Birdwatch

Catbird Seat

Spring return of a special bird

By Susan Campbell

Our area is home to scores of avian species during the summer months. One of which, the gray catbird, often goes unnoticed. A cousin of the northern mockingbird, it is also a mimic: a bird that learns the songs of others to advertise territory and to impress a mate. Catbirds have no melodious tune of their own — just a string of copied phrases. Nonetheless, this is a special bird, one that I anticipate each spring as the vegetation springs back to life and the days lengthen.

Although superficially resembling a blackbird given the overall dark grayish-black plumage, gray catbirds have a slender bill and a long tail. They have a velvety black cap as well as a striking rusty rump and, if you can get close enough, you will notice their deep red eyes. These are truly handsome creatures.

The bird’s name comes from the fact that, in between phrases of borrowed song, they utter a “meeew” call that is very cat-like. Some might say that their skulking habits seem very feline as well. Perhaps it is their relatively large size that requires a secretive lifestyle so as not to be grabbed by a predator. Catbirds’ bulky stick nests are a challenge to locate, usually well hidden in thick vegetation

Gray catbirds return to parks and gardens by early April. As with other long-distance migrants that spend the winter in the tropics, they journey northward on long, nighttime flights. Their destination is typically close to the spot where they themselves hatched. Once they arrive, although catbirds will instantly start to sing and display, they seem in no hurry to get down to breeding. It will be July before the first fuzzy youngsters appear. The adults remain quite aggressive throughout the season, chasing competitors such as mockingbirds, northern cardinals and American robins. They will even attack their own reflection in windows when they are nesting close to a home or vehicle.

These birds are generalists with a wide-ranging diet through the course of the year. During the summer months, they feed mainly on insects. Individuals are known to eat small lizards as well. This is yet another bird which requires an abundance of invertebrates to raise its young (typically two broods of three or four). Therefore, chemical applications, whether pesticides or herbicides, are a very real threat to the species’ breeding success. Gray catbirds will switch to eating fruit come fall as berries of all kinds become abundant. They may be attracted to feeders that offer suet or even oranges, apples or cranberries. These birds will readily consume mealworms as well.

Not all gray catbirds will return to Mexico or Central America in the winter. Some spend the colder months along the coastline of the southeastern United States. If you travel to the Outer Banks or Wilmington between October and March, do not be surprised if you hear that distinctive “meeew” emanating from thick maritime scrub. However, individuals overwintering in areas with human development are increasingly susceptible to hazards such as habitat loss, vehicle collisions and predation by cats. Distractions associated with foraging at a time of year when food is less plentiful are more likely to be fatal.

We certainly need to be aware of the threats that affect our avian friends such as gray catbirds. Too many species are struggling as a result of habitat alteration, invasive species and wide-spread chemical use. So please consider joining me: The seemingly small actions we can take in our own yards will add up to a significant improvement in the welfare of central North Carolina’s songbird populations. PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife observations and/or photos at susan@ncaves.com.

Character Study

Broadway on Broad Street

All dressed up and on the go

By Jenna Biter

“Scarves, shawls, black and white for My Fair Lady when they do the Ascot scene.” Mary McKeithen points to one garment, then the next. “And purses from all eras.” Storage bins mound with handbags and clutches. “Black gowns.”

She cruises down the aisle past clothing rack after clothing rack, then stops. “I cover these up to keep the sun from fading them through the window.” She pulls the corner of a cherry-red dress out from beneath a drop cloth. “Right here is more Renaissance. And, of course, shoes, shoes, shoes.” Vintage heels vie for cubby space on a far wall.

She reaches the end of the first aisle, already whirling and grabbing at garments in the next — dresses for Oklahoma!, sequins, and turn-of-the-century chiffons for the song “Shipoopi” in Music Man. “Right here is all of the Jackie Kennedy era. I’ve done shows mostly at colleges with these,” she says, waggling a skirt suit back and forth. “See the Jackie suits? And then here are more sequin things and we start back at the ’50s . . . ” She advances a rack, passing through time as she goes, “ . . . ’40s . . . ” and then “ . . . ’30s.” She points at a group of white and trills, “Here are the angels and ghosts.” Fa la la. A few swollen aisles and hundreds of costumes later, she laughs. “And this is only half.”

Only half of the upstairs! Costume jewelry, wedding dresses, men’s suits and tuxedos in all sizes, and band and military uniforms fill the rest of the upstairs of Showboat Costumes and Collectibles in Southern Pines. For the most part, McKeithen stores all things theater on the second floor of her shop, and the Halloween costumes, Santa suits, mascots — all the stuff that can be rented à la carte — on the first. She ballparks the building: “I think it’s about 11,000 square feet.”

Showboat Costumes and Collectibles at 712 S.W. Broad St. in Southern Pines, is McKeithen’s shop and warehouse, but it’s also her studio. “These are all ribbons and bows and cloths and sequins and trims and everything,” she says, fingering the drawers that edge a well-loved worktable. “I have a little room back here, this office, because sometimes about 4 o’clock in the morning, I’ll get an idea.” She points to a full-sized bed in the corner. “I get something in my head, and I’ll get up and come to work and then get tired.”

But not that tired — she’s embellished, reconstructed or made ex nihilo many, if not most, of the costumes in Showboat. For the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences’ production of From the Mountains to the Sea, she magicked up convincing turtle, catfish and salamander costumes. And with the help of her husband, Jere, and a professional upholsterer, she even made Madame Garderobe, the wardrobe in Beauty and the Beast, with a set of fully functional drawers.

“I kind of do more of the design,” McKeithen says. “My daughter Marcie is real meticulous, and she always dots the i’s and crosses the t’s for me. Makes sure everybody’s got shoes, everybody’s got socks, everybody’s got . . . ” She trails off. “I couldn’t do it without her.”

If it weren’t for Marcie, McKeithen wouldn’t even be a costumer. “My daughter was in a Madrigal dinner at Pinecrest High School, and her costume was better than the other kids’,” she says, thinking back to 1993. “They called me and asked if I would embellish some of the other costumes, and I said, ‘Sure, I’ll have a go at it.’ And then they started getting me to do their plays.”

Before that, McKeithen’s only experience with theater was as a high schooler. She grew up in Carthage with her parents and five siblings in the house that used to share property with the jail. “My daddy was the chief of police until I was in my mid-teens,” she explains. McKeithen attended Carthage High, and, as a junior, she got the lead in the school’s production of Mama’s Baby Boy.

“My boyfriend at the time gave me a million-dollar check for a contract to Hollywood when the show was over as a joke,” she adds, laughing. Then, as a senior, she got the lead again, but the school’s auditorium burned down before they could perform the play. “Other than that, I never knew or cared anything about theater at all. I didn’t care about theater until Marcie started. Amazing how one little thing can change everything,” she says.

“Then I got hired by the Temple Theatre — I did them for 12 years  —  and I did Pembroke, Campbell, all the high schools around here. I’ve done shows in Washington, New York. Let’s see, I worked for the Highlands Theatre, and I did an outdoor drama in Kenansville.” McKeithen has been bringing Broadway to the Sandhills and beyond for nearly three decades. She juggles between 12 and 15 shows a year, about eight of them in the spring, and the rest in the fall and winter. When asked how she balances them all, she says, “If I read a book, I have to complete it. I mean, I just can’t wait; I have to read it all. But, when it comes to a project, I’m able to say, ‘OK, I’ll do this a little bit over here and then this a little bit over there.’ I can do projects in stages.”

McKeithen applies her multi-tasking mentality to life writ large — not in a stressed-out-frazzled kind of way, but in a how-much-life-can-I-take-in kind of way. She’s had photography and cross-stitching hobbies and became an auctioneer and appraiser, along with Jere. “He said it was cheaper for me to go to auctioneer school with him than for me to have two weeks to shop,” she says. They collected a whole houseful of colored glass, instruments, copper cookware, opera glasses and dolls for their two granddaughters who live next door.

“Oh, and when we were young, we had a band. We sang music and played up in Greensboro,” she says. “That’s how we earned money to go on vacations.” She still emcees at a bluegrass festival near Raleigh.

McKeithen has been a Moore County commissioner, president of the Moore County Hospital Auxiliary, and served on the FirstHealth Board of Directors. Until recently, she and Jere both had pilot’s licenses — they even have a 900-foot runway on their farm. “We live on a farm that’s not really a farm,” she says. “We’re not trying to raise anything but pine straw.”

She’s a bit of a comedian, too. “But my favorite thing to do,” she admits, “is I have two John Deere tractors, and I mow the farm. Relax on my tractor, mow the grass.”

Mind you, the farm/not-farm is about 175 acres, but she mows in stages, too.  PS

Jenna Biter is a writer, entrepreneur and military wife in the Sandhills. She can be reached at jennabiter@protonmail.com.

Bookshelf

May Books

FICTION

The Kingdoms, by Natasha Pulley

With a little time travel, a little altered history, a little humor, a prophetic postcard and a narrator with an untrustworthy memory, there’s just something for everyone in The Kingdoms. For anyone who loved Matt Haig’s Midnight Library or Alex Landragin’s Crossings, Pulley’s The Kingdoms is a book you will not want to stop reading, and then not want to stop thinking about.

Local Woman Missing, by Mary Kubica

In a thrilling and satisfying read, the New York Times bestselling author and master of suspense takes domestic secrets to a whole new level, showing that some people will stop at nothing to keep the truth buried. From the heart-pounding first chapter to the twists and turns that come together at the very end, this is Kubica’s best yet.

The Invisible Husband of Frick Island, by Colleen Oakley

Piper’s husband has died, but she continues to act as if he’s still here, and everyone on Frick Island pretends along with her. A small-town journalist shows up for an “island life” story and discovers Piper and her “husband” Tom, and decides Piper’s story could be the making of his career. Oakley, a USA Today bestselling author, delivers an unforgettable love story about an eccentric community, a grieving widow, and an outsider who slowly learns that sometimes faith is more important than facts.

Mary Jane, by Jessica Anya Blau

In a coming-of-age tale set during the mid-’70s, Mary Jane is brought up in a strict, staid, traditional, run-like-clockwork household. At 14, she’s hired as a nanny in a completely unorthodox situation. Her task is to take care of the adorable 5-year-old daughter of a psychiatrist and his free-spirited wife. A glamorous movie star and her rock star husband move in with them so that he can be treated for addiction. What follows is an unforgettable summer when Mary Jane finds her stride.

The Newcomer, by Mary Kay Andrews

Letty Carnahan is kind and not much like her wild sister, Tanya. When her sister joined her in New York and had a lovely child, Maya, with the wealthiest man they knew, she told Letty if anything ever happened to her to take her child and run for their lives. When Letty finds Tanya dead, she does just that. They end up in a charming motel full of older snowbirds who have been there for years. Letty has to find out what happened to her sister and fast, but who can she trust? The motel owner’s son is a hot cop who is hot on her trail in a book full of twists and turns that.

Magic City, by Jewell Parker Rhodes

When Joe Samuels, a young Black man with dreams of becoming the next Houdini, is accused of rape, he must perform his greatest escape by eluding a bloodthirsty mob. Meanwhile, Mary Keane, the white, motherless daughter of a farmer who wants to marry her off to the farmhand who viciously raped her, must find the courage to help exonerate the man she accused with her panicked cry. Set in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in 1921, Magic City evokes 20th century Jim Crow America while painting an intimate portrait of the heroic but doomed stand that pitted the National Guard against a small band of Black men determined to defend the prosperous town they had built.

The Cave Dwellers, by Christina McDowell

In a compelling family saga that takes place in the powerful social scene of Washington, D.C., teenagers and their parents live in an unspoken hierarchy inextricably linked by wealth, family longevity, political offices, scandals and secrets. Their circle is closed to outsiders until those inside society choose to open their eyes to the invisible divisions erected by exploitation over generations. Gone are the days when inherited wealth can continue without naming the evil that created it. A new generation becomes the one shining a light on themselves.

NONFICTION

Chasing the Thrill: Obsession, Death and Glory in America’s Most Extraordinary Treasure Hunt,
by Daniel Barbarisi

When Forrest Fenn was given a fatal cancer diagnosis, he came up with a bold plan: He would hide a chest full of jewels and gold in the wilderness and publish a poem that would serve as a map leading to the treasure’s secret location. But he didn’t die, and after hiding the treasure in 2010, Fenn instead presided over a decade-long gold rush that saw many thousands of treasure hunters scrambling across the Rocky Mountains in pursuit of his fortune. Full of intrigue, danger and break-neck action, Chasing the Thrill is a riveting tale of desire, obsession and unbridled adventure.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Always by My Side, by Jennifer Black Reinhardt

The most dedicated friend a child will ever have is their woobie, their blankie, their stuffie. They share in joys, sorrows, worries and triumphs, and maybe, just maybe, the little people mean just as much to the stuffies as the stuffies mean to the little people. The perfect gift for a new baby or a graduate, Always by My Side is a celebration of friendship. (Ages 2-5.)

Something’s Wrong!, by Jory John

Jeff is having one of those days. He knows something’s wrong, but just can’t quite put his finger on it, so off he goes to find a friend to help. What he finds is not only a true friend, but also a hilarious solution to his problem. This giggle-inducing read-aloud is sure to become a bedtime favorite.
(Ages 3-6.)

Bear Can’t Wait, by Karma Wilson

Waiting is so hard when you’re planning something exciting for a friend, and patience is a virtue Bear just can’t seem to muster in this newest installment of the delightful “Bear” series.  (Ages 3-6.)

The Poop Song, by Eric Litwin

Everybody does it, so why not sing about it? Fun for potty trainers or just for some little kid silly time, the poop song is sure to make everyone giggle. (And yes . . . it will get stuck in your head.) (Ages 2-5.)

Golden Gate, by James Ponti

Adventure, STEM and a bit of spy-thriller action combine to make the “City Spies” series the perfect choice for kids looking for a fast-paced new series. With team members from around the world joining forces and sharing their unique gifts in a magical CIA-type organization, readers won’t be able to put Golden Gate down. (Ages 9-12.)

Where the Heart Is, by Jo Knowles

It’s the first day of summer and Rachel’s 13th birthday. With a summer job caring for the neighbor’s farm animals, her best friend, Micah, nearby and weeks of warm weather and fun to look forward to, Rachel is living the dream. But when bad news threatens all she loves, Rachel must make some difficult decisions about who and what are really important in her life. At once sweet, silly, sad and ultimately satisfying, Where the Heart Is is the perfect summer read. (Ages 11-14.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

Southwords

Planting Time

How many fingers am I holding up?

By Jim Moriarty

Eons ago my college baseball team elected to forgo the pleasures of Spring Break in favor of a trip to North Carolina to play other small colleges. I have a black and white picture of us standing outside the barely seaworthy bus that spewed diesel smoke from northern Ohio to North Carolina and back. We looked more like a rock band than a baseball team. That was fitting since we had more honest-to-God musicians among us than honest-to-God ballplayers. We didn’t win a single a game on that trip. The most exciting thing that happened was when our third baseman was bitten by a goose.

Our first baseman was a cellist in the music conservatory. Our right fielder was a quote machine — obscure baseball quotes he unearthed scouring old issues of The New York Times when he was supposed to be studying Plato’s ideal state. What did Don Larsen say he did the night before he pitched a perfect game in the 1956 World Series? “I had a few beers and went to bed around midnight like I always do.”

Spring was the traditional planting season, which is to say I was the one being planted. There is a reason why they call catcher’s equipment the tools of ignorance. In one game after a particularly violent play at the plate that featured me rather prominently on the losing end, I finished the game though I have no independent recollection of it. Those were the days when the entire battery of tests comprising the concussion protocol was whether or not you could stand up. I’m quite certain I set a galaxy-wide record for passed balls that afternoon. If the pitch didn’t hit me, it went to the back stop.

It would please me if I could say that was the only occasion when I experienced an unfortunate collision, but that would be a lie. In the very last game I ever played, on a lovely day at the end of May, I got my nose broken. While the bridge was spared, the cartilage was randomly pushed hither and yon and, to be honest, never made the return trip.

The pitcher that day, who remains a good friend, was nicknamed Ragu. The moniker was hung on him by our right fielder, of course, who found him bafflingly unhittable because, he claimed, the ball had so much spaghetti sauce on it.

Ragu induced one of their hitters to pop the ball up in foul territory well down the third base line. This is ordinarily the third baseman’s play. As the ball comes down, it will curve and, in this case, curve, more or less toward the third baseman. Naturally, the catcher chases the play, too, in case something untoward happens. Heck, the guy could get bitten by a goose, right?

So, I threw my mask clear and trotted along, keeping an eye skyward and pretty much minding my own business waiting to hear the third baseman yell, “I got it!” Crickets. In the absence of detecting the third baseman’s voice, I expected to hear something from Ragu. More crickets.

Gravity being what it is, the ball’s not going to stay up there forever, so I figure my third baseman has run afowl (apologies all around) of something and I was going to have to make the play. I pick up speed, to the extent to which such a thing was possible. “Mine!” I yell, prayerfully. The ball was dropping and curving. I dive, which sounds more impressive than it would have looked on instant replay. The ball is about to drop right in my glove when I see the third baseman’s mitt passing over my outstretched arms, catching the ball, and slamming straight into my nose.

This is not the way they draw this play up.

Fortunately, there was no immediately discernible brain damage. There was, however, a great deal of blood. The extent of our team’s training kit was pretty much confined to a jar of Atomic Balm, a couple of Band-Aids, and some gauze. So, I started stuffing gauze into my nostrils and Ragu returned to the mound.

Here, I confess, things become a little indelicate. The gauze began to unravel. I had a long white string dangling from each nostril, giving the appearance of having treated my injury with, well, need I say more? This was embarrassing enough but, to make matters worse, Ragu couldn’t contain his laughter through even a single windup. His curve ball cackled. His slider chortled.

I would like to say we won the game, but we didn’t. And I didn’t even get a T-shirt out of it, just this lousy nose.  PS

The Kitchen Garden

Bearing Fruit

When Sandhills strawberries rule

By Jan Leitschuh

With apologies to John Lennon, in the Sandhills, strawberry fields are not forever.

So, COVID-sluggish berry lovers will need to shake up their socially-isolated calendars and get a move on to catch this seasonal Sandhills delight. At the beginning of May, the local berries are hitting their stride; by Mother’s Day, they will have hit their peak. Thereafter, the volume will tail off rapidly. Get moving!

You didn’t plant your own strawberries last October, did you? Luckily, local growers did, and their efforts are now bearing fruit. Literally. Producers usually have enough volume to open sometime in April (usually mid-April). As the weather warms, the berries begin to ripen in large, rapid waves. Lovers of strawberries cherish this brief, abundant window of juicy berry sweetness and load up.

Local strawberries? What’s the big deal? Aren’t there strawberries in the supermarkets nearly year-round?

Indeed there are, and a nice thing that is, too. These ruby-colored fruits brighten up yogurts, cereals, salads and garnish cheese plates all year.

But we’ve all bitten into a large, robust store strawberry, mouth a’watering, and felt . . . bleh. Disappointment. Where was the tender sweetness? Where was the melting, fragrant juice? The taste did not live up to its visual promise.

While a colorful, store-bought strawberry is certainly better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, that berry can’t hold its own against the vibrant, local product. Why? Because most store berries are bred to be shipped long distances, rather than for taste, sweetness and tender juiciness.

The Sandhills berry, however, is harvested and distributed locally — a touchy business, given the fragile, sweet tenderness of the locally preferred varieties like Chandler, Camerosa and Sweet Charlie. Sandhills berries are hand-picked at the peak of ripeness, rather than early to be shipped, and its sugars have longer to develop. This ready-ripeness means you have to eat or process them right away. Given their tender juiciness, Sandhills berries are not going to hang around for weeks like a half-ripe, store-bought strawberry.

Few things are more sensual during the lusty month of May than a fresh Sandhills strawberry, eaten at room temperature (preferably with a splash of cream, whipped or otherwise). In Roman times, it was the fruit associated with the goddess Venus. Ancient Romans often made offerings of the fruit at her temples. Food of the goddess. Shouldn’t some grace your springtime table?

Strawberries and cream is a traditional Wimbledon snack. More than 55,000 pounds — over 25 tons — of strawberries are consumed every year during the championships.

Local farmers markets and farm stands should have buckets of ripe strawberries as the month opens. (Again, don’t tarry. The glorious flush comes, peaks and flies past in a flash!) Local You-Pick farms are great fun if a jaunt to the country with the kids appeals — just know that in 2021, the You-Pick status, as they say on Facebook, is “complicated.”

Last year producers did the picking and sold through car windows, lines of autos snaking through the farm roads as eager-but-cautious customers lined up and paid tribute to the Sandhills strawberry during peak times. This year may be a combo of the above, plus some greater openness later in the season. Plans remain fluid.

Popular Highlander Farms on N.C. 22, for example, is currently planning on doing drive-up, said producer John Blue, as well as walk-up. This plan will be re-evaluated as needed. “We are not planning to open the You-Pick right now,” he says, “but we will see as the season progresses.”

Best bet is to contact your favorite fruit stand for info. Many of the local stands and markets have Facebook pages and phone numbers.

Besides the deliciousness and fragrance, strawberries are the exotic superfood you’ve been consuming your entire life. The delicious fruits are chock-full of useful, health-promoting compounds like folic acid, vitamin C, fiber, anthocyanins and quercetin. The medical conclusion is that the well-studied strawberry supports cardiovascular and metabolic health, and the abundant flavonoids may help reduce hypertension and general inflammatory markers.

Strawberries actually have half the sugar as the same volume of blueberries. Part of their sweet sleight of hand magic has to do with that heady, nose-filling fragrance. Strawberries are fairly acidic, however, so brush your teeth after to avoid gum irritation and tooth sensitivity.

Don’t wash your Sandhills strawberries until you are ready to eat or process them. Any wetness will rapidly promote mold. Best to store them in the fridge crisper for a day or two at most. In other words, plan ahead before bringing them home.

Once you have your plan in mind, rinse and hull berries. Hulling means nipping out the green stem bit at the top.

Now what? My weakness is a strawberry pavlova, an elegant confection on a light meringue base. Whipped cream is piped into a “nest,” then sweetened berries are spooned into the middle. A dollop of cream and a berry on top crowns this fabulous, fattening dessert. It has it all — sweet creaminess, crispy-chewy meringue and, of course, glorious, fresh berries at their peak.

Classic strawberry shortcake is a close second, however. Biscuits, cream and berries — how can you go wrong? Unless, of course, you prefer strawberries and lemon pound cake.

Strawberry preserves are easy enough to do. There are many YouTube videos that can walk you through the process. Freezer jam is even simpler. No canning knowledge needed. (Recipe below or use the recipe on the Sure-Jell pack.)

Easiest is probably maceration. Combine hulled, sliced strawberries with sugar in a large glass or ceramic bowl and toss to combine. Set aside to “macerate” — basically stew in their own sweet, red juices. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and place in fridge. Eat with a spoon, ladle over yogurt and desserts or combine with cooked rhubarb. 

Roasting strawberries is an unusual way to use up large quantities, and yields a rich, jammy, deeply flavored sauce. The heat of the oven concentrates the fruit’s natural sugars, so no additional sugar is needed. Rinse, hull and halve or quarter your berries. Arrange in a single layer on a parchment-lined baking sheet and roast at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 20 minutes. Spoon into a container while still warm, or the thickened, roasted juices can set up on the pan.

Bruised berries? Rinse them and toss them in daiquiris or smoothies, or puree and freeze. Ice cube trays make a nice unit of “berry” when a cube or two might be needed for a spring salad dressing, or to smarten up a fruit drink. Strawberry ices and “popsicles” are a healthy dessert alternative.

To symbolize perfection and righteousness, medieval stone masons carved strawberry designs on altars and around the tops of pillars in churches and cathedrals. The least we can do is place a righteous bowl of local perfection on our tables this month.

Easy Strawberry Freezer Jam “Springtime in a Jar”

4 cups granulated white sugar

1 quart fresh strawberries (see exact measurement below)

3 ounces (one pouch) liquid fruit pectin (Certo is readily available at most larger supermarkets)

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

(Yes, this is a lot of sugar, but necessary for the jam to “set” — use less if you don’t mind a more syrup-like creation or search out sugar-free type pectins at your store.)

Stem and crush strawberries with a potato masher. Don’t try to use a blender or food processor for this step as you want some small pieces of strawberry to remain. Measure exactly 2 cups prepared fruit into a large microwave-safe bowl. Add the 4 cups of sugar and stir well for 1 minute. Microwave bowl on high power for 3 minutes. (Mixture will not cook but will become warm enough for sugar to dissolve.) Remove and stir well for another minute, to avoid graininess.

Allow strawberry mixture to sit for 2 hours, giving it a good stir about every 30 minutes. Take a taste to make sure the sugar is dissolved. If it still has a bit of a grainy texture, stir for another minute or two until sugar is well-dissolved. (When the sugar is well-dissolved, the mixture will actually deepen in color and lose its “cloudiness.”)

Combine the liquid pectin and lemon juice in a small bowl. Add to strawberry mixture and stir 3 minutes. Fill containers to within 1/2 inch of top — mixture will expand a bit in the freezer. Let stand at room temperature 24 hours. Refrigerate up to 3 weeks or freeze up to 1 year. Thaw in refrigerator.

— From The Café Sucre Farine.  PS

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

Doing It Right

On the field, on the court, in life

By Bill Fields

Charles Waddell was only in elementary school, but he wanted to do things the right way. He wanted to stand out.

He and his older brother, Frank, tagged along with their father, also named Frank, as he took care of his early morning janitorial duties at The Citizens Bank and Trust Company on Broad Street in Southern Pines, where he had a part-time job in addition to a full-time maintenance position at Carolina Power and Light.

After helping empty trash cans and other light chores, Charles would sit down to do his homework. “He would write it out in pencil,” Frank recalls, “and while my dad and I would continue cleaning, he would use one of the typewriters in the bank and try to type it out.”

Sometimes brother Frank, nearly eight years older, who had taken a year of typing, would take over and finish because the family had to go home and eat breakfast before the boys went to school. “He always had an interest in everything,” Frank says. “You knew he would be a good student, and he certainly developed into a fine athlete.”

Fifty years ago, Charles Waddell graduated from Pinecrest High School, where he was all-state in football and basketball and excelled in the shot put, finishing second in the state in 1971. When, in 2013, the North Carolina High School Athletic Association named the top 100 male athletes in its century of existence, Waddell made the list. He led the Patriots to a state 3-A basketball title. Two of his fellow all-state hoops stars? Durham’s John Lucas and Shelby’s David Thompson, who would go on to star for Maryland and N.C. State, respectively.

“In the East-West All-Star basketball game, on one play I was bent down just a little bit and he came flying by and I was looking at the bottom of his shoe,” Waddell says. “Thompson was unreal.”

Waddell’s prep experiences were a prelude to further success in college. He earned a football scholarship to play for coach Bill Dooley at North Carolina. While in Chapel Hill, he also played two seasons for Dean Smith’s basketball Tar Heels and was a member of the UNC track and field team. He was the university’s first athlete to letter in more than two sports since Albert Long Jr. (track, football, basketball, baseball) in the 1950s. Although there have been about a dozen dual-sport Carolina lettermen since Waddell graduated, he is the last to letter in three sports (receiving three letters in football, two in basketball and one in track). The versatility led to him receiving the Patterson Medal, UNC’s highest athletic honor as a senior in 1975, joining a distinguished roster of recipients including Vic Seixas, Charlie Justice, Lennie Rosenbluth, Larry Miller, Charlie Scott, Don McCauley and Tony Waldrop.

“He was just always trying to succeed, and he had the skill set,” says Craig Gordon, Waddell’s best friend since they were 4 years old in West Southern Pines. “He could compete in just about anything. He didn’t run very fast, but he was quick for a big guy. We were tracking together until seventh or eighth grade, then he started stretching out. He went on and did some great things. But Charles tried to be the best he could be from a young age.”

Waddell is 68 now, special assistant to the athletics director at the University of South Carolina, where he has held various posts in the athletic department since 2006. “I’ve been down here a long time, longer than I anticipated,” he says of being a Tar Heel in Gamecock country. “But I’ve gotten to develop some pretty good relationships with folks, the student-athletes and people I’ve worked with at the university.”

He ended up in Columbia with his wife, Sandra, and their three children (Christa, Cassandra and Cortez) after earlier positions in business and college athletics following a four-year, injury-hampered stint (neck, knee, shoulder) as an NFL tight end with the San Diego Chargers, Seattle Seahawks and Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

“It was really disappointing because I was on injured reserve three of the four years,” says Waddell. “You start getting hurt . . . I tell kids now that you really are a commodity in pro sports. If you have a car that breaks down on you three out of four years, you tend to get rid of it because there’s a new model coming out every season. I love the game, but it does take its toll. I’m reminded of those days just about every morning when I get out of bed.”

Frank was an early role model for Charles. He was on the West Southern Pines High School state championship basketball team as a freshman in 1959 and when the Yellow Jackets were runner-up in the state his senior season of 1962. “My brother was a really good athlete,” Waddell says. “I would say he was my first coach. He taught me just about everything. And he played on a state championship team and a state runner-up team in basketball just like I did.”

Both were kept on track by the guidance of their parents. Frank and Emma Waddell didn’t tolerate mediocrity in the classroom or any foolishness outside of it.

“Charles was always very studious, and his mom made sure every day the priority was school,” Gordon says. “His parents were very straight-shooting folks — everybody in the community pretty much was that way and looked after one another. If I did something, my mother would know about it before I got home.”

At a time when Blacks weren’t allowed to play organized youth baseball in town, Emma Waddell created uniforms and formed a team for Charles and his friends in their neighborhood. “Our mother was instrumental in forming the ‘Honey Bees,’” Frank says. “They didn’t really have anybody to play — I think they went to Raeford once — but she made sure they had a team.”

Waddell looked up to Charlie Scott, the first Black basketball player at North Carolina, and a certain Boston Celtics center. “Bill Russell has always been my idol,” Waddell told the News and Observer when he was a teenager. “I’ve always admired the way he wanted to win. He was never satisfied with being second.”

West Southern Pines High didn’t have the resources to field a football team, so Waddell made the tough decision as a sophomore to attend East Southern Pines in 1968-69 prior to the consolidated Pinecrest campus opening in the fall of ’69. He played football and basketball for the Blue Knights. For the first time the predominantly white school agreed to schedule a game with the Yellow Jackets, who for years had wanted the chance to square off against the East side team. With Waddell, already 6-foot-3 and 210 pounds and a force down low, the Blue Knights won the game. He would go on to average 25 points and 15 rebounds as a high school upperclassman.

“It was a little painful to go to the East side, and that basketball game was a tough one because West Southern Pines had a rich basketball history and had wanted a game with East Southern Pines for a long time,” Waddell says. “But I think it was the right thing for me to do. I was able to acclimate to the integrated situation a year before Pinecrest opened. And high school football helped with integration, because that was one of the first things that brought people together.”

As a senior, Waddell led the Patriots to a 7-2-1 record in the fall of 1970, which remained the school’s best football season until 2009. He went to Carolina on a football grant but with an understanding that he could try to play basketball too. His first year in Chapel Hill was the last year that freshmen could not play varsity football and basketball. The youngest Tar Heels, including Waddell, who stood 6-5 and weighed more than 220 pounds, still practiced with the main team.

“I got matched up with Charles quite a bit in practice,” says John Bunting, a senior All-Atlantic Coast Conference linebacker in ’71 who was the Tar Heel head coach in the 2000s. “He was a freshman going against a senior, but he was not intimidated, and he was very strong and athletic for a true freshman.”

Ted Elkins was a defensive end from Charlotte who arrived on campus with Waddell and, like Bunting, went up against him in practice. “It seemed I was always paired against Charles,” Elkins says. “He was a big guy and a great athlete. He wasn’t real demonstrative, but he didn’t need to be. He could be pretty dang quiet. On defense, I tried to fire up everybody, but Charles just lined up and would nail you.”

The ’71 season was marked by tragedy as lineman Bill Arnold from Staten Island, New York, died after collapsing during a hot afternoon practice in early September. It was an era when water and rest periods weren’t customary during football practices even when the weather was oppressive.

“I was usually OK in the heat, but there were some practices I lost anywhere from 12 to 16 pounds in water weight,” Waddell says. “When I would run, my shoes would be squishing because they were soaking wet.”

He caught 41 passes for 571 yards and seven touchdowns for the Tar Heels, including a school-record three TDs against Clemson, and earned All-America honors as a senior when he and Elkins served as co-captains. He joined the junior varsity basketball team as a sophomore but got moved up to Dean Smith’s varsity squad and played in 11 games in 1973. (He also participated on the track and field team in the shot put and discus that spring.) 

Waddell played basketball as a junior, too, but broke his wrist in a game against Virginia and wasn’t in Carmichael Auditorium on March 2, 1974 when Carolina pulled off a magical comeback against Duke, rallying from eight points behind with 17 seconds left to tie the game on a long Walter Davis shot, then defeating the Blue Devils 96-92 in overtime. Charles was in Kenan Stadium, on the sidelines of a spring football practice.

“I was listening to the game with some of the trainers on the radio of an old station wagon they used to bring stuff out onto the field,” Waddell says.

A fifth-round selection by the San Diego Chargers in the 1975 NFL draft, Waddell returned to Chapel Hill in the late 1970s when his NFL career was over. He worked with Paul Hoolahan as one of UNC’s first strength and conditioning coaches. The duo also oversaw academics for Tar Heel athletes. In the early 1980s, Waddell decided to pursue an MBA while working part-time in game operations. He picked up additional income when Roy Williams, then an assistant basketball coach charged with delivering The Dean Smith Show to television stations each weekend during hoops season, shared the duty with Waddell who earned $100 every other week.

“They produced the show in Greensboro, so the weeks Roy didn’t do it I would pick up the tapes there at 3 or 4 o’clock on Sunday morning,” Waddell says. “I’d drive to the TV station in Asheville, drop one off there, then go on to Charlotte and leave one there, then come on home to Chapel Hill. Getting a hundred dollars was a big deal in those days.”

After securing his graduate degree, Waddell worked in investment banking at NCNB for seven years. When former Tar Heel basketball player Jim Delaney became commissioner of the Big 10, he hired Waddell to be an assistant commissioner. “I was enjoying investment banking but figured I would get back into college athletics at some point,” Waddell says. He worked at Big 10 headquarters in Chicago for four years before returning to North Carolina and a position with Richardson Sports and the Carolina Panthers in part to be closer to his mother after his dad passed away in 1990 (Emma Waddell died in 2017 at age 95.)

The Waddells especially loved watching the son they nurtured to succeed compete during his college days. “They really enjoyed my career at North Carolina,” Waddell says. “They got to be really good friends with some of my teammates and their parents. They went to all our home games and a lot of the road games. I know the first time either one of them got on an airplane was when they flew out to watch us in the Sun Bowl in Texas. I know they enjoyed that experience.”

Waddell’s business and athletic administration career also gave his parents satisfaction. When he surveys it all — from the boyhood games in the neighborhood and the town parks, to UNC, the NFL and beyond — he’s pleased. “I interviewed for some athletic director jobs over the years but never got one,” he says. “But I’ve had a good career and feel good about the things I’ve achieved.”

On and off the field, he has stood out like the typewritten homework he hunted and pecked at dawn all those years ago.  PS

Good Natured

Celebrating Mom

And a long, healthy life

By Karen Frye

Having a special day each May to honor our mothers is wonderful. The older I get the more I realize how precious my mother is to me. I want her to be around for a long time. I make sure that she and my dad take supplements to slow down the aging process and keep them as active and healthy as possible.

My parents are well into their 80s. They still live in the home they bought 65 years ago. They are self-sufficient and keep busy. I am impressed with the way they have aged. My parents have been taking nutritional supplements for about 50 years.

Here are a few supplements that I have found helpful for women of all ages to stay healthy and beautiful. They are important for the men in our lives, too!

A good probiotic. The gut is referred to as the second brain. Aging, as well as poor dietary habits, will take a toll on the digestive track. A probiotic can keep your immune system strong, the brain and heart healthy, and improve some digestive issues.

Digestive enzymes. Some digestive problems stem from a lack of enzymes that begin the digestion process and break down food. Common complaints are bloating, heartburn and acid reflux. Often taking a digestive enzyme before meals can ease these symptoms.

Collagen. I recently heard two medical doctors talk about the benefits of consuming collagen, recommending it for everyone. It is one of the most effective foods for healthy skin, hair, nails, joints and gut health. It’s easy to add powdered collagen to foods and beverages, or you can make your own bone broth and get a good dose of collagen that way.

Bone strength. Women suffer from bone loss as they age. To keep bones strong, a calcium supplement is necessary, and calcium from algae is the most absorbable form. Most calcium comes from limestone, and it is hard to break down and be absorbed. Vitamin K2 and strontium assist in getting the calcium to the bones and keeping it there.

Omega 3 and 7. Omega 3 from fish oil or flaxseed will give the brain good fat, as well as zapping inflammation in the body. Omega 7 from the berries of the sea buckthorn bush will keep the hair healthy, the skin and soft tissue moist and supple, and nourish the eyes, too.

These are a few suggestions to keep Mom healthy, beautiful and feeling good. What better gift for your mother than a gift of good health?  PS

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

 

The Omnivorous Reader

Defying Mob Rule

Finding justice in the Jim Crow South

By Stephen E. Smith

Ben Montgomery’s A Shot in the Moonlight is a timely retelling of an anomalous story of a former slave who, with the assistance of a Confederate war hero, faced down the forces of white supremacy in the Jim Crow South.

On a moonlit night in January 1897 in Price’s Mill, Kentucky, two dozen “Whitecappers,” self-styled Ku Kluxers, gathered in front of the farmhouse of an innocent 42-year-old former slave, George Dinning, where he slept with his wife and their seven children, and demanded that he submit to the mob’s intent, whatever it might be. Armed with pistols and shotguns, they accused him of theft and ordered him from the relative safety of his home, stating he had just hours to abandon the 125-acre farm he’d worked years to purchase from his former owner and to move himself and his family far away from Price’s Mill. When Dinning denied the accusations of theft and refused to step outside, the mob betrayed their intentions by firing blindly into the cabin, wounding him in the arm and head. Dinning grabbed his shotgun, climbed to the second story of the house and got off a single blast in the moonlight. The shot, although imprecisely aimed, killed 32-year-old Jodie Conn, a member of a wealthy planter family. Then Dinning fled for his life, making good his escape clad only in his nightclothes. The mob dispersed, but vigilantes returned to the Dinning farm the next day, displacing the family and burning the house and outbuildings.

Had it not been for Dinning’s desperate act of self-defense and his subsequent escape, his brief encounter with the mob may well have resulted in just another lynching — there had been at least 13 in Kentucky in the preceding year — but the moonlight assault at Price’s Mill turned out to be the exception to the rule. Dinning sought justice through the courts, an almost foolhardy act of audacity in the Jim Crow South. The day following his escape, he surrendered to the sheriff of an adjoining county, who took him into protective custody and moved him to Bowling Green, where he would be safe, at least for a while. When Dinning was transported back to Simpson County for trial, it appeared he might again fall victim to mob violence, but Gov. William Bradley, a Republican, ordered two companies of soldiers to guard the accused, a politically unpopular action that saved Dinning’s life.

Trial was held before an all-white jury (Montgomery reproduces much of the transcript verbatim), and astonishingly, Dinning was found not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter. He was sentenced to seven years in prison. Even so, there was the possibility he might be lynched before being transported to the state penitentiary. In 1892, 161 Blacks were lynched in the country, and only in cases where Blacks took up arms to protect defendants, most notably in Florida and Kentucky, did intended victims escape mob rule. But Dinning had acted in self-defense and to protect his home and family, engendering widespread support, even among the white community, and within a few weeks he was pardoned by the governor.

But the story doesn’t conclude with Dinning’s pardon. He sued his attackers by taking advantage of a legal irregularity meant to quell racial unrest: “ . . . so long as the courts offered the veneer of impartiality,” Montgomery writes, “and Black plaintiffs could access the civil courts to seek justice, they might not revolt or boycott or march or protest other areas of discrimination.” Nevertheless, Dinning’s civil action introduced him to attorney Bennett Young, a well-known lawyer in Louisville, a hero of the Confederacy, a true son of the South who fundraised for Confederate monuments and belonged to veterans’ organizations but who had also founded the Colored Orphans’ Home Society and frequently defended people of color who had been falsely accused of crimes.

The Dinning/Young legal alliance is and was a social aberration, one whose circumstances do not fit neatly into the American story, past or present. How Young managed to rationalize his divergent points of view remains unclear, but Montgomery speculates his benevolence was “coupled with white supremacy, the notion that a certain kind of power came from kindness.” Whatever his motivation, Young fought long and hard on Dinning’s behalf, and at the conclusion of initial civil action, the jury found for the plaintiff. The unlikely lawsuit — a Black man suing his white tormentors — was a success, the first of its kind in the country. The judge dismissed a few of the defendants, but the remainder were assessed $50,000 in damages, $8,333.33 each, an astronomical sum at the time. 

Newspapers heaped praise on the judge and jury: “Whatever may be done with the judgment of $50,000, this verdict by a white jury serves notice that mob law is declining in popular favor in Kentucky, and that the State’s standards of procedure are rising,” wrote the Washington Star. “The leaven is in the lump, and it is working” — which, of course, it was not.

As expected, several of the defendants claimed they were unable to pay damages — “no property found” was reported to the court — but Dinning continued suing them, extracting what little money he could and tormenting the principals until they were in the grave.

Certainly, Dinning’s story of salvation and retribution is worth noting, but so are the stories of the approximately 4,400 victims who did not escape mob rule. They are acknowledged now in The National Memorial for Peace and Justice, and the publication of Shot in the Moonlight is likely, at least in part, a response to recent racial justice demonstrations and the worldwide outrage to the tragic death of George Floyd and other Black Americans who have died under questionable circumstances.

Montgomery claims he scrutinized the historical record and reported Dinning’s story accurately and impartially. “I have made just a few of the very safest assumptions,” he writes, “in the service of the story.” But in his introduction, dated 2020, he acknowledges recent examples of white supremacy and racial injustice. He’s emphatic: “The problem with the Confederate flag and the granite statues of dead soldiers is that the Civil War never ended. It developed into skirmishes and entanglements. As Nikole Hannah-Jones has written, it morphed into looser, legal forms of enslavement that are just as damaging as the whip. It rages on Facebook and in classrooms and in the streets of American cities, still.”  PS

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

The Creators of N.C.

Found Magic

For Shannon Whitworth, the muse lives and breathes in the mountains of Brevard

By Wiley Cash     Photographs By Mallory Cash

“My art is how I see the world,” says artist and singer/songwriter Shannon Whitworth. “And my music is how I hear it.” Just outside of Brevard, she is walking across the expanse of grass between her barn studio and the renovated farmhouse she shares with her husband, Woody Platt of the Grammy Award-winning Steep Canyon Rangers, and their young son. The late afternoon is rainy and cool. In the distance, mist hangs over the mountains like a gray, gossamer blanket. In other places across the South, spring has begun to reveal itself, but here in the mountains, winter is still hanging on.

Whitworth didn’t always live in the mountains that have become so synonymous with her music and art. She was born into a bustling home with two older brothers in Fairfax, Virginia. By the time she reached high school, her restless nature prompted her to head south to Hilton Head, S.C., where she spent summers with her Grandma Nancy, an Old South dame who owned a ladies’ clothing boutique and lived in a lamplit home where every room had a clock radio playing martini music. The soundtrack to Whitworth’s summers in Hilton Head were comprised of Billie Holiday, Frank Sinatra and the clink of ice in Grandma Nancy’s cocktail glasses. To the girl who’d been raised in an active household in a busy city, the freedom of Lowcountry life was both mysterious and emboldening. “I went down there playing with Barbie dolls,” Whitworth says, “and I came back home wearing a training bra.”

Like many people who grew up in the 1990s and who would later become artists, Whitworth was an angsty teen who filled her journals with reams of poetry. Her parents had always been music fans, and she grew up listening to James Taylor, Paul Simon, Crosby, Stills & Nash. When her older brother began dating a woman who played the guitar, Whitworth realized she could set the words she’d written to melodies. The woman — who would eventually become her sister-in-law — showed her how to play chords, and by the time Whitworth began college in Boone, she was already skipping class to play music. “I was consumed by it,” she says. And then someone gave her Lucinda Williams’ first album. That’s when she had the vaguest of notions that, just maybe, she could become a musician too.

“I didn’t know a lot of women who were doing this,” she says, and she didn’t know if she could do it either. After a series of moves and adventures took her all over the country, a camping trip to Brevard in 1999 finally convinced her to settle down and give music a try.

“I was moonstruck by Brevard,” she says. She is sitting by the window in her living room, the sun having fallen below the mountains just above the confluence of the headwaters of the French Broad River. Night is creeping across the fields. “It felt like there was a crystal under the Earth that was pulling me here. I always thought I would end up back on the beach somewhere, but this place spoke to me,” Whitworth says. “I knew I would write a lot of songs and paint a lot of paintings here. And if I could do those things, then I knew this was where I needed to be.”

She spent a few months in the offseason living in the old cook’s cabin at Camp Carolina, stuffing envelopes and mailing promotional material for the camp and working on her music. “I must’ve written a hundred songs,” she says, but she was too self-conscious to perform them in front of anyone aside from her brothers and a small circle of musician friends. “And then a friend of mine told me about a dive bar in West Asheville that hosted karaoke,” she says. “The people who came to karaoke were old country people. Nobody knew who I was or even cared. It felt safe.” The first song she ever performed in front an audience? Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.”

“Dolly Parton was my spirit animal of sorts,” says Whitworth, whose own singing voice is lower and warmer but just as resonant as Parton’s. “I figured that if I could transform myself into someone like that, then I could do anything. It was like putting on body armor.”

Another major influence while Whitworth was finding herself onstage was Dwight Yoakam, especially his album dwightyoakamacoustic.net, which features him playing his greatest hits with only an acoustic guitar. Whitworth would play his album and record it on a borrowed four-track while recording herself singing harmony and playing accompanying instruments, like mandolin and banjo. She would then layer in her recorded parts with Yoakam’s music. “It was as close as you could get to being in a band with Dwight Yoakam while also being a total weirdo at the same time,” she says.

The first time Whitworth performed with her guitar in front of a live audience was during a jam night at Jack of the Wood in Asheville. That’s also where she met the other founding members of a bluegrass band that would soon become The Biscuit Burners. Over the next few years, the band would go on to release two acclaimed albums while crossing the country on what seemed like a never-ending tour. But despite all the band’s success, it was their first show that perhaps had the greatest effect on Whitworth’s life. On that night, Woody Platt set up the band’s sound equipment. While it would take a while for friendly exchanges to become flirtations and for flirtations to become love, by 2006, Whitworth and Platt were a couple, and Brevard was their home. After years on the road as a touring musician, Brevard felt like a sanctuary to Whitworth. She left The Biscuit Burners and released a spate of highly-praised solo records, and she soon found herself building her life around two things: her relationships with the people she loved and her art.

“Painting reminds me of how I feel when I sing through a microphone,” Whitworth says. “It’s a way of reporting my feelings, and it’s also a place where I can dig deep into healing. It all used to be a way to work through angst.” Since having a child, Whitworth has shifted to creating art from a source of light. “I’m going to a different place when I work now, and I’m still trying to sort that out. I’m learning to use these new tools that motherhood has given me. Sometimes I don’t have the words or the music, but the colors are always there.”

Over the past year, Whitworth’s paintings have found homes with a stable of interior designers across the South, and her work has been featured in galleries and shipped all over the country to private collections belonging to the likes of Edie Brickell and Paul Simon.

“When I first began painting, all of my art was coastal, but after settling into the land here and having our son, I just started seeing this landscape so clearly, and it’s reflected in my work. I’m living it,” Whitworth says. “People always tease me about believing in magic, but I always tell them, ‘You’ll believe in magic when it finds you.’”

She has risen from her seat at the window, and she is now moving through the house, turning on lamps, their soft light meeting the sound of Patsy Cline’s voice floating from an unseen source somewhere in the kitchen. Whitworth uncorks a bottle of wine and pours a glass.

Whether it’s a lamplit room in Hilton Head, a festival stage on the other side of the country, or a light-filled studio where the dew-damp mountains loom in the distance, Shannon Whitworth has always found magic.

Or perhaps it has always found her.  PS

Wiley Cash is the writer-in-residence at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, will be released this year.

Hometown

Young Friends

In our old days we know what it means to have them

By Bill Fields

There is a beauty in friends that you’ve had since childhood, generational peers with whom you’ve darted around a basketball court, consumed too much beer and sweated out the college boards. These friends know what it is like to go gray or bald, to wish for a WD-40 for creaky knees, to see a parent decline and pass away.

In the last couple of years, I’ve discovered the pleasure of a different kind of friend, someone young enough to be my son.

I’ve always tended to have older friends. There were a couple of reasons. One was the influence of my sisters, who are 12 1/2 and 14 1/2 years older than me. I pored over their copies of the Lance, the East Southern Pines High School yearbook, well before I got to Pinecrest. After I immersed myself in golf, I played with plenty of folks who could have been older siblings or benevolent uncles and will always be grateful for those relationships. The rounds and practice-range sessions with these older friends were as enjoyable, and likely more meaningful, than all the hours with contemporaries who were searching for the secret, too.

When I began to freelance for NBC Sports in 2017 as a researcher/statistician in the main booth, eventually traveling to a dozen or so golf tournaments a year for the network, I was thrust into a new and hectic world. I’d done lots of media tasks over the decades — reporting, editing, photography, on-camera appearances talking about golf history — but TV production was a different beast and took some acclimation.

My friend Harrison, who will turn 30 this year, already was an old hand. He comes from a family with a history in sports television going back to his grandfather being instrumental in the development of ESPN. As I discovered, lots of golf TV folks start out as runners on the crew, working long hours helping everyone else get their jobs done. It is invaluable experience, and for those who are motivated and talented, can be the gateway to bigger things. NBC producer Tommy Roy, who has won dozens of Emmys, started as a runner, and so did quite a few of our colleagues.

Harrison began as a runner and has been a scorer/statistician for a handful of years, usually working with tower announcer Gary Koch. He knew the ropes I was trying to learn, but not long after he had helped me find the right trailer or truck — and trust me, there are a lot of them — we started spending time together outside the TV compound.

I have three nephews — another tragically passed away when he was 27 — and while we certainly get along, geography doesn’t help foster relationships when you live hundreds of miles apart. Harrison and I have become good friends in part because we regularly spend time together when we’re on the road.

We’ve shared fantastic cheesesteaks in Philadelphia and mediocre Indian food in the Chicago suburbs, sipped bourbon on an Orlando hotel balcony, played golf on a legendary Texas public course, Lions Muny in Austin. I chipped in at dusk on the 18th to win our match, then we went to a barbecue joint with another colleague, Mike, to chow down on ribs and brisket.

Harrison and I have broad conversations. He has seen a lot of the world and has traveled much more than I had by my late 20s. We talk a lot about work, as people do, but our talks cover plenty of ground. It has been refreshing to get the perspective of a smart person half my age. When I had to leave a tournament early to travel to see my ill mother in her last months, Harrison was a supportive sounding board over a meal before I went to the airport for my cross-country, red-eye flight.

We kid each other in the easy way that happens between good friends. I forgave him after he called my driving “soft” as I cautiously turned left onto an Atlanta freeway ramp. Sometimes, he even listens to me. When Harrison showed me the footage of a toast he offered at his sister’s wedding, I was pleased that he had followed my advice: Be brief and use humor.

On a table by the water in a Connecticut park last year, Harrison, his mom (whom I hadn’t met) and I ate pizza and salad and drank pinot grigio out of paper cups as the sun went down. There was a long week ahead for the two of us at the U.S. Open, but the takeout meal in a scenic spot was a perfect calm before the storm.

When we aren’t working together anymore — when we aren’t comparing airline upgrades or grading the telecasts — I have no doubt Harrison and I will keep in touch. Life throws you curve balls when you get older, some of them mean, but our friendship has been one of the good surprises, and I’m grateful for it.  PS

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