Of Sepia and Color

Pinehurst, the gift that keeps on giving

By Lee Pace

The first floor halls of the venerable Carolina Hotel and the 200 feet of what’s deemed
“Heritage Hall” half a mile away at the main golf clubhouse are replete with images extolling the resort’s gilded past and its always evolving present. There are sepia-toned photos of Ben Hogan and Donald Ross, recent shots of Martin Kaymer and Michelle Wie. There is Harvie Ward from yesterday, Tiger Woods from today. On display are replicas of trophies from the U.S. Open, Women’s Open, U.S. Amateur, Women’s Amateur, PGA Championship and Ryder Cup, events that have been contested outside on the No. 2 course. While there are courses that have hosted more championships, no other club or facility in America can equal its breadth.

“We love our black-and-whites,” says Pinehurst President Tom Pashley. “They’re what distinguishes us. They make us unique. Some places try to manufacture a feeling of history. Pinehurst’s is authentic.

“At the same time, we cannot exist in a time capsule. Those color pictures are important as well. We have to remain relevant today. We’ve got to be in the conversation about the top golf destinations in the country — not because of what we were, but what we are and what we’re going to be.”

Therein lies the crux of Pashley’s mission nearly three years into his tenure running this far-flung and complex business that has nine golf courses operating out of five clubhouses, three hotels and roughly a dozen restaurants offering everything from a quick hot dog at the turn to Australian lamb or Scottish salmon in the 1895 Grille.

Preserve the past and innovate for the future.

An ambitious drawing board in golf operations alone at the moment includes various restoration/tweaking projects for courses No. 1, 3, 4 and 5, a greens conversion on No. 7, a relocation of the popular Thistle Dhu putting course on the south side of the clubhouse, and the design and construction of a nine-hole short course.

Each is a domino tumbling from the restoration of the No. 2 course from 2010-11 engineered by architects Bill Coore and Ben Crenshaw. That eye-opening project came at the behest of then-President Don Padgett, who felt No. 2 had lost its way trying to look too much like Augusta National and no longer sported the singular appeal that connected it to designer Donald Ross’ homeland in Scotland. The restoration was hailed by competitors and design buffs during the back-to-back U.S. Opens in June of 2014. When Pashley took over for Padgett three months later, he wasn’t sure what to capitalize and boldface on his to-do list.

“The restoration of No. 2 was such a watershed moment in the history of Pinehurst, and no club had ever hosted back-to-back Opens like we did,” Pashley says. “When I took over for Don, I remember thinking,  ‘Wow, all the work is done. What am I going to be able to do that’s going to have an impact anywhere near that?’”

Pashley allows a modest smile.

“I don’t have that fear anymore,” he says. “There are a lot of opportunities presenting themselves right now.”

Certainly the most noteworthy on the docket is the work that begins in the fall to redesign the No. 4 course, a 1999 Tom Fazio creation that was, in turn, a brand new course on land occupied by a hodgepodge No. 4 with influences from various eras from Ross, Richard Tufts, Robert Trent Jones and his son, Rees. A confluence of reasons — ranging from wanting to covert the greens to Bermuda, to solve drainage problems, to have less of the clean and stark-white sandy expanses of No. 4 and more of the unkempt and burnished look of No. 2 next door — led Pashley to call architect Gil Hanse in the fall of 2016 to float the idea of major surgery.

“It was one of those moments when I put the phone down for a second and thought, ‘Is this
really happening?’” Hanse says of the idea of joining Ross (Nos. 1-3), Fazio (Nos. 6 and 8), Jack Nicklaus (No. 9), Rees Jones (No. 7) and Ellis Maples (No 5) in Pinehurst’s pantheon of architects.

Much of the routing will remain the same, though Hanse will take liberties with the positioning and elevation profiles of several par-3s. The preponderance of pot bunkers will change in lieu of more rustic edged traps with the wire grass and “volunteer” vegetation that has become part-and-parcel of the No. 2 look. The greens will be converted to Champion Bermuda and have fewer of the sharp roll-offs.

“I hope what Gil can do on No. 4 is change that dialogue a little bit,” Pashley says. “Introduce some debate. Maybe when it re-opens you’ll hear some talk in the bar afterward — that though you can’t rival the history of No. 2, maybe the fun and challenge and visuals will be close.

“The things people love about No. 4 won’t change. It’s secluded, there aren’t many houses in sight. It’s peaceful, it’s scenic, it’s a neighbor to some of the corridors on No. 2. There’s that big, beautiful lake. Those things won’t change.”

The short course, which will have nine holes ranging in distance from 65 to 117 yards, will occupy land where the first holes of courses 3 and 5 have been located — the same area, incidentally, where the practice range for the 2005 and 2014 U.S. Opens was positioned. Hanse and his team will design it over the summer and it will open
in the fall.

“Thistle Dhu has been such an overwhelming success,” Pashley says of the opening of the 2.5-acre putting course in the spring of 2013. “It’s quick, it’s fun, it’s for every age and every level of golfer. The idea for the short course comes from the same place. It can complement the experience of the hard-core golfer and introduce the game to another group of guests.”

The domino of needing the land occupied by those holes from 3 and 5 has been felt on the west side of N.C. 5, where the two courses are routed. The first hole of course 5 is now what was the second hole of course 3, only it runs in the opposite direction; then it connects with the second hole and the routing remains the same.

The problem on No. 3 was solved by Bob Farren, the resort’s director of grounds and golf course maintenance, with input from Hanse and architect/builder Kyle Franz, by taking two par-4s and redesigning them into pairs of a shorter par-4 and a new par-3. The revised No. 3, which opened in April, plays to a par of 68 at 5,155 yards. Franz, with some help from architect Kye Goalby and builder Blake Conant, have reintroduced more of the native Sandhills look a la No. 2 with wire grass, irregular bunkers dimensions and less of the monochromatic sheen of green grass.

The die is cast arriving at the new starter’s hut on the west side of N.C. 5. To the south is the new first hole of No. 5 with a meandering new fairway contour defined by natural areas of hardpan and wire grass. Ninety degrees away and headed to the west is the new first hole of No. 3 (the previous third hole) with a new bunker in the corner of the dogleg marked by an uneven perimeter and tufts of wire grass within the sand. Then from the tee of the second hole, the golfer plays across an expanse of sand cut into the hillside with more haphazard edges and assorted vegetation. 

“Two holes into it, you know there’s something different going on,” Farren says. “It’s obvious there’s a new look and new feel to No. 3. Our members and guests both have embraced the ‘old look’ that Bill and Ben reintroduced on No. 2. It fits the land and the native vegetation. It fits our heritage.”

Franz will implement a few more modifications on No. 3 over the summer. No. 4 shuts down in the fall for one year.  After that, No. 1 is earmarked for more retrofitting. And when the greens on No. 7 are converted to Bermuda this summer, all courses at Pinehurst except No. 9 will have hybrid Bermuda greens.

Pashley and Pinehurst owner Bob Dedman Jr. look at the landscape of the hot and evolving golf destinations like Bandon Dunes, Cabot Cliffs and Streamsong and know that history alone is not enough. Pashley says that one of Dedman’s visions is for  “people to walk into the clubhouse and feel like they’re in golf heaven.”

“In the very near future, we’ll do a better job of saying to people, ‘You can do a whole trip to Pinehurst and never leave the clubhouse,’” Pashley says. “We can create something no one else can create. We have a ‘sense of place’ like few others.”

A sense of place that demands 64 crayons — from black and gray to every one in the rainbow.  PS

Lee Pace has been writing about the Pinehurst golf scene for three decades and in 2012 authored the book, The Golden Age of Pinehurst — The Rebirth of No. 2.

A Fast 40

And the fabric of memories

By Bill Fields

Measured by bricks and mortar, Pinecrest High School wasn’t quite finished in 1977 — having recently gained a cafeteria and a gymnasium, it still lacked an auditorium — but goodness knows, those of us graduating that spring also were works in progress.

“Home is where one starts from,” T.S. Eliot wrote in a poem quoted in our senior yearbook, the Spectrum.

Those three years at Pinecrest, which commenced when, as sophomores, we were herded by alphabet into homerooms for fall semester in 1974, were part of our opening lap. At the same time, though, it was a finish line, the familiar about to be traded in for something else, make and model to be determined.

Can it really be 40 years? The color of my hair and the length of my belt say it’s so, yet the gap between then and now is bridged by sharp, scattered memories: benevolent teacher Julianna White doing her very best to help a clueless student grasp a concept in Advanced Math; assistant principal Bobby Brendell reading the daily skip list over the intercom with his distinct inflections; coach John Williams in the field house warming up for calisthenics and a cross-country run by doing arm circles and toe touches.

Mrs. White was indeed very good to me, realizing the subject she taught was a requirement and, given my career goals, not my future. She gave me the benefit of the doubt during one senior year grading period so that I would have no worse than a C on my high school transcript, an assist I sorely needed since my SAT math score was so poor I still treat it like a state secret.

If not for her kindness, I have a hunch I wouldn’t have been handed an envelope by my father on my 18th birthday a couple of weeks before graduation.

On May 25, the day Star Wars was released, I found out by letter that I had been accepted off the waiting list by UNC-Chapel Hill, where I’d long wanted to attend. In a season of Cross pens and Belk ties this was the only present I really wanted, and my parents didn’t fret over the loss of my dorm room deposit at East Carolina. Nor was I bothered that a number of classmates had wished me luck at ECU when they signed my yearbook because it appeared I was bound for Greenville. 

If the proximity to graduation hadn’t heightened spring fever, then getting into Carolina and turning 18 surely did. By that juncture we were more intent on the Pizza Hut buffet or a Tastee-Freez burger than any classes before or after our lunchtime excursions, although I didn’t have much of an appetite on May 26.

Thanks to a classmate whose family had connections to Terry Sanford, our commencement speaker was a cut above average, to say the least. I wish I could remember what wisdom the former North Carolina governor — then president of Duke University and a future U.S. senator — offered the approximately 300 capped-and-gowned Patriots. Unfortunately, my overarching recollection of that Friday night in the campus gym is how badly some in the audience behaved, talking and yelling over Gov. Sanford’s speech, Southerners having forgotten their manners.

I didn’t have a lot of school pride that evening, but when I look through my 1977 edition of the Spectrum, it returns. It was my school. They were my classmates, too many now absent. In the formal yearbook pictures — clip-on bow ties for the boys, v-neck tops for the girls — most everyone is following the photographer’s command and looking slightly away from the camera. I have overcooked his direction, my gaze appearing to be down the right field line.

Forty years later, after home runs and strikeouts, for this member of the Class of ’77, the pleasure is in coming up to the plate.   PS

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

What’s Enough?

Timeless advice from a modern sage

By Jim Dodson

A few weeks ago I read in The New Yorker about a group of Silicon Valley billionaires who’ve built luxury retreats in some of the remotest parts of the planet, safe houses designed to allow their owners to survive a global catastrophe — and stocked with enough good white wine and military hardware to hold out indefinitely. 

A short time later, I read about a second group of young Silicon Valley billionaires funding a top-secret scheme to bioengineer a so-called “God Pill” that can cure everything from cancer to flat feet and make human mortality as obsolete as your trusty old Osborne computer.

According to Newsweek magazine, this latter group of “visionaries” includes Peter Thiel, the billionaire co-founder of PayPal, who is making plans to live for at least 120 years. Dmitry Itskov, the “godfather” of the Russian Internet, says his goal is to live to 10,000 years of age, while Larry Ellison, co-founder of Oracle, finds the notion of accepting mortality “incomprehensible.” Sergey Brin, co-founder of Google, meantime, simply hopes to someday “cure death.”

As Newsweek notes,  “The human quest for immortality is both ancient and littered with catastrophic failures. Around 200 B.C., the first emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang, accidentally killed himself trying to live forever, poisoning himself by eating supposedly mortality-preventing mercury pills.”

Centuries later, the answer to eternal life appears no closer at hand. “In 1492, Pope Innocent VIII died after blood transfusions from three healthy boys whose youth he believed he could absorb. A little closer to modern times, in 1868 America, Kentucky politician Leonard Jones ran for the U.S. presidency on the platform that he’d achieved immortality through prayer and fasting — and could give his secrets for cheating death to the public. Later that year, Jones died of pneumonia.”

For better or worse, as the ancients of every spiritual tradition remind us, it is life’s bittersweet impermanence — and one’s perspective on the matter — that determines whether every day is regarded as a gift to be savored or a good reason to pack up and head for the hills. 

As I read about Silicon Valley’s lavish End Time retreats and quest to make human mortality irrelevant, in any case, I couldn’t help but think about the summer I realized I was mortal and probably wouldn’t be around forever.

It was June of 1962 and school was just out. Third grade was in my rearview mirror and I had both a new neighborhood plus a shiny new Black Racer bike upon which to go adventuring.

My new neighborhood gang was buzzing about the bomb shelter “creepy Mr. Freeman” had reportedly built beneath a shed in his backyard in the raw new subdivision south of the city. The Russians were coming, and bomb shelters were all the rage on TV and in magazines. About this same time I watched an episode of The Twilight Zone that tells the story of neighbors at a dinner party when word comes that a nuclear missile has been launched at America. The host and his family flee to their bomb shelter only to have their terrified neighbors batter down the door — just as the word comes that the report was a mistake. But panic has brought its own devastation to the neighborhood. 

I freely admit becoming obsessed with Mr. Freeman’s bomb shelter. My brother and I were sons of an itinerate newspaperman, after all, who’d witnessed Klan rallies and floods during our family odyssey through several newspapers across the deep South before coming home to Greensboro for good. There’d been stops in Wilmington and Florence, South Carolina, and our dad had even owned his own paper in Mississippi for a while. But the misfortunes and tragedies we’d witnessed or heard about in the context of newspaper reporting always belonged to someone else. 

To my over-stimulated 9-year-old brain, the prospect of a sneaky, thermonuclear attack by the Russians was in a class of disaster by itself. It made the rickety wooden desks we practiced huddling beneath during civil defense drills at school seem laughably insufficient compared to the allure of an Oreo-filled, TV-equipped bomb shelter in one’s own backyard.

I even asked my dad if we could build one, helpfully providing a preliminary sketch of what ours might look like. My bomb shelter was one classy affair, resembling a cross between the Flintstones’ cave and a Jules Verne wondrous Nautilus submarine.

My old man smiled when I showed him my bomb shelter design, which also depicted a wasteland where our new subdivision previously existed — a cindered moonscape inspired by photographs of Hiroshima I’d seen in an Associated Press photo book of the Second World War.

“How many people can fit in your bomb shelter?” he casually wondered.

“Just the four of us and Herky,” I said. Herky was my dog, short for “Hercules,” named for the mythological Greek strongman featured in cheesy Steve Reeves movies.

“I see. Well, Sport, would you really want to live in a world like that? How are you going to feel knowing all your friends and schoolmates who didn’t have bomb shelters were left up top where everything is gone — all the birds and trees and animals you seem to love so much?”

This was a point I’d not considered.

“Do you think the world will end anytime soon?” I asked him.

“In some fashion or another, the world is always ending for someone somewhere,” he calmly explained.

He even had an answer to the nuclear appeal of creepy Mr. Freeman’s bomb shelter.

“You can’t run away from the world,” he said. “You can only try to improve it. Rather than bury yourself in the backyard, I suggest you grow up and help create a better world. You have a brief time on this Earth. The trick is to use it wisely — and to learn what’s enough.”

Decades later, when we talked about this funny moment, my philosopher-father remembered it almost exactly the way I did.

We happened to be sitting in a pub on the rainy Lancashire coast of England, sharing a pint following a rained-off round of golf. Though you wouldn’t have guessed it, my dad was dying of cancer, and this was our final golf trip together, a long-talked-about trip to see the places where he fell in love with golf as an Air Force sergeant just prior to D-Day.

Among other things on this trip, I’d learned that my father had been through his own versions of an Apocalypse — first a tragic plane crash that killed dozens of people including children in the village where he was stationed; and a second time when his dream of owning his own newspaper in Mississippi went up in smoke after his silent partner cleaned out the company bank accounts and headed for parts unknown. That same week, unimaginably, my mother suffered a late-term miscarriage and my dad’s only sister died in a car wreck outside Washington, D.C. Talk about the End of the World.

“How on Earth does one survive a week like that?” I asked him over my warm beer.

I remember how he smiled. “Because I’ve learned that it’s not what you get from this life that really matters — but what you give and leave behind.  Knowing what’s enough is the key to a meaningful life.”

My dad was 79 years old that rainy afternoon in England. I could suddenly see why he was the perfect fellow to moderate the men’s Sunday morning discussion group at First Lutheran Church in Greensboro for more that two decades.

I was 42 years old with two small children back home in Maine and already in grief over his approaching absence from my life.

And I remember something else he said with a wry smile, draining his beer.

“There are no endings, Sport, only beginnings. Make each day count.”

Reading about the wealthy Silicon Valley billionaires who crave more time and seek to live forever simply reminded me of these lessons I learned very early in life, from that faraway bomb shelter summer and the mouth of a modern sage. Later in life, I actually took to calling my wise old father, an adman with a poet’s heart, “Opti the Mystic.”

All these years later, I think about how blessed I was to have such a funny, philosophical father and his essential message about knowing “What’s enough?”

Mine really is a pretty simple life, it turns out. I even jotted down a few things that at the end of the day (or even the world) are more than enough for me.

Enough for me is an old house I love where every creak or groan underfoot sounds like a sigh of contentment.

Long walks around Paris  — or just the neighborhood at dawn or evening — with my wife, Wendy, is the stuff of everyday magic.

Ditto a Japanese garden that will probably take at least a decade more to complete, new friends who come to supper on weekends, old friends who get in touch, Sunday evening phone calls from our four grown children, good books, rainy Sundays, our screened porch, and the night skies over our terrace. 

For the record, I’d like to write five or six more books of my own and maybe hobble off someday to find the world’s most sacred places, purely for spiritual kicks.

Also, like a worried 9-year-old boy I remember being, I wish my dog Mulligan could live forever — or at least until I’m ready to push on to God knows where.

Point being, I guess I don’t fear the end of this world, a gift Opti the Mystic gave me long ago. 

“This is why we are in the world,” advised the Sufi mystic Bawa. “Within your heart is a space smaller even than an atom. There, dear ones, God has placed 18,000 universes.”

A good reason to make every day count.  PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com. Read more about Opti the Mystic and Mulligan in The Range Bucket List, Dodson’s new book, available everywhere.

The Rifles of Bear Creek

How the Colonial Kennedy long rifle factory in Robbins became one of the largest in the South

By Bill Case   •   Photographs by John Gessner

More than 50 years ago, three men clambered down the steep bank of Bear Creek in Robbins hoping to discover artifacts from a frontier rifle factory that, along with its owner, David Kennedy, vanished around 1838. Arron Capel II, now the retired CEO of his family’s century-old braided rug manufacturing business in Troy, teamed with Pinehurst psychiatrist Don Schulte and candlemaker Carl McSwain to conduct what amounted to an archaeological dig. Each possessed an abiding interest in the legendary Kentucky long rifle, which became the gun of choice for America’s frontier settlers and fighting men after gunsmiths of German descent began producing them in southeastern Pennsylvania around 1719. Those artisans discovered that combining a rifled cylinder in the bore of a 4-foot-long barrel dramatically enhanced a gun’s accuracy at previously unimagined distances. British soldiers experienced the lethal power of the rifles when patriot sharpshooters, firing from 250 yards away, toppled redcoats like tenpins during the Revolutionary War. 

Because the entirety of the frontier was sometimes referred to as “Kentucky,” the rifle became associated with that area even though long rifles were never actually made there. Ambitious entrepreneurs spread production from Pennsylvania to Virginia, and finally outlying areas like the interior of North Carolina. One of those rifle makers was David Kennedy’s father, (John) Alexander Kennedy, a Philadelphia gunsmith of Scottish descent. The precise date Alexander moved his family by wagon train from Philadelphia to North Carolina is difficult to pin down. One account suggests he arrived in this area as early in 1768 — the year of David’s birth. Family lore says Alexander left Philadelphia to steer clear of the British Army, poised to seize the city in 1777. Concerned that the British would identify him as an arms supplier to the rebels, Alexander usually refrained from engraving his name on rifles he made. Only one bearing the signature “A Kennedy” is known to exist, but his rifles were employed by the Continental Army in the Revolutionary battles of Guilford Courthouse and Kings Mountain.

When he arrived in what is now Robbins, Alexander Kennedy befriended fellow riflesmith William Williamson, who helped Alexander start his own operation by loaning him assorted gunmaking tools. He then taught his trade to son David. Around 1795, David began his own business partnering with Williamson in the operation of a gunmaking facility on Bear Creek.

The partners erected a dam across the creek, diverting the water flow to millworks where the stream’s force powered a waterwheel that, in turn, operated the mill’s machinery. Iron flat bar was rolled into the form of rifle barrels by large grindstones produced by a neighboring millstone maker. The metal was hot-forged and molded into barrels by trip-hammers, likewise operated by waterpower. The barrels (referred to as the gun’s “soul” by Arron Capel) were then “cooked for days at a time and stacked like firewood.” Coal from a nearby mining works supplied the heat source. Brass fittings were cast at Bear Creek too. Once the guns were assembled, they were test fired over the millpond to a target and the rifle’s sights carefully adjusted.

As Capel points out in his book, Bear Creek Long Rifles, there existed a high demand for effective weaponry since, “(in) addition to the obvious need to put food on the table, every frontiersman had the responsibility to protect his family from hostile Indian attack.” Moreover, the Kennedys’ rifle mill and smithy were strategically situated to serve as an outpost for intrepid pioneers departing from Fayetteville (then Cross Creek) and traveling the adjacent trail on their journeys to Salisbury and destinations farther west. It was not long before David Kennedy bought out Williamson’s interest and, with his father aging, became the man fully in charge. Soon, he expanded his holding to include a sawmill, and lumberyard. Five of David’s 10 children, along with his brothers Alexander and John, busied themselves making rifles, pistols and swords. Woodworkers, carvers, engravers and silversmiths crafted the finishing touches that gave Kennedy rifles their unique look. Virtually every component, aside from flintlocks imported from England, was fabricated and assembled at Bear Creek. So many skilled artisans were employed at the bustling mill, the site became known as Mechanics Hill, and a post office by that name was opened. It was the first name given to a settlement that over the following century and a half would undergo name changes as frequently as a flimflam man, identified, in turn, as Elise, Hemp, and finally Robbins.

David Kennedy was resourceful in finding ways to trim costs. Blackwell Robinson’s The History of Moore County — 1747-1847 recounts the local legend of how Kennedy circumvented payment to a New York company of what he deemed to be outrageously high-priced gunlocks. After journeying on horseback to the factory and using his greatly admired violin music to ingratiate himself with the workmen and operators, David “soon discovered the secret involved and returned to Mechanics Hill, where he began to make his own.” And the craftsmanship didn’t come cheap. The most highly ornamented rifles, according to Robinson, “contained silver melted from 16 silver dollars and sold for proportionately higher prices.”

No definitive proof exists that Kennedy succeeded in landing a major contract to supply arms to the U.S. during the War of 1812, but Capel and his friend Bruce Turner unearthed correspondence at the Archives of the War Department in Washington sent by Kennedy in January 1812, to North Carolina Congressman Archibald McBryde. In a letter, Kennedy expressed his willingness and readiness to manufacture whatever numbers of rifles and muskets the government might require, writing, “Tho I am not ancious to under take the bisness, as I am content with my present imployment, which a fordes me a cumfortabel livin….., when I think on the blessings we injoy in our much beloeved country, it makes my hart glo with the love of the same and makes me willin to incounter almost any hardship in defence of our rights.”

Capel maintains there would never have been the “sudden and dramatic increase of employment at the rifle mill (150 workers, according to the estimate of Walter Williamson, William Williamson’s grandson)” absent the procurement of such a deal. In his dogged research, Capel also discovered ancient military records mentioning that a wagonload of Kentucky rifles “had been shipped from the north,” to General Andrew Jackson immediately prior to the Battle of New Orleans — the final engagement of the conflict — and surmises that the wagonload is as likely to have come from Mechanics Hill as any other location.

Whether Kennedy supplied armaments for the war effort or not, it is clear his factory was a booming moneymaker. Robinson’s history asserts that the factory “was the largest in this part of the south.” One contemporaneous account reported the profits of David Kennedy at about $15,000 annually and those of his brother “about 1,000 per annum.” If Google’s inflation calculator is to be believed, that $15,000 represents something in excess of $250,000 today.

Kennedy became an influential personage and benefactor in Mechanics Hill. According to the 1830 census he owned a large plantation consisting of 23 people, including 15 slaves. He and brother Alexander were trustees of the Mount Parnassus Academy in Carthage. David donated land and financed the building of the Mechanics Hill Baptist Church, located on Salisbury Street in Robbins, where the Woodmen of the World Hall now stands. He served as a deacon in the church. A Bible donated by Kennedy in 1823 contained the following tongue-in-cheek inscription: “David Kennedy — his book he may read good but God knows when.”

Kennedy’s religious inclinations may have been galvanized by a harrowing close call. Nearly crushed by a rolling log at the sawmill, David “declared that ‘if the Lord let him live he would use his logs for better purposes,’” according to Robinson’s Moore County history.

Business slowed at the Kennedy rifle factory after 1825, a period of a generally declining economy culminating in the depression known as the Panic of 1837. Making matters worse was the ongoing presence of competitive rifle mills near Salem and Jamestown, North Carolina. The real coup de grace for Kennedy occurred around 1835, when he faced a demand to make good a surety for payment of a large debt owed by brother Alexander, whose general store had failed. David and wife Joanna were ruined and their holdings liquidated. According to Capel’s book, “one 300 acre tract of Kennedy’s land sold for four dollars.” Ironically, gold was later discovered on it. The rifle mill was closed and auctioned off. The buyer converted the facility to a grain mill.

Creditors never ceased hounding David Kennedy even after he’d lost everything. He and his wife fled to Green Hill, Alabama, where they resided on son Hiram’s cotton plantation. He died there in 1837. His total estate reported in Alabama tallied $170.30.

David’s second son, John, stayed on in Mechanics Hill making rifles in his own business. John achieved lasting local fame in a three-way “shoot-off”  before a large crowd in Carthage against fellow Moore County gunsmiths Phil Cameron and John B. McFarland. Each of the competitors claimed to make Moore County’s most accurate rifles. When the smoke cleared, all three were found to have met the bull’s-eye. The men called it a draw and each went home “feeling proud of his marksmanship, and certain that no gunsmith in the state made a more accurate shooting rifle than he did.” John continued in the business until shortly before he died in 1855, the same year a spring storm washed the Kennedy rifle mill down history’s drain. An amble today along Bear Creek’s rugged trail provides scant evidence that the area was once a beehive of activity. Aside from easily overlooked foundation stones, there is no vestige of the old factory. Capel, McSwain and Schulte knew it would take real digging to find any remnants of manufacture, but they were prepared to do just that in their visit to Bear Creek half a century ago. Over time, local residents had unearthed various metallic objects thought to have been left behind, but few of those relics had been preserved.

Working together, the three men located a small vine-tangled mound. It proved to be the mill’s discard pile. For the excited long rifle enthusiasts, the shards of buried rifle barrels, drill bits, flint hammer castings and raw silver they unearthed constituted a treasure trove as valuable as gold. These artifacts provided the insights into the Bear Creek operation.

Aficionados of David Kennedy’s rifles have launched their own Facebook site — Kennedy Rifle/Mechanics Hill. Followers post comments that run the gamut from Second Amendment discussions to providing advance notice of the Kennedy gun show and food drive recently held in Robbins in April. Historian-collectors like Capel and Asheboro’s Bill Ivey, author of North Carolina Schools of Longrifles 1765-1865, cite the historic importance of the Bear Creek gun factory as one of nine documented facilities (referred to as “schools” ) that produced the vaunted Kentucky long rifles in North Carolina.

What really excites historians and collectors are the beautiful carvings and engravings on the long rifles. Like the Kennedys, many founders of the North Carolina long rifle schools hailed from either Pennsylvania or Virginia, and their craftsmanship reflects those roots. Ornamental engraving contained on the butts of many Kennedy rifles exhibit a six-pointed star nearly indistinguishable from those found on guns made in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where Alexander Kennedy began his career. Similarly, engravings emblazoned on the side “patchbox” (used to store cloth patches and grease) of Kennedy rifles typically reveal “flower petals” that mimic a recognized mark of Lancaster County rifles.

Long rifles displaying David Kennedy’s engraved initials or signature (he spelled it “Kannedy) are particularly prized. Another of the under 100 known Kennedy guns depicts a serpentine-like comet on the butt. Capel says the design was inspired by the “Great Comet of 1811,” which electrified the country for the better part of a year. In a remarkable coincidence, a Kennedy rifle owned by Capel displays the name of an English lock maker named “Robbins” on the flintlock. It was crafted more than a century before Karl Robbins’ beneficence in the community caused the town to be renamed in his honor. When asked about the market value of Kennedy rifles, savvy collectors Ivey and Capel tend to hold their cards close to their respective chests, but neither blinked at five figures as a fair starting point.

The Moore County Telephone Directory contains nearly as many entries for “Kennedy” as there are for “Jones” and more than a few are descendants of David Kennedy, including Southern Pines’ Assistant Town Manager Chris Kennedy. A gun lover and hunter, Chris had frequented Robbins many times and was generally familiar with David Kennedy’s story, but his 2015 visit to the town as a member of the Moore County Leadership Institute heightened his awareness of his ancestor’s critical role in the founding and development of the town. “It’s pretty humbling, especially in my role, to think that the Kennedys had a lot to do with development not just of Robbins, but of the whole county,” says Chris.

The rapid decline in recent decades of Robbins’ textile industry caused town leaders to grapple with how best to attract new business. One tactic has been to go “back to the future” by stressing the community’s rifle-making origins. Prominently positioned in the center of town is a historical landmark plaque recognizing the Kennedys’ “extensive gunsmithing operation” at Mechanics Hill. In 2013, the Town Council members adopted resolutions establishing the second Thursday in each April as “Mechanics Hill/Kennedy Rifle Day,” and affirming their personal sworn duty to uphold the Second Amendment.

Like the Phoenix of ancient lore, gunmaking in Robbins astonishingly rose from the ashes. Soft-spoken gun devotee and lifetime Robbins resident Joey Boswell is something of a latter day David Kennedy. After a wide-ranging career performing computer automation, engineering new product developments, and generally solving all sorts of industrial problems for various manufacturers, Boswell tired of travel to faraway destinations and being away from his family. Familiar with the design, operation and limitations of weaponry, both civilian and military, he and his wife, Martha, started their own business, War Sport Industries, LLC, in the “barn” alongside their home atop a hill in Robbins.

His first major solo project in 2008 involved finding a method to camouflage the infrared heat visible to the enemy at nighttime on the hot barrels of American soldiers’ guns after repeated firing. Boswell invented a heat-resistant device he labeled a “suppressor sock,” which did the trick. The sock became standard issue for certain Army weapons. They began producing their own armaments — the first manufactured in Robbins since the day the Kennedy factory was shuttered. After extensive research, Boswell designed what he called a low visibility operations application rifle (LVOA), which proved to be a major advancement in military weaponry.

Soon, customer demand for the LVOA increased to the point that the Boswells could no longer handle operations out of their barn and they moved War Sport to an old factory off Route 24. With operations running full tilt, two shifts, with 25 employees, War Sport had suddenly become a major Robbins employer. In 2016, the Boswells separated from War Sport and began another weapons-related enterprise in their barn. The new company is called Mechanics Hill Marketing, LLC, in homage to Boswell’s gunmaking predecessor. The Boswells and Mechanics Hill now work in partnership with Osprey Armaments in researching, developing and marketing its weapons and other related products.

“I have never had to move from Robbins to do anything I wanted to do, and I have worked overseas and everywhere,” says Boswell, who has served as a member of Robbins’ Town Council since ’09. As the catalyst to the rebirth of gunmaking in Robbins, Boswell feels a kinship with David Kennedy since — modern assembly line processes aside — the art of making guns has not changed much since Kennedy’s day. “Here we were bringing jobs to this town in the same business that started it.”  PS

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

Dog Days Ahead

Ruff language from the monthly rescue dog meeting

By Clyde Edgerton

Following is a transcript of a recent rescue dog monthly meeting at a local pound:

Dog 1, the Moderator: Good afternoon. My name is Dusty. I’m a Mix. As you have been informed, we are meeting to go over some of the characteristics of rescue families. As you know, if you are not rescued this month then —

Dog 2: Please don’t go into that.

OK. But please be aware that you may be rescued by a Conservative, a Liberal, a Mix, or a Hermit. You should be able to recognize either, so that you can pick the rescue family that will be a good fit for you. That’s the purpose of our meeting — recognition. Please interrupt at any time with questions, by the way.

Dog 2: What’s a Mix?

Someone who is both a Conservative and a Liberal.

Dog 3: Impossible

Dog 4: No, it’s not.

Dog 2: What’s a Conservative?

Someone who listens to Fox News on their SirrusXM Satellite car radio.

Dog 2: What’s a Liberal?

Someone who listens to CNN or MSNBC on their SirrusXM Satellite car radio.

Dog 2: How are they different?

I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it may be easier to say how they are alike. Judging from the commercials on those stations, they all likely owe $10,000 in back taxes or they are over $10,000 in credit card debt or they snore a lot, or are dysfunctional in some other way. It’s like they are all criminals. And, as with all humans these days, they are owned by somebody — or something — they may not recognize. And neither group will feed you chicken bones. But, as to their differences, I can tell you that —

Dog 2: What’s a Hermit?

A loner.

Dog 3: Why would a Hermit want a dog?

Don’t know. They probably wouldn’t. Right. So scratch that category.

Dog 4: Just wondering — can a woman be a Hermit?

Of course. Why would you think otherwise?

Dog 5: What’s a woman?

Come on, y’all — you were supposed to do your homework.  A woman is person who will most likely be feeding you once you rescue a family. Now,
please hold off on the questions and let me just clarify a few things.

Dog 4: But what’s a man, then?

Dog 5: Do you mean a person who identifies as a man?

Dog 4: You must be a Liberal. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Dog 5: You must be a Conservative. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Hold on, hold on. Please don’t jump to conclusions. You are dogs, remember. You serve Conservatives, Liberals and Mixes. We rescue so that we can provide entertainment and company to rescue families, regardless of their political outlook. We must all —

Dog 6: I’ve been around the block a few times. Peed on a lot of fire hydrants. And I can tell you this: You want to rescue people who are kind to dogs. I rescued a Conservative family twice and a Liberal family twice. I learned that kindness is unpredictable. What you need is somebody who will squat down, look you in the eye, and talk to you. Gently. Who will give you food, shelter, and love. And if you are a Mix, like all of us here, then you —

Dog 7: I’m a pure breed. Dalmatian, as a matter of fact.

Dogs 2 – 23: Oh my goodness.

What the hell are you doing here?

My Lord.

For Heaven’s sake!

Overbred. Overbred. Overbred.

Nanny nanny boo boo.

Liar.

Dummy.

Softy.

Calm down. Listen up. Let’s not jump to conclusions. I believe there may be more than one pure breed among us. Or that could be what we call a “social construct.” Please understand that we are all in this together. More than likely each of you will find a family match — even pure-breed-Dalmatian-Dog 7. I understand Dalmatians are high-strung and perhaps you, Dog 7, will find a comfortable match . . . say, a vegetarian family. And listen, everybody, if a family doesn’t work out, simply bring them back and we will send them over for feline therapy. Believe me, they will come crawling back.  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. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

June Books

The kickoff to summer reading

By Romey Petite

The Marsh King’s Daughter, by Karen Dionne

Born to an abducted teenage girl and raised in the confines of a remote, tiny cabin, the last thing Helena ever wants to do is go back to the marshlands of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula — the world she and her mother ran away from 13 years ago. Helena has built a life for herself with a good job, two sons and a loving husband, far away from the media sensation her life turned into following their narrow escape. When her father, Jacob Holbrook, vanishes from custody, murdering two prison guards in the process, a hapless manhunt begins. Having spent her earliest years being trained by Holbrook, Helena’s survivalist instincts kick in — knowing she is the only one with the skill and know-how to find the Marsh King. With allusions to both fairy tales and mythology, praise from Lee Child and Megan Abbott, and told in delicious, hackle-raising prose, Dionne’s The Marsh King’s Daughter is certain to be this summer’s sleeper hit.

Magpie Murders, by Anthony Horowitz

The author of the best-sellers Moriarty, Trigger Mortis, The House of Silk, the young adult Alex Rider series, and one of the creators of the British detective drama Midsomer Murders has crafted a tale in homage to the whodunit masterpieces of Agatha Christie. When editor Susan Ryeland receives the manuscript for novelist Alan Conway’s latest Atticus Pund mystery, she is initially delighted to be holed up all alone in her London, Crouch End flat without her paramour, Andreas, to disturb her. As Susan begins to read between the lines, however, she discovers there might be more to this page-turner than what appears on the page. Spellbound by a mystery only she has the clues to solve, Susan follows a trail left by the author that has her retracing the fictional detective’s steps. Readers will be similarly enthralled.

Flesh and Bone and Water, by Luiza Sauma

When a letter arrives in London for Andre Cabral supposedly all the way from an old flame back in his childhood home in Rio de Janeiro, the middle-aged father and surgeon finds himself drifting into a reverie. Separated from his British wife, Esther, Andre begins to fantasize about searching for the love letter’s sender — Luana, daughter of his family’s housemaid. One problem: He does not remember her surname. Bit by bit, Andre attempts to recall the events spinning out of his mother’s death, prompting him to set out on a journey from London to Rio to the Amazon. Flesh and Bone and Water is Pat Kavanagh Award Winner Luiza Sauma’s dreamlike debut, containing meditations on issues regarding race, social mobility, sex, and the selective nature of memory.

More of Me, by Kathryn Evans

In this electrifying debut novel, possessing the DNA of both Ray Bradbury’s short story “Fever Dream” and Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love, Teva has a convincingly ordinary life where her teachers, Ollie (her boyfriend) and her best friend, Maddy, are concerned. Unbeknown to the world beyond her cloistered home, however, Webb involuntarily clones herself once a year. The 16th Teva in line, she’s forced to balance the usual teenage frets about exams and life with the memories of 15 other Tevas. Fortunately, the others are kept locked away to avoid confusion, but that’s the least of 16’s worries. Realizing there is only a short while before she, in turn, will be replaced by yet another clone, and contending with the 15-year-old version of herself over their mutual affection for Ollie, Teva has decided she won’t surrender her life or love without a fight.

Marriage of a Thousand Lies, by SJ Sindu

Lakshmi, dubbed Lucky, is a programmer and a freelance fantasy illustrator — often acting as the digital artist equivalent of a boudoir photographer. Her husband, Krishna, works as second pass editor for a greeting card company. When the two really want to have fun, they briefly abscond from their traditional gender roles where each acts as the other’s beard — leaving their wedding rings at their Bridgeport, Connecticut, apartment — to frequent the local gay bars. When Lucky’s grandmother in Boston suffers a fall, she finds herself once again staying with her conservative Sri-Lankan American family. It is here that Lucky reconnects with her girlhood crush, Nisha, and discovers she, too, is bound for an arranged marriage to a man she hardly knows. Star-crossed, these two lovers must choose either to defy conventions and face shame, embarrassment and denial from their community, or uphold tradition and accept the lies their families hold dear.

The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O., by Neal Stephenson and Nicole Galland

Taking a whimsical approach to history, science, fantasy, epistolary documents and mystery, best-selling author Neal Stephenson and critically acclaimed historical novelist Nicole Galland recruit readers for a chimerical speculative thriller. Melisandre “Mel” Stokes, a linguistics expert, is approached by Tristan Lyons, a representative of the shadowy military intelligence division D.O.D.O. — the Department of Diachronic Operations. Initially, she is offered a large sum of money to act as a translator for some very ancient classified documents, but Mel’s life changes forever when her new job takes her on an expedition back through time to the waning days of the Victorian era. Fans of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series and Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s Good Omens will appreciate how The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. challenges our fundamental assumptions of the post-enlightenment world while being a whirlwind of good fun.

The Shark Club, by Ann Kidd Taylor

On July 30, 1988, a young Maeve Donnelly and her “crush” Daniel are wandering the Gulf of Mexico’s shores just outside of her grandmother Perri’s watch. After the two share a brief kiss, Maeve is seized by her leg and yanked beneath the waves by a prowling blacktip shark. Surviving the attack with only a flesh wound, Maeve is encouraged instead of deterred by her experience and 18 years later has become a marine biologist of semi-renown. Considered by her colleague Nicholas to be a “shark whisperer,” she displays a natural rapport with the creatures. The Shark Club, the first solo novel of the co-author of the best-selling Traveling with Pomegranates, is the story of Maeve’s return to the magical beach where her story first began, her grandmother’s magical Hotel of the Muses — where there is a room dedicated to each of the matriarch’s favorite authors — and perhaps a chance to reconcile with her childhood sweetheart, who promised his heart to her that fateful day in ’88.

Our Little Racket, by Angelica Baker

When the financial crisis of 2008 sees the collapse of investment bank Weiss & Partners, it is immediately followed by a public outcry and the demand that CEO Bob D’Amico be brought to justice. The weight and responsibility of picking up the pieces of the fragmented firm fall on the shoulders of five women in Greenwich, Connecticut: Madison, D’Amico’s teenage daughter; Isabel, D’Amico’s wife; Amanda, Madison’s best friend; Lily, the D’Amico family’s nanny; and Mina, a family friend. As each finds herself in a position of relative complicity in the ongoing scandal, loyalties are tested. Told in a tone both tender and droll, the prose of Baker’s first novel is reminiscent in scale and ambition to Edith Wharton’s abashed insider view into bourgeois family life.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS
By Angie Talley

Go to Sleep in Your Own Bed, by Candace Fleming

It is bedtime on the farm, but when pig toddles off to snuggle down for the night, he finds someone sleeping there already. What ensues will have pajama-clad young readers giggling themselves to sleep
. . . right after they ask to hear the story one more time. Ages 2-4.

The Book of Mistakes, by Corinna Luyken

Oops! Whoops! Oh no! Mistakes can be creativity ending showstoppers or, better yet, opportunities. In this beautiful new ode to U-turns, debut author/
illustrator Corinna Luyken celebrates mistakes and the wonderful roads they can lead down. Ages 3-adult.

Orphan Island, by Laurel Snyder

Nine on an island, orphans all/Any more, the sky might fall. So goes the rhyme and so goes life on Orphan Island, a place where it only rains at night, where snakes are docile, waters calm, food plentiful, and rules must always be followed. But when Jinny, the Elder, breaks a cardinal rule, the serenity of the island is threatened. Reminiscent of a grown-up version of The Boxcar Children, this captivating read is a mysterious journey and a fascinating exploration of what it really means to grow up — a literary novel sure to get a nod toward next year’s Newbery Medal. Ages 11-14.

When Dimple Met Rishi, by Sandhya Menon

Meet Dimple, crazy for coding and psyched to be attending Insomnia Con summer camp, where she can develop an idea she has for an amazing new app. Meet Rishi, crazy for Dimple, and a closet comic-illustrating prodigy who’s attending Insomnia Con to, well, to be with Dimple. This laugh-out-loud coming of age sweet love story between two talented high school graduates brilliantly explores new love, the experience of being young Indian-Americans, and the difficult decisions they must make when they focus on careers, but find themselves smitten. This is the perfect summer-before-college read. Ages 14 and up.  PS

Double Vision

There’s never a dull moment when Gemini is in the house

By Astrid Stellanova

Donald Trump, Kanye West, Marilyn Monroe, John F. Kennedy, Prince, Joan Rivers, Johnny Depp, Anderson Cooper, Morgan Freeman, Nicole Kidman. What do these famous names have in common besides fame? First and foremost, their sun sign, Gemini. Star children, just try and imagine these Geminis in the same room. If the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor, then pray tell, what is at work here?—Ad Astra, Astrid

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Warm to your gal pals, challenging to your male pals, heck — challenging period. That is what everyone knows runs deep inside your Gemini spirit. You have backbone, which is true. That back can get up, too, when someone gives you grief. You are many things, but never dull. This birthday may wind up being one of your favorites, because you have command of a stage and a chance to vent your anger. You’ve been as hopped up as a mule chewin’ on bumblebees over a friend’s actions. They want to make up. Let them. Show them your generosity can be as deep as your considerable wounded pride.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

You uncovered something you didn’t much like. Things went catawampus when someone you trusted was caught lyin’ like a no-legged dog! It will make you more cautious, which is a good thing. Now, watch how they prove themselves in the future. Translation: Time for them to actually prove themselves to you, and for you to insist upon it.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

You face a challenge and tend to rely upon an old ally. The problem is, your ally is so dumb, they could throw themselves on the ground and miss it. They just don’t understand the consequences of their lack of judgment. You, Child, do. Give them your guidance, and if they fail, show them how to hit the ground and roll.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

Well, Sugar, you sure put the right person in charge of handling the money. He squeezes a quarter so tight the eagle screams. Thanks to reforming your once thoughtless money sense, you can afford a splurge. Take the opportunity to let loose and be generous with yourself. Also, let loose in another way that’s completely free — smile!

Libra (September 23–October 22)

Someone in authority is making you half-crazy. Time is here, Sweet Thing, for you to draw a hard red line with this person and stop the crazy-making. Don’t let them pee on your leg and tell you it’s raining! By the end of June, you will discover something you dug up. This hard digging may lead you to a much bigger discovery.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

Needlepoint this onto a pillow: “Excuses are like behinds. Everybody’s got one and they all stink.” There was a time when you didn’t take time to offer up excuses. That is your truer self. When you own up to your role in a stinky situation, you can turn it around and find release. Truth works better than Odor-Eaters.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

You weren’t wrong. We just misunderstood what you figured out way ahead of the rest of us. Well, slap my head and call me silly! Now that you have all the information, calculate what it will take to buy yourself a pack of nabs and an orange soda, then call your broker. Your hunches are right on the money.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

Darling, there’s a Southern riddle that goes like this: Is a pig’s rump made of pork? Well, Honey Bunny, that’s rhetorical. There is no answer, because the answer is obvious. Now something just as obvious is staring you right in the face. Turn this moment into what you need to march forward and onward and make barbecue.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

She’s so pretty she could make a hound dog smile. He’s so pretty he could make it smile again. That’s said of you and your circle of good-lookin’ Aquarian friends. You’ve taken your kindnesses into your personality in such a big way that you wear it on your fine faces. You make every one of your circle glad to be in your orbit.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

There’s a very sweet someone who wants to hitch a ride on your happy train because he senses you have a good sense of direction. If leather were brains, he wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug. All that said, you may feel a sense of loyalty to him just because he is polite and says “please” and “thank you.”

Aries (March 21–April 19)

Lately, you have pretty much said “yes” to everything. Sugar Pie, if promises were persimmons, the possums could eat good at your place. This is a reality check for you. If you don’t face up to the music, you could wind up in the orchestra with a baton in your hand and no musicians. Stop all the mania and drop the baton long enough to direct your own life.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Deep in the South, where sushi is still called bait, you have been doing some things nobody around you quite understands. You have been going a little overboard with your need to make a big impression. Like, for example, buying a mystery box at the auction when the rent was due. Take the auction paddle out of the air. PS

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.

The Daiquiri

And the way to perfect it with myriad rums

By Tony Cross

The next time you’re in an establishment and you’re uncertain if the drinks on their cocktail list are any good or not, order a daiquiri. If you’re envisioning a syrupy, strawberry-colored frozen drink that comes in a 16-ounce piña colada glass, keep reading. To make a classic daiquiri, all you need is rum, lime juice and sugar. But like many other pre-Prohibition cocktails, the daiquiri was ruined in the ’70s with artificial everything. When made correctly, this cocktail is the epitome of balance: not too boozy, not too tart, and not too sweet. Chances are, if the bartender can make a good daiquiri, the other cocktails on the list will also be balanced. I’ve had guests request a daiquiri for this very reason, and it resulted in their group ordering a few other cocktails throughout the evening.

I tried this gambit out a few years back on a hot summer afternoon. The bartender took my order, only to return a few minutes later to ask if I “wanted that blended.” I opted for the sauvignon blanc instead. Here are a few of my favorite rums that I’ll be making daiquiris with and kicking back during the first month of summer.

Flor de Caña Extra Seco 4 Years

Cocktail historian David Wondrich calls the daiquiri “the first true classic cocktail to be invented outside the United States.” He’s right, and like so many classic cocktails that I’ve researched, many bartenders from the past have taken credit for their creation. Wondrich found the daiquiri referred to as the “Cuban Cocktail” in a cocktail book from Hugo Ensslin called Recipes For Mixed Drinks published in 1916. However, in a later edition of the book, Ensslin corrects himself, giving credit to Jacques Straub for publishing the cocktail in 1914. What we do know is that the original was made with Bacardi rum. Bacardi in the early 1900s was different from the Bacardi we know today. Back then it was rich and “exceptionally smooth.” Today, it’s very light, with not much flavor. Instead, grab a bottle of Flor de Caña Extra Seco 4 Years. Based in Nicaragua, this distillery — meaning “Flower of the Cane” — has been around since 1890. The sugar cane was planted at the foot of a volcano in hopes that the soil would enrich the flavors of the rum, and the humidity would naturally age it once it was in oak barrels. Flor de Caña makes a lot of different aged rums: four year, five year, seven year, 12 year, 18 year, and a 25 year. Our local ABC isn’t carrying it at the moment, but if you ask, they will order it for you. This is the best go-to rum for making a classic daiquiri without hurting your pocket: less than $20 a bottle.

Classic Daiquiri

2 ounces Flor de Caña Extra Seco 4 Years

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake vigorously until the shaker is very cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe glass. No garnish.

Fair Game Beverage Company’s Amber Rum

A few years back, Fair Game distiller Chris Jude released a sorghum rum titled “No’Lasses.” It was delicious and different: great rum characteristics, but with a whiskey backbone. Last year, he released his Amber Rum. He sources his panela sugar from Colombia. Panela sugar is made from evaporated cane juice; it’s a raw sugar with rich flavors. This sugar gives the rum a sweet, floral and grassy profile. Like the No’Lasses, it’s also aged in bourbon barrels after distillation in Jude’s alembic pot still. The sugar ferments very slowly with Caribbean rum yeast before being added to the still. If you’re looking for a daiquiri with more body and flavor, use this rum. You can use it with the same specs from the daiquiri recipe above or when making a Hemmingway,  named for the author, of course. Legend has it, at the El Floridita bar in Havana, Hemmingway set a house record for drinking 16 doubles (sans the sugar — that alone would’ve probably killed him).

Hemmingway Daiquiri

2 ounces Fair Game Amber Rum

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce fresh grapefruit juice

Bar spoon maraschino liqueur

Bar spoon simple syrup (2:1)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake vigorously until the shaker is very cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe glass. No garnish.

Smith & Cross Traditional Jamaican Rum

My favorite rum. Ever. There are so many great things to say about this funky rum. Funky as in all kinds of flavor — on the nose it smells like a Werther’s caramel drop and on the palate there are ripe bananas, nuttiness and spice, undertones of grass, oak and honey. Coming in at a whopping 57 percent ABV, this is my definition of pirate rum. Titled “Navy Strength,” it must be at least 100 proof, which was the traditional strength requirement of the British Navy.

Smith & Cross is one of the oldest producers of spirits and sugar in England. Dating back to 1788, the sugar refinery was located on the London docks. As time passed, the refineries turned into rum cellars. Haus Alpenz, the distributor of Smith & Cross, says, “At this proof a spill of the spirits would not prevent gunpowder from igniting. As important, this degree of concentration provided an efficiency in conveyance on board and onward to trading partners far away.” This rum is bottled in London, and made with a combo of the Wedderburn and Plummer styles of rum producing. The Wedderburn style is aged for less than a year, and the Plummer is aged one to three years in white oak. Molasses, skimmings (the debris that collects of the top of the boiling fluids, skimmed off during molasses and sugar production), cane juice, the syrup bottoms from sugar production, and the dunder (the liquid left in the boiler after distilling rum) make this rum my favorite; it’s not just because we share the same name.

Here’s my recipe for a daiquri. This has got
to be one of my favorite cocktails to drink. The half ounce of Smith & Cross does wonders for this quick sipper.

Cross Daiquiri

1 1/2 ounces Flor de Caña Extra Seco

1/2 ounce Smith & Cross Jamaican Rum

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice from distilled water, and shake vigorously until the shaker is very cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe glass. No garnish.  PS

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

Guest Lecturer

Bringing the outdoors in

By Tom Bryant

Traffic was backed up for miles on the inner beltline of Raleigh, so I decided to take country roads home to Southern Pines. Big cities seem to be getting bigger every time I have to visit one, and today was no different. On this trip to the metro, I had met a couple of friends I worked with in the newspaper business. It was a great reunion. We sympathized with each other on our personal aging problems as well as the problems the newspaper industry is experiencing. After a couple of cups of coffee and an hour or two of catching up, we hit the road to get back to our respective home bases.    

I angled my route over the backroads toward Cary and then decided to cut across country to Lake Jordan for a quick look-see. But first, since it had been a long time since my bowl of breakfast cereal, I pulled into a handy McDonald’s right outside the city limits for an early lunch. I was in luck because just as I entered the restaurant, a church bus pulled up and unloaded a bunch of youngsters. They appeared to be in their early teens, so I grabbed a table in the back corner to be out of the way. I had the morning issue of the News & Observer, so
I kicked back with my biscuit to catch up on the Raleigh news.        

As expected, the young folks came in with all the enthusiasm only they can have, especially when they’re hungry. I couldn’t help but overhear that they were on a field trip to the Capitol to see and be seen with the legislators. At a glance, it seemed as if each one had a smartphone and was constantly checking for important information or messages.

The technology that has changed the way newspapers do business was in evidence right there in McDonald’s. There I was, an older guy, not quite a geezer but on the way, reading a hard copy of a newspaper; and there they were, a bunch of young folks engrossed in their smartphones. It was a living testament to how times have changed.

These young folks reminded me of the time I was invited to speak to an eighth-grade class about the beauty of nature. It was a project dreamed up by the school to emphasize the importance of the outdoors. Even back then, school administrators understood that kids were spending too much time inside, watching TV and playing video games. That early encounter with those eighth-graders was the first inkling I had that the new generation was growing up differently from anything I had known.

A few more hungry customers came in the door, and the young folks moved as a group to the center of the restaurant. I was surprised at how subdued they were, and all but two, that I saw, were engrossed in their phones. The two kids who weren’t, a boy and a cute petite girl, carried on a conversation, laughing and smiling all the while. The contrast between the couple and the rest of the group was very evident. There are a few hanging on, I thought. The couple with no phones in sight would have fit right in with the eighth-grade class I visited many years ago.         

There were 30 or more students in that classroom, and it was just before lunch, so my time was limited. The young teacher introduced me and returned to her desk. I looked out at all those youngsters who had so much living yet to do and wondered how many had spent any time at all in the outdoors. So I asked, “Raise your hand if you’re in the Boy Scouts.”

About five boys tentatively put up their hands.

“OK,” I said, “how many of you young ladies are in the Girl Scouts?”

No hands went up.     

I decided to use a different tact. “How many of you have ever been fishing, hunting, camping or hiking, anything at all to do with the outdoors?” I was amazed at how few raised their hands.

“Well, I guess I have my work cut out for me. I’m supposed to get y’all interested enough in the birds and bees for you to spend more time away from the TV.”

The birds and bees comment brought on a little snickering in the back rows.

“Not that kind of birds and bees,” I laughed. I had gotten their attention.  A boy sitting close to the front raised his hand. “Mr. Bryant, one time when I was a lot younger, my granddad took me duck hunting.”

I looked at him with a glimmer of hope, thinking that here was a boy I could relate to.

He continued, “I not only about froze to death, but I was bored stiff. We didn’t see a duck all day.”

The class erupted with laughter. The teacher looked over at me with raised eyebrows.

I’m losing these people. What’s the best way to respond to this little whippersnapper? I thought about bringing the beauty of sunsets and sunrises into the conversation. I had even emphasized that in my notes, but that wouldn’t work; these kids have seen too many nature documentaries on TV.

OK, I figured I had one last chance before the teacher took her class back and dismissed me.

I walked around to the front of the lectern. “All right, folks,” I said. “I’ve left my speech back there. Just give me a little attention, and I’ll let you get out of here early for lunch.” That perked them up. I looked at the young fellow who gave me the duck hunting story. “I’m going to tell you about one of my duck hunts.

“It was Thanksgiving weekend, really just a couple of years ago. I was out early Friday morning at my special duck hunting spot not too far from home. It’s a beautiful undisturbed area with all kinds of wildlife and one of my favorite locations. Unfortunately, we’re losing these places all too quickly to development. So-called progress, I reckon. I have a small duck boat I use for hunting, one that will nestle right close to the creek bank; and on this morning, I was hunting alone because my old hunting dog, Paddle, had died the year before. She was a yellow Lab and a great retriever. We hunted together for 14 years and I still miss her.”

The class was paying more attention and I continued. “On this morning I didn’t really expect to have a lot of luck because of the mild weather, but I just wanted to be in the woods. I pulled the boat under alders growing from the bank and watched as the sun came up over the lake. Canada geese had roosted out in the big water the night before and were calling in preparation to head to the fields to feed. Mixed in with their calling, I could hear an unusual whistling noise coming from up the creek. A black bear had recently been sighted in the area, and not knowing what the whistling was, I hunkered down in the boat.”

I had the class now. They were all paying attention, and I finished the impromptu lecture and watched as the students were dismissed and filed out of the room heading to lunch. Several of them thanked me for the story.

The teacher gave me kudos for my talk. I don’t know if they were deserved or not, but I told her I had enjoyed the experience.

As I packed up to leave, the young guy who had duck hunted with his granddad stood by the classroom door, and as I walked out into the hall, he said, “Thanks, Mr. Bryant. I’m going to see if my grandfather will take me duck hunting again.” 

That youngster made my day.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Boys to Men

Coming of age in Troop 48

By David Claude Bailey   •   Illustration by Romey Petite

“Don’t pat the pancakes!”

The voice comes to my 11-year-old ears as if through gauze, muffled but clearly insistent.

I’m hunkering in front of a campfire, dodging the smoke that seems to chase me no matter where I drag the massive cast-iron frying pan in which half-a-dozen pancakes sizzle and pop. 

I’m delirious from having spent the night doing what Boy Scouts do on camping trips, swilling soft drinks, telling stories, and feeding our faces and the fire until 2 or 3 in the morning. Once I hit the sack, I’m dealing with a caffeine buzz only achievable in the 1950s before they took the good stuff out of soft drinks, not to mention the two quarts of Double Cola pooling in my bladder. And am I the only one who hears a raccoon raiding the unwashed pots and pans? I get up as soon as I see the slightest glimmer of dawn because I never really did go to sleep and because I’m cold and hungry and someone’s making a fire.

“Bailey. Don’t pat the pancakes.”

It’s our scoutmaster, John Samuels. I could spend a few lines describing his long rangy gait and his penetrating blue eyes below his beetling, sandy eyebrows or his infectious smile that we all want to trigger. But it’s easier just to conjure up John Wayne, whom, to my impressionable eyes, he resembled in every possible way.

I shift yet again away from the smoke, huffing and puffing as I drag the black mass of smoking cast-iron behind me. “Patting them makes them fall so that they’re flat,” Mr. Samuels says, a twinkle in his eye to blunt the bite of his criticism. I stop the spatula a quarter inch from a flapjack, obedient to his command, as yet another finger of smoke finds its way into my stinging nostrils and bleary eyeballs.

Troop 48 was the best thing that ever happened to me, except maybe getting a bike for Christmas when I was 8. The bike freed me from the half-a-mile range of my mother’s booming voice to wander the back alleys of Reidsville with a gang of three, scrounging stuff like an old washing-machine motor that we lugged home and played with until smoke and flames summoned a neighbor.

But it was Boy Scouts that truly liberated me from my Pennsylvania Dutch mother, who was loving, to be sure, but who had a maddening way of insisting there was a right and wrong way to do everything — and there was never any doubt which hers was. She never resisted watching as I tied my shoes — and letting me know that I was still doing it the wrong way.

Nothing beat spending a weekend with boys my age, semi-supervised by a former Merchant Marine turned repo man who, on occasion, packed what looked to me like a huge, black pistol. (I later learned it was a .22-caliber Colt Woodsman.) Like most good teachers, Mr. Samuels liked to fix things. In his case, boys who needed just a bit of guidance and attention at a crucial point in their lives — and at an age, I might add, that didn’t make them particularly appealing to their fathers or anyone else.

I’ll speak for myself. My dad did his best considering that his role model was a father who had nine children and acres of corn and tobacco that had to be tended so that the aforementioned children and wife wouldn’t starve. Plus, during the ’50s, children in my neck of the woods mostly raised themselves without the benefit of Dr. Spock or any helicoptering. Dads, at the prompting of mothers who read magazine articles on that new phenomenon called parenting, occasionally tossed a baseball with their sons or played golf with them (mine never did) or took them fishing and hunting (on rare occasions when other men weren’t available). But most kids were turned loose, along with the dogs, in the morning, and were only noticed if they didn’t come home for supper at night.

Mr. Samuels, who had no children of his own (but a stunning wife who sometimes accompanied him on camping trips), took an interest in whether you knew how to handle a knife or an axe and would show you how to retain your fingers and toes doing so. He’d watch you try to put up a tent and coach you on how to do it in less than an hour. He taught us gun safety, knowing that the subject was, in fact, as serious as death — and your reading this might very well be a tribute to his tutelage.

At 11 and 12, boys are between boyhood and manhood, some still believing in Santa Claus while noticing that they’re growing hair where there didn’t used to be any. On the way to becoming men, boys need mentors. Mr. Samuels took an interest in each and every one of us, even a geeky, one-eyed clumsy mother’s son like myself. I realize now that he liked seeing us grow into men and wanted us to share the values he held dear, which is what Scouting is all about, despite recent revelations and its detractors.

But Troop 48 was not your run-of-the-mill Scout troop. We were a resourceful and mischievous lot who had a reputation throughout the council (and Reidsville) for being wild and crazy. Guilty as charged. Troop 48 viewed jamborees in the same way that some aboriginal tribes regard others occupying open range, a good excuse for a raiding party. Initiations, I’m ashamed to report, could sometimes be described as medieval in their ingenuity. And consider that my best friend taught First Aid to Fritz Klenner, the protagonist in Bitter Blood.

The Chinese invented gunpowder. Troop 48 re-invented the gun. Since South Carolina and Myrtle Beach were only several hours away, any boy who’d recently paid a visit to either one brought fireworks on camping trips. Mr. Samuels never blinked an eye as long as we didn’t disturb his sleep or lose a digit. Armed with hundreds of firecrackers, some clever troop member figured out how to take a firecracker and an acorn and turn a harmless tent pole into a weapon of minimal destruction. 

Doubtless thinking that any one of us could throw an acorn a lot harder than the improvised gun could shoot it, Mr. Samuels just shook his head and warned us not to put out anyone’s eye, especially mine. I found the protective glasses my mother insisted that I wear at all times — and actually put them on — and soon we were facing off in Dodge City–style showdowns with shooters, each with his own personal fuse lighter. In the end, someone came up with the idea of replacing the acorn with something a little higher caliber, explosively speaking. This, in turn, required a series of precision actions on the part of fuse lighters that remains highly classified, Troop 48-eyes (or eye)-only information to this day. When the required calculations were just right, the projectile would explode as it flew through the air. When the fuse-lighter’s timing was even slightly off, the tent pole ended up looking like a peeled banana, which Mr. Samuels noticed, thus putting an end to our gunplay.

And here I was in charge of pancakes after telling Mr. Samuels that my mom let me cook breakfast now and again, and his having eaten one of them and saying it was pretty good, if a little flat from my patting it . . . when I saw stars and smoke and flames all at the same time as John Samuels planted his size 12 boot against my backside, kicking me head-first into the fire as I patted, surely, my 20th pancake of the day. In good time, he hove me up like a puppy out of a well, holding and shaking me by the front of my untucked shirt and twisting his head slightly and smiling like a jackdaw. “Didn’t I tell you not to pat the pancakes,” he asked quite reasonably.

I allowed as how he did and how I wouldn’t do it again. He deposited me back in front of the fire after kicking it back into shape and putting the pan back in front of me again, buffing the dirt off the spatula on his pants.

I have never, ever patted a pancake again — or idolized anyone as much since. PS

David Claude Bailey, who went on to attain the rank of Eagle, is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave and clean but rarely reverent.