In the Spirit

Grab ’n Go

Your cocktails need a vacation, too

By Tony Cross

When I go to the beach on vacation, the last thing I want to do is spend my time whipping up drinks. Who wants to pack a bunch of cocktail tools with the beach towels, the sunscreen and the latest John Grisham? Other than throwing together a margarita, I’m not doing anything besides laying out in the sun and sipping. So, here are a couple of punches — the non-violent variety — that you can throw together before you shut down the laptop and head for the coast. Consider portioning them out in small drink containers: Think 8-ounce water bottles. Keep in mind that you may still want to bring a hand-held juicer. Even though you’re traveling light, you may want to add the fresh lemon and lime juices à la last minute.

Planter’s Punch

This classic punch is one of my favorites, because it’s easy to make and delicious. As Shannon Mustipher explains in her book, Tiki: Modern Tropical Cocktails, “The ingredients are simple and echo an old Barbadian recipe for a rum punch in rhyme form: ‘One of Sour/Two of Sweet/Three of Strong/Four of Weak.’ This is the holy trinity plus the addition of spice.”

8 ounces pot still Jamaican rum (Smith & Cross)

3 ounces grenadine

2 ounces fresh lime juice

2 ounces still water

6 dashes Angostura bitters

(Serves four)

If you’re batching this before you hit the road, combine all ingredients except for the lime juice; you’ll want to add that on the day of consumption. Also, if you are making this for more than four people, add your bitters last. When batching large amounts of cocktails that call for bitters, you don’t necessarily want to add the multiplied number of bitters into your batch. Start with half the amount, and then add more to taste. Lastly, make your grenadine from scratch, unless you’re buying from, let’s say, Small Hand Foods. It’s quite easy to make — equal parts POM pomegranate juice and demerara sugar; place over medium heat and stir until sugar is dissolved. Keep refrigerated after the syrup cools.

Pisco Punch

Before you go any further, order pisco online now — it’s hard to locate a bottle on any of North Carolina’s ABC shelves, but much easier after a few clicks on the web. “What is pisco?” you ask. It’s a spirit made from grapes, indigenous to Peru and Chile. If you’ve never tried a pisco sour, you haven’t lived, and if you’ve never tried the punch, well, you’re about to be reborn.

My memory is spotty, but I do believe that in his book Imbibe! David Wondrich explains how pisco punch was the only drink bars served in San Francisco’s Barbary Coast during the Gold Rush. This drink is easy to make, incredibly tasty, and unique and likely foreign to your friends and family. Use Small Hands Foods’ pineapple gum syrup — it’s killer. Years back when I bartended, I kept the punch pre-batched in my bar fridge, minus the lemon juice, of course. In Meehan’s Bartender Manual, bartender and author, Jim Meehan explains: “Pisco punch became legendary thanks to Scottish barman Duncan Nicol, who purchased San Francisco’s historic Bank Exchange Saloon — with its house punch recipe — in 1893 and kept it a secret, despite fanfare and public prying, until his dying day in 1926.”

Some speculate that Nicol’s secret ingredient wasn’t just the gum arabic, it was cocaine. Meehan says that might “explain why he permitted only two portions per patron.” Better to stick with the recipe below and imbibe safely this summer.

8 ounces Campo de Encanto pisco (did you order it yet?)

4 ounces pineapple gum syrup

3 ounces lemon juice

2 ounces pineapple juice

4 ounces still water

4 dashes Angostura bitters (optional)

(Serves four).  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

Golftown Journal

Junior Achievement

Another national championship in the Sandhills

By Lee Pace

The second time the USGA gathered the best boys under age 18 to compete for a national championship was 1949, and the venue was Congressional Country Club in Bethesda, Maryland. Gay Brewer and Mason Rudolph traveled together from their homes (Brewer from Kentucky and Rudolph from Tennessee) and roomed together that July week at Georgetown University. Each advanced through his bracket to the championship match, with Brewer, 17 years old, taking a leisurely 6-and-4 victory in the championship match over Rudolph, who was two years his junior.

That week cast the die for both players. Each won multiple times on the PGA Tour, with Brewer collecting the 1967 Masters and playing in two Ryder Cup matches. Rudolph won the Junior Amateur the following year, collected the 1956 Western Amateur and won five times on the pro tour.

Since then, the Junior Amateur has staged an annual audition for many elite players to come, among them Johnny Miller, Eddie Pearce, Gary Koch, David Duval, Tiger Woods, Hunter Mahan and Jordan Spieth.

“That was the first time I’d ever experienced the thrill and the chase of a USGA event,” Woods says of his three straight wins from 1991-93.

“You look at the names on the trophy and know what kind of company you’re in,” says Mahan, the 1999 victor.

“It was not as much about me winning as it is being a part of the fraternity with those guys,” adds Spieth, the champion in 2009 and 2011.

The U.S. Junior Amateur makes its debut in the golf-rich Sandhills in July with the 73rd rendition being staged at the Country Club of North Carolina, July 19-24. Yet another domino falls in the universe of elite competitive golf for Moore County, adding to the largesse of U.S. Opens (three already with one set for 2024 at Pinehurst No. 2) and U.S. Women’s Opens (three at Pine Needles with a return engagement in 2022, and one at Pinehurst No. 2). There has been a Ryder Cup, a U.S. Senior Open and three U.S. Amateurs.

And this national championship continues CCNC’s heritage of every decade or so opening its doors to some variety of high-profile tournament. Since its opening in 1963, the club has been the venue for the PGA Tour, the U.S. Amateur, the U.S. Girls Junior, six Southern Amateurs, a national father-son tournament now more than half a century old, and a host of statewide and regional competitions.

Jack Nicklaus, Hal Sutton, Ben Crenshaw, Tom Kite, Webb Simpson and Scott Hoch have collected trophies at the 36-hole golf haven and residential community located off Morganton Road, halfway between Pinehurst and Southern Pines.

“The club takes a lot of pride in all the events it’s hosted over the years — from USGA national championships to the Carolinas Golf Association events,” says Robbie Zalzneck, a USGA staff administrator and also a CCNC member. “It’s a club that likes to give back. The members have rallied behind the Junior Am. Opening the club up to competitive golf has always been in its DNA.”

CCNC was designed in tandem by Ellis Maples and Willard Byrd and opened in 1963. It 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 Nicklaus) and the 1980 U.S. Amateur (won by Sutton). It has remained among the best courses in the state, and in 2021 was listed No. 16 in North Carolina in both Golf Digest and GOLF magazine rankings of the best courses in every state.

The original course was so popular the club retained Byrd to build nine more holes in 1970. Then, in the late 1970s, the club acquired some land from Robert Trent Jones (who spent time in Pinehurst in the early 1970s doing a renovation of the original Pinehurst No. 4 course) and hired him to build nine new holes, working those into the first nine to create a new course dubbed “The Cardinal” in keeping with the state of North Carolina theme.

Greg Sanfilippo, the USGA’s director of the Junior Amateur, says the two courses set up perfectly to host the best junior players from around the country. Qualifying will be held for a newly expanded field of 264 players on both courses, and match play will be held on the Dogwood.

“We structure our championships as the ultimate tests in the game,” he says. “We want to make sure we’re identifying the best players through shotmaking, testing every club in the bag, controlling spin and distance, and having the mental and physical resolve and ability to work through various situations. The courses at CCNC will really force players to execute sound judgment through each hole.”

The Dogwood Course is now five years into a major renovation directed by golf architect Kris Spence. The club spent some $10 million from 2015-16 on a capital improvement program that included the Dogwood project, construction of a new golf shop, grill room and locker room, a tennis and fitness center, and various upgrades to the existing clubhouse.

The Dogwood project included converting the greens to Champion Bermuda, and the tees and fairways to Zeon zoysia grass, a heat-tolerant strain that doesn’t need overseeding in the winter and gives golfers an outstanding surface from which to clip iron shots and fairway woods. New drainage was installed, all bunkers were rebuilt, and some tees were expanded. The tree coverage that had grown up over time was thinned out, improving air flow and sunlight.

“Dogwood had been one of the top courses in the Southeast for half a century,” says longtime Director of Golf Jeff Dotson. “We needed to set it up for the next 50 years.”

Certainly, one of the favorites for the Junior Am and a young man playing with some “home game pressure,” will be Jackson Van Paris, a 17-year-old who just graduated from Pinecrest High School and will be enrolling this fall on the golf team at Vanderbilt. The Van Paris family moved to Pinehurst from Chicago in 2017 and lives in a house alongside the sixth hole of the Cardinal Course. The club has been Van Paris’ home base as he’s built a sterling resume in junior golf that includes two firsts in the American Junior Golf Association Boys Championship. His most noteworthy achievement was becoming the second-youngest player behind Bobby Jones to win a match in the U.S. Amateur, when he advanced to the Round of 32 as a 14-year-old in 2018 at Pebble Beach.

“This has been a great club to develop my game,” Van Paris says. “I really have access to anything I need as far as practicing, and a great range and great short game facilities. And the courses are two really good golf courses.”

He knows what to expect from the USGA in terms of course setup — narrow fairways, thick rough and quick greens.

“Hitting fairways is going to be super important,” he says. “I can’t let myself get lazy on the tee by thinking, ‘I’ve hit this shot a hundred times.’ I am treating it like I’ll be playing a brand-new golf course. And the USGA always puts a premium on short game. Driver and short game are the most important things to consider.”

That and the mental game. Does it help to have intimate course knowledge and sleep in your own bed, or hurt with the pressure to perform in front of so many friends and clubmates?

“I’ll probably be more nervous than I have been in any other tournament just because it’s at home and everyone expects me to play well,” Van Paris says. “But I also think I can embrace that if I handle it the right way. I keep telling everyone I see, please come out and watch. I want as many people out there as possible. It’s part of learning to play under pressure.”

The great ones learn to thrive under the microscope, leaving the Junior Amateur as another chapter in Van Paris’s evolution — not to mention the Sandhills as a mecca for national championships.  PS

Lee Pace has written about the Sandhills golf scene for more than 30 years. Follow him on Twitter at @LeePaceTweet and contact him at leepace7@gmail.com.

Birdwatch

Taking the Plunge

The belted kingfisher dives for prey

By Susan Campbell

Often heard before they are seen, belted kingfishers are a year-round fixture here in central North Carolina. Requiring water for foraging and steep slopes for breeding, they can be found along streams, rivers and ponds — of which there is no shortage in our area. Their long, rattling call is distinctive among our familiar birds.

One of three species of kingfisher found in the United States, the belted kingfisher’s range is extensive and year-round across most of the continent. Breeding birds from Canada may migrate southward in search of open water in winter. A percentage of the North American population winters in south Florida as well as Mexico. It is assumed that most local breeding birds simply wander to where the fishing is good in the colder months, not making any real migratory flight in the fall.

Belted kingfishers are top-heavy-looking birds with powdery gray plumage and a raggedy crest. They get their name from the swath of gray plumage across their breast. These birds are one of the few species in which the female has brighter plumage than the male. Females sport an additional band of chestnut feathers just below their gray “belt.” Otherwise, these birds have a characteristic large head, thick neck and heavy, long pointed bill. They are built for plunging headfirst into the water after prey. They often sit on a convenient perch above the water, such as a branch or electric wire, and then dive when they spot prey. However, they are also capable of hovering for short periods above potential food items before descending to grab a fish. They actually have a wide prey base, feeding on all sorts of aquatic organisms but also taking other types of food, such as small birds and even berries, if the opportunity arises.

Belted kingfishers require a steep, dirt slope for nesting. Although this is usually a riverbank, they may also use human-created habitat such as tall dirt piles, which can be away from water, if they are big enough, and have a sheer drop on at least one side. This type of nesting substrate makes it difficult for terrestrial predators to reach the kingfisher’s nest. The tunnel into the nest chamber is typically several feet long and is sloped upward, presumably to protect the nest from rises in water level along rivers and streams. The kingfisher’s tunnel opening is large, at least 3 inches in diameter. Also, there will be the characteristic fishy aroma from recent droppings, separating it from other bank dwellers, such as bank or rough-winged swallows.

In spring, the belted kingfisher pair will search out a nest site. The male will probe the dirt in suitable spots until he finds the right spot. Once he is satisfied with his choice, he will signal to the female by flying back and forth from her perch to the chosen location. After the burrow has been excavated, five to eight white eggs will be incubated in the nest chamber for almost a month. Once hatched, the young will be tended to by the parents for about another month before fledging occurs. While in the nest, the young kingfishers have highly acidic stomachs and will be able to digest scales, bones and other hard parts of what they are fed. By the time they leave the nest burrow, however, the birds will be regurgitating pellets made up of those typically indigestible parts, as adults do.

So, the next time you hear a loud rattling sound coming from on high, look up. You may just catch sight of one of these energetic, fast-flying fishers! PS

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted at susan@ncaves.com.

Poem

On an Okra Flower

On an Okra Flower

A pollinating wasp sliding

from white lip to purple darkness, 

the shadow-heart so deep inside,

the plant, itself, tall African

in the kitchen garden’s last row,

speaks of passage and endurance,

those far too common abstractions,

made real here in the summer heat.

Let it lead us, serve as a guide,

tell how each struggle leads to bliss

and what to bless when we decide

to see the past and present blend

into what we need to know

—a mind aware or in a trance?—

what to keep close, what to shun,

made real here in the summer heat.

What song can a wasp sing gliding

the flower’s dark throat? A long kiss

like winged tongues tangled deep inside—

a blind passion, an obsession.

I hear it as a prayer now,

music for the world’s whirling dance.

Sound, sight and scent. An orison

made real here in the summer heat.

— Paul Jones

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

I once watched a squirrel attempt to drag an entire loaf of bread up an oak tree. Poor thing didn’t get very far. And you, who were born under the sign of Cancer, won’t either — unless you let go of what’s holding you back. Alternatively, that could be a metaphor about your relationship with carbs. Either way, it’s likely to be an emotional month for you. But you’ve been around the sun enough times to know at least one thing: Your softness is your superpower. Happy birthday, Crabcakes. 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Do sunflowers mean anything to you? They should. Also, pay attention to your dreams this month.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Got your next breakup album ready? Just kidding. It’s time to lighten up.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

You’re taking one for the team this month. Deep breaths. This too shall pass. 

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Drink the tea before it goes cold.  You know what I’m talking about.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Is there a special Virgo in your life? If so, draw them a salt bath. If not, probably for the best.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Just say you’re sorry — it’s not that hard — and move on.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

You’ve outgrown the shoes. That’s OK. You won’t be needing them.   

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Someone needs a hug. And a bubble bath. But don’t spill the nail polish this time.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

The missing piece isn’t actually missing. But you’re working on the wrong puzzle.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

A new flavor will be entering your world. Two words: Moderation, darling. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

This will make sense later: Wear the blue one. For now: Mind your tongue.

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Throne’s Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla.

Sporting Life

Waiting for a Ride

A close encounter with a hero

Jimmy, some of it’s magic,
  some of it’s tragic

But I had a good life all the way.

— From “He Went to Paris” by Jimmy Buffett

By Tom Bryant

The morning of June 24 was as promised by the folks at the Weather Channel. It was gonna be hot and humid. But after all, it was the first week of summer, and the way they talked, we should get ready for more of the same.

I was leaning against the fender of the old Bronco waiting for Sam to come out of the bank. Not knowing how long Sam’s business would take, I prudently grabbed a shady spot next to an old Ford pickup. He said he wouldn’t be long, but I took no chances.

He had called me the week before.

“Bryant, need a favor. Could you give me a lift to the VA up in Durham? Got to have an operation on my carotid artery. They say it needs to be reamed out.”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “When you gotta go?”

“Next Wednesday. You can drop me off, and the bride will pick me up when it’s time. I sure appreciate it.”

So, that’s how I ended up waiting outside the bank on the first Wednesday of summer. It would prove to be an interesting day.

Sam came out shading his eyes and ambled toward the truck. “I hope you left some money in there for me,” I said, chuckling.

Sam’s a medium size guy, losing weight to aging, but he always has a gleam in in his eye, ready for what’s next. On this morning, I noticed he walked a little slower than usual. I commented, “Hey boy, you slowing down in your old age?”

“Not on your life, Bryant. I’ve learned to walk around it rather than run over it. I thought I’d learned you that valuable lesson.” We laughed and climbed in the ancient truck and headed to Durham, where the VA hospital is located.

Sam and I go way back to the days before society became so transient. We met probably in the third grade and continued our friendship, always staying in touch over any length of time or distance. Age and circumstances weighed on us both, but more healthwise for Sam than me.

The old truck isn’t conducive to conversation when you’re roaring down the road at a blistering 55 miles an hour, but Sam and I were used to it. We carried on, shouting a bit when the wind noise threatened to shut us down.

“You gonna come outta this?” I asked, using the black humor we sported back and forth to one another all our lives. “If not, I hope you made the proper arrangements with your lawyer. I’m not driving you up here for nothing.”

“Don’t worry, Bryant, I’ll see you get a tank o’ gas out the deal. Find us a quick food joint and let’s get some lunch. I’m not hankering for hospital food for supper.”

I stopped at a Wendy’s right outside of town. There were a couple of picnic tables shaded under an oak tree, and we decided to eat outside away from the lunch crowd.

“What’re y’all doing on the Fourth?” he inquired.

“We always go up to Burlington. A group of friends get together every year to celebrate. It’s a good summer outing with folks we’ve known forever. What are y’all gonna do?”

“Don’t know yet. Depends on how this trip turns out.”

I could tell that Sam was feeling his age and also a little mortal. Who wouldn’t, going to a strange hospital for an operation that is supposedly routine but could always turn out not to be?

“Come on, Sam. This operation will be fine. You’ve got the best doctors in the country. The Duke docs run the show at the VA, I understand.”

“I know, but at my age, anything can happen. I’m not ready to get on that bus, you know, just in case they’re getting up a load,” he said.

The burgers were good, and we stowed our trash in the waste can next to the table and were on our way. In a short drive, I pulled up in front of the massive VA hospital, found a parking place again in the shade, and we got out of the Bronco.

“Thanks for the ride, partner. You don’t have to come in. I can handle all the paperwork.”

“Nah, I want to see the place just in case I have to come up here someday.”

And it was something to see. The building was huge, with large halls stretching from here to yonder. After a bit of searching, as directed by the lady at the front desk, we found where Sam was supposed to bunk. It was a ward, really, with six or eight beds in the room. He was the only one there.

“You don’t reckon they might lose you back here?” I asked, smiling as I was getting ready to leave.

“I hope not. But you better have your compass so you can find your way back to the Bronco.”

“All right, sport. You take it easy. Good luck in the morning. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.”

I stepped out into the hall to find my way back to the entrance. Sam was right, I did need a compass. I immediately got turned around and wandered the halls right and left, totally lost. The amazing thing was there were no people. I walked past empty rooms, vacant corridors, nobody. Finally, I met a lady heading my way. She was looking lost, too.

“Ma’am, I’m trying to find the front door to this place. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“I think it’s down this hall,” she said, pointing to a long passageway to my right. “I’m new here myself, from the Duke hospital across the road, and I’m trying to find the floor nurse.”

“Good luck,” I said, and she walked away in the opposite direction.

Around the corner, down the hall, I saw a door opening outside. There was a parking area all right, but not the one where I had parked. A fellow was sitting on a bench right next to the sidewalk. He looked like he had been there for a while, so I thought I’d get directions from him.

When I walked up, he looked over at me, grinned and said, “You lost?”

“No, sir, but my truck is.”

“You came out the wrong door, Bubba. This is the back entrance. You probably parked around front.”

The man was of an indeterminate age, with iron-gray hair cut in a military brush style. He had on a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a faded Marine Corps insignia on the front. He wore crisp, ironed khakis and sandals. A cane was propped on the bench. His color had a yellow cast to it, and his breathing was short, as if he had to concentrate on it. A small tattoo showing the stripes of a master sergeant was on his right arm.

“Business inside?” he asked.

“My friend. I gave him a lift up here. He has an operation scheduled tomorrow. Marine Corps?”

“Yep, 28 years, retired. You?”

“Same. Short timer. Let me guess. Gunnery sergeant?”

“Good guess. Vietnam?”

“Same era. You?”

“Three tours.”

“Good grief. Couldn’t get enough of the good times, I guess.”

“There in the beginning, helping the ARVN build firebases. Sort of an observer. Second tour, more a participant. The Southern regulars weren’t up to the task. Meant well, but would scatter like a busted covey of quail at the first shots. Third time, realized it was a politicians’ war and a wasted effort.”

He looked out at the traffic slowly driving by, lost in his thoughts.

“You a patient inside?” I asked.

“Yeah, sort of a regular. They tell me I’m about done, though. Waiting on my ride. My niece is picking me up.”

I didn’t ask what he meant by “about done.”

“Here she is now.” He pointed to a pickup that stopped at the curb. “Good talking with you.”

He slowly got up from the bench, and with the help of his cane, shuffled down the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gunny,” I said as he neared the vehicle. “Have a great Fourth. Semper Fi.”

He stuck up his thumb in the universal gesture for “everything is OK” and slowly climbed in the truck. I watched as they drove away, and as I walked around the building to find the Bronco, I couldn’t help but think about the hero I had just met. He deserved better than a bench sitting in back of an almost empty VA hospital.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Southwords

The Show Must Go On

Lessons from the Barnum of baseball

By Jim Moriarty

I only have one story about fireworks that doesn’t reflect great discredit on me. That’s because it involves a member of the baseball Hall of Fame, Bill Veeck. If you don’t know who Bill Veeck was, buckle up. You’re in for a wild ride.

The hand-operated scoreboard at Wrigley Field in Chicago and the ivy covering the outfield wall bricks? Bill Veeck did that when he was a 20-something front office executive for the Chicago Cubs.

Veeck lost his right leg to injuries he received as a Marine in the Pacific during World War II. He was so profoundly addicted to cigarettes he had an ashtray built into his wooden limb.

He owned the Cleveland Indians (1946-49), the St. Louis Browns (1951-53) and the Chicago White Sox, twice (1959-61 and 1975-80). In ’51Veeck sent Eddie Gaedel, 3-feet, 7-inches tall, wearing a uniform with the number 1/8 on the back and a strike zone the size of a buffalo nickel in to pinch hit for the Browns against the Detroit Tigers. He walked on four pitches, and the next day Major League Baseball banned little people. Veeck told the baseball reporters he hoped his tombstone would read, “He Helped the Little Man.”

Three months after Jackie Robinson broke baseball’s color barrier in 1947, Veeck signed Larry Doby to a Cleveland Indians contract to make sure the same thing happened in the American League. The next year he signed Satchel Paige, then 42. Someone wrote that if Paige had been old and white, no one would have given him a second thought. “If Satch were white, he would have been in the majors 25 years ago,” Veeck said. Paige was 6–1. The Indians won the World Series.

Even though he was a marketing and money-making machine, when it came to presidential politics Veeck cast his lot with Socialist Party candidate Norman Thomas, who ran for the office six times. He even voted for Thomas after the man had died. “I’d rather vote for a dead man with class than two live bums,” Veeck said.

Harry Caray singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh inning stretch? It became a more recognizable trademark for Caray than his raspy, mouth-full-of-marbles voice and it was Bill Veeck’s idea.

Go ahead and Google “worst sports uniforms ever.” I guarantee you’ll find the flared collars and black shorts of the 1976 White Sox. People liked to blame Bill’s wife, Mary Frances, for those unis, but it was all Veeck.

The disastrous “Disco Demolition Night” promotion? That was Veeck.

Exploding scoreboards? That was Veeck, too.

The man wrote two autobiographies. Two. And he didn’t run out of stuff.

I was only in his presence once. It was during Veeck’s second stint as owner of the White Sox. I don’t remember how a kid reporter from South Bend, Indiana, managed to talk his way into the press box at old Comiskey Park on Chicago’s South Side, but it happened.

The Bard’s Room was then, and probably still is, a hospitality lounge near the press box where you could get a cold beer and a hot dog before the game. For all I know Veeck invented beer and hospitality, too. The day I was there, Veeck was sitting in the Bard’s Room surrounded by eight or 10 of the usual suspects, the baseball writers from AP, UPI, the Trib, the Sun Times. Guys I knew only by their bylines. Veeck had a telephone in front of him. He was calling the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States and everyone was laughing.

A shipment of fireworks on its way from Mississippi to Illinois, meant to explode from the top of the centerfield scoreboard when Bucky Dent or Carlos May or whoever hit a home run, had been interdicted by ATF agents. The show couldn’t go on. Agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms were attached to the Department of the Treasury. So, Veeck gathered the local reporters, picked up the phone, dialed a number in Washington, D.C., and asked to speak to the secretary of the treasury.

And he got him.

Veeck demanded satisfaction. He paused long enough to accept the sincere apologies of the secretary, which he dutifully relayed to one and all. Funny stories were written. At least that’s the way I remember it.

Here’s the thing. None of us gathered around Bill Veeck actually knew whether or not he was talking to the secretary of the treasury. Hell, it could have been a hot dog salesman on the other end of the line. But it didn’t matter. The P.T. Barnum of baseball knew that, even when they take your fireworks away — no, especially when they take your fireworks away — you can still put on a show.  PS

Jim Moriarty is the Editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

Road Trip Playlist

Roll down the windows and turn up the volume: these Carolina tunes will keep you cruising

By David Menconi

Road trip season is upon us, which calls for some music to keep the momentum going. Whether you’re twist ing along the Blue Ridge Parkway or cruising the Outer Banks Scenic Byway, when you hit the road for points beyond, bring along tunes made by artists from the Old North State. Here is the ultimate North Carolina road trip playlist.

Chuck Berry

“Promised Land” (1964)

We begin with this classic from the great classic-rock elder Chuck Berry. Promised Land tells the story of a coast-to-coast journey with a roll call of cities along the way, including both Raleigh and Charlotte.

6 String Drag

“Gasoline Maybelline” (1997)

One of the best bands from Raleigh’s mid-1990s alternative-country boom, 6 String Drag was a powerhouse with old-school country harmonies and a soulful horn section. Nothing pile-drives like Gasoline Maybelline.

Blues Magoos

“Tobacco Road” (1966)

Durham native John D. Loudermilk wrote a lot of great songs, none greater than this oft-covered garage-rock classic. New York’s Blues Magoos cut the definitive version of Tobacco Road, which you’ll find on the 1972 proto-punk compilation Nuggets.

Squirrel Nut Zippers

“Put a Lid on It” (1996)

Hell, the big hit for the latter-day Chapel Hill hot-jazz band, could also go here as a good song for picking up the pace (or even speeding). But Put a Lid on It, featuring singer Katharine Whalen at her sassiest, is better for cruising.

Black Sheep

“The Choice Is Yours” (1991)

From Sanford, North Carolina, the hip-hop duo of William “Mr. Long” McLean and Andres “Dres” Titus would like you to know: You can get with this / Or you can get with that.

Don Dixon

“Praying Mantis” (1987)

After you’ve been driving a while and the caffeine starts to wear off, here’s a great sing-along pick-me-up. Praying Mantis dates back to the early 1980s and Dixon’s long-running band Arrogance. After Arrogance broke up, he had a solo hit with it.

Etta Baker

“One-Dime Blues” (1991)

Baker was one of the great legends of Piedmont blues guitar. That especially goes for her signature instrumental One-Dime Blues, which rolls on down the highway. If you can play it yourself and keep up, you’re “one-diming it.”

The “5” Royales

“Think” (1957)

Covered by James Brown and Mick Jagger, Think was one of the most enduring songs that the legendary Winston-Salem R&B band The “5” Royales left behind. It’s also a perfect cruising song — but keep your hands on the wheel, no air-guitar allowed.

Sylvan Esso

“Song” (2017)

Durham’s Sylvan Esso, made up of Amelia Meath and Nick Sanborn, makes folksy electronic music with a warm, beating heart. This one is a great song for the wide-open highway.

The Connells

“Stone Cold Yesterday” (1990)

Although they’re best known for the moody 1993 ballad ’74-’75, Raleigh’s Connells can pick up the tempo, too. This song’s call-to-arms guitar riff really should have been all over the radio.

Fantasia

“Summertime” (2004)

The High Point native and season-three American Idol winner has never been better than on her sultry performance of the George Gershwin classic. Perfect for long cruises.

Southern Culture on the Skids

“Voodoo Cadillac” (1995)

Once you’re close enough to your destination to exit the highway, here’s one to ease off the throttle, by Chapel Hill’s long-running garage-rock band. I got eight slappin’ pistons right here under my hood / Let’s ride.  PS

Hometown

A Week in the Big City

Learning to clear, and run, the tables

By Bill Fields

It was a low moment when my beloved Baltimore Orioles lost to the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 1971 World Series after winning the previous season. As the seventh grade got started, though, I still had great memories from that summer and an adventure of the highest order.

Not long after the All-Star team from the Southern Pines Little League was quickly bounced from the post-season with a defeat in Warsaw (North Carolina, not Poland) in which I was hapless against the opposing pitcher’s curveball, Sadie, one of my two older sisters, invited me to spend a week with her in High Point.

Sadie had settled there after going to college at UNC Greensboro, marrying a restaurant owner named Bill Carter, and had an infant son, John. At 12, I was an uncle and, although I would make an attempt to play Pony League baseball the following year, essentially knew that I was a washed-up good glove/bad bat third baseman who would not be following Brooks Robinson to a hot corner somewhere in the major leagues.

I realized it was time to concentrate on other things, and the opportunity to hang out with one of my siblings in a place with about 10 times the population of my hometown wasn’t something to be missed. An intriguing aspect was that thanks to my brother-in-law this was a working vacation, and I would come home with some cash while also getting to enjoy the pleasures of the big city.

As a golf-loving kid fascinated by miniature golf, especially Putt-Putt, I knew High Point had a Putt-Putt facility on North Main Street, 36 holes of putting pleasure that wasn’t available in the Sandhills. A daytime, play-as-much-as-you-want pass was $3, and at least four days that week Sadie dropped me off and picked me up several hours later.

Round and round I would go, the sporting equivalent of an all-you-can-eat dinner, with no anxiety at seeing my colored golf ball go down the chute at the 18th hole because I knew there was a counter full of balls to choose from for my next round and no need to dig into my pockets to see if I had enough money to pay for it. There was also no wait to tee off on those weekday afternoons, the rest of the world obviously not into Putt-Putt as much as I was.

By the end of the week, I had gotten proficient enough to have broken 30 a few times on the par-36 courses, which made me think I could one day challenge professional putting champions like Vance Randall and Rick Smith on the carpet. I became such a familiar face to the proprietor that he let me skim bugs out of the water hazards for a pack of crackers. Unfortunately, he didn’t offer me a discount on the P.P.A. (Professional Putters Association) steel-center golf balls favored by the pros for sale in the kiosk, which I was convinced would drop my score by a couple of strokes. 

My nights were spent working as an apron- and paper cap-wearing busboy at Brinwood, one of Bill’s two restaurants. The menu was huge — steaks, seafood, sandwiches, chicken, spaghetti and much more — and the food was delicious, the latter the reason the place was much more crowded than the Putt-Putt on North Main. I clearly remember two of Bill’s edicts: Never dip a glass into the bin of crushed ice, and never sweep up while customers are eating nearby.

As a relative, I got special dispensation to order whatever I wanted for my end-of-shift meal. One night I picked fried flounder, which was as good as anything you could get at the beach. All the other evenings, though, I chose country-style steak, the waitresses kidding me for being a creature of habit. There were great desserts too, the homemade German chocolate cake being a favorite.

The metabolism of a 12-year-old is a wonderful thing, but I think I still came home with an extra pound or two. After closing Brinwood, we’d go to Bill’s other restaurant, Carter’s, a smaller place closer to downtown, to check up there. While he counted the money in the till, I was free to prepare myself a milkshake in a metal cup just like they made them at the Sandhill Drug fountain. I never looked at a carton of store-brand Neapolitan in our freezer quite the same.

I came home with $60 from my busboy shifts, most of which my mother “suggested” I use to start a savings account. I sure felt rich after my week of living like a king.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

Bless My Mess

To ease my stress

By Deborah Salomon

I remember, as a child, “putting things” in a corner of my closet. They could be anything: a scratchy sweater; a comic book; last summer’s worn-out sandals. I wasn’t hiding them, exactly. I just wanted them safely out of sight. In a heap, not neatly stacked.

From time to time my mother told me to “throw that stuff out” or at least “straighten it up.” No way.

That pile initiated a long line of “junk” drawers, basement repositories, currently a spare bedroom where all the dishes, towels, lamps, magazines, boots, crutches, quilts and clothes that I couldn’t part with during the last move are stashed.

That “last move” happened 14 years and many dust bunnies ago.

This is neither hoarding nor collecting. It is, perhaps, the seminal clue that indicates failure as a crazy clean/neat freak — not that I aspire to either. Most of the genuine crazy clean/neat freaks I’ve encountered are driven . . . by a chauffeur named Freud. They rarely have pets, fonts of dirt and disorder. I feel badly for them.

This conundrum only matters when the traits travel to the workplace. The desk I occupied in a busy newsroom for 15 years, its drawers and the wall shelves above it, were obliterated by stacks of envelopes, printouts, clippings, press releases, notebooks, cookbooks, etc. — barely leaving room for the antique computer monitor, tower and keyboard. I couldn’t even claim “but I know where everything is” because I didn’t.

Every Friday afternoon I would straighten the piles, dust around them and fill a wastebasket with things I probably, hopefully, wouldn’t need.

When I retired, they brought in a dumpster.

A friend recently emailed me 50 historic photos from the past 100 years. Among the horrific war scenes and aftermaths of earthquakes was a photo of the Wright brothers’ liftoff and the first self-serve supermarket, a Piggly Wiggly in Tennessee. The photo that stopped me cold was Albert Einstein’s desk and shelves, taken on the day he died, in 1955.

They were a mess.

Please don’t think I’m correlating a messy desk with genius. I’m just saying the inability to maintain order is not fatal, cognitively or emotionally, something my mother didn’t understand. Every surface in her house was covered with stuff, neatly stacked and arranged, never messy, dusted frequently.

No wonder I, the rebellious daughter, kept a pile in a dark closet corner.

The other thing that struck me about Einstein’s desk was no electronics, not a telephone or adding machine or typewriter. Just papers, his pipe and tobacco. Numbers covered a blackboard behind the desk, which indicates most of his conclusions were reached manually.

Take a hike, Alexa! Adios, Siri! The cloud? Clear skies today.

Obviously, I’m trying to justify (excuse?) a bad habit. So, every few days I stack the notebooks neatly, dust behind my monitor. But don’t anybody touch my Word archives because every so often I really, really need a story from 2004. Besides, I’ve learned that anything resembling a purge is like feeding a stray cat that reappears same time tomorrow.

I should know, after adopting two strays who showed up at the same time 10 years ago. Wish I’d named one Albert.

Clean is glorious, necessary, fulfilling. Nothing puts joy in my step like pushing a vacuum. I’d rather sniff Mr. Clean than Chanel No. 5. But neat? A slippery slope ending, I fear, at OCD.

In the dark corner of my closet lie a few old sweaters awaiting disposal. Stray kitty found them, made this soft, quiet corner his bed. Which proves that a little mess left undisturbed goes a long way . . . in the right paws.  PS

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