Three Decades Down the Road

THREE DECADES DOWN THE ROAD

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Three Decades Down the Road

Excerpt from Final Rounds: A Father, a Son, the Golf Journey of a Lifetime

By Jim Dodson

It was not until the next October — far too long to suit my tastes — that we played again. I’d been working hard, traveling a lot, trying to figure out why it was that whenever I was in some glorious, glamorous golf place, I spent so much of my time thinking about home, worrying about my children and my roses, both of which require a lot of hands-on attention.

Two of my colleagues at Golf Magazine invited me to join them for a round at Pinehurst No. 2, the marvelous Donald Ross course where Opti and I had played many rounds over the years. The course was one of his favorites. I invited my father to join us, and he agreed.

The day was raw, wet, and cold, and everyone’s game was off, but my father’s was really desolate. He topped balls and missed putts he could once have made with his eyes shut. At one point I was passing a steep fairway bunker when I heard him sheepishly call my name. I turned and saw him asking me for a hand up. I reached and took his hand. It was trembling ever so slightly. My heart almost broke on the spot.

We attempted to joke off the disaster on the hour drive home. I told Dad those super senior clubs he rejected would have saved his skin, and he said at least nobody died in the train wreck. We rode along for a little while in silence, looking at the slick road and rainy countryside. He seemed as down as I’d ever seen him. Then an idea came to me.

“Let’s take a trip,” I said.

“What trip?”

“The trip we always talked about. The one we never took.”

He glanced at me and steered Old Blue, his ancient barge-sized Cadillac, around a farmer pulling a hay wagon.

“Don’t you remember?” I said.

“Of course. But you go there all the time.”

“I go there all the time by myself,” I corrected him. “I’ve never been there with you. We’ve got some unfinished business.”

“I suppose so.” He managed to conceal his enthusiasm for the idea. I hoped his rotten day on the course accounted for this.

In any event, that’s where it really began, the first step in our final golf journey — a trip to the places where he learned to play golf as a sergeant in the Eighth Army Air Corps during the war. “There” was St. Andrews, the birthplace of the game. Thousands of golfers went there every year. But we hadn’t. It was now or never and almost that simple.

But nothing is really that simple. I knew not to push my father on the subject. Things were obviously changing fast in his life. Losing his golf pals had merely revealed his mortality. I sensed a powerful urgency in him to tie up loose ends, to finish whatever needed finishing at home, and in his life and work.

We didn’t speak of it again for months. I got on with my own life, telling myself I’d planted a proper seed. What else could I do? I hoped — I even prayed — it would grow.

By early August, everything was set. I’d made plane and hotel reservations, reserved the rental car, and contacted several club secretaries who were enthusiastic about helping out. It read like a grand tour of the British golf establishment: Sunningdale, Royal Birkdale, Royal Lytham, Turnberry, Royal Troon, Carnoustie, possibly Gleneagles and Muirfield, and of course, St. Andrews. I’d been to most of these places on my own but couldn’t wait to go back with my old man.

Two weeks before the trip, he called again.

I took the call on our cellphone, standing out behind the perennial garden where I was trying to figure out the best place to build my daughter a playhouse like the one she’d seen in a local theater production of Peter Pan.

“I’m afraid the trip will have to be postponed,” he said. With a sinking heart, I asked why.

“I had some bleeding. I didn’t think it was any big deal, but I guess I was wrong. They did some tests. They want to do some more, starting tomorrow.”

The cancer of a decade ago had come back, he said, spreading radically throughout his pelvic region. It had moved into his back, had even invaded his stomach and intestines.

I asked for the official prognosis and will never forget what he told me: a month, two at most.

Then he laughed. Only Opti would have laughed at such a verdict. He said he would call back in a couple more days when he knew more.

I hung up the phone and sat down on a wooden bench. My first thought was undeniably selfish: Christ, we’ll never play golf again. I went through the next few days in a trance. I tried to read stories to my children but kept missing passages. I tried to write my columns and prune my roses, but nothing helped. I went to my golf club and played three holes and quit. I picked up the phone to begin canceling reservations but put the receiver down again.

Then my father called back.

“Well, the options are not good,” Opti said, sounding eerily like his old self. “They can pump me full of poisons and maybe hook me up to some machines and buy a few more weeks. Who the hell needs that?” He said he planned to let nature take its course.

I told him I admired his courage.

He told me to save my lung power for the golf course.

“I’m planning to whip your tail at Lytham and St. Andrews,” he said. “Hope you haven’t canceled those reservations or anything.”

I said I hadn’t.

“Good. Here are my terms,” he continued. “No complaints. No long faces. We go to have laughs, hit a few balls, maybe take a bit of the Queen’s currency from each other’s pockets. But when I say it’s time to go home, I go home. No questions asked. I’ve got plenty of stuff to do. But I do want to pin your ears back for old times’ sake — so you’ll at least remember me.”

I sort of laughed; then agreed.

“Good. See you at the airport in Atlanta,” he barked happily, banging down the phone.

Opti the Mystic had spoken again.

I went out and finally pruned my roses, damn near barbering them to the ground.

* * *

The lane led to a gated burying ground at the rear of the church. On the far side of the graveyard was a public park of some sort, with a rose garden at its center. Dad opened the iron gate and proceeded along the stone pathways of the graveyard, eyeing the headstones. I followed him to a large polished granite cross positioned near the rear of the cemetery. It was a common grave. Wreaths and wildflowers had recently been placed there, but the chill nights had turned them rusty, bundles of asters and poppies and chrysanthemums. I read some of the names inscribed on the stone border: Gillian and June Parkinson. George Preston. Michael Probert. Kenneth Boocock. Lillian Waite. Silvia Whybrow. Judith Garner. Annie Harrington . . .

The names went on, thirty-eight in all. A mass grave.

“How did these folks die?” I asked.

“They weren’t folks,” he replied softly. “They were children.”

The words didn’t sink in at first. We stood there for a few seconds staring at the names.

“Children?” I repeated finally.

He nodded. “Four- and five-year-olds. Maggie’s and Jack’s ages. They went to the infants’ school here at the church. One of our bombers crashed into the school. The airfield was just over there.” He lifted his head, solemnly, to indicate where.

I didn’t have a clue what to say. I’d never heard of anything so awful. So for a change, I said nothing.

We stood in silence for a few minutes more before he spoke again. He shut his eyes and opened them. I wondered if he was praying or just reliving scenes I couldn’t begin to imagine.

He spoke evenly. “It was about ten in the morning. A large thunderstorm had just come up. We had our parachute crews working double shifts because this was six or seven weeks after D-Day. I’d just stretched out on my cot in our Nissen hut to steal some shut-eye when I heard a big roar overhead, followed by an explosion. The whole hut just shook. Jesus, it shook . . . I knew it was one of our birds. The hut I was in was probably the closest one to the school here. One of the other guys jumped up and ran out, and I ran after him. It was raining like hell, but I saw fire down at the school and started running. We were all running.”

Dad cleared his throat. He was shaking a bit. I placed my hand on his arm. He continued:

“I guess I was one of the first to reach the school, though others got there quickly. God . . . what a sight. The plane had gone right through the school and struck a café where lots of our guys and R.A.F. personnel used to hang out. It set half the town on fire. Burning fuel was running down the street. I just remember  . . . starting to pull away pieces of things . . . pieces of the plane, you know, also bricks and mortar . . .  and all these precious little kids inside . . . buried alive or killed by the explosion. I remember the sound of a child weeping. I couldn’t seem to find her. We pulled out several of the children. They were dead or badly injured. You didn’t have time to think. You just kept digging.”

His voice stopped. I saw tears gathering in his eyes for only the second time in my life. The first time had been when we buried my nephew Richard, one summer day in 1987. Richard, his first grandchild, had been gamely battling a rare nervous system disorder when he died in his sleep. Richard was nine.

I slipped my arm around my father.

We stood that way for several more minutes. He cleared his throat again and said, in a stronger voice: “I knew a lot of these kids, Jim. As I told you, they were always hanging around the base. The guys loved them. We each had our favorites. There was one little girl in particular I loved. She was always laughing, like your Maggie. I called her Lady Sunshine. I used to tell her I hoped I had a daughter like her someday. She was one of those killed.”

Good lord, I thought.

“A week or so after the crash, after the funeral and all of that, I found a note attached to the bulletin board from that little girl’s parents. They wondered if anybody had taken a photograph of their daughter. Can you imagine? They didn’t even have a picture of their only daughter. I took them all I had. They were so grateful. We sat there in their little front parlor and just cried. I don’t think I ever experienced anything quite so sad.”

“Were you okay?”

My father gave me an anguished look. Dumb question, I realized.

“Hell, no!” he snapped. “How could anybody be okay after something like that?”

“I’m sorry. I guess I meant physically. Were you injured . . . “

“Yes . . . no . . . my hands were burned a bit. Wore bandages for a while. No big deal. I was fine . . . but I didn’t feel up to going to the funeral. They brought Bing Crosby in to sing to the people of Freckleton. I couldn’t even stand to go hear him sing. I think I went somewhere and tried to play golf. Burned hands and all. I just wanted to be alone.”

“Do you remember the little girl’s name?”

Dad, better now, considered the names on the grave.

“Harrington. Maybe it was Annie Harrington.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Lady Sunshine,” he murmured.

I took my father’s arm, and we left the burying ground, slowly closing the iron gate behind us. Two boys on bikes were pedaling furiously up the alley and swerved to avoid hitting us. One of them turned his head and gave us a dirty look. My father, rubbing his eyes, didn’t see it. The air was cold. The moon was already out. It was going to be a beautiful night.

“I’m surprised you never told me this story,” I said when we reached the car.

He paused and looked back at the church, a looming shape in the early shade of evening now. I saw a single small light burning somewhere inside.

“The war ended for me right here,” he said. “I promised myself I would never speak about it again.”

* * *

We were standing on the seventeenth tee of the Old Course. The Road Hole.

The sun was gone, the air was cold, and the course lay almost fully in the embrace of a blue twilight now. A few faint stars were visible above the clouds, and there were lights on in the Old Grey Toon. The group we’d been following had hit their drives and disappeared rapidly down the fairway.

“This is where I wish we had our real clubs,” I said.

“Aw, who needs ’em?” Dad said. “Let’s play anyway.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “We could play air golf with the ghosts of St. Andrews the way I played air guitar with The Beatles. Please play away, Mr. Dodson.”

Dad teed up his air Top-Flite, took his stance, and swung. “There,” he said. “Right over the sheds. Just like fifty years ago.”

I teed up my air Titleist and asked, “How fast did that fifty years go by?”

“Stick around. You won’t believe it.”

I struck my shot and outdrove him, as usual, by at least a hundred yards.

We walked down the darkened fairway side by side. For a change, I wasn’t really thinking about all the greats who had walked this way to immortality: Old Tom and Young. Taylor and Braid. Jones and Snead. Nicklaus and Lema. Ballesteros and Faldo. Watson who had crossed this spot with a record-tying sixth Open within his grasp — to just miss.

I was thinking, instead, how simply fine and proper it was that my old man and I were finally playing the Road Hole together. Now came Opti and son.

From the heart of the fairway, Dad used an air three-wood to lay up short of the infamous Road Hole bunker. From the left rough, I swatted a beautiful air four-iron to the lower half of the green. We were playing our own games, if I may say so, magnificently.

He walked up to his air ball, just shy of the bunker, and announced he was using his air sand wedge, then lofted his ball sweetly to the green, stopping it within a few feet of the cup.

“Very nice,” I said. “Before we putt out, though, tell me about your birdie.”

He looked at me, then nodded solemnly at the bunker.

It took a few seconds for me to realize what he was telling me. He’d somehow made birdie from the Road Hole bunker!

“That’s unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve never heard of anybody doing that.”

“It came as a major shock to me, too.”

I demanded that he describe in detail this miraculous little feat, on a par in my mind with anything Jones had done at Lytham or Palmer at Birkdale.

He said the details were kind of foggy, but he seemed to think the hole was considerably different back then. “For one thing, the bunker was a lot shallower than it is now. The sod wall was nowhere near as high as it is here. You could escape pretty easily with a decent shot.” He took a step closer, sizing up the wall, which was higher than a man’s head. “I don’t see how anybody could come out of this thing.”

He added that the pin he’d shot at that day fifty years ago was on the lower half of the green. The greens were thicker grass in those days, before modern lawn mowers came along. That made a big difference, too.

“You still made a hell of a shot,” I said to him, “And it wasn’t an air ball.”

“No,” he said a little wistfully, “it wasn’t. Sometimes, though, it takes on the quality of a dream. Perhaps, I simply imagined it.”

“No,” I said. “Not a chance.”

We putted out rather quickly. I made an uncharacteristically fine air lag from the lower part of the green and tapped in for four — a brilliant air par! Dad sank a clutch five-footer to halve the hole.

“Two air pars on the hardest hole in golf,” I said as we shook hands.

We walked to the eighteenth tee, struck fine drives into the darkness, then moseyed down the fairway of the most famous finishing hole in golf, crossing the little arched stone bridge. For weeks I’d been so fearful of this moment, anticipating how awful I would feel when it finally arrived. But, strangely, I wasn’t the least bit sad now. I was cold as blazes but almost unnaturally happy to be finishing a round of golf that only I would ever remember. No card would ever show the score. Our match would vanish into the air.

“Call me sentimental if you like,”  my father said, taking my arm as we approached the Valley of Sin, the dangerous swale that guards the front of the eighteenth green. “I think it’s been a hell of a journey.”

“You’re just being sentimental,” I replied. “The showers were much worse than expected.”

“You’re talking about the trip,” he said. “I’m talking about the journey.”

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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Fork It Over!

An Asian-style summer side

By Rose Shewey

After working abroad for a few years, I landed a job with a leading American investment bank in my hometown in Germany. It was the early 2000s in Frankfurt, a glorious time for job seekers, as the economy was flourishing and businesses were hiring left, right and center. I ended up in equity sales on the trading floor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to conquer the corporate world. My first work engagement, however, took me some place I didn’t expect: All new hires were shipped off to an evening seminar of dining etiquette.

This seminar was held at one of the en vogue business restaurants in the city. With the lights dimmed and smooth jazz in the background, we were served a five-course dinner with corresponding wines. All through the evening, an impeccably dressed lady — the etiquette expert — casually instructed us in how to navigate utensils (Continental style), handle our napkin, make a toast and excuse ourselves from the table appropriately. I humbly admit that I learned a lot that evening.

One of the courses was served with an Asian-style spiralized cucumber salad — skinny, oily strands of cucumber — dressed with a spicy peanut sauce, complete with chopsticks. Tensions were rising as we awkwardly fiddled with the chopsticks, side-glancing at our host, hoping for guidance before taking a wrong turn. Too late for some. As one guy repeatedly — yet unsuccessfully — attempted to grab onto a single strand of cucumber, and another diner tried frantically to manage oily strings hanging out of her mouth, I feigned a peanut allergy and waited for the next course, vowing to never order chopstick-foods while in the company of business associates. It turns out that asking for a fork would have been the appropriate response, as the etiquette expert shared with us later.

Fortunately, spiralizing cucumbers is just one way of making this invigorating salad. Chopping cucumbers into bite-sized chunks is the much easier variant and will save you time and, well, face if you’re clumsy with sticks (and too proud to use a fork).

With the barbecue season upon us, I plan on making this salad regularly this summer. It’s spectacularly easy to put together and rarely, if ever, produces leftovers, as folks seem to love the medley of flavors and textures. The juicy crunch of the cucumber paired with the tongue-lacing creaminess of peanut butter dressing goes with just about any grilled meat or veggie. If you’re feeling adventurous, add watermelon to this salad to make it even more refreshing.

Spicy Cucumber Salad with Peanuts

(Serves 4)

Ingredients

1 pound mini cucumbers

2 tablespoons peanut butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 tablespoons soy sauce, tamari or coconut aminos

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

1/2 tablespoon red pepper flakes

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 tablespoon sweetener, such as brown sugar, maple syrup, or date syrup

Zest of 1 lime, plus 1 tablespoon of lime juice

1/3 cup roasted peanuts, roughly chopped

1/2 cup fresh cilantro, chopped

Directions

Wash and quarter the cucumbers lengthwise, then cut them into bite-sized pieces, and place them in a bowl.

To make the dressing, add peanut butter, olive oil, soy sauce, rice vinegar, red pepper flakes, minced garlic, sweetener and lime zest, as well as lime juice to a small bowl and whisk. The dressing should be pourable — the consistency of buttermilk. If it appears too thick, add water, one teaspoon at a time. Toss the dressing with the cucumbers and garnish with the chopped peanuts and cilantro. Chill before serving.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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May Books

FICTION

Summer State of Mind, by Kristy Woodson Harvey

After the worst day of her professional life, burnt-out NICU nurse Daisy Stevens flees to Cape Carolina, North Carolina, looking for a new life. On her first day at her new job, high school baseball coach Mason Thaysden discovers an abandoned baby, sending ripples through the entire tight-knit town of Cape Carolina. Mason is still struggling to reconcile the scars of the injury that kept him out of the big leagues, stuck in his hometown, and searching for a way out. This newcomer, and the child they’ve saved together, might be just the motivation he needs to stay put. Sparks fly as Mason acquaints Daisy with Cape Carolina, introducing her to his friends and family, including his batty Aunt Tilley, who is looking for her own fresh start and relief from long-buried family secrets. But as Daisy becomes increasingly attached to this abandoned child, and begins facing her own demons in the process, a startling discovery is made that threatens to rip the entire town apart, placing Daisy, Mason and Tilley in the center of the storm.

Our Perfect Storm, by Carley Fortune

Frankie and George have been best friends since they were 8 years old. Passionate, impulsive and headstrong, they’ve always clashed . . . and come back together again. Until now. It’s the eve of Frankie’s wedding weekend, and she doesn’t know where they stand or even if George will show up as her best man. Then, at the start of the festivities, in walks George. For one glorious evening, surrounded by her loved ones, Frankie’s life is finally perfect. It all comes crashing down when her fiancé dumps her the next morning, leaving only a note as an explanation. Crushed and confused, Frankie returns to her family’s home, but George has a different idea and a plan for healing Frankie’s broken heart. He wants her to go on her honeymoon — with him — for one week to the lush rainforests and misty beaches of Tofino. Frankie agrees, seeing the trip for what it really is: one last chance to repair their friendship, even if it means unearthing secrets and long-buried feelings neither knows how to handle.

NONFICTION

American Rambler: Walking the Trail of Johnny Appleseed,
by Isaac Fitzgerald

In American Rambler, Fitzgerald sets out on a year-long journey to follow Appleseed’s path, walking (OK, sometimes driving, and at one point, even floating downstream) from Massachusetts to Indiana. On this journey, he turns a childhood fascination into a profound reckoning of loss and grief, ritual and faith, grimy gas station bathrooms and scenic apple picking. He is followed by a mysterious creature, camps in hostile environments, trespasses more than once, and is warmed by the generosity of strangers at every turn. American Rambler is at once an ode to the American heartland, a meditation on escaping the breakneck pace of modern life, and a clear-eyed look at the myths at the very core of American identity and history.

Make Believe: On Telling Stories to Children, by Mac Barnett

Barnett champions the profound joys of literature and the importance of reading for pleasure. Make Believe is a rallying cry for art and imagination, and a celebration of the power of storytelling in all our lives. Incisive, intimate and timely, it’s an invitation to approach children’s literature not only as an art form worthy of deep study, but as a portal into the lives of the children.

CHILDREN'S BOOKS

The Outermost Mouse, by Lauren Wolk

The Outermost Mouse loves her life at the tip of the beach. Best of all is the house, a huge nest she has made her own. But a storm is coming. When the sky goes dark and a cold wind rises, the little mouse must do everything she can to protect her home. Even though she’s small enough to fit into a teacup, she is smart, strong, and brave. (Ages 4 – 8.)

Seahorse Is Furious: And There Is Nothing You Can Do About It,
by Morag Hood

Seahorse is furious. It is a bad day. In a terrible week. In an awful ocean. And nothing in that whole entire, awful ocean is going to make him feel better. That’s right: nothing. Not even his favorite things or his closest friend or the cuddliest bunny will help. Unless . . . no, no he’s furious. And there’s nothing you can do about it. (Ages 4 – 8.)

Find the Sun, by Andy Harkness

Eddie doesn’t like Mondays. He’d rather burrow under the covers than face the day. Then an unexpected friend arrives to take him on a journey. Eddie is afraid, but that’s OK, journeys can sometimes be frightening. Step by step Eddie grows braver. Before long, he understands — through any storm, you can always find the sun. (Ages 3 – 6.)

PinePitch May 2026

PINEPITCH

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PinePitch

May 2026

Hang ’Em High

The Artists League of the Sandhills and the Arts Council of Moore County are each hosting opening receptions on Friday, May 1. The Artists League reception, at 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen, runs from 5 to 7 p.m. The exhibit, “Eclectic,” will be on display until the end of May. The Arts Council of Moore County reception, at the Campbell House, 482 E. Connecticut Ave., is from 6 to 8 p.m. celebrating the opening of “Pottery and Paper,” featuring the pottery of Ben Owen and paintings by Barbara Burlingame. The exhibition hangs through May 29. For more info go to www.artistleague.org or to www.mooreart.org.

American Classics

The Moore Philharmonic Orchestra will perform its annual spring concert, “America, Cinema & Symphony,” at 7 p.m., Saturday, May 16, at the Lee Auditorium, Pinecrest High School, 250 Voit Gilmore Lane, Southern Pines. Admission is by the donation of your choice. For additional information go to www.mooreart.org.

On the Stage

Pushing the boundaries of alt-country and Americana, singer-songwriter John R. Miller takes the stage at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, on Friday, May 8, at 7:30 p.m. His debut album, Depreciated, is a collection of 11 gems combining country, folk, blues and rock, painting a portrait of his native Shenandoah Valley. For more info go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

In the Mood

The Glenn Miller Orchestra was the most popular and sought-after group of the Big Band Era. The present iteration was formed in 1956 and has been touring ever since. They bring their swinging sound to BPAC’s Owen’s Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, on Monday, June 1 at 7 p.m., For info and tickets go to
www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Bohemian Rhapsody

If you want to break free, experience the music of Queen performed by the ultimate tribute band, Extreme Queen, on Saturday, May 23, at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. There will be a 3 p.m. matinee and an 8 p.m. evening show. Tickets are $46 to get in the door and $78 for the upgrade. Who knows, they might be the champions. For information go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

At the Met2

The Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., in Southern Pines, will show The Met’s performance of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s timeless opera Eugene Onegin on Saturday, May 2, from 1 to 5 p.m. If you didn’t get your aria on early in the month, The Met returns on Saturday, May 30, from 1 to 5 p.m. with El Último Sueño de Frida y Diego, Gabriela Lena Frank’s portrayal of the artistic power couple Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. For more info go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

The Zootopia PD

Follow the adventures of the pit viper Gary De’Snake and the conspiracy theorist beaver Nibbles Maplestick in Zootopia 2 on the giant outdoor screen at 8:15 p.m. on Friday, May 15, at the Downtown Park in Southern Pines. Bring a blanket or lawn chair. The movie is free, and concessions will be available for purchase. For information call (910) 692-7376.

Garden Party

Rub on some SPF 30 and wear a wide-brimmed hat for the Spring Garden Party at the Village Arboretum’s Timmel Pavilion, 105 Rassie Wicker Drive, Pinehurst, on Tuesday, May 5, from 4 to 6 p.m. Tickets are $44.35 and proceeds benefit the privately funded arboretum landscaping. For more information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Live After 5

Follow the food trucks to Live After 5 on Friday, May 8, at the Village Arboretum, 375 Magnolia Road, Pinehurst. Whiskey Pines kicks off the music at 5:15 p.m., followed by The Parks Brothers Band from 6 to 9 p.m. Picnic baskets, yes; outside alcohol, no. (You can buy it there.) For more information go to www.vopnc.org.

Derby Day at Weymouth

Watch the Show Jumping Invitational, open to all and on the house, on Saturday, May 2, from 2 to 5 p.m. then buy a ticket for the Derby Watch Party from 5 to 8 p.m., at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Proceeds benefit the Weymouth Equestrians program. For additional information go to www.weymouthcenter.org.

Book ’Em

Chanda Prescod-Weinstein will discuss her book, The Edge of Space-Time: Particles, Poetry, and the Cosmic Dream Boogie, via Zoom on Wednesday, May 6, from noon to 1 p.m. On Tuesday, May 19, The Country Bookshop will partner with Moore Montessori to host Brandon Webb talking about his book, Puddle Jumpers: Powerful Mental Techniques from a Navy SEAL, Performance Coach and Father of Three, at Moore Montessori, 255 S. May St., Southern Pines. On Wednesday, May 20, Tim Brown will discuss his book, Nolan: The Singular Life of an American Original, at The Country Bookshop, 140 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. Dr. Gail Crowther will virtually discuss her book Marilyn and Her Books: The Literary Life of Marilyn Monroe on Wednesday, May 27 from 12 – 1 p.m. with The Country Bookshop. For information about all four events go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Exchange Rate

On Saturday, May 16, the Sandhills Woman’s Exchange will host the “Raise a Cup to the Cabin” tea party and fundraiser, from 1 to 3 p.m., at the historic cabin, 15 Azalea Road, Pinehurst. Enjoy a spot o’ tea and some delicious nibbles. The cost is $65 per person, and reservations are required. The cabin closes for the summer season on Friday, June 5. For info and booking call (910) 295-4677.

The Good Ol’ Days

Colonial Day at the Shaw House, 110 W. Morganton Road, Southern Pines, features period crafts, re-enactors, short history talks and tours of the historic homes, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., on Saturday, May 30. Food and drink will be available from the Pinecrest High School Wrestling Club. There is no charge for admission. For additional information visit www.moorehistory.com.

Four Questions with Judy Collins

By Stan Pillman

Q: When you walk on stage today, how do you introduce yourself to an audience that may know the hits but not your full journey?
Judy: I do the whole thing. Every audience gets a similar experience, but I never do the same show twice. Around four o’clock each afternoon, I sit down with my songbook and build a new set list based on how I feel. Sometimes I open with “Both Sides Now,” sometimes not. I include the songs people love, but I also follow my instincts. They get what I like — and that’s what keeps it alive.

Q: You came up during a transformative era in music and culture. Do you see parallels between then and now?
Judy: Every era is different, but there are similarities. In the ’60s, we were responding to war and trying to bring people together through music. In many ways, we’re still doing that. The need for connection, for meaning — that doesn’t change.

Q: You’ve explored so many creative outlets — music, writing, painting. How do they influence each other?
Judy: Everything feeds everything else. On stage, I make choices that reflect all those parts of my life. I want the audience to participate, to sing, to feel connected. Creativity isn’t separate — it’s one continuous thread.

Q: When the show ends and people head home, what do you hope stays with them?
Judy: I hope they feel happy and optimistic. I want them to have had a moment where they could be present — really listening, really thinking. We don’t get many of those moments anymore. If they leave feeling lifted and a little more connected to themselves, then I’ve done my job.

Poem May 2026

POEM

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FLOATING

A hawk drifted over as I backstroked

through the neighborhood pool.

It glided more effortlessly

than I’d imagined possible,

circling and diving on the breeze

without thrash or beat of wing,

so I puffed up my chest

and floated awhile, wondering

if he’d spy me and swoop down

to make a meal of my laziness.

Maple seeds helicoptered

into the depressions

between ripples, bobbing expectantly.

Drowned, fat caterpillars

littered the blue between lanes.

There are graveyards

where the bones rest

less tranquil than that afternoon,

but I ripped it into lines,

and still I am ripping it into lines,

looking for sad, explosive meaning,

proof that I skimmed

that particular magnificence

and didn’t go under.

— Ross White

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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Love in the Air

A romance with golf

By Lee Pace

I was first attracted to the sport of golf during the summer of 1971, when I found Jack Nicklaus, Lee Trevino and an amateur named Jim Simons riveting theater on ABC-TV’s grainy images from Merion Golf Club in the U.S. Open. My dad bought me some clubs, and I tried to teach myself the game from some stupid and dangerous cover story in Golf Digest called “Square to Square,” which is perhaps why it took nearly a decade for golf to supplant my seasonal devotion to football, basketball and baseball. When I ventured into the newspaper business in 1979 and found the golf beat among my domains, the love affair was ignited. The more I wrote, the more I played. The more I played, the more I wrote.

My romance with golf has evolved over four-plus decades of writing and playing, of course with the requisite to-and-fro cycles. As a Spanish playwright once mused, “When love is not madness, it is not love.” I have posted sweet scores and nasty numbers. I have met saints and scoundrels. I have discovered “it” — whatever it might be on a given day — and have at other times been rendered clueless. But the tryst continues unabated.

Now spring is upon us once again. The fairways are green and taut. The sun lingers well into the evening, inviting that golden hour nine holes. It’s time to sweat again walking up that fairway on the back nine, to remember all the reasons we’re smitten with golf.

Today I love the sport because of the number at the end of the round. I am what my scorecard says I am. I am a 78. Or a 92. Period. If I played golf on the PGA Tour, I’d post my score and bolt. No talking to the media. The number says it all. Which is why I run for the hills when I casually ask, “How’s your golf game?” and the guy wants to take me hole-by-hole. And I love knowing, whatever my score says I am today, I can be something better tomorrow.

I love tinkering on the practice range — long thumb or short thumb? Flared feet or square? Good connection at the top. Dead hands with the wedges. Get the toe of the club through the ball. Good posture (flat back, not rounded). Follow the shot with the body.

I love lugging my bag around an old Donald Ross golf course — Mid Pines in Southern Pines, Hope Valley in Durham, Forsyth in Winston-Salem, Biltmore Forest in Asheville, Cape Fear in Wilmington, among them. I love the compactness, the quirky and smallish greens, the fairway undulations, the classic old homes lining the fairways. I love to see these heirlooms are being well taken care of by a strong greens chairman who knows the benefit of cutting down some trees. You want healthy grass? Give it some air and some light.

I love the outliers in golf — Pete Dye, bunker rakes with wooden tines, poa annua greens, courses with nothing more than a simple mark at 100, 150 and 200 yards, clubs that do not have a painting of a guy in a red coat hanging on a wall, small scorecards of uncoated card stock that fit easily into your pocket. And I know the kids need the work and mean well, but I really love it when I drive up to a golf course and am left alone to gather my clubs, shoes and accouterments at my own leisurely pace.

I love the quirks of golf course architecture. Seth Raynor had his squared-off edges on some greens, spines running through others and his signature holes like Alps, Redan, Road, Short, Cape, Biarritz and Punchbowl. Mike Strantz had his blind shots, right angles, sand pits, berms and ridges. Perry Maxwell had his dramatic rolling greens like the gems found today at Old Town Club in Winston-Salem. And Tom Fazio has his knack of unveiling a golf course with everything properly outfitted in cashmere and pearls. As one client, William McKee of Cashiers, has said: “There’s nothing loud, just soft, rolling, curving lines. Tom simply has this uncanny ability to create courses that have an evolved appearance, courses with instant patina.”

And God do I love going to the British Isles to play golf. There is the drive north to Dornoch and the deranged Scottish skies, sunny to the left, stormy to the right. There are the trophy courses, Ballybunion and St. Andrews and Turnberry, but there are the hidden gems, Enniscrone and Ballyliffin in northwest Ireland, the Lahinch Old Course farther south, and the northeast corner of Scotland with Nairn and Brora.

I love the literature of the game, especially with Charles Price commiserating about the old days in Pinehurst, Dan Jenkins recreating the glory days at Goat Hills and P.G. Wodehouse with another side-splitting work of fiction. I love ducking into the Old Sport & Gallery in the village of Pinehurst and rifling through the collectibles and vintage books, of rounding the corner to the Old Golf Shop and marveling at the reproductions of famous golf paintings — a watercolor of the ninth tee at Hoylake, Old Tom Morris in front of his golf shop at St. Andrews, golfers enjoying the game on a rudimentary course beneath Edinburgh Castle.

I love the peach cobbler and pimento cheese at Augusta National, the stovies at St. Andrews, the clam chowder at Pine Lakes in Myrtle Beach, the omelets cooked to order at The Carolina, the ice cream sandwiches at the turn at Eagle Point in Wilmington and the BBQ chicken wraps at Old Chatham in Durham.

And boy do I love the Zone, when I find it. You know that 10-foot putt is bottoms, you pick a fairway stripe off the tee and nail it, your mind is so pure and uncluttered and that click at impact so sweet and soft. I once shot near-par with two swing thoughts: Stop (at the top) and GO!

I love the friends I’ve made, the people I’ve met in golf. I lament that colorful personalities like Harvie Ward, Billy Joe Patton and Bill Campbell have long departed. As Campbell, a gentleman’s gentlemen in the game, so aptly noted, “In golf there are no strangers, only friends we have not yet met.”

And of course I love golf because of Pinehurst. There’s nothing quite like the rocking chairs at The Carolina, the stroll from the old hotel past Ailsa House, Beacon House, Heart Pine House and Little House to the golf courses. The spires of The Village Chapel loom above us all, serenading us with hymns throughout the day. The No. 2 course at sunrise is quite sublime: an orange orb flashing behind the third green, for example, through the trees separating the fourth and fifth holes, bathing the convex putting surface and all the dips and hollows around it in blissful light and shadows. Mist hangs in the air. Woodpeckers chuck away in the pine forests.

Scottish golf pro Tommy Armour felt the love many decades ago: “I have seen strangers, jaded and dull, come to Pinehurst and after a few days be changed into entirely delightful fellows.”

There’s a lot to love in that sentiment. 

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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The Tin Whistle

By Tony Cross

A few years ago, I was asked to create a cocktail for Pinehurst No. 2. When I delved into the history books, I learned that Pinehurst’s founder, James Walker Tufts, and I have one major connection: Both of us have/had businesses that deal with carbonated beverages.

Tufts owned Arctic Soda Fountain Co. before forming the American Soda Fountain Co., where he acted as the first president. By 1908, there were more than 75,000 of his soda fountains across the nation. The largest was 33 feet high and equipped with 104 taps offering syrups, mineral and soda water. Old advertisements for Tuft’s Arctic Soda Water included scenes of a tropical paradise with sick men and women arriving to drink the “fountain of youth.” Another ad shows winged demons and skeletal forms dancing between fire and ice with the pristine soda fountain representing purity, power and refreshment.

With my background in cocktails and carbonated elixirs, I knew I wanted to create a highball cocktail as an homage to one of Tufts’ carbonated sodas. I decided to keep it simple and create a candied lemon highball, The Tin Whistle, named after the oldest men’s golfing society in the United States, founded in Pinehurst in 1904. As for the spirit? Even though whiskey was king of the South, gin was especially popular in resorts. Though different than the London Dry and Old Tom of yesteryear, I chose Sutler’s Spirit Co. because its citrus-forward and mixed botanical gin pairs perfectly for this highball. This built cocktail is very straightforward: gin, candied lemon syrup, sparkling water and acid phosphate (soda fountains used this phosphate because it was lead-free, shelf-stable and not tainted with adulterants). The cocktail is an excellent choice after a round of golf on the famed No. 2 course or on any beautiful sunny day in the Pines.

Specifications

1 3/4 ounces Sutler’s
Spirit Co. gin

1 1/4 ounces candied
lemon syrup*

1 teaspoon acid phosphate

6 ounces sparkling water

lemon wheel

*Candied lemon syrup: Make a simple syrup of 3 parts sugar to 2 parts water; add a heavy 1/8 teaspoon of food-grade candied lemon (or plain lemon) oil per 8 ounces of syrup.

Execution

Add gin, syrup and acid phosphate in a tall glass. Briefly stir. Add ice. Top with sparkling water. Briefly stir and top with lemon wheel.

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

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Old-Fashioned Flick

Laugh out loud or shed a tear

By Deborah Salomon

I didn’t watch the Academy Awards. I knew that I hadn’t seen a single nominated film. Nor were more than a few actors’ names familiar. Their outfits indicated star quality more than their names. Names of the designers, that is. I felt a pang, especially since most gowns/jumpsuits/pant outfits were downright ugly.

Then, on a wave of “background” music, I was transported to the days when most movies were entertainment, not films or art — when Wednesday night “dinner and a movie” became a ritual for parents who could get a babysitter. When the experience was a rite of passage — a first date for 10th-graders. Will he hold your hand? Will it be slick from buttered popcorn? Remember, no mammoth soda or you’ll be running to the little girl’s room.

All gone with the wind, so to say.

Technology has enriched our lives in so many ways that I feel guilty dumping on it. Still, it has also taken away certain events including . . . the movies. When coming attractions were announced in full-page ads in Life magazine, which revealed a classification, be it Western, comedy, mystery, war, romance, thriller, history, cartoons. Animal stories were always tearjerkers. You could count on a two-hour duration. Four-letter words, absolutely not. Same for nudity.

The theater would be on the main drag, with a marquee protruding from the entrance like the Sunrise Theater. On it, the movie title, maybe a descriptive adjective. “Blockbuster” comes to mind, attached to James Bond flicks released in the 1960s.

On weekends get there early, stand in line and hope for two seats together. If you missed the first 10 minutes no problem, because with run-on showings you could see the beginning two hours after the ending.

First off the newsreel, the coming attractions, hopefully a cartoon, often Roadrunner. Some big cities had all-newsreel theaters popular during pre-TV World War II.

The ticket booth was free-standing, stranded in a covered space where the line formed. Cash was the only tender, and kids got in for a dime.

The larger Southern theaters wafted an aroma that wasn’t just popcorn. Once through the set of doors into the lobby we were hit by a blast which, pre-residential AC, seemed reason enough to watch a mediocre flick. In fact, on an especially steamy day, management hung a “COOL INSIDE’’ banner from the marquee, sometimes obstructing John Wayne or June Allyson, Doris Day or Burt Lancaster.

Ah . . . movie stars. Teenage girls had faves. Most of these glamour pusses, postmortem, are memorialized in a concrete Hollywood sidewalk. Mine was Gregory Peck: looks, talent, intelligence, charisma, he was the total movie star package. As an adult I shifted to Daniel Day-Lewis after a regrettable fling with James Bond.

DDL brings up the maturation of movie — sorry, film — plots. Sure, films outgrew the “movie’’ definition long before Lewis copped the 1989 Academy Award. But My Left Foot was different, as were “foreign film” think pieces unrelated to an IMAX sensory overload.

A movie with a strong and relevant plot plus solid acting doesn’t need too many frills. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest comes to mind. I know every word of The Godfather.

Oops. I’ve gone uppity when all I mourn is a midweek movie preceded by the Wednesday meatloaf special. I want to laugh out loud or shed a quiet tear. I want to forget my troubles and be transported, with the transit mode being an 8-cylinder rig with whitewall tires. Leave out the bare bits and gimme a gritty story, something I can relate to.

Because when the water gets too deep I just want to buy a little pink ticket . . . and watch a movie.

Character Study

CHARACTER STUDY

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Kitchen Communion

Caring for community with a home-cooked meal

By Jenna Biter

Every other Friday, a half-dozen volunteers gather in Darcie Davis’ kitchen, tie on homemade aprons and cook up a warm meal for the domestic violence, sexual assault and human trafficking survivors staying in Friend to Friend’s shelters. Depending on occupancy, that could mean cooking for 30 or so residents between the Serenity House emergency shelter and the Butterfly Cottage for human trafficking victims.

“You mean you just bring this food from your kitchen to us?” Davis was asked one evening after a dinner delivery.

“Sure, you deserve it,” she replied.

“I just don’t know anybody who does that,” the woman continued, seemingly unable to compute the kindness.

For its part, the Sandhills nonprofit Friend to Friend has been providing survivors of interpersonal violence with services free of charge since 1988. For hers, Davis has been delivering the shelters home-cooked meals since she moved to the area in 2019. Along the way, more than 30 volunteers, collectively “the cooking team,” have joined Davis, dropping off sides and desserts, donating ingredients and, on a sign-up basis, cooking the main dish in Davis’ kitchen on service days every other Friday.

The years of kitchen communion culminated in the printing of From Heart to Table, a cookbook of Davis and company’s recipes spiral-bound as a fundraiser for Friend to Friend. “Last year I attended a volunteer appreciation event Friend to Friend was holding, and everyone was going around introducing themselves,” Davis says, retelling the cookbook’s origin story. “When it was my turn, I mentioned that we’re the people who take a meal every other Friday.” People started asking questions. Which people? What meal? How long has this been going on? Board member Norma Piggott was gobsmacked. She approached Davis, saying, “Darcie, this is amazing. How come nobody knows about this?”

Davis initially volunteered at the Serenity House until the COVID pandemic hit. “I couldn’t go to the shelter, but they have to eat, so I just whipped up a meal and said, ‘Can I take this to them?’”

One meal led to two, then two to three. For a while, Davis cooked the main dish herself, then crisscrossed Moore County to collect sides and desserts before meeting with a nonprofit staffer who would take all the food to the shelter.

Davis halved the operation’s complexity when she started delivering the food herself, and the complexity gave way to simplicity when she moved into the Pinewild community in 2022. Neighbors quickly converted to fellow volunteers who eagerly drop off dishes like fresh pear salad and graham cracker toffee, or all the ingredients for recipes with names like “lemony Greek meatball soup” and “fancy lasagna.” Others stop by to help cook the main meal, leaving the kitchen spotless in their wake.

“The kind of abuse these men and women go through is at a whole other level,” Piggott says about the shelters’ residents. “Anything that you can do to bring them back and help them and enrich their lives is so important.”

After discovering the cooking team’s quiet work, Piggott asked Davis if she’d be willing to collect the recipes they’d been using and turn them into a cookbook that could help fundraise for Friend to Friend, which runs on government grants and donations. A self-proclaimed “spreadsheet gal,” Davis welcomed the task, neatly compiling everything from “easy chicken burritos” on page 17 to “lazy cookie bars” on page 105.

Davis plans the menus weeks in advance and posts a signup sheet online. “I mean, these people are jazzed,” she says. “I’ve got three, maybe four, Fridays online and almost all the spots are taken. I have to keep putting more on because this is a big team of people.” They’ve even channeled their overflow generosity into breakfast casseroles to last through the weekend.

Although they’re known as the cooking team, the group does so much more than cook. Once they sewed 50 pillowcases for the moms and dads and kids to take after they left emergency housing. “There’s a brand-new baby this week, so we’ll be putting something together,” Davis says. Recently she discovered the shelter didn’t have enough bowls and was running low on cutlery. Now they have an abundance of both.

After the chopping and stirring and simmering ends, but before the food makes it out the door for a 4 p.m. delivery, Davis’ husband, David Herring, slips in freshly printed menu cards that include artwork, an encouraging or whimsical quotation like “happiness is hot soup on a cold day,” and the signatures of the volunteers who helped prepare the meal. Then Davis and another volunteer or two load up the aluminum serving trays and make the delivery. She talks with some of the shelters’ residents and snaps pictures of the food before heading home and writing an email to her distribution list of volunteers, filling them in on the drop-off.

“They’re shocked to know we’re neighbors,” Davis says, reflecting on her experiences. “We’re just some neighbors who might be in that same position, and some of us have been in the same position, and we just want them to know they’ve got some support.”

For at least a night, that comes in the form of a warm, home-cooked meal. “Even if they can’t fully articulate it, this is one of the things that helps them come back to themselves and to their humanity,” Piggott says.

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

Visit www.friendtofriend.me to learn more, sign up for volunteering opportunities or donate. For any donation of $50 or more, you’ll receive the From Heart to Table cookbook as a thank you. To join “the cooking team,” email hellodarcie@gmail.com.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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All Hearts Rising

Sweet bread for Mother’s Day

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

Mother’s Day makes me long for simpler times. At the risk of romanticizing the good old days — after all, simple is not synonymous with easy — I can’t help but feel that there was so much more beauty and calm in how we celebrated holidays just a few decades ago.

In my childhood, on mother’s special day, I typically set my alarm clock to wake up early, then tiptoed out the door to cycle to a little flower meadow beyond the forest that surrounded our village. I picked the most cheerful blooms and arranged them in a little bouquet that I set on the kitchen table, together with whatever I had crafted that year: a card, a crocheted potholder, a necklace made of wooden beads.

We usually had a cozy breakfast and went for a hike in the woods on Mother’s Day. It was simple, but meaningful. No store-bought greeting cards, chocolates or greenhouse flowers, just things we kids gathered or made by hand. No extravagant brunch or dinner; we ate at home. To be fair, my mom still had to do all the cooking, just because no one, including herself, wanted to eat what the rest of us were capable of making. 

And to my memory, at least, there has never been a single holiday without yeast bread — sweet bread was omnipresent in times of celebration. Naturally, Germans have made bread into an art form, so yeast dough would be skillfully shaped to represent the occasion. Little good luck piglet-shaped bread rolls on New Year’s Day; bunnies or lambs for Easter; hearts for Mother’s Day; or just plain old yeast dough wreaths on ordinary weekends.

If simple sounds good to you this year — simplicity is the essence of yeast dough — try your hand at these heart-shaped rolls with strawberry jam layers. Mom will love it.

Sweet Bread Rolls

(Makes 8-10 heart-shaped rolls)

For the dough:

7 grams active dry yeast

250 milliliters milk, lukewarm (about 110F)

90 grams plus 1 teaspoon granulated sugar, divided

500 grams all-purpose wheat flour

1 medium egg

70 grams butter, room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pinch of salt

For assembly:

1/2 cup jam, strawberry or raspberry

1 egg yolk

1 tablespoon milk

Chopped nuts, optional

  

Method

In a cup, combine the yeast with the lukewarm milk and one teaspoon of sugar. Stir until the sugar and yeast have dissolved.

Place the flour in a large bowl and press a mold into the center. Pour the lukewarm yeast-milk mixture into the mold. Add the remaining sugar and mix lightly with some flour. Cover the bowl with a kitchen towel and allow to rest for about 15 minutes.

Add the remaining ingredients (egg, butter, vanilla, salt) and mix everything together. Knead the dough until it is smooth. Cover the dough and allow to rise for at least 45 minutes or until the dough has doubled in size.

Once the dough is ready to be processed, knead once more and take about 100 grams of dough (or divide dough into 8-10 equal parts) and shape into a ball. Roll out into a circle and spread a scant tablespoon of jam through the center of the dough (less is more).

Roll up the dough (just like a jelly roll), then fold in the center. Pinch the two raw edges together to seal them. With a knife, cut the folded, bulging side lengthwise about 2/3 down the middle to create a heart shape. Fan the cut sides out to display the jam layers. Repeat with the remaining dough and place hearts on a baking sheet and allow them to rest for another 20 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350F. Brush hearts with a mixture of beaten egg yolk and milk and sprinkle with chopped nuts. Bake the hearts for about 15-20 minutes or until they are cooked through, with a golden crust.