Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

Home
July 2026

Paloma

By Tony Cross

When it comes to tequila cocktails, there are none that come close in popularity to the margarita. Though not nearly as popular, the cocktail that is next in line is the paloma. A very simple drink to make, the paloma is light, refreshing, and perfect for hot weather sipping.

Spanish for “the dove,” the paloma was supposedly created by bartender Don Javier Delgado Corona (more names than ingredients in the drink) in Tequila, Jalisco — though I’ve read that Corona has denied that claim. The easiest, and most probable, story is that the drink was created when the grapefruit soda, Squirt, was popularized in Mexico in the 1950s. Tequila over ice, topped with the sweet carbonated beverage seems like a no-brainer.

That’s one way to make a paloma, but there are others. Regardless of the version you choose, you’ll want to be sure to use a blanco tequila — it has all of the flavor you’ll want that hasn’t been adulterated with notes of vanilla or cinnamon. And by all means, save the aged agave for imbibing neat or in stirred cocktails. The paloma also requires fresh grapefruit, lime, a sweetener and sparkling water.

If there is a cocktail that has anything carbonated in it, I want the whole thing carbonated. Mixing a carbonated liquid and a still liquid quickly flattens whatever bubbles existed in the first place. For me, it’s all or nothing. To achieve this, I clarify the grapefruit and lime juices using a centrifuge, then add the juices to a stainless steel keg with sugar, water and tequila. I carbonate everything in the keg for 24 hours and then pour on draught.

There is, of course, the question of salt. Yes, you can add it to the rim of your glass à la a margarita, but I would suggest adding it to the cocktail itself. The addition amplifies the citrus flavors. Making a 4:1 (water: salt) saline solution is the easiest way for me to stay consistent (I use 80 grams of water to 20 grams of Celtic salt). Try a paloma with Squirt and then try making it from scratch with the recipe on the right, and decide which one you prefer. I guarantee either one will help beat the summer heat.

Specifications

2 ounces blanco tequila

1½ ounces grapefruit juice

½ ounce fresh lime juice

½ ounce simple syrup

5 drops saline solution

1½ ounces sparkling water

 

Execution

Add all ingredients (sans sparkling water) into a cocktail shaker and add ice. Shake hard and strain into a Collins glass over ice. Top with sparkling water. Stir briefly. Garnish with grapefruit or lime wedge, grapefruit peel or nothing at all.

The Spirit of ’76

THE SPIRIT OF '76

Home
July 2026

Hooper, Hewes and Penn

By Warren L. Bingham

It’s 2026 which means it’s time to celebrate America’s semiquincentennial. Since semiquincentennial sounds like a dreaded medical procedure, the celebration’s formal organizers just call it America 250. For this special anniversary, we should do more than the customary overindulgence in hot dogs, ice cream and fireworks on the Fourth of July. We should remember.

Sometime before the last Roman candle brightens the sky, you should consider paying tribute to three important Founding Fathers whom you’ve likely never heard of: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes and John Penn, the trio from North Carolina who signed the Declaration of Independence, which is, after all, the reason for all this merrymaking and bottle-rocketing. The Fourth is about the Declaration.

The three North Carolinians were among a total of 56 signers of the Declaration. Great Britain considered all of them to be traitors, for which they risked their lives. The last line of the Declaration summarizes the gravity of the signers’ commitment: We mutually pledge to each other our lives, fortunes, and our sacred honor. Had the American rebellion failed, the signers would have likely been executed in the public square. Or as Benjamin Franklin, the oldest signer of the Declaration at the age of 70, observed, “We must all hang together or assuredly we shall hang separately.”

In July 1776, the Continental Congress, composed of delegates from the 13 British colonies lining the Atlantic Coast from New Hampshire to Georgia, had been in session in Philadelphia for over a year. Hooper, Hewes and Penn, selected by their peers in North Carolina’s Provincial Congress, represented North Carolina. The primary topic was governance and whether the Colonies should seek independence from Great Britain.

The Colonies had recently ousted royal governors, and now Colonial assemblies were trying to figure out how to best govern themselves — but the people were still subjects of King George III, and a good number of Americans liked it that way. Many felt it was beneficial to remain with Great Britain, and numerous English, Scots and Scots-Irish settlers had known only loyalty to the king. Some historians describe the Revolutionary War as America’s first civil war.

News of deadly skirmishes in New England perpetrated by British troops against local militia, combined with King George III’s uncompromising efforts to tax and regulate the Colonists, increasingly drove Americans to question their loyalty to the Mother Country. The women of Eastern Carolina were notably engaged in their own protest of the crown and the British Parliament. Fifty-one women, led by Penelope Barker of Edenton, lent their names in the fight against tyranny when they staged the Edenton Tea Party in 1774. Parliament had passed several taxes on imported British goods, and the ladies of Edenton called for a boycott of British imports.

As debates about independence crept along in Philadelphia, delegates would come and go, tending to matters at home. Among the dozens of delegates from the 13 Colonies, rarely was everyone present at the same time. Travel was hard — the trip by horse from North Carolina to Philadelphia took two to three weeks.

In North Carolina, momentum for self-governance was growing. In May 1775, Mecklenburg County leaders met in Charlotte and publicly resolved their desire for independence. Then, in April 1776, the North Carolina Provincial Congress put forth the Halifax Resolves in which North Carolina became the first Colony to call for independence from Great Britain. From that action in Halifax comes a significant claim: North Carolina — First in Freedom.

In January 1776, Thomas Paine, a theretofore little-known writer and thinker, released his pamphlet, Common Sense, which strongly advocated for American independence from Great Britain. Written for the masses, Paine called monarchies absurd and implored Americans to unite, proclaim independence, and create a democratic government. Paine’s words resonated. Common Sense was a bestseller. As the season turned from spring to summer, throughout the Colonies, the call for independence was as hot as the weather. The delegates in Philadelphia got the message.

On July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress set forth the Declaration of Independence, which spelled out grievances with Great Britain and specifically with King George III. The collective body declared the “united” States of America to be free and independent states, absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown. 

The Declaration was the seed of the future, but the lower case “u” in united, as printed in the Declaration, meant that each state was sovereign. For the time being, the states within their new independence would move forward in a loose alliance. That alliance took on the British military, and after eight years of battles and skirmishes from New Hampshire to Georgia and all the land in between, independence was secured in 1783.

Despite their noble role in representing North Carolina in Philadelphia, Hooper, Hewes and Penn are relatively unknown today. They all died in their late 40s, and though they made continued contributions to the fledgling state of North Carolina after July 4, 1776, they never became widely heralded. Though each man is recognized by historical markers and tributes at their graves, there are no places in North Carolina named in their honor.

There are, however, places around our state for some of the big founding names. The town of Washington is on the Pamlico River, and the town of Jefferson is in the Blue Ridge. Franklin County is named for Ben, as is Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. Fayetteville is named for Lafayette, the young French officer who served under Washington. Thanks to a modern Broadway play, practically everyone now knows Alexander Hamilton. Hip-hop has proven to be a Revolutionary educator.

Even though he wasn’t from North Carolina, Gen. Nathanael Greene has several namesakes here, enough to make other Revolutionary leaders green with envy: Greensboro, Greenville and Greene County are all named in honor of the general. Additionally, a Greensboro brewer produces Natty Greene beer. Cheers!

Beyond its signers of the Declaration, North Carolina produced its share of founding heroes. Some of them are honored with county namesakes: Nash, Harnett, Moore, Jones, Lenoir and Sampson were all North Carolinians and founding leaders, but there are no counties named for Hooper, Hewes or Penn.

None of our signatories were originally from North Carolina, but that was not unusual in their day. In the 1770s, it’s thought that over half the residents of North Carolina had come from somewhere else. It was a time of significant population growth and resettlement, and newcomers were plentiful in the state. People came from other states and abroad seeking land and opportunity, bringing new talents and skills, and new ways of thinking.

In 1776, William Hooper was a Wilmington lawyer, but he had previously lived in Campbelltown (present-day Fayetteville) and at one time served in Royal Gov. William Tryon’s legal department. Hooper had been a Royalist, a reminder that everyone in the Colonies was a subject of the king. His wife was the former Anne Clark, daughter of a New Hanover sheriff.

Born to a prominent Boston family in 1742, Hooper’s father was the second rector of Trinity Church. His son graduated from Boston Latin for his prep education, then earned both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree at Harvard University. Trinity Church, Boston Latin and Harvard are all still up and running. In addition to his formal training, Hooper studied law in Boston in the early 1760s under Boston lawyer James Otis, who was known for his strong advocacy of Colonial rights.

At the time of the Declaration, Joseph Hewes was a well-established Edenton merchant who had served in Colonial assemblies for 20 years. Hewes was in import-export trading and was a shipbuilder. Born on his family’s large farm in Kingston, New Jersey, in 1730, Hewes completed his formal studies at Kingston Friends School and was apparently bound for college at Princeton but — in today’s vernacular — turned pro instead. Strong-willed and ambitious, Hewes was drawn to commerce and in lieu of college, sought practical training as an apprentice to a Philadelphia merchant.

After five years of dock work and learning the trading business from the cargo hold up, Hewes struck out on his own, at first in Philadelphia. But by 1755, he was making a life and career for himself in Edenton. Hewes was engaged to marry the well-connected Isabella Johnston of Edenton, sister of Samuel Johnston, a future North Carolina governor. The Johnstons’ uncle was former Royal Gov. Gabriel Johnston. Sadly, Isabella Johnston died after a short illness before her marriage to Hewes could take place, and Hewes never married.

By 1776, John Penn was a known advocate for independence. A Virginia native who grew up on a small farm near the Rappahannock River in Caroline County, Penn was born in 1741 to a hard-working farm family. Though he received little formal education in his late teens, after the death of his father, he could afford to take time to study the law. John Adams famously said, “All Virginia geese are swans.” Yet, despite his Virginia birth and rearing, Penn was more goose than swan — but an ambitious, hard-working, smart goose.

Unlike Hooper and Hewes, he was not of the Eastern North Carolina elite. He lived in Granville County, in the northern Piedmont, where he farmed and maintained a successful law practice. His wife, the former Susannah Lyme, was a native of Granville County, and their marriage is what brought Penn there. He was more typical of back country settlers who lived simpler lives and distrusted both the Crown and the Eastern North Carolina elite.

Though Penn was ready sooner than most to move on from Great Britain, Hooper and Hewes were not early rabble-rousers for independence. In fact, in 1775, Hewes was among the leaders in the Continental Congress that offered the Olive Branch Petition to King George, an offer for a reset in relations between the Americans and British through peaceful means. The offer was rebuffed by George III.

Frustrated by repeated British affronts, heavy taxes and regulations, enforced at times by corrupt officials, the North Carolina signers grew to accept that independence was the inescapable course. Hooper, Hewes and Penn were amiable colleagues, but not close friends. Their bond was a shared belief in the principles of self-governance, democracy and individual freedom — the spirit of ’76.

The North Carolina trio had challenges during the ensuing war. Hooper’s home, Finian, was situated on 100-plus acres on Masonboro Sound south of Wilmington. The British bombed and burned Finian, and Hooper and his entire family were forced to flee to Hillsborough, where they lived out their lives.

Leaving his family, farm and law practice for long periods, Penn attended more days of the Continental Congress than any other North Carolinian. Over the years, he was a member of 15 or more Congressional committees. Back home, Penn was involved in equipping and supplying both the North Carolina militia and soldiers of the Continental Army.

During the war, Hewes was in Philadelphia more than in Edenton, often using his knowledge and skill in trade and shipbuilding to help the American cause. He was in effect the first secretary of the Navy. As the war raged, his health worsened and he grew increasingly weak, probably from malaria. He died in his Philadelphia rooming house in 1779 and was laid to rest nearby in Christ Church Burial Ground, just a few hundred yards from where he signed the Declaration of Independence.

If not the authors, the three Carolinians — Hooper, Hewes and Penn — were witnesses and signatories to what historian Walter Isaacson has characterized as The Greatest Sentence Ever Written. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and pursuit of Happiness.”

That’s not nothing.

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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July 2026

Thirty Something

Standing the test of time

By Lee Pace

Photographs by Ryan Montgomery

In the decade that Bob McCann has been the owner of Forest Creek Golf Club, he’s developed a deep respect for the position the club’s South Course holds in the minds and hearts of its members.

“There is something about the South Course that is so special,” McCann says. “People get romantic about it. They like the North Course. But they really love the South Course.”

Both courses are the work of noted golf architect Tom Fazio, the South opening in 1996 and the North following in 2005 as the lynchpins of a club and residential community just northeast of the village of Pinehurst. Terry Brown, the original developer, hired Fazio to design both courses and gambled that one man could create two vastly different experiences on the same piece of property.

“I can certainly argue that we created two contrasting styles at the same address — as much as if we’d done one course and someone else had done the other,” Fazio says. “The South Course has an Augusta look and feel with gently flowing lines, wintertime overseeding and big, white-splashed bunkers. The North favors a course like Pine Valley with lots of sand, irregular boundaries and native grasses popping through wide expanses.”

The South was named one of the top three Best New Residential Courses of 1996 by Golf Digest. Mike Keiser, the developer of golf destinations such as Bandon Dunes in Oregon and Cabot Links in Nova Scotia, ranks Forest Creek as No. 5 in a personal list of the best private clubs in the United States with two or more courses, following Winged Foot, Baltusrol, Olympia Fields and Monterey Peninsula.

“I am such a fan of Forest Creek,” Keiser says. “Both courses are so well done. They were built as golf first, clubhouse and residential second. That shows you where the focus was, and it’s certainly worked out. They have two wonderful courses. Tom Fazio is brilliant. He made them look so different, and that’s hard to do.”

Now 30 years into its existence, the South Course is closed and is getting a major overhaul, and will reopen in October. Green complexes and bunkers are being rebuilt to modern maintenance and playability standards. The irrigation system will be brand new. Select trees are being culled to help with sunlight and air flow, particularly around the greens. And the original bent grass greens are being replaced with hybrid Bermuda.

For years, Forest Creek prided itself on having Bermuda greens on the North and bent on the South, with one of the two courses being in perfect condition at any given point in the year — the Bermuda surfaces on the North being healthy during the dog days of August, and the bent of the South playing firm and quick during the height of the spring and fall Sandhills golf seasons. But the summer heat extremes as the 21st century evolved made that too challenging on the South Course.

“We studied the green complexes very closely for many years,” McCann says. “We knew that with changes in climate, we had to go with Bermuda on the South. But there are no architectural changes. Some bunkers will be a little smaller and a little easier to get in and out of for our older members. But the original design has stood the test of time. I love that about what Tom created 30 years ago.”

In a perfect what-goes-around-comes-around moment, the same man who spent a year in Pinehurst in 1995 and into 1996 directing the construction of the course is now Fazio’s construction representative on the restoration job. It was Ron Smith’s first golf course building job in the mid-1990s when he worked for Central Florida Turf, the contractor on the first course at Forest Creek. He’s built golf courses all over the world in the three decades since and in 2016 went to work for Fazio Design.

“The pressure here now is this course has got to be better,” Smith says. “That sets a pretty high standard to begin with. The great thing is, I know the history at Forest Creek. It’s exciting to be back here again. We’ll get this golf course back to the standards we set 30 years ago.”

Smith grew up in Ohio, and his father was in the coal mining industry. He learned to use a bulldozer at age 12 and started playing golf at 20. When the coal business went bust across the Rust Belt in the early 1990s, Smith pivoted to building golf courses.

“Forest Creek was the first job I had as a project manager,” he says. “It just happened to be a Tom Fazio golf course. I was a nervous wreck the first time I met him. But he was a great guy and so talented. We’ve done a lot of work together over many years.”

Fazio was working in Pinehurst at the same time building Pinehurst No. 8, and neither Brown at Forest Creek nor Pinehurst owner Bob Dedman Sr. had a problem with Fazio designing two courses just 2 miles apart as the crow flies. Forest Creek would be a private club within a residential community and No. 8 was a resort course — ergo two separate marketing pools. Blake Bickford was Fazio’s associate designer on both jobs in the mid-1990s and is again involved in the Forest Creek restoration.

“This site is tremendous, and it’s always been one my favorites,” Smith says. “It’s got the lakes, the sand, the big pines. It’s pretty easy to build a great golf course on that piece of land, particularly when you’ve got someone like Tom directing you. People always ask me, ‘What’s your favorite course you’ve built?’ I always put Forest Creek in my top three. When this job is done and it reopens, it will definitely still be there.”

The South Course overhaul will be the crowning achievement for McCann, the Pittsburgh native and retired Wall Street executive who has had an ownership interest in Forest Creek dating to 2011, when the members bought the club from the original developers. McCann was the majority owner of a group that bought the club in late 2017 and since has become the sole owner.

“When the South Course reopens in October, it will be quite a milestone for Forest Creek,” McCann says. “We’ve been working toward this point for eight years. There was a time 10 years ago when the members were scared we were going to go under. We’ve had a solid business plan and a lot of great people working together to get Forest Creek back on firm footing.”

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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July 2026

The Skill of Perseverance

The remarkable second act of John Quincy Adams

By Jim Moriarty

If your American history IQ, like mine, falls somewhere between Animal House’s Flounder — “fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son” — and the great David McCullough, you’ll find America’s Founding Son both an enlightening and rewarding portrayal of our sixth president, John Quincy Adams.

It’s written by Bob Crawford, something of an oddity in itself given he’s the upright bass player for The Avett Brothers band. “For more than two decades, I’ve studied American history while rambling up and down the interstates, freeways, and back roads of America,” Crawford writes in his introduction. While not exactly an autodidact, his lifelong fascination, beginning as a kid collecting fliers about historic landmarks at highway welcome centers, places him in the company of another member of the band, Scott Avett, who has a side hustle as an admired visual artist.

With the recent passing of Ted Turner, one is reminded of the quote he often attributed to his father, “Be sure to set your goals so high that you can’t possibly accomplish them in one lifetime.” This is, in fact, the crux of Crawford’s thesis about Adams and the goal was, or became, the abolition of slavery. His primary source is Adams’ own diaries, written faithfully on a daily basis, that illuminate the arc of JQA’s understanding of how America must eventually, and tragically, cope with its most egregious and contradictory failing.

Jimmy Carter is often extolled as a man who, in the modern age at least, made the most of his post presidency, but he was a piker compared to John Quincy, who, after losing the presidential race of 1828, briefly considered retiring from public life but instead won election to the U.S. House of Representatives. He served the citizens of Massachusetts in that capacity from 1831 until his death in 1848, when he collapsed at his desk in the House chamber and died two days later on a couch in the Speaker’s Room in the Capitol building. During those 17 years, Adams became a formidable opponent of slavery, argued the Amistad case before the Supreme Court, defeated the “gag” rule designed to muffle anti-slavery petitions, and outmaneuvered efforts, led by representatives of the “slavocracy,” as Crawford calls it, to censure him.

“John Quincy Adams may not have been an extraordinary president like Washington and Lincoln, but he is our most extraordinary ex-president. A maverick. A public servant. An American hero,” Crawford concludes.

Adams’ opposition to slavery was never in question, but his theories on what exactly to do about it evolved over time, a transition Crawford illustrates through Adams’ diary and speeches. “America’s founding son had reached the end of his patience,” Crawford writes of an 1844 clash on the House floor. “He shuddered in 1820, when he prophesied a violent dissolution of the Union, but all he had experienced in the nearly twenty-five years since proved to him that the South would never, ever, voluntarily or otherwise, give up being the enslavers.”

Crawford’s fascination with the period of American history between the War of 1812 and the Civil War came into focus after reading Sean Wilentz’s The Rise of American Democracy: Jefferson to Lincoln. His own study of John Quincy is divided into three acts. The first begins with Adams’ appointment as secretary of state under James Monroe, covers his election to the presidency in the House of Representatives in 1824 (the second time the young republic picked a president in that manner), his loss to Andrew Jackson in their rematch in 1828 and concludes with the voters of Plymouth, Massachusetts, sending him to the House as their representative. In act two Crawford does an admirable job of setting the table. “In 1835, the slavery issue was tearing the fabric of the nation apart. Its threads tossed into a smoldering furnace of bigotry and hate. And there was Adams. A witness to all of it. Sitting on the fence. Waiting for his moment.” That moment builds to a crescendo in act three.

The political figures of the day — Jackson, Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun, Martin Van Buren — are carefully drawn, as are the central issues of nullification (What if the federal government says one thing and a state refuses?) and what to do about Texas. Of equal, or even greater, interest are the abolitionists: Benjamin Lundy, Charles Finney, Theodore Weld, Arthur Tappan (full disclosure, the square at my alma mater is named Tappan Square), William Lloyd Garrison and the writings of David Walker.

When Crawford first pitched the idea of America’s Founding Son to his agent, he thought he’d be paired with a writer to produce the final work. Instead, he was left to his own devices. The result is highly readable, no small feat when you’re bound to be leaning on quotes written in the first half of the 19th century. If there is any complaint — and it is admittedly minor — it’s that on a rare occasion or two he strays too far into the vernacular of his own day, seemingly trying a bit too hard to prove that history doesn’t have to be tedious and dense. This is, perhaps, an innocent byproduct of cohosting his history podcast, “The Road to Now.”

Where Crawford ends up is in praise of a historical figure most of us, I’d venture to say, don’t often associate with greatness. “Adams brought the issue of slavery out of the darkness and into the light of the center of politics in the United States — the People’s House. John Quincy Adams preserved and protected the American democracy established by the founding generation — his father’s generation,” writes Crawford. “As the man standing in the breach, Adams passed the aspirations of the Declaration of Independence on to the next generation. With one hand reaching back to the founding and the other reaching forward toward the Civil War, John Quincy Adams is a bridge and perhaps the best representation of America’s tortured adolescence.”

If, in reading Founding Son, you see traces of modern America — our deeply flawed and fractured America — so does Crawford. “I can’t say for sure whether history repeats or rhymes, but I do notice echoes from the past in our present. That’s because history is driven by people — and people haven’t changed since 1776,” he writes. “Truth be told, people haven’t changed since Adam and Eve, or however you signify the beginning of time (or should I say history?). Spend a little time reading about the 1830s and 1840s, and you’ll encounter figures who feel eerily familiar. They dressed differently, used different slang and communicated via what now seem like antiquated technologies — but in a very real sense, we are them and they are us.”

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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July 2026

Over There

A wee bit of wonderful

By Bill Fields

Like many Americans, I first experienced the British Open — what most in the United States called that golf major championship during the 1970s — through television. ABC Sports broadcasts weren’t long by today’s dawn-to-dusk standards but were revealing: the rumpled landscape, khaki-colored turf if it had been dry, and shorter-than-usual flagsticks. Slacks billowed in the wind. Balls finished in precarious lies in steep-faced bunkers. I learned a new word: firth.

When I watched those Opens, the links seemed a faraway golf universe that were out of reach, places I would only ever see on TV.

Happily, I was wrong. If my addition of all the jet lag, stunning skies, spitting rain, lager shandies, breakfast beans, roundabouts, mysterious shower controls and BBC Radio news is correct, this month’s Open Championship at Royal Birkdale will be my 22nd time at golf’s oldest tournament.

Getting to see a lot of the U.S. and a little of the world is not something I was counting on as a child. An annual vacation to North Myrtle Beach this time of year was about the extent of my family’s travels. I didn’t fly until I was of voting age and certainly couldn’t have anticipated making a couple of dozen trips to the British Isles covering golf in one fashion or another across four decades, whether for an Open, Ryder Cup or Solheim Cup.

I’ve been to The Open in various roles: photographer, reporter and, more recently, television researcher for NBC Sports. For me, there haven’t been as many trips to The Open as to the three American-based men’s majors, but the trips abroad stand out, beginning with the first one in 1988, at Royal Lytham & St. Annes.

The wind was howling in what felt like gale force when I walked outside my bed and breakfast in Blackpool the first morning in England. I heard an elderly man on the sidewalk describe the wind to his companion as a “wee breeze.” I’m no stranger to pushing drives far to the right without meteorological influence, but while I was playing a local course later that day, the wind carried one of my tee shots farther offline than any before or since. That ball might still be on its errant journey.

By the weekend, rain was the story. It came down so hard on Saturday that multiple greens were flooded, the third round was abandoned, and a rare Monday finish was in the cards. That extra day turned out to be memorable, with Seve Ballesteros shooting 65 to win his fifth — and final — major over Nick Price and Nick Faldo.

An Open in St. Andrews stands out. I’ve been fortunate to work four at the Home of Golf. Faldo outdueled Greg Norman over the weekend in 1990. John Daly defeated Costantino Rocca in a playoff in 1995. Louis Oosthuizen got a favorable late-early draw and avoided a beastly Friday afternoon wind on his way to a seven-shot win in 2010. Cameron Smith prevailed in the 150th Open in 2022, when Rory McIlroy couldn’t buy a putt on Sunday.

On my 2010 visit to the “Auld Grey Toun,” I spent some pleasant idle hours, camera in hand, on the West Sands, the wide, 2-mile stretch of beach featured in the opening scene of the 1981 film Chariots of Fire. As at many Scottish locales, the sky there can change moods in minutes, going from angry to serene.

Whatever has transpired during the day while on assignment at an Open, après-work can soothe the soul when you’re with colleagues whose company you enjoy having a couple of pints or a good curry — or better still, a couple of pints with a good curry. Just remember, discretion is the better part of valor over there when a server in an Indian restaurant asks you how spicy you want your meal. Years ago, I witnessed a vindaloo in Troon cause more pain than a pot bunker ever could.

I’ve held on to plenty of tournament press badges issued to me over the years — the collection maps where I’ve been and what I’ve done — but my favorites are ones from my first decade going to The Open. They’re simple paperboard credentials with a short loop of string — a style long since replaced by larger ones with a head shot, bar code and lanyard — and they have stories to tell.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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July 2026

July Books

By Kimberly Daniels Taws

FICTION

 

Man Overboard! by Kathleen Rooney

Patrick “Kick” Kilpatrick, a former college swimmer, hates the ocean. Has always been terrified of it. And now he’s in a real pickle. Drifting alone in the sea after falling (or jumping?), Kick must survive. Breath by breath, hour by hour in the lonely sea. As the waves crash over him, so do the thoughts and memories of just how he got there. A Thanksgiving cruise with an obnoxious brother-in-law; a father who gives the Great Santini a run for his money; and a mother who already left the family boat, so to speak, a long time ago. His family may be complicated, and the pains of life may seem unbearable — infuriating enough to leap from the deck — but maybe the will to survive is stronger. Inventive and slyly hilarious Man Overboard! is about what keeps us going no matter how choppy the waves of our journey become.

 

Habits of the Sea, by Shea Ernshaw

The night Clay Lockhart’s wife dies, a violent storm tears their home — and the eight hectares of land beneath it — away from the Scottish coast, sending it adrift into the Atlantic. Thirty years later, 12-year-old Ellie Mills discovers the fabled floating island off the coast of Nova Scotia and finds Clay still living in the weatherworn farmhouse perched on its highest hill. When the island vanishes overnight, Ellie is left questioning whether it ever existed at all. Decades later, the island resurfaces, and Ellie, now in her 30s, returns, determined to uncover the truth. What she finds is even stranger: Clay hasn’t aged a single day. Faced with the impossible, Ellie learns that some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved, and that a life shaped by wonder may hold more promise than one bound by certainty.

NONFICTION

 

All That’s Unseen: An Appalachian Memoir, by Emilee Hackney

Born and raised deep in the hollers of the Appalachian Mountains, Emilee Hackney knew little beyond the ridgelines and coalfields of southwest Virginia. As an eighth-generation Appalachian, her childhood was steeped in the stories of her grandparents — tales of the coal mines’ brutal grip and the way the land, both beautiful and unforgiving, never quite let anyone go. At 14, Emilee meets Sam, a senior at her high school, who offers her a glimpse at a promising future together. But as they begin attending services at Deliverance Christian Church as a couple, Emilee is thrust into the radical realm of Pentecostalism. In a culture where marriage at 19 isn’t uncommon, Emilee is engaged to Sam. Eager to make her relationship work, she embraces the extremist doctrines of the religion, submitting herself fully to God, to Sam, and to a life of repentance. But what she doesn’t yet know is the man she plans to marry is not who he claims to be. Years later, Emilee finds herself isolated from friends, family and her own sense of truth. Wracked with shame and self-doubt, she reaches a breaking point. On the verge of spiraling out of control, in a stunning act of defiance and hope, she applies to Harvard; against all odds, she is accepted. From the magisterial mountains of Tazewell to the halls of Cambridge, Emilee begins the arduous process of reinventing herself and her relationships with her home, faith and values.

 

Utopia for Our Century: A Manifesto of Hope, by David Albertson and Jason Blakely

In Thomas More’s Utopia, a traveler from the New World delivers a shocking message: On a lost island beyond the horizon, people live far better lives than in Europe. More, a leading intellectual of his day, was murdered by Henry VIII in 1535 for refusing to sign a loyalty oath, but his utopian vision inspired some of the most consequential movements in the modern world. In their provocative manifesto, Albertson and Blakely retrieve More’s insights and apply them to our moment.

 

Lost in Curiosity: Field Notes from Scientists’ Adventures into the Unknown,
by Roberta Kwok

The real story of science isn’t a triumphant breakthrough. It’s messy, mysterious and deeply human. Chronicling researchers’ struggles and hopes in the field and lab, Kwok documents it all: fending off relentless snowfall on a remote Greenland glacier; desperately searching for an elusive frog in the rainforests of Borneo; and scrambling to capture fleeting signals of a faraway moon outside our solar system. These are the untold stories of devoted young scientists and restless minds chasing nature’s riddles. From enigmatic fossils and mind-bending physics to the puzzling behavior of wild animals, Lost in Curiosity is a journey through the questions that keep scientists up at night.

 

The Secret World of Twilight: A Natural History of Dusk and Dawn, by Sally Coulthard

Every day, in the brief stretch of time just before sunrise and soon after sunset, magic happens. Twice a day the atmosphere is partially illuminated by a sun that’s hiding below the horizon, creating a sky that glows with soft, diffused light — opening the secret world of twilight. Circadian rhythms affect almost all living things, including animals, plants and even microbes. They, of course, profoundly affect us too. In a world when so many of us live according to rhythms defined by artificial light, or in spaces that remove any connection with the outside, the need to understand and celebrate twilight has never been greater. Coulthard celebrates 30 iconic and often surprising animals and plants that thrive in this liminal, otherworldly space.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Weaver and the Web, by Chris Baker

A long night ahead means plenty of time for web-making and bug-catching for this meticulous orb-weaver spider in this non-fiction picture book that captures the spider’s point of view. With gentle text and arresting art, this read-aloud leads you through the ups and downs of one orb-weaver spider’s night. From making her web, re-making her web, and eventually ensnaring some succulent moths, this moonlit adventure encourages you to see the world from a spider’s perspective. (Ages 4-8.)

Yeti Is Not Ready for Game Over, by Leigh Anne Carter

It is time to take a break from screens, but Yeti is NOT ready. She is so close to winning this fun game on her tablet! She doesn’t have time for chores, lunch or even friends! Can Yeti put the tablet down? Or will she find a way to stay glued to her screen? With a little compassionate help from Dad, Yeti Is Not Ready shows just how hard it can be to get off the screen — and how good for our bodies, brains and ideas taking a break can be. (Ages 3-7.)

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

Home
July 2026

My Sunbeam

A boy and his car

By Ron Johnson

During my junior year of high school, my dad brought home a brand-new Carnival Red 1969 Sunbeam Alpine GT, manufactured by Rootes Motor Company of Coventry, England. The Alpine was assembled under the auspices of Chrysler UK at the Ryton-on-Dunsmore plant in Warwickshire, a former aircraft engine plant. The original beloved and much coveted Sunbeam Alpine roadster was also born and eventually died there.

Even though my dad grew up in a strict GM culture, he eventually became a devout Chrysler-Mopar guy. He was a bit like Henry Hill’s mother in Goodfellas. She didn’t care that Henry’s employers were mobsters; all that mattered was that they were from the same part of Sicily. There was not much information available on the ill-conceived 1969 Sunbeam, but all my dad needed to know was that it was a Chrysler product.

The deal was that I would pay him as much as I could toward the $2,535 price (plus tax and tags, of course) whenever I could, until he was satisfied that I was substantially paid up. Considering my menial and short-lived jobs at Burger Chef, Tony’s Hardware and the New Orleans riverfront, among other places, it would take some time.

This was not the Sunbeam Alpine roadster of James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger or even Grace Kelly. It never appeared in any movie. It was a car that was hastily conceived and designed to be sold by Dodge dealers in the U.S. as nothing more than a cute, entry-level economy car — a captive import aimed poorly at Japanese and German imports, like Nissan, Toyota and Volkswagen. It was actually a very attractive little fastback coupe — not accidentally reminiscent of the iconic Plymouth Barracuda — and the idea could have worked well for Chrysler Corporation but, for reasons that would soon become obvious, only a handful were sold in North America.

My bright red Sunbeam was an instant standout, mostly because it was flashy and unique. I doubt 20 were sold in my hometown of New Orleans, but it was an attention-grabber. Unfortunately, most of that attention was afforded by the service department at Gentilly Dodge. Before we got the car on semi-solid footing, many significant components had already failed and had been replaced. If I chose to operate the manual windows, I was likely to come away with the crank in my hand. The side windows would also fall out of their flimsy channels on their way up or down.

The build logic on the car was amazingly inept. It had obviously been rushed to market and possessed the worst traits of any English car ever built, which was a powerful statement. It was naturally air-conditioned by the hot and humid nights of South Louisiana, and there was no radio until I installed an aftermarket Telefunken. The car was full of devilment.

Many of the problems presented themselves before 12,000 miles, which was the extent of a new car warranty in those days. Common replacement parts were largely unavailable from the dealer, or anywhere else, and techs resorted to cannibalizing new car inventory to honor warranty commitments.

The pillarless coupe was vastly different from the typical car produced in the U.K. It was said to replicate a cabriolet with a hardtop attached. If anyone had been honest, they would have admitted the two-door “fastback” design was just another way to save costs. It was neither water- nor airtight. The Lucas electrical system was quirky and inept. In fact, Lucas was said to be part of the reason English cars once had a reputation for poor reliability. Amusingly, car enthusiasts referred to Lucas as “the Prince of Darkness” for its alleged propensity to leave drivers stranded in the dark. Rocker Ozzy Osbourne, another “Prince of Darkness,” once worked for Lucas and was believed by some to have stolen his famous nickname from his infamous employer.

The Alpine GT was not without beauty and character, however. It was much like an attractive and temperamental actress, with excellent makeup and great hair color, but was flawed in almost every other way, often requiring a high level of maintenance. All the misery was transpiring while the outside world was saying, “Isn’t that a pretty little car.”

On one Saturday afternoon just before our high school graduation, the late David Peralta and I decided to take two of our more adventurous female friends on a 300-mile road trip to visit a college that had a reputation for being a party school. The plan was to party into the evening with older kids we knew, and then drive back home, getting the girls safely back into their front vestibules in time to honor their strict 1 a.m. curfews.

On our way back to New Orleans, along highway 190 near Krotz Springs, Louisiana, I heard a loud thumping sound coming from the engine compartment. Upon inspection, we saw a broken and frayed fan belt lodged near the water pump pulley. Naturally, it was a Lucas-supplied part. Help was unavailable. After sitting in the driver’s seat for 30 minutes, on a shoulder made of oyster shells, pondering how we were going to explain being stranded in the middle of Cajun nowhere, I had an idea. Could we fashion a pair of pantyhose into a makeshift fan belt?

Fortunately, both girls were wearing replacement parts. I did my best to replicate the belt in terms of length, doubling the nylons for strength. The first pair lasted about 30 miles. The second and stronger pair got us into Baton Rouge, where we were able to find an Esso station (before it was rebranded Exxon) on Airline Highway that had some belts hanging in the back of their service bay. The young attendant let us do some experimenting until we found a $6 Atlas V-belt that did well enough to get us back to New Orleans. While the two fathers were not happy we busted curfew, my dad praised me for my out-of-the-box thinking.

A lot happened in and around that little coupe. Money was exchanged when a good friend, Jay Whittington, was able to lift the rear end of the car clear off the ground. On another occasion, my 18 year-old girlfriend learned the basics of driving a stick shift in the Alpine while I pushed her out of the sand along Lake Pontchartrain in Slidell. It got me to Superbowl IV, where a $7 ticket allowed me admittance into the North End of Tulane Stadium to watch the Chiefs beat the Vikings 23-7, before 80,000 fans.

The car could frequently be seen in the parking lot of the Rockery Inn, where bellhops would deliver, without the presentation of an ID, cocktails or beer to a tray hanging on the driver’s side window, regardless of whether food had been ordered. And, amazingly, it also got me back and forth to college without incident, more times than not.

The car also gave life and was perfectly capable when it was most needed. Early in my freshman year of college, it reliably transported my roommate and his girlfriend, who had hidden her pregnancy, to the hospital an hour before she delivered a beautiful baby girl. Their plan was to give the baby up for adoption and never tell their parents. They had everything carefully mapped out. And they would have gotten away with the ill-fated plan had the hospital not hunted the new mother down through the university for a $29 payment and mailed the bill to her parents’ home. I don’t know what happened to either of them, or the baby, who would be in her mid-50s now, but I am grateful the fickle Sunbeam started that night.

In 2009, I visited Birmingham in the U.K. for a conference. Driving back to Heathrow, I took a detour and stopped in Coventry to gaze at where that old Sunbeam had been produced some 40 years earlier. The vintage Rootes factory had been demolished. Adjacent buildings were in ill repair. There was nothing romantic about it. I didn’t know what to think or how to react. Should I pray, shake my fist, or just quietly walk away? After all, an important piece of my personal history started there. I simply bowed, smiled, and got back into a comfortable rental car, built by Rover.

I once told my dad, not long before he died, that I was inclined to find another Sunbeam like the one we had and restore it. He just looked down at me over his reading glasses, in a way only he could, and simply said with a half-smile, in his clear trademark baritone, “Are you crazy?”

State of Mind

STATE OF MIND

Home
July 2026

Doing the Wave

From Ocracoke to Rockingham

By Tommy Tomlinson

Illustration by Gary Palmer

Summer comes in waves.

Many years ago I went through a rough stretch, mostly of my own making, and ended up needing to clear my head for a while. I drove to the Outer Banks, traveling alone. I took the ferry from Swan Quarter to Ocracoke, piddled around in the village for a couple of hours, then aimed the car for Hatteras.

Ocracoke tapers to a thin strand that can be secluded even in high season. I found a spot to pull over and stepped between dunes onto an empty beach. Not a soul in either direction. The only sounds were the wind and the waves. Those waves: calm and steady, a wet metronome. I got in and rolled in the warm ocean like an otter. Every so often a wave would give me a gentle slap. Snap out of it, son. Everything’s going to be fine.

The waves are even milder on rivers and lakes, at least usually. When you see whitecaps on fresh water you know a storm is coming. That’s when you pull up anchor and gun the outboard and hope you get back to the landing before the sky breaks open. Waves can be a warning, too.

They can also be a mirage. When I was a kid I was mesmerized every summer by the shining puddles that always appeared up ahead on the road, only to disappear when we got close. Much later I found out it’s called heat shimmer, and it happens when a surface like asphalt gets much hotter than the air just above it, refracting the light in between. The same thing on sand creates a false oasis — the thing that drives desert wanderers crazy in the movies.

That road shimmer was my introduction to the idea that some things in life are always dancing just out of your reach, and that maybe they were never really there in the first place.

It takes time to learn some lessons. For example, when waves of heat are rising from a car, it’s not a good time to sit on the hood wearing shorts. The backs of my thighs learned that one the hard way.

It also took time to learn that people in other places don’t wave the way we do in the South. This especially applies to what I think of as the two-lane wave — the wave you give somebody when you’re slowly passing them in a car. To me, there are a couple of times when that wave is mandatory. One, if you’re out in the country and drive by somebody on the side of the road. Two, if you’re on a narrow street or at a four-way stop and somebody lets you through. I live in a neighborhood with a lot of narrow streets, and my experience is that you get the wave about half the time. Every time I don’t get the wave, I always wonder where up North the driver came from. This is not fair. But barring any proper research I’m gonna roll with it.

You might know about the debate over exactly what Bruce Springsteen sings in the first line of “Thunder Road.” The screen door slams / Mary’s dress . . .  What’s the next word? On the record it’s hard to tell. I have always heard it as Mary’s dress sways. Springsteen’s manager has said that it’s definitely “sways.” It feels to me like the most poetic word, the most evocative. But many other Springsteen fans — including my dear friend Joe Posnanski, a fellow Charlottean — swear that the line is, or at least should be, Mary’s dress waves. Joe has written thousands of words about this over the years. It is one of those debates that means everything and nothing, much the same way that it means everything and nothing to argue about the greatest baseball player of all time. (Joe, who wrote an entire book called The Baseball 100, says Willie Mays; the correct answer is Henry Aaron.) Joe has not convinced me on “waves” and probably never will. But when I play “Thunder Road,” I always listen close to that first line. I kind of want to hear “waves,” at least one time. Not because I want Joe to be right, but because you should try, when you can, to feel what someone else feels.

I had a neighbor one time who loved to listen to NASCAR on the radio. Every Sunday afternoon in the summer he would take his old AM/FM portable out to the patio behind his trailer and turn on the race from Rockingham or Martinsville or wherever. This was back in the ’70s, when Richard Petty won most of the time, Cale Yarborough and Bobby Allison occasionally gave him hell, and David Pearson lingered at the back of the pack, waiting to strike. I wasn’t much of a fan of racing, but I was a fan of my neighbor. So sometimes I’d go over there and we’d drink cold Cokes and listen to the howling engines, those sound waves traveling from the track through the radio to our ears in ways that I still do not fully understand.

The one thing waves have in common is that they carry energy. Something desires to get from one place to another and a wave is the vehicle. That can be a pulse from somewhere deep in the ocean or the attraction from someone who caught your eye across the room. We are out more this time of year, exposed to the energies of the universe, and open to the waves that life brings our way.

Sometimes they are so powerful they can knock you sideways. But most of the time they’re just a pleasant ride, carrying us through the shimmer of a summer day and the promise of a summer night.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

Home
July 2026

Bitter, Meet Sweet

Grapefruit and strawberry popsicles

By Rose Shewey

In my younger years not even a generous sprinkling of sugar would have gotten me excited about eating grapefruit. Now I can’t get enough of it — sans sugar, of course — which makes for a textbook example of an “acquired taste.”

So, how exactly do we grow fond of things we may not have liked at the get-go? How on earth did we come to enjoy black coffee, blue cheese or sauerkraut? I still haven’t figured out how single malt whiskey goes down the hatch without retching — and it may not be for me to find out in this lifetime.

But the answer is, of course: habit. Repeated exposure to certain foods, with some initial modifications perhaps, will gradually get us accustomed to strange flavors and textures. Add sentimental attachment, or “associative learning,” to the experience — as in social bonding over a round of IPAs with friends, or escargots with family as a special holiday tradition — and you’re well on your way to acquiring a taste.

Back to the grapefruit: Thanks to Mother Nature, we are hard-wired to be wary of bitterness as a survival mechanism. Many toxic compounds are bitter, though of course not all bitter compounds are harmful. On top of that, grapefruits are sour and astringent. The hardest part may be that, unlike coffee or booze, there is no immediate functional reward in eating grapefruit. Enjoying it is entirely based on accomplishing the process of learning to love it.

Although bitter is my jam this summer, even I like my popsicles on the sweeter side and fortunately, I can have my cake and eat it too. Grapefruit, with the addition of strawberries, gets you the best of both worlds. Blending grapefruit with strawberries creates a harmony where the sharp, astringent bite of the citrus cuts through the sweetness of the berries, creating a complex flavor profile.

I can’t say for sure that there is a kid-friendly version of these popsicles, but omitting ginger and dialing up the sweetness might get your young ones to enjoy them too. Who knows, maybe that’s where their love of bitter things begins.

Grapefruit Strawberry Popsicles

(Makes 4-6 popsicles)

Ingredients

1 grapefruit, peeled, seeded and chopped

1 apple, cored and sliced

2 cups strawberries, fresh or frozen

1/2 inch knob fresh ginger, peeled and chopped

3/4 cup filtered water

1-3 tablespoons sweetener (such as honey, maple syrup — optional)

Directions

Combine all ingredients in a blender and process until smooth. Taste for sweetness; if required, add sweetener, one tablespoon at a time (such as honey or maple syrup) and blend again. Pour juice into popsicle molds and freeze for 4-6 hours, or until frozen solid.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
July 2026

Summer Swarms

The worst kind of fan club

By Emilee Phillips

Illustration By Campbell Pringle

“Get them off me!” I yelled, sprinting for safety, flailing my arms like I was trying to take flight. I slapped at my legs, my arms, the back of my neck as I ran, the house looming ahead like a sanctuary. I burst inside with the urgency of someone being chased by bloodthirsty animals — which, in a way, I was.

This didn’t happen just once. To be honest, it’s less of an isolated incident and more of a seasonal tradition.

Don’t get me wrong, I love summer. I love the long, golden evenings that stretch on forever, the kind where the sun takes its sweet time setting and ice cream is accepted as a daily treat. I love the heat, the way it settles into your bones and relaxes you like a sauna. I love that you can wear a sundress almost daily. I’ve even made peace with the humidity — we have an understanding, a truce of sorts, where I tolerate it in exchange for everything else summer brings me.

But the mosquitoes. Ugh! The pesky little insects may as well be my own personal groupies because they flock to me the second I step outside. They’re buzzing around as if they want to join my inner circle and clinging to me like I’m their ticket to fame and fortune. It’s not even flattering. If they’re my groupies, they’re the kind that show up uninvited, scream in my ear like banshees and take a piece of me home as a souvenir.

I can’t even vent about it properly because no one else in my family is part of the all-you-can-eat buffet the way I am. It’s like they’re behind some kind of a forcefield while I’m out there taking hits for the entire bloodline. You’re welcome, by the way. 

My mother used to say it’s because I’m sweet, but I doubt their microscopic brains are thinking logically. And even if they were, what would they say? “You have notes of jasmine and poor decision-making?” 

I’ve tried everything to get rid of them. I’ve tried eating copious amounts of garlic, which only seemed to work on other humans. I’ve kept citronella close by, which I’m convinced is just an old wives’ tale. It’s really aromatherapy in bug form. I’ve tried wearing long sleeves, which only made me sweatier and impaired my ability to scratch the itch. Even DEET, which should have acted as my personal security detail, has failed me on more than one occasion. 

I’ve tried tackling the source. I’ve ensured my yard is free of standing water. I’ve planted all the usual pest-repelling plants. At this point, I’m convinced pine straw is some kind of breeding ground for genetically-engineered super mosquitoes, which basically means as long as I live here, I’m screwed.

They say scratching makes it worse, but I don’t have the self-control to just sit there with the itch taunting me. Sometimes the bites swell up so big it looks like I’ve contracted an old-timey illness frontier doctors used to treat with a salve made out of lard and “healing leaves.”

Years of my life have been occupied by scratching. It adds up, you know. All I ask is a little peace out of doors without feeling like my fan club is sucking enough of my blood to make a clone. 

I love summer, I just wish it didn’t love me back quite so much.