Tag: 2023

Birdwatch

Enticing the Baltimore Oriole

Red carpet treatment for an occasional guest

By Susan Campbell

Northerners who relocate to central North Carolina often ask me about birds familiar to them that seem absent here in our fair state. One that is close to the top of the list is the Baltimore oriole. Its striking plumage and affinity for sweet feeder offerings make it a real favorite among backyard bird lovers.

Male Baltimore orioles are unmistakable with bright orange under parts, a black back and head, as well as two bold white wing bars. Females and immature birds are yellow to light orange with the same white wing bars. They have relatively large, yet pointed, bills, which are very versatile while foraging. Males sing a very melodic song made up of several clear, whistled notes.

As it turns out, Baltimore orioles actually do nest in North Carolina — if you venture far enough west. In our mountains they can be found weaving their elaborate nests that dangle from high branches, often over water. Following two weeks of incubation, the young will spend another two weeks before they fledge. By mid-summer the adults spend their days in the treetops, looking for caterpillars and small insects to feed their growing families.

However, since these birds winter throughout Florida and all the way down into Central America, you might spot a few as they pass through in spring or fall. There is also a chance one or two might spend the winter in your neighborhood if you have the kind of habitat they seek out in the cooler months. Should your yard be to their liking, they may return year after year, bringing others (presumably family members) with them. I know winter oriole hosts in the eastern half of the state who count a dozen or more birds frequenting their feeders October through March every year.

Baltimore orioles will seek out areas with lots of mature evergreen trees and shrubs of which a significant portion bear some sort of fruit. These birds are relatively large and colorful so require thick cover for protection from predators — especially fast-flying bird hawks such as Cooper’s and sharp-shinneds. Without this, it has been my experience that they will not linger long even if food is plentiful. Should they feel safe, the odds are they will settle in and become a regular backyard fixture. Baltimore orioles will continue to consume any insects they happen upon but will switch to a diet of berries and whatever fruit or sweet treats they find at bird feeders. They are known to enjoy not only suet mixes with peanut butter but also orange halves, grape jelly and even marshmallows. They also will avail themselves of sugar water from hummingbird feeders they find still hanging. There are special, large sugar water feeders made for orioles that usually contain partitions for placing other solid treats as well. Baltimore orioles definitely enjoy mealworms, too, should your budget allow.

A few very lucky people have been treated to the out-of-place Scott’s oriole, as well as Bullock’s oriole, here in North Carolina. Interestingly, these mega-rarities have turned up at sites without any other orioles present. Keep in mind that we sometimes find western tanagers at feeders in winter. The females and immature birds of this species look very similar to female or immature Baltimore orioles, differing only in the shape of their bills and the color of their wing bars.

Personally, I have had Baltimore orioles show up for a week or so but then move on. In spite of setting out the red carpet (including suet, jelly, oranges, mealworms and sugar water), they have not been enticed to stay long. Maybe this fall will be a different story . . . PS

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

Crossroads

A Mission that Rings True

The Village Chapel turns 125

“The Village Chapel has stood here through all these years, with its slender spire, its beautiful proportions, its chaste simplicity, its friendly and devout spirit, to bless and inspire those who come under its influence. Some have been gracious enough to say that the Chapel is the heart of Pinehurst.” — Dr. Thaddeus A. Cheatham, Pastor, The Village Chapel (1908-1950)

By Steve Woodward

Dr. Thaddeus Cheatham penned the above sentiment upon his retirement after guiding Pinehurst’s first church, The Village Chapel, during a remarkable span of 42 years. His words resonate today, on the eve of the Chapel’s commemoration of its 125th anniversary, which will be formally celebrated on Oct. 29.

Little is known about Cheatham before the Episcopalian priest arrived in Moore County in 1908 but he was the right man at the right time.

The Chapel as it stands today was built in 1924 and held its first service on March 1, 1925. Its roots, however, trace to the establishment of a religious society envisioned by Pinehurst’s founder, James Walker Tufts, and formally organized in 1898 by his close friend Dr. Edward E. Hale, a Unitarian pastor.

The Village Chapel became the heart of Pinehurst long before a “slender spire” towered overhead. Tufts believed that the destination he created to attract refugees from Northern winters would not succeed unless it was held together by something more than a moderate climate. He called it Christian unity and, in pursuing that objective, Tufts and Hale formed one of the first interdenominational churches in the United States.

With the evolution of the Pinehurst Religious Association around 1897, seasonal visiting worshippers began gathering in Pinehurst’s first lodging, The Holly Inn, for Sunday services. In ensuing years, they assembled in the Casino Building, which in that era meant “community center.” Ultimately, a village hall was erected and Sunday worship relocated there — as long as someone could round up a visiting pastor.

A Catholic congregation eventually began meeting for Mass under the same roof, re-enforcing the spirit of unity Tufts sought. As observed by The Pinehurst Outlook, interdenominational worship achieved an “ideal sought by many.”

Cheatham’s arrival stabilized the Sunday schedule and, by 1923, his leadership was inspiring Chapel members to dream of erecting an elegant new building on the Village Green. Unfettered generosity made possible the chapel that would soon be constructed. A frequent visitor, Mary Bruce, initiated the building fund by presenting Cheatham a check for $5,000 ($89,000 in 2023 dollars) from her death bed in New York when he visited after Easter 1923. According to Chapel archives, news of the donation spurred pledges exceeding $40,000 within 20 minutes after Cheatham formed a building committee. Among the donors was Pinehurst No. 2 course architect Donald Ross, already well on his way to fame as one of golf’s premier designers. When Leonard Tufts, James’ son, was advised that cash was flowing in, he donated prime Village Green land. No hearings. No bonds.

When The Village Chapel opened its doors, Pastor Cheatham could not have known that 25 more years of stewardship lay before him. From the second half of the 20th century through the present, the roster of senior pastors has multiplied to 11. Rev. Dr. Ashley Smith became senior pastor upon the retirement after a decade of service of Rev. Dr. John Jacobs in 2022. Smith arrived at the Chapel to serve as associate pastor in 2011.

The Chapel has long been known for its music. In 1988 music director John Shannon oversaw installation of the Chapel’s second carillon. It was equipped with speakers housed in the Chapel’s steeple. This carillon soon became a mainstay in the village. Westminster chimes play each hour. Hymns emanate every three hours. Payne Stewart famously remarked following his U.S. Open victory in 1999 that hearing the bells gently piercing the silence relaxed him as he was teeing off on the 18th hole in the decisive final round.

Robust community support for Village Chapel expansion would repeat across the decades. In 1961, an administrative wing was added. Chapel Hall was christened three decades later. Beginning in 2021, Heritage Hall rose amid the longleaf pines to accommodate the Chapel’s fast-growing youth ministry and was dedicated on Sept. 18, 2022.

The Chapel’s footprint more than ever is tied inextricably to the identity of the village. Added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1973, the Chapel affirms James Walker Tuft’s legacy and remains a beacon, singularly devoted to its mission. PS

Steve Woodward resides with his wife, Jackie, in Pinehurst, three minutes away by car from The Village Chapel. He is a recovering journalist who focuses on blogging and managing several community websites, leaving little time for tortured rounds of golf.

The Pastors of The Village Chapel

Rev. Dr. Edward E. Hale, Unitarian: 1896 – 1903

Rev. Alleyne C. Howell, Episcopalian: 1907

Rev. Dr. Thaddeus A. Cheatham, Episcopalian: 1908 – 1950

Rev. Adam W. Craig, Presbyterian: 1951 – 1959

Right Rev. Louis C. Melcher, Episcopalian: 1959 – 1966

Rev. Charles W. Lowry, Episcopalian: 1966 – 1973

Rev. Henry C. Duncan, United Methodist: 1973 – 1987

Rev. Bobby C. Black, United Methodist: 1987 – 1997

Rev. Edward E. Galloway, United Methodist: 1997 – 2001

Rev. Larry H. Ellis, Baptist: 2001 – 2011

Rev. Dr. John R. Jacobs, Episcopalian: 2012 – 2022

Rev. Dr. Ashley N. Smith, Interdenominational: 2022 – Present

(Source: The Village Chapel)

2023 Crossroads Department

Out of the Blue

Fall Faves

The crown of the calendar

By Deborah Salomon

The primordial connection between humans and the seasons has survived for millennia. Spring invigorates. Winter draws us to the fireside. Autumn, ah autumn, is a mixed blessing: relief from summer’s searing heat, harbinger of winter’s cruel chill.

These days, climate change is messing with both extremes, confusing plants and wildlife.

I’m an autumn gal, not a fan of summer vacations. My favorite autumn sub-season is called Back to School. Its talismans (talismen? taliswomen?) still evoke a pang rooted in a variety of experiences, good and not-so, beginning with . . .

Plaid cotton dresses: Through fifth grade I attended a progressive all-girls private school that required uniforms — navy jumpers, white blouses, knee socks and lace-up shoes. Then we moved to a different planet where I was plunged into public school, where girls wore plaid cotton dresses. My mother didn’t approve. Sensible skirts and blouses for me. Penny loafers? Not a chance.

The resulting quest for autumn plaid survives in long-sleeved shirts that look old-fashioned but complement jeans weathered by wearing, not a chemical bath.

Absolutely necessary for b-to-s: ring binders covered in a medium-blue fabric, with metal rings that snapped hard, sometimes on fingers. The fabric surfaces welcomed ball-point graffiti, including names of boyfriends, or school teams, cartoons or pop singers. Designs were psychedelic before psychedelia had been invented. My binder suffered from lack of artistry.

Then, as autumn progressed, brown and navy corduroy replaced those lightweight plaids. Whatever happened to real corduroy, just cozy enough for late October? All I could find was a jacket at Walmart, with the texture of mashed potatoes.

Long before the overuse of “pumpkin spice” in every conceivable food, the first fall McIntosh apples released their cider — with its incredible aroma — at New England cider mills, also the source for cider doughnuts, which added a new dimension to coffee breaks. Starbucks and Dunkin’ . . . don’t bother trying. Even three dollars and a fancy name can’t buy that smell.

As the leaves fell and days shortened generations “laid in” for winter, a necessary evil, beginning with gray, damp November — on nobody’s Best Month list. February turns the corner, with spring only a whiff away, signaled by early March fiddleheads, the tightly coiled fern leaves growing by streams and rivers, exquisite sautéed in garlic butter. Forage them quickly, before they unfurl to a bitter leaf.

During times of shock and uncertainty, with hurricanes flooding the West Coast and pandemics decimating populations, mortgage rates escalating and wildfires destroying forests, affirming our connections to weather, crops, seasons offers some comfort. Bears still hibernate, birds fly south and return to nest in the same tree. Thanksgiving happens no matter how expensive the turkey. Snowmen justify the blizzard. Spring flowers predict hay fever until the cows come home to be relieved of milk that reappears as lick-quick July ice cream cones.

But as long as leaves flame red and orange, October crowns the calendar. Breathe it in, before November shows up in a wooly turtleneck. PS

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

2023 Department Out of the Blue

Pleasures of Life Dept.

Pickleball Pandemonium

Investigating the recreational craze

By Jenna Biter

Any day of the week, split the baseball fields off W. Morganton Road and pull into the parking lot at Memorial Park, around, say, 8 o’clock in the morning. Directly through the windshield, you’ll see a pair of empty tennis courts, nets sagging low. They seem to let out a prolonged sigh as the color slowly drains from their hard, green faces as if they’re the sad relics of a popular pastime from a past time.

To their left, a constant thwack, thwack, thwacking drowns out the imagined groans of the aging courts next door.

“Hi, Sam or Chuck or Michelle,” somebody inevitably sings as they push through a chain-link gate into a space bubbling with laughter and the sound of endless thwacking spilling out of the half-dozen slick new pickleball courts.

The public facility replaced a different set of sorry tennis courts at the turn of the summer. Since then, the leftover hardcourt has looked on glumly, little more than spectators watching the new kids on the block.

Originally championed by the silver-haired demographic because its play area takes up one third of the real estate of a tennis court, pickleball’s popularity is winning over younger generations, too. More than just the latest excuse to pull a hamstring, it’s the fastest-growing sport in the United States and has been for three years.

With all the hype, from televised matches to pickleball style guides, you’d think the darling of court sports was imagined yesterday by a brilliant Ivy League dropout. Errrrr, wrong. The first pickleball match was played well before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, in a lazy summer slump of 1965. Determined to entertain their bored children, a gaggle of desperate dads — one of them, Joel Pritchard, a Washington state congressman — slapdashedly devised the sport out of a badminton court, ping-pong paddles and a wiffleball.

Pickleball is the improv sketch of the sports world. Even its name sounds like the butt of a quirky dad joke. So the legend goes, the Pritchard family dog, a cockapoo named Pickles, zig-zagged across the backyard court sniping the game ball, giving the sport its name. In defiance of this urban legend, the Pritchards themselves maintain the pooch ‘n fetch came later. In fact, the paddle sport’s name derived from the term “pickle boat,” rowing slang for a scull full of misfits. Because the sport was thrown together piecemeal, Joel’s wife, Joan, dubbed it pickleball.

After nearly six decades of play, the sport — if it can be elevated to that status, pickleball — has spread from that backyard in Washington, through perhaps a jillion senior centers and YMCAs, to thwack its way into mainstream recreation areas from Seattle to Sarasota, Burbank to Boston.

Its simplicity is a big reason the sport has been so readily adopted. Usually played in doubles, only the serving team can score. The serve must be hit underhand, diagonally to the opposing pair. Faults include: a shot hit out of bounds, a shot that doesn’t clear the net, or when something happens in a no-volley zone called the “kitchen.” Play to 11 and win by two. There are more rules, but that’s enough to get on the court. The skills of Novak Djokovic are not required.

I was no pickleball pro when I arrived at Memorial Park on a golden Friday morning. With a borrowed paddle and my laces cinched down tight, I was as ready as I needed to be to join a warm-up doubles match. “It’s just about getting your paddle on the ball,” one player said, coaxing me onto the court. That first solid thwack snuffed out any pregame jitters. The blunt feedback of a middle-of-the-paddle hit was more satisfying than I could have imagined, although finesse rather than strength is king on the court.

“The challenging part, coming from a tennis background, is you’re used to hitting the ball hard,” says Anne Merkel, a five-to-six day a week pickler. “And that’s not it. The goal is to try to get up close and just dink it. It’s very strategic. Some compare it to playing chess — it’s all about angles.”

I took the advice, finessing the ball left and right, trying to place it out of the opponents’ reach. Sometimes it worked, though not often enough. We lost the truncated scrimmage in a dismal showing, 5–0. Regrettably, I had to go. Revenge would have to wait. Walking to the car, I phoned my husband, “We need pickleball paddles,” I said.

Beginner or advanced, with or without a partner, from sunrise till quits, people tumble into Memorial Park and, smooth like butter, they seamlessly rotate into matches. This is how the courts have been since they opened in June.

“I love it because it’s fun, the camaraderie, but there’s that little bit of competitiveness,” Merkel says. “Pickleball is for everybody.” PS

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

2023 Department Pleasures of Life

Focus on Food

Roll, Roll, Roll Your Oats

The renaissance of porridge

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

Many moons ago, around the time when candy cigarettes and slap-on bracelets were the cat’s pajamas, a serving of oatmeal seemed more like a punishment to me than a meal worth savoring. My mom cooking oats for us usually meant one of two things: The 7-year-old me had not eaten “right” for a while and needed proper sustenance; or we had simply run out of other breakfast foods (namely bread) before grocery day.

While my brother and I despised cooked oats and feigned tummy aches at the sight of it, we were completely sold on an oatmeal rendition we had been introduced to in our neighbor’s kitchen: raw oats soaked in cold milk for just a minute or two, served with a dash of cacao and a sprinkling of brown sugar. Love, instantly. To us, it was the perfect composition of a refreshing, lightly sweetened, satisfying oat snack, minus the mush. While cooked oats weren’t our jam, this chilled adaptation became a staple in our meal rotation through much of my childhood. My brother, now in his 40s, still eats his oats chilled. Meanwhile, I have made room in my life for traditionally cooked, warm and comforting, creamy oatmeal.

Though porridge, which can be made from any whole grain, is making a comeback as a whole, oatmeal in particular seems to take center stage. Denmark has an established chain of restaurants that serves nothing but porridge for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Savory oatmeal has gone viral on social media this year with masala oats, a traditional Indian breakfast dish, on the rise. Many speculate that the gluten-free craze has contributed to the revival of oatmeal; some believe that studies showing oatmeal aids weight loss are to be credited for it — which is a bit of mystery to me, seeing that the vast majority of people jazz up their oats with fat and sugar. I, however, have a different take on the renaissance of oatmeal.

While oatmeal hardly falls in the category of “acquired taste,” I have numerous friends who, much like myself, went from total rejection to complete adoration of this humble dish. Aside from the fact that I actually enjoy the taste and texture of oatmeal nowadays, I’m drawn to it for another, fairly significant reason. Oatmeal has a unique way of grounding me. However complicated life gets, a bowl of oatmeal is the epitome of simplicity and instantly connects me with the quiet, unrushed aspects of my life. It’s like a warm hug on a chilly day — oatmeal nourishes body and soul. I believe that this sentiment is quietly shared among many of us who embrace this scrumptious, gratifying dish, and may be much more relevant in explaining the recent popularity of oatmeal. But if I happen to lose a few pounds down the road, eating buttery, sugar-sprinkled oatmeal, I’ll happily stand corrected.

Creamy Pumpkin Oatmeal

(Makes 2 Servings)

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups water

Pinch of salt

1 cup rolled oats

1/2 cup pumpkin puree

3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1-2 tablespoons sweetener, to taste (honey, maple syrup or granulated sugar)

1/2 teaspoon pumpkin spice, optional (see note)

Directions

Bring water and salt to a boil, then add oats. Stir to combine, then add remaining ingredients. Simmer for 5-10 minutes until you reach your desired consistency; remove from heat and allow to rest for 1-2 minutes before serving. Top with seasonal fruit, such as figs, grapes or pears; add pumpkin seeds, cacao nibs, sliced almonds or other chopped nuts, to taste.

Note: Add pumpkin spice for more flavor. To make your own pumpkin spice, combine 1 heaping teaspoon ground cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg, 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger and 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves. PS

German native Rose Shewey is a food stylist and food photographer. To see more of her work visit her website, suessholz.com.

2023 Department Focus on Food

In the Spirit

Which Sweet Vermouth?

Finding the best cocktail companion

By Tony Cross

One of my best friends is an avid beer drinker. He gets off on all of the subtle complexities that make beer and all of the varietals unique. He sent me a message last week asking, for probably the third time, “What’s the name of that damn vermouth again?”

My friend and his wife were at a cocktail lounge in Canada where they enjoyed a few classic drinks. The negroni was one of them. For someone who never drinks cocktails, he was amazed at the possibilities when combining spirit, sweet and bitter. Now, if he could only remember which vermouth they used, he could recreate the drink at home. Because we live to serve, here are a few sweet vermouths and how to pair them with some of the classics — including his. Now he’ll have a paper trail.

Manhattan

The first time I made a proper drink, it was a Manhattan. I had special-ordered a case of rye whiskey from our ABC and taken a trip to a wine shop in Southern Pines to purchase a bottle of vermouth. Rittenhouse was the rye and Carpano Antica was the vermouth. The drink forever changed the way I viewed cocktails. I’ve always been adamant about making Manhattans with Carpano, but I do change the specs from time to time. Lately, I’ve been using Mancino vermouth. It was birthed in Asti, Piedmont, in 2011, when owner Giancarlo Mancino wanted to create the world’s finest vermouths with hand-picked botanicals and spices. The Mancino vermouth is a little more full-bodied than the Carpano, with notes of baking spices and juniper. Trying this on its own, with or without ice, is a great way to understand your vermouth’s flavor profile before adding it to your cocktail. It’s also great as an aperitif.

2 ounces rye whiskey

1 ounce Mancino vermouth

2 dashes Angostura bitters

Put whiskey, vermouth, and bitters into a cold mixing vessel, add ice, and stir until cocktail is properly chilled and diluted. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. Garnish with Luxardo or brandied cherry.

Red Hook

In the 2000s, there were a number of bartenders who created cocktails that were spins on the classic Brooklyn cocktail, which consisted of rye whiskey, dry vermouth, maraschino liqueur and Amer Picon, a hard to find French apéritif. One of these variations, the Red Hook, caught my eye when I was behind the bar. I had seen a video where bartender Jamie Boudreau showed how to barrel-age this stirred cocktail. I was “hooked.” (Apologies to all.) Even though Boudreau might have been the first to barrel-age the Red Hook, it was originally created in 2003 by bartender, Vincenzo Errico at the Milk & Honey bar in New York City. The cocktail still uses rye whiskey and maraschino liqueur but incorporates the sweet vermouth Punt e Mes. This Italian vermouth translates to “point and a half” — one part sweet, one-half part bitter. That little bit of bitterness from the vermouth is exactly why using Punt e Mes is the perfect fit.

2 ounces rye whiskey

1/2 ounce maraschino liqueur

1/2 ounce Punt e Mes

Combine whiskey, maraschino liqueur and vermouth in a chilled mixing vessel. Add ice and stir until drink is chilled and diluted. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. Garnish with maraschino cherry.

Negroni

Last but not least, we have the beloved negroni. This cocktail can be considered a cocktail and an apéritif. It’s lovely to enjoy right before dinner because it really does awaken your taste buds. At the same time, it’s perfectly fine to enjoy a negroni any time you feel like having a drink. The drink is easy to create — the first time I learned, it was 3/4 ounce (each) of gin, Campari and sweet vermouth. Later I upped the amount of each ingredient to an ounce, and then began adding a bit more gin than the other two ingredients. I also rearranged the types of gin. For example, a London Dry like Beefeater’s is a great go-to because of the juniper and orange notes, but a Plymouth gin will make the cocktail more earthy and soft. Campari was always a staple but I could swap out several vermouths. One of my favorite vermouths to use is Carpano Antica — the vermouth my friend keeps forgetting. With its notes of orange and vanilla, it creates the perfect bridge between the higher proof gin and bitter Campari. If you’ve never tried a negroni, I implore you to.

1 1/4 ounces gin

3/4 ounce Campari

3/4 ounce Carpano Antica

You can create this cocktail three ways. The first is to build it in the glass you’ll be drinking from. To do this, simply combine all ingredients in a rocks glass, add ice, stir, and garnish with an orange slice. The second, is to put all the ingredients in a chilled mixing vessel, add ice, and then strain into a rocks glass over ice. Lastly, and this is done to completely control the dilution, repeat the second method but strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. If straining over ice in a rocks glass, garnish with an orange slice; if straining into a coupe, garnish with orange peel, expressing the oils over the cocktail before adding to the glass. PS

Tony Cross owns and operates Reverie Cocktails, a cocktail delivery service that delivers kegged cocktails for businesses to pour on tap — but once a bartender, always a bartender.

2023 Department In the Spirit

Art of the State

Careful Chaos

Chieko Murasugi’s art subverts order and changes perspectives

By Liza Roberts

Abstract painter Chieko Murasugi has navigated conflicting perspectives all her life. She holds a Ph.D. in visual science and works as an artist; she is the Tokyo-born daughter of Japanese immigrants who was raised in Toronto and lives in America; she is a former impressionist painter who has turned to visual illusion to anchor her geometric art.

“I want to make the elusive, disparate, confusing, multifaceted nature of the world absolutely clear,” says Murasugi. “I want to be clear in my view that the world is unclear.”

Illusions underpin this message; her interest in them is one of the few things that has remained constant in her life. As a scientist, Murasugi studied visual perception because she was fascinated by mysteries like 3D illustrations that seem to flip upside down or right-side up depending on the angle of the viewer, or the ghosts of afterimages, or the way the interpretation of a color changes depending on the colors that sit beside it. Now, as an artist, she uses phenomena like these to tweak a viewer’s perception, to make a picture plane shift before their eyes, to turn it from one thing into another. She populates these paintings with crisp, unambiguous, flat-colored shapes. “I have clarity and I have ambiguity at the same time,” she says. “And that’s really at the crux of my art. It’s the ambiguity, the clarity, the dichotomy.”

Her art creates it, and she’s long lived it. Murasugi grew up in a “very white” Canadian suburb, “very clearly a minority.” As a child, her father, a descendant of 1600s-era samurai, showed her maps of Japan’s former reach across Asia, and told her “Americans took it away.” He told her about how American forces firebombed downtown Tokyo, and how he and her mother barely escaped with their lives.

But these were not facts she’d been taught in school, or heard anywhere else. “I had taken world history, and I had not heard anything about the firebombings of Japan,” she says. “And so everywhere I went, I was presented with diverging, often conflicting, but very disparate narratives. Who am I supposed to believe?” When she was studying for her doctorate at York University in Canada, she recalls, her professors proudly touted the department’s significance in the field. Then she went to Stanford to do postdoctoral work in neurobiology and nobody had heard of her colleagues at York University. “Again, I had to shift my perspective,” she says. Fueling those shifts was an overwhelming curiosity, she says, “always wanting to know why. Why, why, why. Curiosity has been the driving force of my life.”

Years later, when Murasugi left her accomplished academic career and the world of science for art, her viewpoint shifted again. In a deeply rooted way, she was coming home; she had always drawn and painted, and she studied art in college as well as science. Even at the height of her successful scientific career as a professor and research scientist, Murasugi believed that she didn’t truly belong. She thought she wasn’t quantitative, logical or analytical enough, that “there was something that was missing in the way that I was thinking,” she says. With art, the opposite was the case: “I knew I could do it.”

After she moved to North Carolina with her husband several years ago, this innate conviction took her back to school, to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for an MFA. There she met fellow artists she respected and joined with to co-found and co-curate an artist-run Chapel Hill exhibit space called Basement, which has earned a reputation as an incubator for emerging artists and which regularly exhibits their work to the public.

Over the last 18 months, Murasugi has found fresh directions, resulting in a new body of work, called Chance, that explores randomization, color theory, chance and chaos. “My mother was basically dying when I began this series,” she says. “Her impending death, having to process her death, is what inspired it. And I continued it for about a year, because I was just bereft.” Murasugi’s mother survived World War II “by chance” and always thought of her life as defined by that good fortune; this fueled Murasugi’s experimentation with art made, in part, “by chance.”

Using an algorithm available on the website random.org to arrange her own colors, shapes and patterns into random arrangements and compositions, Murasugi created a series of colorful, geometric works. In late summer 2022, she posted these works on the Instagram feed of Asheville’s Black Mountain College Museum + Arts Center, part of her digital residency with the museum. She also exhibited them at Craven Allen, her Durham gallery.

More recently, Murasugi has returned to the illusion-anchored canvases she began a few years ago — what she now refers to as her “old way of painting.”

It has been “a huge struggle,” she says, because “the end point is unknown.” Unlike the work made with the guidance of the randomizing program, “the trajectory is not straightforward” with these newer, intuitive paintings. “It’s forward and backwards, left and right. I’ve always worked this way, before I went to the Chance series, and I’d almost forgotten how difficult painting is. Both fun, and excruciatingly difficult.” Some of the pieces currently underway will find their way to CAM Raleigh for a show called Neo-Psychedelia that opens Nov. 10. She will also have a piece featured and sold at ArtSpace’s ArtBash, a fundraising gala, on Nov. 18, also in Raleigh.

Murasugi’s work has also been exhibited in museums in San Francisco, New York and across the South, and is in the collections of the City of Raleigh and Duke University. Its abstraction welcomes any interpretation at all; its subtle illusory elements gently subvert them. “People have said to me over the years: Your work is so beautiful. And I think, well, I hope it doesn’t stop there,” she says. “As long as they see that there were two ways of looking at it.” PS

This is an excerpt from Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, published by UNC Press.

2023 Art of the State Department

Hometown

Picture This

A wallet-sized memory

By Bill Fields

A fall ritual, as certain as football and Halloween, was the school picture.

It seems to be the thing now for parents to pose their kids with a sign as they depart for the first day of classes, a label of grade and year reminding everyone in the family and on social media of the historic moment, often occurring now in the ungodly heat of summer.

In the dark ages of my youth, I’m sure a minority of families documented the coming of another academic year with Polaroids or Kodak snapshots in a primitive version of the current practice. But most of us relied on the visit of the nomadic professional photographer, who would show up around the same time the bags of bite-sized candy were being stocked at the A&P.

We would be alerted by our teacher in advance of the taking of the school pictures, so haircuts and clothing could be considered. Going to public school and not wearing uniforms, the latter factor was a biggie — for our parents if not ourselves. Over the years, I wore T-shirts, short-sleeved seersucker, mock turtlenecks and wide-collared golf shirts. Senior year of high school, for reasons unknown, the boys were decked out in light blue tuxedo jackets. (I must have liked the look, owing to my allegiance to the Tar Heels or that I was able to rent that color on the cheap at Storey’s in the Town and Country Shopping Center. I wore one to the prom the forthcoming spring. Paired with black pants, it made me resemble a giant indigo bunting who had spent too much time at the feeder.)

Regardless of grade or costume, we would make our way to the photographer’s makeshift studio on the appointed day. The flash attachment for Dad’s Brownie camera or flashcubes for my Instamatic were no match for the pro’s equipment: Strobes bounced into white umbrellas, evenly illuminating subject and background. Take a seat on a stool, smile (or not), click. It was over quick. I couldn’t tell you the identity of anybody who was behind the camera in those years but was fascinated to hear, years later, from a friend who grew up in New Castle, Pennsylvania, outside Pittsburgh, that the major leaguer Chuck Tanner had an off-season gig as school photographer in his hometown. That was a long time ago.

When the photo proofs were made available weeks later, especially as we moved into junior high and beyond, it was obvious that a comb or Clearasil would have been a good idea on picture day. Until about eighth grade, I sported a crew cut. The year I began to go to the barber shop less frequently, my school picture documents why some classmates called me “Wolf Head” for a while. Fortunately, the transitioning hair and the nickname were short-lived.

I don’t recall us ever not ordering a set of prints, regardless of how I looked. A popular “package” comprised an 8×10, two 5x7s and a sheet of wallet-sized images. Using scissors to separate the small ones was a challenge, but most of them ended up in a drawer, never having to worry about being faded by sunlight.

For a long time, a nearly complete collection of my school pictures, along with those of my sisters, was stored in my childhood home, a file of growing up and growing older. Recently I came upon a strip of wallet-sized images in a box of my stuff. In them I don’t look like a carnivorous wild animal, so I’m guessing ninth or 10th grade. I used to tease my father about an unfortunate brown leisure suit of his, but this school picture proves I once wore brown, too.

Years after Dad was gone, I finally looked through his last wallet. There was the usual stuff: driver’s license, credit card, doctors’ appointment reminders, golf handicap card, receipts for gasoline, a few dollars in folding money. And in one of the plastic slots behind the snap enclosure there was 17-year-old me, imagining the skies ahead, skies the color of my coat. PS

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

2023 Department Hometown

Bookshelf

October Books

FICTION

The Glutton, by A.K. Blakemore

1798, France. Nuns move along the dark corridors of a Versailles hospital where the young Sister Perpetué has been tasked with sitting by the patient who must always be watched. The man, gaunt, with his sallow skin and distended belly, is dying — they say he ate a golden fork, and that it’s killing him from the inside. But that’s not all. He is rumored to have done monstrous things in his attempts to sate an insatiable appetite . . . an appetite they say tortures him still. Born in an impoverished village to a widowed young mother, Tarare was once overflowing with quiet affection: for his mother, for the plants and little creatures in the woods and fields around their house. But soon life as he knew it is violently upended. Tarare is pitched down a chaotic path through revolutionary France, left to the mercy of strangers, and increasingly, bottomlessly, ravenous. This exhilarating, disquieting novel paints a richly imagined life for The Great Tarare, The Glutton of Lyon in 18th-century France: a world of desire, hunger, poverty, chaos and survival.

Julia, by Sandra Newman

Julia Worthing is a mechanic, working in the Fiction Department at the Ministry of Truth. It’s 1984, and Britain (now called Airstrip One) has long been absorbed into the larger transatlantic nation of Oceania. Ruled by an ultra-totalitarian party whose leader is a quasi-mythical figure called Big Brother, Oceania has been at war for as long as anyone can remember. In short, everything about this world is as it is in George Orwell’s 1984. All her life, Julia has known only Oceania and, until she meets Winston Smith, she has never imagined anything else. She is an ideal citizen: cheerfully cynical, always ready with a bribe, piously repeating every political slogan while believing in nothing. She routinely breaks the rules, but also collaborates with the regime when necessary. Then one day she finds herself walking toward Winston Smith in a corridor and impulsively slips him a note, setting in motion the journey through Orwell’s now-iconic dystopia, with twists that reveal unexpected sides not only to Julia, but to other familiar figures in the 1984 universe.

The Hive and The Honey, by Paul Yoon

A boy searches for his father, a prison guard on Sakhalin Island. In Barcelona, a woman is tasked with spying on a prizefighter who may or may not be her estranged son. A samurai escorts an orphan to his countrymen in the Edo Period. A formerly incarcerated man starts a new life in a small town in upstate New York and attempts to build a family. The Hive and the Honey is a bold and indelible collection that portrays the vastness and complexity of diasporic communities, with each story bringing to light the knotty inheritances of their characters. How does a North Korean defector connect with the child she once left behind? What are the traumas that haunt a Korean settlement in Far East Russia? Yoon’s stunning stories are laced with beauty and cruelty, the work of an author writing at the very height of his powers.

NONFICTION

Hitchcock’s Blondes: The Unforgettable Women Behind the Legendary Director’s Dark Obsession, by Laurence Leamer

Alfred Hitchcock was fixated not just on the dark, twisty stories that became his hallmark, but also on the blonde actresses who starred in many of his iconic movies. The director of North by Northwest, Rear Window and other classic films didn’t much care if they wore wigs, got their hair coloring out of a bottle or were the rarest human specimen — a natural blonde — as long as they shone with a golden veneer on camera. In Hitchcock’s Blondes, Leamer offers an intimate journey into the lives of eight legendary actresses whose stories helped chart the course of the troubled, talented director’s career, from his early days in the British film industry, to his triumphant American debut, to his Hollywood heyday and beyond. Through the stories of June Howard-Tripp, Madeleine Carroll, Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, Janet Leigh, Kim Novak, Eva Marie Saint and Tippi Hedren — who together starred in 14 of Hitchcock’s most notable films and who bore the brunt of his fondness and fixation — we start to see the enigmatic man himself. After all, “his blondes” (as he thought of them) knew the truths of his art, his obsessions and desires, as well as anyone.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

The Scariest Kitten in the World, by Kate Messner

Little Kitten, Vampire Puppy and Spooky Baby Goat might be scary if they weren’t so darn cute. This adorable read-aloud is fun for the fall or anytime you’re up for a giggle. (Ages 3-8.)

Things in the Basement, by Ben Hatke

When Milo is sent by his mother to fetch a sock from the basement of the historic home they’ve moved into, he finds a door in the back that he’s never seen before. Turns out, the basement of his house is enormous. In fact, there is a whole world down there. Milo learns that to face his fears he must approach even the strangest creatures with kindness in this creepy-fabulous graphic novel. (Ages 8-12.)

Forever Twelve, by Stacy McAnulty

Unlike most 12-year-olds, Ivy’s favorite holiday is the first day of school. This year that day brings not only fascinating new courses and instructors, but a new school, new rules and new friends — some of whom have a very dark secret. School, science and secrets, this one is sure to be a hit for fans of The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl, Coraline, or The Trials of Morrigan Crow. (Ages 10-12.)

Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods, by Rick Riordan

For the first time in more than 10 years there’s a new title in the Percy Jackson series. The original heroes from The Lightning Thief — Percy, Annabeth and Grover — are reunited for their biggest challenge yet, getting Percy to college when the gods are standing in his way. (Ages 9 and up.) PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

2023 Bookshelf Department

The Omnivorous Reader

Read and Dead

A librarian’s cozy mystery series

By Anne Blythe

Librarians are good at deciphering mysteries. Just ask any card-carrying library fan. They can be sherpas, of a sort, guiding readers from behind the confines of their reference desks to a world of information often only a bookshelf or computer click away.

Some are good at creating them, too, as Victoria Gilbert, a former librarian-turned-mystery writer, shows in A Cryptic Clue, the first book in her new Hunter and Clewe cozy mystery series.

Raised in the “shadows of the Blue Ridge mountains,” Gilbert has been a reference librarian, a research librarian and a library director so, in the vein of “write what you know,” it’s easy to see why the protagonist in her new series is Jane Hunter, a 60-year-old university librarian forced into early retirement and a new chapter in life.

Gilbert’s Jane has tinges of Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple in her, although she is a divorcee, not a spinster, who still wants to work for a living to pad her paltry pension. That desire to find a new vocation leads Gilbert’s chief sleuth to her new boss, Cameron Clewe — Cam, to those who know the 33-year-old unconventional multi-millionaire well — who was looking for an archivist and hired Jane sight unseen. Cam not only inherited tremendous wealth at a young age, but also an estate so large that it houses a private library, guest quarters and grand rooms where the well-to-do and those aspiring to affluence gather for glamorous galas, glitzy fundraisers and seasonal soirees.

Although Jane describes her new boss as “leading man material,” he’s a nervous type whose lack of a filter makes him a blunt, often humorless, speaker.

“I didn’t realize you were so old,” Cam says upon meeting Jane in his library. “And rather heavier than I expected, given that photo on the university website.”

Jane, on the other hand, is a woman used to working with college students and the mother of a grown daughter, an actress with a middle name that might as well be “drama.” She checks herself instead of blurting out the first thing that pops into her mind.

“That photo is a bit dated,” Jane responds, keeping her eyes on the prize she did not want to lose. Her Social Security payments wouldn’t kick in for at least two more years. She needs the work. Furthermore, she’s interested in sifting through and cataloging “the books and papers connected to classic mystery and detective authors” that have been amassed in Aircroft, Cam’s mansion. “As for my current appearance — years working in academia has taken its toll, it seems. But I am certain you hired me for my expertise, not my looks.”

Such is the beginning of the relationship that brings two Sherlocks from very different circumstances together to solve a mystery that holds a reader’s interest through the very last page.

The whodunit kicks off on a Monday at Aircroft after a charity fete over the weekend. Jane walks into the library on her first day of work, travel mug filled with coffee in hand, to find the body of Ashley Allen crumpled on the floor, “unquestionably, irrevocably dead.”

After “fighting the urge to retch” and scanning the crime scene with a surprisingly calm detachment, Jane staggers into the hallway, slumps against the wall and slides to the floor. “There’s a dead body in the library,” Jane thought. “That room meant to be my workplace is now a murder scene.”

It’s not just any body, either. Ashley was Cam’s ex-girlfriend, someone Jane had seen her new boss arguing with days earlier while touring the garden grounds. More than 100 people had been at Aircroft for the party the night before. Ashley had been there too, and was still clad in her silver sequined dress.

“You do realize who will be their number one suspect, of course,” Cam says after seeing the crime scene.

Quickly Cam decides to be proactive and use his resources to investigate Ashley’s death on his own. He turns to Jane for help. “I refuse to lounge around while the authorities build a case against me,” Cam declares. But, as his assistant Lauren points out, Cam is agoraphobic, rarely venturing out past the gates surrounding his home. That’s where Jane comes in.

“I’ll need help collecting information from the wider community. Which is what I’d like you two to do,” Cam tells Jane and Lauren. “Bring me back any clues you uncover, and I can piece it together, and perhaps solve this case before the authorities start casting about for a scapegoat. Namely me.”

The hunt for clues is added to Jane’s assigned duties. As Cam sets out to collect information from the kitchen staff and guests who had been staying in his house, Jane pursues the story outside Aircroft, casting about town for hints why the beautiful and wealthy Ashley has been killed, presumably by a fatal head wound delivered with a blunt object.

There is no shortage of suspects, either. Ashley left a trail of aggrieved casualties from former romances, business ventures and injurious family dynamics. As Jane and Cam glean the many storylines from Gilbert’s cast of characters, suspects are added to and subtracted from the list. Jane’s landlord, Vince, a retired reporter from the local newspaper, and his girlfriend, Donna, a former secretary at the local high school, provide background depth to clues that Jane turns up from her sleuthing.

In addition to the love interests and resentful entrepreneurs wooed and abandoned by the victim, readers meet the quirky Aircroft house guests, the detached Allen family — all of whom were to be left out of the deep-pocketed grandmother’s will — their housekeeper and others.

Gilbert keeps her readers guessing while entertaining them with snippets about mystery writers and their well-known characters, such as Archie, the droll narrator and sidekick to Nero Wolfe, the armchair detective brought to life by Rex Stout.

As Jane and Cam cross suspect after suspect off their lists while unraveling the mystery of Ashley’s killer, they uncover new secrets and riddles that are tidily wrapped up at the end of the novel. As the two share a pizza with the riddle solved, it’s clear more sleuthing is ahead.

“We could investigate those cold cases you mentioned, and maybe take on a few cases for other people,” Cam tells Jane.

“Maybe focus on cases where justice didn’t seem likely to be served?” Jane adds.

“Exactly,” Cam responds.

Exactly, indeed. Gilbert’s fans will be looking forward to whatever comes their way. PS

Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades covering city halls, higher education, the courts, crime, hurricanes, ice storms, droughts, floods, college sports, health care and many wonderful characters who make this state such an interesting place.

2023 Department Omnivorous Reader