The Sandhills Photography Club was started in 1983 to provide a means of improving members’ photographic skills and technical knowledge, for the exchange of information, and, by club activity, to develop membership potential and public interest in the art of photography. For meetings and information visit www.sandhillsphotoclub.org.
By Jim Moriarty
Fall is always football, but every other September, it’s the Ryder Cup, too.
My first Ryder Cup was 1983 at PGA National in Palm Beach Gardens. With a nod to the South Florida heat index, that one was played in mid-October, though since then, every Ryder Cup on this side of the pond has — at the very least — begun in September. The Ryder Cup wasn’t always the spectacle it is today and surely will be at Bethpage Black on New York’s Long Island, where the Americans will try to reclaim the trophy they lost two years ago in Italy.
When it was in Pinehurst in ’51, they paused the matches (in those days between the U.S. and Great Britain & Ireland) to go to the UNC-Tennessee football game in Chapel Hill. Sam Snead, a man often governed by pocketbook issues, took advantage of the day off to do a paid exhibition. At PGA National in ’83 there were probably more people scurrying off in their golf carts to play the other courses than there were watching the matches. Rory McIlroy once described the Ryder Cup as an “exhibition” until he played in one. “Hell of an exhibition, isn’t it?” his teammate Graeme McDowell asked McIlroy as the victorious Europeans sprayed each other with Champagne in 2010, as if Wales wasn’t already soggy enough.
Jack Nicklaus and Tony Jacklin were the captains in ’83. The U.S. had won 11 of the previous 12 Ryder Cups, the lone exception coming in 1969, when the teams tied with the U.S. retaining the cup. That was the year Nicklaus set the sportsmanship bar, conceding Jacklin’s putt on the 18th. The putt was long enough to engage the nerves but short enough that neither thought Jacklin would miss it. Nicklaus believed the tie was a fitting end. Why even take the chance? He picked up Jacklin’s coin.
At PGA National, the two sides went into the Sunday singles tied 8-8. The first match out that day was Seve Ballesteros, the Masters champion, against Fuzzy Zoeller, who had a green jacket of his own and a back brace to ease his pain. When the hobbled Zoeller won four straight holes from the 12th to the 15th, the match came to 18 all square. Both players drove into thick Florida rough. Zoeller’s second found the fairway. Ballesteros could barely advance his ball, hacking it forward 20 yards into a deep fairway bunker 250 yards from the green. Advantage America. Zoeller might squeeze a whole point from Europe’s most dominant figure. I was a few yards away when Seve pulled out his 3-wood. My first thought was that he was certifiably insane. No way was he clearing the lip with a 3-wood. Then he hit one of the greatest single golf shots ever struck in these biennial matches, a high cut to the front edge of the green. Zoeller hit a 2-iron to 10-feet. Fuzzy missed and Seve got up and down to give each team a half point. Nicklaus called Ballesteros’ 3-wood “the finest shot I’ve ever seen.”
The Americans defeated the Europeans 14 1/2 – 13 1/2 as lightning flashed on the horizon. One of Seve’s teammates on the ’83 side was Nick Faldo, who just happens to do one of the finest Seve impressions in the civilized world. The European locker room was a somber place after the narrow loss. They’d given it all and come up short. In bursts Seve. “We must celebrate!” Faldo says in his best Ballesteros lilt. “This is a victory for us!” Seve was right, of course.
The next year Europe broke the string of losses by winning at The Belfry. At the team celebration afterward, the wives began singing their own version of “America,” from West Side Story. “We’re going to win in America! We’re going to win in America!” And all the boys joined in. “That was a great moment,” says Sir Nick. And win they did, at Jack’s place in Ohio.
Since losing in Palm Beach, Europe has won 12, lost 6 and tied one, good enough that year to retain the cup. The U.S. will be favored at brutish Bethpage. The New York fans will be obnoxious; the traffic on the Long Island Expressway will be horrendous; but don’t underestimate the defenders. They still know how to sing.
By Deborah Salomon
Photographs by John Gessner
Some houses come with their own histories. Others conform to their residents’ tastes and lifestyles. A very few built by builders or interior designers for personal occupancy showcase materials and expertise. This one began with a sad event, then blossomed into a happy ending.
Randy Boyd, an interior designer based in California’s Laguna Beach and Palm Springs, had been friends with Joyce Reehling, a New York-based TV, film and stage actress, for more than 30 years. Joyce and her husband, Tony Elms, retired to Pinehurst in 2008, where their contributions to the arts community have been significant. When Tony died in 2024, Randy visited Pinehurst to support Joyce. He and partner Mark Stine, liked what they saw: a pretty little town filled with interesting people involved in worthwhile activities. Some but not all were retirees. They were looking to relocate and saw much to like beyond Pinehurst’s reputation for golf.
“We fell in love with the village, the charm, the people,” Randy says.
Finding the right living space was a major factor, given Randy’s profession, which he planned to continue pursuing. The shoemaker’s children, after all, mustn’t go barefoot. He and Mark shared similar tastes. Neither pined for historic Pinehurst properties, a good thing since most Old Town Taras and Georgians are spoken for. Better a bright, breezy Camelot that Randy could transform with ideas gained as an antique dealer, the kind who scours France and sends back shipping containers full of fascinating stuff.
How about two handsome armoires, one shelved for shoes, a rustic pine grandmother clock and statuesque lamp bases? But all the right stuff is just the beginning. Randy nods “yes” when asked if hanging photos and paintings isn’t an art itself: height, layout, subjects, frames. He measures and draws, then mocks up on the floor. Originality counts, like a bedroom wall hung with portraits of men, likely 19th century, with facial hair and pensive expressions.
“The guy in the middle reminds me of Poirot,” Randy says. “He makes me smile.”
Another bedroom pays homage to Randy’s mother and grandmother, their nearly life-sized portraits dominating intersecting walls. Color, even white, adds excitement, like the filmy white “veils” hanging off tall bedposts; the overstuffed quilt where two big dogs sleep; blankets woven with multi-colored threads; a chair upholstered in lime green, others covered in line drawings of rabbits on a white background — all different, all unusual, related only by their unpredictability.
Both bathrooms required gutting. One returned papered in rich jewel-toned leaf shapes, the other in staccato black and white.
Variety, tempered by surprise, rules. Art, formal or not-so, needs an airy, well-lit display venue. At 2,300 square feet, this semi-detached brick unit with 13-foot salon ceilings, an eyebrow front door and British-themed neighborhood signage fit the couple’s furnishings. Mature trees, a reprieve from longleaf pines, manicured boxwoods and weathered brick exteriors give a settled appearance, while two walled terraces anchored by olive oil jug planters expand entertaining space.
Randy and Mark purchased the unit, hired a contractor, rented an air B&B for the duration and got to work. The project took less than a year. They, along with their two pups, moved in May, along with Randy’s business, Thurston Boyd Interior Design.
Each room showcases several pieces or a collection. In the living room, Lucite shelves hold bright Chinese roof tiles in the form of warriors protecting the property. In ancient times, quality of workmanship symbolized wealth and social status. Balancing their artistry, a contemporary sofa and simple painted wood coffee table face the proscenium opening into the dining room, where four paintings (by Mark’s niece) of flowers in vases suggest, in brilliance and style, Van Gogh sunflowers or a mixed bouquet by Cézanne. Hung against wallpaper that wriggles with life, they are anything but “still.” A massive, intricately carved desk, perhaps Asian, offsets the colors, as does a gathering of spider-webby landscape prints.
The kitchen, small but efficient, locates the gas range top on a center island. Almost bare countertops and blue-grayish cupboards impart Shaker plainness interrupted only by a collection of whimsical ceramic pitchers aligned on a pantry shelf. A sideboard with a built-in frontal wine rack resides here.
Opposite the kitchen is a dining area — a touch more formal than a breakfast nook — that opens out onto a patio, where a life-sized alligator, carved from wood, lurks among the planters. Throughout, carpet and tile were replaced by stained hardwood, knotty and laid randomly.
Nothing here blares California, but nothing screams Old Pinehurst, either — the house lacks a name or a resident ghost. It blends practicality with charm, fine art with a dash of fun, all the trademarks of “Pinehurst Now,” where wine-tastings, farmers markets, walking tours, pickleball and food festivals fill out calendars.
“People are so friendly,” Mark says. “It’s like we’ve lived here for years.”
By Deborah Salomon
These days, given world trade issues, where products originate has become a political issue. Halloween and Christmas won’t be the same if tariffs outprice merch made in China, where neither holiday is celebrated but manufacturing, even with shipping, costs less than producing the stuff Stateside.
Pondering that reminds me of how the Industrial Revolution brought about factories filled with machines that turned out never-dreamed-of products. Some resulted in humorous truisms like, “You can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube.”
How it got there in the first place? Some clever fellow designed and built an assembly line performing a series of functions that turned a flat piece of metal into a tube filled with paste.
These literal “machinations” made mass production possible . . . and a lotta engineers rich, since each product required the design and production of its own machine. Some machines became famous in their own right — like Hershey Kisses, wrapped on a conveyer belt the size of the Jersey Turnpike at the rate of 20,000 a minute at the Hershey, Pennsylvania, factory.
Ever wonder how Oreos are assembled? Are the round wafers identical, top and bottom? The Nabisco website isn’t exactly forthcoming, fearing patent infringement, I guess. At the rate of 400 billion a year in myriad varieties, their machines are calibrated for uniformity. The three-step process turns the chocolate or vanilla wafer on its back, releases the vanilla filling, adds the second wafer. No overhang tolerated. Temperature keeps the filling from oozing out . . . but how is that temp maintained in a factory?
Any malfunction in the process results in the loss of thousands of cookies, which must be converted into the crumbs populating ice cream, yogurt, pie crusts, maybe toothpaste.
I still haven’t figured out how frozen green peas get into plastic bags without spilling all over the factory floor. Another packaging puzzler: the sodden pad that comes between chicken parts and the polystyrene tray. Do we pay for this run-off weighing half a pound?
The most fascinating mechanical wonder is the machine that makes individually wrapped slices of orange processed “cheese.” Betcha never noticed that packages are labeled American “slices” or “singles,’’ not “cheese,” because their formula does not conform to government standards. Unfortunately, Americans value wrappings and convenience more than the flavor of natural cheddar, which melts nicely but develops mold if not properly wrapped and stored. Grilled cheese lovers are squeamish about trimming specks of mold — another quirk for the French to mock.
By the mid-20th century, packaging rendered a brand or product instantly recognizable. Oatmeal still comes in cardboard cylinders, maple syrup in glass jugs with handles, eggs in sectioned boxes. Mayonnaise jars are the same shape, but plastic. The glass originals still deliver soup to a sick friend. Better pasta sauces and a few fruits still come in canning jars with metal twist lids, priced accordingly. Occasionally I see a tall, tin saltines container. In the past, these monoliths enjoyed rebirth as crayon bins. Or Lego storage. The kids made little magnetic Scottie dogs creep up the sides.
Am I the last granny to remember Velveeta bricks in wooden “crates” with sliding tops? Or individual serving yogurts in half the flavors but with snap-on lids?
I still wonder why granulated sugar comes in paper bags, which absorb enough moisture to allow hardening into a brick.
As with mayo jars, I try to reuse containers with secure lids instead of buying new ones at the $1.25 store. For years, the best were 32-ounce Food Lion house brand semi-opaque sherbet containers with a tight lid, perfect for stacking homemade chocolate chip cookies for the flight north to my grandsons. Then FL changed the size and material.
Darn. Took me forever to find a replacement, this time at Lowes Foods: 54 ounce Kemps sherbet, with a secure lid and room for extra cookies.
But first somebody has to eat 54 ounces of sherbet.
Wild strawberry’s the best.
Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey
Many moons ago, my mom would — in my memory, at least — merrily skip along the wooded trails of my childhood, wicker basket in hand, humming a little tune while foraging for mushrooms in the later months of the year. We children usually followed along curiously while my dad trailed behind us, ever so doubtful about my mom’s undertaking. And I don’t blame him.
Hunting for wild mushrooms is serious business. Looking at guidebooks that list edible mushrooms together with their toxic doppelgänger, I find myself squinting at the images to spot the difference and still am uncertain. Sadly, I did not pick up on my mom’s traditional knowledge of identifying wild mushrooms. Much like my dad, I have internalized the old adage “when in doubt, throw it out.” Or rather, when in doubt, don’t even touch, let alone add, the ’shrooms to your basket.
Just because you don’t forage for mushrooms doesn’t mean you’re condemned to a life of grocery store portobellos, as tasty as they can be. Thanks to the ever growing number of independent mushroom farmers, we now have access to a wide variety of fungi — even in, and certainly outside, the produce aisles.
As a quasi-flexitarian — someone who eats meat only occasionally — I adore mushrooms as the quintessential meat substitute. With their meat-like texture and plenty of umami (savory flavor) mushrooms have always been, and always will be, my favorite ingredient in vegetarian dishes.
Mushroom and Chestnut Stroganoff
(Serves 2)
Ingredients
3 tablespoons olive oil (divided)
6 ounces chestnuts, cooked and cut in half
16 ounces mushrooms, such as oyster, maitake, shiitake or cremini, sliced
1 medium onion, chopped
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 cup sherry
1 tablespoon flour, such as all-purpose or arrowroot
1 1/2 cups vegetable broth
3/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground pepper
1 tablespoon whole-grain mustard
1/4 cup crème fraîche (optional)
8 ounces cooked pasta, such as egg noodles or rotini
Parsley or chives, chopped, for garnish
Instructions
Heat a large skillet over medium heat, add one tablespoon of olive oil and gently toast the chestnuts until they are fragrant and golden, about 4-5 minutes. Transfer chestnuts to a bowl and set aside. Without adding any more oil to the skillet, begin sautéing mushrooms. Do not crowd the pan and work in batches, if necessary. Cook mushrooms until they start releasing their juices. Allow juices to evaporate and continue to cook briefly while stirring until mushrooms turn golden brown. Transfer to a plate and set aside. Add two tablespoons olive oil to the skillet and sauté onions for 4-5 minutes; add garlic and smoked paprika. Continue to cook for another minute. Add sherry and allow to cook off. Stir in flour, add broth, salt, pepper and mustard, and continue to stir. Bring sauce to a simmer, then add chestnuts and mushrooms and cook until sauce is reduced by about half, approximately 8-10 minutes. Take off heat, stir in crème fraîche, if using, and serve with pasta. Garnish with parsley or chives.
By Tom Bryant
The sun seemed to be stuck, hanging right at the top of the tree line as if to say, “You think it’s hot now? Wait, there’s another three hours of daylight, and I’m gonna make it a smoker.”
Shadows had moved away from my shady spot at the edge of the pines, so I decided to truck it to the barn for some libation and conversation. I could see from a distance I was not alone in escaping the heat.
It was Labor Day and the opening of dove season. The usual group was invited for the festivities: a barbecue, good company and a dove shoot that opened the season for a bird hunter.
We seem to forget that early September in North Carolina sometimes rivals the middle of July in heat. But you get used to it. I remembered other dove shoot occasions when the heat was bearing down and the doves didn’t fly until that persistent sun settled a little lower behind the trees.
The boys from Slim’s put the hunt together. Boys meaning longtime customers who used Slim’s country store as a meeting spot to catch up with news from around the neighborhood.
We were hunting a field I was familiar with. Many years before, our Ducks Unlimited group had used the same acreage for our annual hunt after all the festivities celebrating DU the weekend before. The field remained basically the same, about a hundred acres of cut-over corn, maybe too big for our little group to cover, but most of us were there for the camaraderie, not necessarily to shoot doves, though we were convinced that doves were the best eating in the bird wild game repertoire.
I stopped by the truck on the way up to the barn, unloaded my shotgun, stuck it in the back and pulled out the old camp chair I keep in the rear cargo area with my cooler.
“Well, just ask Bryant,” Johnson said.
I picked out a shady spot under the tin overhang of the old tobacco barn, leaned back against the ancient log walls and said, “Ask Bryant what, old friend? You know I will reply even if I don’t know the answer. But with my plethora of knowledge, it’ll be good.”
The good old boys had a chuckle, and Johnson followed up with, “You were in the newspaper business forever, even owning one. How come they’re vanishing like ripe persimmons in the middle of possum country?”
If anything, Johnson had a way with words.
“It’s simple,” I replied. “Check out that smartphone you’ve got in your back pocket.”
“It’s in the truck. I don’t carry that fool thing with me everywhere I go.”
“Good for you, Johnson. But let’s see how many of us have that ‘fool thing’ on our person.”
Five out of the seven of us had phones. I was like Johnson. Mine was in the truck.
“Well, they’s good in emergencies, like if old Andy over there . . . ” and he pointed at Andy, who was dozing, his head lolling a bit. Andy perked up, saying, “What are y’all talking about?”
“Like I was saying,” Johnson replied. “If that old geezer over there went out to the far end of the dove field, tripped and shot himself in the foot, he could use his phone to call for help.”
“Speak for yourself,” Andy said, “And I ain’t a geezer. I’m just a little older than you, as I recall.”
“Technology,” I said, reaching in the cooler for a bottle of water. “That was the final nail in the old coffin. Your phones, your computers, and above all else, the internet ushered in the demise of newspapers as we once knew them. But . . . ” I paused for effect, “there was one other thing that shut the industry down, including the big boys. Newspapers you would have thought would be here forever. Gone. And the reason?” I stood up and grabbed a ham biscuit from the communal cooler that Johnson had put together the evening before.
“What?” Andy said. “What?”
“Money, greed and the unalterable knowledge that the business has been here forever and that’s where it will remain.”
Johnson said, “You’ve been in the newspaper business a long time. What’s your reasoning the industry failed so fast?”
“Hey, guys,” I said, “we here to shoot birds or talk about newspapers?”
“It’s still too hot. The birds aren’t gonna fly until almost sundown. Give us your opinion, Tom. I’ve been reading the N&O for nigh on 40 years, and now they don’t even publish it anymore.”
“OK, OK. Here’s what I think, the short version. I started in the business right out of the Marine Corps, just married and a student at Elon. I worked part time catching the press, then moved into the circulation department, then the advertising section as an ad executive. After a while they made me the advertising director. The years I spent doing those jobs convinced me that a medium-sized monopoly newspaper in a small metropolitan area almost has a license to print money. They were extremely successful.”
“If they were a money-making machine, why did they fall so fast?” Johnson asked.
“Just because they were so good at what they did. The big boys came in and bought them all, and then promptly killed the goose that was laying all those golden eggs. They called it economy of scale or something like that. They consolidated all the ancillary efforts to their home base, fired all the old-timers, the folks who had been working at the papers for a long time and had built up a good base of pay, and put the squeeze on expenses, so much so that to get a few more pencils or note paper, a multitude of requisitions had to be filled out in duplicate. They didn’t realize that their cost-cutting was cutting them right out of business.”
I got up, stretched and checked out the spot on the field where I would hunt. It was still a scorching afternoon although the sun was slowly dropping behind the pines. The boys were unusually quiet as I stood there looking to the tree line.
Even I was surprised that I was so depressingly down on the business I had dedicated my life to. But there was one redeeming piece of information I felt compelled to relay to the good old boys. I turned and stood there like a schoolmaster preaching to his wards.
“Boys, there is one great promising revelation I’m gonna tell you about. For the last 10 years of my career, as y’all well know, I worked for a group of people who were not afraid to spend a little money to revise the way we did business. It was led by a young fellow who worked hard and smart. He created a business plan that is now the envy of the industry. This gentleman saw exactly where newspapers were heading and decided to get off the train that was rapidly approaching the destroyed bridge. I can hear him right now saying, ‘If anyone in our community wants local news, they will come to us.’ Now, with the newspaper doing well, with four magazines in major markets and a statewide business magazine, he doesn’t rest on his laurels. He’s always planning.”
I folded up the old camp chair.
“OK, enough of the lecture. I see birds moving, and I’m gonna make for my corner. Y’all be careful, and Andy, make sure you take your phone in case you shoot yourself in the foot.”
The boys laughed and headed out in the field.
When American painter Edward Hopper felt blocked he would devour pulp crime novels and private eye stories or spend entire days at the cinema watching film noir. In partnership with the Arts Council of Moore County, the Exhibition on the Screen series at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, features Hopper: An American Love Story, on Thursday, Sept. 4, at 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. Then, at the end of the month, the series continues with John Singer Sargent, renowned as the greatest portrait painter of his era. Showtimes at the Sunrise are Tuesday, Sept. 23, at 2 p.m., and Thursday, Sept. 25, at 7 p.m. For more information and tickets go to www.sunrisetheater.com.
The Sandhills Repertory Theatre pairs Ol’ Blue Eyes with the woman who made Oz famous in Sinatra & Garland: The Concert That Could Have Been, on Saturday, Sept. 20, at 2 p.m.and 7:30 p.m., and Sunday, Sept. 21, at 2 p.m., at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For info go to
www.sunrisetheater.com.
The Woofstock fundraiser to help upgrade Martin Park for man’s best friends is Saturday, Sept. 20, from 10 a.m. – 2 p.m. at Memorial Park, 210 Memorial Park Court, Southern Pines. There will be music, contests, food trucks and vendors with doggy and people stuff. For information call (910) 692-7376.
Hold on to your palette knives on Friday, Sept. 5. Southern Pines Parks and Rec will be celebrating Art Day at the Downtown Park from 5 – 7 p.m. Drop off a canvas or create one on the spot depicting what you love about S.P. Cost is $2. Best in show will be displayed in conjunction with Autumnfest in October. For information call (910) 692-7376. Also from 5 – 7 p.m., the Artists League of the Sandhills will hold an opening reception for an exhibit featuring the best in show and first place winners of the June 2023, ’24 and ’25 judged shows. The prize-winning art will be on display at 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Info: www.artistleague.org. And also in the mix, the Arts Council of Moore County opens “Entanglements” from 6 – 8 p.m. displaying the works of Jo Tomsick, Josiah King and Luke Huling. The exhibit at the Campbell House, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, hangs until Sept. 26. Call (910) 692-2787 or visit
The Virginia MacDonald Quartet with MacDonald on clarinet, Bruce Barth on piano, Mark Lewandowski on bass and Maria Marmarou on drums performs on the lawn at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines on Sunday, Sept. 28 beginning at 2 p.m. For information go to
www.weymouthcenter.org.
Take the Wayback Machine and listen to the Chicago tribute band Chi-Town Transit Authority on Friday, Sept. 19, from 7 – 9 p.m. at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. If You’re Feelin’ Stronger Every Day, tickets begin at $35. For more information and, honestly, Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? go to www.sunrisetheater.com.
John “Papa” Gros is a New Orleans artist, keyboardist, singer and songwriter, and you get to hear him perform for free on the First Bank Stage on the grassy knoll next to the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, on Friday, Sept. 5, from 5 – 9 p.m. Y’all know the drill. The music doesn’t cost a dime but the beer requires both money and the appropriate age. Leave the four-legged friends at home. For more information go to www.sunrisetheater.com.
Writer, performer and comedic actress Erin Foley headlines the Bradshaw Performing Arts Center’s comedy series on Monday, Sept. 22, from 7 – 8 p.m. in the Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Among her many credits, Foley has been on Chelsea Lately, Curb Your Enthusiasm and co-starred in the cult classic movie Almost Famous. She is the host and creator of Herlights, a podcast with over 300 episodes dedicated to covering women’s sports. For information and tickets go to
www.ticketmesandhills.com.
The Shaw House Heritage Fair and Moore Treasures Sale begins on Friday, Sept. 12, from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the Shaw House, 110 W. Morganton Road, Southern Pines. There will be collectibles, pottery, jewelry, art, antiques, vintage books, toys, glassware and on and on. The Heritage Fair, benefiting the Moore County Historical Society, continues on Saturday, Sept. 13, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., with vendors, food, live music, old-time craft demonstrations and farm animals tame enough for petting. For information go to www.moorehistory.com.
Too country for rock and too rock for country, the high energy Charlotte band Bourbon Sons supplies the sound for Live After 5 from 5:15 – 9 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 12, at the Village Arboretum, 375 Magnolia Road, Pinehurst. Bring chairs, blankets and your toe-tapping boots. There will be food trucks and kids’ stuff, too. For info go to www.vopnc.org.
By Emilee Phillips
In the dark basement of a sprawling farmhouse, a mother and son work daily — and meticulously — tending to colorful bunches of oyster and lion’s mane mushrooms. Like the natural mushroom systems that grow underground, the labyrinthine basement is laid out in intricate patterns, a maze of rooms, each dedicated to its own phase of cultivation.
The rhythmic routine of misting, monitoring humidity and harvesting is as much art as it is science — a quiet but steady labor rooted in patience and precision only to be broken up by the laughter of a family joke.
In a home that sits on 200 acres of farmland that has been in the family for three generations, Candice Graham and Jonathan Bumgarner have converted their basement into Cranes Creek Mushrooms, breathing new life into empty space.
There is something profoundly grounding about a family farm. In the fast-paced, ever-changing landscape of modern life, the farm represents a constant — a space where the rhythms of nature dictate the pace of life, where the priorities shift from instant gratification to patience. It’s about cultivating a lifestyle that prioritizes sustainability, where food is grown with intention, animals are raised with care, and the land is honored as a precious resource.
Graham inherited the farm from her mother, who wasn’t a farmer herself but had a vision for her children’s future. In an act at the intersection of hope and business, she arranged for 322 pecan trees to be planted that, one day, would tower over the land and provide an additional revenue stream to sustain the farm. Though still young, some of her trees are beginning to produce, her promise literally coming to fruition.
Determined not to see the land broken up and sold off, the family had to get creative. They decided to take a leap into the unknown with mushroom farming. Aside from pecans, neither Graham nor Bumgarner had dabbled in agriculture before. “You take one step forward and three steps back with farming,” Graham says. “There’s a lot of education and research involved.”
Their first summer was trial and error. Beginning outside in a barn, they quickly learned the unpredictability of the effect natural climates can have on fungus farming — an experience that resulted in a complete do-over and driving them inside and underground. One way to bypass the natural limitations of mushroom farming, such as seasonality, is through indoor farming, which allows for year-round production and more control over the finicky crop. Now Cranes Creek Mushrooms produces a variety of oyster mushrooms, including black pearl, elm, chestnut, king trumpet and blue. From start to finish the process takes about two to three months. Lion’s mane — especially prized for tinctures and unique dishes — takes even longer, requiring about five months to grow. The longest part of the process is the preparation and sanitation of everything.
“It’s a very sterilized process, which is ironic considering how much mold mushrooms produce,” Bumgarner says with a chuckle.
The operation begins by soaking wheat grains to use as a breeding ground for the mushroom spores to colonize and reproduce, building vast networks of their root-like structures, called mycelium. Then the spawn is placed into large biodegradable bags and formed into blocks. The blocks are monitored closely after spores are added. These blocks are then arranged on rows of shelves in one of the converted basement rooms, where the mushrooms grow mostly in the dark, changing color from brown to white to nearly black, and then back to white again. In the wild, this part of the journey would happen underground.
“If it gets just one little germ in it, it multiples,” Graham says. If at any point in the process something appears wonky, the entire bag must be discarded. It’s survival of the fittest for these fungi. “You have to keep an eye on them every single day,” she says.
In another room, the next phase begins in large inflatable tents equipped with zippered doors and climate control. This “fruiting” space is lined with shelves of carefully arranged grow blocks that sprout with alien-like forms. Mushrooms thrive in humidity, but the temperature must be carefully managed. “A lot of people think mushrooms grow in the dark, but they actually crave light,” Graham says.
The family works in the tents wearing masks to avoid inhaling too many spores in the confined space. “A lot of it is about the tedious little things,” Bumgarner says.
“None of the labor is hard; you just have to keep an eye on them. It’s like having little babies,” Graham says.
Just days after the fungi begin emerging from the mycelium bags, they’re ready to harvest. For Bumgarner, the most satisfying part is twisting off a large clump of mushrooms, a small and crisp snap accompanying the plucking. Oyster mushrooms sprout in delicate clusters, their soft, fan-shaped caps unfolding in shades of pale cream or dusky blue-gray, like the soft brushstrokes of a watercolor painting. The bushels vary in size, resembling bouquets of flowers.
Just as mushrooms seemingly pop up out of nowhere, so too has their rise in popularity. With growing awareness of their health benefits, mushrooms were named “Ingredient of the Year” by The New York Times in 2022. At the Moore County Farmers Market in Southern Pines, Graham and Bumgarner regularly set up their booth with a selection of oyster mushrooms, lion’s mane and mushroom tinctures, all far from your average white button mushroom. They take the time to educate the curious about the complexities of mushrooms, whether for cooking or as tinctures. “We’re met with a lot of curiosity,” says Graham.
Every week, it seems, the duo find themselves explaining the benefits of lion’s mane mushrooms with their distinctive, almost otherworldly appearance — long, white, hair-like tendrils resembling the mythical abominable snowman. Despite the growing buzz around their potential health benefits, Graham and Bumgarner are often surprised when people haven’t heard of lion’s mane. Graham takes tincture droplets daily, which she believes improves memory and reduces inflammation. For them, mushrooms aren’t just a culinary ingredient; they’re a form of nature’s medicine.
The two are also experimenting growing rieshi mushrooms, which are thought to help aid relaxation. “Everyone needs to relax more,” says Graham. Mushroom-based products like mushroom coffee have been gaining popularity in recent years, but Bumgarner believes tinctures are the way to go. “They’re more potent, pure, and taste better,” he says. Cranes Creek Mushrooms soak their mushrooms in pure vodka to make their tinctures.
Oyster and lion’s mane mushrooms are seldom found in traditional grocery stores. In many ways, they are a quiet luxury, accessible to those who shop with intention at places like farmers markets and co-ops. Their luxury isn’t due to high cost or rarity, but rather their shelf life, which makes them less suited for conventional grocery store environments.
In addition to the farmers market, you can find Cranes Creek Mushrooms in gourmet dishes from local restaurants such as Ashten’s and Elliott’s on Linden. For Bumgarner, nothing beats the simplicity of sautéing mushrooms in butter. He and his mother agree that lion’s mane has a more unique texture, almost chicken-like, with a flavor that is difficult to explain to someone who has never tasted it. “It’s meatier,” he says. “One of the most interesting things I’ve learned about mushrooms is that you don’t get any of the benefits, other than fiber, unless you cook them.”
Graham says the shared mother and son moments are one of the most rewarding parts of their business. “We get a lot of family time. We can tease and talk and work.” As someone passionate about eco-friendly practices, Graham was thrilled to learn about the benefits the mushroom spawn blocks could bring to the soil on the farm.
Along with mushrooms, Graham and Bumgarner have added quail and chickens to their operation, knowing the extra minerals and nutrients from the spent mushroom blocks can aid the overall health of the animals on their property. “We are trying to get to the point where the farm supports itself,” she says. “I also have to stay busy or I’m not happy.”
More than a business, Cranes Creek Mushrooms is life underground, a labor of love, fueled by family.
By Claudia Watson
It’s a slight squeak of the wooden gate that welcomes me to the garden, but once I step inside, the sounds shift. There’s a gentle breeze rustling the leaves, creating a soft whisper. The garden’s colors and textures blend with its aromatic smells and birdsong. It’s a soothing symphony, all mine for a few sacred minutes at dawn.
Nature has always been an escape for me, keeping me centered even in the most challenging of times. When I was young, I filled the hours in a woodland and creek, teasing polliwogs, rock-hopping and chasing the delicate butterflies flitting among the wildflowers. Then, I’d seek my secret sanctuary, an ancient white birch tree, snuggle into its curved hollow and listen as the wind in its branches whispered.
Immersive experiences, such as those youthful pursuits, connect us to nature’s wonders. We are hard-wired to find them engrossing, soothing and a powerful tool for healing. Gardens are particularly well-suited to tap into those connections in health care settings where life-challenging and life-threatening events are amplified.
Healing gardens engage the senses and foster those connections. They are designed with a passive involvement approach that allows visitors to be present and absorb the elements of nature, without structured activities and programs.
It was the long and exhausting experience of caring for their loved ones in the hospital that motivated Dr. Lynda Acker and Cassie Willis to approach the Foundation of FirstHealth with a vision to construct a healing garden on the regional hospital system’s Pinehurst campus. Acker and Willis were longtime gardeners, and it was their vision and design, supported by the community’s love for the concept and philanthropic spirit, that brought the Healing Garden oasis to life in 2012.
Located behind the Clara McLean House, the public garden is meticulously designed, expansive and mature. On any given day, it might host a patient undergoing treatment at the hospital, a medical provider taking a break, or a garden club enjoying the season’s blooms. Its beauty and tranquility instill a sense of calm and peace.
Upon entering the Healing Garden through its rose-laden moongate, a visitor is immediately greeted by the sound of birdsong. This auditory experience, combined with the garden’s visual beauty, creates a tone that sets the stage for a peaceful and engaging journey. The meandering, curved stone paths encourage exploration and curiosity about what lies around the next turn.
Small seating areas, including an intimate Lutyens bench in the Cottage Garden surrounded by mophead hydrangeas and roses, invite visitors to linger. The replica of a 15th century English stone dovecote serves as the visual and functional centerpiece of the garden.
The bounty of unusual trees, including a mature loquat, towering snowball viburnum, Chinese elms and vitex, adds a sense of curiosity. Beds of showy Japanese anemones and Mexican petunias add bursts of color. At the same time, sensory stimulation is offered by new dawn climbing roses, daisies, native salvias, herbs and a grey owl juniper that smells like a Christmas tree.
Many plants possess unique features that make them a natural conversation starter. One morning, as I was guiding our weekly volunteer work session, I was approached by a visitor intent on learning more about the plant he held in his hand.
“Can you please tell me the name of this?” asked 76-year-old Harlan Devore, holding out a weed.
“Chickweed,” I said.
“The Latin name, please?” he asked.
Embarrassed, I replied, “I don’t know.”
It was the beginning of our friendship, made in the garden. Devore, a retired military officer and science teacher for 20 years, was a patient undergoing treatment for cancer and staying at the Clara McLean House.
“I grew up loving plants because my mom did and she always used a plant’s Latin name, so that’s how I know plants, not by the common name,” he told me. Using a lot of show-and-tell, we discussed weeds in two languages. He met many of the garden’s volunteers and then asked if he could pull the weeds when he had spare time.
“Sure, if you’re OK with the work. It would be greatly appreciated,” I said, and showed him where we stored our tools and the debris bins.
When I returned a couple of days later, I found three 32-gallon bins full of weeds. Later that week, Devore asked if he could join the garden volunteers every week. He believes that active physical involvement with the garden enhanced his healing while instilling a sense of usefulness and accomplishment — and he made new friends who share his love for it. Today, he’s in remission, spending time with his family, volunteering for numerous organizations, kayaking on a local lake and, of course, pulling weeds at home.
“You reflect on your life, but sitting by the garden’s waterfall reading and listening to the birds took my mind off my worries,” he says of the garden. “I felt absorbed into nature, and that helped me relax.”
Gardens and natural spaces enrich both the body and the soul. When you view nature, you become embraced by its tranquility and beauty. It’s a welcome distraction, especially if you’re grieving. The gardens on the FirstHealth Hospice and Palliative Care campus opened in 2015 and were conceptualized with nature in mind, recalls Acker, who, with Sally DeWinkeleer, designed the peaceful space. With its carpets of densely planted, vibrant flowers and plants, the gardens provide patients, families and caregivers a place for rest, reflection and engagement with nature.
“We considered the individual needs of those who will benefit from this space,” explains Acker. “They need relief from the stressful conditions and long hours in Hospice House. The gardens and the outdoor sitting and walking areas provide respite at any time of the day or night.”
In addition to the beautiful flowers and serene atmosphere, the gardens feature a single-path labyrinth shaded by white Natchez crape myrtles. The labyrinth serves as a therapeutic tool, encourages mindfulness, and is designed to help individuals navigate the complex emotions associated with grief and loss.
“It’s a meditative experience, a reflection of your journey,” says DeWinkeleer, who lost her mother before working on the project. “It was a powerful and safe way to help me process my grief.”
A small pond was placed at a corner across from the Hospice House, where its mesmerizing movement and gentle sound offer a calming space to passersby.
One of the most poignant scenes at the gardens happens in early spring, when the grounds present a breathtaking display of thousands of cheerful daffodils. As the sun crests the horizon at dawn, its golden light illuminates the fields of daffodils, symbolizing hope, rebirth and new beginnings.
The healing gardens at FirstHealth of the Carolinas, including two of its newest at the Cancer Center, are lovingly cared for by community volunteers, many of whom have spent years tending them. These dedicated individuals aren’t just nurturing plants — they are creating an environment where patients, families and staff find peace and serenity during some of life’s most challenging times.
“When I saw how many people found comfort in this garden, I knew I had to be part of it,” says Melanie Riley, a volunteer at FirstHealth’s Cancer Center, which opened in 2023. Riley had just begun the 13-week Extension Master Gardener program with the Moore County Extension Service when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. After reviewing the options, she elected a double mastectomy, and days later, passed her final EMG exam. After her recovery, she began volunteering at the Cancer Center’s Healing Gardens, co-designed by Acker and the building’s architect.
“Working here among those with cancer, as well as survivors, gave me a sense of control over my health and emotions,” she says. Now cancer-free, Riley says her experience in the garden was not only life-enhancing, it became life-rebuilding. She cherishes her mornings working in both the lobby-level and rooftop healing gardens.
“Patients and their caregivers come out to the garden for an uplifting distraction from their concerns,” she says. “I’ll introduce myself as a cancer survivor and offer them an encouragement stone that’s engraved with an uplifting message.”
That small stone is often the conversation starter, as they share their experiences. “It’s such an important validation for them to know another has made it through,” says Riley, reflecting on her own turbulent passage through the disease. “Then, I’ll notice a shift in their mindset. They are calmer and will ask about the flowers and plants, as well as the little bugs they see. They leave their worries for a bit and depart with a brighter perspective and a smile.
“It’s magical when they step into the nature of it all.”
Time spent in green spaces has a profound and positive impact on our lives. Whether it’s birdsong, a gurgling stream or the wind blowing through the tall trees, nature provides joy and comfort. Listen closely, as it whispers, “All is well.”
By Bill Fields
Amid some recent decluttering — well, to be honest, plain old rummaging through the contents of a castaway cardboard box obtained from the ABC store that had sat for years in the closet of my childhood home — I found a letter to my mother from my first-grade teacher at East Southern Pines Elementary, Alice Caddell.
“It has been a joy to teach Bill this year,” Mrs. Caddell wrote. “He is a very intelligent boy, and I am expecting great things from him. Bill has been so good to share his books and toys with us. We do appreciate it. I shall miss Bill next year.”
Two thoughts immediately came to mind upon reading the handwritten message:
1). The dusting powder Mom gave Mrs. Caddell at the end of the 1965-66 school year must have been of the highest quality.
2). I peaked way too soon.
Clearly — and thank goodness — Mrs. Caddell never compared notes with math teachers I had further down the line when the work was more complicated than adding and subtracting the wobbly numbers I’d formed with a thick pencil on wide-ruled paper. My score on the math portion of the SAT was the equivalent of getting blown out 56-7 on a Saturday afternoon in September. If she had seen that, she might have reconsidered her praise for a boy who had let classmates play with his G.I. Joe and Matchbox cars.
Even if it has been a long time since you’ve been in a classroom, recollections of the good and the bad come flooding back this time of year.
You certainly recall the places where you learned. In my case, that meant nine years of elementary and middle school on the campus between New York Avenue and Massachusetts Avenue in Southern Pines, three years at Pinecrest High School, followed by four years (plus a summer session) at UNC-Chapel Hill.
What you learned? Of course, from cursive to typing, “Run, Spot, run!” to “Emilio y Enrique están aquí.” Montpelier and Pierre were state capital challenges for those of us who grew up taking field trips to a museum or prison in Raleigh. Attempting to dissect a frog in 10th grade biology wasn’t nearly as much fun as chasing tadpoles. My world view broadened upon discovering there are bodies of water in America that make Aberdeen Lake look like a puddle.
But the people we learn from linger most vividly in memory. No one goes through a dozen or more years of school without experiencing at least a few teachers whom you’d rather forget, people ill-suited for the profession going through the motions, more eager for the last bell of the day to ring than even some of their least-motivated pupils. I had a college journalism professor who thought small, throttling my ambition — it didn’t work —instead of feeding it.
Fortunately, those types of individuals are outnumbered by their more skilled and passionate brethren who regardless of personality possess the gift to inspire as well as instruct, whose command of a subject and enthusiasm for it rubs off. That kind of talent results in a student chasing knowledge long after a final exam in a particular course.
Since I didn’t go to kindergarten, Mrs. Caddell got me off on the right foot, and Mrs. Robbins was just as kind and good at her job in second grade. My sixth-grade teacher, Miss Hall, had a gift for making you want to learn, to show off by making excellent grades. In the ninth grade, Spanish teacher Jeanette Metcalf enthusiastically guided me through my introduction to a foreign language.
At Pinecrest, Karen Hickman (journalism) and Eloise Whitesell (English), got me off on sound footing when I was trying to learn how to string sentences together. Once I began taking courses in the School of Journalism at Carolina, Jan Johnson did a great job teaching the basics, although I’m glad none of my early newswriting efforts from J-53 are archived for anyone to see. In a couple of advanced courses I took later, professors John Adams and Richard Cole, true scholars of the craft, were demanding yet nurturing. And regardless of what level or subject someone is teaching, that is an unbeatable combination.
