Stoneybrook Remembered

STONEYBROOK REMEMBERED

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March 2025

Stoneybrook Remembered

A springtime tradition like no other

By Chrissie Walsh Doubleday and Tara Walsh York

Elevated to one-word status, the locals simply called it Stoneybrook. But it was much bigger than just a day at the races.

The Stoneybrook Steeplechase was an outdoor cocktail party rivaling the grandest in the Southeast, and once you went, you never wanted to miss it again. Whether folks donned fancy hats and dined at banquet tables adorned with fine linens and chilled Champagne, sat on the back of a pickup truck with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and a cooler of beer, or spread a blanket on the grass with a picnic basket, it was the place to be. More than just a lively celebration, though, Stoneybrook embodied the thrill of horse racing.

The perfect parking spot was as coveted as a family heirloom. People arrived on foot or by bus, in cars or by limo, but regardless of how they got there or where they came from, when they heard the announcer say “The flag is up!” they raced to the rails to watch. At its peak, nearly 40,000 spectators packed into Mickey Walsh’s Stoneybrook Farm, transforming it into a carnival of energy and tradition. It was the first sunburn of spring, and the ultimate mingling of community and family.

On St. Patrick’s Day 1947 Michael G. “Mickey” Walsh, an Irishman from Kildorrery, County Cork, Ireland, brought his dream of starting a steeplechase race to life on his 150-acre farm in Southern Pines. That year, the first Stoneybrook Steeplechase set the stage for nearly half a century of camaraderie, equestrian excellence and cherished memories — not just for the thousands who attended, but especially for Mickey’s own family.

After immigrating to the United States in 1925, Walsh gained fame in the show jumping world, where his horse, Little Squire, achieved a remarkable three consecutive wins at Madison Square Garden. With ambitions that stretched beyond show horses Walsh settled in Southern Pines in 1944 with his wife, Kitty, and transitioned to steeplechase racing, where he became the nation’s leading trainer from 1950 to 1955. The Stoneybrook Steeplechase would become part of the National Steeplechase and Hunt Association in 1953 and one of the premier horse races in the Southeast.

The success of Stoneybrook relied heavily on the community. The Knights of Columbus organized the parking logistics and directed the influx of visitors on race day, and in the spirit of community that defined Stoneybrook, profits from the event were donated to St. Joseph of the Pines, a nursing home. Within the Walsh family, the event was a labor of love. Marion Walsh, Mickey’s daughter-in-law, managed the Stoneybrook office for many years before the responsibility fell to Phoebe Walsh Robertson, Mickey’s youngest daughter. From selling parking spots to securing sponsorships or working with the horses, all the Walsh women played a vital role in sustaining the tradition.

For the Walshes, Stoneybrook was far more than a public event — it was a cornerstone of their lives. The farm was a haven for Mickey’s children and grandchildren, who spent their days riding horses, playing in hay barns and absorbing the rhythms of farm life. Duties like mucking stalls and riding racehorses before school cultivated a deep appreciation for hard work and horsemanship.

Mickey’s daughters Cathleen, Joanie, Audrey and Maureen were accomplished riders, and raced a time or two. Later, his grandson, Michael G. Walsh III, followed in their footsteps, becoming a leading amateur jockey. In one poignant moment Mickey watched his grandson race at Stoneybrook, riding every jump in spirit alongside him. When young Michael crossed the finish line in first place, Mickey’s pride was unmistakable, his joy radiating through his smiling Irish eyes. His siblings and cousins shared in the pride, racing to the winner’s circle to surround him for the winning photo.

Stoneybrook weekend was a cherished reunion for the entire family. With seven children and 29 grandchildren, the gathering brought relatives from across the country, including Oklahoma, Boston and New York. Close friends, like the Entenmann family — famous for their baked goods — also attended every year, adding sweetness to the occasion.

The festivities extended beyond race day, beginning with the Stoneybrook Ball on Friday night. On race morning, Grandmom Kitty hosted her renowned Owners, Trainers and Riders Brunch, preparing all the dishes herself. Following the races, the celebration continued with an evening reception for horse owners, trainers and jockeys, featuring music, food and drinks. Sunday brought the weekend to a close with a lively bocce ball tournament hosted by Mickey’s son, Michael G. Walsh Jr.

As each Walsh family member reached adulthood, they embraced the full spectrum of Stoneybrook’s traditions, bringing their friends to share in the magic. The event became a rite of passage, a chance to create lifelong memories and forge lasting connections. Even as the races drew thousands, the essence of Stoneybrook remained intimate for the Walsh family. It was a tapestry of laughter, camaraderie and shared experiences. This sense of togetherness extended to the broader community, where old friendships were rekindled and new ones blossomed.

Mickey Walsh’s passing, in 1993, marked the end of an era. The races at Stoneybrook Farm eventually ceased in 1996, but their impact lingered in the hearts of all who had been part of them, spectator and family alike.

For the Walshes, the memories of those weekends — the excitement of the races, the joy of reunion, the shared pride in their heritage — remained indelible. Though the races ended just shy of 30 years ago, the memories endure, a lasting tribute to Mickey Walsh and the indomitable spirit he embodied.

Survival of the Trickiest

SURVIVAL OF THE TRICKIEST

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March 2025

Survival of the Trickiest

There is more than meets the eye in mother nature

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

Spending the better part of the morning cleaning up limbs and pinecones left over from the previous night’s storm, I slowly make my way around our suburban yard. Ominous clouds finally give way to bright blue sky and a blazing August sun. Near the brick steps leading up to the front door, I pause. At the top of a waist-high spicebush, a single curled leaf, nestled among a bouquet of more “normal-looking” straight leaves, catches my eye. My pulse quickens.

Over the past few years, I have made a concerted effort to replace the ornamental shrubs and non-native flowers that line our walkway with more wildlife-friendly native plants. It’s been a slow process, but the obvious increase in pollinators in the yard, in the form of bees, moths and butterflies, has shown that the work is starting to pay dividends.

A small shrub native to eastern North America, spicebush produces abundant red berries throughout summer and fall that the local birds love. Named for its aromatic leaves, which smell like citrus and allspice, spicebush also attracts the attention of one very special butterfly, the aptly named spicebush swallowtail. These black, palm-sized butterflies lay their eggs on the shrub’s fragrant leaves. Upon hatching, the caterpillar larvae munch the spicebush leaves (their primary food resource) with gusto, much in the same way I tear into a bag of barbecue potato chips.

I have monitored the spicebush every day since I planted it two years ago. Noticing the curled leaf, a telltale sign of an enclosed caterpillar, it looks like I have finally lured in a customer.

Like a kid on Christmas morning, eager with anticipation, I bend over and slowly unfurl the edges of the leaf, revealing a half-inch-long caterpillar. Immediately, two large yellow eyespots on its head grab my attention. Despite knowing what to expect, it is still a bit startling. Imagine how a hungry bird, like a cardinal, might respond.

You see, this special caterpillar is a snake mimic, and a darn good one at that. Its false eyes come complete with large black pupils. There is even a tiny white spot, a “catchlight” in each, which only adds to the illusion. Throughout the day, the caterpillar remains in its shelter, with the edges of the leaf pulled around its body, always with its head pointed up toward the tip of the leaf. That way, if a foraging bird were to encounter it, the first thing it would see would be the “face” of the snake.

For most of my life, I have been battling the misconception that one has to travel to far off tropical islands and jungles to find wild wonders. As a child, fed on a steady diet of television shows like The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, I could not wait to escape the confines of little ol’ Eagle Springs and explore the world. Now in my 50s and burdened by the usual hurriedness and complexities of adult life, I have to constantly remind myself that there are marvels to be found close to home. Discovering something like a caterpillar that mimics a snake right outside the front door never fails to illicit that childlike wonder of a world filled with infinite possibilities.

The drama between life and death plays out every second of every day across every nook and cranny of the wild. It’s an eat-or-be-eaten world out there. To gain a level of advantage, countless organisms utilize deception in their never-ending bid to stay alive. Camouflage and mimicry are the templates for survival. Optical illusions abound.

Take caterpillars, for instance. As they grow, all species shed their skins many times before pupating into a butterfly or moth. Biologists refer to each of these skin-shedding molts as instars. Caterpillars are packed with protein and many animals love to eat them, especially birds. One study found that a single clutch of young chickadees can consume up to 6,000 caterpillars before they fledge.

To avoid becoming a meal, caterpillars resort to all manner of trickery throughout different stages of their life cycles. Many resemble tree bark; others, twigs. Some look like lichen. A few possess vicious-looking armaments to deter would-be predators. A hickory horned devil, the largest caterpillar in North America, sports a pair of huge horns on its head. When disturbed, the devil thrashes its head violently from side to side, slamming its horns into its aggressor. Though intimidating, the hot dog-sized caterpillar is completely harmless. The snake-mimicking spicebush swallowtail caterpillar, mentioned earlier, is an even more surprising trickster in an early instar form, when its mottled black and white coloration resembles an unappetizing splatter of bird poop.

All caterpillars eventually metamorphose into butterflies and moths. And like their pupa, these winged wonders are relentlessly pursued by predators. As such, many of our native butterflies and moths rely on camouflage and mimicry to avoid becoming an easy meal.

Last summer, while walking along the edge of my parents’ Eagle Spring’s yard, I paused to look at a wasp perched atop a grapevine leaf. Underappreciated and loathed animals, such as wasps, hold a special place in my heart, and I cautiously stepped closer to examine the brightly colored insect in more detail. I realized something was a little off. For one thing, it had clear wings. Most wasp wings are opaque or dark. It also had a pair of bushy antennae and a wide waist — very unwasplike. Finally, I noticed that hairy tufts extended out from the tip of its abdomen instead of a stinger. It suddenly dawned on me. I was not looking at a paper wasp at all, but rather a day-flying moth known as a graperoot borer. Its disguise was on point.

Many insects, especially flies, beetles and moths, mimic stinging bees and wasps. Defenseless organisms that mimic dangerous ones employ an evolutionary survival strategy that biologists refer to as Batesian mimicry. Named for the Victorian naturalist Henry Walter Bates, who first described the phenomena in the humid jungles of the Amazon, this form of mimicry is surprisingly common and is not limited to insects.

Here in the Sandhills of North Carolina, the secretive and beautiful scarlet kingsnake is a dead ringer (pun fully intended) for the venomous coral snake. Both snakes possess alternating colorful bands of red, yellow/white and black and can be hard to tell apart. I still recall a little rhyme taught by Larry Dull, my sixth-grade science teacher at West End Elementary, to help distinguish between the two. “If red touches black, that’s a friend of Jack’s. If red touches yellow, it will kill a fellow.”

Several years back, while walking along the edge of Drowning Creek on my great-grandfather’s farm, I almost had a heart attack. While I was casually stepping over a fallen tree on a spring afternoon, a wild turkey suddenly flew out from underneath my feet. The sound and commotion of a 12-pound bird, with a 5-foot wingspan, launching into the air right in front my face, was startling to say the least. It got my attention. My cholesterol levels instantly bottomed out. Thoroughly shaken, I had to sit down on the log for several minutes and compose myself.

Turns out, I had flushed a hen off her nest. On the ground, next to the fallen tree, were a dozen large white eggs nestled in the leaf litter. How I failed to see such a large bird, sitting there at close range, still baffles me. Her muted brown, grey and black feathers blended in seamlessly with the highlights and shadows of the forest floor on that bright sunny day.

In 1890, a British zoologist named Sir Edward Poulton wrote the first book about camouflage in nature. Poulton, an ardent supporter of Charles Darwin, wrote that camouflage and mimicry in the wild was proof of natural selection. Not long after, an American painter, Abbott Thayer, expanded on Poulton’s ideas and began creating photographs and pieces of camouflage art using countershading and disruptive coloration, culminating in his own 1909 book, Concealing Coloration in the Animal Kingdom. Thayer’s illustrations, showing how objects could “disappear” into the background when they were painted in such a way as to cancel out their shadow, became quite popular and soon attracted the attention of the military. By World War I, armies around the globe were incorporating camouflage into equipment and the uniforms of their soldiers. Long gone were the days of Paul Revere and the brightly attired Redcoats.

Camouflage has even become fashionable. Most popular clothing brands offer an array of camo products, everything from hats to wedding dresses, and shoes to underwear (though I am not entirely sure as to what purpose the latter serves). Even luxury lines like Louis Vuitton have jumped in.

Of course, all of this fashion is modeled after animals in the wild and few wear camouflage as well as the nightjars. These ground-nesting birds, of which there are roughly 98 species recognized worldwide, are the masters of cryptic coloration. In the North Carolina Sandhills, three species are found: the common nighthawk, the chuck-will’s widow, and the whip-poor-will. Each year, I celebrate the first nocturnal calls I hear of the whip-poor-will (usually heard around Eagle Springs in late March) as the harbingers of spring and warmer days ahead.

Nightjars are extremely difficult to find due to their cryptic camouflage. As a result, I have very few photographs of them in the wild. Recently, I received a tip from a local biologist about a nesting common nighthawk on the Sandhills Gamelands. He gave me a GPS point and noted that the bird could be found between two small turkey oaks flagged with bright pink tape.

With that information in hand, I ventured out onto the dirt roads of the Gamelands in early June with hopes of obtaining a few images of the secretive bird. Being extremely careful not to disturb the nesting nighthawk, I slowly approached the GPS point and stood back at a distance of over 10 yards when I saw the bright pink flags up ahead. Raising binoculars to my eyes, I slowly scanned the ground between the two turkey oaks trying to locate the bird. Remember those “Magic Eye” paintings that were so popular in the ’90s? It took several minutes of intently staring at the leaves on the ground before I had the “aha” moment of finally seeing the bird.

The thrill of discovering animals hidden in plain sight never gets old. I still recall with great fondness hiking through the woods one spring day and stumbling upon a young white-tailed deer fawn, curled up tightly on the forest floor beneath a canopy of cinnamon ferns, the white spots on its back allowing the hapless mammal to blend in seamlessly with its background.

Then there was the time I saw an American bittern fly up from the side of the road in the Outer Banks and land in a nearby patch of marsh, where it stood perfectly still with its head pointed to the sky. Its mottled brown plumage perfectly matched the surrounding spartina grass.

One winter, years ago, a Pinehurst resident pointed me to a tree where an Eastern screech owl could be seen basking daily in an open cavity about 20 feet off the ground. Even now, looking at the photos of that owl, it is hard to tell the difference between the owl’s grey feathers and the bark of the tree.

When camouflage fails, some animals will resort to the ultimate form of trickery, mimicking death. The term “playing possum” comes from the behavior of the Virginia opossum, North America’s only native marsupial, which feigns death when threatened by predators. As it turns out, a number of our native animals will resort to that tactic as a last resort. Perhaps the most famous “death actor” is the eastern hognose snake. When confronted by a threat, this robust, 3-foot long serpent, with a distinctive upturned snout, puts on a performance that would make members of Hollywood’s Screen Actors Guild envious.

One of my most memorable encounters with an eastern hognose snake happened years ago near West End. One summer afternoon, a family friend phoned to tell me that she had just found a copperhead in the yard. She asked if I could come over, catch the snake and move it to safe spot (i.e., somewhere far away from her). Surprised, and impressed that she did not want to kill the snake, I hurried over. As I said before, I am a sucker for loathed animals.

When I arrived, I saw my friend standing in her front yard pointing to a small snake coiled tightly several feet away. A neighbor, whom she had called in a panic before dialing me, was standing close by with a shovel in hand. Walking over, I instantly realized it was not a venomous copperhead but a harmless eastern hognose snake. My friend nearly fainted when I casually reached down to pick it up. Her face completely drained of color when the snake began to violently thrash about in my hands. It was only then that I informed her the snake was completely harmless and placed it back down on the ground. There, it continued to writhe back and forth, as if in pain, rapidly throwing coils up over its head. Then it proceeded to defecate all over itself. Finally, the snake lay perfectly still, belly up and mouth agape, its tongue sticking out.

Of course, it wasn’t physically harmed in any way. It simply wanted to make itself appear unappetizing. An especially nice touch, I thought, was covering itself with its own poop.

How these death-feigning tactics evolved over eons of time simply boggles the mind. It certainly threw my friend for a loop. I reached down and slowly turned the snake right-side up. Immediately, it flipped back over onto its back, presenting itself once again as the quintessential dead snake. I smiled. Charles Darwin would have been proud.

Poem March 2025

POEM

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March 2025

March 2025

The Opal Ring

When I was thirteen, my grandmother gave me an opal ring.

I like to wear it when I dress up to go out.

It is so delicate most people never notice it.

My grandmother whispered, It’s from some old beau.

I wear the ring, her memory, to feel magical.

Three small iridescent stones, a gold band worn thin.

Only when I asked did she whisper her secret.

Did you ever look deeply at the displays of color,

opaque stones holding quiet fire? The band’s worn thin.

The last time you betrayed me I slipped on the ring.

Iridescent means plays of color. So few truly look deeply.

She called me to her room, opened a sacred drawer.

This is the last time you betray me. I slip on the ring,

its blue-green, pink lights so delicate. You never noticed.

In her room, she handed me a velvet-lined box.

My grandmother gave me her opal ring. I was only thirteen.

—Debra Kaufman

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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March 2025

Two for Pinehurst No. 2

Visionaries join Carolinas Golf Hall of Fame

Don Padgett II
David Eger

By Lee Pace

On the fourth Saturday in March, a banquet will be held in a room at the Pinehurst Resort to inaugurate two new members of the Carolinas Golf Hall of Fame: David Eger and Don Padgett II. The venue is appropriate to the honorees because it’s just a quick stroll down the weathered steps of the clubhouse to the first tee of the No. 2 course, where Eger won the Donald Ross Junior as a 17-year-old and the North & South Amateur as a 38-year-old, and where Padgett competed in the PGA Tour’s one-and-done 144-hole World Open in 1973.

It’s also a golf course on which both left an indelible administrative imprint — Eger in helping reintroduce No. 2 to the world of competitive golf in the 1990s, and Padgett for his vision to suggest and then oversee the Coore & Crenshaw renovation in 2010-11.

“David was a key voice in the USGA’s decision to take the 1999 U.S. Open to Pinehurst,” says David Fay, the USGA executive director from 1989-2010. “He is someone whose opinions on golf courses were taken most seriously by me and others at the USGA.”

“Don created the vision for restoring No. 2 to is original state, an incredibly gutsy undertaking for a course that had hosted two very successful U.S. Opens,” says Mac Everett, the chairman of the Presidents Council that led corporate sales efforts for the 2014 U.S. Open and U.S. Women’s Open at Pinehurst. “But his vision was only a start. There remained the planning, execution and completion of the project. This is where Don excelled.”

The Carolinas Golf Hall of Fame is an august body comprised of crack golfers from the South Carolina coast (Beth Daniel) to the North Carolina mountains (Billy Joe Patton) to the Sandhills (Peggy Kirk Bell). There are professionals (Raymond Floyd to Betsy Rawls), amateurs (Harvie Ward to Estelle Lawson Page), architects (from Donald Ross to Tom Fazio), club professionals (Dugan Aycock to Gary Schaal) and administrators (Richard Tufts to Hale Van Hoy). In general, two to three new honorees are recognized every other year.

It’s not at all by design but rather providential timing that two with such deep connections to Pinehurst should be recognized one year after Pinehurst staged its fourth U.S. Open, and its first with the sparkling new USGA Golf House Pinehurst and World Golf Hall of Fame buildings sitting in the backdrop.

When Pinehurst and its owner Bob Dedman Sr. were digging their way out of the Diamondhead bankruptcy messiness in the 1980s, Eger remembers the resort presenting itself to the PGA Tour, hat in hand. He was five years into his career with the tour, running tournaments and serving as a rules official, and two of his mentors had deep Pinehurst roots — P.J. Boatwright, who ran USGA competitions, and Clyde Mangum, who lived in Pinehurst in the mid-1900s while running the CGA as executive director.

One day in 1987, Eger got a call from Ron Coffman, the longtime managing editor of Golf World magazine (published in Southern Pines at the time) who was also friends with Don Padgett Sr., who had just been appointed director of golf at Pinehurst.

“Ron invited me to come up and play No. 2 with him and Padge,” Eger says. “I had always thought of Pinehurst as a wonderful, wonderful place, but obviously it fell on hard times for a while. We were playing the course and Padge assured me if the Tour was interested, they would bend over backward to do anything within reason to have another event. Lo and behold, we were looking down the road for a new spot for our Tour Championship. Pinehurst in late October, after it had cooled off and the bent was healthy and firmed up, would be a perfect spot.”

Eger was impressed with everything he saw and heard and reported back to PGA Tour Commissioner Deane Beman. That’s how the 1991 Tour Championship came to be, with Craig Stadler beating Russ Cochran in a playoff for the title. Eger looked at the leaderboard during the final round and noted that only Stadler and Cochran were in red numbers.

“Two players under par,” he mused. “That looks like a U.S. Open.”

A portend of things to come, no doubt.

Fay was in Pinehurst that week, closely inspecting the logistics, the course, the accommodations, the traffic, the galleries and the overall ambience. He came away with a thumbs-up. He believed a U.S. Open at Pinehurst could be “Tracy-and-Hepburnesque, a match made in heaven.” That week led to the announcement less than two years later that the USGA would stage the 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst.

“The players loved Pinehurst, but not all of them loved the golf course,” Eger says of that first Tour Championship. “So many didn’t understand this was a golf course where you did not necessarily shoot right at the pin to get the ball close. You had to play these undulations and angles. The sooner they understood that the better. If they refused to buy into that philosophy, they were not going to score well. It was a difficult thing for players accustomed to taking dead aim at a pin to have to aim 30 feet away.” 

Padgett II watched all of this from a distance as he was running the golf operation and later the entire resort at Firestone Country Club through the early 2000s. His father retired at Pinehurst in 2002, and two years later longtime CEO Pat Corso left to establish a club management firm. Padgett II became Pinehurst’s new CEO. He kept a low profile during the 2005 Open, all the prep work having been done before his arrival, but he watched and listened closely.

Padgett, a man who had played three years on the PGA Tour, shot a 66 in the third round of a U.S. Open and kept close ties with current players, had quite the sharp eye. He    was struck by how much the buzz about the golf course seemed to have quieted between Pinehurst’s first and second U.S. Opens.

“The difference between ’99 and ’05 was amazing,” Padgett says. “So much of what you read and heard in ’99 was how great the golf course was. But in ’05, you didn’t hear that.”

Over the next three years, Padgett came to believe that narrowing the fairways of No. 2 and allowing the rough to grow had stripped the course of the essence of the Sandhills and obscured the similarities in the landscape that architect Donald Ross had drawn to his homeland in Scotland. The final nail was playing No. 2 with Lanny Wadkins in June 2008 and Wadkins ripping the course as being a shell of what it was during its so-called “golden era” of the mid-1900s.

That gave Padgett the confidence to suggest to owner Bob Dedman Jr. they flip the palette from the lush green look everyone coveted in golf to a haphazard display of hardpan sand and wire grass, gnarly edged bunkers and fairways watered only with a single-row irrigation system. The work by Coore & Crenshaw began in February 2010 and was complete 13 months later.

Eger, who left golf administration in the late 1990s to play the PGA Champions Tour — collecting four tournament wins there — was among the first golfers to play No. 2 in March 2011 after the course had been closed all winter

“The distinction between grass and the sand is wonderful,” he said. “It’s the way golf courses from the golden age looked. Pinehurst had that distinctive look of the scrub rough areas and wire grass. Putting it back took a lot of courage, but ultimately it was the right thing to do.”

The modern age of Pinehurst No. 2 is 40 years in the making. The Carolinas Golf Hall of Fame is properly saluting two of its major protagonists.

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

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March 2025

For the Record

A stack of journals and a chilly day

By Tom Bryant

It was one of those cold, gray, wet late winter days that reinforced the groundhog’s prediction of six more weeks of bad weather. I was up in the roost, the little apartment over our garage where I go to write or go through damp duck hunting gear in preparation for storing it until next season. It’s also a great place to make plans for hunting, fishing or camping trips. On this day, though, I was just sorting through some old journals that I began many years ago.

There was a little female cardinal huddled on a dogwood branch right outside the window next to my desk. If the window had been open, I could have reached out and touched the little bird. Her feathers were puffed up as if she had on a fluffy down vest. She looked in at me with one eye closed as if to say, “Man, it’s cold out here.” I watched for a couple of minutes until she flew away, and then I picked up one of my journals.

I started keeping hunting diaries, sometimes daily, sometimes weekly, back in the late ’70s. It was the same time I started a newspaper, and during the unpropitious years of the Carter recession, I was constantly trying to generate enough revenue in advertising to pay the folks working for me. One of the first journals I started was right in the middle of those tumultuous times when every work week was a struggle. One entry reads: “January 20, George came by and wanted to know how business was doing. I told him to keep his fingers crossed that I would have the bank payment next week.” George was my banker at Wachovia, before they were taken over by Wells Fargo during their own hard times. The loan was on money I had borrowed to help start the paper. Interest, 8 percent, floating. Before the loan was settled, I was paying 21 percent to my good friend George and Wachovia Bank.

I chuckled to myself. “Reminder, never borrow money to start a newspaper.” The newspaper remained viable, along with other ancillary businesses, for 17 years before it was sold and I escaped the responsibility of a weekly payroll.

The journals I started during that period mostly pertained to hunting, fishing and camping experiences, dates, weather and other observations. Brief and to the point.

The missives are stacked in the bookcase in no particular order, so I glanced briefly at the year and moved on. One thing I discovered was that my years always started in March, not January. The seasons for hunting, fishing and camping described my yearly doings. A good example: March was the planning month, a time to put away hunting gear and get ready for fishing. Spring would be turkey hunting and camping, hiking and more fishing. In the summer, July and August brought along more laid-back camping and fishing. September, October, November, December, January and February were for bird hunting, duck hunting and late fall surf fishing. Then comes March and the cycle starts again.

Some of the journals have more entries than others, and some are right eloquent in describing the events of the day, such as “Shot three Canada geese while Bryan was parking the truck.” Or, “Bryan stepped in over his waders in the marsh at Hester’s. As he was falling, he hollered, ‘I’m going in.’” Hester’s duck hunting club at Mattamuskeet is one of the finest in the country. We hunted there numerous times and got a lot of fun out of Bryan Pennington, a good hunting buddy.

Another entry was set in motion by my good friend and sidekick John Vernon. It read, “When we paddled up the river to the location of the Haw River blind, it was gone.” Off and on the summer before the fall duck season, John and I had built the finest duck blind on the lake. A major rainstorm, right before legal duck shooting, washed the blind downriver and we never saw it again. We still laugh about that, vowing never to waste time on a permanent blind again.

I continued to browse, and remembering the recent snow, pulled out the one from January 2000. That was the month of what became known as the great blizzard. According to the notes I made, over 28 inches of snow fell. And that led to the first ever bulldog edition of The Pilot.

Moore County was a disaster. The snow started early that afternoon, forecast to be only 4 to 5 inches. Publisher David Woronoff and I met at lunch when the snow first started falling, and he decided to let the employees go home early before it got too deep. Little did we know that the weather people had totally missed it. That night we were smothered in sleet, ice and snow.

The writing in the journal continued, “Pine trees down everywhere, had a hard time getting to the office.” I was the only one at the paper who had a four-wheel drive vehicle, and after trying different routes, I found one that wasn’t blocked by fallen trees. David also made it, along with a few other much-needed employees. He decided to put out a bulldog edition (old newspaper jargon meaning a rare and very infrequent publication, usually before the regular printing). It detailed the disastrous results of the storm.

Our carriers couldn’t deliver the paper, so we split up the county. Dennis, our circulation director, took the area toward Pinehurst. David, Southern Pines and nearby hotels and motels. I did the same toward Aberdeen, and we hand-delivered the four-page section. I ended that episode of the journal, “No power for 6 days.”

The journals rolled right along until last year. My grandfather always told me there were no bad times in life. It just depended on how you interpreted them. I believed that until 2024. For me, there is no redeeming factor in that annum.

One bad time after another followed me that year. First, a knee replacement. A good call in the end, but recovery time was longer than I anticipated. My brother passed away after a lingering deadly disease, then I was diagnosed in late summer with a debilitating aliment that would lay me low for several months and put a crimp in my lifestyle.

It turns out that my granddad was right, though. After I changed my attitude about my sickness and began looking at it like an adventure, things started to fall in place.

I met wonderful folks, health care professionals and patients. The health care industry deserves a feature all its own, and someday I plan to write that story. The patients, what can I say? Never before have I run across such optimism and value of life.

A great example was the afternoon we were leaving after an appointment. Linda was outside the hospital getting the car from valet parking, and I was sitting on a bench inside the lobby. A wheelchair rolled up beside me with a shrunken old man holding on with some apprehension. He and I talked. He was from New Zealand and was getting ready to head home on a morning plane. He had a wonderful smile, and after a short conversation, he and his caregiver headed for the sliding door. I wished him well.

“No worries,” he said. “Me and Jesus be mates.”

On the last page at the end of the empty journal I had designated for 2024, I added the caption. “To Be Continued.”

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

Home
March 2025

Heard But Not Seen

Eastern phoebes tuck their nests away

By Susan Campbell

Eastern phoebes are small black and white birds that can be easily overlooked — if it wasn’t for their loud voices. Repeated “fee-bee, fee-bee” calls can be heard around wet areas all over our state. The farther west one travels through the Piedmont and into the foothills of North Carolina, calling males become more and more evident. From March through June, males declare their territory from elevated perches adjacent to ponds and streams. Even on warm winter days, these little birds can be heard loudly chirping or even singing a phrase or two.

Phoebes have an extensive range in the U.S., from the East Coast to the Rockies, and up and across central Canada. In the winter they can be found in Southern states from the Carolinas over to Texas down into Mexico and northern Central America. They are exclusively insectivorous, feeding on beetles, dragonflies, moths — any bugs that will fit down the hatch. Although they do not typically take advantage of feeders, I have seen one that did manage to negotiate a suet cage one winter. Because their feet are weak, they’re not capable of clinging, so this bird actually perfected a hovering technique as it fed in spurts.

Originally eastern phoebes utilized ledges on cliff faces for nesting. We do not know much about their habits in such locations since few are found breeding in those places now. Things have changed a lot for these birds as humans have altered their landscape.

While phoebes can be easy to locate as a result of their loud calls, in our area their nests may not be. Although they are good-sized open cup structures, they will be tucked into out-of-the-way locations. Typically, they will be on a ledge high up on a girder under a bridge or associated with a culvert. They may also be up in the corner of a porch or other protected flat spot. Grasses and thin branches are woven and glued together with mud to form the nest; therefore it’s critical that the location be close to water.

The affinity eastern phoebes have for nesting on man-made structures in our area may indicate that these are safer than more traditional locations. Climbing snakes are not uncommon in the Sandhills. Black rat snakes and corn snakes are not as active on buildings as they are on bridges and other water control structures. The phoebes may be adapting their behavior in response to these predators and others less likely to be found so close to human activity.

If you have, or have had, phoebes on your property in summer, I’d like to hear about it. I continue to record locations and details on nesting substrate for the species in the Sandhills. The variety of locations that these little birds choose has been very curious. Light boxes and fixtures, gazebos, porch support posts and more have been used, if they are covered by at least a slight overhang. Not only is water a necessity for phoebes in summer, but they require mature trees for perching and foraging as well. Keep an ear out and perhaps you will find one of these adaptable birds nearby — and be sure to let me know!

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

Home
March 2025

It’s in the Bag

The clutch that says it all

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the 1940s, radio personality Art Linkletter would go through women’s purses, creating profiles based on what he found.

He was usually spot-on. Sometimes embarrassing, always hilarious.

Not sure if the Smithsonian has a nook devoted to purse profiles. If not, maybe it oughta make room for this revealing artifact. But instead of a dive into contents, I’ll extrapolate information from the purse itself, notably what sets it apart from ancestors.

In a word . . . compartments.

Some ladies like ’em inside, others prefer the exterior. Notice that both interior and exterior may or may not have zipper, snap or Velcro closures. Some side compartments are narrow with no closure, designed to stash eyeglasses but prone to losing them. Others, square and flat, accommodate a tablet.

No, not the kind with lined yellow pages.

Most women designate one compartment for lipstick and a comb. “Compacts” are so Art Deco, along with bright red lipstick and loose powder. Nothing dates a purse more than a skinny flip-phone compartment . . . except maybe the material it’s made from.

Back in the day, ladies’ winter handbags were hand-held leather of various grades, from coarse cowhide to fine calfskin. Queen Elizabeth II set the style. Call it grandmotherly. Spring meant shiny black patent leather. Come summer, you switched to straw or quilted cotton. The advent of vinyl/plastics resulted in stiff imitation leather adorned with brassy bling. They were big and heavy, even empty. A worse affront: designer knockoffs, an insult to YSL, Louis Vuitton and Chanel, sold on Manhattan street corners. But they did establish one rule: A brown YSL goes with any color outfit.

As for shape/size, shoulder bags took over when women ditched the bridge club for a business forum, a court hearing, surgery schedule or middle-school soccer game. Princess Diana put clutches on the map, primarily to hide her cleavage when emerging from a Rolls. A shoulder bag that left hands free to text Chinese take-out became roomy enough to stash leotards for a workout on the way home from the office. 

Contents, or the lack thereof, offer another readout. Here’s what you won’t find in the modern woman’s handbag: a checkbook; cigarettes and lighter; a wad of “emergency” cash; Chiclets; a single-function car key; an address book; a rain bonnet; movie ticket stubs; a Neil Diamond CD; a map; a pencil; bobby pins; stamps; a tiny metal aspirin container; a handkerchief; a safety pin for the dreaded bra strap malfunction.

How come only men carry handkerchiefs?

Speaking of men . . . remember the man bag, which made a splash in the 1990s? Before the invention of pockets, Renaissance noblemen carried coins in “girdle pouches” without incurring ridicule. And a 5,000-year-old mummy named Ötzi the Iceman was found in the Alps beside his purse. No such luck for 20th century gents when, as I recall, even a plain leather crossbody drew giggles.

These days, the most coveted clutch might be a little thing hardly big enough for an iPhone, designed by Judith Leiber, who isn’t above wrapping a snake around black sequins and charging a few thousand for it at Bergdorf’s.

Now if only I didn’t need four new tires . . .

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

Home
March 2025

By Ruth Moose

Acronyms these days are driving me OOMM. Out of my mind. There is a new one every day. Prolific as mosquitoes, they buzz around and are joined by others, both old and new, like some strange alphabetic mating ritual.

“BRB,” I heard someone say. “What?” I asked. “Be right back,” she repeated for my benefit, with just a hint of pity in her voice. They’ve cracked the seal on print and text and have invaded speech, turning it into a game of Hangman.

The acronyms of my youth came from postal letters: PS added after a signature meant “postscript” to signify an additional thought. Is this the granddaddy of them all? The AOA? The Australopithecus of acronyms? I remember notes and letters that ended with the acronym SWAK. “Sealed with a kiss.” Oh, how sweet. And even later still, letters signed TSTSA: “Too sweet to sleep alone.” Naughty, naughty.

Next thing I know it’s OMG everywhere I looked. Oh My God. I admit, I heard that one before I saw it. LOL. That one showed up in an email. Lots of love? Lots of luck? Oh, right. Laugh out loud.

Are we really so busy with texts and emails that the entire word has been rendered obsolete? Reader’s Digest (RD to you), a stalwart American institution of reasonably good taste, recently devoted a whole page to . . . acronyms, replacing the page usually devoted to vocabulary. Codes taken from everywhere, every day. Acronyms that most everyone would (or should) know: TBD (to be determined); ESL (English second language); GMO (genetically modified organism); ROM (range of motion); SPF (sun protection factor); TMI (too much information). I thought I was getting the hang of it until I got to SEP (someone else’s problem) and the last one on the page, JGI. JGI?

Just Google it.

It seems every profession has its own acronyms. Real estate ads have WICs — walk in closets. Book reviewers have ICPID — I couldn’t put it down. Wedding planners never know what to do with the MOG — mother of groom.

Lurking in our everyday, text-heavy world are ones like FWIW (for what it’s worth) or ICYMI (in case you missed it). There is even an online magazine by that five-letter name. Poor thing. Personally, I’d rather spell it out like National Geographic. And, oh, wouldn’t I love to go back in Time?

If an acronym has you totally stumped and you have to ask someone, you might as well paste the scarlet L (thumb and forefinger) on your own forehead — Loser. Face it, you’re hopelessly OOTL (out of the loop). Horrors. You may, from time to time, come across someone who will laugh kindly and decode the acronym for you. This is a WW (win-win). You get to go on your way with a brand new bit of alphabet slang to hang on your belt and then part company with the satisfaction of having behaved like the Good Samaritan.

Recently I sent an email responding to an upcoming event I planned to attend. At the end I added LW.

My recipient fired back, “What is LW?”

Lord Willing.

I thought everybody knew.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

Home
March 2025

Open Season

It’s strawberry o’clock somewhere

Photograph and Story by Rose Shewey

Eating seasonally makes for an interesting lifestyle. The practice of only buying and eating foods that are grown locally and harvested at peak flavor is a worthy undertaking but also a commitment I’m not ready to make just yet. I can easily enjoy locally harvested foods all summer long, especially in North Carolina, where we grow an abundance of exciting warm weather crops — but I don’t foresee myself mastering the art of exclusively eating root vegetables and canned goods for months on end during the winter.

I do have some principles, though. These past few months at the grocery store, I had to use all my power of persuasion to talk my 6-year-old out of bagging strawberries that were grown thousands of miles away and, frankly, a bit pale and sorry looking. So, that’s a “no” to buying imported berries, as well as “winter tomatoes,” the epitome of blandness. On the other hand, I have a hard time turning down avocados from south of the border, or especially plump and juicy-looking citrus from across the country, if the opportunity presents itself.

In the case of the strawberry, which is native to Northern America, it makes a lot of sense to wait for the local harvest. Not only will the berries look better, they’ll be their most nutritious and aromatic. But here again, I fall off the wagon by stretching the term “locally grown.” As soon as the first strawberries harvested anywhere in the Southeast hit the shelves, all bets are off.

So, come March — the month I typically start noticing Florida-grown strawberries in the markets — we’re in the strawberry business, just a few weeks before our (truly local) Sandhills strawberries are ready to be picked. To bridge the gap between the cold season and the tender beginnings of spring, I like to prepare a strawberry fruit salad and mix in wintry grapefruit. Make it into a meal and serve this fruit salad with waffles. A grain- and gluten-free almond and oat waffle is the ideal accompaniment to this fruity affair — and not just for breakfast.

Strawberry and Grapefruit Salad with Almond Oat Waffles

Fruit Salad

(Serves 4)

2 grapefruit, peeled

400 grams strawberries

2 tablespoons strawberry syrup or other liquid sweetener (optional)

Dice grapefruit (peel off the membrane, if desired) and slice the strawberries. Add cut fruit to a bowl and toss with strawberry syrup or sweetener of choice. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Almond Oat Waffles

(Makes 4-6 waffles)

1 cup oat flour

1 cup almond flour

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

Pinch of salt

3/4 cup milk (nut milk or whole milk)

2 tablespoons honey (softened) or granulated sugar

3 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

3 tablespoons butter (melted) or coconut oil

Preheat your waffle iron. Combine oat flour, almond flour, baking powder and salt in a bowl and whisk to combine. In a separate bowl, whisk together the milk, honey or sugar, eggs, vanilla extract and butter. Pour the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients and stir until well combined. Ladle batter into your waffle iron and cook until golden and slightly crisp.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

Home
March 2025

March Books

Fiction

Count My Lies, by Sophie Stava

Sloane Caraway is a liar. Harmless lies, mostly, to make her self-proclaimed sad little life a bit more interesting. So when Sloane sees a young girl in tears in the park one afternoon, she can’t help herself — she tells the girl’s (very attractive) dad she’s a nurse and helps him pull a bee stinger from the girl’s foot. With this lie, and chance encounter, Sloane becomes the nanny for the wealthy and privileged Jay and Violet Lockhart — the perfect New York couple, with a brownstone, a daughter in private school, and summers on Block Island. But maybe Sloane isn’t the only one lying, and all that’s picture-perfect harbors a much more dangerous truth. The thing about lies is that they add up, form their own truth and a twisted prison of a world. Be careful what you lie for.

The River Has Roots, by Amal El-Mohtar

In the small town of Thistleford, on the edge of Faerie, dwells the mysterious Hawthorn family. There, they tend and harvest the enchanted willows and honor an ancient compact to sing to them in thanks for their magic. None are more devoted than the family’s daughters, Esther and Ysabel, who cherish each other as much as they cherish the ancient trees. But when Esther rejects a forceful suitor in favor of a lover from the land of Faerie, the sisters’ bond and their lives will be at risk.

Tilt, by Emma Pattee

Annie is nine months pregnant and shopping for a crib at IKEA when a massive earthquake hits Portland, Oregon. With no way to reach her husband, no phone or money, and a city left in chaos, there’s nothing to do but walk. Making her way across the wreckage of Portland, Annie experiences human desperation and kindness: strangers offering help, a riot at a grocery store, and an unlikely friendship with a young mother. As she walks, Annie reflects on her struggling marriage, her disappointing career, and her anxiety about having a baby. If she can just make it home, she’s determined to change her life.

Wild Dark Shore, by Charlotte McConaghy

Dominic Salt and his three children are caretakers of Shearwater, a tiny island not far from Antarctica. Home to the world’s largest seed bank, Shearwater was once full of researchers, but the Salts are now its final inhabitants until a woman, Rowan, mysteriously washes ashore. Long accustomed to protecting herself, Rowan starts imagining a future where she could belong to someone again, but she isn’t telling the whole truth about why she set out for Shearwater. And when she discovers sabotaged radios and a freshly dug grave, she realizes Dominic is keeping his own secrets. They all must decide if they can trust each other enough to protect the precious seeds in their care and if they can finally put the tragedies of the past behind them to create something new, together.

Nonfiction

Raising Hare: A Memoir, by Chloe Dalton

In February 2021, in the English countryside far away from her usual London life, Chloe Dalton stumbled upon a newborn hare — a leveret — that had been chased by a dog. Fearing for its life, she brings it home, only to discover how impossible it is to rear a wild hare, most of whom perish in captivity from shock or starvation. Through trial and error, she learns to feed and care for the leveret with every intention of returning it to the wilderness. Instead, it becomes her constant companion, wandering the fields and woods at night and returning to Chloe’s house by day. Though Chloe feared that the hare would be preyed upon by foxes, stoats, feral cats, raptors and even people, she never tried to restrict it to the house. Each time the hare leaves, Chloe knows she may never see it again. Raising Hare chronicles their journey together, while taking a deep dive into the lives and nature of hares, and the way they have been viewed historically in art, literature and folklore.

Children's Books

Sunrise on the Reaping,
by Suzanne Collins

The long-awaited fifth book in the runaway bestselling “Hunger Games” series, Sunrise on the Reaping, arrives this month. As the day dawns on the 50th annual Hunger Games, fear grips the district of Panem. Twice as many tributes will be taken from their homes. When you’ve been set up to lose everything you love, what is there left to fight for? (Ages 14 and up.)

Over in the Garden, by Janna Matthies

There are fun books and cute books. Then there are books that will become part of the family canon. Over in the Garden has the makings of a family classic. Counting, color and compost are rounded out with a delightful repeatable rhyme. This one is perfect for Earth Day or any nature-loving family. (Ages 2-6.)

Little Freddie Two Pants, by Drew Daywalt

First it was crayons, and now its pants. Author of The Day the Crayons Quit takes the everyday and makes it ridiculous! Perfect as a read aloud, this picture book will have young readers dreaming up all the new ways of putting on pants. (Ages 2-6.)

The Cranky-Verse: Cranky Chicken Book 4, by Katherine Battersby

Cranky Chicken, a kid favorite in the early graphic novel section, is back for another adventure with three hilariously cranky stories about Cranky Chicken, Speedy the Worm and their new friend, a little turtle. Join them on a set of illustrated adventures as they learn how to take care of each other, navigate a cranky injury, and go on a camping adventure. (Ages 6-9.)