TV Dinner

Turkey vultures are the ultimate scavengers

By Susan Campbell

There! By the edge of the road: It’s a big, dark bird. It looks sort of like it a wild turkey. But is it? Its head and face are red. It has a pale, hooked bill and a feathery neck. But the tail is the tip-off — it’s short. Definitely not the right look for a turkey — but perfect for a turkey vulture! (Feel free to call it a buzzard — or a “TV” by those in the know.)

The confusion is understandable since wild turkeys have made quite a comeback in Piedmont North Carolina. In fact, turkey vultures and turkeys can occasionally be seen sitting near one another in farm fields where they both can find food or just take advantage of the warmth of the dark ground on cool mornings.

However, turkey vultures are far more likely to be seen soaring overhead or perhaps perched high in a dead tree or cell tower. These birds have an unmistakable appearance in the air, forming a deep V-shape as they soar through the air, sometimes for literally hours on end. They’re easy to spot with their very large wingspans. At the very end of their wings look for their distinctive finger-like primary feathers. The tail serves as a rudder, allowing the bird to navigate effortlessly as it is lifted and transported by thermals and other currents high above the ground.

It is from this lofty vantage that turkey vultures travel in search of their next meal. Although their vision is poor, their sense of smell is keen. They can detect the aroma of a dead animal a mile or more away. They soar in circles, moving across the landscape with wings outstretched, sniffing all the while until a familiar odor catches their attention.

Turkey vultures are most likely to feed on dead mammals but they will not hesitate to eat the remains of a variety of foods including other birds, reptiles and even fish. They prefer freshly dead foods but may have to wait to get through the thick hide of larger animals if there is no wound or soft tissue allowing access. Toothed scavengers such as coyotes may literally need to provide that opportunity. Once vultures can get to flesh, they are quick to devour their food. Without plumage on their heads, there are no feathers to become soiled as they reach into larger carcasses for the morsels deep inside.

Our summering turkey vultures perform elaborate courtship flights in early spring.  One will lead the other through a series of twists, turns and flaps as they pair up. As unattractive as vultures seem to us, they are good parents. Nests are well-hidden in hollow stumps or piles of debris, in old hawk or heron nests or even abandoned buildings. They seek out cooler spots that are well away from human activity in order to protect their blind, naked and defenseless young.

Vulture populations are increasing across North Carolina — probably due to human activity. Roadways create feeding opportunities year-round. Landfills also present easy feeding opportunities as well, believe it or not. During the winter months turkey vultures from the north migrate south, often concentrating in one area. Their large roosts can be problematic. A hundred or more large birds pouring into a stand of mature pines or loitering on a water tower does not go unnoticed.

But most people take turkey vultures for granted or don’t even notice them. In reality, they are unparalleled scavengers — especially given the increase in roadways and the inevitable roadkill that has resulted. PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at susan@ncaves.com.

Poem

BIRD FEEDER

I never said

we weren’t sunk in glittering nature,

until we are able to become something else.

— Mary Oliver

Perches pique a matter of strategic

challenges, this chess game of

poached positions and rotating

flurries of chromatic energy,

as if the flash and dash of feathers

in flight was more about the dance

and not the flush of necessity’s plight . . .

as if we ourselves were not also

in restless rush, breathing out

the flux and plottings of our small

and uncertain profundities.

— Connie Ralston

Scrapbooks

Not long after summer slipped into autumn, we at PineStraw were deeply saddened to learn of the passing of dear friend Cos Barnes, a gifted writer and beloved godmother of this magazine and the Sandhills at large. Cos graced our pages with wit and maternal wisdom for more than a decade and will be greatly missed by us all. In tribute, we present one of our favorite Cos Barnes columns. — The Staff

By Cos Barnes

In preparation for the first move in 30 years, I find it traumatic to destroy the scrapbooks and photo albums that depicted my children’s activities during their growing-up years. Even more traumatic is remembering the people who taught me to be a Tar Heel and love the dear town of Southern Pines. I look at snapshots of us when we were younger, slimmer and cuter, and breathe a prayer for those who helped me along the way.

When I moved here, only a limping civic music association graced our community, and its days were done. We started a new arts council with offices in Storey’s Department Store in the Town and Country Shopping Center. Possibly only Edna Earle Cole remembers Storey’s. Peter McBeth taught me the importance of organized arts activities. You all helped, too.

I remember my good friend Bill Samuels, who died recently. He not only lent his financial wisdom to our decisions in the Community Foundation, but he was always there to address invitations. Lynn Thompson showed me the intricacies of the library’s influence, but also taught me the scope of its programs. She always willingly lent me a quiet room to conduct interviews. When I joined the Arc’s board at the urging of a friend, I did not speak for the first year. They talked in initials which I knew not. However, in no time, I was president. I learned the language quickly from Wendy Russell.

Following my husband’s death, I was asked to fill out his term as a trustee at my church. I would not take anything for the business tactics I learned from those men. When I substituted at Pinecrest High, my most difficult task was Bachelor’s Home Economics. Although we did not make a gathered skirt, we learned to work together, and I learned to appreciate my students and their backgrounds.

I spent many years as a board member of Weymouth with my assignment working with the writers in residence. I took them everywhere to explain and entertain — retirement homes, the college, high schools and elementary schools.

That fiery head of the backpack program, that volunteer of all volunteers, Linda Hubbard, made me know I had to pick up and deliver backpacks. And one of the most pleasurable tasks I have had is taking up tickets at the Sunrise. I have seen Jesse, the manager, take the popcorn and drinks to an older couple who required assistance, and serve them at their seats. And as I roamed through files in my filing cabinet, I came across a reminder from Charlotte Gantz informing me of plant sources in our area. It was dated Fall, 1996.

Keepsakes, no matter how small, all have a story. A polished rock given to me by Betsy Hyde at my first book signing has been on my desk since 1995. My one big question now is what do I do with the framed graduation certificates which have never been hung. I even have my mother’s from National Business College in Roanoke, Va., in 1925. It measures 18 x 21. What do I do with it?

And how do I reward all my colleagues for their kindness? I hope a simple thank you will do.  PS

PinePitch

Conductors of Magic

The Sandhills Central Model Railroad club presents its annual Train Show on Saturday, Nov. 19, from 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. Founded in 1979, the Club is located in the Aberdeen Train Depot, where an HO model railroad features a beautifully constructed re-creation of the town of Aberdeen and surrounding areas. The layout depicts portions of Main, South, and Poplar Streets, U.S. 1 and Hwy. 5, and billboards modeled in detail. Admission: $5; free for children. The Historic Aberdeen Train Depot and Museum, 100 E. Main St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-1115 or explorepinehurst.com.

Fare-Thee-Well

On Thanksgiving Day, 1976, Canadian-American rock group The Band performed a farewell concert that featured more than a dozen special guests, including Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Emmylou Harris, Ringo Starr, Joni Mitchell, Van Morrison, Neil Diamond and Eric Clapton. The performance, which was filmed by Martin Scorsese for a documentary called The Last Waltz, will show for free at the Sunrise Theater this Thanksgiving night (Thursday, Nov. 24), at 7:30 p.m. Rolling Stone magazine called it the “Greatest Concert Movie of All Time.” Sunrise Theater, 250 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8501 or sunrisetheater.com.

Destination: Music

Best thing about a Rooster’s Wife show at Poplar Knight Spot? There isn’t a bad seat in the house. You’ll just want to make sure you snag one. Here’s what’s hot at the Spot this month:

Nov. 4 – Martin Grosswendt and Susanne Salem-Schatz deliver country blues with bottleneck and finger-busting guitar, powerful vocals, soul and wry humor.  Tickets: $10. You can also catch them on Thursday, Nov. 3, 8 p.m., at the Cameo Arthouse Theater, 225 Hay Street, Fayetteville. Tickets: $12.

Nov. 6 – Southern Pines native Sam Lewis comes home from Nashville with a full band and a new record to share his folksy roots and soulful persona with friends new and old. Tickets: $15.

Nov. 11 – Cicada Rhythm. Chilling harmonies and unbridled enthusiasm redefine so-called folk music. Tickets: $10.

Nov. 13 – Joe Walsh delivers his newest project, “Borderland,” for this CD release celebration. The Matt Flinner Trio splits the show. Talk about modern mandolin mayhem — and all things stringed. Tickets: $15.

Nov. 20 – Jordan Tice is a singular voice on the American roots music scene. Stray Local opens. Tickets: $15.

Doors open at 6 p.m. All shows start at 6:46 p.m. The Rooster’s Wife, 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-7502 or www.theroosterswife.org.

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Art that Pops

New work by collage and assemblage artist Louis St. Lewis will be on display at Broadhurst Gallery on Sunday, Nov. 6, at 5 p.m. Hailed as a “cunning pirate of art history,” St. Lewis is a bold and witty artist and designer whose brilliant manipulations of appropriated art grace the collections of French fashion designer Christian LaCroix, former Vogue editor André Leon Talley, The Prince of Kuwait, and Oprah Winfrey. Born in nearby Albemarle, he now divides his time between Raleigh, Paris and New Orleans. Don’t miss his “Collecting Art” talk, during which he just might explain what he means when he says artists are “social court jesters.” Broadhurst Gallery, 2212 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-4817 or www.broadhurstgallery.com.

If These Trees Could Talk

On Saturday, Nov. 5, learn about our region’s first and biggest industry — naval stores — during this fascinating excursion back in time. “Tar, Pitch and Turpentine” will be presented hourly from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. by filmmaker, historian and writer Bryan Avery. Watch Avery extract resin from a tree, light fires to distill turpentine from gum, and more. Bring a blanket or chair for the outdoor demos, and since they’re open, don’t miss the chance to tour the property’s two house-museums. Free admission. Bryant House and McLendon Cabin, 3361 Mount Carmel Road, Carthage. Info: (910) 692-2051 or explorepinehurst.com.

Enchanted Forest

The 20th annual Sandhills Children’s Center Festival of Trees will take place from Wednesday, Nov. 16, through Sunday, Nov. 20, 10 a.m. – 8 p.m. Over 200 decorated trees, wreaths, gift baskets and gingerbread houses will be featured in a winter wonderland complete with live entertainment, silent auction and a Festival Marketplace. Three words: lights, children, magic. Admission by any monetary donation at the door. Proceeds benefit Sandhills Children’s Center. Carolina Hotel, 80 Carolina Vista Drive, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 692-3323 or sandhillschildrenscenter.org/trees.

Made With Love 

The Annual Seagrove Pottery Festival, to be held Saturday, Nov. 19, and Sunday, Nov. 20, from 9 a.m.–5 p.m., celebrates the craft heritage of Seagrove, the Randolph County gem that is home to the largest concentration of working potters in the United States. In addition to pottery — both functional and sculptural— the festival features food vendors and live music, educational activities for children and adults, and demos by blacksmiths, basket makers, woodcarvers, weavers, and potters. Admission: $5. Seagrove Elementary School, 528 Old Plank Road, Seagrove. Info: (336) 873-7887 or discoverseagrove.com.

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Boot Stomping Music

The Hackensaw Boys inject traditional Appalachian and Delta music with a heavy dose of contemporary, good-times-roll kind of spit and vinegar. If the sound of that makes you feel like putting on your dancing boots, mark your calendar for Friday, Nov. 18, 7:30 p.m. Known for their spirited and rowdy live shows, the Hackensaw Boys will perform old favorites and tunes from their latest album at the Sunrise Theater. Produced by Larry Campbell — the multi-instrumentalist wizard who has lent his talents to the likes of Bob Dylan and Levon Helm — “Charismo” has a casual, porch-front aesthetic that’s sharpened around the edges, focusing on the simple beauty of Hackensaw’s melodies and the earnestness in their delivery. Tickets: $20 (general admission); $30 (VIP). Sunrise Theater, 250 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8501 or sunrisetheater.com.

Walk in the Woods

You’ve heard of Eat, Pray, Love? Why not Hike, Pray, Eat? On Thanksgiving Day, meet at the Weymouth Woods Visitor Center for a 10 a.m. discovery hike sure to help you work up an appetite for the afternoon feast. Weymouth Woods Sandhills Nature Preserve is an enchanted window to the longleaf pine forests that once covered millions of acres in the southeastern U.S. The lanky pines – some of them hundreds of years old – tower over expanses of wiregrass and rare and intriguing species, including the red-cockaded woodpecker, pine barrens tree frog, bog spicebush, and fox squirrel. Who knows what else you’ll discover? Wear comfortable shoes and bring bottled water for this ranger-led two-mile hike. Weymouth Woods-Sandhills Nature Preserve, 1024 Fort Bragg Road, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2167 or www.ncparks.gov/weymouth-woods-sandhills-nature-preserve.

Old Fashioned Nights

And the perfect rye whiskey to take off the winter chill

By Tony Cross

Whenever Mother Nature makes up her mind, and decides that she’s going to throw colder weather our way, I always seem to forget how much I love pairing a good whiskey with the chill. There’s something about the burn going down my chest after escaping a cold and rainy night. I’m not reminiscing about the hellfire from a sour mash that I would shoot when I was barely old enough to partake. That had its time and place years ago. Nowadays, especially in good company, I opt for a good rye. One of my favorites over the past few years has been from Utah’s High West Distillery.

Jack Daniel’s was the first whiskey I ever tasted. I hated it. I’m still not fond of the spirit, and I’ll probably get a lot of flak for being honest, but I’d be fine with never ordering it again. On the other hand, I probably wouldn’t turn down a Jack & Coke if one was sent my way. It wasn’t until bourbon began making its presence on the market felt that I began experimenting, and understanding our native hooch. And then I tried rye, and it was all over. The element of spice in a rye whiskey had my taste buds intrigued from day one. Not only that, but I began to notice that rye added much more depth in the whiskey cocktails that I was playing around with. Any chance I got to purchase a new rye (as in new to our local ABC store), I would scoop it up immediately.

High West was recommended to me by a patron one night. He had just returned from a work conference in Park City, Utah, where he encountered the world’s only ski-in gastro-distillery and couldn’t contain his excitement when explaining the myriad food and drink choices on the menu. In addition to serving cocktails with their signature whiskies, High West has an extensive spirits list with everything from Green Chartreuse to, well, Jack Daniel’s. The way he explained the different nuances with High West’s whiskies sounded like an adolescent with every sense aroused. All I knew was that I sure as hell had to get my hands on some.

From my first bottle of their Double Rye! (a blend of two-year and 16-year rye whiskies) to one of their limited releases, Yippee Ki-Yay, a blend of two ryes that are aged in Vya sweet vermouth and Qupé Syrah oak barrels (I yelled it out like Bruce Willis after my first sip. Yeah, that good), proprietor and distiller, David Perkins has yet to disappoint. The mainstay on my shelf is the Rendezvous Rye, a complex rye blend that marries a spicy 6-year-old rye with a more mature 16-year rye that adds a touch of vanilla and caramel. It’s the whiskey you pour with those who will appreciate it. Perfect with a cube of ice, but fantastic in an old-fashioned (recipe below).

In the past few years that I’ve gotten acclimated with rye, more and more distilleries are becoming readily available throughout our state. The increase in sales of whiskey has gone through the roof over the past decade. Just last year alone, whiskey sales grew 7.8 percent. Americans aren’t the only ones with a thirst for our national spirit: Export sales have grown from $743 million in 2005 to $1.56 billion last year. That’s crazy. Even crazier, according to Fortune magazine, with all of the growth of beer distilleries in the U.S., “distilled spirit suppliers and marketers marked the sixth straight year of increasing their market share relative to beer.”

So, it was no surprise to me when I read that High West Distillery has just been purchased by Constellation Brands Inc., owners of Corona beer, Svedka Vodka, and Casa Noble tequila, who also recently purchased Prisoner Wine Co. and Ballast Point Brewing & Spirits. “Uh-oh,” I thought. However, the Wall Street Journal online explained that the 200 employees at the distillery will continue working there, including Mr. Perkins. “The same people will be making and selling it,” the article assured me.

Not log ago, I discovered a bottle of the Double Rye! on the shelf of our local ABC outlet. It’s good to see that our town is adding more premium spirits to their inventory. I have a lot of friends who are bourbon fans, some connoisseurs. If that’s you, I’ll say this: purchase a bottle of rye, take it home, and try it with an ice cube or two; it’ll open up the whiskey like a decanter does for wine. If you’re still not swayed, make an old-fashioned. You’ll blush and cuss.

Old-Fashioned

1 cube demerara sugar

Pinch of brown sugar

3 dashes Angostura bitters

2 dashes orange bitters

2 ounces High West Rendezvous Rye

Lemon and/or orange peel

This cocktail can be built in the glass you (or your guest) will be drinking from, or you can mix it in a cocktail shaker, and strain it into the glass. Either way, make sure the glass is a thick-bottomed 8-10 ounce old-fashioned glass. Also, spend a few extra bucks, and buy small and large ice cube molds. Last time I checked, Southern Whey on Broadstreet had those available. There’s no point in making a cocktail with a $60 whiskey, if it’s going to get watered down immediately with your crappy ice. Place both sugars at the bottom of your mixing vessel. Dash both bitters over the sugar, and muddle it into a paste. Add the whiskey, stir with a mixing spoon for a few seconds, and then add four small ice cubes, and stir for 50 revolutions. If you’re building this cocktail in your glass, carefully add the larger cube, and stir. If you’re using the smaller cubes, strain over the large cube in the rocks glass. I love using a lemon and orange peel for this classic. Express the oils of both peels over the drink before adding them in. Santé!  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern pines. He can also recommend a vitamin supplement for the morning after at Nature’s Own.

Confessions of a Nostalgic Nose

You can talk to the hand. However, the nose remembers all

By Deborah Salomon

The most underrated sense, I believe, is smell.

Remember Al Pacino as a blind veteran dancing the tango in Scent of a Woman, rated among the best all-time film sequences? Unable to witness her beauty, he inhaled.

This opinion results from losing olfactory competence 20 years ago, after a bad cold. It happens, my otorhinolaryngologist said. Don’t argue with a 21-letter specialty. I can’t smell a pot burning on the stove. A bit gets through if I put an orange right under my nose. Fresh paint doesn’t bother me, nor would sitting behind a high school boys’ basketball bench. But I do miss meat loaf, split pea soup and . . . let’s see what else my nose recalls.

Cider mills: Apples permeate October in New England. Nowhere is the aroma stronger than at a cider mill, where whole apples are crushed into a spicy-sweet nectar. You (and the yellow jackets) can smell it half a mile away.

A maple sugarhouse: Early spring nights in Vermont mean boiling freshly collected sap until the water evaporates, leaving pure maple syrup. Forty gallons of sap boil down to a gallon of syrup. Farmers boil all night in sugarhouses — rough cabins that glow against the receding snow. The maple smell is so strong, so delicious you can practically pour it on pancakes.

Lily of the valley: When I was a child, Coty’s Muguet de Bois was a popular fragrance. My mother had a cardboard cylinder of body powder; I would put it near my nose and feel soothed, happy. The powder is still available online, as a vintage product, like Tangee lipstick. Wouldn’t do me any good now.

What happened to new-car smell? I see sprays that provide what new cars have lacked for decades. My last fragrant auto was a spiffy ’72 Olds Cutlass convertible with white leather upholstery. Subsequent Subarus and Toyotas arrived fragrance-free.

Garlic: Here’s the story. My mother-in-law despised garlic. The very word made her shudder. She was an excellent cook without it. Then I took over the big family meals, aware of but not bound by her prohibitions. I remember a holiday back in the day when a standing rib roast didn’t cost more than a root canal. Mom walked into the house, exclaiming, “What smells so good?” followed by “Everybody says your roast beef is better than mine,” from inserting garlic slivers deep into the meat, then rubbing the outside with a cut clove. I never confessed.

A newsstand, preferably on a Manhattan corner, near the subway entrance: Stacks of fat Sunday editions, abetted by comic books, Fleers Dubble Bubble gum and cigars, emitted a smell I can feel, but not describe.

As a teenager I drove often from Asheville to Durham. Approaching Valdese, the smell of bread from the Waldensian bakeries dominated the air. I can close my eyes and smell it now.

Not all odors are good or even acceptable . . . like the time a mouse crawled behind the wall of built-in-bookcases, and died. I never knew how he got in but I know how he got out and how much I paid the carpenter.

But some scents are sublime: the fuzzy head of a freshly bathed baby. Great coffee percolating (drip and single-serve appliances not the same). Rain, on a summer afternoon. A wood fire. Steak searing on a hot charcoal (not gas) grill. And the one that breaks my heart: my daughter Wendy, running through the airport arrivals concourse, arms outstretched for a hug, whispering in my ear, “Mmmm, you smell like mommy.”

The holidays loom, announced by roasting turkey with cornbread-sage stuffing, followed by balsam and spruce boughs. In my kitchen, where deep-frying never happens, the heavy, sticky smell of Hanukkah potato pancakes sizzling in oil soaks into clothes, hair, upholstery and everything else.

Look, a working nose isn’t vital, unless you’re a bloodhound, but smell does enhance other senses while imprinting the brain and stimulating memory. I am absolutely sure that this very minute you are making a mental list.

So sure I can almost smell it. PS

Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

The Brief Unwritten Social Rules of the Southern Womanhood

(Revealed at last)

By Susan Kelly

Opening caveat: No judgment here, as the millennials say. Simple reportage.

As brides-to-be, both my daughter and my daughter-in-law looked blankly at me when I mentioned a trousseau present. They had no clue as to what — much less how to spell — a trousseau is, er, was. OK, fine. One less gift to buy. (This, from the bride-to-be whose mother went with her to buy a honeymoon nightgown. For my trousseau. Later, I chopped off my mother’s peignoir to wear as a dressy top to cocktail parties. Draw your own Jungian, Freudian or rebellion conclusions.)

Like the era when mixing metals was simply not done, the time of wedding trousseaus, in which your mother’s friends brought gifts for your lingerie or linen or stationery drawer, has gone the way of children being seen and not heard. More’s the pity. But never fear, plenty of Unwrittens — obscure social mores you’re meant to follow that aren’t recorded anywhere and, often, have no basis in existing — are still out there, and I’m making a few publicly available. Ready?

Blacken the wicks of all candles even if they’re so fancy and curved and hand-dipped or whatever that you never plan to burn them. The brief sulphur aroma may cause your children or husband to sniff and say, “Have you been smoking?” to which you can point to the candles. Then they’ll say, “Why did you do that?” Good luck.

Answer all formal invitations in black ink only.

Honeydew should always be served with a slice of lime.

No front yard flowers. Exceptions: naturalizing bulbs (not tulips or hyacinths; crocus debatable) and these should only be growing in ground covers.

No botanical prints or skirted tables downstairs. (These last two from a Charleston friend’s mother. You should hear her on non-Christmas front door wreaths.)

Nice people have blanket covers.

No bare shoulders at a funeral. (This dictate from a friend whose baby nurse actually told her this as my friend was trying to get her post-natal body to a funeral.)

Beginning Labor Day, wear transitional dark cottons. This was an actual phrase at my house, and translated, for me, as cotton Black Watch plaid smocked dresses to school. (The brand new book satchel provided some offsetting comfort.)

Do not say purse. Say pocketbook. (Although my sister’s high-fashion boss at Belk told her that if she said pocketbook instead of bag one more time, she would fire her.)

Do not say hose. Say stockings. Exceptions can be made for pantyhose. (Though personally, as an Anglophile, I think we should switch to tights and be done with it.)

Do not say panties. Say underwear or underpants or, in a pinch, borrow u-trou from the boys. If you say panties, we can’t be friends. End of story.

Literally.  PS

In a former life, Susan Kelly published five novels, won some awards, did some teaching, and made a lot of speeches. These days, she’s freelancing and making up for all that time she spent indoors writing those five novels.

Sonny and Gabe

How Wilmington’s legendary coach, Leon Brogden made superstars of a couple hometown heroes

By Bill Fields

It’s been 63 years since Sonny Jurgensen graduated from New Hanover High School, a very long time by any measure, but the Pro Football Hall of Famer hasn’t forgotten the mood of his happy days.

“They were fun times, they really were,” Jurgensen says, his accent still as soft as taffy on a beach blanket. “Lively crowds at home. A bus on the back roads to the away games. Raleigh, Durham — you did a lot of traveling. And Coach Brogden really was a special guy.”

They are in their late 70s or early 80s now, and for other men from other places, such a distant chapter might be a cloudy memory. For the boys who suited up in orange and black, who were Wildcats under legendary Leon Brogden in the 1950s, when prep athletics were king in Wilmington and fans packed the bleachers for home games in basketball and football, the recollections tend to come easily.

“We didn’t have television in Wilmington until 1954,” says Ron Phelps, 84, a member of the Wildcats’ 1951 state champion basketball team. “If you wanted to enjoy sports, you went to Legion Stadium on football Friday nights or to the gym in the winter. When we came out in our basketball uniforms, the crowd got rowdy. They’d stomp their feet in the balcony and scream and yell.”

Jurgensen, 82, was in New Hanover’s Class of 1953, a three-sport athlete who left the Port City to attend Duke and was a star quarterback in the National Football League for the Philadelphia Eagles (1957-1963) and Washington Redskins (1964-1974). Regarded by many as the best pure passer in NFL history, Jurgensen — full name Christian Adolph III — threw for 32,224 yards and 255 touchdowns in his career.

“Every pass that man threw fit the situation,” one of Jurgensen’s receivers for the Redskins, Jerry Smith, said upon his NFL retirement. “Fast, slow, curve, knuckleball, 70 yards, 2 inches — they were always accurate. If it wasn’t completed, it wasn’t No. 9’s fault.”

Not only did Jurgensen emerge from Wilmington in the post-World War II period and go on to achieve NFL success, so did Roman Gabriel, 76, who graduated from New Hanover High School in 1958. Starring in football, basketball and baseball for the Wildcats as Jurgensen had, Gabriel was quarterback at N.C. State and then enjoyed a lengthy, successful NFL career for the Los Angeles Rams and Philadelphia Eagles, earning NFL Most Valuable Player honors in 1969.

Jurgensen and Gabriel might not have achieved what they did without the influence of Brogden, an NHHS institution from 1945 through 1976 and the first high school coach to be inducted into the North Carolina Sports Hall of Fame in 1970. Proper and placid, Brogden, who died at age 90 in 2000, did not have to shout to be heard.

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Brogden dressed up when he coached — always coat and tie (and hat on the gridiron) unless he was on the baseball diamond — but didn’t dress down his charges. “If we ever lost a game, he took the blame, and if we won he gave us the credit,” says Jimmy Helms, a 1958 NHHS graduate. “He was really more of a father image. He was a legendary coach but an even better man. You just wanted to please him so much. If you messed up and he was looking down at the floor because he didn’t want to see what he just saw, that was worse than being slapped.”

In an era during which teenagers tended to mind their elders, Brogden made a lasting impression on the students he was around. “To me he was just like magic,” says Jackie Bullard, another member of the Class of ’58. “He was probably the calmest, most respected person I’ve ever been around. It’s hard to explain how much that man meant to me. He coached hard without raising his voice. When he spoke, everything was quiet.”

Bill Brogden, the middle of Leon and Sarah Brogden’s three sons, who recently retired after a long career as a college golf coach, also played on two (1960, ’61) of his dad’s eight state championship basketball teams. “You wanted to play for him, and you didn’t want to disappoint him,” Bill says. “He had your respect, and when he asked you to do something, you didn’t ask why, you just did it.”

Although he did plenty of it, winning wasn’t everything to Brogden. “You hear today you’ve got to win or you’re a nobody,” says Gabriel. “With Coach Brogden, it was not about winning or losing, it was how much you enjoy preparing to do the best you can. And that carries over to your schoolwork, your whole life. If you enjoy it, you’re a winner.”

Brogden won quickly after arriving in Wilmington following a nine-year stint at Charles L. Coon High School in Wilson, winning the state basketball championship in 1947, the Wildcats’ first North Carolina title in 18 years. The city’s population grew to 45,000 by 1950, a 35 percent increase over a decade in part because of the shipbuilding during the war. That meant a lot of ball-playing kids would eventually play for Brogden and his assistant, Jasper “Jap” Davis, a star fullback at Duke whom Brogden coached in Wilson.

“You had so many kids,” Jurgensen says. “We all played. There were guys everywhere.”

Jurgensen, whose family operated Jurgensen Motor Transport, a trucking company that carried freight for A&P, grew up on South 18th Street about a mile from New Hanover High School. “Our neighborhood had about 30 boys within a four-block area, and we always had enough kids to make up any kind of game we could think of,” Thurston Watkins Jr. wrote in a 2004 Star-News article. “One day a red-headed kid with a big smile asked to play ball with some of us out in front of his house on a big empty corner lot. Sonny was the name of that red-headed kid.”

When boys graduated from pick-up games to organized leagues, Brogden wasted no time having an impact on them. “He would recognize guys in junior high who looked like they were going to be good athletes or good people and take them under his wing,” says Bill Brogden. “He had the junior high school coaches run his system so when kids got to high school everybody would know what was going on.”

Jurgensen noticed the continuity when he got to New Hanover. “We practiced all the fundamentals, starting when I played freshman ball,” Jurgensen says. “When you made varsity, it was the same system, which was good. But coach would adjust the offense according to what kind of players we had. We ran the Split-T and a Spread at times.”

Few details escaped Brogden when it came to preparing his players. Jurgensen developed the snap in his throwing arm — and Gabriel also developed a powerful motion — through drills in which the quarterbacks would pass kneeling and sitting. “He’d have you sit on your fanny because it forced you to turn your waist and strengthened your arm,” Gabriel says.

In Jurgensen’s junior season (1951), he was a valuable running back and linebacker for the Wildcats, while Burt Grant — who would go on to play at Georgia Tech — quarterbacked the team. During a 34-0 win over Wilson, Jurgensen scored two rushing touchdowns and recovered a fumble, made an interception and blocked a punt. Jurgensen always had a knack for the big play.

“One of the first times I saw Sonny,” says Bullard, “we were watching New Hanover play Raleigh one Friday night. I must have been in the sixth or seventh grade. We kicked off to Raleigh and they ran it back 90 yards for a touchdown. When Raleigh then kicked off to us, Sonny returned it a long way for a touchdown. It was 7-7 and I bet only 30 seconds had gone off the clock.”

With 10,000 spectators watching at Legion Stadium, New Hanover beat Fayetteville 13-12 in a battle of undefeated teams in 1951 to win its first Eastern Conference title since 1928. The following week the Wildcats beat High Point 14-13 to win their first football state title in 23 years.

The Wildcats couldn’t repeat as state champs in 1952, but Jurgensen starred at quarterback and earned All-State honors. That school year, the “Most Athletic” senior averaged 12 points a game for the basketball team and played third base and pitched for the baseball Wildcats, batting .339.

“Sonny had that big flashy smile. People idolized him,” Helms says. “He was so natural about anything he did, and he was a great basketball player. Coach would tell about when Sonny made nine shots in a row and never saw a one of them go in the basket. He knew it was going in when he shot it, so he turned and went back down the court.”

When Jurgensen was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1983, Brogden told the Star-News: “I will always remember Sonny for his competitive spirit and unusual good sense of humor. He had the ability with his personality and skills to raise the level of play in his teammates and also to stimulate his coaches. Associating with Sonny was not quite like traveling with a big brass band, but you did realize you were with someone special.”

While Jurgensen went to Duke — where he played quarterback on a team that passed infrequently and was in the defensive secondary — Gabriel was getting noticed back home for his multi-sport talents. Not as outgoing as Jurgensen, Gabriel had a personality a lot like their coach. “Roman was very serious, very humble,” says Helms. “He was the most unselfish fellow you’ve ever seen and a terrifically hard worker.”

Says Bullard, a co-captain with Gabriel in football and basketball and a close friend: “He had a lot of Coach Brogden in him. He wasn’t ‘Rah-rah, look at me, I’m Roman Gabriel.’ He was just a leader who brought everything to the table, and he expected everybody else to bring it to the table too.”

Gabriel inherited his ethic from his father, Roman Sr., a native of the Philippines. “He went straight to Alaska to can salmon to make a living,” Gabriel says of his father’s early days in the United States, “then he got into Chicago, where he became part of the railroad.”

Roman Sr. was a cook and waiter for the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad after moving to Wilmington where he, his wife, Edna (an Irish-American from West Virginia), and Roman Jr. lived in the working-class Dry Pond section of the city in an apartment complex that had been built for shipbuilders. “My father and three other Filipinos who worked with him were probably the only Filipinos in North Carolina at that time,” Gabriel says. “He had a saying, ‘Never let an excuse crawl under your skin.’ That meant that because of who you are, you might have to work a little bit harder. And if you’re not willing to work hard, you don’t deserve to be good. He wasn’t an athlete, but he was probably the best cook and waiter the Atlantic Coast Line had outside of the other three Filipinos.”

Because his dad loved baseball, Roman Jr. did too, getting tips as a young boy from a former major leaguer who lived nearby, George Bostic “Possum” Whitted. Brogden noticed Gabriel when he was a 10-year-old Little Leaguer, and the boy developed into a high school first baseman who could hit for power, slugging a 500-foot home run in a game at Fayetteville that old-timers still talk about. By the time he got to high school, basketball had become his top passion.

With Gabriel a key factor, the Wildcats won the state hoops championship in 1956, ’57 and ’58 and captured the state AAA baseball crown in ’56 and ’57. Twice they were N.C. runner-ups in football. Jurgensen came back to visit his former team. “When I was in high school, Sonny would come out to practice and help Coach Brogden and Coach Davis a little bit,” Gabriel remembers. “I’ve never seen anybody who could throw it like Sonny, a tight spiral every pass.”

Gabriel and his teammates in the different sports logged a lot of miles riding in the school’s well-used athletic bus. “We thought we were going to have a wreck because Coach Jap would drive and Coach Brogden would sit behind him and have a conversation,” Gabriel says. “He would be driving the bus with his head turned talking to Coach Brogden.”

“We took turns sitting in the back,” says Bullard, “because you always got a little nauseated from the fumes.”

Bothered by asthma as a child, Gabriel grew into a 6-foot-3, 200-pound force on the field and court after a growth spurt and summer of working with weights going into his senior year at New Hanover.

“Roman got to be a big guy for high school as a senior,” says Bill Brogden. “He was hard to handle inside on the basketball court.”

Gabriel proudly points out that he out-jumped a 6-9 Durham center on an opening tip-off, and his athleticism was enhanced by the coaching acumen of Brogden. “He did a lot of studying, and he tried to figure out how to win,” Bill Brogden says. “He was always drawing some kind of play on a napkin. He was so into his job, it was like he was way before his time.”

The Wildcats’ three straight basketball championships during Gabriel’s NHHS years were helped by the team’s use of Brogden’s innovative spread offense, which North Carolina coach Dean Smith credited as an inspiration for the famed Four Corners that he began using successfully in the early 1960s. Brogden tweaked his tactic a bit, depending on the makeup of his team. A formidable rebounder, Gabriel was also a good lob passer to Bullard.

“It was pretty much the Four Corners, and we won the state championship playing it,” says Bill Brogden. “If you had a good ball handler and were a good free-throw shooting team, nobody could beat you. They couldn’t catch up.”

Before Army football flanker Bill Carpenter became well-known as the “Lonesome End” during the 1958 and ’59 seasons, Wilmington utilized a similar ploy. “Howard Knox, our No. 1 receiver, lined up way out near the sideline,” Gabriel says. “He and I had hand signals. He didn’t come back to the huddle on certain plays.”

Ten years after Gabriel’s final fall wowing the faithful at Legion Stadium, on Oct. 22, 1967, he squared off against Jurgensen in a Rams-Redskins contest at the Los Angeles Coliseum — the first time the two faced off in the NFL. Brogden flew out to watch, dining with Gabriel the night before and having breakfast with Jurgensen on game day. As if ordained by the man each admired so much, who watched a half from each side of the stadium, the game ended in a 28-28 tie.

It is one of Gabriel’s favorite memories of Brogden, but here’s another.

Gabriel had read that Boston Celtics star Bob Cousy smoked a cigar to relax before a big game. On the morning of the 1958 N.C. state championship, Gabriel bought five cigars for the Wildcat starters gathered in his hotel room. A knock on the door, and it wasn’t room service.

“What are you doing smoking cigars?” Brogden asked.

“Ask Gabe,” Bullard said.

“Coach,” said Gabriel, “I saw in a sports magazine where Bob Cousy smokes a cigar to relax before a big game, and you know how successful the Celtics are.”

“If it’s good enough for Bob Cousy, it’s good enough for my boys,” Brogden said. “But don’t get sick.”  PS

Money Well Spence

A new day for CCNC’s Dogwood Course

By Lee Pace

First impressions stick.

Robert “Ziggy” Zalzneck was a young accounting intern in Raleigh a long way from his Pennsylvania home during the holidays and was given access to the Country Club of North Carolina’s golf course on Christmas Day 1967. He had the place to himself. “I played 36 holes and it was 70 degrees,” Zalzneck says. “It was the prettiest place I’d ever been my whole life. I’ve loved the place ever since.”

Kris Spence was a young green superintendent at Greensboro Country Club in the mid-1980s when club staff and officers held a planning retreat at CCNC, the private, gated community nestled in the center of a triangle formed by Pinehurst, Southern Pines and Aberdeen.

“I’ll never forget coming onto the property the first time,” Spence remembers. “It was so impressive and set a standard you noticed quickly. It was a standard above even the best private clubs in the state.”

And Alex Bowness, a young homebuilder in Southern Pines, was invited to play the Ellis Maples-designed course in 1977 and knew immediately that he wanted to become a member.

“I’ll never forget playing the 15th hole the first time,” he says of the par-4 that kisses against the shore of Watson’s Lake — one of seven holes on the back nine accented by water. “It was April, the dogwoods were in bloom, and some dog ran across the fairway. It was a spellbinding vision. It took my breath away. I can see it today as if it were yesterday.”

Thirty-nine years later, Bowness is sitting in an Adirondack chair nestled in the pine forest between the fourth hole of the Dogwood golf course and his Williamsburg-style home. His cavalier king spaniel, O. Max, cavorts through the pine straw. It’s been home for Bowness and wife Susan since 2000.

“When we drive through the gate, our shoulders fall down,” he says. “It’s very relaxing. We live 2.4 miles from the gate, and it’s a nice, soft ride. From here we see golfers go by, we see little boats go by with fishermen. There’s even a bald eagle who lives near here; sometimes late in the day you’ll see him swoop through the trees. It’s almost like coming into a park.”

This “park” is now 53 years old, but it has a fresh coat of paint (and grass and sand and tree-scape) following a nine-month shutdown for Spence, now a golf course architect, to make significant changes to the course on agronomic, strategic and maintenance fronts. In nearly two decades of golf design, Spence has specialized in restoring and remodeling vintage courses by Golden Age architects like Donald Ross and then, from the next generation, Ellis Maples, the son of Ross’ green superintendent and construction foreman at Pinehurst, Frank Maples.

“Anyone who comes here has an expectation,” says Spence, who supervised the remodeling of the Dogwood course from November 2015 through Labor Day weekend of 2016. “It’s a lofty one. We can’t hit a triple here, we have to hit a grand slam. The expectation level is very high. The expectation was of excellence. When I came here to walk the course before the interview, it was anything but that. Time had just taken a toll on this golf course.”

While the Sandhills golf community had been built since the turn of the 20th century on resort golf and semi-private courses, a group of North Carolina businessmen believed in the early 1960s the state needed a private club centrally located that could draw members from Raleigh to Charlotte and beyond. Raleigh accountant Dick Urquhart, Greensboro investment banker Hargrove “Skipper” Bowles, Greensboro developer and builder Griswold Smith, and Raleigh attorney James Poyner were the four founding members and soon enticed three dozen “charter members” to join the club. They represented a Who’s Who of North Carolina business and philanthropy, among them C.C. Cameron of Raleigh, George Watts Carr of Durham, Frank Kenan of Durham, James Harris of Charlotte ,and Karl Hudson of Raleigh.

“What could be better than a good club centrally located for nearly all of us, ideally suited for golf, horses, hunting or just plain socializing?” Urquhart asked in a 1962 letter to charter members.

Willard Byrd studied landscape architecture at N.C. State in the late 1940s with an emphasis on land planning and had opened a shop in the land-planning business in Atlanta in 1956. He was hired to draw the master plan for CCNC, which would include approximately 300 residential lots averaging two acres apiece. The golf course was routed at the outset, with the lots to be arranged around the best land for golf. Much discussion ensued at the beginning over the issue of wrapping nine holes of golf around Watson’s Lake, thus eliminating some premier lakefront building lots.

At the time, Byrd was not officially a golf architect, so Maples was retained to collaborate on the creation of the golf course, to be named after the preponderance of dogwood trees on the property. The original plans have both the names of Byrd and Maples on the blueprint for each hole. Byrd created the routing and Maples designed the features — the green shapes and undulations, bunkers and placement of hazards.

“The course should be second to none from the very start,” said Urquhart, whose views that the golf course should get the premier lakefront exposure won out in that discussion.

The course opened in 1963 and was one of the original members of Golf Digest’s 100 Greatest Golf Courses and was site of the 1971 and 1972 Liggett & Myers Match Play Championship on the PGA Tour (won by Dewitt Weaver and Jack Nicklaus) and the 1980 U.S. Amateur (won by Hal Sutton). It has hosted six Southern Amateurs (with Ben Crenshaw and Webb Simpson among the winners), and the 110-year-old championship will return in 2017. It has been the venue for the 2010 U.S. Girls’ Junior Championship as well as multiple Carolinas Golf Association championships, including three Carolinas Amateurs and seven North Carolina Amateurs. The course remained in Digest’s rankings until 1999, when it was muscled out by the many outstanding new courses from the 1990s golf boom.

The original course was so popular the club built a second one and named it the Cardinal in keeping with the state of North Carolina theme. The course opened as 18 holes in 1981, a combination of nine holes each from Maples and Robert Trent Jones. The club converted those greens from bentgrass to Champion Bermuda in 2012 and liked the results, so a similar conversion was planned for the Dogwood, among other significant changes.

“We knew for five or six years we had a significant project ahead of us,” says Director of Golf Jeff Dotson. “The irrigation system was antiquated. The bunkers had reached the end of their useful life. It was a struggle every summer to keep the bent greens healthy, and the Bermuda greens on Cardinal were thriving.

“Dogwood had been one of the top courses in Southeast for half a century. We needed to set it up for the next 50 years.”

Much of the work was structural: convert the greens to Bermuda; install a new irrigation system; rebuild all the bunkers with the easier-to-maintain “Better Billy Bunker” system; replant the fairways with zoysia grass; open the vistas with the removal of several hundred trees that encroached over 50 years.

And much was strategic: bunkers repositioned to challenge more aggressive lines on dogleg holes; green approaches re-sculpted to allow run-up shots; a new green on the par-4 fourth built to reflect Maples’ original design that had never actually been built; a new green on the 15th hole positioned some 25 yards back from the original; a cross-bunker added in the landing area of the second shot on the par-5 18th, giving players more food for thought in planning their approach to the green.

“The structural issues have certainly been fixed,” Spence says. “Aesthetically and strategically, I think it reflects and respects Mr. Maples’ work. I wanted to respect his work but still adjust things to better suit the modern game. If you look through old photos of this course and others he designed, this still has that look and character of what I think he would approve of.”

Spence and Zalzneck were in the first foursome to play the remodeled course when it reopened on Sept. 2, Spence because he shepherded the work and Zalzneck because he’s now the club president.

“Kris was like a proud papa playing the course,” Zalzneck says. “And it was very rewarding for those of us who have worked on this project over three to four years. The changes reposition CCNC for a long time to come.”

And they preserve those first impressions that remain vivid in many minds despite the passage of time — not to mention creating new ones for residents like Alex and Susan Bowness from their Adirondack chairs along the fourth fairway.  PS

Lee Pace has written about golf in the Sandhills since the late-1980s; his most recent book is The Golden Age of Pinehurst—The Story of the Rebirth of No. 2.

Happy Thanksgiving, Pilgrim

Norman Rockwell, not John Wayne, informs our Thanksgiving celebrations

By Tom Allen

For Americans, Norman Rockwell’s depiction of a family Thanksgiving is as familiar as Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” or James McNeill Whistler’s portrait of his mother.

But if art imitates life, growing up, I was brushed out of Rockwell’s painting more often than not.

I vaguely recall a few traditional Thanksgivings with family, albeit half the size of Rockwell’s troupe. Our table featured a roasted Butterball, Granny’s dressing, and jellied Ocean Spray.  Sweet tea, laced with ReaLemon Juice, washed down bowls of collards and turnips, taters and snap beans. My Methodist granny occasionally popped the cork on a bottle of “French wine.” Pecan pie (I didn’t have pumpkin until my 30s) completed the feast. Football and a carb-induced nap rounded out the afternoon. Hugs were plentiful but conversation, scant. The celebration ended by 3 p.m.

As grandkids grew and elders’ health declined, meals became more eclectic, less Rockwellian. One Thanksgiving during college, after Santa concluded the Macy’s parade, baked spaghetti greeted Dad and me. Grateful, I bowed my head, smiled at Mom’s aberration, then dug in. Who needs a broad-breasted bird when baked pasta is just as good?

My last year in seminary, a cute brunette I met during study abroad invited me to share Thanksgiving on her family’s Kentucky horse farm. I invested in a haircut and a blue oxford cloth button-down. Alas, my dorm became my Old Kentucky Home for the holiday. At 6 a.m. Thanksgiving morning, Ann called to say her mother came down with strep throat. Maybe next year.

Providence intervened. A motley crew of would-be ministers concocted a Thanksgiving feast. Scott, dumped just days before by a reluctant fiancée, stirred up a bowl of instant mashed potatoes. Dave warmed canned green beans in his microwave. I snagged a Mrs. Smith’s Pecan Pie, reduced for quick sale, at Kroger. Luis, whose family fled Cuba with nothing but the clothes on their backs, roasted the turkey. The dorm smelled of cumin for days. Vernon, deaf and mute from birth, signed grace. We all said, “Amen.”

Years later, our family would include two teenage daughters. We made the every-other-year trek to north Georgia for Thanksgiving with my wife’s folks. Work schedules disrupted Thanksgiving Day, so we dined on Friday. We left Whispering Pines Thanksgiving morning, only to return an hour later for a forgotten suitcase. By afternoon, our nerves were frazzled by traffic and our stomachs groaned from hunger. Restaurants off the interstate were closed. With gas running low, we pulled into a Shell station. Empty booths inside the convenience store provided a place to spread what we’d packed for the road — chicken salad, saltines, grapes and Nabs. We bowed our heads, gave thanks, then washed down our moveable feast with Dr. Pepper, Cheerwine and Diet Coke. We shook our heads, smiled about the day’s happenings, and made a memory we talk about, every year, on the fourth Thursday of November.

Norman Rockwell’s painting depicts three generations gathered around a dining room table. Grandma, aproned and coiffed for the holiday meal, delivers the turkey on, no doubt, her mother’s china platter. Grandpa, in suit and tie, grinning and famished, stands behind her, waiting to pray, carve and eat. The painting was one of four, illustrating a 1943 series of Saturday Evening Post essays. Based on Franklin Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms, outlined in his 1941 State of the Union address, Rockwell appropriately named his Thanksgiving portrait “Freedom from Want.”

Seventy years later American families look different. Yet, Roosevelt’s words and the Rockwell portrayal remain timeless. Thanksgiving is still about gratitude. So, yes, give thanks for all you have while remembering to make room at the table for others, so they, too, experience gratitude.

Then, no matter what your menu or who you consider family, everyone will have a special meal, a reason to smile, and hopefully, because of your kindness, a memory to cherish forever.  PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church in Southern Pines.