Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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May 2025

Gone But Not Forgotten

The legendary newspaper woman who changed my life

By Jim Dodson

According to latest government projections, a record 3.7 million high school kids and 4.11 million college students will graduate this spring. In a world turned upside down by partisan politics and unpredictable economics, worries about the future are understandable. 

Once upon a time, I was there myself, waiting for the direction of my life to present itself.

In late spring 1976, America’s Bicentennial year, I was enrolled in a new M.F.A. writing program at UNCG and working part-time for my dad in advertising until I could figure out what to do with my life. America was slowly coming out of a powerful recession and job prospects were thin on the ground.   

Sadly — or maybe not — I turned out to be a lousy ad salesman. I could talk up a storm with my old man’s clients but never quite close the deal.

I also had an alternative plan of caddying for a year on the PGA tour, which proved to be a bust when I was assigned a tubby, wisecracking CBS TV star for the Wednesday Celebrity Pro-Am who’d never played the game. He told vulgar jokes to young women in the crowd and roguishly passed gas loudly to amuse the gallery. After a long and humiliating afternoon fetching my client’s lost golf balls from creeks, backyards and thorny bushes, he handed me a $2 tip and advised with a wink, “Don’t spend all that in one place, Sonny.”

I hurried straight to the Sedgefield Country Club bar with just that in mind.

At that early hour of the evening, the bar was empty save for an elderly gentleman sitting around the corner of the bar, nursing a cocktail.

As I drank my beer, to my shock and delight, I realized the gentleman at the end of the bar was none other than Henry Longhurst, the celebrated Sunday Times golf writer and CBS commentator — one of my literary heroes.

“Young man,” he spoke up with his charming grumble, “you look like I feel most mornings when confronting myself in the bathroom mirror.”

When I mentioned my horrible afternoon of caddying for a farting buffoon who killed my dream of caddying on the Tour, Henry “Longthirst” simply smiled. He asked what other options I had in mind. Confessing that my heart wasn’t into my graduate studies, I boldly commented that my real goal was to someday become a golf writer.

The great man nodded and slowly rose, placing a fiver on the counter. As he headed to the door, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said quietly, “Well, young man, if you do decide to write about this ancient game, you will find no shortage of rogues, bounders and peculiar characters, but also inspiring champions and some of the finest people on Earth. Good luck to you, then!”

I was thrilled by this encounter, taking it as a sign that the universe would deliver something good down the fairway of life.

A few days later, I received a phone call from Juanita Weekley, the managing editor of the city’s beloved afternoon newspaper, where I’d interned for two summers. She invited me to drop by for an interview.

“Be here at 5:30 sharp,” she said. “But don’t get your hopes up. You have lots of competition.”

I found her alone in her office the next afternoon. “Come in and close the door,” she said in her famous no-nonsense way.

Mrs. Weekley was a newspaper pioneer, the first woman to edit a major newspaper in the state, a tough, plain-spoken redhead who reminded me of Lou Grant, the crusty editor from The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

As I sat down, she pointed to a stack of folders on her desk. “These are applications from half a dozen outstanding candidates for this job. They are all female from top journalism schools. I’ve been instructed by personnel to hire a female. My question to you is, why should I even consider a skinny white kid from the west side of Greensboro?”

I understood her point. But I also had nothing to lose. I was still buzzing from meeting one of my sports journalism heroes.

Brazenly, I replied, “Because I’ll write circles around them all.”

Madam Weekley did not appear amused. Instead, she reached over her desk, picked up the wickedest-looking letter opener I’d ever seen and tapped it slowly on her desk.

“OK,” she said after a long pause. “I’m going to take a chance on you. But listen closely. If you’re not the best damn writer in this newspaper in a year, I’ll chase you out of the building with this thing.”

I spent the next year writing like mad to avoid being run off by her evil, sharp tongue and even sharper letter opener. At one point, however, Mrs. Weekley called me into her office and handed me the keys to a wheezing, 1970 day-glow orange AMC Pacer staff car and instructed me to drive a 75-mile circumference around the Gate City, searching for “good stories about country life” for the Sunday paper’s Tar Heel Living section.

“Think of it this way,” she said. “You’ll be our version of Charles Kuralt, writing about rural life and colorful characters you meet along the way. It’s right up your alley.”

She wasn’t wrong. 

Over the next six weeks, roaming the backroads of the western Piedmont and the Blue Ridge foothill country, I found an assortment of fascinating small-town stories and colorful folks to write about, including several homegrown artists, a brilliant Yale-educated physician running a clinic in an impoverished mountain town, an award-winning poet, a famous moonshiner, the biggest Bluegrass festival in history, and the winner of a Bear Creek talent show, whose mom invited me to marry her daughter after she graduated from high school. I politely declined.

Looking back, it was the best job any rookie reporter ever had — one that shaped my life.

My “country” tales won a major newspaper award and landed me a staff job at the Sunday Magazine of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, where I was the youngest writer of the oldest Sunday magazine in the South.

Two decades later, I was back in my hometown on a national book tour for my bestselling memoir, Final Rounds. 

I stopped off to say hello to Juanita Weekley, the pioneering woman who took a chance on me way back when, and bring her a signed copy of my book.

She was in declining health. But her face lit up when she opened the door. We hugged and sat for an hour, and I thanked her for not running me off with her letter opener.

As she walked me to the door, she took my hand. “I knew you were going to be a superb writer,” she said, holding back tears. “I just didn’t want you to know that! I couldn’t be prouder of you, dear. Hiring you was one of the best things I ever did in my career.”

I kissed her cheek and thanked her. “It would never have happened,” I said, “without you.”

Juanita Weekley passed away in 2003.

Gone but never forgotten.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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May 2025

French Squared

Croissants jazz up a traditional dish

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

If I see French toast on a breakfast menu, I inevitably think: old bread. I can’t help it. Jazzed up old bread, yes, but old bread nonetheless.

For a start, it’s always been my belief that French toast is a “make at home with leftovers” food. Stale bread soaked in an eggy milk mixture? In various languages, most of Europe calls this dish “poor knights.” It sure sounds like something starving wayfarers would have appreciated. Then I came across a version of this meal that had me at the very edge of my seat: Croissant French Toast Bake.

Initial enthusiasm was quickly replaced by the sinking of my heart. Since French toast works best with dry bread, the implication was clear: You need to have day-old croissants (not just one, but several) lying about to make this dish. In our home, freshly brewed stovetop espresso and golden-baked, just-out-of-the-oven croissants are the raison d’être, the pinnacle of a dignified life, so to speak. Fresh croissants typically don’t make it to lunchtime, let alone the next day.

So, special arrangements were made to get this meal underway. I ventured out and bought prepackaged croissants. Naturally, if you have an abundance of homemade croissants, or access to artisanal baked goods, you may not need to go this route but grocery store croissants are a fine option for this purpose. I opted to add strawberries — after all, ’tis the season — but pick your favorite fruit and make the dish your own. This version of French toast is a departure from the traditional recipe, but it makes for a celebratory upgrade of the original.

Croissant French Toast Bake with Strawberries

(Serves 6)

4 eggs

1 1/4 cups milk

2 tablespoons sweetener, such as maple syrup or honey

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Pinch of salt

6 croissants, cut in half (or torn into larger pieces)

5-6 tablespoon strawberry jam

6 ounces cream cheese, room temperature

1/4 cup butter

Fresh strawberries and whipped cream for serving

Add eggs, milk, sweetener, vanilla extract, cinnamon and salt to a large bowl and whisk. Dip the bottom halves of the croissants into the egg mixture and place into a 8×10-inch greased baking dish. Spoon jam and dollops of cream cheese over top. Dip the remaining croissants into the egg mixture and lay on top of the bottom halves, pouring any remaining egg mixture over the croissants. Refrigerate for at least one hour or overnight.

Preheat oven to 375°F. Slice butter and place on top of the croissants, then bake for 40-45 minutes. If needed, cover the dish with a lid or foil to prevent croissants from browning too much.

Retiring In Style

RETIRING IN STYLE

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May 2025

Retiring In Style

Designing on a clean slate

By Deborah Salomon 

Photographs by John Gessner

The Browns’ favorite décor color does not appear on any rainbow. Instead, Frank and Becky Brown chose a sandy French vanilla with flecks of oatmeal and cocoa throughout their uber-contemporary retirement residence that answers to simply stunning. Here, the old is missing but not missed. With the exception of a grandmother’s desk furnishings, fixtures, objets and art are new, selected for this space by Becky on the advice of Pinehurst interior designer Angela Budd.

“We had traveled, moved around so much (for Frank Brown’s career in beverage distribution management) that we decided to give everything away and start fresh,” Becky says.

No way could she manage such a task from Colorado, their final post. Budd, in consultation with the Browns, created a subtle, sophisticated environment based on a color softer than white, easier to live with than primaries. Even the 4-inch oak floorboards throughout reflect this hue.

All new, soup to nuts, minimum legwork, professional advice, what a lark! Frank calls the finished product “calm,” while running his hand over a rich chocolate brown coffee table of the fashionable “stacked” genre.

“I love this table,” he says with a smile.

The then Florida-based Browns had friends from Raleigh who, after golfing in Pinehurst, decided to move here. Frank and Becky visited, fell in love with the area and chose the Country Club of North Carolina for retirement. Downsizing wasn’t their goal. They required something one-story on a spacious lot partially fenced for their dogs — a house that didn’t need a structural overhaul or floorplan rearrangement. What they found was 3,400 square feet, built in 1986 on 1.6 acres. It was so right they purchased it from photos, boots on the ground unnecessary.

Next, Becky needed an interior designer who could translate generalities into sofas, chairs, tables and a kitchen that blends sophistication with practicality. “I had never worked with a designer before,” she says, let alone making decisions influencing what she calls their “forever-type house.”

Budd, of Angela Douglas Interiors, was recommended by a previous client. The responsibility of starting fresh was not new to her, nor was the “clean, soothing, calming” mandate. These were active, young retirees. Angela and Becky shopped high-end High Point furniture vendors for the most comfortable, thickly upholstered pieces. A 120-inch sofa anchors the more formal of the home’s two sitting areas, separated by a double-sided fireplace wall with framed flat screens and built-in shelves. The tables in two dining areas — one closer to the kitchen — have graceful curved tops. One expands seating by replacing chairs with a banquette, useful during visits from their two children and four grandchildren.

Charcoal and paler grays punctuate sandy neutrals in the seating areas, where Frank and Becky relax after supper. Every so often, particularly in chairs, Scandinavian modern shapes popular in the 1950s reappear. The kitchen itself, with island, concealed refrigerator with black interior, wine cooler, Zline luxury range and coffee bar has only drawers, no under-counter cabinets. In contrast, tall walnut backlit cabinets displaying the Browns’ wedding china and crystal rise from the countertop. Shiny gold ping pong ball-sized drawer pulls provide pops of color throughout.

Much thought was given to making spaces flow into one another, including two living/dining screened verandas. With entertaining in mind, Budd created a talk-of-the-town powder room. Squares on a deep brown grasscloth wallpaper are outlined by hundreds of hand-applied metallic rivets. Unusual brass sink fixtures, sconces and a narrow, towering skylight make every visit memorable.

As in the kitchen, built-in storage units dominate an entire wall of the master suite, where an upholstered rectangular headboard illustrates the softened geometrics visible throughout, including a low upholstered bench at the end of the bed, similar to Victorian slipper chairs, where ladies sat while lacing up their tall shoes.

Bedrooms on the guest end of the longitudinal layout will be finished with bunk beds for the grandchildren. An office has been mentioned, as has a sauna. No pool required — the CCNC clubhouse is a few minutes away.

Budd also helped choose the art, from framed black and white photos to several abstract canvases. Frank, who grew up sharing an 880-square foot one-bathroom apartment in St. Louis with his parents and three siblings, smiles and shakes his head at the painting over the living room sofa.

The Browns purchased the house in March 2024 while posted in Colorado. They were able to use the bedrooms a few months later, when Becky and Angela visited showrooms, discussed colors and details. The renovation/furnishing was completed in February 2025. For The Reveal, always emotional, Budd illuminated lamps and fixtures, put flowers on the tables, food in the fridge, wine in the cooler. The coffee bar was stocked. Linens covered the beds, and towels hung in the bathrooms.

Thrilled doesn’t even come close to what Becky Brown felt during the unveiling. She still plans to buy new pots and pans, dishes, glassware and cutlery. Small adjustments are inevitable. “But I always dreamed of living in a home that reflects who I am.”

And now, thanks to serendipity, professional advice, resources and friends who blazed the trail to Pinehurst, she does.

The Perfect Match

THE PERFECT MATCH

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May 2025

The Perfect Match

Rory McIlroy and the Quail Hollow Club

By Ron Green Jr.   •   Photograph by Mogie Adamchik

It has been 15 years since that electric Sunday afternoon at Quail Hollow Club when Rory McIlroy formally introduced himself to the American golf society.

McIlroy was still two days shy of his 21st birthday, and he was one hour removed from having played a round for the ages. Not only had McIlroy won the Quail Hollow Championship for his first PGA Tour victory, he had done so by shooting a closing 10-under par 62 that crackled with a Zeus-like thunder.

By finishing with six consecutive threes on his scorecard, the last one a 40-foot birdie putt that had McIlroy punching the air as his curls danced around the edges of his cap, the game’s new star had arrived trailing sparks.

In the quiet of the Quail Hollow locker room after a Champagne toast with members, McIlroy stood between two rows of lockers, talking to his parents on the phone, the impending magnitude of his performance still settling over everyone.

The Earth was moving.

Television commentator David Feherty, a native of Northern Ireland like McIlroy, had walked the finishing stretch with the winner and said as he left the 18th green, “That’s the most impressive thing I’ve seen in a very, very long time.”

So it began, at least here in the United States, a golf story midway through its second decade that is painted in primary colors and piercing emotions.

This month McIlroy returns to Quail Hollow Club, where he is a member, and where he has won the annual PGA Tour event four times. This visit is different. Oh, so different. It’s the year’s second major, the PGA Championship, being played at a spot McIlroy has more than once called “one of my favorite places on Earth.” And now he’s got a green jacket hanging in his closet after winning the Masters in a sudden-death playoff over Justin Rose, ending a nearly 11 year drought since his last major championship victory and making him just the sixth player to complete the career Grand Slam, joining Gene Sarazen, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Ben Hogan and Tiger Woods.

Fourteen years after losing a 4-stroke lead in the final round of the Masters, McIlroy’s victory sent him to his knees sobbing in relief and resonating throughout the golf world.

“It’s the best day of my golfing life,” said McIlroy, who had too much practice explaining his near-miss losses in major championships. “I’m very proud of myself. I’m proud of never giving up. I’m proud of how I kept coming back and dusting myself off and not letting the disappointments really get to me. Talking about that eternal optimist again. Yeah, very proud.”

When asked late last year if he knew where the 2025 PGA Championship would be played, McIlroy answered, “Quail Hollow Club in Charlotte, North Carolina, and I cannot wait.”

Such is the tie that binds McIlroy to Charlotte — and, by extension, North Carolina — though his last competitive start in the Tar Heel State ended with one of the most emotionally devastating losses in his career, his runner-up finish to Bryson DeChambeau in the 2024 U.S. Open at Pinehurst No. 2.

“It was a great day until it wasn’t,” McIlroy would say later.

McIlroy led by two strokes with five holes remaining and left brokenhearted, haunted by short misses on the 16th and 18th greens when it appeared he would end a decade-long drought in the majors. Instead, McIlroy drove away alone and silent and, while DeChambeau celebrated his victory, there was a bittersweetness in the summer air at Pinehurst that McIlroy, so beloved and so close, had been denied again.

As Tiger Woods stepped back and Phil Mickelson stepped away, McIlroy has grown into, arguably, golf’s biggest star. Part of it is the majesty of his skills, a mesmerizing blend of power and panache. Another part, the one that may define McIlroy, is the charismatic connection that has been forged in the fire of soaring successes and aching disappointments.

McIlroy has won 29 PGA Tour events, including five major championships and two Players Championships, and there are still questions about the ones that got away. He is judged against an almost impossibly high bar, one he set for himself with his own brilliance, and it comes with an emotional attachment from his fans that runs deeper than anyone else in the game.

McIlroy is charismatic, vulnerable, magnetic, thoughtful, battle scarred, curious, sharing and generous. Fans don’t just watch McIlroy play, they sign on for the ride, investing in him because he has so often returned that investment, whether with his thank-yous, his outspokenness or his natural charm.

Think of McIlroy and a library of images comes forward.

There he is hugging his father, Gerry, after his 8-stroke victory in the 2011 U.S. Open at Congressional Country Club, barely two months removed from his final round collapse at the Masters.

A year later, laying his head back and letting the ocean breeze blow across him, he walked the final hole of another 8-stroke victory at the 2012 PGA Championship at Kiawah Island.

Then, in a sweet and touching moment, handing the Claret Jug to his mother, Rosie, after winning the 2014 Open Championship at Royal Liverpool.

There he is hoisting the FedEx Cup trophy in 2016 and 2019 and again in 2022.

Side by side, there’s McIlroy in tears after a gutting performance in a Ryder Cup loss at Whistling Straits in 2021, and another of him showering his European teammates in Champagne after wins in 2018 and 2023.

Walking stoically up the 18th fairway at the Old Course in 2022 after failing to make a birdie in the final round of the Open Championship, knowing he had the Claret Jug in his grasp again until he didn’t.

Had any of us been there to see it, there was McIlroy alone in New York City after his U.S. Open loss at Pinehurst, quietly walking The High Line for what he called a reset, “finding the joy in the small things in life.”

And now, having shed the awesome burden of time, there he is finding tears and joy, kneeling on the 18th green at Augusta National.

As golf has been torn apart by the battle between the PGA Tour and LIV Golf in recent years, McIlroy has often been at the nexus of the fiery debate about what is right and wrong, good and bad, possible and unacceptable. He wanted to be part of the solution, understanding that the PGA Tour’s money-heavy response to LIV Golf’s excesses benefited him as much as anyone. McIlroy was sharply critical of LIV’s approach, and his press conferences often became touchstones for how the establishment (meaning the PGA Tour) viewed what was happening.

Gradually, McIlroy tempered his stance, and while he vowed his lifetime allegiance to the PGA Tour, he sought harmony even as his role in the behind the scenes discussions diminished. His goal, it seemed, was to find the greater good, and he said as much.

“I have always said I will answer questions honestly. I don’t want to change that about myself. I think people appreciate that about me,” McIlroy said.

The day after McIlroy won the 2010 Wachovia Championship, I walked into the Charlotte Observer office, and more than one person asked who the kid was who won the golf tournament on Sunday.

“Probably the next great one,” I told them, not because I have a particular eye for talent, but seeing McIlroy in that moment pulled back the curtain on the future. “One of these days, you will remember he won his first one at Quail Hollow.”

With the return of the PGA Championship — it was played there in 2017 — the inevitable question arises: Can Rory still win majors in bunches, as he did to close out the 2014 season? Perhaps for an answer he can look to Sarazen, the first golfer to complete the career slam before there even was such a thing — when Sarazen won the Masters in 1935 the tournament was little more than an infant. McIlroy allowed nearly 11 years to roll past between major titles. Sarazen won three majors in 1922-23 and suffered a nine-year drought until he won four more from 1932-35, the last coming in Augusta. Can the newest member of the career Grand Slam club equal the fortunes of the first?

Here we are, 15 years after McIlroy’s first triumph in America. There are flecks of gray in his hair, but the boyishness remains, tempered only slightly by the years and the demands.

After winning his second Players Championship in March, McIlroy was asked if he still connects with his inner child when he wins.

That familiar smile crossed his face.

“Ten-year old Rory would think this is really, really cool,” he said.

He’s not the only one.

NC Surround Sound

NC SURROUND SOUND

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May 2025

Stepping Up

Citizen Vinyl pressed into service

By Tom Maxwell

There’s a beautiful Art Deco building at 14 O. Henry Avenue in Asheville, located on a particularly high spot in that already elevated mountain city. Completed in 1939, it was built to house owner Charles Webb’s two newspapers (the morning’s Asheville Citizen as well as the Asheville Times afternoon edition) in addition to his newly-acquired-but-already famous radio station WWNC-AM. For the last five years, Webb’s glass brick, black granite and limestone behemoth has been home to Citizen Vinyl, a unique combination of record pressing plant, recording/mastering studio, record store, art gallery and café. But in October 2024, the place served as an altogether different kind of community hub.

“We were one of the few Asheville businesses that had both power and internet a couple of weeks after the hurricane,” Citizen Vinyl founder and CEO Garland (Gar) Ragland says, “so we immediately pivoted to becoming a community resource. We ran extension cords out of our space in the building, and got the word out that we had internet available and power for people to charge their digital devices and cellphones. We had hundreds of people coming every day to power their phones and text or call their loved ones to let them know they were safe.”

In September, Hurricane Helene wiped large swaths of Appalachia off the map. Entire towns in western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee in valleys near rivers or creeks were washed away. Marshall, a small town north of Asheville, was destroyed. To the east, Swannanoa suffered a blow from which it has yet to recover. The recently established Arts District, nestled alongside the French Broad river in West Asheville, was suddenly under 12 feet of water. The big Art Deco building that houses Citizen Vinyl was quicker to recover than most other businesses thanks to its elevation and its proximity to NOAA’s Federal Climate Complex, which houses both the National Climatic Data Center as well as the country’s Climate Archive.

Soon, one of Citizen Vinyl’s food partners, Michelle Bailey, set up smokers and grills in their little parking lot and started preparing meals from food donated by far-flung friends and her regional farming network. “She started the weekend after the hurricane,” Ragland says, “and served about 1,500 hot meals every weekend for weeks. She had friends from Louisville, Kentucky, come over and bring hundreds of pounds of top-shelf smoked meats and barbecue. So, we pivoted — because we really didn’t have any other option than to just lean in and support our community in whatever way we could.”

Ragland is quick to point out that he and his friends weren’t the only people who met the moment. “There were many, many, noble efforts,” he says, “and what was revelatory to me was how unique and special this community of people is, how readily and instinctively people showed up to help one another. There were people on street corners with signs saying ‘Free Water Here,’ or ‘Hot Food.’ I was really impressed and inspired and proud to be a member of this community because we showed up for each other.”

Ragland, a native of Winston-Salem, started Citizen Vinyl in 2019. Inside Charles Webb’s three-story building, he established the pressing plant along with Sessions (the breezy bar and café) and Coda: Analog Art & Sound (a combination art gallery and record store). On the top floor, Ragland converted the hallowed space of WWNC into Citizen Studios, a recording and mastering facility. He can quote the building’s history chapter and verse.

“Charles Webb designed and dedicated the top floor of the Citizen-Times building to be the new home for his radio station,” Ragland says. “It was state-of-the-art. He modeled it after the RCA Victor Studios in New York. By the time of the station’s construction, WWNC-AM had already become one of the most popular radio stations in the country. It was previously located a couple of blocks away in the Flatiron Building, and it was there that Jimmy Rodgers made his national radio premiere in 1927.” Immediately after the station reopened in its new location bluegrass legends Bill Monroe and the Blue Grass Boys debuted on February 2, 1939. The group played the daily afternoon “Mountain Music” slot until WWNC became a CBS affiliate.

At the time, artists from all over the country were descending on Asheville because of WWNC’s reach. “It was the highest elevation radio station east of the Mississippi,” Ragland says. “That 570 kHz radio frequency could throw from downtown Asheville all the way to West Texas and up into southern Canada.”

The amazing thing is, despite eastbound I-40 being washed out between Old Fort and Black Mountain — while half of its westbound lanes crumbled down into a gorge outside of Knoxville — Citizen Vinyl never stopped pressing records. “Our shipping and receiving did slow down,” Ragland notes, “and we had a couple slow months.” Not that big a deal, considering the town wouldn’t have potable water for 11 weeks.

In the best of times, people tend to think of things like music and food as ephemera, as if they’re mere ornaments to the real work of producing wealth. But you’d be hard pressed to think of two things more deeply woven into the fabric of community than a mother singing a lullaby to her drowsy infant, or the connections made and deepened by a shared meal in a desperate moment.

“Being part of this community and serving as a cultural hub has been a really important part of our ethos and business,” Ragland says. “The hurricane, full disclosure, put into jeopardy our ability to sustain the café and the event space. But that said, the challenges only reinforced the values and the ethos that we’ve constructed this business to be, evidenced by our name.”

The word “citizen” has been with us since the late Middle Ages, and has specific meanings in different areas of law, religion and the military. Ragland is well aware of both the promise and potential risks of using that word.

“Obviously, there’s a history that we wanted to honor by calling the business Citizen Vinyl,” he says. “But the term itself is a very provocative name to title your business because it means different things to different people. For the undocumented person, it’s a loaded word. It can be an alienating and divisive term. But on the flip side, ‘citizen’ asks the question: What does it mean to belong to a place?’ We were intrigued by the opportunity to help shape and define what it means. We’re music nerds, not music snobs. We don’t judge people’s music tastes. We want to celebrate music, art and community. We don’t pass judgment on anyone. We want to operate our business in a way that defines ‘citizen’ in the most positive of ways. The hurricane, if nothing else, created an opportunity for us to put into practice a lot of the things that we aspire to be as members of the Asheville community.”

The quote “We may achieve climate, but weather is thrust upon us” is often attributed to O.Henry, the author Citizen Vinyl’s street is named for. The catastrophic destruction caused by Hurricane Helene may have kept you away from Asheville, but it’s time to go back, to witness firsthand the climate of resilience and community achieved by its citizens.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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May 2025

Big Blue

The majesty of great blue herons

By Susan Campbell

The great blue heron is a bird that will get anyone’s attention, bird lover or not. It is the largest of all the species found in the Sandhills and Piedmont and is second in wingspan only to the bald eagle. Also, the way it ever so slowly stalks its prey in the open is unique. Great blues are colonial nesters often gathering very close together in trees in wet environments where terrestrial predators are not a threat.

Great blues can be found across North Carolina year-round foraging in a variety of wet areas. However, nesting habitat can be harder to find. Many wet areas are too shallow to preclude raccoons, opossums and other climbing animals. Sizeable beaver ponds or islands in the middle of sizeable lakes with mature trees or large snags are attractive. And if a pair or two are successful in raising a brood high above the water, it is likely that the numbers of nests will grow in subsequent years to form a “heronry.” The female will weave a cup nest from the branches and then smaller, softer material (such as twigs, grasses, moss, etc.) that her mate delivers.

The bond between a pair of great blues is very strong during the breeding season. Male and female are both involved with rearing the nest generation. The large nest can accommodate up to five eggs. Both adults incubate and then brood the young. The male spends most of the daylight hours at the nest while the female is there overnight. Herons are very good parents, able to defend their young with not only their heavy, sharp bills but with very powerful wings.

It will take a year or more for the young to reach maturity. During the first several weeks they are fed mainly fish by their parents. As they begin to forage for themselves, they will become opportunistic, eating everything from large, aquatic invertebrates (such as crayfish) to frogs and even the eggs of other bird species. Some individuals will not breed until their third summer. Sexually mature birds will sport long plumes on their neck and back. They may be seen displaying to their mates by raising their crests and clapping bills together at or near the nest site.

The loud raspy croaking of herons is territorial and can be heard day or night at any time of the year. They will defend rich feeding areas as well as their nest from competitors. Great blues also call when in flight, perhaps to maintain contact with family members. In the air, these big birds have a very characteristic profile with slow, deep wingbeats, their necks coiled, and legs trailing out behind them.

These huge birds are amazingly unafraid of humans. Although they seldom tolerate a close approach, they are frequently found feeding from bulkheads, farm ponds and even small backyard water features. Many great blue herons have learned that people may provide an easy meal — even if it is in the form of fish remains or table scraps. So, keep an eye out; you may find one of these large birds closer than you think.

PinePitch

PINEPITCH

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May 2025

PinePitch

Rites of Spring

The Carolina Philharmonic presents the “Ripples of Spring,” at 7:30 p.m. on Saturday, May 3, at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. The concert features Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring, Jean Sibelius’ Finlandia, and Cello Concerto No. 1 by Camille Saint-Saens with cellist Sophia Bacelar. For additional information visit www.carolinaphil.org.

Great Art, Big Screen

Go in-depth with exhibitions on screen of Vincent Van Gogh and Michelangelo Buonarroti in May at the Sunrise Theater. Van Gogh: Poets & Lovers explores the artist’s years in the South of France in an effort to better understand the troubled and iconic painter. The first showing is Thursday, May 8 at 7:00 p.m. with a second screening on Monday, May 11 at 3 p.m. On Tuesday, May 20 at 2 p.m. Michelangelo: Love and Death makes a cinematic journey through the great chapels and museums of Florence, Rome and the Vatican. There will be a second showing on May 22 at 7 p.m. For more info go to www.sunrisetheater.com or call (910) 692-3611.

Calling All Authors

At least the Sandhills variety. Meet the authors and illustrators of the Sandhills at the fourth annual Pages of the Pines, a festival celebrating the books of local writers and artists. The gathering begins at 10 a.m. on Saturday, May 3, and lasts until 2 p.m. at the Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. For more information go to www.sppl.net.

First of the Firsts

The TGI Friday tradition like no other — First Friday — debuts for 2025 on the outdoor stage at Sunrise Square, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, featuring the music of J & The Causeways, a New Orleans soul and R&B band with backbeats and soaring horns surrounding the sound of vocalist Jordan Anderson. Festivities begin at 5 p.m. Y’all know the rules for this free, family event — Cujo stays home. For further information go to www.sunrisetheater.com or call the Sunrise Theater at (910) 692-3611.

Make Mine a Double

The Women of  Weymouth hold their annual happy hour on the grounds of the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, on Friday, May 30, from 5 to 9 p.m. There will be appetizers and desserts by Genuine Hospitality Catering, a wine bar, vendors and music by John McDonald. For more information visit www.weymouthcenter.org.

Bye-Bye Birdie

Susan Campbell, hummingbird bander, researcher, naturalist and PineStraw columnist, will talk about the birds of the Sandhills on Wednesday, May 7 at 1 p.m., at the Sandhills Horticultural Gardens, 3245 Airport Road, Pinehurst. She’ll offer identification tips and talk about our feathered friends’ preferred foods and nesting habits. The talk is free, but the audience is limited to 100. For information go to  www.sandhills.edu/gardenevents.

Fired Up

Starworks’ International Woodfiring Conference, “Sustain: Woodfire NC 2025,” takes place in Star from May 22-25. The gathering unites artists, students and ceramic enthusiasts from more than eight countries to explore every facet of woodfiring, examining its cultural, environmental, ethical and aesthetic dimensions. Registration begins at $190. For information go to www.WoodfireNC.com

Being a Dad

World-renowned bestselling author James Patterson sits down with David Woronoff, publisher of The Pilot and PineStraw, to discuss Patterson’s warm and relatable nonfiction book The #1 Dad Book. Filled with stories and advice to unlock the mysteries of fatherhood, they take the stage on Thursday, May 15, from noon to 1:30 p.m., at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. Tickets are $30. For information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Your Best Daffy Duck

If you can say “despicable” without spitting, you can throw down a blanket or put out a chair and watch Despicable Me 4 under the stars on Friday, May 16, beginning at 8 p.m. in Downtown Park, Southern Pines. Singer and songwriter Savanna Bassett will perform from 6:30 to 8 p.m. It’s all free. For information call (910) 692-7376.

Garden Party

Wear your fancy hats and spring colors when the Village Heritage Foundation hosts its Spring Garden Party at the Village Arboretum’s Timmel Pavilion, 105 Rassie Wicker Drive, Pinehurst, on Tuesday, May 6, from 4 to 6 p.m. There will be wine and grazing tables slam full of hors d’oeuvres. Tickets are $30 per person and can be reserved at www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Classical Chords

Enjoy the Astralis Chamber Ensemble from 2 to 4 p.m. in the Boyd House Great Room at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. The ensemble is a globally acclaimed group comprised of award-winning musicians featuring unique instrument pairings. For additional information go to www.weymouthcenter.org.

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

Home
May 2025

The Hills Are Still Alive

Remembering Mom and The Sound of Music

By Tom Allen

I was 6 years old when The Sound of Music opened at the Ambassador Theater in Raleigh in August 1965. The movie, loosely based on the life of Maria von Trapp and her singing family, played to sold-out audiences for 61 weeks, one of only a few films the Ambassador ever hosted that required reserved seating.

Somehow my parents snagged a ticket and took me along. I’m sure my mother arranged the outing. A church soprano, she loved Julie Andrews. The Sound of Music was my first movie, and memorable for other reasons. Our tickets were for a Sunday matinee, meaning not only did we attend on the Sabbath, but we also missed church.

For this Sunday outing, we dressed to the nines. Dad wore a suit, my mom a best dress. I remember bundling up like a British schoolboy, donning my houndstooth wool suit and dapper newsboy cap.

The Ambassador was cavernous compared to our small, county seat theater. When the movie started, the curtain rose in accordion-like folds. And who can forget that opening scene, the camera closing in on Maria — via helicopter — and Andrews making those hills come alive? If we could miss church for such a stirring opening scene, surely Mother Superior could forgive Maria’s tardiness to Mass.

Beautiful scenery, with a musical narrative featuring cool kids romping around the Alps, decked out in traditional Bavarian dress, kept my attention. An intermission, another rarity, meant time to stretch, share a box of popcorn, and wonder if Maria would follow her heart and return to the widowed captain and his children.

Happily, like a Hallmark movie’s predictable plot, the captain ditched the pushy baroness and proposed to Maria. My mom cried when they married. The majesty of the cathedral’s organ during Maria’s procession engulfed the theater and brought chills. Even my dad, never a movie fan, commented how moving the scene was. We sat on the edge of our seats, wondering if the singing von Trapps would be able to compete in the Salzburg Music Festival. We cheered when they not only won but escaped the Nazis. That final trek across the Alps to freedom, accompanied by a reprise of “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” brought the movie to an end and viewers to their feet in a lengthy applause.

Until I was old enough to hang with friends, Mom was my movie companion. The films, mostly beloved Disney favorites, provided fun diversions and cherished memories. But Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein’s blockbuster, offering moviegoers a glimpse into the life of cloistered nuns as well as a lesson about one of history’s darkest seasons, also gave us the gift of music in sound, sight and lyrics. How many Baby Boomer kids can remember that raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens are favorite things and that a doe is a deer, a female deer?

Along with Rodgers and Hammerstein, I have my mom to thank for that gift. A music major who chose marriage and having a family over a degree, and possible singing career, she tolerated my dad’s love of country and Southern gospel music. Unlike most of her friends, she wasn’t an Elvis fan. The Beatles were “too much.” Stately hymns and stirring anthems, coupled with the crooning of Como, Crosby and Sinatra, were her preferences. On occasion, she would iron clothes on Saturday afternoons while listening to the Metropolitan Opera on Raleigh’s WPTF but, a product of her times, she liked a little beach music, the Temptations, some Frankie Valli. I can’t remember her singing in the shower, but she wore out our 33 rpm vinyl recording of The Sound of Music. And while my taste varies from Gregorian chant to Morgan Wallen, after listening to that album for hours, I, like Mom, can sing every song.

My mother, as well as my family, was far from perfect — like the real life Maria and von Trapp family. Mom would tell you she was no nun, but her good days, and our family’s good days, far outnumbered the challenging ones. Even in the last weeks of her life, she sang, faintly but clearly. The night she died, recordings of her favorite hymns sang her to heaven. Her goodness was passed down to her two granddaughters, whom she adored. They, like her, fell in love with The Sound of Music, wearing out our VHS copy during their childhood and teenage years. And though she did not live to meet them, I’m sure her granddaughters’ children — three great-grandsons — would be among her beloved favorite things.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

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May 2025

Ah, the PGA

A good time was had by all

By Jim Moriarty

I’ve had a fondness in my heart for the PGA Championship since 1979 when I wrote what we used to call the “gamer” for Golf World magazine, the little engine that could, founded by Bob Harlow in Pinehurst in 1947. Often regarded as the least of golf’s four majors, it was my first time writing about any of them, and I remain deeply and profoundly in like with it. What I produced doesn’t belong in the journalism hall of fame but there is enough persiflage in it to suggest the troublesome wiseass I would become. Besides, anything that can be won five times each by Walter Hagen and Jack Nicklaus is good by me. The 107th running of the club pros (the PGA of America is, after all, their organization) will be conducted this month on the magnificent Quail Hollow Club in Charlotte, which makes me wish it was 1979 all over again.

That championship was played at Oakland Hills Country Club in suburban Detroit, not far from the Red Fox, an upscale restaurant on Telegraph Road where, four years earlier, Jimmy Hoffa was supposed to meet with a couple of Tonys and was never seen again. If memory serves — and these days it rarely does — the media was lodged in a Holiday Inn also not far from the Red Fox. The hotel was in the midst of renovations, which meant the rooms were cheap. The lone non-negotiable requirement of any media hotel was (and I’m guessing still is) that the bar be functional and the hours generous. In this regard it was tiptop. In others, not so much.

One day when I returned from the course, tired and sweaty, I pushed the button to get on the elevator and was greeted by half a dozen enthusiastic policemen with sidearms, bulletproof vests and a battering ram. They were headed for the same floor my room was on to make a drug bust. One of them politely offered to squeeze me in but I told them, “Naw, you all go on, I’ll catch the next one” — a minor subterfuge that, of course, required a timely visit to the hotel bar.

That year a journeyman pro named Rex Caldwell, nicknamed Sexy Rexy, held the 54-hole lead by two shots over Ben Crenshaw, four clear of David Graham, Jerry Pate and Tom Watson. Tall and thin, Caldwell was flashy in his flared trousers and made good copy. A bit too good. He was quoted guaranteeing a victory. “You can make book on it,” he supposedly said. What Rex actually said was, “Hell, I’ll be nervous. You can make book on that.”

After dinner on Saturday night, when I got back to the hotel I ducked into the bar. There was Rex in a corner booth with a woman under each arm. For all I knew they were his cousins but I, for one, wasn’t going to make book on Caldwell winning the PGA.

David Graham, the Australian, wound up beating Ben Crenshaw, the crowd darling, in sudden death but only after David choked away a two-shot lead with a double bogey on the 18th. Graham has never claimed it was anything other than the pressure of the moment. What was remarkable is that he was able to walk off that last green — “I felt like I was 6 inches tall,” he said — and gather himself enough to win a playoff. He had to make a 25-foot putt on the first extra hole and a 10-footer on the second, just to stay alive.

Graham came up hard. He quit school at 13 and left home at 16. He has described his father as “a nasty guy” and, as far as I know, from the day he left they never spoke to each other again. David had an edge to him but if you were his friend, he was the kindest, most loyal man you could ever know.

Dick Taylor, the editor of Golf World who sent me to cover the ’79 PGA, considered David a dear friend. Two years after Oakland Hills, Graham won the U.S. Open at Merion Golf Club producing what I still consider the finest exhibition of ball-striking ever in the last round of our Open. He hit 17 greens. The one he missed was on the collar of No. 17. An inveterate club tinkerer and designer — Graham fashioned the irons Crenshaw used at Oakland Hills — on the Monday after Merion, Taylor called Graham’s home to congratulate his friend privately, not in the public of a media mash up. David’s wife, Maureen, answered the phone. Dick said, “For God’s sake, tell him to leave those clubs alone.”

Maureen relayed the message. From his shop, Graham yelled back, “Tell him I’m regripping them right now!”

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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May 2025

May Books

Fiction

The Emperor of Gladness, by Ocean Vuong

One late summer evening in the post-industrial town of East Gladness, Connecticut, 19-year-old Hai stands on the edge of a bridge in the pelting rain, ready to jump, when he hears someone shout across the river. The voice belongs to Grazina, an elderly widow succumbing to dementia, who convinces him to take another path. Bereft and out of options, he quickly becomes her caretaker. Over the course of the year, the unlikely pair develops a life-altering bond, one built on empathy, spiritual reckoning and heartbreak. The Emperor of Gladness shows the profound ways in which love, labor and loneliness form the bedrock of American life.

The Dark Maestro, by Brendan Slocumb

Curtis Wilson is a cello prodigy, growing up in the southeast D.C. projects with a drug dealer for a father. Through determination and talent — and the loving support of his father’s girlfriend, Larissa — Curtis claws his way out of his challenging circumstances and rises to unimagined heights in the classical music world. Then, suddenly, his life disintegrates. His father, Zippy, turns state’s evidence, implicating his old bosses. Now the family — Curtis included — must enter the witness protection program if they want to survive. Curtis is forced to give up the very thing he loves the most: sharing his extraordinary music with the world. When Zippy’s bosses prove too elusive for law enforcement, Curtis, Zippy and Larissa realize that their only chance of survival is to take on the criminals themselves.

Where the Rivers Merge, by Mary Alice Monroe

It’s 1908 and the Low Country of South Carolina is on the cusp of change. Mayfield, the grand estate held for generations by the Rivers family, is the treasured home of young Eliza. A free spirit, she refuses to be confined by societal norms and spends her days exploring the vast property, observing wildlife and riding horses. But the Great War, coastal storms and family turmoil bring unexpected challenges, putting Eliza on a collision course with the patriarchal traditions of a bygone era. Fast-forward to 1988. Eliza, now 88, is the scion of the Rivers/DeLancey family. She’s fought a lifetime to save her beloved Mayfield and is too independent and committed to quietly retire and leave the fate of the estate to her greedy son. She must make decisions that will assure the future of the land and her family — or watch them both be split apart. Where the Rivers Merge is a dramatic and sweeping multigenerational family story of unyielding love, lessons learned, profound sacrifices, and the indomitable spirit of a woman determined to protect her family legacy and the land she loves.

Nonfiction

Mark Twain, by Ron Chernow

Before he was Mark Twain, he was Samuel Langhorne Clemens. Born in 1835, the man who would become America’s first great literary celebrity spent his childhood dreaming of piloting steamboats on the Mississippi. But when the Civil War interrupted his career on the river, the young Clemens went west to the Nevada Territory and accepted a job at a local newspaper, writing dispatches that attracted attention for their brashness and humor. It wasn’t long before the former steamboat pilot from Missouri was recognized across the country for his literary brilliance, writing under a pen name that he would immortalize. After establishing himself as a journalist, satirist and lecturer, he eventually settled in Hartford, Connecticut, with his wife and three daughters, where he went on to write The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He threw himself into the hurly-burly of American culture and emerged as the nation’s most notable political pundit. At the same time, his business ventures eventually bankrupted him. Twain suffered the death of his wife and two daughters, and the last stage of his life was marked by heartache, political crusades, and eccentric behavior that sometimes obscured darker forces at play. Drawing on Twain’s bountiful archives, including thousands of letters and hundreds of unpublished manuscripts, Chernow captures the man whose writing continues to be read, debated and quoted.

Children's Books

Mugs and Kisses: World’s Best Mom, by Teresa Bonaddio

There are so many reasons to love our moms! Moms are magicians, our strongest supporters, our biggest fans. Moms deserve to be honored. This adorable mug-shaped board book is perfect for Mother’s Day, birthdays or any day you want to celebrate the amazing moms that make our lives great. Pair with mom’s favorite tea or coffee for the perfect gift. (All ages.)

The Big Book of Fantasy Kid Crafts, by Jennifer Buchheit

Fairy house bird feeders, suncatcher dragon wings, egg carton gnomes, firefly lanterns and more. With fabulous photos and step-by-step instructions, craft-crazy fantasy adventurers (and their grownups) will enjoy many afternoons of fun with this unique how-to book. (Ages 4-12.)

K Is in Trouble Again, by Gary Clement

Darkly comic K is back for more (slightly tragic) adventures, perfect for that tween graphic novel reader who appreciates a little gallows humor and has outgrown “Big Nate” and “Dog Man.” (Ages 10-13.)

The House at the Edge of Magic,
by Amy Sparkes

Sometimes heroes come in the most unlikely form. Nine is a pickpocket without an altruistic bone in her body. When she lifts a tiny house from a lady’s purse and knocks on the door, it morphs into a giant higgledy-piggledy house complete with a troll housekeeper named Eric, a mad alchemist who is really a spoon, and a hopscotch-loving wizard all living under a terrible curse. Will Nine choose to become a hero and help? (Ages 9-12.)