Southwords

Father’s Day

A note for a quiet man

By Jim Moriarty

Traditionally, the U.S. Open is designed to finish on Father’s Day, and since I covered golf, I was always in Pennsylvania or California or New York or somewhere other than home on that particular Sunday. The occasion, for me, was a string of construction paper cards drawn by little hands and a package or two tucked into a suitcase.

Having grown up in a household with two brothers and a single mother who was tougher than beef jerky, that particular day had never been circled on our kitchen calendar anyway. That doesn’t mean I didn’t feel the tug when Rory McIlroy came walking down the hill on the 18th hole of Congressional Country Club on a stroll to a championship, scanning the crowd, joyously looking for one face and one face alone, his dad’s.

I married into a family of five children, two girls on either side of a boy stuck in the middle. One summer a bunch of us — not all, but more than a quorum — came together for a week at a beach house. In the evening we’d sit on the deck with a cold beer in our hands, stare at the Atlantic and talk about pretty much anything that popped into our heads. I mentioned the beer, didn’t I?

We got to talking about fathers because, by then, we all were, and somehow or other I got to talking about my wife’s father.

He’d grown up on a dairy farm, and when high school kids would come around to date his daughters, they’d sometimes ask him how he got those big forearms, and he’d just look at them and hold out two big fists and start to move them up and down like he was milking an invisible cow suspended in the air.

He was in the Navy in World War II and served on a ship in the Pacific. When his ship was anchored off New Zealand and the crew got liberty, he stayed on board because he was the only sailor who knew how to weld, and there were repairs that needed doing. For him, the war was more like Mr. Roberts than PT-109. He never made any more — or any less — of it than what it was. His country needed him. He served.

He worked heavy construction most of his life. He knew where every sewer and water line was in the city where he grew up and where his children grew up. If someone needed to find out where a line ran and what the hell it tied into, the first stop wasn’t to the office of the city engineer; they came to him. After decades of climbing in and out of ditches, his knees don’t work so well now, but if he walked out into his backyard and whistled, a backhoe would probably show up.

He built his house with his own hands. Big and thick, they feel more of the past now than they do the present. He sent five children to college, four of them girls, when there were plenty of folks he grew up around who thought that spending a lot of money educating a girl was a waste. He got teachers and librarians and engineers out of it.

Rain or shine, in the winter cold or the summer heat, he went to a job every day that he didn’t much like, but he went because there were people who depended on him. Black or white, if you worked hard and were honest, you were welcome in his living room. When his wife, the partner of a lifetime, got Alzheimer’s, she couldn’t recognize him but he never stopped seeing her.

And, it has occurred to me, after all these years, that he’s as much a father as I’ve ever had and that, profoundly late though it may be, I don’t think I’ve ever told him how much I love him.

Happy Father’s Day, Don. I wish it was on a hand-drawn card.  PS

Jim Moriarty is senior editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

The Kitchen Garden

Berries, Part II

Call of the blackberries

By Jan Leitschuh

What a fine time it is to enjoy local fruits — and who doesn’t love the berries of the Sandhills?

May, June and July are a wonder of seasonal berries. Last month we celebrated the delicious strawberry and the You-Pick farms that grow these delicate and juicy beauties for us.

But just as we are enjoying the earliest strawberries in mid-April, the next Sandhills berry is flowering, preparing for the hand-off sometime in later May: blackberries — the “bridge” fruit between strawberries and blueberries.

So, no worries. The sad passing of yet another Sandhills strawberry season heralds this equally delicious and healthful berry to salve our summer-hungry taste buds. Kitchen gardeners take note: Here is a low-fuss berry that genuinely likes our sandy soils.

Locally, the sweet and seedy blackberry shows up in June. Seek out these glossy berries fresh-picked at area farmers markets, or grab the kids and head out to a local farm. Pick-Your-Own places such as Eagle’s Nest Berry Farms open in early June for public picking. (But call ahead or text to check availability, says producer Karen Ring: 910-639-3966.)

Blackberries ripen at a time when green beans, new potatoes, semi-clingstone peaches, a few highbush blueberry varieties, summer squash and early cucumbers start showing up in local markets. This is when the serious summer good-eatin’ time sets in.

And not just eatin’. “I make a good blackberry lemonade,” says Ring. She makes it using fresh lemons, though a pre-made lemon mix will work too. Then, she juices a batch of blackberries and adds them to the lemon solution. “You can also make blackberry tea, adding the juice the same way you added it to lemonade.”

For a bit of presentation flair, toss in a few slices of cut lemon and a blackberry swizzler to your glass pitcher. Make the blackberry swizzler by threading blackberries on a wooden stick like a shish kebab skewer. Freeze the stick until solid, then use the frozen swizzler to cool down your pitcher and add a fruity, visual punch.

Fresh eating out of your hand is never the wrong answer. A mouthful of summer-warmed blackberries is hard to beat, and provides a surprising amount of one’s daily fiber — a nutrient of concern in the newer USDA Dietary Guidelines. In season, fresh berries and cereal or yogurt kick the day off nicely. Simple, unadorned berries atop a cheesecake, mousse or other dessert kicks up the eye appeal.

A June bride, I had small fresh fruits adorning my wedding cake tiers. The most striking visual combo was the summer blackberries nestled next to tiny orange kumquats (a very small citrus meant to be eaten whole). The entire thing tasted as good as it looked. 

Blackberries, like strawberries, have a short shelf life. They won’t just hang around in your fridge like next month’s blueberries. You need a plan, and there is none better than baking some into pies, breads, muffins, pancakes and cobblers.

Can’t mention berries without salivating over . . .  er, talking about, fruit cobblers. These jammy, fruit-rich bakes are covered with a biscuit-like crust and served hot with ice cream or whipped cream.

Ring is a cobbler fan too, and she likes to blend the fruits of the season to good effect. “I have mixed blueberries and blackberries, and that makes a good cobbler.”

She’s also combined blackberries and early peaches. “The combo of the flavors and the colors is pretty cool,” she says. Since early peaches are not as sweet as those in July and August, “you might want to use the sweeter overripe blackberries to help sweeten up your cobbler. I haven’t tried it, but I’d like to try strawberries and blackberries.”

Many folks visiting You-Picks are seeking berries for jam as well as fresh eating and freezing. “If you’re making jam,” says Ring, “you want a mix of ripe and unripe. If you use just ripe berries, you’ll get a really sweet, sweet jam.” It will override that wonderful blackberry flavor. Besides pre-picked and sorted berries, Eagle’s Nest sells the lower-cost culls that are good for making jams. Those tend to be the overripe or underripe berries picked out of the sorted batches. Eagle’s Nest also sells a pre-made multi-berry jam called Triple Berry Spin.

Let’s digress from salivation for the moment. It’s too late right now to plant your own little blackberry patch this summer, but if you have a particular yen to add a few bushes to your kitchen garden, it is not difficult. In the fall, prepare the soil in your “patch” as if for garden vegetables. The plants should be planted when dormant — in late fall or in March, about four weeks before the average date of the last frost.

Choose a couple of varieties if you want to spread out your season. There are a number of cultivars that do well here, especially a grouping bearing Indian names such as Kiowa, Natchez and Navaho. Kiowa has thorns but is a prolific early bearer with humongous fruits. Natchez and Navaho are thornless and come slightly later. Natchez, especially, benefits from trellising.

Blackberries generally have crowns that are perennial. These persistent crowns throw off biennial shoots. The shoots that sprout this year are called primocanes and won’t bear fruit. These go dormant over the winter, then flower during strawberry season the following year and are now called floricanes (flowering canes). From these flowers comes the delicious fruit. After the season is done, cut out the old floricanes, which brown and die after bearing, to make room for this season’s primocanes to do their thing the following year.

Some newer varieties such as Prime Jan and Prime Jim actually produce the first year after planting. Do your research if you add these to the mix.

Plants can be fertilized organically and simply with soybean meal and sulpomag (assuming your pH is correct to begin with). I like to mulch them with well-decomposed bark or wood chips. Your berry patch may produce for 15 years if managed well.

That first year, water plants in well. You’ll have more order and space in your garden if you confine the canes to some sort of simple trellis.

Really ripe blackberries, the sweetest phase, are easy to spot. Watch your patch carefully, as they can easily switch from underripe to “going by.” The dark berries will be shiny as they ripen, then lose their gloss slightly when truly sweet and ripe. This is the sweetest moment and, as we’ve seen, not necessarily the optimum moment for every purpose. But for fresh eating, it’s a hard moment to beat.

Everyone knows how healthy berries are. Did you know nutritionists often advise incorporating 1/4 cup of berries into our daily diets for their superior nutritional benefit? Blackberries drill down in some important areas. We mentioned how strawberries contain anthocyanins, those powerful anti-inflammatory antioxidants — blackberries have it in spades. Anthocyanins help keep our eyes and brains healthy, help ward off diabetes and lower the risk of certain types of cancer. Rich in vitamin C, they also contain the essential vitamin K. Blackberries also support bone health.

And they taste just splendid!

But, back to savoring the flavors of the season. Here’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard yet for serving up blackberries. This is a sweet-savory combo that could elevate your porch-sittin’, blackberry-lemonade-sippin’, summer-fresh to new heights.

Eagle Nest Berry Farm’s Blackberry Pizza

Eagle’s Nest producer Karen Ring bakes a pizza crust and then smears it with another outstanding local product, Paradox Farm’s chèvre. “I love the fig and honey cheese,” says Ring. Drizzle a little olive oil on top of the cheese, then add blackberries and basil. Return to oven for about 10 minutes, or until fruit is cooked flat. Serve up a few slices with a blackberry lemonade and salute the bounties of summer with a friend.  PS

Call Moore County Cooperative Extension for a list of local You-Pick berry farms: 910-947-3188.

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

Character Study

Underground Artist

James Alford plies his classic trade

By Will Harris   •   Photography by Tim Sayer

In the basement of the Cabin Branch Tack Shop, down a set of creaky wooden steps, the musky smell of leather mixes with the lingering odor of sweet cigar smoke where James Alford practices his leatherworking craft. A radio plays rhythm and blues as he repairs horse tack and saddlery using tools and methods that haven’t changed in generations.

Speaking through a Swisher Sweet cigar that has long since gone out, Alford recalls the relationship that led to his 50-plus-year career keeping the indispensible gear of an equestrian stronghold in good working order. “I got lucky because a gentleman I knew in town was a taxi driver, and I used to do a little work for him,” he says. “You know, the kind of guy who knows a lot of people. And he liked what I did so he looked out for me for a job. That’s how I got in and met Mr. Schmelzer.”

E.J. Schmelzer hired 14-year-old James as an apprentice at the Schmelzer family leather shop serving the Pinehurst Harness Track. “Just starting out it was a part-time job after school and on weekends. I got away from the tobacco field. You remember those days.” He could have gone to the Stanley Furniture plant, where his father worked for 38 years, but “that wasn’t my thing,” he says. “I got to the tack shop, and that was it. I thought: ‘Oh, this is where I need to be.’”

After 12 years at the Schmelzers’, it was time to move on. Alford began working at the tack shop in Southern Pines in 1980 when the business was part-owned by Sam Bozick. “I knew they needed help and I came straight over and started working. No changes or nothing. I worked for Sam for over 25 years.”

Bozick, known for his affability and generosity, would sometimes fix tack for people even when they didn’t have the money to pay him. He knew they would settle up when they could. “A handshake meant a lot back then. It was just like signing a contract, when you buy a property or a car,” Alford says. “He would let them have it and gave them time to pay for it and wouldn’t push them about it. And kept going with a smile.”

Alford and Bozick spent time traveling up and down the East Coast. “Sam would go all over the country and pick up tack work or buy leather. I used to ride with him a lot of the time, and we’d turn in somewhere way back in the woods, old big farms. People he didn’t know. He’d pull into the farm and get to talking to them. And that’s the way he built business.”

Bozick passed away in 2010, but Alford continues the legacy with the comfortable confidence of an expert who has seen it all. Surrounded by mounds of unfinished boots and harnesses stacked on his workbench, he exudes an infectious calm. “Take your time, have patience, and it will all fall right into place. I say all the time, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have taken this job here.’ And then I’ll sit there and think to myself, ‘What I’m going to do?’ and I can picture in my mind how I want it to look when I get done.”

The day is punctuated by regular visits from his customers, announced by the banging of the half-door that still bears Bozick’s name at the top of the stairs and the thump of riding boots descending to the workshop. He particularly enjoys the challenge of an unorthodox job. “I like everything about it. Sometimes I’ll get here and I’ll groan to myself: ‘Oh, this bunch of junk.’ And then I look at it and think, ‘I know how I can fix this.’ But you’ve got to do it right, because they’re gonna use it.”

Some customers pick up finished bags, boots and bridles. Others just need a quick fix that Alford does while they wait and watch. He can put his hands on a customer’s repaired item within seconds, even if it looks more like a pile of random stuff to the casual visitor.

On a busy afternoon, the door slams and a rider walks down the stairs, boots turned sideways to avoid snagging her spurs on the carpeted steps. She’s picking up a saddle Alford has altered to keep it from digging into her horse’s back. “You know when the saddles are old and the horses grow, their back changes and everything. A lot of times you can correct the problem. Stuff it with padding and so forth. But that’s the way it goes.”

She asks how much she owes, but Alford sends her off without paying. He expects the saddle may be back for further tweaks until it is perfect for the horse and rider.

Later in the day another rider comes in. The hackamore bridle her horse is fond of using has a problem — when she pulls the reins, it slips in front of the horse’s eyes. She has attached two pieces of bailing twine as makeshift straps to keep the bridle centered on the horse’s face, what Alford calls a “backwoods” fix.

She plans to compete with the horse at the end of the month, and while the bailing twine works, it may detract from the pair’s performance. Relishing the opportunity to make something from scratch, Alford intends to copy the customer’s design in leather, adding buckles so the straps can be adjusted. “I’m looking forward to this, because I’ve got to make it,” he says.

Alford’s favorite project is rebuilding saddles. An older gentleman from Laurinburg brought in a Western-style saddle from his childhood that he wanted Alford to rebuild just so he could display it in his home. He said the saddle would never be used again, but Alford knew better.

“I have done some saddles like that; they say they’re going to put them up as a showpiece, and they will end up riding them,” he says. “So, I fix them the same, just in case. I put everything just like they were roping steers and on the trail riding for months at a time.

“You do it right, because you never know. Who knows, someday his granddaughter might grab that saddle. Now, they can just throw it on a horse and take off and ride,” he says, with a smile.  PS

Will Harris is serving an internship at PineStraw to complete his business journalism undergraduate degree from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He works locally as a carpenter, enjoys playing tennis, sailing and spending time with his dog Bear.

Wine Country

What’s Hot for Summer

Picks that suit the palate and the pocketbook

By Angela Sanchez

Wine tastes change a bit during the long, hot days of summer. I want something perfect for sitting outside enjoying the evening with family, or grilling over a hot fire with friends and enjoying a light, summer meal. It’s a great time to rethink the tried-and-true wines like chardonnay, pinot noir and cabernet. I’ve recently tasted three beautiful, expressive wines that are lighter, less serious and easy on the budget.

For a great patio sitting, gossiping with friends, grilling with your favorite people, or just enjoying a glass on a lazy afternoon wine, I love a rosé from Provence. This clean style of rosé is dry, crisp, rich with minerality with the perfect chill on it. The up-front tart cherry, strawberry tastes, followed by a race of mineral and lime and nectarine, will cool you down while pairing perfectly with everything from fresh strawberries and blueberries to fresh tomatoes with basil, watermelon and barbecued chicken. The 83 Provence rosé is balanced with fruit and acidity, with a perfect pale pink color. A hint of lavender flower and orange on the finish keep it bright and easy drinking. Take it to the ladies’ brunch or the in-laws’ boat, it’s summer’s best friend.

Sokol Blosser’s Evolution No. 9, from just outside Dundee, Oregon, is the perfect summer white. A proprietary blend of nine grapes, all white varietals, is led by chardonnay and pinot gris. This wine’s fresh, bright, tropical fruit and herbaceousness shine through. With a bit of orange and grapefruit, along with some parsley and grassy notes, it pairs perfectly with summer salads loaded with fresh greens, avocado, and grilled shrimp or chicken. Try it with grilled or sautéed zucchini and squash or fresh-made hummus and cucumbers. Chardonnay drinkers will find it rich and round enough to please their palates, while those who lean more toward a sauvignon blanc will experience the same fresh intensity they find in their favorites.

Whether it’s the middle of winter or a blazing hot day in midsummer, a good red is always on time. In summer it’s important to lighten it up with a style that uses less oak for aging and focuses more on enhancing the fruit, producing a balanced red wine with enough character to hold up to food but easy enough to handle a humid day, grill and poolside. Spain produces some beautiful red wines that drink beautifully in a hot, humid climate like ours. Castano Monastrell, a red varietal also known as Mourvedre, from the Yecla region, is a warm weather hit. It’s dark red in color but light enough on the palate to make a great glass of summer red. Produced from 30-year-old bush vines — not irrigated — on rocky limestone soil in the Mediterranean climate, the wine has generous dark red fruit and black pepper notes. A little spice character allows the wine to pair well with pork barbecue, burgers and grilled sausages. Lay it just on top of the ice in the cooler to get that perfect summer chill on it, cooling the tannins and making for easy sipping.

All three wines are excellent cheese pairings. The 83 rosé makes a nice friend to Beecher’s Flagship Cheddar. It is aged one year, developing a sharp cheddar bite along with a nice crumbly texture. One of the best pairings I’ve had recently is Sokol Blosser Evolution with Humboldt Fog. The cheese is produced from goat’s milk in the cool, maritime climate of Northern California. Both wine and cheese have tart, citrus and grassy notes, making them excellent complements. The red matches well with an aged goat cheese from Holland called Midnight Moon. Gouda has a sweet creamy taste and a little crystal crunch. The sweet cream character makes for a good pairing with the black pepper bite of the wine.   PS

Angela Sanchez owns Southern Whey, a cheese-centric specialty food store in Southern Pines, with her husband, Chris Abbey. She was in the wine industry for 20 years and was lucky enough to travel the world drinking wine and eating cheese.

The Accidental Astrologer

Whoa Is Me!

And you, too, with this month’s alignment of Jupiter in idealistic Sadge and foggy Neptune in Pisces

By Astrid Stellanova

We’ve seen our share of cosmic conniption fits, Star Children, but just remember that half of 2019 is already over. And astrological rarities keep coming. The Arietids are on June 7, and on June 18, there’s an unusual alignment when Jupiter in Sagittarius meets Neptune in Pisces at 90 degrees.

If all that means zip to you, consider that the alignment hasn’t happened in 13 years, since 2006. But this year it happens three times — the next time is on November 8. Circle that on your Day-Timers, Sweet Peas. Some seers say this planetary dust-up pits idealism (yep, thanks to Neptune) against ideologies (Sagittarius). Bottom line? Pay attention to excesses. Rein in your appetites and sit tall in the saddle. But especially, just hold your horses.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Hot balls of fire, you may be twitchier than Jerry Lee Lewis. But the soundtrack to your life is more like that song, “Same Trailer, Different Park.” If that ain’t a song, well then it should be, given how you Geminis are wrestling with lots of energy and no place to put it. Good works, my Twins, might just make you do something with that nutsy energy.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

Honey, you have been getting waaaay too intense. Like, you are 50 shades of black and white. If your saga gets any more black and white, somebody needs to take a brush to your head and start painting your life in rainbow colors. Nothing in life is this cut and dried.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

Like sweet little Sally Struthers says, save them jagwires, Darlin! Or pick an animal that will make your heart bleed. She’s always saving something, and you got to love her for it. But there is a part of you, little Lion Heart, that needs rescuing. It is possible you have a lot more at risk than you like to show.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

Yes, you have got some talent and you have got plenty of desire to take center stage and blow away the competition. Breaking wind is not a musical event, Sugar. When you put in the work to compete, everybody and his brother will be calling.

Libra (September 23-–October 22)

How do you even walk when you keep one foot in your mouth? It was just that bad when you marched into a situation with all the sensitivity of Bigfoot at Cracker Barrel. Next time you open your pie hole, fill it with a big ole slice of double chocolate fudge Co’ Cola Cake.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

Oh, yes, Honey, you got some axes to grind and you could split some skulls right about now. Thinking of something nice to say about your exes is like trying to divide by zero. But pull in your horns, ’cause they are about to dive into a tripwire.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

Honey, stopped in your tracks, you been grounded like fog closing in on an airport. Frustration ain’t even a big enough word for it. If there was ever a time for you to stop, chill out and go inside, it’s N-O-W. It will save you a whole lot of struggle next month.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

That silver-tongued devil you like couldn’t be trusted if his tongue had a notary seal on it. Gets you every time. Right about now is a good time to politely walk back on plans you made together. Just give it a week to cool off before signing up.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

You got a backbone. But where is your funny bone? If you want to have a happy life, Sugar, you will have to find what is hilarious in the not so good, and what is at least worth a smile in the hardest times. There lies the greatest strength.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

That bottle of lightning may or may not be the cure for what ails you. When somebody says grab it while you can, you may have just been had, Honey. And when you open the lid on that bottle, it may just be more hot air. They can keep it.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

You feel like a dog without a tail, which is a doggone shame because this month you will have reason to wag it. In the run-up to the wag-worthy time ahead, you are going to have to overcome some big barkers who suck the oxygen away.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Did you mean to plow that same row twice? Sugar, you were as nervous as a cheerleader at the prison football game. That is not you; you’re off your game but if you can focus, find your mark and breathe, you are set to take the prize on home.  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.

Good Natured

Buckwheat

More than Alfalfa’s Little Rascals friend

By Karen Frye

Many folks think of buckwheat as a grain — especially because it has “wheat” in the word — but it’s actually a seed. Buckwheat groats (often called kasha) are seeds from a plant related to rhubarb and have been used throughout the world as a regular part of the diet. It can be ground into flour (the pancakes are delicious), eaten as a pasta (soba noodles), a porridge or as buckwheat sprouts.

The nutrients in buckwheat are amazing, making it clearly one of nature’s superfoods. It is gluten-free with few calories and a unique amino acid profile, containing substantial amounts of easily digestible protein. The antioxidant content is impressive with a good amount of rutin, quercetin, magnesium and other important minerals. It is also high in insoluble fiber — almost 5 grams per cup.

You may find you want to ditch your morning bowl of oatmeal or cereal for a bowl of buckwheat groats. You can prepare them easily, and add a little maple syrup or fresh berries to create a superfood breakfast. There is a delicious, easy-to-prepare creamy hot cereal made of buckwheat available at Nature’s Own.

Maybe you or someone you know could use the nutritional perks of buckwheat.  It helps:

— Lower inflammation and increases good cholesterol;

— Balance the blood sugar, reducing the risk of diabetes;

— Lower high blood pressure;

— Prevent gallstones;

— Slow the progression of hardening of the arteries;

— Protect against breast cancer; and

— Relieve constipation.

How about that? A little seed with a powerful punch. Here’s a delicious recipe, great for a summer lunch, and easy to prepare.

Buckwheat Wraps

Makes 6 servings

1/2 cup diced onion

3 1/4 cups water

1 tablespoon miso paste

1 bay leaf

1 1/4 cups buckwheat groats

1 stalk celery, chopped

1/2 cup shredded carrot

Pinch of paprika

Salt and pepper to taste

6 large collard (tender) leaves, chard or cabbage, washed, patted dry and large vein removed

Sauté the onions with 1/4 cup of water for about 3 minutes. Add miso, bay leaf and the remaining 3 cups of water, and bring to a boil. Add the buckwheat and cook over medium heat for 10-12 minutes, or until the buckwheat is soft (but not mushy). Remove from heat and fluff with a fork. Transfer to a mixing bowl and add the celery, carrot, paprika, salt and pepper. Stir and mix well.

Stuff the leaves by adding the mixture (the amount depends on the size of the leaves) toward the wide end of the leaf. Fold the sides of the leaf over the filling and stem, and roll the leaf up, compressing the mixture a bit (like when wrapping a burrito). Use a toothpick or skewer if necessary to keep it together.

Serve with avocado, hummus, tomatoes, spinach leaves, sprouts or whatever you might enjoy! 

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

Sporting Life

The Wings of an Idea

A quiet time when the cosmos comes calling

By Tom Bryant

“I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floatin’ around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it’s both.”       — Forrest Gump

Over the bay there was a bright moon coming up that seemed so close I could reach out and touch it. A few light cotton strips of clouds drifted across the brightness and fostered a feeling of loneliness, although I was right next to a full campground.

Linda, my bride, and I were in Florida, camping in the little Airstream, on a late season trip. We were at our favorite spot, Chokoloskee Island, to hang out, fish (I would do most of the fishing) and, in general, break away from all the rigmarole that seemed to infest our lives of late. Also, it was a trip ostensibly to help me pull together what has become known around our house as “The Book.” I’ve been working on this particular manuscript forever, it seems, and I hoped the different scenery would add a little incentive for getting the bloomin’ thing finished.

Tonight, though, I thought I’d do a little evening fishing to catch some trout for tomorrow’s supper. There was a group of folks out on the end of the boat dock enjoying the moonrise, and they wished me luck as I shoved off in my little canoe.

The bay was as calm as a lake, and the tide was in, which meant I had a couple of hours before the tide shifted and I’d need to get back. Thinking about the tidal flow, I paddled inland toward the Everglades so I’d not have to buck the outflow when it changed.

There is a peacefulness on a gulf bay backlit by a full moon. In no time, I had put out a line baited with shrimp and was enjoying the solitude. I kicked back in the canoe to await a little action and also enjoy the scenery.

During my lifetime in the great outdoors, I’ve had some amazing experiences, a lot of them defying normal explanations; and tonight, drifting along, fishing the bay, I had another. I had just settled down and opened a drink from the cooler when a dolphin surfaced right off the bow of the boat. He played around like he thought the canoe was a friend, and after a short visit, he did a final leap and was gone.

I’ve had other surreal encounters with amazing wild creatures, and as I floated in my canoe on that early spring night, I thought about a couple that had no explanation other than what each was, a gift.

Rich Warters, a good friend, and I were coming out of the woods one spring morning after an early jaunt to try for a turkey. This was our third attempt of the early turkey season, and we had been unsuccessful thus far. Dogwoods were in full bloom, and the air still had a little winter nip in it, so we were glad to get back to the truck, where we had a thermos of coffee waiting. We had poured ourselves a cup of steaming coffee and were standing at the back tailgate of my vehicle commiserating over our lack of success in the turkey-hunting department. We were planning the next day’s adventure when, all of a sudden and seemingly from nowhere, a ruby-throated hummingbird flew right between us, hovered a few seconds, looked at both of us, and was gone. Rich and I stood there opened-mouthed, and Rich exclaimed, “That made my day!”

I replied, “Rich, that made my year!”

There was another time when I was duck hunting and a pair of otters surfaced right beside my boat, looked me over slowly, then disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

The appearances of these wild creatures were amazing, but there was one other wonderful encounter that I’ll always remember.

In the late ’70s, a good friend and I decided to fulfill a long-time career desire to start our own newspaper. Now, we were good in our newspaper endeavors, if not exceptional. Jim was the features editor of a major daily paper in another county, and I was the ad director of our city’s daily newspaper. We were both doing well in our separate divisions of the business, and we felt the timing was right for a new community voice in our market. So, after a year of planning and three months of pulling everything together, we launched our first edition. It was October 1976.

Jimmy Carter, bless his heart, a good old boy from Georgia, was elected president a month after our first edition. Right away, it seemed, the economy tanked. Now I can’t blame Jimmy; I even voted for him. After all, he is Southern, and I loved his brother Billy; but I believe the quagmire that was Washington then and still is today sucked him down as surely as the economy was doing to our fledging newspaper.

For three years we waged an uphill battle. Our circulation continued to climb; but small advertisers, our bread and butter who paid the bills, were on a downhill slide. My partner decided to hang it up, and I was left, a captain on a sinking ship.

I did everything I could, cut everywhere I could, and thought of every solution to save the floundering business, but I had hit a brick wall. One Saturday after a morning at the office, I went home to take a break. Linda was grocery shopping, so I grabbed a beer from the fridge, went out on the deck and sat in one of our rockers. I glanced up at the big white oak trees in our backyard, leafing out in early spring green.

As I looked up, I noticed a piece of leaf, or I thought it was a piece of leaf, fluttering in the top branches. In a moment, I saw it was a butterfly. I watched it for several minutes as it flitted from one tree to another, and then just as if it were on a string, it fluttered down to the deck and lit on my knee. I watched open-mouthed as the big monarch sat there for a few seconds, wings opening and closing, then flew away.

That night I awoke from a deep sleep, sat upright in bed and mentally grabbed the remnants of a fleeting dream. The dream was about a new publication, published for the retail outlet craze, which was in full bloom.

Thus was born The Outlet Outlook, a shopper paper designed for transient outlet shoppers. In no time, we had papers in outlet centers in Burlington, North Carolina; Myrtle Beach and Spartanburg, South Carolina; and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. As Forrest Gump so eloquently put it, “We had more money than Davy Crockett.”

The tide was beginning to change, and I had three trout in the bucket, enough for tomorrow’s supper, so I decided to head back to camp. It was an easy paddle, and I let the boat drift along, remembering those days when I was much younger. I don’t know if that butterfly was a messenger helping me with my destiny or just a beautiful piece of nature floating along, but I tend to agree with Forrest; maybe it was a little of both.  PS

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

Simple Life

Stormy Weather

After withstanding decades of hurricanes, Wilmington’s Blockade Runner is ready to defy the odds once more

By Jim Dodson

On October 10 of last year, Hurricane Michael made landfall on the panhandle of Florida packing sustained winds of 160 mph, a storm verging on Category 5 that entered the record books as the third strongest hurricane on record. After fully devastating Mexico Beach, Michael churned toward the Carolinas as a tropical storm over the next two days, claiming 54 lives from Florida to Virginia, causing $25 billion in property damage.

On the afternoon Michael arrived in North Carolina, I watched on my iPhone weather app as the storm spread its mayhem over Charlotte and took some comfort that the winds and rain were expected to diminish to 30 mph tropical gusts by the time the storm reached the Triad.

The winds and rain arrived on schedule around 3 p.m. Since we live in a neighborhood filled with century-old hardwoods, I stepped outside to see how our elderly trees were handling the winds after one of the wettest autumns on record.

The winds suddenly increased and something blew off my roof with a clatter. It turned out to be a chimney cap, airlifted halfway across our front yard. As I walked over to pick it up, keeping an eye on the churning treetops, things got even crazier. I heard what sounded remarkably like an oncoming freight train and turned around just in time to see the peak of our neighbor’s roof vanish beneath what appeared to be a madly swirling cloud.  Having once been dangerously close to a large tornado, I wasn’t anxious to repeat the experience.

I headed straight inside to chase wife and dogs to the basement but suddenly remembered that I’d left the door to my home office over the garage standing ajar. Like one of those Russian babushkas who insisted on sweeping her stoop before evacuating the Chernobyl nuclear site, I foolishly bolted out the back door even as my phone began shrieking a weather alarm to take shelter immediately.

Taking two steps at once, I reached the top of the garage steps just as the large wooden electrical pole at the rear of our property, bearing a major transformer and various cable lines, snapped like a twig and flew past me like the witch from The Wizard of Oz, crashing into our backyard with a vivid explosion of sparks. For several seconds, I stood there stunned by what I’d seen . . . until I had the good sense to turn around bolt for the basement.

What turned out to be a microburst or tornado, spawned by the fury of Michael’s tropical remnants, knocked over half a dozen ancient trees along our street and plunged the neighborhood into darkness for more than a week. We were among the fortunate ones, though. Our generator came on, and chainsaws came out and neighbors began appearing outside to help assess the damage and begin the cleanup process. Several folks on the street suffered major damage from trees that toppled directly onto their houses, but fortunately there we no serious injuries on our side of town.

My thoughtful neighbor Ken, who lives across the street and had a massive oak take out his center chimney and new second-floor bathroom renovation, shook his head and said it best. “Incredible, isn’t it? Nature’s power always seems to have the final word.”

A few weeks ago, I mentioned this frightening scenario and Ken’s comment to Bill Baggett as we sat together in a newly renovated room on the top floor of the historic Blockade Runner Hotel at Wrightsville Beach. Baggett, 72, simply smiled.

“Nature’s fury has the only word,” he added.

With the first of June looming — the official start of the Atlantic hurricane season that lasts until November 30 —  Baggett and his sister Mary, who jointly own and operate arguably the most beloved and well-known hotel on the North Carolina coast, are something akin to experts on the fickle fury of hurricanes and the unpredictable damage they leave in their aftermath.

Since their family purchased the Blockade Runner from its original owner, Lawrence Lewis of Richmond, Virginia, in 1971, the Baggetts — who assumed operational management of the property in 1984 — have ridden out half a dozen major Atlantic hurricanes and several near misses while hunkered down inside their cozy seaside hotel. Their legacy began with Hurricane Diana in 1984 and continued through last September’s Hurricane Florence, the sea monster that preceded Michael and turned Wilmington and much of Eastern North Carolina into a vast world of water, marooning the Port City for weeks.

In 1984, Diana blew out the hotel’s old-style windows and flooded the ground floor of the hotel with wind-driven rain. “Structurally the hotel was fine. It’s made of reinforced industrial concrete.” Baggett recalled that the worst thing that happened was that the covering for the air vents blew off, allowing rain to flood rooms and public spaces, while destroying plaster walls and ceilings “The hotel was soaked, a real mess, physically and legally,” he said.

When the Baggetts declined to accept their insurance company’s insufficient payout of just $12,000 to cover the extensive damages, they took their case to court, enlisting an expert witness in the person of a retired meteorologist from the Miami Hurricane Center named Robert Simpson, for whom the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane scale is named. His testimony resulted in a more satisfactory settlement  — and a new insurance company going forward.

Three hurricanes in quick succession followed within a decade. Hurricanes Fran (September 1996; 27 fatalities, $5 billion total damage), Bonnie (August 1998, no fatalities but 950,000 people evacuated from the Carolinas, total damage: $1 billion) and Floyd (September 1999, extensive flooding, 76 fatalities, $6.5 billion in total damage) tested the moxie of the Baggetts and their stout lodging. In 1989, even Hurricane Hugo took a passing swipe that blew out Blockade Runner’s windows but otherwise left the property unscathed. 

“Fran was pretty bad,” Baggett recalled. “It took a typical path up the Cape Fear and right over the top, sucking up water from both sides of the hotel — the ocean on one side, the sound on the other. For a while, it was like being in an aquarium,” he allowed with a laugh. “There were six of us in the hotel that night — Mary and myself, one of our cooks and several maintenance folks. Around 11 p.m., the window wall blew out and the water came rushing in, ruining carpets and floors. It was a long night but really the damage in that instance was fortunately fairly minimal. The hotel itself was fine.”

In Fran’s aftermath, in fact, emergency crews from the Red Cross, power companies and relief agencies billeted at the Blockade Runner, which was up and running in a matter of days. “The real issue,” Baggett explained, “was that Fran did serious damage to docks along the sound — prompting fears that the annual Flotilla might be cancelled. Fortunately, everyone worked hard to get the island back in shape and the event came off.”

For her part, Hurricane Bonnie looked fearsome but passed over relatively quickly, moving so swiftly she only took a portion of the Blockade Runner’s roof.

Floyd, however, brought rain on a Biblical scale that flooded numerous towns across the Eastern portions of the state, killing livestock and damaging crops. But once again, with its new roof, the Blockade Runner was updated and “hurricane ready,” as Bill Baggett put it. When Hurricane Matthew banged along the entire east coast in early October of 2016, the hotel barely noticed its passing.

And then, last September, came Florence — a Cat-4 monster that brought new levels of devastation to Wilmington and surrounding region.

“We were a little concerned that she was predicted to come ashore as a Cat-4 hurricane, but we planned to stay in the hotel and ride it out regardless,” said Hurricane Bill Baggett. “I mean, where would we evacuate to — some stick-built motel on the mainland? This hotel is made from industrial reinforced concrete. Besides, by the time the hurricane was on top of us, the only real concern we had — besides water — was the wind.”

By the time Florence rolled over Wrightsville Beach early on Friday morning, September 14, wind shear had weakened the storm to Category 1, wind gusting to 105 mph, which was still sufficient to take out the roof of the Blockade Runner’s balcony and soak some of the hotel’s premium seaside suites.

The major problem with Florence was a record high storm surge of 10 to 13 feet at high tide and the volume of rain. Over two days the storm stalled and lingered over the region, dumping more than 45 inches of rain in places — including on top of the hotel — downing thousands of power lines and trees, making Florence the wettest tropical cyclone to ever hit the Carolinas.

“We lost vents again and had water in some of our tunnels,” Baggett told me, “but for the most part we were in better shape than most people around us.” Because of their working partnership with BELFOR, the property damage specialists who work across the country, response teams were on the site within a day, bringing emergency fuel that allowed the hotel to operate its three large cooling generators and drying machines.

In the aftermath of Florence, much of Wilmington was underwater for the next two weeks, as were numerous towns and cities across Eastern North Carolina.

Fifty-seven deaths were attributed to the storm, and $24 billion in damages to property in North Carolina alone, more than the cost of Matthew and Floyd combined.

As many have done in the wake of Florence, in the process of repairing the damage to their hotel balcony suites, the Baggetts decided to undertake a comprehensive renovation of their landmark hotel, enlisting designer Terry Allred to give the property a fresh new tropical look from top to bottom. The extensive $11 million redo, which includes makeovers of every guest room, dining room and public spaces, is ready to welcome longtime customers and perhaps a new generation of beachcombers to the hotel just as a new summer vacation season dawns.

“Hurricanes are amazingly unpredictable things,” Bill Baggett mused as he showed me through the bright new suites on the balcony floor. “It’s a new roll of the dice every time one of those storms comes out of the Caribbean. But with a jewel like this, Mary and I feel like we are stewards of the hotel. It’s been a pleasure to try and improve it over the years, regardless of whatever comes at us from the sea.” He paused and smiled. “One thing for sure. When the next one comes, we’ll still be here in the hotel.”   PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.

Drinking with Writers

One Man’s Good Advice

Clyde Edgerton and the art of negotiation

By Wiley Cash   •   Photographs by Mallory Cash

In 2011, my wife and I were living in West Virginia when I learned that my first novel was going to be published. My editor asked me to reach out to any well-known authors I knew to see if they would offer a blurb for the book jacket. The problem? I didn’t know many well-known authors, so I began sleuthing for email addresses. Clyde Edgerton’s was one of the first I found. I wrote to him and told him that I, like him, was a North Carolina native who had written a North Carolina novel, and I wondered if he would be willing to give it a read and consider offering some kind words. He not only read my novel and offered some kind words that ended up on the front of the hardcover, he offered some criticism as well. There was one particular scene in the novel that he felt went on a little too long, and he suggested some edits. I made the edits; they were the last I made before the novel went to print, and they improved the novel in ways I never could have imagined. I had never met Clyde Edgerton. I had never been one of his students. He was just being kind, giving more of his time and talent than I ever expected.

Clyde’s kindness and giving of time continued in the spring of 2012 when he appeared at Pomegranate Books in Wilmington, North Carolina, to attend one of the first events of my book tour. I had not expected him to be there, and it was a little like shooting free throws while Michael Jordan watched from the stands, but I will never forget how deeply honored I felt. At the conclusion of that event, I spoke a little about a new novel that I was working on, and I expressed the difficulty I was having with the ending. A few days later, I received an email from Clyde, sharing his ideas about how to end novels in ways that satisfied both writers and readers.

Clyde and I struck up a friendship after my wife and I moved back to North Carolina and settled in Wilmington in 2013. He christened our second child. Our kids go to the same school. We have shared the stage with other authors at literary events and fundraisers around the South, and over the past few months we have fallen into a routine of eating omelets and biscuits and gravy and sharing sliced tomatoes in a booth at White Front Breakfast House at the corner of Market and 16th Street.

That was where we were sitting recently when I sought Clyde’s advice about a particularly difficult ethical situation I was facing in my professional life. Aside from the respect I have for Clyde as a writer, it is exceeded only by my respect for him as a citizen and altruist. After asking for his advice, Clyde shared some wisdom he had gleaned from a local reverend, friend and ally named Dante Murphy.

“Don’t get angry at people in these situations,” he said. “When it becomes personal that anger can poison you. Get angry at institutions. You can change an institution. It’s harder to change a person.”

Clyde knows what he is talking about. For the past few years he has been one of a handful of citizens leading the charge to uncover racial inequities in the New Hanover County School System, something he first encountered while tutoring students at Forest Hills Elementary. The school had a Spanish language immersion program, and while the student body was 46 percent African-American, every single one of the 40 slots in the language program had been taken by white students before open enrollment even began. Since then, the former principal and school system have given a number of excuses — some laughable, some offensive — about the racial disparity in the program. None of it has deterred Clyde and a group of citizens from following leads, learning of other instances of discrimination or wrongdoing, and meeting with parents, school board members and city and county employees.

None of the students on whose behalf Clyde is working have ever met him. They are not his children, but he is working for them regardless. It is similar to the compassion and care he showed me all those years ago, but the kindness he showed me never got him banned from county school property.

How does Clyde address these issues with school leaders? The same way he approaches finding a satisfying conclusion to a piece of fiction he is writing.

“Some writers think that story comes from conflict,” he says. “I don’t think that’s always true. Conflict can be impassable, and there’s no story with an impasse. I think good stories come from negotiation. Good stories happen when everyone can see they have a stake in a good outcome.”

For a good outcome, whether in a community or a novel or a literary friendship, negotiation is key. Clyde, please pass the sliced tomatoes.  PS

Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington with his wife and their two daughters. His latest novel, The Last Ballad, is available wherever books are sold.

Papadaddy’s Mindfield

Why We Teach

Because love trumps money

By Clyde Edgerton

After a recent day of teacher protest in Raleigh, a Buzz from the StarNews went something like this: “If they want more money, why do they teach?”

One answer: “To educate young people in such a way that America doesn’t end up with about 40 percent of its adults who think like you do.”

For some reason, I’m guessing the question-asker is an adult male — kind of irreverent in an annoying way, annoyingly pushy, laughing in an annoying way about being pushy. This guy, let’s call him Norman, probably has a boring, well-paying job, and loves to watch TV and collect, say, bicycle spokes. He made Cs in high school, finished two months of college, then dropped out because it was boring.

Today, his boring job pays a pretty good salary — for a person with the creativity of mud. He has health insurance and is going to retire as soon as possible so he can spend the rest of his life watching TV and collecting bicycle spokes. He likes quiz shows and action films — the ones that aren’t too complicated. He likes to bet on sports. He dreams of being a millionaire. He knows that greed makes the world go around. Greed makes people work hard. Teachers aren’t greedy, so they don’t work hard.

I had Norman pictured as about 40 years old, making maybe 48 to 54 grand a year, but I just now had a switch-glitch.

I had him wrong.

Norman is actually a multimillionaire who lives carefully, counting his money. He got some lucky breaks. He thinks of himself as cool — though he doesn’t collect bicycle spokes — he has no hobbies; he’s a little less creative than the first Norman. He does have two Thomas Kinkade paintings except one of them doesn’t have the little original spot of real paint. He has a cool Mercedes. He’s 62, and has had some face-work. Maybe a little too much — since he looks kind of like a 38-year-old who’s constipated.

He’d volunteer in a public school if he could find one that paid $1,200 per hour. But why should he spend even a second thinking about public schools? He has a portfolio. And a nice $920,000 yacht. He has a membership in a high-end country club. (Don’t get me wrong — there are people in country clubs without face-lifts.) His thought is: What is public education anyway but a place for poor kids? Like the children of teachers. He, like the first Norman, asks, “If they want more money, why do they teach?”

They teach because most of them love teaching. Love it in spite of a collapse of respect for what they do — in spite of a surprisingly large percentage of their country’s budget going for “leadership.” Whoa. In spite of bosses with a Bluetoothed ear who sometimes visit in schools that might well expel a student who refused to un-Bluetooth her ear. In spite of insane testing mandates from the government. In spite of people working around them for $11 an hour — with their state government and local school board rubber-stamping those poverty-making wages.

They love teaching. They are rewarded by the look in the eyes of a child who is excited about learning something — like, say, a new language, how to play clarinet, or how to solve a calculus problem. They believe that look in the eyes of a curious child might, with some luck, be morphed into a dream that does not depend on money for happiness, a dream that finds purpose in serving others, that creates a permanent curiosity about the world, a permanent respect, even love, for their neighbors — even neighbors who have far less than they do. The deep excitement in teaching and learning is water for a thirsty nation.

While it’s appropriate to say, “Thank you for your service” to a vet, it’s just as appropriate to say, “Thank you for your service” to a teacher. Both make our nation safe. Both have tremendous power — one to destroy, one to build.

If they want more money, why do they teach? To build student insight and character through knowledge, and thus make our nation better able to handle something as risky as democracy.  PS

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