice? I’d opt for sphered ice, mainly because of the surface area to volume ratio it has in your glass. There is less surface area from a sphere than a large (or several small) cubes. Your drink will stay chilled without watering it down. Sure, if you use smaller cubes in that Negroni, it’ll taste great on that first sip. But the second half of your cocktail won’t taste the same. Bet that. Even using a large cube will dilute a drink quicker than using a sphere. Does this mean that you have to use spherical ice in order to have a proper drink? Of course not, but it’d be a lot cooler if you did. Worst pun ever.

A few final thoughts on ice. Clear ice looks very cool. And it is. (Second worst pun ever.) It’s clear because it doesn’t have gases trapped inside it. The gases come from impurities like minerals, bacteria and dust. When you freeze ice in molds, the cubes freeze inward, leaving the center to freeze last, trapping any impurities and gas. One way to get around this is by boiling your water, letting it cool, and freezing it, though it doesn’t completely solve the problem. Instead — and I learned this from Arnold as well — take a small cooler (4-6 gallon) that can fit into your freezer, fill it with water that you’ve already boiled and allowed to cool some. Place the cooler in the fridge with the top off. Give it 2 days to freeze, and when it’s ready, flip the cooler upside down on your countertop and let it sit until it’s wet and glistening. Using the appropriate tools (an ice pick and long bread knife) saw off the bottom layer — before you emptied the ice from the cooler, this was the top layer — with the impurities. Why go through the trouble? Because cloudy ice will melt at a much faster rate than clear ice. 

Lastly, what to do when ordering a nice Scotch or bourbon on its own? There are some of you that may disagree, but I add water to whichever spirit I’m enjoying. I used to order my whisk(e)y with one small cube of ice and I was told, “You’re ruining it!” No, I’m not. Adding even a few tiny drops of water is enough to open up the complexities that may be hidden to our palate. You can do this on the fly by asking for a small side of water, sticking a finger into the glass and flicking it over your neat spirit. Next month I’ll tackle proper ways to shake and stir a cocktail. James Bond be damned.  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines. 

Simple Life

Kid Up a Tree

Because of a father who loved the Old North State

By Jim Dodson

Half a century ago, my dad was on a creative team from a High Point–based ad agency that produced perhaps the state of North Carolina’s most iconic travel and tourism campaign. 

It declared the Old North State to be “Variety Vacationland” and featured beauty shots of our blessed land from the Outer Banks to the Blue Ridge Mountains, along with a catchy theme song that sounded like a college fight song sung by the Fred Waring Singers. 

It was called the “North Carolina Vacation Song.” 

North Car-o-lina, friendly mountain breezes,

North Car-o-lina, with its sandy beaches,

Wonderland of Variety . . .

Coast to mountains it’s great to be 

Right here in North Car-o-lina 

Love the pines around in North Car-o-lina,

Get your cares behind you

Livin’ is right in ho-li-day bright 

NORTH CARO-O-LINA! 

If you’ve reached a certain threshold of age, you probably know this classic and clever jingle word for word. In fact, you probably can’t get the dang thing out of your head six decades later. It’s stuck in there playing on an endless loop with Speedy Alka-Seltzer (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, Oh what a relief it is . . .”) and Mighty Mouse pitching Colgate toothpaste as he battles Mr. Tooth Decay.

My old man couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he was a whiz at writing witty light verse, clever limericks and jingles in the style of Ogden Nash, the poet laureate of Light Verse, one of his literary heroes, the author of such timeless gems as:

My garden will never make me famous,

I’m a horticultural ignoramus,

I can’t tell a string bean from a soybean,

Or even a girl bean from a boy bean.

Or for you First Amendment Fans:

Senator Smoot is an institute

Not to be bribed with pelf;

He guards our homes from erotic tomes

By reading them all himself.

And lastly, a reassuring post-holiday ditty for those anxious about the post-nuclear age in which we reside:

At Christmas in olden times,

The sky was full of happy chimes.

But now the skies above us whistle,

With supersonic guided missiles.

This Christmas I’ll be modern, so

Here comes my guided mistletoe.

I suspect my clever papa had something to do with the lyrics of North Carolina’s wickedly infectious “Vacation Song” because he wrote lots of other memorable copy and commercials — print and television — that prompted large agencies in Chicago and Atlanta to try to lure him their way. 

He always politely listened to their pitches, but in the end stayed at home, his home, in North Carolina. Some of his favorite subjects, in fact, were rural counties he promoted with spots that illustrated their timeless qualities of life. My brother and I both wound up being models for a couple of these promotions. Brother Richard, circa 1964, is shown bird hunting with his “father” in a harvested cornfield on a beautiful autumn afternoon, revealing the rustic charms of Stanly County.

Yours truly, roundabout age 10, wearing jeans, sneakers and a buzz worthy of a Parris Island recruit, is shown sitting on a large tree limb staring dreamily off into the firmament over the green hills of Old Catawba, an ad for Olin Paper Company that found its way into several national magazines. I worked cheap; the sneakers were brand new, though I’m still waiting for my residuals. 

Most of all, our ditty-loving daddy, a product of the Great Depression who never finished college but went off to war and steeped himself in poetry and literature and history for the rest of his days, believed that effective advertising had to be both honest and true, which are not always the same thing. He worked on Terry Sanford’s gubernatorial campaign, for example, largely because of Sanford’s strong commitment to higher education, but turned down several other politicians he sensed were “too smooth to be believable,” as he liked to say.

I spent much of this past year thinking about (and sorely missing) my old man’s infectious good humor and belief in the power of humility, honest words and decent language — something that seems quaintly out of fashion in the time of a President who tweets insults on the hour, grades himself superior to Abe Lincoln and seems to have only a passing acquaintance with the truth. 

As a new and hopeful year dawns, and I wish my dad were still around to pick me up with one of his funny verses about the worrisome state of affairs, perhaps his muse Ogden Nash will have to suffice:

The American people,

With grins jocose, 

Always survive the fatal dose.

And though our systems are slightly wobbly,

We’ll fool the doctor this time, probly.

But wait — stop the presses! 

On an even brighter note, my daughter Maggie, who turns 30 this month and actually works as a senior copywriter for one of those large ad agencies that tried to lure her grandfather to the big city half a century ago, just sent her old man the pick-me-up he needed — three clever video spots she wrote for, of all things, Keebler Crackers.

Her “other” life is writing beautiful short stories, screenplays and a witty newsletter for her Book Drunk Book Club. But as her cracker videos clearly prove, genius skips a generation. 

Judge for yourself.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jupoZctbUJs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8w_gQsiXevA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUs2437pRS4

Somewhere off in the firmament over the state he dearly loved, I’m guessing my old man might be grinning. Maybe his friend Ogden Nash is, too.

In any case, so you’ll never get it out of your head, I shall leave you with the rest of the famous vacation song. You can Google it, too.

North Car-o-lina, would you like to roll along scenic highways?

Let your travels bring you,

Face to face with history,

For new excitement . . . you’ll agree!

It’s all in North Car-o-lina

Bigger land of pleasure,

Life can be fine-er,

You’ll discover treasure 

Where the moon shines through tall green pines in . . .

NORTH-CAR-O-LINA!   PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com. 

Mom, Inc.

The Truck Guy

And Marlena’s two cents

By Renee Phile

She dragged the mop over the sticky floor while I stood behind the register in my Chick-fil-A uniform — chicken breading smeared on my black pants. I was 17 years old, a senior in high school, working on nights and weekends to earn money to pay for my car insurance, gas, clothes, makeup, caramel lattes, you know, teenage girl essentials. 

Her bleached blonde hair, coarse as a scouring pad, was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her face was tanned but weathered. A spray bottle hung from her left pocket. As she mopped she sprayed the tables and wiped them with a dirty towel. 

After my last customer walked away with his chargrilled sandwich, no pickle, I greeted her from behind the counter. “Hi, Marlena!”

“Hi, honey!” She beamed. 

“How are you?”

“I’ll be great once the truck guy gets here. It’s Thursday.” 

“Our truck guy?” 

“Yes, girl. Have you seen him?” 

I laughed. The truck guy was a hit among the single (and not single) women up and down the food court. He appeared every Thursday, armed with chicken breasts, waffle fries, cheesecake and other Chick-fil-A essentials. One of our employees would help him unload the truck and put everything into our freezer. Sometimes it was me. His green eyes sparkled every time he said, “Here, let me help you with that box.” 

“Marlena, I thought you had a husband.”

“Wes? Yeah. But he ain’t worth much. Doesn’t hurt to look, does it, honey?” She winked. 

I laughed and thought of my boyfriend and how awful things were. I was 17, he was 18, and had just gone away to college. It was a four-hour drive that might as well have been forever. 

“Can I get a No. 1 with Coke and extra Polynesian sauce?” said the red-haired woman. A cross between a rat and dog poked its head out of her purse. “And an extra fry for Scrappy,” she said. Scrappy. Yes, he was. 

I punched her order into the register. Marlena was straightening chairs in the lobby, hanging around so she wouldn’t miss the truck guy. 

The customer and her rat dog walked off. “Marlena,” I said, “my boyfriend just moved away. Should I break up with him?” 

She frowned, her eyes squinted a little. 

“Honey, do you love him?” 

“I don’t know. We’ve been together since I was 14.” A millennium in teenage years. 

“If you don’t even know if you love him, and you’ve been together that long, I’d get rid of him. That’s what I did to my first husband. My second and third one, too.” 

“First, second and third? Marlena, how many times have you been married?” 

She picked a crumb off the table, dropped it on the floor and swept it up. “Well . . . ”

“How many?” 

“Nine.” When the word escaped from her mouth, she looked like she wanted to stick it right back in there. 

“Are you kidding me? You don’t look that old!” 

“I’m telling you, Honey, when I get tired of them, I toss them. Life’s too short.” 

Right then the truck guy walked up to the counter with his paperwork, and Marlena’s eyes lit up while she patted her hair down.

“There he is!” she mouthed to me. I smiled and knew right then and there that all advice wasn’t created equal.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a teacher, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

January Bookshelf 2019

FICTION

No Exit, by Taylor Adams

After reading this you might think twice before turning in to a rest stop ever again. No Exit is a heart-stopping, adrenaline rush of a thriller that builds momentum right to the end. Five strangers are stranded at a Colorado rest stop at night during a snowstorm. A young college student, Darby, discovers a little girl being held captive in the back of a van by another motorist. What unfolds is Darby’s desperate attempt to formulate a plan to rescue the child, all while trying to determine the captor’s identity in a race against time and the elements. 

The Only Woman in the Room, by Marie Benedict

The author of The Other Einstein and Carnegie’s Maid has created yet another fantastic historical novel of a strong woman. Hedy Lamarr was a Hollywood screen idol known for her beauty, but there was more to her than just her looks. Desperate to escape the rise of Nazi control, she fled to America and became a film star intent on helping the American cause in the war. Her efforts resulted in a groundbreaking invention that revolutionized modern communication. Book clubs will love this book.

The Current, by Tim Johnston

If you read literary suspense, this is your book. If you are looking for a book you can’t put down, this is your book. If you need a story that will follow you for days, this is your book. New wounds open old wounds in this superb tale of unresolved loss and crime. Two 19-year-old college girls are frantically driving away from a terrifying encounter on a dark, icy Iowa road when their car plunges into a river. One young woman is found downriver, drowned, while the other is rescued at the scene. Determined to find answers, the surviving young woman soon realizes that she’s connected to an earlier unsolved case by more than just the river, and the deeper she dives into her own investigation, the closer she comes to dangerous truths, and to the violence that simmers just below the surface of her hometown. Johnston instills grief and grace, twists and escalating tension, and the tenacity of those left behind in this deftly written novel.

Half of What You Hear, by Kristyn Kusek Lewis

After losing her White House job under a cloud of scandal, Bess Warner arrives with her husband, Cole, and their kids to take over Cole’s family innkeeping business in Greyhill, Virginia, his hometown. But Bess quickly discovers that fitting in is easier said than done in this refuge of old money, old mansions, and old-fashioned ideas about who belongs and who doesn’t. When the opportunity to write an article for the Washington Post’s lifestyle supplement falls into Bess’ lap, she thinks it might be her opportunity to find her footing, even if the subject of the piece is Greyhill’s most notorious resident, Susannah “Cricket” Lane. As Bess discovers unsettling truths about Susannah, Greyhill, and the secrets of prior generations, she begins to learn how difficult it is to start over in a town that runs on talk, where sometimes, the best way to find yourself is to uncover what everyone around you is hiding.

NONFICTION

The Enchanted Hour: The Miraculous Power of Reading Aloud in the Age of Distraction, by Meghan Cox Gurdon 

Grounded in the latest neuroscience and behavioral research, and drawing widely from literature, The Enchanted Hour explains the dazzling cognitive and social-emotional benefits that await children, whatever their class, nationality or family background. It’s not just about bedtime stories for little kids: Reading aloud consoles, uplifts and invigorates at every age, deepening the intellectual lives and emotional well-being of teenagers and adults, too. Gurdon argues that this ancient practice is a fast-working antidote to the fractured attention spans, atomized families and unfulfilling ephemera of the tech era, helping to replenish what our devices are leaching away. Bringing together the latest scientific research, practical tips and reading recommendations, The Enchanted Hour will both charm and galvanize, inspiring readers to share this life-altering tradition with the people they love most.

Elephant in the Room, by Tommy Tomlinson

Nearing the age of 50 and weighing in at 460 pounds, Tomlinson, a columnist for the Charlotte Observer for 23 years, explores what it’s like to live as a fat man after deciding to change his life. Intimate, honest and searingly insightful, The Elephant in the Room is a chronicle for the millions of Americans taking the first steps toward health, and trying to understand how, as a nation, we got to this point. From buying a Fitbit and setting an exercise goal to contemplating the Heart Attack Grill, America’s “capital of food porn,” and modifying his own diet, Tomlinson brings us along on an unforgettable journey of self-discovery that is a candid and sometimes brutal look at the everyday experience of being constantly aware of your size.

One Breath at a Time: A Skeptic’s Guide to Christian Meditation, by J. Dana Trent

This book answers the questions: How does meditation fit into Christianity, and how does it differ from prayer? In secular mainstream America, meditation has become as ubiquitous as yoga. (Americans spend an estimated $2.5 billion annually on yoga instruction.) Trent reframes meditation for those who doubt its validity as a Christian spiritual practice. Using Scripture, theology and examples from the early Church, the book challenges Christians’ prayer habits that leave little room for enough silence to experience and listen for God. It provides a practical, 40-day guide to beginning and sustaining a Christian meditation practice in an often chaotic world.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Lola Dutch: When I Grow Up, by Kenneth and Sarah Jane Wright

Always bursting with energy and grand ideas, Lola Dutch has an unexpected emergency. She does not know what she wants to be when she grows up. After consulting a book (of course!), Lola decides she is destined to command the stage or become an astronaut, or a gardener or possibly even an inventor. There are just so many options and this is a wonderful problem, because Lola is excited to learn about every one of her possibilities. (Ages 3-6.)

Chicken Talk, by Patricia MacLachlan

The term “Chicken Scratch” gets a whole new meaning in this delightful barnyard tale from award winning author/illustrator team Patricia MacLachlan and Jarrett J. Krosoczka. (Ages 3-6.)

Dog Man: Brawl of the Wild, by Dav Pilkey

Dog Man is absolutely the hottest thing in books and he’s back for his sixth adventure. The crime biting canine, part dog-part man, will have young readers howling with laughter as he gets out of a “Ruff” situation and has to prove he is innocent of a crime for which he is sent to the dog pound! (Ages 8-10.)

Slayer, by Kiersten White

People are divided into two groups: the slayers, who hunt and kill demons, have amazing powers and are fierce in battle; and the watchers, who supervise and advise slayers. Nina and her twin sister, Artemis, are part of the watcher society. Both of their parents were watchers and they grew up around watchers. Nina is a medic, healing and helping, and not a full-fledged watcher. Artemis trains in combat and is competent and levelheaded. One day, Nina shows an amazing new skill and her world is turned upside down. She must make sense of her new powers and decide how to make choices on a path she has not chosen. (Age 14 and up.) — Review by Annabelle Black, age 15.  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

2018 Book Club Top Reads

Before We Were Yours, by Lisa Wingate

A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles

Educated, by Tara Westover

News of the World, by Paulette Giles

Hillbilly Elegy, by J.D. Vance

Small Great Things, by Jodi Picoult

The Girl Who Wrote in Silk, by Kelli Estes

The Last Castle, by Denise Kiernan

The Rent Collector, by Camron Wright

Lilac Girls, by Martha Hall Kelly

Little Fires Everywhere, by Celeste Ng

America’s First Daughter, by Stephanie Dray

Papadaddy’s Mindfield

Give Me That Old-Time Music

The comfort of familiar hymns

By Clyde Edgerton

After New Year’s Eve is a good time to think over the past year — or maybe the past 75, especially if something pops up that gives birth to memories that emerge from behind stacks of present-day urgencies and conflicts. 

I’ve recently been looking through the hymn book I grew up with in a Southern Baptist church — the Broadman Hymnal: a staple for many denominations back in the day. My looking through this book gave fresh birth to old memories. 

Most people, as children, sang songs. For me, it was religious songs. And many children, because they sing songs written by adults, mess up the meanings of words. 

In Sunday School at my church long ago, we children sang “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.” I always heard and thus sang “Jesus wants me for a sunbean.” In my mind’s eye, a sunbean was shaped like a butter bean (translation: lima bean) and had a silvery, bright sheen. I wasn’t sure why Jesus wanted me to be one. Who was Jesus anyway? I’d not quite figured that out by age 4.

In my church, after Sunday School on a Sunday morning, we kids went into the big people’s church and sat still or squirmed for an hour or so — usually with parents, a parent, or someone else’s parents — while things happened around us, and in the choir, and up in the pulpit. We didn’t get the big picture until about the age 12, when we finally clearly understood the nature of the universe and our place in it. 

Early on, well before the age of 12, all the hymns seemed benevolent and kind and good, in spite of my recognizing in those songs images of war — as well as of peace — of fear and hope, of the wild and the tame, the obedient and disobedient. But because of my place in my community and church, because of my beliefs, I felt very safe, unthreatened. 

Approaching the teenage years, sitting or standing in the big church, we still didn’t always comprehend clearly. There’s that famous example: the hymn “Gladly the Cross I’d Bear.” As: “Gladly, the Cross-Eyed Bear.” 

A song like “Standing on the Promises” was hard for me to grasp. I was unable to sustain a meaning for a participial phrase, “standing on,” along with the abstract noun “promises,” in the same sentence. I visualized “promises” as bridge trusses made of human arms. People in a far-off country stood on them. Therefore, the meaning of the song, though I’d sing the printed words, was mangled. 

“When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” brought visions of a bread roll with ears and legs — ambling doglike across a green meadow, having been called: “Come, Fluffy. Come, girl.” I was there watching because the hymn said, “When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.”

Then, yo, and verily, verily, we became teenagers. 

Teenage friends were allowed to sit together, sometimes all the way back on the back row. We’d play “Between the Sheets.” Teenager A would open the hymnbook to a random page and whisper the hymn title to Teenager B. B would say: “Between the Sheets.” 

I’m sitting here with the Broadman Hymnal now, as I write. I’m about to open to some random pages. 

“Dare to Be Brave, Dare to Be True” . . . “Onward, Christian Soldiers” . . . “Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow” . . . “I Surrender All” . . . You get the idea (and probably did before the examples). 

Now, as an adult, I enjoy singing the old hymns in church. I haven’t yet been able to enjoy contemporary religious music. I like what I heard as a child. Probably not so much because I did or didn’t understand meanings, but because back then I felt at peace. I felt very safe; meanings about life and the universe were absolutely true. Though my outlook has changed, it’s comforting to sing the old hymns, to reconnect with those feelings of security and peace.  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Keenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW. 

The Kitchen Garden

Black Drink

Carolina Tea — the only caffeine native to the U.S.

By Jan Leitschuh

What better way to take the winter chill off than a nice cup of tea, and a dollop of history? Say, an energizing “black drink” from the Outer Banks — sourced from a common shrub you might even have in your own backyard.

Mmmmm, pour us a drink, Luv.

And if you knew that this shrub’s Latin name was Ilex vomitoria — yes, you read that right, vomitoria — and that a tea from its leaves was used as a purge and emetic by Native American tribes . . . well, would you still be savoring that cuppa?

No worries, duckie. It’s simply bad press for an otherwise lovely dish of tea.

The yaupon holly, or Ilex vomitoria, is common throughout the Carolinas and has a solid and ancient history as a tea source fully grounded in the New World. A wild, perennial evergreen shrub, yaupon holly (pronounced YO-pon) is the only plant native to North America known to contain caffeine. The dried and roasted leaves of the yaupon are the source of North America’s only homegrown caffeinated beverage — yaupon tea. Historians tell us that yaupon leaves were used for centuries as a ceremonial tea by many native North American tribes. 

Later, European settlers tumbled to the benefits of the energizing beverage they called “black drink.” Yaupon tea was quite well known and widely enjoyed during the Colonial period. Take that, British East India Company and your Asian tea; into Boston Harbor with ye!

The tough little yaupon holly ranges across the Southeastern United States, from Virginia to Florida and west to Texas, but is numerous in the Carolinas. 

The Native Americans used it in purification rituals involving purging (thus, its Latin vomitoria). Lovely, right? But the Latin name is actually a misnomer, because yaupon is not an emetic, just guilty by ceremonial association. According to Charles Hudson, in his introduction to the book Black Drink: A Native American Tea, the scientific name derives from yaupon’s association with those purification ceremonies that entailed ritualistic vomiting, usually after adding seawater or other nausea-producing substances to the drink. But the tea of yaupon itself, as typically consumed, does not cause vomiting.

“Yaupon tea’s market was done great damage in the late 1700s by William Aiton, a Scottish botanist I believe was secretly in the employ of Ceylon tea merchants,” says Florida writer Francis E. “Jack” Putz. “In recognition of the use of an especially strong brew of yaupon in an Amerindian ritual that included ceremonial vomiting, Aiton named the plant Ilex vomitoria. Clearly this fascination says more about the early chroniclers of American life than about the qualities of the beverage.”

Wryly, Putz continues: “Researchers have revealed no emetic compounds in yaupon tea; it simply does not induce vomiting. That said, there were indeed special occasions when Timucuan and later Seminole warriors stood around vomiting after drinking large quantities of yaupon, but that was only after fasting for days and then singing, dancing, and generally carrying on all night; Kool-Aid would have had the same effect.”

Yaupon tea was actually a desirable prehistoric commodity, being exchanged at least as far west as Illinois. According to one source, over 1,000 years ago Native American traders dried, packed and shipped the leaves all the way to Cahokia, the ancient mound city near the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers by modern day St. Louis.

“It strengthens and nourishes the body, and yet does not fly to the head,” marveled French artist and North Florida explorer Jacques le Moyne de Morgues in 1564, after the native Timucua tribe offered the Frenchmen shells of the “black drink.” Thus was European teatime born in the New World. A Spanish priest in Florida reported in 1615, “There is no Spaniard or Indian who does not drink it in the morning or evening.” In 1791, famed Philadelphia botanist William Bartram noted in his writings that the Cherokee of Western North Carolina had obtained yaupon and it was under active pruning and cultivation. The Cherokee, he said, called yaupon “the beloved tree.”

Early settlers later enjoyed the black drink so much they traded it as a commodity to other countries. Not only was yaupon tea consumed regularly, especially throughout the Southeast, it was exported by ship to Europe, to be marketed as cassina in England and Appalachina in France. It was also traded from the Colonies under the moniker “Carolina Tea.” Apothecary shops dispensed it as a treatment for smallpox and kidney stones. English settlers of Carolina were said to drink the “Indian Tea” daily.

Later, during the Civil War, N.C. barrier islanders supplied the caffeinated leaves to cities blocked from importing tea and coffee. During the Great Depression and World War II, U.S. consumption once again spiked as tea and coffee became difficult to obtain. Folks needed their morning buzz! The drinking of yaupon tea persisted on the Outer Banks until the ’70s, and then lingered in island cafes. Ocracoke Island was the last known location to have served yaupon tea until recently.

While it once competed with Asian tea for a global market share, the antioxidant-rich yaupon tea dropped off the map for a while. The classic Chinese tea Camellia sinensis, was too entrenched, and some speculate that yaupon tea was later associated with the rural Southern poor at a time when coffee’s popularity was rising. Yet recent taste tests conducted at the University of Florida revealed an overwhelming preference for yaupon over its commercially available South American sister species, “yerba mate” — making it perfect for elevenses.

“Unfortunately,” writes Putz, “yaupon’s commercial potential was destroyed simply by the revelation of its scientific name.”

While many people today are still unaware of yaupon tea, it is experiencing a comeback, riding on the back of the farm-to-table movement for local foods, nostalgia and increased knowledge of its various medicinal benefits.

There is no need to import our teas from exotic continents, say fans of the yaupon.

“Our native yaupon is a delicious and healthy tea,” says Jan Mann Jackson of Jackson Farms. With her husband, Tom, the pair began cultivating the native tea on their 200-year-old traditional family farm on the other side of Fayetteville, in northern Sampson County. Although the Jacksons were among the first few farmers certified as “organic” many years ago, in recent years they discontinued the cost and paperwork of certification. “Although we have not changed our way of growing food,” says Jackson.

They acquired some yaupon holly from a yard in Morehead City to see if they could grow it on the farm for their use. “It grew well here,” says Jackson. They roasted the young leaves in the spring for themselves. Roasting makes the caffeine more soluble. Coffee beans are roasted for the same reason. The Jacksons found the tea quite delicious — no vomiting.

After perfecting their roasting methods, Jackson Farms began selling the tea leaves to restaurants and specialty shops about 10 years ago. Recently, they created a website — JacksonFarm.com — to sell their historic tea to the public. 

Their beautifully packaged processed tea retails for $10 per ounce, “which will make a lot of tea,” says Jackson. “We also stock it with other teas in our farm’s guesthouse.”

A strong Carolina connection to yaupon tea exists, as the beverage was enjoyed here through Colonial times and persisted quite a while on the relatively isolated (and yaupon-filled) Outer Banks. “I first drank yaupon tea in a restaurant on Ocracoke Island in about 1957,” says Jackson. “Then I ran into a mention of it in John Lawson’s A New Voyage to Carolina. It interested me, and I eventually ran into the book Black Drink, by Charles M. Hudson, and learned a good deal more.”

Yaupon tea is an infusion tea made from steeping the dried and roasted yaupon leaves. Yaupon’s caffeine content is said to be more than black tea but less than coffee, and is closely related to yerba mate tea, which shares some of the same active ingredients and nutrients. Some say yaupon has a similar flavor profile to green tea; others say it tastes more like a black tea. The smell is earthy, and the health benefits numerous.

Yaupon is anti-inflammatory, helping reduce the pain of arthritis and other inflammatory conditions, improves dental health and digestive issues, and has shown promise as a preventive of colon cancer. Yaupon, a diuretic like coffee and tea, is rich in the desirable antioxidants known as polyphenols, comparable to other so-called “superfoods” like red wine, dark chocolate, broccoli, blueberries and green tea. These polyphenols stimulate the immune system. Theobromine, also found in yaupon, has been shown to lower blood pressure. 

Aficionados say yaupon yields a jitter-free, energizing brew. Caffeine levels in yaupon vary, but are roughly comparable to green or black tea, so excess consumption would certainly lead to the jitters, just as it would with coffee. Depending on the strength brewed, the flavor can be anything from light, caramelly and buttery to intensely rich, complex, nutty and smoky, say fans. Yaupon is virtually free of tannins, so you can steep longer to bring out more flavor without risking the bitterness of regular tea. Perhaps the long steeping explains the name “black drink,” because a shorter steep yields a grassy, lighter tea.

In strong brews the slight bitterness of theobromine, coveted by lovers of dark chocolate, can be tasted. Theobromine (from Greek “food of the gods”) is the pleasure molecule of chocolate — the buzzy one that increases feelings of well-being, contentment and focus (and is also toxic to dogs).

The “black drink” can be enjoyed hot or iced, whatever your pleasure. By all means, support our local farmers and give this native tea a try, or ask for it at your local farm-to-table restaurant. And if you like it, you can try to make some at home, and beat January back with a steaming North American cuppa and a buttered scone. No need to raise your pinkie whilst sipping either, ducks.

“Backyard” Yaupon Tea

Know your plants, first of all. Be sure you know your yaupon. Collect fresh leaves, the newer growth if possible. Some say the females (the ones that produce the berries) make the best tea, but science has been unable to determine any chemical difference. Heat them (roast) in the oven at 300 degrees until they start to brown, about 7 or 8 minutes. Others simply blanch the leaves black in a skillet. Remove and add a tablespoon of crumbled leaves to your pot, and pour over two or three cups of hot (just-boiled) water. Steep for a few minutes, depending on strength preferred. Sweeten to taste.  PS

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

Hometown

Pa and the Fish

Reaching back to the 19th century

By Bill Fields

I love to ask people what year my maternal grandfather was born. It is a straightforward question, but no one has ever come within 25 years of a correct answer.

People often say 1900, 1910 or 1920. I’ve gotten responses ranging from 1890 to 1930, the latter making me think the respondent is worse than I am at math. As a clue, I’ll tell them when I came into the world. That doesn’t help either. 

No one has come close to pegging his birth year, 1861. 

B.L. Henderson was born a couple of weeks before the Civil War began that spring. He lived nearly half of his life in the 19th century, when gold was being mined in his native Montgomery County.

To be fair, I used to get his history wrong too — but in a different way. “Pa,” as his children and grandchildren called him, was said to have been born March 28, 1860. His simple gravestone in Jackson Springs, where he lived the last third of his life, says so. So does his obituary from the summer of 1954, five years before my birth.

But my grandfather and his twin sister aren’t listed in the 1860 U.S. Census conducted in the summer of that year. They show up in later surveys done every decade with ages indicating they were born in 1861. 

People have a hard time believing it. I did as well, even though I knew B.L. was in his 40s and my grandmother, Daisy, was in her teens when they married in 1908, and that he was 62 when my mother was born. 

A man born when my grandfather was had a life expectancy of about 40 years, but if someone could avoid the diseases that took people young, you could live a long life like he did. He was lucky. 

Growing up, I knew him as the man with the big fish. There was an 8×10 picture on my mother’s wall of a white-haired gentleman holding a largemouth bass, pipe in his mouth and cane pole over his shoulder. One of Mom’s memories is going fishing with him and being nervous when he stood up in the rowboat, but there was never a man overboard. 

When I got older, I was less fascinated by the lunker bass he had caught than the hair — white yet plentiful — he still had as an old man given what they say about heredity and hair loss. As I near my grandfather’s age at the time my Mom was born, so far, so good. 

The photo of Pa as an elderly fisherman is one of the few fragments of information I know about him. He worked on his family’s farm and later owned a sawmill, which would have made him a “catch” for Ma-Ma. He eventually owned a filling station down the hill from his home. (I don’t know for sure, but suspect he also might have spent some time at the Henderson gold mine in his home community of Eldorado.)

I have a couple of his possessions: a railroad pocket watch I’d bet he was carrying when he proudly posed with that bass; a token for one dollar in merchandise from his business in Ellerbe (though the town name is missing an “l” on the half-dollar sized coin); a tin shaving cup with a dirigible painted on the side. 

The items are as close to him as I will get. My older sisters were alive for Pa’s last years but have scant memories. Dianne recalls being in his home after his death, Pa’s body in the parlor for viewing as was still custom in those days. 

“Touch his forehead so you won’t have dreams about him,” an adult advised her.

She didn’t touch him, and I don’t dream about him. Yet I think about him often. And the older I get, I can see a bit of myself in the fisherman with a pipe.  PS

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

The Omnivorous Reader

Facing Fate

When the law of averages strikes

By Stephen E. Smith

Your risk for developing pancreatic cancer is about 1 in 65. The odds of your dying in a car crash are 1 in 100. If you’re about to undergo a hospital procedure, you have a 3 percent chance of experiencing a mishap. But, then, if you consider all the odds for all the possibilities, your chances of avoiding every disease, every mishap, is zilch. This law of averages spares no one.

Judy Goldman’s first memoir, Losing My Sister, a finalist for Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance for Memoir of the Year, worked, in part, from the above premise, and her latest memoir, Together: A Memoir of a Marriage and a Medical Mishap, is also the product of grim statistics, detailing a medical accident and the accompanying physical and emotional consequences that tested a marriage.

Life-altering calamities can begin with the best of intentions. Goldman’s husband, Henry, happened upon a newspaper ad for an outpatient procedure that would alleviate the persistent back pain he’d suffered for years. It all sounded reassuringly straightforward: a simple injection or two and an immediate resumption of a normal life. The doctor would use a fluoroscope to guide his injection of steroids and an anesthetic into the epidural space between the spine and the spinal cord. But when Henry was wheeled out from the procedure, his expression was “flat and abstracted.” He was paralyzed from the waist down. 

The doctor assured Goldman that Henry’s reaction to the procedure was normal: “Your husband is going to be all right. It’ll just be a matter of time,” he said, reassuringly. But he was mistaken, and the consequences of the botched treatment unleashed in Goldman a desperate avalanche of emotions — depression, guilt, hopelessness, anger, fear, despair. Adding to her anguish, there was no explanation for Henry’s sudden physical disability. With the exception of the doctor who had administered the treatment — and he was not forthcoming — a faceless medical community offered few plausible answers. After the struggle and joy of four decades of marriage, after raising children and pursuing successful careers, after leading a responsible life together, the Goldmans had suffered a mind-numbing and perhaps irreversible catastrophe that would test their relationship to its core — a predicament in which Goldman had to assume the role of patient advocate in the complex medical morass America has created for itself.

Interspersed with the chapters detailing Goldman’s struggles with her husband’s sudden disability, she weaves the story of her early life, her marriage to Henry, their years together, all of which lend perspective and poignancy to their predicament. When she’d said yes to Henry’s marriage proposal, Goldman had already mapped out the path their lives would follow. “I was not only in love with him, I was in love with the idea of a husband and wife moving through life together, youth falling away, both growing slightly stooped, hard of hearing, Henry carrying my purse for me the way old men do, our soft, imperfect last years together.”

A second misadventure produced a catharsis. Two years after Henry’s debilitating procedure, Goldman was confronted by a ski-masked man pointing a pistol at her abdomen. She made a quick getaway. Henry, who was recovering from a shoulder operation precipitated by his back injury, was sitting beside her in the car’s passenger seat. “All of a sudden, I get it. Because somebody threatened me with a gun, I can finally cry — really cry — over what threatened Henry in that outpatient clinic two years ago. As though the holdup and the epidural are one thing. One single reminder that we’re all in danger every second. The world is waiting to trip us up.” 

And there you have it: The world is waiting to trip us up. All that’s left is the long way back and the truths that such struggles reveal about relationships and the limits of human determination. 

After intense rehab, Henry recovers much of his ability to walk, albeit with a cane and the constant attention of his faithful advocate. But Goldman was left to ponder an inescapable list of “if-onlys” — if only her husband hadn’t seen the ad in the newspaper; if only they’d tried other remedies; if only he’d decided to live with the pain; if only she’d waited with him before he received the epidural; if only she hadn’t made things worse by over-reacting. Mostly she had to question the very beliefs that formed the foundation of their marriage — the possibility of losing Henry and the notions she had early on about how they would grow old together. She became irritable, naggy and intensely introspective: “Maybe I’m really angry with Henry for threatening to fail physically. For even obliquely threatening to die. As though he has to earn my forgiveness for what happened to him. As though his medical condition is a betrayal.” Finally it all comes down to forgiveness — forgiving her husband, forgiving herself, forgiving the doctor responsible for administering the crippling epidural. Forgiving the world for tripping her up. 

What we have in Together is a blueprint for coping with “mishaps.” Goldman skillfully articulates the communality of human experience, and she’s startlingly frank when relating the difficulties a patient advocate encounters. Finally, Together is about being married, about becoming a part of another person and building on the long-term relationship we enter into when we take our marriage vows. If Goldman doesn’t offer easy answers to the vexing questions of life, she does outline a process by which we can puzzle our way into the moment and make the best of what fate offers us: “We must scrap the illusion that marrying that one perfect person will end our suffering, bring endless bliss, fix everything.” What could be more honest than that?  PS

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press awards.